New pamphlet: Scar Code

Snippet from the book

Anticipatory grief, sleep and spiderwork come together in my prosimetric pamphlet, Scar Code, the first from new pamphlet press Weather Band (produced by Robyn Skyrme of the Crisis Crystal reading series). Originally written for the Ek Symposium and exhibition hosted at Glasgow Project Room in September 2025, I developed it into a fuller sequence at Robyn’s invitation. It picks up some themes on threads, spiders and entanglements from my monograph Midsummer Song, and responds ekphrastically to Chiharu Shiota’s installation Sleeping is like death (2016).

A more formal abstract:

What happens when ekphrasis is conceived of as performance in the context of artwork concerned with sleep and dreams? Commencing with a verse description of Chiharu Shiota’s thread installations, I take my cue from T.J. Clark to consider the limits of ekphrasis as tool for ‘converting’ visual into verbal representations as a possibility for recreating the ‘experience’ of ‘thinking in’ the artwork (2022). As Shiota’s elaborate, sleep-themed threadworks, notably Sleeping is Like Death (2016) evoke an interwoven neural net, whose nocturnal scenes are withheld from the viewer via webs of abstraction, I offer sentences of hypercritique as ‘drawings in space’ (Shiota) whose weaving is a dreamwork: enacting via intuition a space for the unknowable. This intuition is partly premised on the rhythmic, affective and imagistic affordances of poetic language.

In the ward, three patients lie asleep.
The spiders entered them long ago, not
by the usual oral route, but via the silk of sleep itself.

36pp. • 50 copies • £7.50 UK / £12 INTL

To order: https://crisiscrystal.net/weatherband

“It’s true, I am a tiredness that lives outside its labour.”

She was in the employment of pulling loose threads from the garments of bourgeois timewasters. This was indeed total dream territory of the utmost, beyond even mastery challenging the idea that you would have time at all. 

One day, the feeling in her stomach was ready for business. What would she regurgitate of her labour. The comatose hour belonged to sleeping bosses who returned their bodies to the pond. She had the whole shopfloor to herself. What did she vomit? A threadball as big as the Ritz diamond in Fitzgerald. Everything said in the service of clout vacuity was held in that clump of acid filament.