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28. Featuring Scott Thurston  





of it


a new conscience

stabilising particles












must be interesting



manipulation strategy

a speck of something




wordlessness comes




into concealment














slow composition



spreads, disperses


Scott Thurston



Figure Detached, Figure Impermanent



A series of trials set up like islands in a river – noticing where a current is viable even in concealment. A perfect will turns like a needle as a thread of disgust stitched through every day starts to come undone. You slip into the stream.




Consenting out of fear you grasp each word as a thing, trying to create your own knowledge. As a remedy an exchange of energy occurs – a constant circulation against the monotony of your endless self-assertion.




In a discipline without discipline, writing becomes a preparation for a ritual in which you are less afraid. A grounded sense of being in the shit – the strata underlying the line in space standing across from it. A crisis of embodiment: if we are not diverse why can’t you bequeath me your wealth, swept away whilst more outside yourself than before?




Prove that you reflect the thoughts I think, that we impress the sphere that impresses us, that the world above forms that below. What the annual marker makes in the third age is a witness to movement that falls short in a split, rapt mind until the new notes invite to a new dancing.




A man stands by his neighbour, opens him up to see how he works; viscera sliding out like abandoned fears. Discovering the thigh muscles he becomes fascinated – eternity’s too short. Still thinking about time, he finds it more difficult to create than destroy, as he starts to extend into the space beyond his skin.




Do nothing but reflect as you hold the flaming torch in the unbridled moment of taking off. Draw your efforts towards the spectacle of the line, noting the lessons of a fowl on the land, on the water, in the air. Still your presence drawn from a well to trust more and more in service to a servant.



Scott Thurston





Revolutionaries are those;

Who feed on hunger in curtained off locations,

Those who are boiled and fermented,

        In the black pot of squalor and violence


These are revolutionaries true,

Who like Che, one day,

Would die from a bullet wound in the jungle,

Not that they wouldn’t have liberated,

Their Sierra Maestra, their own Cuba.


                    Boletilemang Psycho Gabokgatlhe




My Own God


Sooner rather than later

I shall create my own god

Who shall understand

The kind of world I’m trapped in

The woes that accompany me

The short bouts of well being I experience

The artistic flair in me

The creator I am

My philosophy


Sooner rather than later

My own god shall emerge

A spitting image of my moods

My own god

Who shall listen to my songs

Who shall worship me from the pulpit of my mind

My own god

Who I shall destroy

When I deem fit

At the wink of an eye!


Boletilemang Psycho Gabokgatlhe

The Average Skilled Worker


My hands are never still.

They shape, design, build, touch.

Put yourself in my hands,

you’ll be surprised. Only three

MPs didn’t think they were worth

more than me. My hands rise

in the dark, form a cradle

to grip my aching head.


All night long, I hear them:

voices that sneer into phones,

talk down hospitals and schools,

libraries and lives. Hands

that open only to take.


I grasp the darkness and wait

to begin work. They’ll be surprised.


Joel Lane




Hunched behind the counter spread with teaspoons,

Bracelets, neatly-priced, a child-like smile

Almost discernable beneath the map

Of her skin, like an unmade bed.

You could just sit and watch the street outside

And the people change like friends with time.

The clothes hang stiff, clinging to the contours

Of an old body, a familiar shoulder,

A well-established smell.

A man picks up a blouse he brought in yesterday,

Sadly. It has missed the curve of his wife’s breast.


Joel Lane