Standing on the stage at The Royal Vauxhall Tavern,

I was a third of the way into my monologue as 

my eyes stared 

at the confused cabaret 

audience who were expecting 


I was in a white

PVC nurse’s outfit from Honour in Waterloo. 

I already knew I was way too much for their minds. 

I was seeking to disrupt the neurological

patterns/opening their minds 

to anything other than the inane products to be bought on a plastic card.

But they hated the idea of their thinking being 


shaken/broken by a cosmological cruelty, all looking at me/all 

looking at the bar 


this to be over, 

for me to be over,

for me to stop reciting 

Burroughs as if The Western Lands was 

the eternal 

gospel of thanatos

every fucker needed to hear,

Instead of trying to keep the patient alive, we will

keep his Death alive. If 

he can become Death, he cannot die.” 

The audience's confusion grew as they skimmed Instagram and Grindr, 

chatting, paying no attention 

to my 

absurd gestures and expressions of anguish: 

utterly unable to engage in my discourse, 

like those 

faces of 

my youth trying to make out my gargled words or giving up 

mouthing the word 


at me.

I moved into free association on my true icon,

“This is Artaud’s 

The Theatre of


a virus

breaking down the 


of being, destroying

thinking/naming. I AM NO ONE. Artaud divided 



the material and the spiritual; 

he hated physical 

pain, the concrete prison

of the asylum, 

the electric shots to his brain,

the insulin injections, the sheet torture, 

but the ethereal

mouth he loved, screaming inside his fucked up mind


in Samuel Beckett’s

Not I, where the mouth said, whole body

like gone, leaving only the death 

incarnate; the mouth’s cruelty

to speak/scream/thunder; 

the demon 

replicating demons, making

the bodily cells…” 

And then an audience member shouted out,


laughing at his own ability 

to imagine 

the end,

but the virus had no end game: 






Tom Bland is the editor of Spontaneous Poetics and has written two books, The Death of a Clown (Bad Betty Press 2018) and the soon to be released Camp Fear (Bad Betty Press 2021).

The Death of a Clown

SODOM after Verlaine by Niall McDevitt


after Verlaine

this melancholy's too much. I'm alone, adventure over.

an illegal feeling eats inward. the climax is deathly.

I sense - like a mouse in a laboratory - science's scalpel 

and observe with soft-focus eyes my lifeblood drained.

London billows, London shrieks, a city from the Bible.

the gas-lamps flame and shimmer, road-signs redden

and crumbling slums 

                                    echo seismic pressures

looking weird as covens of toothless, fossilised crones.

ugly flashbacks lunge with spitting and hissing of cats

in the filthy pink-yellow fogs of this Soho vice-zone

where street-slang cuffs your ear as a penance for sins.

I'm upto my eyeballs in decay, a shabby martyrdom. 

in the dust of my window, it's written: the bottom falls 

out of the sky where fire rampages 

                                                          in this biblical city-state

Drawing of Niall McDevitt by Julie Goldsmith

Niall McDevitt is the author of three collections of poetry, b/w (Waterloo Press, 2010), Porterloo (International Times, 2013) and Firing Slits, Jerusalem Colportage (New River Press, 2016). He is also known for his poetopographical walks such as The William Blake Walk, An Arthur Rimbaud Drift, and many others. His latest book BABYLON (a neoliberal theodicy) is forthcoming from New River Press. 

Interview with Johannes Göransson by Tom Bland



There are few words that can describe the poetry and prose of Johannes Göransson or there are volumes to be written on a man who ventures into areas where not only angels fear to tread but also writers who neatly market themselves to ticket box audiences cleansing the dirt of words to make them so digestible, like the finger food at a literary event, no one even realises they are eating the bites in the first place. His words are like sitting down to eat a blowfish dish that may or may not have been prepared correctly by a chief who spilt just enough coffee on the recipe book to kill you: Johannes' new work, Poetry Against All, is out now. He also runs Action Books, a remarkable press concentrating on translating world poetry into English with Joyelle McSweeney, Paul Cunningham, and Katherine Hedeen.

So your new work, ​Poetry Against All​, forms a kind of trilogy with ​The Sugar Book ​and Haute Surveillance​, how did this project come about? And how would you describe the project?

POETRY AGAINST ALL is a commentary on the final writing and editing of The Sugar Book; it may not be the equal of Haute Surveillance and The Sugar Book but more like a parasite book. I wrote the pieces in PAA at first to disrupt The Sugar Book, to insert my thoughts about daily life, diaristic entries about what I was reading and doing, into it in order to trouble the relationship between the author and the speaker in the book. But in the end I decided the effect was too distancing, and what I wanted was a great intensity.


Or perhaps I chickened out, didn’t want to put myself too much into the language of The Sugar Book, a language that is troubling, obscene, mutilating.


