Improvisation with 12-string tuned cCgGcCcgbbdd, recorded by Charlie Brookhouse 14/05/2012.

Extreme Happiness

I’m Angelia Murray, we have been chatting for a long time, I want to meet you in person and pet your hot body.


Repeated the inmost recesses of spirits.

Grimwig with many times in question.

Great number one or less than never.


(private message from Angelia Murray, 03/04/12)






Carousel out new torque new friendship, heart-speak, fall button – you knew

about the boy he went every day to the water

he balked at the sight of you pant-

warm, heaviest with tongue on gland.

Across the bed quite reckless



Wheeled in together speak

arrested heartland, you and me stop heavy cart

it was written is the language of warmth?

Careful history makes thorough outdoor exploration

seems inevitable. This message is unseemly.

The high-wrought flesh sound on tulip brakes.


We should hasten the work, talk

around the possible negotiations proper place

return and mark out back.

Playing with circle, the fire of rash gasp

flowered laugh-attack, narrowed on skin.

Maroon in hazel. Flesh-trip. Why

not just let the fall happen, through reins

on bum blast

reach sighting and withdraw crude funds.

I’ll have to bring a hipflask, lover.

Fucker didn’t send the correct slate.




Why not just trip down and swap rain? Art drop,

bittersweet. A sign on the rear end.

The walk took us right by the sex-house!

And you took yourself and positioned

lights where the planes had been. This is behind

every nuance between the mons pubis

and that.



I have work to do, bitch. Quit styling my fettles.

It does not mean we have to paw over

cloven hash washed up out there heart-talk

or smell-breeze that earthen that is

say, heartbreath,

that it so out there and years can’t squeeze. Muscles

squeeze. Yes, that is a muscle. Crawl-shaped.

Alone in the grass. Extreme happiness.



Stallion. Remember the scansion,

sex ‘tense-music’, old hopper. Brimming

with alliance. Several polyps, that’s the way, not

too strong on the scruff. The  triumph

of cliff-fall, red to brown and the white

of your scar, above the soft.


Take another numerate the rise of space, helmet

so search plain text on the resolve quiet roll

of tremulous attention sly marrow bedown


lengthwise; you are across

the bedspace but I want you here.

Darling, I want you here. Fake it and rest.

Say how tall we are, shrimp. Last time I sense

new and if it so scrap

high chance of new position. Fall day, the root

of moist inertia, food-smell. You: edible; me

the crust of lick token, warm mouthpiece.


Time at the old bean down press-up yes! A favourite:

talk to me as if I had a chance.

It said about and what is the reason she could not

help it was not her please bring cadence condense

auto-erotic helpline


Significant analysis, I wanted you. Extreme

nosing in the marsh-fuzz. New love-words,

red, redred, frankly, buttonwillow, Joanna

does not quite do it for me. She’s

a tall cross: too good. Your turning

creates a new diction, a wet sub-speak

that alone in space. Untalk

that shit with him. He doesn’t have central

heterochromia. Being nice is not the staff of a kind of

lovely, active healing. But I do want to understand.



Refrain from having too much; too little

in the night-glass. Eyes

on the stream. Wander by the fences, bent over

that is a memory right in the castle

that keeps me in the heat of wedding. Too

soon, my lad. Sunshine tasking out the new divides

should not take so much chancing; it seems

that it was me, taxiing too fast without formula.


I admit to too much teasing. I admit

that I sometimes thought something

that wasn’t quite in keeping with a real sense of our

life in high markings, swallowing final terrain.


This is not the beautiful Turkish girl, holding the fawn.

There is not enough occupied love. It is your words that dress me.





montag Is the day mere months chrome

continue merry dance I suppose Run

with your bottom in the lamp nether-

blade sickle me this; I’m back Sunday night

but where? don’t neglect

this old conspirator, fond of lovely horse

cider-grass long walk champ

up and discover



cold in the sea-line

water on your eye hand

me the wiring. Hand

me the wiring. Winning

the salt-fire, finally is

this what, darling? I am missing

frost on the glade

bring me the tail

sup at my fingers, love

station at faults; loose island

beckon me out

fuzz of purloin shift holds

rattle that way again once

more just? You shouldn’t have

scarp force rain to edge

winning the salt-fire

perplex wrap solidly I will

wait for kiss him take

silly take the wheel take

new heathen the place

running out of silk I want

I may need to reassess.

