THE KNIVES FORKS AND SPOONS PRESS

Dearest visitor, welcome to our humble website. Please browse through our fine chapbooks, which are listed by author in the bar above. If you see anything you like, we will despatch it to you promptly and even pay for p&p.

Once you have selected your purchases, please pay using Paypal, with the buttons below, or send a cheque payable to Alec Newman to the address given in our CONTACT US section. Thank you for your custom.

If you live in foreign fields the p&p is still included in the price.

CHECK OUT PUBLICATIONS BY OTHER SMALL PRESSES ON OUR USPCO PAGE

P.Z.T.C, by DAVID BERRIDGE

ISBN 978-1-907812-62-0

£7.00 108 pages

Edward is lazy.

They asked him to swim.

She isn’t careless.

George isn’t a gardener.

She is brave.

Richard didn’t become a red barber.

She is dangerous.

Sarah doesn’t seem so selfish.

I’m not a spy.

Frank hasn’t become a computer programmer.

Matthew hasn’t become a bus driver.

Andrew’s uncle didn’t become a photographer.

Sandra doesn’t look brave.

She isn’t kind.

Catherine will become a police officer.
She isn’t skinny.

He isn’t a bartender.
They aren’t brave.

He isn’t a banker.

He isn’t crazy.

ANDREW SEEMS POPULAR, by MARK COBLEY

ISBN 978-1-907812-64-4

£5.00 23 pages

8. 40.30 At the roundabout take the 2nd exit

57.17 Hey pretty girl time to wake up

58.42 It was time to stop

I got my purse locked up & headed out to the shop

Apart from the gravel underfoot it was quiet

58.57 Silence amplified as I moved from gravel to tarmac

A car passed me as I turned into Elms Avenue

Trailed engine sounds in my ears I saw a cowboy

60.34 He greeted me – howdy miss beautiful evening hi – I replied

60.93 The cowboy glistened

60.95 His feet a few inches off the ground

9. 62.38 Continue forward (one-way)

PARALLEL TO RED IN CHORUS, by ALISON GIBB

ISBN 978-1-907812-63-7

£5.00 29 pages

AS FREEZING PERSONS, by COLIN WINBOURNE

ISBN 978-1-907812-65-1

£5.00 43 pages

VOICEOVER, by RUPERT LOYDELL & PAUL SUTTON

ISBN 978-1-907812-66-8

£5.00 28 pages

3/68

we buy any car

we buy any car (cept yours)

we buy any car (cept yours cos it’s shit)

we buy any car (cept yours)

3/139

bulls roar

they do, as you would know

if you'd heard them as I did

that morning when I walked

down through the cool trees

to where the land flattened

to fen, the man in blue overalls

driving into their field to fill

the trough with feed

their breath in a torment

one held back briefly

from their general movement

towards water and food

tilted his head and roared

into the sky

SPYGLASS OVER THE LAGOON,

by MICHAEL BLACKBURN

ISBN 978-1-907812-67-5

£10.00 305 pages

FETISH THE WINDSCREEN ADORNMENT

EXHAUSTS

A SAVAGE ABSENCE

FRANCHISED

RANK

DEVIANT

HORIZONS RECESSED

THE SITE LOGS COLONIAL WORKED BY ROTE

ABERRANT SUBSTANTIVES

LEGENDARY PEDESTRIANISED

PERIPHERAL CINEMA

DISSOLVING IN CODE

EXOTIC SHADOWS

FLORA DOORSTEP

A SENTENTIAL GREEN AGGREGATE

FIGURATIVELY

3 CENTURIES

OVERRUN

EXITING THROUGH THE SINGULAR,

by ADRIAN CLARKE

ISBN 978-1-907812-68-2

£7.00 101 pages

POLAND AT THE DOOR,

by EVELYN POSAMENTIER

ISBN 978-1-907812-69-9

£5.00 48 pages

POLAND AT THE DOOR

stars without handrails.
rails in the rain.
lost trains.
no hand signals.

