SJ Fowler
{the seven deathly Sins / Ira}
An armed figure of anger emerges with sword drawn & with an army swarming around her from a tent into a landscape filled with violent scenes, including human figures roasting over a fire & naked figures being cut down with a large knife; at the feet of anger, her attendant bear biting the leg of a hapless naked victim; above her a gigantic figure with a knife in her mouth balances a carafe in her left hand; a great fire consumes a fantastical structure at right middleground. A fearsome man is shat out by the fire, thick all over. His is a heavy bearded turn of bees, a beehive lopped grin with chisel teeth. Red attendants flock to pin him down & have to syringe back in a speck of brain to return him to the line. The horizon has a stroke, or something, a mental incident that has come from the body of men malfunctioning. What the skyline gets on with boiling, twitching, it looks like a baby grown massive. The pavements are upset. They never laugh. A warning to the waterboy to stop touching a sarcophagus. The boy keeps touching, Insects give notice. The boy cheeks with caresses to the lid of the stone coffin. The blackfruit grabs his wrist in a heavy meat hook (and how the boy must realise amongst that grip; he had made a mistake) With redstrain and veins closing Frankness forces the boys fingers in-between the crack of the lid & box. The thing being solid stones weighs tonnes. Darkness whispers to the child, right close to his face, with his devouring, grinning snarl that he is going to lift the lid and slam it shut smashing all of his fingers to juice. The kid, barely a lambshrift in size, begins to wail & cry & fuddle in pure terror of the gorilla majesty of rage & horror matches it, wailing too, straight into the child’s face, in the middle of the red, in front of hundreds of hungry mouths, above us like an iron god, roaring, spit flecking into the little boys eyes and mouth. Of course Anger cannot lift the earth with one hand fixed on keeping the boy still, but with two?
{the seven deathly Sins / Invidia}
A daft woman is sailing south, eating her heart & pointing to her attribute of a turkey in the centre forecastle; in front of her two dogs fight over a bone; behind her a hollow tree trunk & a fantastical structure spanning a river, resembling a woman’s parts. Various demons throughout & we must all have suspicions that she fought for them in Africa, stacking. Though she seems not to be as indifferently mad as those who have had the withering trauma of the Dark Continent, the demons still play instruments, made of what should not be confirmed as human finges. But she takes German meds, Pumberts & Lautenbourgs of Prussia, & professing it a condition she’s had since Seventeen, discovered on another girl, now passed. It is sports day in East Ham playing fields, beside the cemetery. It is in her vision to fall, spasming. A carthorse pulls the boat, a dribble of fish pouring from its nose, appearing silver. Stuck in its head, the fish row. She describes the scene better when she’s just swallowed her dose. Either side of the meds (they work, they work of course) the brilliance of her mind shines out of the boundaries of her thick features and the boat is docked, hardly a boat, a roost for cocks & other birds. She is found urinating on the northeast pole, slooshing the weighty, brown piss over the brogues of a effete apparition, who must be fearful of a disposition after somehow predictably offending her with a condescension of some kind, a redness, for it appears it is ‘convinced’ to recant its accusation & lose their shoes. All apologise for the end. A long swim from her pills she plugs a hearing aid near her anus, thinking it might emphasise her want. Certainly she is no longer allowed to work in the Church, which ruins the rotation policy. She sits outside eating unpeeled oranges as though they were apples as we slave away at hangers.
{The Seven Deadly Sins / Luxuria}
Lust. An figurative nude female figure with an inventive cunt is caressed by a demon lover in the hollow of a tree. I am jealous of tri-forked Cock & Trunk in centre, he pierces the skin between her Twat & Anus. She seems unperturbed & refuses to kneel behind him until his needs to issue. They are surrounded by strange demon creatures; behind the tree trucks to the left a procession with an adulterous man riding on the back of a demon and a placard fastened to his hat. It says Bat. I draw maps when they come around, Porphyria in dance with an immense Balle. Note the fate of the animals, drawn on tragic heroes, Hand, to climb mountains of women’s dead bodies, all separated from their motherhood descending waterfalls of furious innerweep. The faraway yelping of what sounds like dogs hunts big game, before catching it, and seeding it. A girl, daughter to some, but a day after her birthday licks rings around the devil while others, mothers, sucks the cocks growing from the green grass while being fucked by two more blue daemons, one in her anus and one in her other. I give blood like the comatose to maintain energy & fashion statues of the Act bronze, travelling like a generals, alone on a pristine couch. Nude pales. Every limb is code, every letter is its number in the alphabet and this number to its fifth power, divided by its neighbours number, it’s neighbour in physical bodily love, obsessing a century & maddening the habit. This is real work, staunch, pedigreeing the young visitors to my code & convincing them to come down to my dollied slumber. There there lies ties, and binds and jingles and strangles. This is rebellion, but not to fucke. It does not read well, but amidst that Sin there is another code that I cannot reveal. When applied this will tell the tale I am now relating, but in a more literary fashion. It will outlive me, Buogre, in the annals of military history. I have a code for each limb beyond this one, in my hand, and a hundred shakes for every stride. The calamity has sustained me for the middle years & I finish righte in her eye.