Chair buoy. Chair buoy!



What are the chances of busyness? Will it contain

peaty folds of sex-house

character in the slump? Slink, fall on me. Attend

the shrinking. Don’t break it! Forgive me, sir.

I am coming to the age when sex are things

that hold potatoes.



Let’s play anuva game. What is the smoke?

Who is this new embrace? I am solidly

creating another series of breaths to dance to.

Ignore the ice and suspend the correct

temperature in the folds. Lemon, chance

it and see how I am felt. Soft as the perineum.



Slough it back out, wonder at the levels,

the spin that you thought might go

with everything else. I don’t remember him

saying the kind of solemn, lovely things that I

used to. Very odd. How hopeless is the search

for our feet! What a canter the man exhibits!

Such cold, wet features. A nose in the snow.

Hand me the shoes. You told me how you suspected

that the child was otherness, the sweet idiot boy

you wanted to consume. Yes, changes. I

understand. But I wanted your head on

the stone, your fingers on the mast. A moist

resting, the moon in a slow fall meeting

the Mary Celeste. The aurora game. Go.


Compacted deal, I have never should not want to subsist

only another you wanted to take wanted to ignite

please planted cruise rest collected anti

another inside, break it through tendril high market kiss

the subtle proposition I report I think you not

should you assume the backward autograph, miss

the shift breeze

lung on the swell of your best

reason to throw the seam at your

Yes parade routine puncture but you

I support, little miss, little eye

rendering me. I applaud the lift hot body

hard attire; long wires. Wondering me

you fruit on the tongue longing at

corner, I admit false nuance simply to demonstrate –

It won’t bedone. Bed behind the water.

That wasn’t the malediction. I’m getting lost

in your curls.



New spectacle, harrow slight nose me out corset sleep – naughty

sift reason fall, touch yourself to rest

The grass is longing, sweet liquid nestles

its throat. The actual time

when said actually how was it begin? I went,

you span

crush axis on nether, slip against me

and take all of the garment.


The star, what sort of flicker in the child there is nothing like you

there is nothing like burn wires, glance

head thrush a game in the sound, night

folding its hero, out in the water.

Sand find cracked voice. The missing

of channels. I shouldn’t expand like this. You




are juice. Let’s animal the gate. Can we

take out sort of another afternoon perplex

share the bolete outside? The neighbours might see

your hourglass. You are finding out

return mirror pull out my glaze the start

is like ranging, rage find

I did not discover am not the ship,

saw the glitch from the lighthouse and did not turn back.

Roughing the felt garment travelled, new hole.


(your mathematics make me smile

your cock amused me for a while)



and there’s no way to remind me

                   ever - 

flick stop and willow round

circle drawn around notation, eight

time seated climax


and there is a bad dream and

there is a staff that aligns follow there

acute time face breathing, garden

with new men total

don’t compare / compare again


ripple me this hold rock behind whelm begins

chemicals that’s your din

               mine is caked

full drive won’t sound. remind gelding,

lit up but caught wondering? really walk


Keeka I am stuck in day’s waste yet another

embellishment program lover


you are so serious today, climbing there blue boots

soft as the hair

bell me out remember


it has been some time darling

and I feel like some honey can

and there is a bad dream and

the walk took us right by


sealing the puncture, yes I am the soldier

painted sitting here for this. I should

reactivate promise but there is

escape I don’t know

about trying

it seem like trot out regret and hatch out glade

I want this now


my father wrote his will today


shuffle out, remind and return

to heart on some garden

that comes in a dream


Reflections, list of contributors, and a big big thanks:


Approximately 48 hours ago we were preparing for the start of this project, wondering if we would get any submissions at all.

A few hours later, we opened up the inbox, and right away submissions started coming.

