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Marianne Morris

Marianne Morris


Marianne Morris founded Bad Press in 2002. Her published poetry includes: Commitment (Critical Documents, 2011), Tutu Muse (Fly By Night Press, 2008); and A New Book From Barque Press, Which They Will Probably Not Print (Barque Press, 2006).



Contemporary Experimental Women's Poetry Festival, 2006

The following recording was made at the Contemporary Experimental Women's Poetry festival, held 6-8 October 2006 in Cambridge, UK and organised by Emily Critchley with help from Catherine Brown.

Stamford Hill, North London, 2005

I was trying to create poems that would be entertaining, believable and engaging for a person sitting in the audience at a reading. Over-the-top and intense. I was sick of going to poetry readings where you wanted to claw your way out through the walls with your fingernails. The following readings were made at a time before I had fully honed this impulse; the Cambridge Conference readings above were made after.

The following recordings were made at a house in Stamford Hill, north London in October 2005.



  • A New Book From Barque Press, Which They Will Probably Not Print (Barque Press, 2006)
  • Cocteau Turquoise Turning (2004)
  • Fetish Poems (Bad Press, 2004)
  • Gathered Tongue (2003)
  • Memento Mori (Bad Press, 2003)
  • Poems in Order (Bad Press, 2002)



  • The Abused Become the Abusers: the Poetry of Barry MacSweeney, Quid 14
  • Behind the Veil: review of Andrea Brady's Embrace, Jacket 29

Sample Text


Liquid disproves you by its very adherence to qualities
it has no choice over. In the matter. Continue to hurt
by efforts of your tongue over ‘how your life is panning out'
coalesce into concerns thick as a swollen tongue
repeats itself in a toboggan-ride down Repeat Mount and pretty
face this one
is for the ladies steps in heels and that
our limbs are different lengths, it's one of those
irreparable sorrows, how that which satisfies you, physically
may leave your imagination dry as women
are knifed. Get inside the mindset of population control. It was merely
passing, the crime of truth continuing in alteration from this life to the other,
step in foreign legions, ex-soldiers, beaming who insist that the conflict is
"over", there'll be no more of that. But they think now that women
get used to it, even though it's fat and stretchy, twice the size
of your eyeballs in your eyeballs, imagine the stretch unpleasantly jane
fonda imagines the pelvic thrust works some kind of muscle, phallic pink
80s muscle hitting rewind. A healthy generation of youthful orphans,
not a downside per se. And the prices rising to the deadlines people actually
get married. Stumble over their
predictability. I collude with the definitions in order that I might overturn them. It adds
a terrible conflict to my being
in the world, a fascinating indecision
binds me to a number of ingratiatingly opposite principles. The spinning room.
Love to switch off, love to shut up. Love's the easy way out it always has been
a lie of feigned faculty and repeat at a loom, the beam
suddenly split a growth up on the eye
can no longer escape lonely
duty can only push so
much fight so dying by unuse
but I was up for that


'I detect something strangely 1930's Berlin about Turning, perhaps it's the claustrophobic melancholy of a degraded erotic cabaret under the pressure of creeping despair: "every scent withdrawn into the bedchamber" [...]There's something Munch-like about it which makes me nauseous.' --Stuart Calton, "An Open Letter", Quid 15, April 2005.

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