I like cutting poetry as video. Pavement poetry films. From notes on a phone.
Here’s a new one, from the groves of Peckham to the branded streetart of Shoreditch. I’d been listening to Terence McKenna, watching Unity Matrix and Rachel Bladerunner…
The story is the journey – the poetry is as we walk.
Classic road movie Palm Spring colours and my photographs using a Holga lens around the Joshua Tree inspired the art direction of the first edition of Cold Lips.
The colours numbed for the second edition, stripped back to fading Polaroids and Shedville typewriter font.
Did the first pavement poetry film on Instagram last summer as I wandered. Primrose Hill slate, sounds better than other pavements.
It’s a few minutes through this Unedited film, that I’ve had projected through performances…
I’m doing something on 3rd November with Ana Sefer and her pal. The next one with Dave Barbarossa (drummer, Adam Ant/Bow Wow Wow) will be with Factory de Joie, November 25th.
And in the meantime, I write as I walk, and put together the third issue of Cold Lips. x
And here’s me and DAVE BARBAROSSA (ADAM ANT/BOW WOW WOW) – at our second gig. Main stage. 10 people. Ledge.
Our first gig was with Dr John Cooper Clarke (check out this podcast with him), supported by Gil De Ray, and MATA at the COLD LIPS party – DJs included Sean McLusky, Graham Bendel, Wildcat Will, Barnzley & Jody Porter… you can buy COLD LIPS, and Kirsty’s UNEDITED at the Cold Lips consumer paradise, here…
“Cold Lips is artistic and fabulous” John Cooper Clarke
Very proud to have the punk laureate support the second edition of Cold Lips as our cover star and with a rare, intimate performance on April 22nd – plus the rest of us. I’m doing poetry with Dave Barbarossa for the first time. And the music’ll be amazing. Look at that line-up!
Please come! The new edition will be back from the printer!
Having to pay John’s driver, hotel et al – hence modest charge. More info and tickets: HERE
Since launching the anti-literary Sylvia Plath Fan Club in 2015, I’ve been doing more gigs, as a poet. What does that even mean, huh? Basically, I stand up on stage – often between bands, MCing, introducing, doing poems – y’know? Come see me…and you’ll get it…
I published my first collection late last year – got it on billboards outside the Ace Hotel in Shoreditch. Thanks Daylite LED Media. So easy.
The cover was designed by Luke McLean – one of my fave people, and designers (Supergrass, London Field Brewery, Wrangler etc). You can buy Unedited on the Cold Lips website, or from me at gigs for a fiver… [here’s something nice on it by fellow Lazy Gramophone member, the brilliant skateboarding performance poet, Mat Lloyd].
Lovely to get invited onto James Meynell’s Garage show on internet station of the year, Soho Radio. Listen back below, and the post continues underneath…
My nearest gigs are tomorrow – Thursday – the last night of the residency I’ve been doing with Saint Leonard’s Horses at the International Club’s Winter Conclave at the George Tavern in Whitechapel, then on Saturday 18th, I’m doing my first out of town gig for Cultural Traffic.
Sometimes I do readings with film – this is work in progress…
My first reading was for Ambit, nearly 10 years, I was terrible – it was a 2000 word short story, called Lyla, and I just got up and read it cold to some poor darlings above a pub in Soho. After that, my ol’ pal Salena Godden started the Book Club Boutique. I’d been working on my novel, and needed to break up the style, and found poetry a good way to find a more honest voice, away from the corporate writing, and paid media work I’ve grown up doing.
Now people say nice things:
“Kirsty Allison is the most rock n roll poet in London” Kelli Ali
“Wordsmith wizardry” Adam J Harmer, Fat White Family
“Her poetry is the only that gives me goosebumps” Delilah Holliday, Skinny Girl Diet
“She’s a modern day Patti Smith” Johny Brown, Band of Holy Joy
Beyond the editorial, read why in a piece for the Literary Platform
Look at these gorg photos by Charlotte Freed from the London Fashion Week party at The Library. Thanks to DJs, Gil De Ray and Feral is MC Kinky, and all the amazing performers, and supporters. Massive appreciation to London Fields Brewery for keeping artists happy
Please join us to celebrate the inaugural night of the Sylvia Plath Fan Club at the Arts Club East aka Gary’s Place, 64 Shoreditch High Street, London, E1 6JJ.
