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by Lisa Fannen and...

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    This is a fundraiser for MORE ‘a group of migrants and members of the community campaigning for the right to work, study, good housing and to be treated with dignity’ who are currently fundraising to provide mobile phone top-ups, so migrants with no financial recourse are able to stay connected in these isolating times.
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  • Faultline is a collection of poetry published by Active Distribution/Sto Citas, November 2018. The poems are political and personal (and an examination of where those territories meet), observational and contemplative, and travel through explorations of social inequality, police violations, street homelessness in the US, environmental disaster, intimate experiences of queer sexuality, rites of passage and bereavement, also the power of guidance and renewal. Paperback, 127 pages.
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Minion This thundering volume people tight in the economy carving out career paths, selling their skin bound like wire, heart race, heat and 11 hour days. The bird flight beneath the bridge, a gull the huge swollen Thames tide licking at the steps I catch the occasional sky, glance up look see Venus is still there. It's young men mostly tired eyes raking from the filthy streets commission of other people's insubstantial shelter. Lungs undone, the air in between the chase of the road and the coming night time holding bunches of keys at the steering wheel You slam the car door you have a new coat you say to yourself that your job is never the same thing every day you like working with people you like working out and about that I can contact you on your mobile from 8 am til 9 at night. We see, flat viewing — a picture frame, family photos, kitchen things plasma TV, a drinks shelf, different shaped glasses. Next — one family in 2 box rooms 3 toddlers (small shoes lined up in the bedroom) close up to the TV and the landlord arriving just as we are leaving. Everybody owns nobody owns anything people the world over hocking their teeth to pay the rent the market cushioned in casual clothes here. The land and life that is stolen and sold back. That you are a seller. Step out of the car the children are clapping the children are clapping and singing bags on their backs all their lives ahead of them.
The Apple Store This fawning over thin things svelte, glowing, the hyper colour real-world-beauty to flick at, what's the verb for that motion moving things on a touch screen with your fingers? The shimmering mirage in this temple to the age of more and more born by young hands dulled over the motherboards of this endless consumption; shaving the aluminium off the edge of the apple logo they strung suicide nets up after 9 jumps in the space of 3 months Shenzhen Guangdong province north of Hong Kong where manufactured poverty assembles the fetish that pretty young things can sling in a bag — so free, so easy media making, spirit breaking, collapsing of the deep soul into a race for new models Microsoft, Dell, Hewlett Packard and on and on nausea and on and on and on: 93 million iphones 40 million ipads 38 million ipods 17 million computers in one year Here, bound in to long working hours and electrical hum sales team techies are saying the same things over — RAM memory processors I can't tell you this empty sorrow the heavy drag for how the joy could be, unfettered by this show of loss.
Blood test Here we are this airless tower airless and vacuum, the forces made mute at the doorways and the windows the spirits make it in on the soles of our shoes, soil, maybe in the occasional song. Fourth floor funnel the corridors twist and corner old lino, the plastic seating that scrapes on the flooring making marks the blue walls, all those litres and litres of paint. Everybody’s arm outstretched on the same cushioning, a piece of withered couch-roll unchanged between elbows the tie of the tourniquet the readying vein. The LED summons, the call that comes from behind the curtain and back to back the sound of glass vials filling, O and AO attached, collecting, falling into trays. We go in one after the other after another pale nurse breaking out needle after needle drawing and drawing, sealing plastic lab bags arm after arm vein after vein tiny strip lit cubicle. It’s something specific sickness, sickly this particular over and over, this particular again and again hour after hour.
