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R Rumours of Pauline she cuts her own hair she propositioned two boys balancing a pint on each the boys ran off you can probably find her on so that wanking not only that as for the truth The Willy Watcher the first time I had then we did and afterwards a grubby little and i thought act first only I didn’t Piss Town going back when I close my eyes from a secluded path where the frozen image of a sad-eyed young girl I served my time I severed my ties piss town<\/p>\n on the news while in The Swan those driven insane piss town<\/p>\n but sometimes, alone something private, odd, piss town<\/p>\n ABOUT THE AUTHORS<\/strong><\/p>\n Adelle Stripe<\/strong> is a performance poet\/fiction writer from Tadcaster, UK. Her work has appeared in Full Moon Empty Sports Bag<\/strong><\/a><\/em>, Laura Hird<\/strong><\/a>, 3:AM, Vomit In The Mainstream<\/em>, Rising Poetry<\/em>, Scarecrow<\/strong><\/a><\/em>, and Savage Kick<\/em>. She edits the definitive Brutalist weblog, Straight From The Fridge<\/em><\/a><\/strong> and will one day release her secrets to the world in paperback under the banner “Things I Never Told Anyone”. Adelle hopes to retire to the country and become the only female professional rat catcher in the north, sometime before her 35th birthday.<\/p>\n Ben Myers<\/a><\/strong> is a published author and poet. He has published many books including a collection of journalism, a number of biographies and one acclaimed debut novel The Book Of Fuck<\/em> (Wrecking Ball Press), collectively published in five languages. Ben was born in Durham and currently resides in London, UK. He has been publicly beaten up three times in his adult life. Another three times it was ‘a draw.’<\/p>\n Tony O’Neill<\/strong><\/a> is the author of the autobiographical novel Digging The Vein<\/em> (Contemporary Press\/Wrecking Ball Press), the short story collection Seizure Wet Dreams<\/em> (Social Disease<\/strong><\/a>), and an upcoming collection of poetry Songs From The Shooting Gallery<\/em> (Burning Shore Press). He was born in Blackburn, Lancashire and currently resides in New York City. He is currently hung over and listening to Suicide’s ‘Dream Baby Dream’.<\/p>\n The Brutalists<\/strong> were formed by writers Tony O’Neill<\/strong>, Adelle Stripe and Ben Myers<\/strong> during the long record-breaking heatwave summer of 2006. All are active members of the literary underground, publishing their work via a plethora of books, anthologies, fanzines, websites, readings and weblogs. They are as influenced by music as they are writers, citing shared (but disparate) influences such as punk and post-punk, Dan Fante, ragga, jazz, Velvet Underground, Billy Childish, Black Flag, Herbert Hunke, Joy Division (and countless others)…<\/p>\n Brutalism calls for writing that touches upon levels of raw honesty that is a lacking form most mainstream fiction. We cannot simply sit around waiting to be discovered — we would rather do it ourselves. Total control, total creativity. The Brutalists see ourselves as a band who have put down their instruments and picked up their pens and scalpels instead.<\/p>\n The only maxim we adhere to is an old punk belief, which we have bastardised for our own means: Here’s a laptop. Here’s a spell-check. Now write a novel.<\/em><\/p>\n Brutalist writing is open to anyone who shares similar ideas about the role of literature.<\/p>\n The debut Brutalist work is Brutalism<\/em> #1, due for publication Feb\/March 2007. It will feature six poems from each writer, each tackling their respective Northern town where they grew up (Blackburn, Durham and Tadcaster respectively).<\/p>\n We’re here to take scalps.<\/p>\n For more information please contact: www.myspace\/com\/brutalists<\/strong><\/a><\/p>\n
\nBy Adelle Stripe<\/strong><\/p>\n
\n(the Tad Bike)
\n– and these are only
\nwhat I’ve heard over the years
\ntrapped in my four walls
\nof London town
\ninclude<\/p>\n
\nwith a pudding bowl
\non top of her head<\/p>\n
\nin the Jackdaw one night
\nflopping her flabby
\nleopard printed tit sacks
\nout on the table<\/p>\n
\nuttering the words
\n\u201cme fanny’s really wet yer know”<\/p>\n
\nviolated!
