A London Vampire

I've written a story consisting of 26 poems about a London vampire. I recited the full poem for the first time at the Servant Jazz Quarters, Dalston, as part of a Nutshell magazine fund-raiser. 2 of the poems feature in Magma 58. I recited these and one other from the collection at the Magma 58 launch, which took place at the London Review of Books Bookshop. Simon Armitage also read at the event from his forthcoming translation of the late 14th Century Middle English poem Pearl.

Trouble, Cat Stevens cover

Iambic pentameter

Poem in iambic pentameter. I wrote this years ago.

The Loveless

We travel fast who know not love nor life,
Grow stronger now that autumn fires are near,
Dark nights conceal us as we walk the town,
Sip cocktails in some gloomy basement bar,
And deathly pale suck pleasure from the air.

You may have seen us roaming in the Strand,
Across the platform standing for a train,
We smoke despite the metro's warning signs,
Laugh coldly when the rats come out to play,
And vanish underground when daylight comes.

There are no midnight stars that burn as hard,
Our shortened lives are wild with senseless deeds,
The double weight we carry drags us down,
We travellers in the night who know not love,
We travellers in the night who know not life.

Doctor Doom

Doom. Live on YouTube. Gucci-suited,
telling the fans they’re what matters
again. You’re done, the hotel’s sent up
the wrong ice & you level the building.
It’s jut beautiful, you share with Time,
what pain & misunderstandings teach us.

Everyone wants a piece of you. They love
your Latverian trill, they love the iron mask.
You get DOOM inked on your knuckles.
From one angle it looks like DOOR.
A photo goes viral - KNOB on your other hand.
Doctor Knob! A small boy yells & yells.  

You torched him in self-defence you find
yourself briefing a global press conference.

A black week. Blank about status updates
you charge a flunky to post for you
then fret he’ll make basic spelling gaffes.
Half the responses are phone numbers.
The rest want to know if you’re bulletproof.
You’re not bulletproof. You’ve had some work done

& afraid to go out rattle round the empty castle
on rollerblades. You’re a prisoner of fame.
You hate the fans. All the time you burn
to confess you’re not a qualified doctor.

Busking on the South Bank #2

Got responses from both Simon Hughes' office, and Peter John, saying they'd look into my query about Southwark's busking policy. Encouraged by this, I returned to the South Bank on Sunday 12th August for another session. This time, I was stopped by two plainclothes guys with Southwark badges in their wallets. They made a note of my address, and said they were happy for me to recite my poetry, but that it was illegal for me to sell any copies of my poetry pamphlet. So much for private enterprise. Which department do these men work for? Why is it necessary for them to patrol the South Bank in addition to the police, who are heavily present, and the armies of stewards? At what expense to the public finances are they maintained? What is the public mandate for preventing performance artists selling their work on the streets?

Busking on the South Bank

On Sunday 29th July I was asked by two police officers to stop poetry-busking on the South Bank (opposite Tate Modern) on the grounds that 'Southwark doesn't allow busking'. The police suggested I move to Lambeth where busking is apparently not unlawful. Such a regulation seems arbitrary and illiberal. On what grounds can busking be not allowed, if it is not disturbing the peace, or inciting to hatred? How can it be allowed in one borough but not another? What is the legal framework which the council has employed to support this regulation? I have written to Southwark council, and also to Peter John (leader of Southwark Council), and to the MP for Bermondsey and Old Southwark, Simon Hughes, requesting an explanation of this policy.

Tales of Paradise City

I've created a new tumblr for my sci-fi poems: http://talesofparadisecity.tumblr.com

Hazard

Art costs lives

Reviews of Confronting the Danger of Art

"This is a stark and original pamphlet of poems, both disturbing and amusing. The superb illustrations darkly complement and enhance the explosive impact of the poems." SPHINX REVIEW

“Think a Salad Fingers style doodle, matched with a satirical Banksy-esque dialogue ... this little book was the perfect length and provided an anti-reality for 20 pages and was a strange joy to read.” BRIG NEWSPAPER

“With striking images, and thought provoking messages, this pamphlet will take you five minutes to read, but weeks to consider.” CONCRETE NEWSPAPER

“The illustrations and poems work together seamlessly ... McLachlan and Cooper’s new age method of collaboration has been a success. The cryptic, earth tone illustrations play off of the cautionary poems impeccably.” THE FREDONIA LEADER

“The poems and delightfully strange and vivid artwork work in unison to deliver a coherent message ... Thought-provoking and genuinely funny.” XMEDIA

“Confronting the Danger of Art is one of the most original ideas that I’ve come across recently ...” STRUCTO MAGAZINE

