Ben Watson, the Blakean wit and poetic insurgent extraordinaire, is a difficult man to pin down. Only utilising his slave name for the purposes of communicating and proselytizing at the frequency of Babylon[1], via the medium of Quartet Books and its suitably eccentric owner Naim Attalah[2] and Wire magazine he slips out of the grip of administrative positivism like a lubed-up marsupial mole. Under the guise of his nom de poesie, Out To Lunch, Watson has been responsible for the death of seventeen accountants and twelve welfare reports. Though Watson shares Žižek love of ‘radical’ totalising theory in the form of Hegel, Žižek’s less-than-absolute embrace of Bolshevism condemns him to soft-cock, academic leftism in Watson’s eyes (Art, Class & Cleavage: Quantulumcunque Concerning Materialist Esthetix [beeyatchh!]: 121).  Read the rest of this entry »

So you think you’re pretty hard and insouciantly radical, ay? So you thought writing epic poems to the passion of crack-fuelled wildcat strikes on sheaves of Derrida’s skin, with a pen carved from a bullet and with ink of bankers’ blood and absinthe, was pretty out-there? So you thought you could impress us as you snorted glass fibres while listening to Merzbow with dynamite strapped to your ass and a brick on the accelerator as the Body Shop warehouse gates loomed towards you? Then you are as reformist as a union bureaucrat’s beige underpants, because as compared to the po(li/e)tical apocalytechnics of Slavoj Žižek and Ben Watson’s Lenino-TrotskyismTOTHEX-TREME!!! Your ‘poetic terrorism’ is as a hamster’s belch to a magnetar. Read the rest of this entry »