Both Haute Surveillance and The Sugar Book stage the connection of certain nodes of interest: race, the law, art. They both started out as a (single) crime book, a detective book. Though perhaps it was from the first more like Tarkovsky’s Stalker than Wallander, or a blend of the two. I read a lot of crime novels and I’m fascinated by crime scenes – the artfulness of them, how the killer so often is portrayed as a kind of perversion of the artist – and how in these books the detective is a kind of narrative-maker who – thanks to various flaws (a love of opera, diabetes) - is occultly connected to criminality, and can thus make a narrative out of the unnarratable immensity of death, giving the killer an interiority, a background, which then allows the detective to find the killer guilty in the eyes of The Law. I wanted to unsettle this dynamic.


And of course there’s a lot about the US wars and US war culture. A lot about how a war like the US war in Iraq cannot be contained, must necessarily affect the people, the culture “back home.” And in the other directions, how this culture shapes the war “over there.” For example, I was very interested in thinking about the aesthetics of Abu Ghraib and various horrific actions, events of war.


Click to enlarge

Ballard describes his work as arising out of his obsessions. What would you say are your obsessions/themes? Are you forced to write by them or do you have some control or choice?

To corrupt Jackson Pollock, I am my obsessions. I’m not sure who or what is in control. Often when I feel the most absolutely in control of my writing, I also feel like I have totally lost all control. And that’s the best writing, the best feeling.


One of the things I don’t think is always noted about your work, is the comical elements of them. Is this accidental or worked into the text? Why is comedy important?

Thank you. I think the books are farcical. I love the travesty, the failed performance. I loved it when – a few years ago – Britney Spears tried to stage a comeback at the MTV music awards and totally fumbled, failed to lipsynch, stumbled around on stage. I love the spectacular and the spectacular failure. I think it has to do with a certain carnivalesque impulse.

In terms of obsessions, both you and Ballard are concerned with finding their extremes, what importance do you find in this approach or the necessity of doing so?

I think all the greatest art comes from following your obsessions, from taking your art to its extreme. So much of our literary culture is to teach Taste, and taste is restraint. That's totally contrary to Art. Most great art is (or was) tasteless. There's also poets who writing interesting work by obsessing over their own tastefulness, creating a kind of pathological tastefulness.


I have noted a kind of occult undercurrent to some of the reoccuring images in your work. Is this something I am projecting or do you secretly cast a circle and raise a demon in a triangle in the dead of night?

It’s common to talk about how media-saturated our lives are. And when you talk about media, I think you have to talk about us as “mediums” for this media: it goes through us. We don’t need to cast spells; we are profoundly involved in occult movements through our everyday lives. But yes, there’s a more traditional sense of the occult that definitely influenced me, going back to reading Poe as a child and I used to see ghosts a lot when I was a child and as a teenager. It’s most clearly evident in mine and Sara Tuss Efrik’s rewriting of my first book, A New Quarantine Will Take My Place, where we used various occult translation strategies, which had fascinating and at times scary results: voices emerged from the text which I had thought was “my text.” Others lived in there.


I’m very much looking forward to your next project, which you have described on Twitter as “trashy sci-fi vignettes. Kind of like Ballard if Ballard was a dead teenager with a kissing disease.” Is it possible to see an example?

Yes, I’ve been writing sci-fi stories packed with genre tropes but also ruined by poetry. Here’s a little excerpt from a story called “The Silver Fluency – A Frenzy” about the problem that everyone who pilots spaceships really want to go of course and be obliterated in space:


Three books that have really influenced you...


Sylvia Plath’s Ariel first comes to mind. I am especially attuned to the “bad Plath” (I wrote an essay about it here:, the features of Plath that make her tasteless, the features that critics like Helen Vendler has to distance from Plath in order to make her acceptable: the theatricality, the transgression, the over-the-top images, the suicide myth. These features are part of what makes her such an object of obsession (another aspect the Vendlers of the world cannot stand). I became obsessed with her as a teenager from the first time my friend Seng Chen recited “Daddy” to me in a hallway in high school.


Aase Berg’s Hos Rådjur (With Deer): I read this book when I was at the end of college. I had been taught all the modernist sense of good taste and it had totally given me a writer’s block. When I read Aase’s work – swarming guinea pigs, evil horses, drowning girls - it reminded me of the incredible fairytales and folktales form childhood, but more importantly the thrill of reading people like Plath, Garcia Lorca, Ginsberg, Bruno K Öijer when I first started writing poetry. It threw away all that good and boring taste and let me dig further, get some place more profound. Instead of decorum, it asked for intensity.


Eva Kristina Olsson’s The Angelgreen Sacrament is a wild, ecstatic-mystical poem from a couple of years ago about encountering an angel. It’s both frightening and sensual, a burning intensity. A great example of a text where the author is both possessed and utterly in control.


Is there anything else you’d like to add?

I think the greatest error that pervades US poetry is the idea that poetry is good, that reading it will make us good. I won’t.

Secrets – a chapter from Perfume and Cigarettes by Bob Kesh


Everything was a game of secrets for Sally. There was one you weren’t supposed to talk about. You both knew it was there. This thing between your legs. Deafeningly unspoken. And if you held out long enough, you might slip away and unravel the mystery of each other’s bodies. The difference with Sally was, she made a show of knowing it. It wasn’t a mutual secret – it was yours – one she was always on the verge of telling. You couldn’t win. If you were obvious, she’d get bored and walk off. If you kept it quiet, she’d work you up until your senses went goofy and your words came out in vowels and breaths and moans.

