9 August 2008

You Are What You Eat

Cover of 1st publication by Peter Rich included: poetry, short stories, photography and illustrations.

8 August 2008

Sole Mates - a film by Pete and Greg, 2008

Unexpected Item, Issue 2

This issue features works from;
Alec Dunnachie
Elsa Tierney
Luke Samas
Fred Lindberg
Peter Rich
Gregory Sodergren
Patrick Hamilton (extract from Hangover Square)

Unexpected Item, Issue 1

Quietly Saying What Need Not Be Said, 2008

A recent artist book
by Gregory Sodergren, poems and illustration, 26 pages b/w.

On sale at i-cabin

Text from the dust packages...

There seems to be less to sweep away these days
And ...then there seems to be these days......
And then there seems to be
Days i should have swept away.

Vodka bottle
Ash tray
Mould on the pizza crusts
Ah sweet morning greets me like a curse
Nothing is beautiful
Nothing is
And nothing’s worse.

Save water
Stop crying
Or start collecting tears.........
.......the hours drag there heals
......and the minutes bring more fears,
They let themselves in at night.
Last night i felt my heart beating
extraordinarily fast
I opened my eyes to the blackest room
And prayed for it all to pass.
But the room was so black that nothing -nor it-
seemed to be there.
Just a shadowy critter sat square on the chair
Then whatever it was it slid under the bed.
It is defiantly still there this morning, i hear it,
and it is breathy
With words which wish me dead .

Everything is actually made up of
extremely tiny particles which emit
beautiful shards of pretty twinkly light,
however you cannot see with them with the naked
eye:that is unless of course you have been smoking.

Water the spider plant
Collect up your dust
Forget all your past loves
No time for dreams of.
I think love is dead
Forget warm flesh on flesh
Sentiments echo in an empty heart
And nobody’s there to hear.

April fool
There is less to sweep in a homeless home
sweet isolation and silence echoes louder now
the ticking of a clock that stopped
independence and all alone ....
i'm lonely

By Zoe Crosse

Screama! 2007

Poems from the Mope, 2007

Deadbeat, 2006

Poster, 2008
Gregory Sodergren

Where People Fall in Love

They say people meet
At weddings
We met at the supermarket
Under the garish
Strip lights
Of Netto
We clashed trolleys
In the canned meat isle
As they curiously announced
Fidel Castro’s abdication
Over the tannoy
Anyone could’ve seen
It wouldn’t work
Her trolley was full
Of the organic
The green
The goodness of harvest
Mine was full of
Chocolate digestives
And vodka
But when you fall in love
You gloss over such things
I’m sorry to have to say
We didn’t last
We weren’t compatible,
And I’m not going to play
Second fiddle
To some drug dealing midget
Called Hercules.
No matter how romantically
We started
I don’t shop in Netto anymore
Hercules patrols there
Vying for blood
I go to Waitrose instead
Cripple myself financially
In the hope of finding
A higher class of lover
I lay in wait down the
Freezer isle
Cool and collected
Examining bags of peas
And ice cream
But as yet I’ve
Been unlucky
I think the floor manager
Has cottoned-on
He thinks I’m a shop-lifter
Or a shirt-lifter, or a skirt-lifter
He had me forcibly
Removed the other day
I had been waiting by the
Freezers so long
I had turned blue
That doesn’t look good
In front of prospective
I must keep up
Circulate, check out
All the options
She’s out there
Waiting to be found
My high-class
supermarket lover.


I wish we'd met in a launderette,
Where we'd get to see,
Each other's underwear.

Then you'd lend me some powder,
And my head would spin,
Just like the machines.

Where the dryers,
Are big enough,
For us both to climb in to.

And the zip on my jeans,
Is hot.

