Wikileaks - Mirrors of their website.

Currently under attack here's a link.

http://wikileaks.ch/mirrors.html

PROBLEM - Harold Pinter

The phone rings. I ignore it. It persists. I'm not a fool. The strategem I
employ comes easily to me. I lift the extension. I say nothing. Silence too,
at his end. He replaces his receiver. Remarkably harsh dialling tone.

After seeing to a few odd jobs I decide to make a telephone call. I lift the
phone. Dead silence. Unprecedented. The telephone system in my area
normally sans pareil. At the report of the slightest fault telephone
technicians arrive post haste, on the dot, to correct. But in this case
problem palpable. I can't phone to declare the fault, the fault is so vast, so
pervasive, it so consumes, is so final, as to obstruct, without a chink of
hope, aid.

Silent phone. Dead night.

The extension? Phone off the hook? The extension phone off hook? I
investigate. Extension secure, with a certain indolence, on hook. I am
nonplussed. Not only that. I take one of my seats and sit nonplussed.

Nonplussed. No tone. Dead night.

It rings.

I leave the library, go into a phone box and dial my flat. Number
engaged.

Someone is trying to do me in.


(1976)
From Transatlantic Review, June 1977

OLGA MARTNOVA (b.1962)- Night unwraps the true stuff of the world

Night unwraps the true stuff of the world:
Poorly clothed houses, shadows in a back street,
Lorries and lime trees on the boulevards-
All sleep under the rain: their black and white
Faces show bewildered discontent. What still holds
Of their comfortable life? Is this new look
Deception or reality? Electric words
Suddenly flash their alphabet. Night
Moves, lit only by itself. And until
The light of early morning, you can
Repeat the letters of the night-time world.
Now a sign flashes in a passing headlight,
Then somebody's whisper, menacing footsteps,
God knows what else - as the black scene shines.
Day clothes this nakedness and
Hides the evidence of it within our flesh.
Language turns into babble, and then,
Sitting on a bench in the boulevard,
You try helpessly to remember what remains
Once night has gone, more than
A worn out negative of how things are
Under the heels of the rain.

Translated by Elaine Feinstein

Therapy Room - Bill Lewis (1/8/53)

Therapy Room - Bill Lewis 

Joe's making a stool
i'm weaving a basket
someone's making coffee
Dee says I can sing
and she does.
Jane won't make an
ashtray
Arthur's sulking because
the priest wouldn't re-
christen him Jesus.
Jane still won't make
an ashtray, instead
she becomes a dog
ggrrr Woof woof WOOF!
Dogs don't make ashtrays.
Dee's singing the
national anthem
Arthur blesses me.
Sydney hasn't spoken
all morning, or yesterday
or the day before
gggrrrr Woof Woof!
Shit said Joe
I'm going to disharge
myself from this place
it's driving me mad.

realising what he had
said, he starts to laugh
i also start to laugh
the man on my left
(who didn't hear Joe)
starts to laugh as well.
we all laugh.
except Sid who wants
to die (and means it)
then we had coffee.

Bill Lewis - God is an an athiest she doesn't believe in me.


Bill Lewis is a poet, artist, storyteller and mythographer, since being hospitalsed in 1976 for clinical depression he has made a career as a writer. He has read, lectured and published on both sides of the Atlantic. He was also founder member of the Medway Poets and the Stuckist Art group along with Billy Childish and Charles Thomson. He was later found teaching Myth, Magic and Spirituallity at Kent Childrens hospital.His work explores the whole human shadow encompassing themes of madness, individuallity, spirituallity, sexuality and politics.
He has published numerous books of poetry and short stories and was included  in " The Grandchildren of Albion" edited by Michael Horovitz. I admire his work, it offers a triumphant realism.


The above poem is from " Rage Without Anger, " Lazerwolf/Hangmans Books (1988)

http://www.stuckism.com/lewis/index.html

Personally speaking i used to be a support worker, who then became a user, now live in state of limbo
inhale a lot though,  some of it illegal.