Then we were RTed by Margaret Atwood, and…well…stuff started to get crazy. 

We started to see more and more people promoting it on Twitter, Tumblr, Facebook, and personal blogs. We got RTs from many lit mags and prizes, from total strangers, from people excited as we were to see what would happen.

And what did happen? In 24 hours - well, 25, as we ran a bit over schedule due to the number of submissions - we succeeded in our quest to make an arts zine, bursting with talent and enthusiasm. Our inbox was full of not just submissions, but messages of support that kept us going as much as the coffee we were mainlining. We received submissions from all over the world, and we were constantly in awe of the level of talent.

Why did we do this project? Because we wanted to explore the possibilities of creative connection within social media. And we felt like giving ourselves a challenge. Tumblr was a perfect medium, because things can be reblogged and spread easily. We’ve got people talking, and we are so happy at the sense of community that this project seems to have inspired. Everyone pulling together to create something kick-ass, just because.

We’ve received many messages asking us not to take this journal down after a week, but we said at the start we would, and we’re sticking to it. We entertained the idea of making some kind of anthology out of it, but we also said we would not retain people’s work, and again we’re sticking to that. Everything will be deleted. But this was such a success that we’ll definitely do something similar in the future, so keep your eyes peeled. We welcome any suggestions, though - just send them to, or drop us a line on Twitter.

To summarise: 24 hours. Over 170 posts. All collated by 2 people - myself, Sophie Mackintosh (@sophmackintosh), and my boyfriend, David Greaves (GMGreb). Say hello. We want to stay in touch with you. And more than anything, we want to thank you from the bottom of our hearts. When our eyes felt like we’d been rubbing sand in them and we were getting caffeine jitters, your amazing submissions and messages of support kept us going. 

Below is a list of all our incredible contributors. We have under a week left of this project - so read read read, get others to read, and share all the goodness that is up here.

Sophie & David x

LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS (sorted by genre, and in order of appearance)

Read More

There is a man and there is

a documentary about him on Channel 4

a short film about him

and it was abouthis brain

and we saw him with the rocks

every day

the chalk red chalk sandstone

and every day

he colour-codes the rocks

thousands of stones

he places them in order of size and colour

into large piles

and no-one knows why

no-one knows why and

his brain is a place

and something is wrong

but we like it

like it a lot

he loves the stones and

he protects them

he uses them to protect the world

support the palace

and we could never do that

so we look at him

but he never turns around

you blow him a kiss

but he does not blush and

I can’t talk to him

his brain is our place

and when we are near him

we feel warm


Some gestation, water through moon-dive mus-

ic, upstart with her trousers not without

but always within, upskirt moisture bead-

ing, a pillow of land between us my

mine, but it is the other’s pillow, warmth

in our otherness, tongues idling the scent,

kitten, the French girl you mention so lov-

ingly, the innocent hairbrush dancing

wolf power longing paint and how we drink

is similar to the crying of the

Earth and our breath is the screen’s pastel wash,

the frisson in simple dance-moist air, and

this is the THOUGHT that beginneth heat, a 

heart, no-place, sex-water, reckless dancing. 



Buttonwillow tall, fire on some night-wave,

tea in the acupuncturist’s house whilst

our thirst played with itself in the garden,

some moon-objects play the spin, rotation

of final knowledge, final products. Wings

not more a shield, actually one with 

Jack the kitten, his playing, his silence,

“mute Jack the cat” said the scientist, at

the quick OH at the turn of centuries

let him be mute, a windowless house falls

down a mountain because it was there, cut

down through out over therein is hollow

chasers burn outwardly and you are terr-

ibly outward and unaffectionate



and it hurts me to see us like this but

Jack is mute now and he had our stubborn

words, Jack the mute kitten, aural hygiene,

the scientist said you might do this, I

love him, and Jack the kitten, laddie, he 

was not there to see us deserving this

so you must give him your story, in a 

way that might possibly compromise THE

MOVEMENT, but do not worry the kisses

can sleep, an exercise regime, full glass

and the wherewithal to do something with

a thing that wants to be nothing, said Jack,

he had loving eyes, a loving heart had

Jack the kitten, now mute, now lost, voiceless.


