Reading at Naked Lunch, South William 30th October 2007
The informationary-type vitals would run along the lines of spoken word poet, with a canon of 25 masterworks, all gloriously unfinished and fallen woefully shy of their pristine genius phantom selves that appear in my head. Along with my fellow gun-slinging type, Niall O'Brien, and an assortment of other mates, I run the enfant terrible 'Naked Lunch' poetry and music open mic at Carnival, Wexford St., Dublin. My ambitions are of the live screaming variety more so than the literary coffee table abomination variety. Dublin must take her place as poetic capital of the world. This, amongst myriad other lurid fantasies, keep me awake of a night. The rest of my free time is devoted to the prettiest guy in the world and the dogged drunken study of music. I play no instrument but my brain, I have no children that would appreciate public recognition, I live in squalid conditions with a good old-fashioned manifestation of the last gang in town, meta-memes of rolling stone and stockholm syndrome. I have a telephone number, and a desk in a small Irish finance company. I help people live beyond their means. I am growing old gracelessly. come see me smoke my dreams.
Performing 'Rosanna, You Slag!' on Balcony TV, like, totally,
sometime around the end of february 08-ish.. check the website here
Performing 'A Death Upon The Stage or Screen' at the Naked Lunch
gig in CrawDaddy on Friday 6th July, with music by Sleepy Rise
Performing in the Electric Mouse at the 'In Sight of Raftery' festival, Kiltimagh, Mayo, on 2nd June 2007. For more, click here.
My poetry is hosted at editred.com, you can check it out by clicking the picture below:
''All writers are vain, selfish and lazy, and at the very bottom of their motives lies a mystery. Writing a book is a long, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand.'' -George Orwell
Writing is so difficult that I feel that writers, having had their hell on earth, will escape all punishment hereafter.'' -Jessamyn West "Why do writers write? Because it isn't there." -Thomas Berger "The only reason for being a professional writer is that you just can't help it." -Leo Rosten
Even you have a shadow -and even you're shadow has an echo and your echo's shadow visits all of your self made enemies dreams when even you become too blinded to see that people like me orgasm to our own worthless screams -Above these poetic dreams... you believe are eternally obscene yet they trulyexist without words; Of the passionate literary ailments of:
Living the life that echoes the shadows of my; midnight breath through the nervous coughs of your shadows that reminds me
To mirror hope behind ancestors Within wind; Beyond death.
Here again I am. Being to exist upon existence to be; Every silence that speaks -Beyond the decibels of thy voice; To reflect misery, betrayal -And a beautiful choice we never did make as we consistently neglect passion to aim for the best kind of ration within America's sign of it taunting us with status anxious polls of my Earth's wounded souls trying to direct us into following the righteous path of all... ...That becomes forgotten.
Of all... ...That finds us here. In this very place. Where we uncomfortably rest upon the hard cold floor of our minds, as they become dusted with time embraced by our heart's disgrace of those limited memories of passion we keep trying to erase; So we don't have to endure the reality of occupying the solumn space within days that keeps a fence away from today to divide us- -From ourselves.
We place what we were put on this planet for back inside the words of the blank-paged book we keep upon the timeless shelf that feels every day concecrate without age... ...To commemorate all that turns innovation into segregation of the tools of division only we multiply three hundred times before compassion slices her wrists at the wrong toss of society's dime so I can hear their whines in every moment... I wear the purple flowered sun dress that peers into the mirror with thee until my eyes can see a man smothered with in-genuine remorse of youth thus forced to remind me of wasted days and lavender wine so I can dine on humanity's rusty nails sitting around in a bucket of hope so that nothing more shows than it's leftover dust of all those empty words we so wanted to trust.
I concur to nothing more than silence that these words of somber mental violence exists outside of a monologue and merely within a poem. Written in the bloody luxury of a real artists' wrath as its demonstration may display an arena filled with too many actors and society's dirty bath that shall not ever clean those begging for nothing more than an affordable drink and a priceless laugh.
But I'd rather drink his or her poisoned blood than to ever repeat words not smothered in thy love .
