Poems and photos by Ben Webb and Pam Thompson

Pam

This post shows the results of a recent collaboration with my friend, photographer and poet, Ben Webb. We sent each other 4 images and wrote poems based on those. Here are the first 4.

Ben’s site jinnwoo.deviantart.com

Cones.


I’m a spaceman in the radio! (I’m going to have to ask you to agree with me on that one for the moment,
Make believe if you would and will, for the sakes of moving the story along.)

Walking to the lesser man, brushing static out of my hair
I see his brain up on the Northern shelf
Ready to think, but not doing so at the moment of the event.
It was like a car crash, but everyone involved wanted it and loved it
for the second couldn’t live without it, but the second that its over
avoid all participating eyes and blush (red colour).

On the Northern shelf, are manic mice that nibble at the wiring.
I’m not sure of any men who I can call to see to that.

I can see the lesser man looking out the window at Jake (who mows the lawn)
and the lesser man is masturbating and will get very anxious and lonely if he should carry on (I’ve read the end of the poem and he does carry on.)
The lesser man is holding a picture of Poet Jon in Germany,
The lesser man had sex with David behind a Biffa bin on the Thursday before his birthday.
The lesser man needs to go to the Gum clinic really.
The lesser man had sex three times with Joe and very nearly again on Hazel’s doorstep.
The lesser man looked in the mirror and saw a real life wolf today and nearly pissed himself.
The lesser man is running out of ground to walk on and there because- of lies down more.
The lesser man goes to the doctor regularly and tells them he is mad.
They say it’s a cold though, so he gets Lemsip.
The lesser man looks for the better man, but doesn’t find him, so watches telly.
The lesser man is very anxious and lonely, because he doesn’t spend enough time with his friends.
The lesser man doesn’t have time to see his friends because he dedicates his evenings to Jake (who mows the lawn.)
The lesser man is still masturbating.
Overall – ok day

Poem: Ben Webb/  Image: Pam Thompson

I don’t even care; I love it

when she wriggles…


We thought it best to dress her;

long skirt; trainers sewed on the hem

to give her feet.

Her face was pinched;

salt-water skinny.

We painted cheeks

and lips from the circus kit;

trimmed seaweed-smelling hair then curled it;

You held her first.

Her arm, you said, lay dead against

your shoulders.

She tried to wriggle from my knees,

flop on the floor.

We guessed she longed to crawl along

dry land, slip down the stairs,

and scenting water find a river

that would return her to the sea.

With us she’d learn dry land;

unlearn the tide, then stand.

Poem: Pam Thompson

Image: Ben Webb

Door


P and S are fucking fighting through the walls,
S has only got one ball, and I swear that P will rip it from him,
And leave it in the sink for Z to wash up.
Z and O aren’t fucking today
O’s ovaries are packing in,
And anyway Z swears by his lucky numbers, and only does it on the 1st, the 17th and sometimes the 31st.
He’s writing a play about it kind of. He’s just having a little trouble starting.
Z says the house is sinking into the basement and I think he’s right and that the roof might cave in.
He tells me these things when we’re in his bed,
And sometimes in the kitchen when we’re both hotting up something from yesterday.
P uses too much fridge space.
And all her shit is all over the living room.
Z says it will give him a stroke, but only if it stresses him out on the 31st.
I’m doing a big clean on the 30th.
Poem: Ben Webb

Image: Pam Thompson

The poem below should not be printed all in one long section: it should be 3 sections but it hasn’t come out like that!

Sexuality: Triptych

sharp lit

diagonal across

his nipple singles

him out even more

the mask of the

shrew wouldn’t

fit, taunted him

from the pile

always river ink

gliding under and

over his bones

he stayed and

waited for what

she wouldn’t be

and

dries her hair

with her hands

first thing

the box of masks

choose not black

sequins not flowers

this then blinking

eye-slits wide

now hardly a memory

of home cut-out

town on a misty

window such

the mask of the

owl but the owl

was asleep when

the girl came so he

met her bare-eyed

even though all

the traffic looked

at him bare-eyed,

steered her through

stuck-together streets

and they stood at

the dangerous junction

in the rain as if

Poem: Pam Thompson

Image: Ben Webb

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