Sleep Tiger Dream


 “But I loved you first!”

It does not make you feel better

when you look through into the other room.

Let us put it in clear terms: things after things

and within things, and there was some dancing

and there was a collection

but I couldn’t be involved. I breath and you are there.

This is not a repetition

or a choreographed set of movements,

it is something that someone might put into words one day,

words inside a church on a smiley evening.

There is not a good enough recipe, but there is wine

and there are things to be sung,

and there are children that will hold your hand.

I remember you putting something on me,

something warm but I cannot describe what it was.

A bell is sounding and it is time to eat.

There are dark waves and our feet in the sand that stopped me singing.

There are nice ways to feel lucky for what we had.

Another boat, but further away. Are we nearly old enough?

Am I close to anything anymore? It wasn’t about control,

it was about the twitching finger in the taxi

and the time when we knew the same words for everything,

how loving makes you better than everyone,

how love can only be defined by what it does to you.

The water is over the stone and I can’t help but think

about what might be done, how

one day I might have the correct amount of electricity

to power our movements. I have sat here for a long time (stop staring)

and I intend to sit facing you for much longer.

Yes, I could do with a drink. Don’t laugh! Put it away.

We could fly there; stop looking at me like that.

There is a sound and another sound

but they are not related. We have to be silent.

Pull up your trousers, put on a different voice.

Yes, we are quite taken with each other.

I have been here many times before,

each time with you and each time better than the last.

Not a simple mixture of genetics.

It was the man’s ridiculous voice and the kissing afterwards.

We were very popular. Yes. Ok. Sex hair.

Not only and all the rest. Sleep tiger. Dream of giraffes.


I have looked at you for a long time now

but I have tasted you for longer

seasoned by rain, baked by the sea

the story ends with beginnings just like we did

just like I started to wait

and I sat there in the earth smiling at myself for a long time

there are nice ways to feel lucky for what we had

and there is a limited time to tell the story


Take me to the nowhere place, and we can fashion

a set of events from the things we find around us:

string-weed, blood on exposed knees

we are tired of the rocks and we move on

and pass the man and his obsession, his love

of order and the stones. Float on this advance.

Exchange silences in a volatile climate.

We could swap socks and play until the sand 

chafes our insides, or dare each other

to swallow things. This is us, pinched between slow arcs

of remembering movements. I do not remember

how touching joined with feeling in the proof

of the world’s existence. Go back, be stronger.

Laugh more loudly with the chap who fell over.

It is well known that we took longer than the others

to discover the place where the thigh meets the buttocks

and how words can order themselves into formations

of these kinds. More wetness in the mornings.

I could give you a piggy back across this part of the world

and into the next, across this small part of space and its many actions

and we can go over there and smile with the water

and we could continue this talk lying in the grass

cider opened with teeth and the horses kissing

There is no other power in the world, only our self-

fashioning and its tendency to remove underwear.

Bring it with you, and I will tell you how it became alive.

You could tell me how things become together and how

eyes are caves reflecting glaciers. We are involved

in many unsavoury activities, and I remain open 

to any suggestions. Sun-static in our bones.

Yes darling, it is the star that keeps us warm.

The scarf around us both. Our place flexes around

its axis and takes on its own heat, and from this

something is born and something is conceived

and it cannot be clear how close we are to other places

and wherever we look, we surround nowhere

and after all, it was in our garden where it was found

and look, look at the way the night has taken us

we have everything and you have your new coat

and the kisses will greet us, I’ll let us out

when my breathing is better, forget about this

and follow, curl around it, carry on.


The last place held us as we walked.

Sit with me, and watch him. Quiet. His ears.

Touch my face. Run your finger along the many bones

that allow me to run towards you. This cannot be the last time.

I promise to love and forgive the world,

and to do good things for other people, and to kiss you

whenever you are near me. Look at his tail.

Watch him go, silently, into the comfort of a new place.