NOVEMBER 5th 2015
Words (stolen or otherwise) from the gorgeously rebellious mouths of: Gail Porter (bigger than any politician, projected on Parliament in the 90s, the former kids’ TV presenter hurtled through a rockstar marriage and the bedlam which ensued – exclusive preview from her forthcoming book), Kelli Ali (once upon a time there was a band called the Sneaker Pimps, but punk bands before that, and so much since – pure poet, dying by the sword), Anne McCloy (she has the answers, Some Product, artist, professor, everything), Tony White (true gent of London’s literary scene, author of novels including Foxy-T, much published, amazing mind), Erik Stein (Cult With No Name, recently completed the hugely lauded Blue Velvet Revisited soundtrack, film to follow next year), Gil De Ray (rock n roll’s finest), Gary Fairfull (the guv’nor), Kirsty Allison and you?
Was my pleasure to MC amid left-bank optimism in the wilds of Brixton. Johny Brown – frontman of legendary folk-punk heroes, Band of Holy Joy invited the gorgeously French band over, A Singer Must Die
– so it all went pretty indie.
Packed crowd also got to hear Morton Valence. Love. Robert ‘Hacker’ Jessett looks like George Michael undercover, Anne Gilpin’s more bonnie than her Hacker Clyde.
When doing my homework, I discovered how poetic translations can be – finding zillions of versions of Baudelaire, Rimbaud & Verlaine. Being the kind of girl who has to order the first thing she sees on a menu, in fear of indecision, I went freestyle and opted to make my own really bad translations below…
—-
Enemy. Baudelaire. Kirsty translation v1.
My youth was nothing but a tempest storm
Broken brilliant with sun rays
The thunder and the rain have ravaged me
And sickened fruit in my garden lays
Voila – touched by the autumn of my creative life
I prepare my shovel and pick
To reassemble the earth and soils
Arrêt – this water must not lick through cracks to tombs beneath
And who knows if the flowers that I dream
of finding in this sun will root or wash away, a tragedy,
Never finding the mystic thing which offers their vigorous beauty
O doulear! Alas – time eats life
and the obscure enemy locked to our heart is blood lost,
growing from this fortified dust…
In response to my enemy
Time is my enemy
Not nature
I fight in bars
On dancefloors
In praise of love
Of life raw
Lost
At the aftershow
Before there was Burroughs, shooting his wife, Rimbaud shot Verlaine.
And after Rimbaud came Penny Rimbaud (creator of anarchic band, Crass)
Travel with me to 2099AD, deep arse space, a place of over edited fiction, where Planet Prada, Comet CHANEL, Land of Louis Vuitton and all manner of planets preferable to earth leave a few rebels behind… X
This voyage of discovery is yours for a fiver from SOLID distributors of the creative visual word form – also included in this once in a lifetime offer: moonshine recipes, and a dystopia survival kit (a beermat soaked with poetry).
—
Established in 1998, The Illustrated Ape features 100% original creative fiction, pictures, poetry, pop – and never, ever reviews! It has won popular acclaim, most notably the Creative Review ‘Best In Book’ award for design, and was one of only five British magazines selected for the Jam Anglo-Japanese exhibition. It is widely regarded as the most exciting and influential creative, illustration, graffiti, and writing magazine to come out of the British urban underground, and is a primary resource for anyone seeing insights into popular culture.
Jamie Reid – the design king of punk, Julie Verhoeven – described in Taschen’s modern design bible, Illustration Now as one of the world’s top designer/illustrators, Paul Davis – award winning illustrator, John Lennon (previously unpublished work), David Hockney (previously unpublished work), Michael English, Martin Sharp – sixties design icon, Felix Dennis – OZ and MAXIM magazine founder and poet, David Sims – fashion photographer, Ryuichi Sakamoto – composer and film-star, Junko Mizuno (HELL BABIES) – manga artist and author, Jason Atomic – illustrator, Honey Manko – alt-diva, Heather Jones – songwriter and HOLE founding member, James Berry – poet, Michael Horowitz – poet, Tim Wells – poet, Cheryl B – New York feminist poet, and hundreds more acclaimed heroes of the pen and pencil.