For hatred alone or with any host... -Came never towards me without being aimed at the giver of his own self destructivity. But I never stop loving. My life fills me up with enough of it to give it away for free. Fuck a cause or a price I'll give it away without a dream. A dream that says when someone says I love you they actually mean it. I'm never alone as I always am, life's lovers keep knocking down my door for their lust and all that I adore and nothing I desecrate with hate nor pain;
Instead of honoring thou words of thy love, he chose to begin wasting every day -trying to posses; What is destined to betray;
Until one day he'll shy away from the reflection of his own face Even a passionate little girl like me, long ago... gave up faith that he would ever change back to who I thought he used to be
Yet these words will never enter his ears passionately without defensive fears he will call my ignorance and attach back to thee Yet I shall not be who will keep his heart from finally being free and failing to remember in the morning of the morrow What shows it's truth of him to himself within his dreams of that very sorrow.
Thy held on without hands, even when his distractions loosened his grip upon thee and he shamed my fall on an echo too small to have seen that he in fact, not thee, was the one who died within that dream.
We'll be adding my vocals to some of our new tracks soon and uploading them to the site.
The artist I'm working with is also an industrial artist known as Statik Pulse, feel free to check out his stuff on Itunes, it was just released today.
Hey mike! lost my fone last wknd so dont have ur no. If u wana go out somewhere 2nite give me a shout. By de way ur a sly one not tellin us u were nominated for an award last nite. Go u!! xx
Walk through your teleporter and come to the beach with me. We can drink Pina Coladas and have drunken poetry conversations. C'mon... you know you want to :-) Hows life in the old country bellisimo? xx I've gotten back into the poetry performances as my writing progresses. It's getting too philosophical these days, but I did get invited to record some freestyle stuff at a studio for a collective album so that might be fun. Lots of updates, really, too much to write. Please feel free to acknowledge my cravings of your thoughts sometime,
i have a favourite of your work..... Dear Dublin, that one has stayed with me for a while & i would LOve to hear it again. Anyway, hows your nights going over there? do you guys read every week?
If your about Dublin on this coming Sunday(27th) I'll be playing in Bewleys Cafe Theatre, Grafton St. Doors open 8pm.....spread de word as it will be my last gig here for a while...London/States calling:-D
I'll have the amazing Cellist Kevin Murphy with me and very special guests, Una Keane and Anna Rice. Una the beautiful songstress will be playing a set of her own songs as well as joining me for a couple of songs on piano and Anna will be adding her own magic with her violin!
Sorry for using your page as a billboard! tell me to take a run and jump if you will, but it's not like I do this often this being the first time and it's not for a penis extension either although I'd say you'll find that easy enough in the 'myspace; thing if that's what your after! well good luck to you if it is.... so anyway this is what it's all about:
Yes the moment has arrived! What's that I hear you saying?? Well the one where I'll make an arse out of myself again in the name of entertainment / art / for the hell of it....
This Saturday the 5th of April in The Cobblestone, Smithfield, Dublin I will be preforming in a play / sketch show it's a comical tragedy just like my life ha ha no but unfortunatly true. There will be Comedy Poetry Music Games and even Birhday Cake!
It's Whacker Murphys Birthday Buzz, and I myself play Ed 'The Horse' Mooney! should be fun or different at least so swing by and please support!
I've just had a massive spring-clean and re-organised my site. There's a new photo-shoot by the ace music photographer Martin Tomkins, new artwork, and links to items of interest. Including news of an exciting new collaberation in The Bath Fringe.
Come see what the mad scientist has been up to, and enjoy.
Ash :o)
p.s. My sounds-like section has always been a problem. A good friend recently said: "If one were to take a genetically spliced hybrid of Moondog, Tiny Tim, Ron Geesin, Bert Jansch and Peter Buck , placing them into a time slip going back to a surreal medieval folk/rock rave...you would then hear the sound of Ash Mandrake."
ps, I adore 'Rosanna, You Slag! Beautiful performance. Quality pro-active-ness onto getting there, bello. Your literary desires and drive as a poet happen to be admirable by anyone who may scream with a dream of desire. xx Alike your own.
I miss the hell out of you Mr. Igoe. Please don't abandon your beloved fellow poet. I hope you will be visiting the big apple @ some point in the near future. PS I started design school & have a fabulous line of jumpers and handbags already out. I blame it on New York's powerfully vain, yet creative influence upon me.
I know the world will continue to see amazing things from you, sir... but I'm too impatient to wait until you're the new Yeats. I'd rather add to the venture.
xx
Kacie... your dear, silly American, yet poetic friend.
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