Monday, 24 November 2008



"'Now,' said John 'what is a LEVERET?'
'Ah, you ask because you are curious, no?', L said
'Yes, i suppose that is the reason' John replied
'And you would very much like to know the answer?'
'That is why asked.' said John, curtly
'You can not know', L said.
L went off into his house, safe in the knowledge of What A Leveret Is. Only he did know, and he was trying to keep it that way. People only started to care after he began playing his SONGS
in the park, on a dictaphone.
'Entrancing,' they said 'i can hear the bubbles move'
'Yes and I have drawn you a picture' replied the shadowy figure, to everyone he encountered there. But he was a musician, foremost, an artist close second.
Giving in to modern temptations was a thing he tried to shy away from but failed. Leveret had a myspace, an iPod, a laptop and a mobile telephone, for close friends.
If you visit his space, you may be enlightened or disgusted. It will be one of the two. Nothing less.
He is Leveret."




The forest was agitated.
It was agitated because of the groups that had taken to gathering in it’s depths. They convened weekly and discussed what? The forest didn’t know. But it didn’t like it.
They huddled in their cloaks and capes and beads and they mumbled. They did nothing but this. Just huddling and mumbling and occasionally moaning. All the while they dropped pine needles into their small fire, which the forest also didn’t like: it’s children wasted on producing a small crackle and spark. Although recently, due to the rains, this had not been practiced as much.
The forest still didn’t like them, and it tried to make this known. It tried to eradicate them. It made the creatures and the goblins show themselves, assuming this would scare the groups, but they didn’t even seem to notice the horrific beasts. They didn’t take a second look. Not even a first one.
The forest was agitated. But what could it do? It had done all in its powers. Well, apart from the frightful thing. Should it do the most frightful thing? Surely not. The forest was agitated that it couldn’t make up it’s mind. It was not a content forest.

Tuesday, 11 November 2008



A LITTLE BIT ABOUT EMMA TILLYER; "There is plenty to say upon this subject but I shall not bore you with ‘plenty’, I shall just explain that I am a second year English Literature student studying at Manchester University, that words are my first love and I have been writing poetry for the last 7 or so years but only seriously in the last 3. I like William Carlos Williams’ credo ‘no ideas but in things’; and with this in mind I try to look for the beautiful in the everyday, I try to illustrate my ideas about the world with an image, or a series of images. In my next life, if I could choose, I would come back with the face of Audrey Hepburn, the brain and soul of Allen Ginsburg, the music of Jeffrey Lewis in my fingertips and the entire poetic output of the 20th century committed to memory. Oh, and have Bonnie ‘prince’ Billy as my husband.

P.S Whoever told you that poetry is food for the soul, they lied. It’s more akin to air.

P.P.S The real soul food? Cheese and wine."

If you are Will Oldham and would like to propose marriage, you can get in touch at EMMA_MUSHABOOM@HOTMAIL.CO.UK





Out of his mother’s sewing box

a child pulls felt scraps to his feet

and kicks them into leaves,

he orders buttons into colours,

seeing plastic fruit,

a stash of gold-

Neat skeins unwound into thread walls, next door a

pincushion, rolled plumply into a head.


when it’s hair draws blood.

Pan back, a window- the child a dream.

Monday, 10 November 2008



In a far off land, a long time ago, I came across a young man named TOM PITTS. Carrying his trusty 35mm Fujica and a black biro, he was travelling as a lone wolf across the desert plains of Cheshire in search of some greater meaning to reality than krispy kreme doughnuts. Needless to say he was having a hard time. Though Sartre and Camus had tempted him, a certain emptiness within their voices left him searching for more. So, with the sun beating down upon his neck and with sand in his eyes, he told me his search would continue. Since then, he has taken numerous photographs focused on the theme of loneliness, painted Cy Twombly rip-offs, become entranced with the movement of falling leaves and generally spoken too much about rubbish. Beside art, literature, philosophy and sugared pastry, he also enjoys reading Wikipedia too much. One day, he hopes, he will have an article all about him and his amazing adventures. One day.

Say HI and join him on his travels at TOM.P_@HOTMAIL.CO.UK





I could barely move. My mind had contracted itself into a tennis-ball sized fist of mercury; hovering around at the back of my head. Only the inimitable, but frankly quite logical and well-informed need for water was able to materialise within that floating, metallic sphere. Indeed, Peter (though it may have been someone else) had placed in my hand a litre bottle of the stuff, its label hastily ripped off leaving an endless scar of paper around the pure, clear plastic; it, like me, speckled with dried mud. In my other hand was a piece of grass, for a reason that I now do not know; but on it I held my heavy, dumb stare, gripped by the infinity of its textures. ‘Are you all right, Leon?’ came the far off, meter away call of a girl whose name at this point evades me. ‘Grass’, I replied in what I expect was a rather pitiful voice ‘grass…and water. I need some water’. A trickle of gold-tinted puke lay like a veil on the floor in front of me, seeping softly into the mud. ‘You’ve a bottle in your hand, look’ she said wandering off. I felt my hand crush the clumsy plastic beneath it, smooth like silk, but rigid as thick card. To any observer, my position must have been quite a sight, crouched meekly in the mud, half conscious, half vegetable; surrounded by partially absorbed pools of my own sick and staring into the abyss-like contours of a piece of grass.

Sunday, 2 November 2008


We have been featured in the MANCUBIST blog. Thank you MANCUBIST. That's a really nice thing.


ARTISTS (in alphabetical order)
Rachel Ann Day
Jess Higgins
Alex Pierce
Tom Pitts

WRITERS (also in alphabetical order)
Katy Flynn
Daniel Marsden
Howard Melnyczuk
Emma Tillyer
Tim Woodall

MUSICIAN (in no particular order)
Kevin Doyle/The Weakness