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    Paul Sutton Brains Scream at Night 9781935402664 "Original Plus having published Paul’s first full collection, Broadsheet Asphyxia, and last year his chapbook, The Chronicles of Dave Turnip, which brings up the rear of Brains Scream at Night, my bias should be obvious to - were such a one ever to pick up a mag without pictures - even the most cerebrally-challenged spiritually-deficient Sun reader. Of like mind this collection opens with the unpuctuated poem To all the useless idiots in the future, an imagined rant I assume by a reader of the ultra-reactionary Daily Mail, whose editor incidentally is a friend of the New Labour prime minister Gordon Brown. And the anger is unstoppable, everywhere a fraud and another provocation. Moments of concurrence too: ‘Time for confessions; my brother and I were phantom phone-callers in the 70s....’ A study in violence. On night shifts in the 60s I too confess that my workfriends and I used to phone MI5 and any directory-listed aristocrat, left them messages, ‘The cows are awake and need milking.’ And on it goes, the persona raw to slights and the ridiculous. Is this what we’ve become? The very best this humanity can do? ‘I go to seaside towns - there’s no culture, just alcohol and headlights....’ Open Letter. Anger can find release in laughter: ‘I visit MOMA (Oxford) a cultural divide I worship (am stuck with) .... - see the comments book - I dared address the curator by name but signed “Gilbert Gobster: outraged Sunday painter and local water-colourist.”’ O what freedom not to want to belong, to not even pretend to pay lipservice to their mudlled ethics, or lack of, the corrupt always calling their maneuverings pragmatism. Brains Scream at Night is the longest and best piss-take of our time I’ve yet to encounter. More, I want more. And on we go - ‘I always hated the workers for / not revolting (they are so)....’ White valedictory of the liberal intelligentsia. This contradictory, misery-inspiring world of ours, density of frowned thought coalescing into thought, clenched image pressed on image.... and there’s no escape - ‘How tired Sutton is of writers. Yet he never passes a bookshop without entering....’ Strategies. ‘....Your disdain and hate show like bad skin / through a face with too much make-up...’ Strategies No. 6. Nothing sacred, as it should be. Zilch sacrosanct. And so we come to the murderous Dave Turnip.... —Sam Smith I recommend Brains Screams at Night for the energy of its narratives that weave through back streets of Egypt, through Welsh football clubs, through encounters between Manchester City fans and old world emperors, through internet decapitations, animal sacrifices and the buttocks of England's Prime Minister. The performance of identity-sculptings in the book is like a middle-finger provocatively pointed at the self and the other. And while this book isn't afraid to address big issues like race, class, immigration, terrorism, colonialism, the meaning of art and poetry, and suicide, among others, it's most effective when it explores the small details of what it means to be an isolated individual in a decaying, violent world. —Daniel Borzutzky 'Are there no stories left I can call my own?' asks Paul Sutton early on in this new book. The dedicated postmodernist may say 'no' but they'd be wrong, because Sutton can call all of these startling and ironic observations, these deranged rants, his own and be proud to do so. Sutton is adept at giving form to the questioning and subversive voices that are all around us in the shadows of 21st century society. Doubt, despair, argument and violence fuel the characters here, who are barely tamed or domesticated, and live under constant surveillance and critique. These may be Sutton's stories, but they are ours too, because they are for us and about us, each and every one. —Rupert Loydell " "Paul Sutton was born in London, 1964, but brought up in Hertfordshire and Wiltshire. He graduated from Jesus College, Oxford, wor