Chance encounter I left the baking city the train plunging into thick sea fog and at the end of the line, no brakes slipping chain, rode the perimeter fence that marks the land stolen from the shoreline forbidden in blue print Weekend permitted the barriers raised stick to the path spent shells or munitions to be left unhandled between the firing ranges everywhere was hawthorn and everywhere it was all in flower I made it to the Wakering Stairs where the sea pulls away for miles seeping over the mudflats, then the coast path that bends to Southend where the weekend had swollen in small town, the front smelling of chip fat and sugar It was busy, people taking rides under bassy speakers and flashing lights the colour of boiled sweets I walked the pier, a mile and a quarter stretching into the mist, just the sound of those wooden boards over the waves that were deep and deepening Made a chance encounter by the cafeteria where the skeleton ceases and there’s only water rocking at its frame — man from Colombia who had run the length of the pier out and, inspired, I readied myself to join him running it back Effortless in his skin, soft pacing light in his steps he made easy conversation even as I had to dig in thinking — the land in sight — I might not make it Our ending, pleased beaming a brief farewell, an embrace — his photo of me staggering to the finish, he tripped off still running, disappeared into the promenade crowds calling back You know — you have to do something to remember each day by
In the Embrace The clock that is killing us that is driving us all asunder School runs and rush hours mullen mouthpieces race and racing. Lunch break and us locked in conversation headlights — all Question/Answer, a nervous tick gritted-smiling in that talk-snare while the heart cloaks itself against the barren territory. Tears strike upwards — the shock of slowing to sensation again all the unfelt of daily steel and slate and in those after hours everything on the outside laugh like a hyena grimace in the right places fingering text messages hello hello at the bar Nervous normal no room a velocity speak keeping us apart nothing spirit or space emergent had a little drink about an hour ago miming happy like you haven’t just pulled through five days data-entry so your landlord can holiday in the Algarve. Again. In the embrace, warmth, tenderness dissolving into woodland, no alarm division weekdays and weekends, only the heat of the sun then the sun going, only the praying heart the things that need done, you stop when you tire or need to eat, or when the daylight closes. This pace within the body us all turning in the great coherent wheel residing in the magical not levered out industrial discipline — how the iron tracks came bringing timetables unhinging the sundials, pulling us out of the realm of the sensory. Let’s pick apart the mechanics the small coil and glass casing in pieces on the table the long and the short hand take the sand out of the hourglass. We might fall through salt tides and run on the hill laid down our defences our temporary bones how they will ground not the rapid, halted breath, high in the chest too many days at schedule steering us away.
Immigration enforcement may you no no crawl the darkness crawl the corner, park up may you no no under this coral sky then the light falling turn the corner stop the van pulling in slow under this dark sky us building resistance (know that) gathering forces all of our intelligence may you no no fat officer armoured, power-coward crawl the dark streets van crawl the corner park up and up to the door a black feather a black beak a claw disorientate collapse forget what you came for
Border Young woman white underarm handbag slip-ons with high heels she was just taller than the counter where he was looking at her and at her passport He hands her a card says can you fill in these details can you read it, you're German yes are you German do you speak German All ten of her fingers pushing against the plastic counter him holding the passport between thumb and finger, then with both hands he says I don't think this is her to a second passport controller who has come to stand behind his right shoulder I glimpse the photo the young woman next to me the man at my counter asking if I’ve just come from the Czech Republic that there are two buses they are processing no I say, Germany We get back on the coach the doors close the coach pulls away The driver stops to recount folk at the front say that the young woman isn't there pointing to the seat where she’d been sitting Ja, he said sie haben sie verhafftet arrested, 14, 15, 16, 17... her bags still on the seat the bus drives off An older women at the front tells us all the bus doesn't wait if you're detained — then reaches to the seat behind her where the young woman had been sitting and flicks through the magazines she’d been reading