Kole watched her work people up while blowing his horn on stage — standing helpless — only able to close his eyes and laugh through his mouthpiece. He was one of her secrets. She’d message him in the evening, telling her boyfriend it was a girl friend, Koleen. Even that caused commotion, her having dated girls exclusively as a teen, and her boyfriend still reeling from a hetero affair she had less than a year ago. She convinced him it was a girl friend, not a girlfriend, and there was no one in her life but him and her dog, Seguro.

She flirted with women in the crowd. She was more tender with them. The older ones seemed to know her tricks. If it was a guy’s girlfriend, they’d get all excited and she’d bat them away like moths eating at her clothes and keep flirting with the woman. There were all sorts of reactions from the boyfriends, from subtle dejection to being dragged out by the bouncer raging. Kole felt guilty he didn’t stop it before it turned. But it was part of Sally’s game; she pushed them in a corner and watched. As Kole soloed through a chorus, jumping from the home chord to a distant relative and back, he couldn’t help thinking she was doing the same as him: playing into somewhere challenging, knowing how to escape if things got tricky.

​When he introduced her to the band, she stroked a finger down one of Nick’s bass strings — slow enough to hear the ridges rasp over the coils — Kole wasn’t sure if the sight or the sound was more suggestive. She played with the dials on Chief’s keyboard— teasing them between her fingers — Chief froze in anxiety of her messing with the settings and the connotation. She laughed and walked away.

​“She’s not coming to all our gigs, is she?” Chief said, watching her as if he’d discovered trouble had a form.

​While they packed up, Kole patched a worn corner of his trumpet case with a roll of electrical tape he kept in the hidden compartment with his flick knife. Sally saw the knife but she took the tape instead and tied Kole’s wrists together. Kole pulled his hands over her, trapping her in his arms — if he was confined, he wouldn’t be alone — and the two of them moved around the bar as one — Chief, Nick and the surrounding punters stared in silence —  they slow danced, grinding together, Kole thankful she couldn’t escape and leave him stranded with a raging hard-on for everyone to see.

​She stayed at The Waldorf for the week on a fundraiser. When she could, they spent the night hidden in old-man-pubs to avoid anyone she knew. She took to Snakebites: half lager, half cider, with a dash of blackcurrant. She drank slow but huge, thirsty gulps. Her lips, skin, hair all took on the sweet smell of her drink.

“I only wear this perfume with you,” she laughed.

​“That’s sweet. Why won’t you let me buy a round?”

​“You’re a musician. You need rent money more than drink money.”

​“You’re just with me for a bit of the rough.”

​She laughed, strong and free. “It wasn’t always like this,” she said. “I grew up in Dagenham. A place called Chittys Lane. It’s exactly what it sounds like. I don’t have to explain that to you do I, Jazz-man?”

​“Don’t call me that.”


​“How’d you get from there to here?”

​“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

​His next question cut off as she sunk her teeth into his neck.

The rush of pain and adrenaline washed everything clean. No thought. No questions. Nothing. Moment of peace. She saw he liked it. She took the candle and turned it so the flame pooled wax and poured it over his forearm. It was disappointing. Then they took turns peeling it, seeing who could take the biggest chunk. Here was the real pain. No peace, just acts of violence against the body, the hairs audibly ripping from his arm, feeling the smooth waxiness of his skin and looking at the disconnected pieces of him standing in the upturned curve of wax.

​After several nights, she reluctantly agreed to come home with him. She found the stacks of newspapers an entertaining quirk and Kole was thankful she hadn’t met Tavae. Two bottles of wine later, most of which Kole drank, she rolled her top down and pressed his face into her breasts. He reached for her skirt and she pulled away, redressing and demanded they go look at the Power Station. She was amazed they had such a good view of it from Kole’s estate. It wouldn’t last, she said.

Nina and Marianne came back from somewhere and shared an awkward greeting with Sally. He thought he hadn’t said enough about Nina for Sally to be looking at him like that. They said goodnight and, as they walked away, Sally kissed him, rough at first then passionate. He opened his eyes and saw Nina’s eyebrows raised and her mouth downturned, then closed them again and remembered the word LOVE choking him like Mama Cass’ ham sandwich.

​In bed she undressed Kole and told him not to touch her. She played her hair over his body and it felt cool on his thighs. She found the scars over his ribs, one for each country he’d lived. He tried to cover them but she pinned his arm and kissed each of them. She lay her head on his chest, stroking a finger over the welts. He felt her smile at something then play his heartbeat on his chest making boop, boop, boop, sounds on the beats. His heart was racing. He laughed and she shooshed him and continued. It sounded like Art Blakey’s Mosaic. A song he’d always connected to the excitement of a first kiss. He stroked her hair and closed his eyes, trying to calm his heart. It got slow. Real slow.

It was still dark when he woke. She was gone. The lamp shining through the two empty bottles on his desk.

Bob Kesh is a London native who’s lived around the globe. He recently finished the first draft of his novel, Perfume and Cigarettes, on City University’s (now deceased) Novel Writing MA programme. He's working on forthcoming writing and music projects in London. @BobKesh