Posted in Uncategorized on March 5, 2009 by entomologist

I love to live alone in my secret place beneath the city. In my private meditation rooms I am surrounded by nothing but rust and concrete, so my dreams and visions remain pure, untainted by the antics of other humans. My other rooms, kept alight by spluttering, blood red neon lights, are swamped with caged insects and their agitated, glorious whisperings. Sometimes, when I become satisfied with the visions I have seen alone, I bring my prized creatures into a meditation room and listen to what they have to say. There, we travel into dreams together and share distorted recollections of the world above.
I love to be wrapped in this darkness and smothered in this fragrant stench of sewage; here, I am free from the polluted skies, the smog-ridden alleyways, the trivial conversations and the toxic characters that lurk around every corner. But…I can still sometimes hear the industrial whines of the world above. They pierce through the quiet drips in my meditation rooms, and they trickle through these damp walls when the insects stop their singing. I can feel the monotonous, grey drone of the city calling me to surface, and my visions remind me that there will be a new shipment of creatures arriving soon. I have constant dreams of grass and of a blue sky, and the insects can sense my restlessness. I must not let them see weakness. It seems that they are becoming impatient themselves, and they are still hungry for fresh meat. A cockroach shared these words to a mantis in a dream only two days ago:

“Your head swivels towards their peaks;
Your vision travels along the blades
that pierce into heaven.

Your eyes capture the passing clouds
They split the sun into ugly fragments
And the sky slithers along their surface.

When will you escape
the rust that entangles you?
When will you wipe clean
the blood that strangles you?
How will you escape
The ground that’s always smothered you?”

Tomorrow, then. Tomorrow, I will step inside the elevator and travel upwards. I hope it still works. If new blood does not join the ranks, I fear there will be an uprising. Who will I meet in the world above?



Posted in Uncategorized on March 3, 2009 by Francis

My feet buried, plantlike in deep brown cold earth. Extracting my bipedal limbs one then two, I blink myself to full awakening. Last night I fell asleep in a miasmic swoon upon the stone cobbles of a London back alley. I wake surrounded by the verdant abundance of beast-sculpted hedges and rainbow flowers. I shake the clinging ground from my boots, the dirt encasing my legs still trying to claim me back for Gaia. The unsmoked air refreshes, replenishing with every breath. A cleansing esuna drop in the black ocean London has deposited within me. The sun, freed here from the city’s cloying grip does not warm me though. I stand in a palatial shadow. The plants turn accusing gaze upon me as I creep unsolicited towards a powder white wall. I whisper platitudes as I pass, telling them I plan no harm, assuring innocent motives. They remain silent, complicit. A window, bordered in black beckons me with transparent welcoming. Pressing up against its chill, my breath becomes crystalline, the fog of London briefly appearing, tarnishing the glass’ perfection. The cloud clears, revealing invisible separation of my world outside from the austenesque interior. A woman enters stage left. She is Lady Marie Ashley. I have no way of knowing, and yet I am sure. Her note twitches in my pocket, sensing the proximity of its mistresses hand. I see her glide past, the curls of her hair flicks of dark calligraphy, the shine of her dress crisp goldenrod. She nears exit, a crescendo of voices builds in my chest, my feet once again rooted firm to the ground unmoveable. As she disappears once again from perceptive existence my cry bursts forth as no more than a vaporous silence.

Guerilla Poets Target Royal Holloway

Posted in Uncategorized on March 2, 2009 by apricotdreams

Look to your right and you will see a page entitled ‘Poet-Tree’ . This page contains photographic evidence of the Guerilla Poets’ latest poetry attack

Guerilla Poets Cross the Channel

Posted in Uncategorized on February 28, 2009 by apricotdreams

Lady Marie’s Lace

Posted in Uncategorized on February 27, 2009 by apricotdreams


Today has been gloriously sunny, and I spent the morning wandering the estate with Lady Marie’s boys. We passed a delightful few hours by the river, although it was all I could do to stop Henry, the oldest, from jumping in! He is just at that age where boys want to be adventurors and he has been avidly reading Treasure Island. I find it rather unsuitable, however, his father bought it for him and i daren’t contradict him. I do worry though, Edward is so impressionable, and looks up to his brother a great deal. This means that he can be incited to all sorts of dangerous mischief, and i have to keep a very close watch over him. Today, for instance, while I was distracted preparing our picnic, he managed, with his brother’s encouragement, to climb up on of the trees, and dangle along a branch overhanging the river. I bade him get down immediately but he found himself quite stuck,so Henry and I had to spread the picnic blanket out and catch him as he jumped. They both found the whole thing incredibly amusing, but I was terribly shaken. They are gentle boys though, and when they saw me so upset they crept up to me, like little church mice, and sat and ate their lunch without a peep. Edward’s trousers are torn from his escapades, so I shall add them to the pile of mending I have. This includes some of my Lady’s most beautiful lace, which I must be very careful with, as it is so costly and delicate. She will wear nothing twice herself, of course, but her husband despises waste and so forces her to keep them. Once or twice she has offered me garments of hers, however, I am uncomfortable in such expensive, showy items, and am happier in the shadows…

Guerilla Poets on Tour

Posted in Uncategorized on February 24, 2009 by Rhiannon

We have left our shadows in the city of dreams, the poets this weekend were about the capital. You can find traces of us at:

– Royal Festival Hall

– Saisson’s poetry library, and website

– Walls

– Southbank Book Market

– National Theatre

– Pavements (sadly)

– Tate Modern

– Globe Theatre

– St. Paul’s Information Centre

– Telephone Boxes

– Soho Theatre

– Orbital Comics, Leicester Square

– Marks and Spencer

– Poetry Cafe

– Cashpoints

– Royal Opera House

– Doorways

– National Gallery

– Underground

– Serpentine Gallery

– Victoria and Albert Museum

– Lamposts

– Brick Lane

– Spitalfields

Look at the page on the right to see photos of our adventures in the big smoke…

Discussed with a moth by lamplight

Posted in Uncategorized on February 20, 2009 by Francis

“Dearest Count, Next Friday I am holding a ball, consider this a formal invitation, I expect to see you there, no excuses! Yours Faithfully Lady Ashley”

A note found in my pocket, marked in the feminine caligraphic hand of one Lady Ashley. Faces waltz about in my memory, dresses decked in decadence and faces veiled by riches. I crumple the paper in my palm, a sweet release of perfume smothers my olfaction. Surely this is not another dream, another imagining made manifest. I taste the writing, the ink sweet with handcrafted desires tamed to dark signifying shapes. My senses back hesitancy to a corner, push it back to dark recesses to be consumed unknowingly by the beast of curiosity.

Who is Lady Ashley? Those faces begin their waltzing once more. None of them real, my life in this world has been lit by the dark shining of the moon, the shroud of shadow and the viscous black of night. But I have danced by candelabra, by chandelier, by firesides. To Austin’s world I have seldom ventured and never lingered long, but now those brief sojourns seem a tantalising tease to the possibilities of ‘Next Friday’.

“No Excuses”. Such a demand. Other than puppets pulled by strings of fiction, little have I had to do with other beings. I have many excuses, that world of Austen at which I have glimpsed seems no place for the likes of me, at the brink of insanity and evanescence. Yet my time is running out, the existential abyss creeps closer.

I shall go.