Gaef stiw gerwinder teifidancer/ teifidancer Winter austerity stew.

Preselis West Wales.

At the moment it is time to keep our bodies and heads from cold. Time to go into the kitchen for some apothecay, try and keep warm, heating bloody expensive I know, better wear some warm clothes, try and keep merry in company, best not mix with tories.
Heres a nice hearty meal thats nice to share ( Suitable for vegetarians) as CoNDem policies become increasingly surreal, mean and destructive ,this meal is at least affordable and will pehaps disract a little. It might sound like a right old mixture but I think is very tasty and quick to make. Hope you enjoy.

INGREDIENTS

3 Potatoes - diced into half inch cubes

cup full of frozen peas

2 onions - finely chopped

2 cloves garlic - crushed

400g tin of chopped tomatoes

2 chillies red or green - deseeded and finely chopped

Lg Tin of Baked Beans

1 and a half pints of vegetable or chicken stock

half a pint of ale

3 grated carrots

125 g mushrooms - roughly chopped

knob of butter.

Boil potatoes seprately for 10 mins, meanwhile fry onions, garlc , chillies for 5 minutes in knob of butter. Drain spuds and add to large saucepan adding rest of ingredients .... onions, garlic and stock etc. Season with salt and freshly ground pepper anda couple of dashes of worcester sauce.
Simmer for half an hour and there you have it.
Oh and at end you could stir in some cream and if required grate some cheese and serve with some brown bread.

Samuel Beckett (13/04/06 -22/12/89) - FIVE POEMS

1

DIEPPE

again the last ebb
the dead shingle
the turning then the steps
towards the lighted town

2

my way is in the sand flowing
between the shingle and the dune
the summer rain rains on my life
on me my life harrying fleeing
to its beginning to its end

my peace is there in the receding mist
when I may cease from treading these long shifting thresholds
and live the space of a door
that opens and shuts

3

what would I do without this world faceless incurious
where to be lasts but an instant where evbery instant
spills in the void the ignorance of having been
without this wave where in the end
body and shadow together are engulfed
what would I do without this silence where the murmours die
the paintings the frenzies towards succour towards love
without this sky that soars
above its ballast dust

what would I do what I did yesterday and rhe day before
peering out of my deadlight looking for another
wandering like me eddying far from all the living
in a convulsive space
that throng my hiddeness

4

I would like my love to die
and the rain to be falling on the graveyard
and on me waling the streets
mourning the first and last to love me

CASCANDO



why not merely the despaired of
occasion of
wordshed
it is not better abort than be barren
the hours after you are gone are so leaden
yhey will always start dragging too soon
the grapples clawing blindly the bed of want
bringing up the bones the old loves
sockets filled once with eyes like yours
all always is it better too soon than never
the black want slplashing their faces
saying again nine days never floated the loved
for nine months
for nine lives

2

saying again
if you do not teach me I shall not learn
saying again there is a last
even of last times
last times f begging
last times of loving
of knowing not knowing pretending
a last even of last times of saying
if you do not love me I shall not be loved
if I do not love you I shall not love

the churn of stale words in the heart again
love love love thud of the old plunger
peatling the unalterable
whey of words

terrified again
of not loving
of loving and not you
of being loved and not by you
of knowing not knowing pretending
pretending

I and all the others that will love you
if they love you

3

unless they love you

Taking back the Future.

I think the public, realise now that things aren't as good as they used to be. I think too that they know who has been fostering this. We cannot blame the students or ordinary people in the streets.

They see a mounting anger , they see their Liberal Democrat representatives in Westminster, as yellow as yellow can be, gradually turning into shades of deepest blue.
The cuts that the ConDem coalition have announced will not effect themselves one iota, do they really ignore the passion emerging , yes I'm afraid they do. They don't care about anyone but themselves, but people are waking up and realising this. They know now this coalition never wanted any real change,a shift of power perhaps and a country utterly divided between rich and poor.