Shoreditch’s RED is the creative force engaging local communities through facilitation of the continuing Cultural Revolution in the heart of East London.
This versatile, multi-functional space has welcomed a myriad of creativity through its doors since opening in 2010; transforming a derelict group of buildings and unused land into chameleon like art studios, galleries, live events venues, offices, screening rooms, open air event setting, incorporating a street food market and bars.
In keeping with its ethos of cultural guardianship, RED has actively encouraged not only artists and local residents to engage with the facilities, schools such as St Monica’s Primary have utilised the space and in keeping with their continued commitment to communitas, RED plays host to an annual symposium of the religious arts initiative Urban Dialogues, bringing together people from all faiths.
A year in the making, MAKING SOMETHING OUT OF NOTHING documents elements of the magic that takes place behind the doors (and often on the walls) of RED through interviews and photographs.
To celebrate the launch RED will be hosting a photographic exhibition and in keeping with its anti-hegemonic practice, 2000 copies of the book will be distributed at the launch.
Additional commentary from visionaries such as Stirling Ackroyd’s James Goff, Tom Burger Bear – one of the chefs who led Time Out! to dub Red Market as being the birthplace of ‘the new food revolution’, curators and artists such as Alice Herrick of Herrick Gallery, Jerwood Prize winning Svetlana Fialova, Paul Sakoilsky, Chris Bianchi, Matthew Hawtin of Minus, former street artist, Part2ism,Dimitri Hegemann of Tresor Berlin, trends author Dr. Lida Hujic , fashion designers: Roggykei, patron Nick Winter, Stephen Shashoua of 3 Faiths Forum, music consultant: Juan Leal, Gary Means’ Alternative London street art tours and more.
I’m part of the LAZY GRAMOPHONE collective – misfits of the modern world.
A few years ago, founder and editor, Sam Rawlings approached us with an ambitious project that catalogues TIME – Childhood, Adolescence, Wisdom.
I got to write a poem about ADOLESCENCE…all the pieces interlink and it’s a spectacle of book, immaculately conceived – I am super-proud to be included alongside some excellent poets, writers and illustrators.
You can read my poem and see the beautiful illustration by super-cool artist, Lola Dupre by purchasing the book – leave a comment with your email and I’ll send you 20% discount code.
Mat Lloyd – skater poet, Philip Levine – publisher, Kirsty Allison
Time is a vast collaborative book project containing short stories, poems and artwork by fifty-five contributors. Ever since the project’s inception, the idea has been to create an environment where independent writers and artists could come together in order to share their work. The result of this endeavour is a collection of stories, images and poems based around the theme of time, its pages placing particular focus upon the relationship between words and pictures. By sharing in this way we hope to inspire each other as well as those around us, to draw a diverse audience and so help to illuminate the work of alternative artists and writers everywhere.
The Sex Pistols’ gfx guy, Jamie Reid, fash illustrator, Julie Verhoeven, musical visionary,Ryuichi Sakamoto – and double-bubble-popping-yay-yay-yay, KIRSTY ALLISON … all published by iconoclastic design and culture bible, The Illustrated Ape. Niiiice.
Deeeelited to be included in the Torchsongs & Firehoses edition of the ever-inspiring, trend-jutting, The Illustrated Ape. Est. 1998, it has come in all formats, this one is proper lo-fi comic-style by Jason Atomic & Honey Manko.
Here’s a picture at the launch (by Honey Manko). Buy it here (or rather exceptional outlets), or read more about it here…
Freeeee London – The National Portrait Gallery, downstairs, great photographs by Mary McCartney, particularly one, that I must tweet to Boy George and Gemma Peppe.
Freeeeee London II- The Royal Festival Hall – MUST SEE – the World Press Photo 10 – this touring exhibition is an education, every year. Frontline photography at its best. I caught my first in Mumbai. They never fail to open up the world in the blink of an eye.
This is my look for today.
Also had the pleasure of falling upon Donald Gardner – poet extraordinaire – he’s playing at the Poetry Cafe tomorrow, if you want to catch some genuine, old skool beat. They’re also doing some surreal.