Spell for Malic, aged 2 Calais, July 2016 Your smile will fill every continent — we’ll summon all the fire we can muster to match the shine in you — stand you will take your long legs to the south and to the north, open lungs, your mother tongue and all the rest come singing from your heart muscle Your eyes will behold all the seas as and when you choose, how they will watch and know and inquire, and be defiant power staying your laughter’s breadth Your mother’s mother, and her mother and her mother and hers, drive you on into any headwind, no matter the dust or razor wire, no matter the dark tunnel or airless crossing stowed between cargo pulse and soil, all their bones witness your safe journey You will be loved by multitudes they will come and come everyday standing strong wherever you tread — feet kissing the ground breathing all the winds in
Savile Harris how suddenly out from under the smother blanket years of buried molestation old men, here the truth seeping out like rancid milk we always knew something didn't ring well, this desire stifle the flesh assassinator church, and the state of it and now young bodies who have taken a lifetime to name and give voice; the courage it took to never say a word and now say something unlocking, reliving it in the tissues, are speaking; brave now you like the wind opening the lie vaults, giving of your strength unfolding cramped wings that this whole show break trap that in every momentary beat we might begin to foster some deep, communal repair
Chitty I recall her small frame resilience. Long ninety years of life a bit of soup, some yoghurt soft for the old gums and her yelling and her resistance and her terror. How she was handled lifted, washed, wiped minimum wage haste Watch her, they said watch her, she bites. I recall the smell roast beef and overcooked veg piled into the blender. A grey mush the medication crushed in, spike served up. A napkin wedged hard down the front of her dress at the neck. Tired, overstretched women their own laundry left, children to care for between shifts, dead to themselves, shouting dinner time, dinner time at her. Beautiful old woman I don’t forget who bit the hand that fed her and touched her how she didn’t fucking want to be.
New Clear 1. Hiroshima Nagasaki if we all wear velvet gloves can we put you back black box lower you down chant arrowtip never to target — no target to find mankind marching on gravel, hands up in the air fade out/the sound of crystal clear running water. It’s too late Wait — someone said something about an icewall: 1.4 kilometers of coolant to freeze the groundwater around the spill leaching from a thousand hastily constructed tanks, 355,000 tons of radioactive water 400 more washing out every day — A lead cover falls, a candle blows out it’s cold, it’s frantic, there were news flashes, then no more news flashes then it was quiet — just the constant, slow leak of cesium hotspots for all the steel walls they have raised in the sea bed round the crippled plant collapsed at the edge of the ocean clutching at its sides the hot, hot water pouring through its fingers. 2. On the ocean floor, fissures where tectonic plates are slowly yawning apart or around volcanic activity — hydrothermal vents — extreme heat — the water far past boiling, fathoms down molton ore seeps making black smoker chimneys in the pitch darkness the midnight zone. Such force, as quake, from here that pushed a tsunami to the shore. 3. Silence. Doors fallen from frames. Dry brush weed in cracks. A small breeze through abandoned buildings. One woman still goes back in to feed the cats. Derelict road blocks. Shop shelves hanging empty. Children’s toys tipped on their sides. Rusting bikes, rusting cars. The Geiger counter clicking high in the grasses. One sievert dose — radiation sickness, nausea Five sieverts — kill you within a month Ten sieverts — dead in weeks The seventy three sievert tolerant robots they sent in to Fukishima, just faltering malfunction Hot concrete, hot metal, hot air — recent reactor levels there reading five hundred and thirty sieverts per hour. 4. Look away, look away. History cowers guilt. Who? Gap When? Shows us tight jawlines, jaws clenching — Now no one saying anything Anything at all. My mother tells me my Uncle had said — Er blieb dann manchmal die Nacht. He used to pass through. In the ‘70s. Nuclear scientist. They invited him. On the way out to Japan. Das hatte er damals schon gesagt — — that they shouldn’t build it there on a faultline — 5. back black box lower you down chant mankind hands up fade out/the sound of crystal clear running water back black box lower you down chant mankind hands up fade out/the sound of crystal clear running water back black box lower you down chant mankind hands up fade out/the sound of crystal clear running water back black box lower you down chant mankind hands up fade out/the sound of crystal clear running water