They believe their own right wing press , so much so that they are so much on a pedestal that the only way they will come of , is if they are mightily pushed.

If they even tried living for one minute the life of me and my friends, they would see for themselves how hard it is in the real world, they would not last a minute.

The ConDem coalition keep saying how necesaary these cuts are. They are not speaking the truth. The cuts are plainly ideologically driven , based on complete economic falseness.

Against this backdrop of government driven austerity the recent actions of students up and down the country must be welcomed. They have significant support despite sensational reportage in the right wing press. It is nice to see the young revitalised and energised, the public I believe will get behind them. A broad coalition is forming against these cuts, standing united and without nothing to fear, and nothing to lose.

Sadly this is not being reported truthfully on the mainstream news at the moment, so we have a situation where Murdoch and his cronies are doin the coalitions job for them, but in the words of Billy Bragg _ "When you wake up to the fact that your paper is prejudiced - just remember there are two sides to every story."

Goin beyond resistance and putting an end to Captalism is perhaps another issue but we have to some how work together to oppose this government and take back the future before its too bloody late.

Take it easy out there.

Kenneth Patchen - The Wolf of Winter.

The wolf of winter
Devours roads and towns
In his white hunger.

The wolf of winter
Sticks his paw into the city's rancid pot,
Wanly stirring its soup of whores and suicides.

O the wolf of winter
Crunched on the bones of the poor
In his chill white cave.

The wolf of winter . . .
The grim, the cold, the white
Beautiful winter wolf
That feeds on our world.

BURROUGHS IN TANGIER - By Paul Bowles.

Paul Bowles

Paul Frederic Bowles was born on December the Thirtieth 1910 in New York, where he studied composition with Aaron Copland.Bought up in a cultured middle-class upbringing, he developed a talent for music and writing. In 1931 he met Gertrude Stein (whom he had adored since his teenage years) and other iconographic figures in Paris and visited Morocco for the first time, where he fell in love with its nebulousness. Best known today for his brilliant novels 'The Sheltering Sky', 'The Spider's House' and 'Let it all come down'. His books were often full of violent events and tales of psychological collapse, written in a detached and elegant style.His travel writings are essential reading.
In 1938 he married Jane Auer herself a gifted novelist and playwright and shortly after the Second World War they settled in Tangier, Morocco.


A keen experimenter, his life an eternal thirst for knowing. He was one of the first purveyors of what is now called World Music, he was particularly entranced by indigeneous Moroccan tribal music. A brilliant mind, intense to the point of reclusiveness, his eyes were lucky enough to gaze upon many of the greats of the twentieth century avant garde.
A keen devotee and user of Kif, the fine leaves at the base of the flowers of the common hemp plant and mescalin, they both allowed him to open his mind, and despite his legendary reclusiveness and high drug use wrote and wrote and wrote.His life spent on the boundaries and on the edge. His autobiography ' Without Stopping' was of particular interest because of what it did not reveal.
He fell in love with Morocco and stayed there for the rest of his life until he died by now like a mysterious old man of the mountain on November 18th , 1999 aged 88.
His collected letters 'In Touch'; Harper Collins 1994, are well worth searching for some of his insights into the mad, mystic space he enveloped himsrlf in.
A fine portrait writer, the following is on one of my favourite writers and heroes William Burroughs. Their first meeting was not a success but gradually the mystification of their senses bought them together and they became great friends. It's quite enjoyable so I thought I'd share it. Two genuine outsiders , two tourists at home who found bridges that became roots, As I've said before, no borders are necessary, just some kind of understanding.



