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Associative, sensuous, and unstable, Caviar explores the line between decadence and depravity. In Fletcher's third pamphlet, investigations of power and violence are no longer limited to the domestic and romantic. She interrogates all dark spheres of influence: 'A word. A woman hit. A nuclear bomb.' Language is 'consumed and mated', a 'divine bistro' that shows her mastery over form. With winking intelligence and playful sleaze, this pamphlet is a circus of swans, slapped faces, and the snottiest, most expensive delicacy in the world.
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Seitenzahl: 22
Published by Out-Spoken Press,
Unit 39, Containerville
1 Emma Street
London, E2 9FP
All rights reserved
© Sarah Fletcher
The rights of Sarah Fletcher to be identified as the author of this work have been asserted by them in accordance with section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
A CIP record for this title is available from the British Library.
This book is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception and to provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements, no reproduction of any part may take place without the written permission of Out-Spoken Press.
First edition published 2022
ISBN: 978-1-8384272-4-5
ePub ISBN: 978-1-8384272-5-2
Typeset in Adobe Caslon
Design by Patricia Ferguson
Printed and bound by Print Resources
Out-Spoken Press is supported using public funding by the National Lottery through Arts Council England and a grant from the Inclusive Indies Fund administered by Spread the Word.
‘My fur coat’s sold, oh, Lord ain’t it cold
But I’m not gonna holler, ’cause I’ve still got a dollar
And when I get low
Oh, I get high’
— Marion Sunshine, as performed by Ella Fitzgerald
The Bed Is Not a Window, The Bed Is a Two-Way Mirror
Blowjob
A Slap In The Face... of Nature
Washing at the End of the Night, Which is the Next Day’s Afternoon
Beginning Again, Without a Title
My Second Vision of True Love at the Bank of a Bender
To You With A Guitar
Country Matters
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
When will the rain come back from the water?
Caviar
Acknowledgements
Have we met?
Has sleep, its arguments, ornaments, glyphs,
too brought you here... to wink with me
before we put back our bodies?
Sleep... is jungled by these licks
of tentacles. Sleep
is dragged by bad dreams’ jellyfish. Perhaps
we met. Perhaps you glimpsed a personality.
The poet to the reader: you don’t know me!
The reader to the poet, painstakingly, repeats
you do not know me! Is it affirmation, argument, echo?
This is no relationship! This is escape artistry!
I have been to the weighing
Of souls. I have ridden the velvet
Black horizon of American
Highways, shuttling
A Catholic priest
Towards bellies of stars.
I have seen the planets
Puree into streamers
From the drink
And from the
Speed.
An act of service,
An assessment,
Or even therapy.
Violated eyes that become
Clean with your looking.
Host of the divine bistro!
Actor-doctor with the will
To tease the lamb to Easter dinner!
Sing the newborn from a cave!
What did you expect, a rose?