POLAND AT THE DOOR

i dream of a woman in a suit.
she is going somewhere
in her life. she seeks experts.
there is a knock at the door.
eastern europe wearing bluish leaves
pushes me aside.

the gob cup

I watched the footballer spit. I had watched him play, but this was far more impressive. The gob, undribbled, appeared to fly like a tiny football Into the wind. A round force of sparkling silver phlegm, finding – triumphantly – the goal mouth of atmosphere.

He didn’t spit because he had to. He didn’t spit the way old men do: savagely at pavement cracks, cursing their luck.

With phlegm, this Sixth Division footballer was making a statement, throwing his gob with Premier Division skill, like the great artists stabbed at their blank canvases.

LIGHTBULBS IN THE SEA,

by DAVID R. MORGAN

ISBN 978-1-907812-70-5

£7.00 59 pages

Talking to the dogs

The sea glitters. The fishermen went from Christmas to about the middle of April, trawling. Did you shout at me, said the first person, and was I filled with remorse for my behaviour? Then was I discovered wandering among the beached boats, abandoned tackle and rusting tractors, only a short distance from the bustle of crowds on the seafront? They cleaned the boats out, because you had about 300 shovelfuls of ballast in them when they had no nets in – they were empty, you had to put some ballast in to trim them. The breeze was very stiff near to the waves. Take me to the clifftop, where the cloudscape is magnificent. Jackdaws strut about in the grass.

They return via woodland path and twitten. That the transit of Venus has occurred – you take it on trust. White clouds vanishing fast, renewed breeze via the stairs, past gorse and bracken. He blows his top at the man on the premium rate support line. The two big dogs. They don’t seem so alienating when we get to speak to them.

BARDO,

by Ken Edwards

ISBN 978-1-907812-72-9

£8.00 64 pages with 7 colour plates

PHONE IN THE ROLL

by IRA LIGHTMAN

ISBN 978-1-907812-74-3

£5.00 32 pages

BUGSWORTH DIARY

by NEIL CAMPBELL

ISBN 978-1-907812-73-6

£5.00 32 pages

Black Bulls on Chinley Churn

In the carbuncle covered snow

They stand black on the ridge.

The stile is almost buried;

Snow curves against the dry stone,

Drips from the chins of the bulls.

An aeroplane pauses beside us:

That and the barking of distant dogs

The only sound. Two tokens of cloud

Remain motionless in the blue.

Soon, like yesterday, the sky behind

The bulls will turn pink then orange,

And when the darkness comes

The black bulls will be silhouetted

Against the arrayed stars, the full moon

On their flanks, the snow still dripping

As they chew on darkness.

December 28th, 2009

IN PLACE OF A LETTER TO HER

To stone the generation immediately post-war

I first met her and she hunted the child's mind to me too.

The name is too nice. Try it and I'm very very aware my vanity

is wanting to write. This is from me that you have fame plus. She's a

whole is a reputation as a pilot based on having published with cause

as a feminist - never got the proper credit from that day's form crew.

The first time in this British country. She quite liked

walking through the rubble five times. I meant to in the house of

Henry James in Rye in the car. The feel that I must have adult time

off from my child, so a kind of bubble, and she never looked up for that

and I could not offer to take her address and pop round, except

divorced and with the kids. If you think I have found it is a rush

use me, and stamps. When I met her in Camden Market I said have

you dyed your hair sparkly, and she said "No, this is nature", white

in the fortnight since I'd last seen her, Elsa Lanchester tight curls.

You are going to have to sit in on a test on it for me. When I first

came to see her in the kitchen in the house, I met the door running;

pay for the cutting back. I try to engage with her young child by playing

the harmonica. She loves it, diffidently, because she blithely wants a go.

To have it. On with the on. I said you need to clean your teeth to and...