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    Paul Sutton Brains Scream at Night 9781935402664 "Original Plus having published Paul’s first full collection, Broadsheet Asphyxia, and last year his chapbook, The Chronicles of Dave Turnip, which brings up the rear of Brains Scream at Night, my bias should be obvious to - were such a one ever to pick up a mag without pictures - even the most cerebrally-challenged spiritually-deficient Sun reader. Of like mind this collection opens with the unpuctuated poem To all the useless idiots in the future, an imagined rant I assume by a reader of the ultra-reactionary Daily Mail, whose editor incidentally is a friend of the New Labour prime minister Gordon Brown. And the anger is unstoppable, everywhere a fraud and another provocation. Moments of concurrence too: ‘Time for confessions; my brother and I were phantom phone-callers in the 70s....’ A study in violence. On night shifts in the 60s I too confess that my workfriends and I used to phone MI5 and any directory-listed aristocrat, left them messages, ‘The cows are awake and need milking.’ And on it goes, the persona raw to slights and the ridiculous. Is this what we’ve become? The very best this humanity can do? ‘I go to seaside towns - there’s no culture, just alcohol and headlights....’ Open Letter. Anger can find release in laughter: ‘I visit MOMA (Oxford) a cultural divide I worship (am stuck with) .... - see the comments book - I dared address the curator by name but signed “Gilbert Gobster: outraged Sunday painter and local water-colourist.”’ O what freedom not to want to belong, to not even pretend to pay lipservice to their mudlled ethics, or lack of, the corrupt always calling their maneuverings pragmatism. Brains Scream at Night is the longest and best piss-take of our time I’ve yet to encounter. More, I want more. And on we go - ‘I always hated the workers for / not revolting (they are so)....’ White valedictory of the liberal intelligentsia. This contradictory, misery-inspiring world of ours, density of frowned thought coalescing into thought, clenched image pressed on image.... and there’s no escape - ‘How tired Sutton is of writers. Yet he never passes a bookshop without entering....’ Strategies. ‘....Your disdain and hate show like bad skin / through a face with too much make-up...’ Strategies No. 6. Nothing sacred, as it should be. Zilch sacrosanct. And so we come to the murderous Dave Turnip.... —Sam Smith I recommend Brains Screams at Night for the energy of its narratives that weave through back streets of Egypt, through Welsh football clubs, through encounters between Manchester City fans and old world emperors, through internet decapitations, animal sacrifices and the buttocks of England's Prime Minister. The performance of identity-sculptings in the book is like a middle-finger provocatively pointed at the self and the other. And while this book isn't afraid to address big issues like race, class, immigration, terrorism, colonialism, the meaning of art and poetry, and suicide, among others, it's most effective when it explores the small details of what it means to be an isolated individual in a decaying, violent world. —Daniel Borzutzky 'Are there no stories left I can call my own?' asks Paul Sutton early on in this new book. The dedicated postmodernist may say 'no' but they'd be wrong, because Sutton can call all of these startling and ironic observations, these deranged rants, his own and be proud to do so. Sutton is adept at giving form to the questioning and subversive voices that are all around us in the shadows of 21st century society. Doubt, despair, argument and violence fuel the characters here, who are barely tamed or domesticated, and live under constant surveillance and critique. These may be Sutton's stories, but they are ours too, because they are for us and about us, each and every one. —Rupert Loydell " "Paul Sutton was born in London, 1964, but brought up in Hertfordshire and Wiltshire. He graduated from Jesus College, Oxford, wor

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    Brains Scream at Night by Paul Sutton Book Preview

    Uploaded by

    BlazeVOX [books]
    Paul Sutton Brains Scream at Night 9781935402664 "Original Plus having published Paul’s first full collection, Broadsheet Asphyxia, and last year his chapbook, The Chronicles of Dave Turnip, which brings up the rear of Brains Scream at Night, my bias should be obvious to - were such a one ever to pick up a mag without pictures - even the most cerebrally-challenged spiritually-deficient Sun reader. Of like mind this collection opens with the unpuctuated poem To all the useless idiots in the future, an imagined rant I assume by a reader of the ultra-reactionary Daily Mail, whose editor incidentally is a friend of the New Labour prime minister Gordon Brown. And the anger is unstoppable, everywhere a fraud and another provocation. Moments of concurrence too: ‘Time for confessions; my brother and I were phantom phone-callers in the 70s....’ A study in violence. On night shifts in the 60s I too confess that my workfriends and I used to phone MI5 and any directory-listed aristocrat, left them messages, ‘The cows are awake and need milking.’ And on it goes, the persona raw to slights and the ridiculous. Is this what we’ve become? The very best this humanity can do? ‘I go to seaside towns - there’s no culture, just alcohol and headlights....’ Open Letter. Anger can find release in laughter: ‘I visit MOMA (Oxford) a cultural divide I worship (am stuck with) .... - see the comments book - I dared address the curator by name but signed “Gilbert Gobster: outraged Sunday painter and local water-colourist.”’ O what freedom not to want to belong, to not even pretend to pay lipservice to their mudlled ethics, or lack of, the corrupt always calling their maneuverings pragmatism. Brains Scream at Night is the longest and best piss-take of our time I’ve yet to encounter. More, I want more. And on we go - ‘I always hated the workers for / not revolting (they are so)....’ White valedictory of the liberal intelligentsia. This contradictory, misery-inspiring world of ours, density of frowned thought coalescing into thought, clenched image pressed on image.... and there’s no escape - ‘How tired Sutton is of writers. Yet he never passes a bookshop without entering....’ Strategies. ‘....Your disdain and hate show like bad skin / through a face with too much make-up...’ Strategies No. 6. Nothing sacred, as it should be. Zilch sacrosanct. And so we come to the murderous Dave Turnip.... —Sam Smith I recommend Brains Screams at Night for the energy of its narratives that weave through back streets of Egypt, through Welsh football clubs, through encounters between Manchester City fans and old world emperors, through internet decapitations, animal sacrifices and the buttocks of England's Prime Minister. The performance of identity-sculptings in the book is like a middle-finger provocatively pointed at the self and the other. And while this book isn't afraid to address big issues like race, class, immigration, terrorism, colonialism, the meaning of art and poetry, and suicide, among others, it's most effective when it explores the small details of what it means to be an isolated individual in a decaying, violent world. —Daniel Borzutzky 'Are there no stories left I can call my own?' asks Paul Sutton early on in this new book. The dedicated postmodernist may say 'no' but they'd be wrong, because Sutton can call all of these startling and ironic observations, these deranged rants, his own and be proud to do so. Sutton is adept at giving form to the questioning and subversive voices that are all around us in the shadows of 21st century society. Doubt, despair, argument and violence fuel the characters here, who are barely tamed or domesticated, and live under constant surveillance and critique. These may be Sutton's stories, but they are ours too, because they are for us and about us, each and every one. —Rupert Loydell " "Paul Sutton was born in London, 1964, but brought up in Hertfordshire and Wiltshire. He graduated from Jesus College, Oxford, wor