By Kirsty Harris
'The drunken boot'

Sad Songs

Upside down
Inside the fibres,
Feathers and
Of five fathers
Carrying wallflowers
As the white coats
And the blue bonnets
Bundle another
Mad cap, Andy cap
Into the
Backstreet -Bob-cat
Teddy-boys promenade
Their caravans
And polish
Steel strung chewing gum
Plasterboard cavities.
Stage plays
In the turned-up jeans
Of a daytime outlaw
Squatters growing roses
Reggae and rough shot
Tears in the beer
Crime in the wine
Sin in the gin
High rollers
And military men
Lost in great gloves
Thumping shadows
In rings and caves
And airport terminals
To empty seats
And tsunamis of
Street litter
Dear Drunkard
Carrier pigeon
His message of love
Smashed somewhere on the M4
Piano fires
Fire fly fires
Of the heath and heart
Bell-ends clank and spurt
And fall over
The vespers, whispers, whiskers
In glasses, milk and alleyways
Tit-bits and
In back rooms
With disco lights
On shiny heads
Wipe outs,
Black outs
Walk outs,
In outs
Fall outs
In that order
Something’s crashing
Smashing in my house
But it’s only
Another sad song.

Deadbeat, 2006

My Hero Self

Poetry by Fred Lindberg

The Crises

The moment for honest conversation
was clearly not now
The air infected with germs
and bad sleep
The night`s were cold
yet wet from sweat
(get up and change the sheets)
The early sleepless mornings
were a constant headache
I stroked some blue hair
from her forehead and said,
don't worry honey
It`s not us
It`s just the flu

My Friend

I heard from a mutual
that I had raped you

Is that true, I said

judging by her look
she was tap dancing in my brain

I don't know, what do you think...
she answered while tightening the shoe laces
of her steel toed Doctor Martens boots

Anyway that was a long time ago and
I used to love you back then

The way she played
with my balls
while saying that
made it impossible for me
to understand what it really meant

I tried to stay focused and said with
a firm voice

I'm a changed man now!

She leaned over to my girlfriend and
whispered in her ear

I know, that`s why I love him again.


There is nothing better in the morning,
Than to be awoken by a ringing,
And I don’t mean my alarm clock machine,
I mean the birdies singing.

I love those birdy-birds,
In all their shapes and sizes,
The one’s in thigh-high boots,
And the one’s that wear disguises.

I find it hard that we devour,
Their wings, their breasts their hips,
Because there is nothing sweeter
Than when they peck you with their lips.

Then one dark day not so long ago,
They simply disappeared,
No more singing in the morning,
It was what I’d always feared.

Where have all my birdies gone?
Has someone caught each and every one?
Or have they simply lost their minds,
And flown towards the Sun.

Alone last night as I left the pub,
Having finished off my dregs,
The thought it dawned upon me
The birds have lost their legs.

So those poor birdies are doomed to flight,
And never ever land,
The only consolation is,
They love to fly not stand.

Gregory Sodergren

Springfield, canal. 2008



Gregory Sodergren, 2008

6 August 2008

Who Needs Them

Friends come
And go,
Like ships and lovers
Like shoes, and rooms
And birthdays.
They have remained to,
Like the stars and soil
Like Harper’s magazine,
Uranium and
plastic bags,
Like Gamma-rays
and Billy Holiday.
They have also died,
Like asbestos and
Shell suits
Like fairground goldfish,
The elderly and
Poorly potted plants.
They have come back,
Like the plague and
the postman,
like the touring football team
Like the hungry fox and the
They were all born
Like the firework,
And the sunrise
Like the song,
and pearls of wisdom
and cancer,
Like hurricanes
And by-laws and
Bad punctuation.
Some fade away
Like old comedians
Like commets, dreams,
And your good looks,
Like departing trains
and those late night sirens
Like embers
and the kick from caffine.
Some want to fight
But are normally
Drunk and fall over,
Some want to hug
But are normally
Drunk and fall over.
They move into your home
Like the damp,
Like spiders
And wood worm
Then never do
the washing up,
just steel your cigarettes
and socks and
They break you down
About the shirts you wear
Or the girl you like.
They wind you up
in fancy dress
With good intentions
In sidings and skips
And pubs
They are in fixes,
And mires
In corporate boxes
Bingo halls
And bus shelters
But they are never too
Far away.

By Gregory Sodergren