"but you didn't clean your teeth". When I kissed her mum on the cheek

entering the house this third or fourth time, I said I'm sorry I didn't

shave, she said "I'm sorry I didn't too". What do we sit on sorry for

not having safety to? I sold it. She read in Cambridge. Cambridge at? Me?

With Rob MacKenzie and I was struck by how dramatic this personal

rested quiver was. There was a visit to the pub after. The coast is

nice. These times I felt compelled to correct the group about the latest

reports of ritual abuse in the Orkneys. Rob turned around to

protest about this afternoon's stereotypes. Typical image of people in

the islands. I said have you read the statements on pages 23 and 205 of

the reports, two independent children interviewed could not come

up with the same ritual details. He took it. Then my poet in

Kew Gardens? I said here is some Gig Ryan, do you have any use for

that? She became quite sock it to me, though wants to be helpful.

When I was complaining about a lack of good magazines, stupid, she

said stop or start one. I remember visiting the week between

Christmas Day and New Year's. She calls this week to the hello nation

"being buried away". She was staying then in a house with a long lunch

session from true hot and sunny check and making sense in the middle:

It's the best buy. Anyone younger. I am now the same. Just as she was

Aetherplane, areal bardment.

Afflautist, mausical berather.

Afternoone, untry landescape.

Agenaut, altirrational trancestor.

Aghainst, doppelganged herror.

Agrain, corngested sereal.

Agrainst, upposable harnds.

Airbone, swinged tomarrow.

Airear, eagless raravis.

Airticle, ministring clould.

Ajangle, quiverb reverate.

Alassitude, weakly rarecline.

Alcohole, babysmal deapth.

Alcoholly, plumpud celeberation.

Alexicon, golossal chancelist.

Alfabeti, bolognical lasagnage.

Aliment, perhapsor elemeant.

Allossary, catacosmic boneyard.

Alossary, azead listwards.

Alseep, astirred invertor.

Altopiece, conclasted shring.

Amchine, petallic selflist.

Amethystle, dreamencased crustal.

Amotion, heynonnynovative meadowlarkin.

Amusicologist, humboned earroar.

Anager, humun esources.

Anarchive, unmaginable corepus.

Andstorm, s s.

Anecdont, farbidden divistory.

Angeless, mangerial revelution.

Gloss,

by Giles Goodland

ISBN 978-1-907812-76-7

£7.00 95 pages

w o r d s

f r a i l

l i k e

w o o d s

s t r i k e o u t

i n s i l e n c e

g a p s

c a p

t u r

i n g

c o n

v a l

e s c

i n g c o n / s t r u c t

i n /s t r u c t i n g

r e / d u c t i o n

Soma | Sema,

by David Toms

ISBN 978-1-907812-71-2

£7.00 52 pages

THE ONLY LIFE,

by Robert Sheppard

ISBN 978-1-907812-61-3

£5.00 41 pages

Sheppard the poet presents three short stories about poets. His fictional poets begat fictional poems, of course, which lie as fragments of greater wholes, marvellous or ludicrous, in teasing virtuality. These stories – their styles range from the clipped short short to the expansive experimental – give us the world as only a poet could, as kinds of poem, for our delight and horror. But in writing only of poets he writes of everything else. We see the ethics of poetic ambition and absorption under scrutiny, learn to see writing as an artificial language, as translation, but we also bear witness to the clashes between poetry and everyday life, between the demands of science and silence, between the perils of longevity and celebrity, success and failure, completion and erasure. The chameleon like identities of these not exactly heroic writers respond to political and historical events, which, as is appropriate to the fabled indirection of the short story, happen in a proximate elsewhere, but just within range of its hearing. The fog of history and the steam of sex are intermingled in these intricate, absorbing and often funny, poignant stories.

A classic triptych of moods and movements, forensic, sharp-elbowed, with a ripeness you can taste. Sheppard's prose curves elegantly between ease and disease, live ghosts and city shadows. Borgesian, teasing, wise.

- Iain Sinclair