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    of 10

    Brains Scream

    at Night
    by Paul Sutton

    BlazeVOX [books]
    Buffalo, New York

    Brains Scream at Night by Paul Sutton Copyright 2010 Published by BlazeVOX [books] All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without the publishers written permission, except for brief quotations in reviews. Printed in the United States of America Book design by Geoffrey Gatza First Edition ISBN: 9781935402664 Library of Congress Control Number 2009910026

    BlazeVOX [books] 303 Bedford Ave Buffalo, NY 14216 Editor@blazevox.org

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    To all the useless idiots in the future I hardly know where to start but now I have please note that I am by no means a sad and utter joke far from it one sunny day I will astound the passers-by and cause even birds to fall from the sky you may laugh but notice please how clothes and other goods dropping in price means that poor people can look well fed and casual not just tattered backdrops to Cathy come Home no wonder they bombed the fuck out of us such chaos and filth underfoot so many bad haircuts and worse armpits thank God the history books dont give us the smells so tell us how we can stop all these illegals like Artaud I am convinced there have been gatherings of Mexicans lamas and rabbis to weaken me by masturbating collectively and plan to retaliate by leading a party of fifty friends armed with machine guns to invade Tibet crawling up their beaches onto meadows thats why we have doors and windows I am oh so very tired of dialogue and reason still the same control only the controllers got to feel better about themselves despite that they decide what gets written and who can write maybe this pithy piece will fit in a bottle then bob along in the lovely briny and get washed ashore some happy century to be read like Bukharin was by cleaner minds and in the shining air I will emerge and reclaim mine.

    19

    The legendary journal of disappointment I. The problem Auld Lang Syne - McLintock and his teeth Did I mention there was pubic hair in the mousaka? At the department Christmas dinner I arranged. McLintock was ecstatic: Christ, imagine what they put in the taramoslata! I fucking hate that man. Ill dance on his grave even if hes buried at sea. The worlds greatest living Rabbie Burns scholar, i.e. a carpet-bagging ginger menace. Anyway how I loathe Burns, his tin-eared lachrymose drivel reeking of whisky puke and iron brew. Tourettes syndrome by proxy; I followed him home one night; pissed on the roses and did a shit in his greenhouse. As a child Id ask Mummy what are fat people made from? Why, fat of course: pure lard, fit for the birds to swing from and nibble with their nuts. I wait for McLintock to make an appointment. Remember Marathon Man? Many Scots have a fear of dentistry. I was only two when England won the World Cup and remember it like yesterday. McLintock has never recovered from the outrage, scarce a week passes without his mentioning. Didnt I say? I failed to get tenure and became a dental hygienist; that suction sound filled my nights with dreams of spiralling down plugholes. Absurdly my qualifications were an impediment. And references! He wont recognise me behind the face mask.