Renewal — Tides Poverty — Like the novitiate entering the enclosure lying prostrate on stone floor breathing surrender in and out I float in the cold Chastity — I am swimming under the waves gazing entranced through tides bright widemouthed fish and coral waving in the liquid glass I am naked, I am turning Obedience — It is silent I look up just below the surface, sunlight shining translucent through red-green weeds I am no longer in the speaking I do not want to speak In the push, in the pull
Renewal — Sea I speak to this moment, all sticky with salt peeling the sea lettuce off my thighs, my feet crystalised sand, the tide drawing in and out like the sound of my blood, and the memory of my mothers, and my grandmothers that amniotic amplification, generation after each, swimming and surfacing. I sit and reconcile the beauty I find myself in and all possibility, with the torn and lacking and all that violates and binds Say Salt sea, wide sea, open waters open waters, salt sea, wide sea wide water, salt sea, open open waters, wide water, salt
Fire after Chrystos I’m licking the salt off this beat pulsing in me both hunger & hope all the freedoms hard fought for everyone who came before me my gratitude I’m saying my prayers here making my offerings My mouth shape the arches of your feet trace your bones ankles the inside of your thighs breathing every part of you deep into me This is play like cubs at your armpit at the tendon’s edge, my lips at the soft hair & hollow tracing a circle at the centre of my palm over your nipples hard up against my hand like buds You make my collapse all fire then water my mouth’s drug suck & your long slow outbreath The light pales on your breasts sloping to sternum I’m pressing into your ribcage plunging into your hips holding you down Joy joy rise you up sweating make joy with you from the tissue in my throat ululating tunnel raking my fingers down the folds of your back leaving marks The sun’s rising it’s dawn I’m anchoring into the flesh of your ass weaving my elbows through your soft legs trailing to the waters to drink You are fresh the taste of ozone, blossom the sea come in rush making to you inside now like a dream world/ sensate all of my whole hand in you rocking
Lochend Storm a rare wind that pulls at the willows pushes at them, suck opening the windows making the houses lonesome The buildings The wind It was coal fires, back greens the local park, the local shops 1930's clad grey, people shipped out and then shipped in to The wind The buildings Old man on the street telling me his mother raised all five children in that house, didn’t want to own it we’d have bought it for her said she hoped somebody else could raise a family in it when she’d gone My neighbour running in and out, slam on his mobile, middle of the night dropping his needles in the stairwell The stair cleaners mopping bleach never hear a peep out of 'naked Willie' upstairs, sitting in front of UV rays The women opposite nesting their private property we're going travelling we're going to rent it out put a security door on the close in preparation was only on a week before kids put a brick through the glass
Make no bones about it Hollow flight stems, the flotsam hooked in the wrack and grasses all drying in the salt wind — gannet’s keel, sheep’s vertebrae jaw of a mountain hair Listen Brittle, bring it close, we lie with it within bending, deep in the marrow, sponge hydrating, renewing, reshaping itself over and over as we tread, curve, carry feel it in your bones Listen Swing dance them settle in Listen The long thin Japanese chopsticks that pick and pass the remains patella, pelvis, scapula, sternum — placing them upright in the urn dispelling the myth of ‘ashes’: here, the cremulator that grinds the dead to powder Listen The top rib that dances on the breath the bottom that fans the bellows — and below, the heavy plumb line a wide anchoring keystone Listen Hammer, anvil, stirrup, cochlea — the small, snail spiral of the inner ear hear the call of the rag and boneman Listen Femur stacks in Cambodian killing fields Skulls of the disappeared in Chilean desert Listen Arnhem Land bones in Canberra warehouse Lakota bones in Colorado Museum Listen Listen Listen
Some white folks from Alabama on the Amtrak It’s our 40th we’re taking trains all over for three weeks Our son, decided he wanted to be a police officer He said Daddy, I want a badge, a gun and a car In actual fact they said he said I want a gun, a car and a badge in that order They said We said Honey — You make sure you protect yourself first we’ll take care of anything we need to after
