Face Test [sketch after René Char]

Face Test

I’ll let you sing your favourite rock song if it meets my approval
I’ll let you sing it with an open heart beneath
the hunger of your silence - synonyms - the sad neo-liberal sea, that sea beyond measure, long and blue like the sky’s skin, tickling the feet of god

I’ll let you sing as your limbs are eaten by the swim
I am blessed with courage, but my patience lies in tatters. Your dream
is split into an insoluble vacancy, severed by erotic pics of foam

At the crest you descend its vertical       

Your hand falls off as you reach my mansion

Your nuisance petitions of credulous passion

Your nuisance eternal petitions

The years pass you around
                                The horizon matriculates
                                                             The heap slips apart
I am sick at heart
I feel it clutch in your chest, like the justice of a pay-cut

I aim at you            
In my absence you see my face lit up, eating your surplus

I aim at you

we will change   everything

I have faith in you

[after René Char]

Tags: rené char;

Portraits at the Peckham Pelican (21st June 2014)


About That Original Hen (Part II)

The second half of my performance-lecture on Finnegans Wake and Madame France Raphael, Joyce’s amanuensis.

Performed 2nd June 2014, School of Arts, Birkbeck


Les Trois Sœurs by René Char mutated by Becky Varley-Winter & Ollie Evans (Sunday 2 March 2014)


victory is clear

The bird is beached on the tear,
the serpent is the same,
amortal ameliorate,
applaud recollection.

Plato dances in the sky.

The explosion in the noose, the lonely dance inside me.
Folded in sound, how can I comment on the nature of my advantage?

The pulse of a second memory, the changes on my face, the season’s pulse is poor and flammable and our session will expire!

The havoc of slow snow descends with leprosy.

Sudden love, the equality of terror, the dumb hand that sees the cinders arrest, readdress the sun, reconstructed lovers.

Nothing announces existence with such force.

after René Char


Portraits of the Middleincomes: A Film

On the 29th of January I took advantage of a free film-making course at the Derek Jarman Lab at Birkbeck and we made this.

With many thanks to Hannah Proctor, Julia Penaavilla, Joanna Wiles (who performed, filmed, recorded and edited the film with me) and to Bartek Dziadosz, Paul Craddock and Walter Stabb who taught us how to do things.

This is a first cut and due to circumstance I had to edit on iMovie after using Final Cut, hence the inconsistent subtitles etc.


ANNOUNCING: SENTiENCE by Leanne Bridgewater

Now Available from Stomapress:

SENTiENCE by Leanne Bridgewater

A three-thousand word sentence on the mistreatment of animals


£6 w/ High Digger’s From the Ear-far-out-wrung of these Thinkings by Ollie Evans

E-mail stomapress@gmail.com to order

(whilst we sort out our Paypal button for tumblr [Grrr])

And here is Leanne’s sonic-rendering of SENTiENCE


End of 2013


Danger! It is fake fur. It is a false life.
The illness of the future is in the past.
The Sun dominates the drought like it had a permit or some special pass.

Eternity is never false. No one voted for the domination of the sun to drop. 
If the Sun evaporated, the ones on the left would agitate, discord, supplicate, vomit.
It is futile to pass a vote on the dropping domination of the sun.
Death feeds upon the Middleincome, indecisively, chewing on its fur.

Finally I can live. I shall never rest again.
Impoverished solicitude, if only I shared your absolute voice. Welfare is history.


We Dance on Marbles


Settle today for an afternoon of debasement with the Middleincome. Their money dances in the trees; the branches strip skin through sieves.
Their poor flesh is a form of fixed evasion, a death fatigue, the lost dance of the water-pipe; dance of fuel and chocolate mousse, a dance of an eaten-up peduncle.
Drunk on ascension, they will shower the entrance of the Savoy with a crass breakbeat. Life in the nursery, a slow dance with trembling eye.
A suave slow dance with flour.
The infirmity of your butterfly-kicks will never beat the violent aspiration of this bougie surplus.
En suite, they descend upon the racists with a dance of terrible love, abandoning the wealth of their choices when they know that they are lost.
Joy, joy invades us with an inversion of panic.
Joy, like a soup-kitchen beneath the overture.

We made our en suite water-pipes and fired at the state. The earth was soiled with petty middleincomes who, probably lost, fell, dancing through the trees. We will watch their skin detach on the way down.
We are the menace: no encore for humiliation.
Our illness is still dreaming all its horrors. Our skin has detached without pain on the water-punch.
Only employment is a vegetable eaten up with resentment.


We dance on marbles in this great circulation of corpses.
The new-precarity.
The new-precarity is extremely advanced and takes you by the hand, chews you up and so-long to the voluntary horse and the lure of recompense - our fate is a horrific start-up.

Our suffering! Our suffering!
Eating is dependent on the fate of the marchers, everyday they march.

The profile of our cruel master’s repose without cease along the surface of the wall.


She chants quips as shells hurl past her vote.
In the chant, a car in the east is on fire.
Mace is the fate of unintended knowledge.
Telecast our song. Hurl profanities. Dance with silence.


There is a surplus of branches for queer poverty. Total culture has been jammed into their clasping hand. Justice dances with a fool, a coxcomb called the Middleincome.

The poor will never panic in heaven.
Au contraire: they will supplicate tendentially towards silence and will find that nothing is more important than prevarication, prevention and surveillance; surveillance without cease until their heads constellate and stick to the ceiling.


The Middleincome is an ignited fuse. The Middleincome longs to be fused.
Come, reverse the dream.
Fear-of-Being parts the meme.
The witness makes its spectre and appeals to every last fibre of these tenants in their capsules.


Organs parted, broken courses, intentions prised open to dance on stone. Solid volume is asinine.
In tension with your mirror-meme. This solid tantrum of desire is a plural infantocracy.
Dislocate in morbid water; knees bent with élan.

These are only a few of the strange platitudes of the Middleincome.


Their illness takes the form of poor bulls pissing into their dreams; their illness takes the form of immovable  appliances for the poor.
Applications against the mural, motherfuckers; the mural gives rest to persons who cannot dream, takes the form of a long cord enlaced with ecstasy.
Settled torture. Settled Middleincome.
And they attend, legally aphasic, to the same unimportant moans of bondage where the heart in another dimension applies to serve this lucid meme.
They attend.
Days, years, of venereal presents.
They attend.


In their heads, the Middleincome buy a treehouse from habitat to spy with through their hollow sockets.
At least they can flex their chagrin as the terror is branded onto their suffering.

An infinite treehouse…

Soup and mince form a translucid vision of extension, ex-prime, a life in parcels, by design, an author creeps into forms, creeps in their forms, Malaysian maybe, prudent, effortless and already prepackaged for the Winter.