    20

    II. A Study in Violence Im living in Slough now. Just across from the multiplex, near an Irish pub serving extra-cold Guinness to the IT community. How dare you tell me about the working classes; my great grandfather was a coal miner. I think this equanimity and tolerance is from a family commitment to exotic travel during childhood. We so often visited colourful climes and laughed at the natives; I had a young Sowetan as a pen-pal, until my letters were returned not known at this address, its been bull-dozed. Whitby seemed a good place to cure writers block. But the room smelt of aftershave and an old woman threw chips at me on the steps to the Abbey. I counted them up and down and never got 199; too many cagouls. Oh stop. Time for confessions; my brother and I were obsessive phantom phone-callers in the 70s. Only one I remember Is that you swearing Tracy? Wait til you get home. Poor Trace, how writing kills energy. For weeks I walked around, easy to imagine ones known by nodding at the same faces. I even swam in the freezing sea, nothing but roaring when my head was under, the green like beachcombers glass. Arent these new restaurants toss? I read the reviews in smug broadsheets then make a trembling reservation but dont believe the locally-sourced ingredients; crabsticks and fish paste more likely. A deafening chrome and pine chantry overlooking the harbour; this is England not Nice; why not be proud. I cant say it; so weak, so angry; no way of lancing; no outlet but peregrinations round shops selling candles and water features. Crawl up the steps to the Abbey. Wheres Bram Stoker when you need him? The churchyard shelters a defrocked vicar and his Lithuanian au pair, awaiting redemption by Caedmons cross. Awake, oh sleeper, you are the uncreated conscience of my race.
    21

    Yes I stole. A familiar voice checks into the hotel, arguing room rates and bullying reception into serving him Bells at eight am. McLintock the mystery cunt; my chance approaches. It must be an English attack; maybe Ill sneak like Bertie Wooster into his room with an enormous needle and puncture the hot-water bottle. Prick his sole. The dentistry? Oh I gave it up. It went the way of all the others. Now I only garden. Such joy in the greens, unnumbered, there I can think; Ive stayed out all summer, waiting for the first cold and leaves to fall, mornings fragile as a babys skull.

    22

    Red mist Have converted to Islam: it was an honour killing only money saved me; Hastings never looked so clean as the day I was cleared. To walk by the sea and know the slut is dead never to harass me again oh the bliss, I killed in an instant with no pain but they took forever now I think education opens and trust schools are best suited to me no? My face is pinched in the clippings I pore over managerial my expertise in the husbandry of itchy women. Any takers: Im up for fostering, just imagine I moved in next door; would our eyes meet over the frosty windscreens or would you pass head down as I bring home the papers I could teach your daughters PSHE or Citizenship vital skills in the knowledge based economy. Dont think life is easy now Ho No, scripts arrive reconstructions are awaited, I plan to adopt a family of Lithuanians or transplanted Roma. Surly those seaside towns that need this scandal, where did I hide my garments, oh come on see the bins at B & Q or dredge the Channel Seriously, perhaps there is a path in the lost woods where once a scarlet lover dallied, between shore and chalk they burned until only a fine mist remained: that tamed expert claimed she exhaled almost a sad sigh on dying.

    23

    Winter landscape Are there no stories left I can call my own? A once nightmare which became fact. As a child, I had the recurrent dream of not liking my Christmas presents. My interest in corners - book reviews read on public transport or at lunchtime. And still my shelves groan with old turds and ancient hair. How terrifying it is. Sometimes I sat all day and wondered if things would change. On my way to the office, I drive though a haunting wood. Occasionally I stop and get out, especially just before Christmas. Today I saw three deer jump the road, their white behinds flicking between the trees. It filled me with joy and sadness. Naive to wonder where they were going. I never feared the gothic. Low sun on old leaves stuck with frost, something present like an ache. Close to where I stop is an intense brick house - like a model I made as a child (not from Lego, but an earlier failed version). Its location is odd - a very large place with almost no access. At the back are desultory courts, nets sagging to the ground. Once I'd have had the joy of wondering and making a story. A spy-training center? Too likely to get bogged in details of gadgets. The home of an omnipotent order, initiates selected from those who dared to approach and knock on the door.

    24

    "We've been expecting you." A tearing fire and a half-circle of armchairs. My place is indicated. Kind and searching faces watch me as I talk for hours, telling them every detail - all my misunderstandings, losses and wastes. "All this was known to us. You are complete now. Walk down Slough High Street, fear not that others won't let you pass. Your trace is recreated in every cranium where previously a shadow stalked when you were thought of." Oh me. I have been a quivering rose stone, set to cut whatever approached. I love those deer, wherever they are.

    25

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