Manish Arora – what a complete legend. I’m gonna freeform you with my notes, then you can see if they match the pictures (what a cool game).
sooooooo (this is as written as the catwalked):
MANISH ARORA RAP
Psychedelic neon Kenneth Anger on roller skates, bursts of micro roses in red falling over white chiffon, applique disco ram heads/Indian devil doodles, ancillary baroque shoulders and hips, violin curves. Seventies porn club funk, James Bond, Paint It Black on the theramin. 80s/50s scenes of palm trees and yellow cars beaded onto 60s dresses. Hot pants for Claire Manumission. Gold metal prayer blanket jackets. Rajasthani punk mirror balls on acid.
(yes, I know it breaks Website Design Rule Number ONE to link to sites outside one’s own because you probably haven’t made it this far and are currently browsing Style.com, but if you didn’t come back, you wouldn’t find out what I wore, or the amazing style hints I’m going to share at the bottom of this post. You know why I’m linking outside, because it’s such bad internet form to just swipe them, cheapo skanky behaviour. I may one day get better at pics, but my camera was nicked in Ibiza, so I’m surviving on the good nature of others, my phone and inbuilt computer one)
Okay. So I loved it. The designer points at Hiroshi Nagai (feature in this season’s Another magazine). Hats were by Christophe Coppens. The music was put together by Marc Chouarain, on tour with Benjamin Biolay. He played the theramin (that wacky sci-fi Russian invention which responds to the distance of the hands to it). Accompanied by Thomas Coeuriot on guitar and Denis Benarrosh on drums. Styling was by Laurent Dombrowicz. Nice.
Now, let’s try it with Barbara Bui – boot legend.
BARBARA BUI RAP
Ipad pockets on suede with 80s sloppy wide shoulders. Safari militart. Rifat Hirst circles, casual jumpsuits with rope, platforms, classy hair, minimal make-up, sponge died silk urban safari, punched leather and silk dress, string vest. Double split on long skirt to cover poonani and show legs, toga silks, more gold, leather trimmed shorts. Alligator inserts.
Imagination vs the harsh flashes that lose the softness of fabric…although, let it be said, the internet is a great way to see collections without having to go through the ‘who’s sitting where’ escapades (which I still love).
I did take one pic yesterday:
First, the other show I saw yesterday, Sharon Wauchob.
SHARON WAUCHOB RAP
Zip necks, ruffled hems, lay the drapes, thin lace, naked skin, pleated monochrome, mustard gold, minimal tailoring. Fabric lover. No cover. Grown up. Deconstruct.
Okay, so other than knocking about a few shows (I do occasionally write about fashion, not just is my novel-in-progress about a fashion designer/band manager, but for magazines since I was a teenager, which I’m not anymore, unbelievably when I’m keeping myself occupied with a blog as banal as this, but it’s Art, darlings, and occasionally I style things for people but)…WHAT ELSE WAS I DOING IN PARIS?
Meeting a friend who’s from Tokyo. She was helping out Diane Pernet (internet fashion saviour) in Paris, and also with production for supercool accessories people, 1-100 by Graham Tabor and Miguel Villalobos. It felt very equestrian. Horse hair one offs – pictured, and men’s bracelets which are individually molded from wax. Very craft. Very horseshoe. Very cool. Whilst we shared some lovely charcuterie, Akiko found out it had been scooped up by superbuyer, Sarah Lerfel of Colette before they even opened their showroom. Where Colette start, others follow, so my friend, Akiko Hamaoka is going to be having a busy time.
Akiko is on the left. This pic was taken in a noodle bar emergency stop in Tokyo last year. Next to her are Karen Kay (lovely lady journalist) and Jonathan Margolis (gadget man on the FT) – I was writing pieces for Dazed, Creative Review and The Guardian.
I didn’t take pics myself yesterday of Akiko nor myself. So I can tell you what she wore – a gorgeous little pink jumper (very factory made), knitted track bottoms (alot of the girls on the Eurostar were also doing this, pink Reebok hightops, military jacket and mohair scarf. Pastel colours. She’s so beautiful.
