Sunday, 25 May 2008

Straight From The Fridge


Saturday, 24 May 2008

Sniff The Inner City Flowers

Chris Killen and Shane Jones have a
new co-written chapbook out entitled
Gravity's Rainbow / Mason & Dixon.

It's very good and funny too. I'm not
sure whether any copies are still available
but it is well worth invesitgating.

I think the titles refer to works by Thomas
Pynchon rather than the Klaxons song.

In other news: journalist and author Neil Daniels
has written an interview with me, about writing.

Read it here. OK. It's Saturday. I'm going to sniff
the inner city flowers now. I may be some time.

Friday, 23 May 2008

Gone Fishin'.

I'm going away for a week.
Fishing may be involved.
To mark the occasion here
are a couple of photographs
taken from
which may be appropriate.

(Thanks to also to

Thursday, 22 May 2008


I have a new short story over at 3AM Magazine.

The story is called "......." and if you click this
link you can read it with your mince pies (eyes).

'This Is An Advertisement For Nothing, Enjoy It.'

. .

. .

Wednesday, 21 May 2008

'The Story That Changed ...'

The Story That Changed The World Forever And Marked A New Beginning For Mankind; Saved By The Bell The People Linked Arms And Embraced Their Future With Rosy Cheeks, White Teeth And An Overwhelming Sense That - Perhaps For The First Time - They Were Alive, Truly Alive And Everything Up Until This Point Had Just Been A Strange And Arduous Test To See If They Were Ready For Such Freedoms, And They Were.

I tried to write a story that would appeal to all of mankind, a story to unite the nations.

This would be a story that would end all wars, that would resurrect all the good people who died young, that would make money, debt and credit moot concepts.

It was a story that would burn the gallows and disarm the firing squads, a story that would catch George Bush with his dong in an animal, only the animal wouldn’t mind because this was a story of love, a story where the only victims are those who didn’t heed the warnings, those who just kept pushing and pushing when all the world was screaming for them to stop, those who just got greedy and drunk on power and lost all sense of time and place, right and wrong.

It was a story written in the sky with vapour trails, carved in the golden sands of all the continents, sculpted in cathedrals of ice at both the poles, painted onto a grain of sand by a smiling China man who survived communism, survived book burnings and beatings on the soles of his bare with bamboo sticks, survived being buried neck deep in the dirty in the midday soon.

What a story it was. A real victory lap of words, a klaxon of approval; a story that read like all the world’s champagne corks popping at once. It was the story that marked the beginning of a new calendar for humanity, a clean slate. It was moment when humans awoke from their deep slumber.

This story – it made people switch off their televisions, cut up their credit cards and burn their paperwork. They flushed their pills down the toilet and made monuments from discarded mobile phones, all of them ringing and vibrating at once. Suddenly they realised they were free – truly free. The illusion was over and this was real.

As a result of this story everything of beauty was worshipped and because beauty is in the eye of the beholder everything became sacred: the trees, the ice shelves, the animals, the woodlands, the people. True equality – the likes of which was previously unimaginable by a species whose understanding of it was limited - pervaded and the people began to laugh. They laughed long and they laughed hard, each in their own unique way. At that moment cynicism died along with all the other diseases.

They re-read the story and then they ran out into the streets, laughing. “What the hell were we even worrying about?” they said to one another. “We were taking life seriously for a moment there.” Then they rolled in the grass and they swam in the Lakes. Some of them stayed indoors with the curtains shut, but that was OK too, because this new-found sense of freedom was limitless, and people could do whatever it was that made them happy so long as they weren’t hurting anyone else. Things were neither exclusive nor inclusive; they just were.

Idealism, naiveté and charity became things to aspire to. God died, but no-one mourned him because he never existed anyway, and even if he did he had died for the people’s sins, so even those of a religious bent felt good about it.

They kept the cathedrals, temples and churches and synagogues open anyway because they were building of beauty and beauty was all that mattered.

I tried to write a story that said all of this and implied so much more. I sat there thinking about it, then I wrote it down.

When the story was read and the world had changed, they said “Who wrote such a story?” and others replied “It was no-one, just some guy. I think the point he was making was, it was all here under our noses all along.”

“We should make him a God,” said someone. “Such vision deserves deification!”

“No,” said another. “You’re missing the point. It’s not about false idolatry. It’s about an appreciation of the real, a great levelling of everything. Besides, I met him once and he’s really nothing special. He just sits there all day drinking coffee and scratching his balls. He’s pretty anti-social.”

“OK,” they said and they ran outside laughing, to smell the flowers and kiss the dirt.

And the rest – as you know – is history.

