Ken Fox: Azmud: An Oily Saga on the Sur­face of the Word­bath in 5 Expired Gen­er­a­tions
Paper­back : 270 pages
ISBN-13 : 978–0956817648
Product dimen­sions : 12.7 x 1.55 x 20.32 cm
Pub­lish­er : Unkant Pub­lish­ers (24 Jan. 2013)
Lan­guage: : English
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“It takes a crisis to tell us who every­body is. Azmud is that crisis
Andy Wilson
AROMATIC INFLUX of hard cur­rent, excess adia­bat­ic export, bank pic­nic under­pinned by mop­ping policy. Soak up repo options and bond the bil­low­ing bil­lions in their ral­lies. Cut key rates with aggress­ive increase. Drain the liquid remains.

Inf­locks the worldly-bird drop­ping white coin dis­turb onto pla­cid air-hole, tur­bu­lat­ing thru rap­id-galactic talk-walls as income is down­stream thump and fl utter after brass horn­blasts bloat arid engine to open exit chutes but before ana­log infu­sions invade elec­tric compound.

Acro­bat­ic influff of drab cor­rec­tion, abs­cess ambi­ent inland port plunks banked bird­seed deeply with ram­ming updraft. Sponge down pop-up opin­ions and adhere to balo­ney-baked bully-cheese thru breezy pipeline. Molt cramped lock-star with dia­gram­mat­ic plastic heave and col­lect in downdressed wind­bas­ket the blessed drains. A sample admin­istered anaer­obic­ally, unexemplary.

Sharon Borthwick: Azmud

We’ve lost touch with our own bod­ily desires, smelling each other’s farts and sweat and sex smells beneath the John Lewis goose feath­er quilt is harshly inter­rup­ted by ALARM. “We sink with our work­ing wage and with­er”, as Ken Fox says it in Azmud.

Ben Harp­er, (Riv­et­head: Tales from The Assembly Line, 1986) said his, “pay stub was like a pair of con­crete loafers” and describes the repe­ti­tion of the Assembly line as strangulation.

In Azmud iden­tit­ies are wilt­ing in the age of extreme Cap­it­al­ism. I is always repeated, “I I I”. I who is it who is I. I can­not grasp myself. I is in it to my ears and nose — in the machine, “all to fill the general’s cof­fers”. Sci­ent­ists are told, “leave your cosy com­fort tomb and be a man­ager”, by Gen­er­al Motors, per­son­i­fied here as the type you’d expect him to be – intract­able, GREEDY. All must be on indus­tri­al scale! There is no time to pussy­foot in labor­at­or­ies. Intern­al dia­logue goes, “Am job office plunk­ing at this, fin­ger-link­ing com­pon­ent strapped to trans­fer appar­at­us & obliged to prime mover.” How to exit the pain of it? Do lan­guage bomb­ing! Blow it all up with neo­lo­gisms and word jokes – go crazy over-writ­ten mad with allit­er­a­tion. Ger­ard Man­ley Hop­kins has landed in an oil field. All is, “heav­ing, heav­ing, heav­ing”. Bod­ies sub­sumed in the extrac­tion pro­cess are, “Vap­id! Voice­less! Vacu­ous! Voided!” In mad­ness we go mad or maybe sane as did the Dadaists in The First World War – return to our true play selves, blow rasp­ber­ries and smack the bath water – it sounds good.

And the way they suck hot saus­age
But me well I wasn’t say­in too much neither
I was mor­al school girl
hard-work­ing asshole
I figured I was speedo motor­cycle
I had to earn my dough, had to earn my dough
But no you gotta, you gotta relate, right?
You gotta find the rhythm with­in
Patti Smith, Piss Fact­ory

And so does Ken Fox find the rhythm with­in, though once his time was stolen on a Saskat­chewan oil field drilling up mud for sampling – all Azmud, on the plains stolen from the Cree nat­ives. All post apo­ca­lyptic, Mad Max, scrab­bling in the dirt of the exhausted world land­ing on aban­doned machine bits, the air tox­ic, nature con­sumed, trees evolving into some­thing oth­er, plump­ing up with oil, their leaves day glo radi­at­ing with radi­ation, instant grow­ing glow­ing apples shoot­ing from the plumpy pumpy branches.

My aspens dear, whose airy cages quelled,
Quelled or quenched in leaves the leap­ing sun,
All felled, felled, are all felled;
Of a fresh and fol­low­ing fol­ded rank
Not spared, not one
That swam or sank
On mead­ow and river and wind-wan­der­ing
weed-wind­ing bank.
Ger­ard Man­ley Hop­kins, Bin­say Pop­lars, 1879

In the BIG BANG BOOM times Fox makes Joycean play times, “trans­port ore from ear to air to even­tu­al earth”. He reclaims bod­ily rights with revolt­ing man­holes and farts. Oil Fields are as Milton’s Hell – all flam­ing maws. These are words to counter Cap­it­al­ism where your under the blanket times will be con­sidered theft: “All time is a gift & all time is theft & you shall remain ever a donor… you shall cov­et some­thing. You shall cov­et whatever. But cov­et you shall.” Fuck that says Ken Fox towards the end of this long poem piece. Fuck that sev­er­al times over. And fuck it again.

Shar­on Borth­wick
AMM #8
Decem­ber 2013