I wore, the same as the Shoreditch House pic the other day with different boots (the rock n roll brown ones with a heel low enough to wander down the Port de Champs Elysees for about five bridges on nothing more than 8 horse chestnuts) and an aran Chloe cardigan from a few seasons ago. Must be something in the fashion ether (or Chloe and Stella and Celine) because there was a clear trend among the younger fashion pack for wearing oversize beige/camel arans and thin belts. Ai.
LOVE IS BLONDE…After 2 months my lover returns tomorrow – he’s been racking up cash working for FIFA on films and broadcast in South Africa. It’s gonna rain after solid sunshine for weeks. He’s been locked in an Alcatraz residence precinct like District 9, with ‘fun buses’ pelleting them out past gun-toting chancers lurking around the gates. He’s not had one day off for the whole stretch. So excited to roll up to at Heathrow to collect him.
Top outing eastward yesterday. Groovers and movers collected for PR shaker Letitia Thomas’ birthday at the Britannia on Victoria Park, owned by Cymon Eccles who used to run Boys Own, and runs the Griffin in Shoreditch. He’s also opening a new bar, XOYO in Old Street in September – ai, you heard it here. I used to DJ for him in Riki Tik’s in Soho on Friday nights. Then went to a house party further east, more of a warehouse party, full of beautiful gay men. On the streets when the host Oover Matic walked me to my vehicle, there were circus kids hoping to catch women in hoola hoops, drunk lost Mexicans, and many a freak. Today I venture forth to Islington, for Lazy Gramophone, and then down to the Betsy Trotwood for Ivor Cutler.
Wearing: Black Jeans, Alexander McQueen. Check It Before You Wreck It t-shirt, designed by Sadie Frost for the Hep C Trust, customised by myself, all down the side. American Apparel bandeau. Shoes from Oxfam. Jacket, McQueen. Lipstick, Nars Heatwave. Hat, Tubbs (see previous entry).
Up the nylon carpeted stairs of 71 St John Street, past the PYMCA and Espionage offices is the new Biba. The Mrs Jones Emporium provides salvage to rock stars and rockette starlets, from Paloma Faith to Kylie. With a plastic flower strewn roof garden, living-room style hairdressing salon, and full transform-your-lifestyle kit shop, you have entered the entrancing world of my pal Fee Doran (aka Mrs Jones). It’s a mantric chamber to leather, feathers, silks and tails.
There are clothes (many have been worn by musicians, various designers), interiors (brilliant collabs with furniture maker Louis Baker and others), alongside various art (including gorgeous Indian god prints by Crazy Girl), It’s pure Mr Ben. Fee’s style is the best amalgam of magpie vintage, from Woodstock to Studio 54, Essex hairdresser to Shepherd’s Bush Market. I love her, and her dog, Ruffles, or something, currently sporting orange tiger stripes. Fully recommended. Prices start at £7, for an eggcup reading ‘you’re doing my head in’There’s a full story with Mrs Jones that I did a while ago here… (you’ll have to root around between other interviews all done for Channel4.com)
Also on my travels today, fell into Darkwave on Lamb’s Conduit Street. Inspiring interiors. After a peppermint tea in The Bloomsbury Lounge I went to a lesbian moustache convention, sorry, a poetry gig, read something, then finally got to see Woman E who bring drama to electronica, in a good way. Rennaisance being my fave track today, with the rap, ‘90s throwback, panic attack’…perhaps.
Woman E. Putting the E into EuroElectronica.
Today, pictured in the Blooomsbury Lounge of the Perseverance pub on Lamb’s Conduit Street, wearing: Alpuharran poncho, available in good tourist shops in the mountains near Orgiva, Spain. Aubergine leather boots, McQueen. Catsuit, American Apparel.
A lady looking for freedom in Hoxton a few nights ago
Cooler than a smack sorbet, John Foxx, playing his Analogue show on Saturday.
See post, Day 15, White Out at the Roundhouse
Louis Eliot and the Embers: from last night, my mum would like it too. R2, get on it!
This was recently published in the London Zine – a magazine I facilitate, sponsored by Islington Council (through Springboard/CSV, providing media access and training).