Herman Wallace While I was dreaming myself into this body crawling spittle, cutting teeth, nursery school and school milk, hot sun on plastic paddling pool sports days, sweating tests, leaving home While I was asking, refusing, finding by flames rounding driftwood on shores foaming shingle spits or in friends’ houses, or my own or any places I chose by train, on foot cycling into headwind or with the wind at my back All of those years For all of the years of the whole of my life you, locked in a 6 x 9 foot cell The majority of my life has been in a cage The majority of my life — I came in this cell at 31 years old man I’m 69 now The solitary hours hung out of sunlight stark depravity your dignity blazing I’m good. Just get me out of here. I turned the pages of the paper and read of your death just three days after your release I peel back thick pomegranate skin the red juice runs down my wrists lay the seeds and pith on the ground for you The skies they open, they open The skies they open, they open they open
After the Hillsborough final inquest verdict For the family and friends who fought 27 years for justice Tuesday 26th April 2016 Granular VHS, red and white strip, pitch, the typical stadium throb, six minutes in they call off the game the camera scanning, young folks dragging themselves over the fencing lying on the ground breathless, the surging crush lifting people onto the balcony like ragdolls, it was four deep dead at the front. And the view was clear from the surveillance terrace but the call was for police dogs not medical support and at 3.15pm while people were dying, Chief Superintendant David Duckenfield lied about the exit gate he had had opened to let people in. The police that beat folk back as they tried to climb and the ambulances that came but were just parked up outside and the cops told to line up across the stadium guided only by a terror of losing control of the crowd. The young men hauling advertising hoardings as stretchers They’re dying in there, they’re all dying in there and the father on the turf with the bodies of both his daughters on the ground by his side saying Help me, please God, not both of them, they’re all we’ve got. The dead on the dirty, makeshift morgue floor. The police coroner ordering blood alcohol level checks on all who died and the police photographer sent out to ‘gather evidence’ taking pictures of the litter at the turnstiles. That rapid manufacture of narrative; drunken hooligan, the working class mob, while ruthless, institutional self-defence buried its negligence and prejudice under piles of systematic deceit; hundreds of police officer statements edited of criticism or comment before they went to the inquiry. That one black and white photograph, people’s faces rammed against the wire mesh, the aftermath, bent metal railings, clothing strewn across the gaping empty, the bereft, the broken. Those ninety six faces on the memorial wall you run the cursor over, one short paragraph about each life and the cause and the approximate time of death. That unanimous final vote. Unlawful killing. Inside the courtroom applause, hugging, tears. And afterwards friends and family stood together one more time and sang.
Guidance — In the Dreaming I am treading wet tunnels Underground there are limestone lakes I am swimming with great ease in illuminated rivers I am floating down stream dark like an oil painting in a coracle the shape of a walnut shell How the dead come to me here my dog and now my father They come to me in a panic of neglect that I have forgotten to wash or feed them or I see they are just fine that they are busy and do not need me any more
Guidance — Observation One for sorrow, two for joy three for a girl, four for a boy five for silver, six for gold seven for a story that’s never been told They are scrying in holy wells, in mirrors, tea leaves coffee grounds, wine sediments, in dust and flour I am in the park. I have questions a pair of blue Jays are shrieking in the treetop They are casting stones and shells, they are counting thunder dropping wax in water, striking copper bowls I am in the park. The following day the Jays are separate now and they’re silent, one in each tree They are dowsing with rods, pendulums, observing the patterns in ash and soot and smoke, they are reading the peat in the black house roof I walk outside the city. Some time later a small fledgling blue Jay fallen from its nest is lying dead in the path
Guidance — As above so below Just tipped past full moon the fever-leash that raises us fluid volume and song the great revealer — We can take knowing from the knowing field in this waning time Ancient silver one speaking us to ourselves within wide arcs, orbits, ellipses Mercury conjunct Mars Sun trine Saturn Each aspect and vibration fortuitous — auspicious Listen today may be a good day And the outer planets slow roll through the galaxy how they cast us as generations lots, straws, if we are lucky luck


