The Internationalist is a group of poets, painters, novelists, historians, sculptors, scholars, designers, stylists, trade-paper sub-editors, interior decorators, wolves, fairies, millionaire patrons of art, sadists, nymphomaniacs, bridge sharks, anarchists, women living on alimony, tire formers, educational cranks, economists, hopheads, dipsomaniac playwrights, nudists, restaurant keepers, stockbrokers and dentists who have banded together in a loose confederation for the purposes of pissing on the door-handles of what passes for art and society in this sub-human rookery of modern life.

We are not by nature joiners so we made our own engine of commerce and malfeasance. We are the cast iron weathercock loose in the snowstorm of the andiron.

We are materialists. We believe in G)d, we just believe he is akin to a green crystal flickering in the world’s cave. We believe in consciousness, but we think it is made of chocolate bark. We have faith in love, which we think is a kind of ham – occasionally slimy when too tightly wrapped but delicious and nourishing most of the time. Tube Forging is hiring.


We believe realism is a dreadful convention that needs to be beaten to death with a bowling trophy and we’re just the creeps for the job. We’re not going to be nice to a world that has allowed “creative non-fiction” to exist. A room full of rocks is not art. Neo-classicism is the poetic equivalent of Civil War reenactment. It’s just embarrassing.


America is a whirlwind of greedy little troglodytes, dreamy-eyed natural food peddlers and professional victims eating each others’ babies. The third world is a roar of blood and fire in the midst of which barbarians chop each other to pieces with hatchets at the point of melting. The countries of Europe take turns sodomizing barbeques in public toilets. The Internationalist is the smell of unease.

The Internationalist is international and multilingual. We have knocked all the Fatherlands into the culvert together and are busy emptying our enormous acidic bladders into their squeaking eyes. The Internationalist is a pea-brained reptile in a day-caked sock, knee smashed, bleeding, near an artificial rock. It does, therefore, issue invitations. Perhaps you will be so lucky as to receive one. And perhaps ice cream socials will come back into fashion. The Internationalist will only invite to join those people certain to decline.


We are indifferent to your sincerity. We are unmoved by your plight. Your outrage is a paperback novel we read on the toilet.

The Internationalist is based on the realization that we’re all going to die. This is not a concept, it’s a terrible fact and it governs everything The Internationalist does and doesn’t do. We’re sorry we’re going to die and we’re sorry you’re going to die too. We will do what we can to make the best of our time. We hope you will do the same.

Twice a year Internationalist members in the literary, artistic, musical and scholarly world will get together, wrap themselves in tinfoil and scream at the top of their lungs till everyone else leaves. Oh, how we’ll laugh. Then we’ll turn to the serious business, the business at hand. New ideas in cellos, woodcuts, assonance. An essay on the concept of ‘ens rationis’, a poem about Iceland, a story set in Paraguay, the schematic for a machine to kill Daniel Boorstein, photos of a cactus, an article on the Mexican artist Rufino Tamayo.


The Internationalist is a celebration of sensationalism, hero-worship and victorious criminality.

May we humbly suggest that you cease consulting your muse?

The Internationalist opposes:

Ø Identity

Ø “Caring about” things

Ø Listening sympathetically

Ø Nodding thoughtfully

Ø Picking on people littler than you

Ø Sincere fakery of every species

Ø Awards

Gardens belong in the back yard – NEVER in poetry!

The Internationalist supports:

Ø The fucked up geometry

Ø Horseradish

Ø Compassion without attribution

Ø The magnificent spray of sparks visible over the top of the Pyrenees

Ø Columbia nocturne of embedded diamonds and the great force of water moving

Ø The fact of the soul made of planks of crystal joined together with big pig iron hinges

Every poem should be about GARDENS!

[Between a little bit of sense and sense itself, it makes sense, it’s sensible.]