“ ... a hilarious and searing look at the way people do sometimes treat the arts ... perfectly crafted and delightfully witty.” THE BOAR NEWSPAPER

“Phil Cooper’s ... simplistic comic strip style evokes suggestive moods in each panel ... As an artist, I find this booklet a reminder that art has no limitations.” THE TARTAN NEWSPAPER

“The beige and rust color scheme complement each other and provide a perfect backdrop for McLachlan's biting free verse.” THE DEPAULIA NEWSPAPER

“It is well constructed and Phil Cooper’s design complements the irony of Ian McLachlan’s poetry. It is a thought-provoking read.” THE BEAVER NEWSPAPER

Confronting the Danger of Art

Confronting the Danger of Art, a poetry pamphlet written by me and illustrated by Phil Cooper, is available to order from Sidekick Books today. It's styled like a government information booklet from the 70s/80s, such as the nuclear guide Protect and Survive, and envisages a society that has decided artistic expression is so dangerous it needs to be suppressed. The anti-art arguments employed in the first chapter of the book are based on those used by Plato in Boox X of The Republic. I thoroughly enjoyed writing it, maybe there's a career for me in propaganda, and Phil's artwork is witty and cool. More info at http://www.drfulminare.com/dangerofart.php

Sometimes The World Is Too Beautiful

Sometimes The World Is Too Beautiful follows the life of a Mississippi poet, from early mistakes (the hacking up of a turtle to make a comb for his mother) through to marriage, children, divorce, a love affair, and concluding with the death of his parents. Some mistakes are learned from - following his debacle with the turtle the poet develops a deep affinity with the natural world, often very beautifully expressed ("Yesterday, pruning azalea bushes, / A female cardinal let / Me look into her brown eyes"). Others, perhaps chiefly that most Luciferian of flaws, pride, persist, see him summoning monkey demons, or, lost in life's maze, shouting for a confrontation with the Minotaur that never comes. The writing is lucid, evocative of powerful emotion, often of an almost shockingly high standard. Though this book is perhaps especially for those who "... sense the dilemma of the rare, lost ones, / Who yet can't embrace any belief simply / To save themselves--", the quality of the poetry will speak to everyone.

Dr Faustus, White Bear, Kennington

My brother has a production of Dr Faustus running at the White Bear, Kennington from 27th Sept - 2nd Oct 2011. I created the flier for it with help from my doggie.

The Absinthe Room

It is the green hour when my love arrives;
shrugging off life's bristling threads,
her exquisite liquid nakedness,
she soothes my brow with sweet palms
chill as iced water, her visage
milky opalescence, la louche, where
wild scents bloom: crisp fennel;
rich anise; wormwood.

Do you sleep? I know the evening
and the metal dawn. I work with
absolute materials: everything
and nothing.

A dreaming drowned man,
my mistress, glacial sage,
of such delicate health
she must sleep behind
UV-proof glass.

Suddenly the window is white.
Too much sun; the rush that burns.
Her fading footsteps.

I know a pure, clear-headed love.

Confronting the Danger of Art

Introductory page from Confronting the Danger of Art, a pamphlet I've created with artist Phil Cooper for Sidekick Books.

Retrato de Armando Seijo

University documentary on the painter Armando Seijo I helped produce.

Confronting the Danger of Art

I'm currently collaborating with the artist Phil Cooper on a pamphlet of illustrated poems for Sidekick Books entitled Confronting the Danger of Art. This pamphlet will have the look and feel of government booklets produced in the 70s and early 80s, and will use the arguments put forward by Plato in Book X of The Republic to justify the government's suppression of art and artistic expression in the UK. The text is basically all written and Phil's just in the process of illustrating it now.

Salem's Lot moment

Salem’s Lot moment: feeling of elation when you realise you and one other person have resisted a virulent cultural meme that has infected the rest of the local population. e.g. having met the one other person at a party who refuses to dance to commercial R'n'B, you both hide out in the garden. Should you fail to find another such person, you may find yourself overwhelmed by the infection, dancing along to Beyonce, now one of the damned.

Etymology: the 1979 television adaptation of Salem’s Lot concludes with two characters, Ben Mears and Mark Petrie, hiding in a church from the other town inhabitants, all of whom have been transformed into vampires. Despite the danger of their predicament there’s a sense of elation that they have resisted the vampire infection.

Narcissus

AM. Sunlight an upbeat headache.

Twisted sheet, love's last conquest 


gone, Opium and cash drift south. 

Check the void. Parish shirt, gold

chain. Straight dope on the radio.

Turn it up, Stunners, battle dance. 


Halting, in lit plate check the void; 

some double. Jewels, Hummers, 


Bathing Apes, my girl, yours, for
the void, swallows murders. At

the door, I show myself to it.

My December