Recordings of some of the poems from the collection Faultline, with music/soundscapes. This project has involved collaboration with twelve incredible musicians/sound artists generating music/soundscapes to the words. This collection of pieces speaks to the rigid constraint and violence of capitalism, alienated labour, private housing markets, the abuse of prison, to migrant solidarity, no borders, dismantling the hostile environment, ending sexual violence, to pleasure, power and joy, and to orienting to guidance and renewal. The music/soundscapes range across ambient & found sound, Chinese harp, Taiko drums, guitar, piano, electronics, beats, cello, vocal, banjo, fiddle… Artists, recording, production and mixing credits are at the end of each track.

This is a fundraiser for MORE ‘a group of migrants and members of the community campaigning for the right to work, study, good housing and to be treated with dignity’ who are currently fundraising to provide mobile phone top-ups, so migrants with no financial recource are able to stay in connection in these isolating times.
All money from the recordings will go directly to MORE.

Artists Bios, Poem notes & Thanks:

Bios —

Kiera Coward Deyell
Kiera Coward Deyell is a sound engineer & sound designer, born and based in London. She has designed, installed and performed sound in many spaces across the U.K. and is one of the founding members of Black Obsidian Sound System (B.O.S.S.).

Marion Kenny
Marion Kenny is a highly regarded multi instrumentalist and one of Scotlands leading storytellers. Marion has played, collaborated and toured with many groups and companies over the years including No Fit State Circus, Oceanallover, Babylon Arabic Band, Dance Ihayami. She produced and directed double Cd Voices in Scotland :Folktales Music and Ballads and collaborated with RM Hubbert on his album 13 Lost and Found which won a SAY Award.

Bell Lungs
The music of multi-instrumentalist, vocalist, sound artist and composer Bell Lungs encompasses influences from free improvisation, psychedelia, jazz, noise, drone, ambient and folk to create a nuanced sound world which draws on natural cycles, environmental disaster and the microcosmic aspects of relationships.She is a community musician working across Scotland, and frequently composes for theatre, spoken word and dance.

Lisa Fannen
Lisa Fannen writes and shares words, solo and in collaboration with musicians and soundmakers. She’s also improvised with text, sound, movement and projected film. Lisa is also a bodyworker and community herbalist, and is involved with The Radical Herbalism and Radical Bodywork Networks to generate dialogue and information exchange about health as part of movement for social justice.

Luke Sutherland
Luke Sutherland has played, collaborated and toured with many groups and people over the years including Rev Magnetic, Long Fin Killie and Mogwai.

Semay Wu
Semay Wu is a composer, sound artist, cellist and a remote part-time curator based in Central Scotland who has worked all over the UK, Europe, US & Asia in various contexts since 1998. Her work explores improvisation methods via electro-acoustics, visual work and composition strategies that look for relationships in and amongst sound, space, movement, and what emerges from this. In 2016 she founded an event series dedicated to under-represented voices in electronic music and sound art, which became the New Emergences Foundation.

Alison Roe
Alison Roe is based in Scotland and plays taiko with musicians, poets and dancers in various countries. She currently plays with Glasgow-based band, Painted X-Ray (taiko, electric guitar, bass and violin) and in Europe with Yumi Célia and Ignatius Kim. She also teaches taiko, if you fancy having a bash yourself. More details at taiko.scot.

Jer Reid
Jer Reid plays in bands Painted X-Ray and sumshapes and improvises with different people including the Glasgow Improvisers Orchestra. He plays a lot with dance and started music/ dance group Collective Endeavours with Solène Weinachter in 2010 which now focuses on group improvisation. He also works as a sound designer, recording and mastering engineer and as a dramaturge for dance.

Diljeet Kaur Bhachu
Diljeet Kaur Bhachu is a musician-activist-researcher based in Glasgow. As a solo artist, Diljeet mixes FX pedals with improvised and semi-composed flutes, fiddle and vocals, creating minimalist, experimental sounds. Her performances have been described as “stunningly transportational” and “immersive”. She is also one half of flutes-taiko-electronics duo Velma, and play in the live band of experimental protest singer-songwriter Kapil Seshasayee.