SJ Fowler (1983) has had poetry published in over 70 journals & magazines. He is a member of the Writers forum poetry group, and an employee of the British Museum. He edits the Maintenant interview series for 3am magazine introducing contemporary, experimental European poets. 2011 will see the publication of his first two collections, from Veer books and from the KnivesForks&Spoons press.
www.sjfowlerpoetry.com
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{the seven deathly Sins / Ira}
An armed figure of anger emerges with sword drawn & with an army swarming around her from a tent into a landscape filled with violent scenes, including human figures roasting over a fire & naked figures being cut down with a large knife; at the feet of anger, her attendant bear biting the leg of a hapless naked victim; above her a gigantic figure with a knife in her mouth balances a carafe in her left hand; a great fire consumes a fantastical structure at right middleground. A fearsome man is shat out by the fire, thick all over. His is a heavy bearded turn of bees, a beehive lopped grin with chisel teeth. Red attendants flock to pin him down & have to syringe back in a speck of brain to return him to the line. The horizon has a stroke, or something, a mental incident that has come from the body of men malfunctioning. What the skyline gets on with boiling, twitching, it looks like a baby grown massive. The pavements are upset. They never laugh. A warning to the waterboy to stop touching a sarcophagus. The boy keeps touching, Insects give notice. The boy cheeks with caresses to the lid of the stone coffin. The blackfruit grabs his wrist in a heavy meat hook (and how the boy must realise amongst that grip; he had made a mistake) With redstrain and veins closing Frankness forces the boys fingers in-between the crack of the lid & box. The thing being solid stones weighs tonnes. Darkness whispers to the child, right close to his face, with his devouring, grinning snarl that he is going to lift the lid and slam it shut smashing all of his fingers to juice. The kid, barely a lambshrift in size, begins to wail & cry & fuddle in pure terror of the gorilla majesty of rage & horror matches it, wailing too, straight into the child’s face, in the middle of the red, in front of hundreds of hungry mouths, above us like an iron god, roaring, spit flecking into the little boys eyes and mouth. Of course Anger cannot lift the earth with one hand fixed on keeping the boy still, but with two?
{the seven deathly Sins / Invidia}
A daft woman is sailing south, eating her heart & pointing to her attribute of a turkey in the centre forecastle; in front of her two dogs fight over a bone; behind her a hollow tree trunk & a fantastical structure spanning a river, resembling a woman’s parts. Various demons throughout & we must all have suspicions that she fought for them in Africa, stacking. Though she seems not to be as indifferently mad as those who have had the withering trauma of the Dark Continent, the demons still play instruments, made of what should not be confirmed as human finges. But she takes German meds, Pumberts & Lautenbourgs of Prussia, & professing it a condition she’s had since Seventeen, discovered on another girl, now passed. It is sports day in East Ham playing fields, beside the cemetery. It is in her vision to fall, spasming. A carthorse pulls the boat, a dribble of fish pouring from its nose, appearing silver. Stuck in its head, the fish row. She describes the scene better when she’s just swallowed her dose. Either side of the meds (they work, they work of course) the brilliance of her mind shines out of the boundaries of her thick features and the boat is docked, hardly a boat, a roost for cocks & other birds. She is found urinating on the northeast pole, slooshing the weighty, brown piss over the brogues of a effete apparition, who must be fearful of a disposition after somehow predictably offending her with a condescension of some kind, a redness, for it appears it is ‘convinced’ to recant its accusation & lose their shoes. All apologise for the end. A long swim from her pills she plugs a hearing aid near her anus, thinking it might emphasise her want. Certainly she is no longer allowed to work in the Church, which ruins the rotation policy. She sits outside eating unpeeled oranges as though they were apples as we slave away at hangers.
{The Seven Deadly Sins / Luxuria}
Lust. An figurative nude female figure with an inventive cunt is caressed by a demon lover in the hollow of a tree. I am jealous of tri-forked Cock & Trunk in centre, he pierces the skin between her Twat & Anus. She seems unperturbed & refuses to kneel behind him until his needs to issue. They are surrounded by strange demon creatures; behind the tree trucks to the left a procession with an adulterous man riding on the back of a demon and a placard fastened to his hat. It says Bat. I draw maps when they come around, Porphyria in dance with an immense Balle. Note the fate of the animals, drawn on tragic heroes, Hand, to climb mountains of women’s dead bodies, all separated from their motherhood descending waterfalls of furious innerweep. The faraway yelping of what sounds like dogs hunts big game, before catching it, and seeding it. A girl, daughter to some, but a day after her birthday licks rings around the devil while others, mothers, sucks the cocks growing from the green grass while being fucked by two more blue daemons, one in her anus and one in her other. I give blood like the comatose to maintain energy & fashion statues of the Act bronze, travelling like a generals, alone on a pristine couch. Nude pales. Every limb is code, every letter is its number in the alphabet and this number to its fifth power, divided by its neighbours number, it’s neighbour in physical bodily love, obsessing a century & maddening the habit. This is real work, staunch, pedigreeing the young visitors to my code & convincing them to come down to my dollied slumber. There there lies ties, and binds and jingles and strangles. This is rebellion, but not to fucke. It does not read well, but amidst that Sin there is another code that I cannot reveal. When applied this will tell the tale I am now relating, but in a more literary fashion. It will outlive me, Buogre, in the annals of military history. I have a code for each limb beyond this one, in my hand, and a hundred shakes for every stride. The calamity has sustained me for the middle years & I finish righte in her eye.
SJ Fowler (1983) has had poetry published in over 70 journals & magazines. He is a member of the Writers forum poetry group, and an employee of the British Museum. He edits the Maintenant interview series for 3am magazine introducing contemporary, experimental European poets. 2011 will see the publication of his first two collections, from Veer books and from the KnivesForks&Spoons press.
www.sjfowlerpoetry.com
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