Free With This Poetry Publication



An email from an algorithm.

Your nation’s oldest oral epic summarised on a fortune cookie fortune.

That brief moment where Ronald’s gold arches were more beautiful than all the West’s gothic cathedrals and when we understood the implications of post-globalised living.

Elaine Scarry’s The Body in Pain with marginalia in three hundred languages (including several that were announced as extinct last week by the Society for Linguistic Anthropology), with stamps from three hundred libraries around the world.

A packet of nuclear pasta.

A recently discovered Greek comedy condensed into 2 minutes thirty.

The silence that crept over us like the moment after Fa stepped on a twig on the one hundred and seventh page of Golding’s Inheritors.

A recently upturned Greek tragedy condensed into 2 minutes thirty.

This squeaky escalator that spoke in melodious feedback in the financial centre of London.

A recently unearthed Greek satyr play in 144 phaluses.

This thumbs up.

A missile with a feeling of guilt.

The sheet music for Freedom Isn’t Free.

A ziplock bag of powder-coated steel keyring chalice ebola viruses.

Your housing deposit squashed into the size of a brick at the TFL car pound in Wembley.

These slow-walking footsteps in an infinite smorzando.

Anger of Hyenas.

Synthetic Philosophy of Contemporary Mathematics.

A fork that is three knives magnetized together.

A pink glow stick that says Club Shit Innit.

Untrackable search engine.



This phantom jerk.

The lanthanide extracted from the phone in your pocket.

The lanthanide extracted from the laptop in your flat.

An all-expenses-paid trip to the rare earth mine from where the lanthanide extract from your phone was mined, including a packed lunch consisting of: a net-bag of Babybels, a finger of fudge, a crescent of crisps, a side-clump of cress.

A family tree mind map of the all the banks of the world and their links to the physical creation, distribution, and muted dissemination of arms.

A giant blue foam pointy finger emblazoned with JOHN Fashanu, JOHN Fashanu, JOHN Fashanu, that’s John Fash-A-Nu’s head sounding Walt Whitman’s Dead Poet Society’s manly primitive AWOOGA!

15×7.5” polycarbonate squares 188x188mm from noise band White Hot Andy, with lathe cuts made on a 1950s lathe. Silk-screened sleeves with handwriting. Any 15 records can be included.

A British-Museum-Professor-guided tour inside the building currently holding the Department for Culture, Media, and Sport, and access to a special exhibition on what life was really like before the creation of that department, with forensic attention to the cups, saucers, cutleries, tables, and chairs of that era; to what people drank, ate, talked about, so much so that you can almost hear figures from history actually speaking.

Free with this Poetry Festival publication, one of three handmade boxes containing one of the following scents: “PRETENSION”, “THE FUTURE”, “MENERGY”.

A boxed set of 9 transparent red vinyl records in gold screenprinted PVC sleeves: Now that’s What I Call Nasa: Rocket Engine Sounds (1982-2014), with such hits as: “Wheel Stop,” “Vector Transfer,” “Roger Roll,” “Sputnik Beeb,” “Cassini: Saturn Radio Emissions,” “Chorus: Radio Waves within Earth’s Atmosphere,” “STS-135 On Its Way to Orbit,” “Press to ATO,” “Apollo 12–We’re Going to Dust it Off First,” “STS 135 Landing Comments,” “Voyager: Lightning on Jupiter,” “SLS 12 Test Fire,” “Atlas V Launch,” “J-2X Test Fire,” “Delta IV: Launch,” “Voyager: Interstellar Plasma Sounds,” “Mercury 4 Clock Started,” “Mercury 6 Zero G,” “Mercury 6 God Speed,” “Mercury 7 Liftoff,” “Mercury 7 Fireflies,” “I HAVE BIG FIREFLIES”, three, two, one, That Was Definitely an E-Ticket.

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