Fashion- Music- Art- and more ...
13/11/06
"To MG Von Posch:
Please could you write for us?
Hi how are you? It's mari, and this profile represents a broadsheet style paper which will go out and about in the streets of London very soon. We would like to have interesting and inspirational/ creative minds and souls to contribute. It's very much a movement and there will be a gallery space with library and film theatre, it's in the making. We are asking those with something to say to get involved. We wil put your writing up on our myspace page and promote you as you assist us in our launch, Thanks Mari"
MG Von Posch is now one of our contributors.
Some of our other contributors are Mari:
Elliot:
and head of everything is the lovely Francesca:
Please write us a message if you would like to join the team.
*NEW WRITING FROM MG VON POSCH*
Copywright © 2006-2007 by MG Von Posch This work is not reproducable without the permission of the author.WolfWe watch the documentary come to a close - a yak flounders in snow like a troubled ship, its eyes roll white an instant before it bleats into the pack's teeth.The television spins a carousel of scenes into the dim room - the rite of family feeding, the spilling of a stillborn calf. We don't look away or feign anything.We fix on the leader's red muzzle as credits flurry mild as sleet. Commercials swoon into place, and this is all we're left with - microwave meals losing heatbetween our thighs, sour wine, the cul-de-sac dead underneath its canopy of streetlamps. There are no wolves here - our pack is gone, pulled its bonesinto extinction long ago. But we listen. We wish they'd return, snarl through the curtains we draw early every night, shred the silence strung room to roomlike a tether - the meat we'd give to have a litter plumping our bed, our fingers twining as we nurse pink pups like an empty ache. To call the pack into a horde,to run with them, talk with touches, yelps, things eloquent as hunger. We're left to pull each other upstairs when the screen dulls our eyes, another night to grope between sheets.Past midnight, we shiver at the bedroom window, throw back our necks and howl, our voices chasing through the dark house like the white paws of the moon.When He Wakes He wakes in a strange bed to the scent of woman, unhooks a robe from the peg engraved 'Homme', shrouds his nakedness, toes the door open.He trips cartoonishly down the staircase, past portraits of people he's never seen before - big-eyed children like owlets, a beautifulwoman with a laugh he can hear in photographs. He walks through a hallway, stares strangely at the beseeching telephone, the small girlwith the wide eyes who bundles through him. He comes to a kitchen-diner, the woman in the photographs smiles like a catalogueas he enters, mutters inwardly, stands robed and never more naked than he is now. Who was she? What was she doing here?He sits down in a chair pulled out like the first part of a sentence he's yet to finish, the woman pours him coffee,stations a big bowl of Rice Crispies. Before he's allowed any utterance, he's skidding a butter knife through gas-bills,agreeing with the morning paper, nodding at anything the beautiful woman says. He watches her fuss with two children,pull bread from the bite of a toaster - all the time smiling, singing, talking at him. She buffets him with pecks and pinchesuntil he's tumbling butt-first out the door attache-case and flask tucked underarm, sitting stiffly at the wheel of a family estate,recalling his face in the wing-mirror.Crematorium Mr Cedars is home by seven, has stomached his stew and dumplings by half-past, is reclining with his wife and three boys at eight o'clock. He nuzzles a glass of mulled-wine into his wife's strawberry plaits, lets the day's work swill back and melt away inside him. There are comedy repeats, the Nine O'clock News, the chirrup of his children.He doesn't sit too long on the day. Not the slack head of a woman heavy as his own snoring beloved's. Or the jewellery he had to salvage, her beads loosened like a noose. Nor the white child he floated on the belt past those faces mangled with tears. Not the stupid incantations, the wobbly thankyous, the bluster, the cool velvet on the stopped tongue of the coffin.He toasts to the warmth in the room - the clapboard laughter on television, his wife's hand on his thigh, to the kids tickling each other daft on the rug. Then, absent-mindedly, to the cackling furnace eyeing them through the grate.FurballThis one furball was all he'd left her, ripped from the broken mouth of his comb. She held it under the nightstand's light and felt the electricity of fibre in her hand.Opening in her palm was the forest he'd hauled her through as one of his mad, phantom pack - it's wiry thickets and tight twists.In this tiny embroidery of filament she solved the maze of days when he'd gone missing, returning, at last, with a trout in his teeth.There were split ends - after she'd scolded him for quarantining a fox in a tree, for wolfing the shelled prawns she'd forgotten on the kitchen table.If she squeezed it tight there was a warmth; grassy afternoons when they'd slept like an anthill in the courtyard. Here she felt the furball catch in her throat. Then, gently, the roughness of his tongue on the back of her hand.Petrol StationWe meet when business has died down to the odd nightcrawling trucker. The store's backroom looks like our only option - you've already shrugged the belt from your waist, slackened your shirt, as I pull up.We've never tried this before and my hands are unsteady as knives as you unlatch the door, let me in. I skin the blouse off my back and fling it over my shoulder like a rearmirror glance.We unpack the necessary ingredients - jelly from the hoof of a muntjac buck, a whole hedgehog, a merlin's beak, several bruised watervoles, the streaked suits of two badgers, the bough from a stag's skull.Nude in the green station glow we mouth the mantra we found spattered red across the grille of your van: From the forms of motorists we will rise. We hold a gaze that could thaw ice, then I baste your breast with hoof-jelly as you cram me with voles.We pumice each other's backs with the hedgehog, grind the beak into snuff, breathe it in, struggle into the badger's skin. As I crown you with the antlers it comes to us, uproariously as instinct - what me must do, how we must go about it.We howl the petrol station into a hush. We chew through the power hoses, claw the pumps to death, butt the lights out. Kee-yawing like kites, we canter onto the dark forecourt, a new breed to hunt all engines in the moonlight.Others It was a strange relief to find that there were others. As she teased out my cabin number in a lull between The Isle of Guernsey and St Malo, I understood then that we were equals; schooled by something terrible in the same moves. Our approach play across the third-deck nightbar - a Europop oasis at two in the morning - was a dance lesson in the exquisitely cheap. We came on like two praying mantises, matching the other's feints, a mirror image as we pranced between strobes, cradling liquors.She let me come to her cabin. It was the way of those like us. The economy of the deal surprised even me; the egg-box confines, the single-use facewash, the rotation play of breezy love songs through the tiny speaker. And as we rocked with the propeller's thrust, I wondered who would be the first to forget themselves, who would lay themselves open. Not me - my teeth, disguised inside a kiss, were already on her collarbone, already on her neck.MyGen Profile Generator