'I first saw Bill Burroughs in 1953, passing along a back street of Tangier in the rain. He was on H at the time, and he didn't look very fit.
The next year he came to see me about some detail in his contract for Junky, in which he said he had been taken. I had paratyphoid and wasn't vey helpful. It wasn't until the winter of 1955-56 that we became friends and started to see each other regularly. Naturally I had been told about him: how he practiced shooting in his room down in the Medina, and all the rest of the legend. When I got to know him I realized the legend existed in spite of him and not because of him: he didn't give a damn about it.
His life had no visible organization about it, but knowing he was an addictive type he had chosen that way of giving himself an automatic interior discipline which was far more rigorous than any he could have imposed upon himself objectively. He lived in a damp little room whose single door opened onto the garden of the Hotel Villa Muniriya. One wall of the room, his shooting gallery , was pockmarked with bullet holes. Another wall was completely covered with snapshots, most of which he had taken on a trip to the headwaters of the Amazon. I liked to hear about that voyage, and always got him to talk lengthily about it.
Going there had been part of the self-imposed discipline, since the only reason he had gone was to try the effects of a local drug called Yage, a concoction made by the Indians of the region, and which must be taken on the spot since its efficacy vanishes within a few hours after it is brewed. The point about Yage is that it is, more than any other , a group drug, its particular property being the facilitation of mental telepathy and emotional empathy among those who have taken it. He insisted that with it communication was possible with the Indians, although it made him violently ill.
During the two years that I saw Bill regularly in Tangiers, he took only kif,majoun and alcohol. But he managed to take vast amounts of all three. The litter on his desk and under it, on the floor was chaotic,but it cosisted only of pages of 'Naked Lunch' at which he was constantly working. When he read aloud from it, at random (any sheet of paper he happened to grab would do) he laughed a good deal, as well he might, since it is very funny, but from reading he would suddenly (the paper still in hand) go into a bitter conversational attack upon whatever sapect of life had prompted the passage he had just read. The best thing about Bill Burroughs is that he always makes sense and he is always humorous, even at his most vitriolic. At any point of the night or day you might happen to catch him, you will always find that whole machine is going full blast, and that means that he is laughing or about to laugh.



He spends more money on food than most of us Tangerines, I've noticed; perhaps he has more to spend - I don't know - but the fact remains that he insists om eating well, which is part of his insistence on living just as he likes at all times. (Gertrude Stein would have called him sel-indulgent; he certainly is not ever hampered by even a shadow of the feeling of guilt, ever.)He goes on his way enjoying wven his own misfortunes. I've never heard him mention an experience that made him more than temporarily happy. At the Hotel Muniriya he has a Reich orgone box in which he used to sit doubled up, smoking kif. I believe he made it himself. He had a little stove in his room over which he cooked his own hashish candy, of which he was very proud, and which he distributed to anyone who was interested.
Th months that Allen Ginsberg was here in Tangier, he and Bill used to sit around half the night having endless fights about literature and aesthetics. It was always Bill who attacked the intellect from all sides, which I suspect was exactly what Allen wanted to hear. Surely it was worth hearing, and worth watching too, as Bill stumbled from one side of the room to another, shouting in his cowboy voice, stirring his drink around and around without stopping, with his index ad middle finger, and with two or three Kif cigarettes lighted simultaneously but lying in different ashtrays which he visited on his way around the room.'

1959




Burroughs in Tangier (by Paul Bowles): (Big Table 2 9op cit);
Parkinson, T. (op cit)
The Burroughs File; City Lights,1984.
http://www.paulbowles.org/

Out of the Blue.

Yesterday  saw a kingfisher
by the shoreline at half tide
how unusual I thought
as I chain smoked
and dived for pearls,
swam against currents
and gasped for air.

Followed instinct
stayed calm,carried on,
removed all labels
passed admission wards
moved beyond breakdown..

Later avoided the news
inhaled deep breaths instead,
reached out for her soft touch
in the twilight healed myself,
practiced containment locked all doors.

Ah Love is a warm drug
keeps us on track,
imposes no conditions
no holding back.

Offers endless beginnings
in the morning bubbling
leaves fingerprinted petals
at the scene of the crime.

Does a dying rose protest 

when dark clouds bring the rain 

does a lonely shore deny waves  

when the tide returns again.

Does a poet put their pen down  

when they see an empty page  

no, I will keep dreaming 

these heartbeats believing

until my final breath is made.