Letitia Pleiades
Letitia Pleiades practice spans object making, music production, DJing, dance, performance, writing, and teaching. It is informed by organising around social justice orientated herbalism and bodywork. They are a founding member of Glasgow Open Dance School (G.O.D.S) which creates spaces that foreground the expertise everyone has about their own body in supportive workshop environments and a co founder of Bitter a club night for trans and non-binary people and women.

Michael Starkey
Michael Starkey - musician, teacher and banjo enthusiast living in Edinburgh.

Saleem Andrew McGroarty
Saleem has been creating music In Edinburgh for over 25 years. In recent years he has produced the first Sound Signals lp "Soul Searching Vol I", for Joseph Malik, Out of the Ordinary and the debut lp for the Edinburgh Psychedelic Soul trio Check Masses, “Nightlife".

Cucina Povera
Cucina Povera is the music project of Luxembourg-based artist Maria Rossi, named after the Italian culinary concept which emphasises the use of a few simple ingredients. She released her debut album, Hilja, 2018 on Glasgow's Night School Records. Her second album is Zoom 2019 using little else other than a Tascam Zoom recorder and a loop pedal.

Notes to some of the poems —

Spell for Malic, age 2 — I wrote this poem after a few days of giving massage to women in the camp at Calais. After I’d massaged one woman, she lay her 2 year old (who had been watching intently from the side of the bed) between her legs and I massaged her too. This poem is for her.

Savile/Harris — In January 2013, a joint report by the NSPCC and Metropolitan Police stated that 450 people had made complaints against TV and radio personality Jimmy Savile, with the period of alleged abuse stretching from 1955 to 2009 and the ages of the complainants at the time of the assaults ranging from 8 to 47. In 2014, at the age of 84, cartoonist and entertainer Rolf Harris was jailed for 5 years and 9 months on twelve counts of indecent assault on four teenage females during the 1970s and 1980s.

New Clear — Title inspired by the track ‘New Clear Daze’ from the album The Weathermen Shrug their Shoulders, by The Ex.

Fire — With thanks and respect to Chrystos, a Menominee self-educated writer and two-spirit activist who has published multiple books and poems that explore indigenous Americans's civil rights, social justice, queer power and feminism.

Make no bones about it — In Japan the family of the deceased perform a bone picking ceremony which occurs after the body has been cremated. Some of the bones remain partially intact. In British crematoriums the bones are ground to ‘dust’ in a machine called a cremulator.

Herman Wallace — In remembrance of Herman Wallace, one of the Angola 3 who spent 41 years (1972-2013) in solitary confinement. Herman’s direct speech taken from the documentary film ‘Herman’s House’. For information about prison abolition, prisoner solidarity, protest against prison expansion, IPP and solitary confinement in the UK: prisonabolition.org

Guidance — Observation — The children’s rhyme about Magpies stands as a legacy of older practices: Ornithomancy (modern term from Greek ornis "bird" and manteia “divination”; take omens from the flight and cries of birds), is the practice of reading omens from the actions of birds. Scrying, also called ‘seeing’ or ‘peeping’ is the practice of looking into a medium to detect significant messages or visions. NB “…the accomplished female bard, Maighread Ni Lachainn, would ‘see’ her poems running along the green turfs that formed the intersection of wall and roof in her blackhouse” p.72 Soil & Soul by Alastair McIntosh.

Thanks -
Heartfelt thanks to everyone who contributed! It’s been a joy and an honour to go backwards and forwards with all of you amazing folks.
Massive thanks Jer Reid for some of the recording, mixing and all the mastering. And for years of being kith and kin.
Big thanks also Jim McEwan, On The Corner Studios, Angela Hindhaugh, and Soraya Bishop.


released May 22, 2020

Mastered by Jer Reid
Image by Soraya Bishop


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Lisa Fannen Scotland, UK

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