Tuesday, 20 May 2008

Monday, 19 May 2008

Sunday, 18 May 2008

This Band Are Better Than 97% Of The Bands Who Contact Me On MySpace

Chapbook reviews

Chris Killen has very kindly reviewed my recent poetry chapbooks Spam: Email Inspired Poetry and Nowhere Fast (co-written with The Brutalists) on his blog.

You can read those reviews here

Wednesday, 14 May 2008

Rivers Are Wet and Rivers Are Mint.

Rivers are mint aren't they?

Mint as in "good; highly enjoyable".

I like reading about them in books.

Here is why.

Dance Moves Of The Day

'The Empire'

mayonnaise is the
glue that holds
America together.

Tuesday, 13 May 2008

10 Songs I Play With Alarming Regularity

At The Drive-In - 'Arc Arsenal'
Thistletown - 'Oak And Ash'
Slipknot - 'Eyeless'
Dizzee Rascal - 'Sirens'
Foals - 'Cassius'
Desmond Dekker - 'It Mek'
Girls Against Boys - 'Park Avenue'
Teardrop Explodes - 'Sleeping Gas'
Harry J Allstars - 'Liquidator'
Gogol Bordello - 'Not A Crime'

'Make Hay While The Sun Shines'

Sunday we drove to a lake and I jumped in it.
There were signs everywhere saying DANGER!
it felt like a nice bath. Twelve miles
of shoreline and not a soul dared leave it.

Monday I wrote about a river
and made a brandy trifle.

Tuesday I had my face drilled
and drank a luke warm Supermalt.

Wednesday is tomorrow so I expect
I shall find about that then.

Thursday, 8 May 2008

E to the G

Having just moved house I have a new
e-mail address for all communication.

It is:

And furthermore here is an article I have written about GG Allin.

Thursday, 1 May 2008

An interview about spam poetry

Taken from 3:AM Magazine

Five for: Ben Myers

1) Spam poetry seems to be an intersection between the highest (poetry) and lowest (spam) forms of writerly endeavours. Is that a fair assessment?
Yes, I think so. I see it as a place where poetry collides with commerce, with spectacularly bizarre results.

2) When did you hit on the idea of spam poetry?
I’ve been collecting spam e-mails since around about 1999, when I got my first e-mail account at home. I thought they were intriguing because on the one hand they would try and sell you some pills to increase the size of your penis, but when you actually read the content of the mail it might include an extract of text from, say Herman Melville or Jack London or some obscure crime writer. But because the extract would be all jumbled up, it was if the text had somehow been remixed and shat out down the wires of modernity.

For my own amusement I used to save them all, then edit them down into more digestible works of poetry. Out of this mess a new language emerged, where key words or images were repeated. On an obvious level they reminded me of the cut-up works of William Burroughs, but they also recalled the lyrics of The Mars Volta, a band who create their own hybrid words to form a new lexicon that is unlike any other in rock music. Then in about 2004 I started sharing these poems by posting them on various literary websites (always under the working title Increase The Size of Your Penis). When I investigated further it turned out there were many other people doing exactly the same, with very mixed results.

3) How do you compose your spam poetry?
Because there is no set form I can only share how I approach writing such poetry. First of all, you need to turn off your spam filter and risk an influx of viruses. Fear not though, it will be worth it: computers are replaceable, poetry is forever. Only one in ten or so spam e-mails will be of interest, so discard the boring ones and concentrate on a good one. Keep the best lines, phrases or key words, then cut it down. Keep re-reading it and sooner or later something of interest might emerge – even if it just a line or two. For example I received an e-mail entitled ‘Videos Of Girls’ that was probably advertising porn and I extracted the following line: “And in comes the sun crow, timidly / drinking sulky cat sour milk sickness.” I still don’t know what it means, but it reminded me of TS Eliot, so I kept it. I think the key to a good spam poem is not what it says, but how it makes you feel. In this instance, ‘Videos Of Girls’ makes me feel slightly suggestible.

4) What’s the best (as in worst) spam you’ve ever been sent?
It’s all relative I suppose. Just because an e-mail may have the subject line ‘Just Imagine How Nice Your Huge Dick Will Look In Her Pretty Tight Pussyhole’ doesn’t mean it’s contents are actually offensive or doesn’t contain a great poem. That’s the strange thing about spam – it’s a moral lottery. That said, I have also read some really tedious spam poetry. I think the art is in the editing, not the cutting and pasting.

5) You’ve just published a book of spam poetry. How did that come about?

I collected some of my spam poems together and sent them to the very reputable Blackheath Books. Blackheath only publish beautiful hand-made, very limited edition books, an approach which is completely at odds with the disposable nature of spam poetry, but the publisher Geraint Hughes liked them. The next thing I knew he had printed the book. He is a great poet and an unsung hero of the literary underworld and everyone should pay his website a visit.

Spam: Email Inspired Poetry by Ben Myers is available to buy now from Blackheath Books.