Zam Bonk Dip
Jonty Tiplady

This is Jonty Tiplady's first book of poems. His second, At the School of Metaphysics, is out now with Fly by Night Press. None of these poems have previously appeared anywhere else.

"Zam Bonk Dip storms and tears up a storm in weather-forecast writing that fears for the animals and children and all world games brought to zero time, fears the reverse shot that the future could be – but this time we would know the names and the poems would keep the first part of time inscribed, say in one of the book's endearing lists, misheard dictated lisps or wordslips or internal rhymes or heart-rhymes. It is perhaps one jingle song the whole book. Ten poems joined. A book as libidinal joining, the bonk that joins 'song' with 'book' really that primitive scene is saved, written, thrown up here. It would be a bomb song a bang song but not a drumming more a primal knock into writing, a knock, a yes, a recessive signal that first of all ... brings us a door. We have alighted. The drama and theatricals finish. The jumbo costumes he wears, the me-costumes (pigs, Popeyes, all automisrecognitions he took a shine to), the personal cartoon is over, never was so over, it wounds him constantly to become poem, to jumpoem. The forgotten vest, the storm in a psychic teacup turned cosmic solicitude and tendresse beyond world's end. As if Life said You to him and he never forgot..." -- S.W.

1-903488-62-2. May 2008. 12 pp. £4.00 / $8.00

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For silly automatic theory
answer yes. My body says yes, my house says
yes, my tree on the horizon line behind
my house says yes. I am living,
in my soul’s soul, in the soul that lives
like a wisp of smoke above my own wigwam, in the
age of the answer, in the ageless age of
my pen, my pen that never comes
a cropper, dept-rayon, that never flaps, cartoon
beauty, that never kips, Mr Flying Bike, that never laps
me, for I lap it, we lap the one the other, in the same
white chalk ring, Mr Hangman, that never even takes
refuge in
         not even once, not even a mite of it.
What I find in insider psyche, nothing grows fusty in this
a tad, this tad of, this old giant tardis butterfly man.