\ninto the distance
\n(never to be seen again)<\/p>\n
\npunternet
\nbut she almost definitely
\nhas threesomes
\nwith the curtains
\nOPEN<\/p>\n
\njunkie postmen
\ncan catch a glimpse
\nof her
\ngetting the once over
\nfrom two men at once
\non their daily rounds<\/p>\n
\nshe hangs round with Crystal
\nthe Gipton Gloyt
\npicking up
\npissed Tad lads
\non the last bus home
\ncharging \u00a320
\nfor a backseat quickie
\nto pay for her next bag of brown<\/p>\n
\nall I know is this:
\nshe lives in
\na cul-de-sac
\nsomewhere off Stutton Rd<\/p>\n
\nBy Ben Myers<\/strong><\/p>\n
\nsex
\nwith a
\ngirl
\nas opposed to my
\nhand
\ni laid down my
\nleather
\ncoat on the grass
\nof a
\nwasteland
\nbehind a
\npub
\nin a north-east
\ntown<\/p>\n
\nit
\nright there and
\nright then
\ngrunting
\nand it was
\nnight
\nand it was
\nquick
\nand it was
\npretty good
\nbecause I’d been
\nmade
\nto
\nwait
\nand I came like
\na
\nprisoner
\non
\nparole<\/p>\n
\nas we hoisted
\nup our
\ntangled
\npants
\nwhile in reasonably
\ngood
\nspirits
\na figure suddenly
\nappeared
\nfrom the
\nbushes
\nappeared
\nfrom the
\nnight<\/p>\n
\nbalding
\nginger
\nman-child
\nfrom the mental
\nhospital
\na toilet lurker
\na willy watcher
\nwith a misshapen
\nhead
\nand he
\ncame
\nfor me
\nreaching out
\na hand
\nurgh
\nand going
\nthe police are coming,
\nthe police are coming,<\/p>\n
\ni bet they are
\nyou cunt
\nbut what i
\nsaid was
\nback the fuck
\noff
\nand jumped at
\nhim
\nwith my
\nfists
\nbecause now I was
\na
\nman
\nand
\nmen
\nprotect their
\nladies
\nand men
\nleap at other
\nmen
\nwith their fists<\/p>\n
\nthink later
\nthat’s what men
\ndo
\nisn’t it?
\nand now i
\nwas one
\ntoo
\nand now I had
\na new role
\nto play<\/p>\n
\nconsciously know this
\nas the pervert
\nretracted back
\ninto the
\nshadows
\nlike a gimp on
\na leash
\nand we skipped
\nback to the pub
\ngoing
\nfucking hell!
\ndrunk
\nlaughing
\nmy cock
\nsore
\nbut
\nvictorious
\nand finally worthy
\nof the
\ntitle
\nmanhood.<\/p>\n
\nBy Tony O’Neill<\/strong><\/p>\n
\nthrough institutional corridors
\nand overgrown secret paths
\nwhich cut across the backs of the hospital
\nlike surgery scars on desolate hills
\nup the winding stone staircase
\nto an industrial ground-zero
\nof abandoned refrigerators
\nand dripping chimneys spewing
\nthick, grey chemical smoke
\nto the blackened wall
\nwhere I wrote the inscription
\n“Joy Division” in silver paint
\nsometime around 1992<\/p>\n
\nthe images play out
\nagainst the lids
\na travelogue of childhood flashes:
\npiss town.<\/p>\n
\nan acne scarred girl charged one cigarette
\nfor a hand-job and a glimpse of tit
\nto the crumbling, faux-Victorian pub
\nwere I was served my first beer
\nand the old, beaten up whores
\nof Clayton Street, lurking in the shadows
\nof the lumber yards and the gas works
\nwaiting for trade to stumble drunkenly
\nfrom the twinkling lights of the pubs and clubs<\/p>\n
\nstaring out window of a terraced house
\nand then stolen away in a flutter of net curtains
\nand a girl I once knew, half dead now,
\ncrushed with poverty and port wine
\ntwo incubator babies and her insides
\ndumped into hospital bins before she turned thirty:
\npiss town.<\/p>\n
\nin dusty world war two bedrooms
\nyou wrote your name in childlike letters
\non a box of forgotten papers
\nin a stifling attic<\/p>\n
\nbled from my hands, my mouth,
\nmy pen
\nall of the others still locked behind
\na sturdy steel door of drunken recollection
\npreserved in amber
\nhand frozen over a glass of bitter
\nforever wired on pink amphetamines
\nbrutalized by the intervening years
\nsome killed by work, some by knives,
\nor women,
\nand some by the steady
\npassage of time:<\/p>\n
\nthe US secretary of state
\nwaving from the town hall steps
\nwith the local MP (who lives in Whitehall)
\nboth smiling stiffly beneath
\nthe Sunday skies
\nhow fitting \u2013 Basra, Gaza
\nand now here\u2026<\/p>\n
\nby the brutal drudgery of it all
\ndrink cider and whiskey to forget
\nto speed up time’s monotonous progression
\ndesperate to skip ahead
\nto the final act
\na misty churchyard
\na handful of mourners
\nit was a lovely service
\njust lovely:<\/p>\n
\nunderneath the crumbling architecture
\nof Queen Park hospital
\nlooking down from my spot on the wall
\nat the empty bottles of Zeppelin and White Lightening
\ndiscarded bras and dosser’s blankets
\nI’d close my eyes and listen
\nto the Imam’s call to prayer
\nfloating up from Audley Range
\na welcome interloper from some inaccessible continent
\nthe feel of the light, July wind
\non my face, and I concede
\nthere is something special here
\nhidden away from prying eyes<\/p>\n
\nneither from the council estates of Higher Croft
\nnor the abandoned terraces of Shakeshaft Street
\nsomething that appears at dusk
\nduring stolen moments of peace like this
\nbefore it is inevitably carried away
\nfrom me again:<\/p>\n![\"364945330_f7ff77fbac.jpg\"](\"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/\/wp-content\/uploads\/2007\/01\/364945330_f7ff77fbac.jpg\")
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