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Adrian Manning is the editor of Concrete Meat Press.

He has had poems, reviews and articles published in magazines in print and on-line around the world.

Primary chapbooks and broadsides by Adrian Manning

Wretched Songs For Out of Tune Musicians (Bottle of Smoke Press chapbook 2003)

Literary Gunslinger (Hemispherical Press broadside 2003)

Down At The Laundromat (Concrete Meat Press chapbook 2004)

Two Poems (Feel Free Press broadside 2004)

Old Man (Concrete Meat Press - joint broadside with David Barker 2005)

As Unavoidable As History (Hemispherical Press chapbook 2005)

Bring Down The Sun (Art Bureau Press - joint chapbook with Henry Denander 2005)

A Tourist, A Pilgrim, A Truth (Bottle of Smoke Press mini chapbook 2006)

Repeating The Mantra (Bottle of Smoke Press chapbook 2007)

Next Exit Six (Kendra Steiner Editions - joint chapbook with K M Dersley 2008)

Now available - Next Exit Six - A joint chapbook with K M Dersley in the Next Exit series published by Kendra Steiner Editions. Follow the link for more info.

Review of "Repeating The Mantra" from SOUTHERN OCEAN REVIEW (Issue 45 - October 2007)

Repeating the Mantra, poems by Adrian Manning. A 28 page book of this English poet published by Bottle of Smoke Press, 2007. Manning is a UK poet of some worth. He is a convert to some of the 'meat poets' of the USA in the 1960's and 1970's. The subtleness of some of these pieces far outstrips local work from here, NZ. This book won't be available in New Zealand but you can check it out at www.bospress.net . I am sure it will be worth your while. We need people like Manning.

For availability of any of these or other publications please contact the author.

SAMPLE POEMS

AT THIS MOMENT

Darkness envelops this house,

rain has begun to fall.

Air is heavy and ominous here.

I see your face in the window

and the tears

of the centuries

run from your reflected eyes,

slow at first they gain

on each other.

I have done some bad

and useless things.

When the rain

and darkness are gone

they will still be

bad and useless things.

Silence will remain

to remind me,

building a wall

between us

as unavoidable

as history.

From AS UNAVOIDABLE AS HISTORY (Hemispherical Press)

BLOOD, HE SAID

You know the artists are poor,

starving and suffering.

Well he starved and suffered

in a room overlooking the

slaughterhouse,

stuck for paints,

staring at a blank canvas,

gazing through the window

watching animals arrive,

carcasses leave

and men in blood stained

white smocks taking

cigarette breaks,

leaning along the wall

like victims of a firing squad.

“Blood,” he said,

“that is the answer.

Where does the blood go?

They wash it away,

they don’t need it,

I can use it,

what a medium.”

She gave up chasing roaches

with a hammer,

turned to him and said,

“I can get it for you.

the guard, the old guy,

his wife died.

he must be desperate for a piece.

I could ‘look after him’ for

a barrel or two to get you started.”

“You’re a whore,” he said,

“but it could work.”

Later that night, he watched her

enter the gate, but she wasn’t

careful enough.

He could see her going to work

on one of the young men

working the night shift.

she finished,

composed herself,

and left.

She came back but

there was no barrel of blood.

She would tell him she needed

to go back the next night,

to work on the old man some more.

He wouldn’t give her the chance.

He picked up the hammer and waited

in the darkness behind the door

for her return.

“There will be blood,” he said,

standing perfectly still,

only his terrible, black heart

moving inside him.

From WRETCHED SONGS FOR OUT OF TUNE MUSICIANS (Bottle of Smoke Press)

SALVADOR DALI

put his cape in for a spin

but before he did

he draped floppy eggs

and watches over the machines.

We didn’t listen to his

statements of genius

about the state of modern washing

and we were glad

when he had gone

- those damned ants

were getting everywhere.

From DOWN AT THE LAUNDROMAT (Concrete Meat Press)

SHARP

walking the streets

of san Francisco .

see that apartment up there?

that’s where Buk stayed

when he read here once

A.D. tells me.

the wild party, the broken window.

it’s legendary, I’ve read of it.

looking down, I see a

broken shard, like the old guy

himself, still sharp after

all these years

From A TOURIST, A PILGRIM, A TRUTH (Bottle of Smoke Press)

AUDIO

outside, the sound,

it drifts through my window,

a tv, a radio, a conversation,

sonic snatches,

voices in my head,

the streets are talking to me,

the neighbourhood,

alive with wisdom

I cannot decipher

or make sense of,

speaking in tongues,

random cut ups,

Burroughsian

audio experiments

absorbing into me

doors open like flapping

mouths, windows blinds

dropping, lifting

winking their secrets

at me

but still I am confused,

knowing only that it

has always been like this

and always will be

From BRING DOWN THE SUN (Art Bureau Press)