It felt so exclusive to ride through the London night,
The N11 bus rode higher than the net held by those fishing in crack pipe light
This confident orange roar swirled and licked at parties behind closed doors,
The elusive promise of London, every kiss and shop begging more, more, more.
But across the window panes of the silver flanked stairs of Trafalgar Square
Christtelnacht terror reigned in the reflection of Nelson’s hard glare,
The Queen struck her gilded telescope down her drive of old Pall Mall
Had her people revolted, or was her CCTV feed plain unwell?
Evil orange burned along the glass with Schwartzenegger power,
Was it an inferno from the moon, shooting shards of marigold flowers?
The National Gallery’s collection froze, oil eyes of history in despair
The stories their pictures told could soon be polluted air
The homeless laughed almighty as the fire licked their tinnies and sleeping bags
They’d lost far more than priceless canvases fizzling under the ferocity of the nation’s flags
But as the window panes danced, shining, ready to break
It was clear London city will never burn again, it just bathed in a neon lake.
For nightlights are the only reflection upon the streets and atop the plinth
Nightlife is guided by these torches to steer us through the city labyrinth
The stars drop out of the denim rippled sapphire camouflage sky
Like bullets. And the Plough realigns as a target eye
Meteors hit like Roman candles over Lindesfarne
The half moon invites us to walk all night
Under its bone glaze, wise owl power
Serge clouds gather to shield us from 3:AM wisdom
Torches drop like laser guns
Taking my retinas, burn burn burn
This canvas ship between the rowan boughs
The morning promises a thousand greens
Moss surrounds the silver walls
The Milky Way high above conifer castles
Their branches sit on mountain tops
Black Elk feathers
I cannot hear the motorway or see the other tents
The cars have regressed
I am wild and alone and progress is yet to be invented
TO BE COMPLETED
Come chocolate bombs and fall on Primrose Hill!
As long as it’s organic
Lactose free, not a cow in sight
Swarm over, Death by delight!
Come, chocolate, blast their synapses, those comfortable high-ceilings, fresh platters at Limonia, devil’s picnicking, boutique design, quiet drinking rockstars, and rich brothels of the night.
Mess up the mess they call a village, come on let the 100% cocoa release its powers. Let’s send them whizzing up to space at 5000 miles an hour.
SUCCESS & THE SHADOWS
The atom had been split
The stage pre-lit
There’s nothing the kid could do
Except blow up Western rule
Family leaders of their fields
Cured cancer, immaculately well-heeled
There’s nothing the kid could do
He’d joined Mensa at age two
His mother was a Nobel Prize winner
His dad a self-righteous sinner
They laid the gauntlet not to be matched
The brother did a better of job of staying attached
What’s the point in being rich when I’ve got pocket full of soul and a soul full of rich.
I got a purse that sings salvation to a bankrupt nation,
But with money so expensive, what’s the point in being rich?
I got a pocket full of soul and a soul full of pitch…a whore for the filthy expression, mortgaged up to our idols like Paris Hilton, a nation full of chicken nugget travellers and pound shop luggage…inbox full of links, it stinks.
A buyer’s world for namedropper queens, rapist kings of the city, strange hotel girls waiting for their yachts, going to the bar to find the names they’ve dropped.
Parties are for lost souls, nightclubs for devils dancing, hanging on Skint Street, lost in the shadow, don’t be a hero, get on the blower, someone call China, and get us notes over.
The riches are blind with botox glows, the darling accessories of it’s all a show, we’ve always been a credit nations, I mean what do we do? The Hacienda was the last time a factory was new.
Chew these fatty funny mother lumps, you sick twisted harlot chemo drunk
Go on take my youth, my despair.
Rape me like I ever cared.
Dying tit, dying tit, dying tit
Forgetting to rub, the devil crossed my Mount Si-nais
Realised the sin had got inside
A cancer thumps this pumped up rack, disaster sacks
Happy I never got fully woman made, my false titties are buried alive, alive
OAP Tit, OAP Tit, OAP Tit
I’m an ancient lesbian loving demented freak man again, still a hit
With my cock still intact, I’m back, to being the full diamond in the rough, just a man who begs to feel, who wants to steal, a look, a sacred secret touch of heaven mounds on earth,
