. tomás ford registers his displeasure at the means of reproduction of this work .
I‘m very excited about this book, but my purpose for writing here is to encourage you to destroy it.
I am qualified to make this request by virtue of the fact that its author dragged me out of bed late one night to help distribute its contents along the streets surrounding the This Is Not Art festival in delightfully derelict Newcastle.
Dragging enormous A0 photocopies of his poetry around the violent cesspit of post-BHP-closure working class anger that was Newcastle on a weekend night, we both could have died distributing what was then known as The Tricksters’ Bible. We glued poetry on walls all over town, giggling like schoolgirls as we subverted suburbia with tricky texts. Eventually we were stopped by two police who couldn’t understand what we were doing, much less whether it was legal. Scott-Patrick glowed like a proud mother as he tried to explain his graffiti paste-up technique. The cops asked us to take down the piece and any others. Scott-Patrick just smiled.
We blagged our way out of a fine. We only took down the one piece.
By the morning, the poetry the cops had missed was doing its work, bouncing ideas off the minds of people all over town. Though the poems themselves were carefully worded - creepingly subversive snippets - their constant presence cast them in a punk rock light and no doubt detonated several minds around the town. Scott-Patrick then showed his thanks by decorating me for my performance that night, taking googly eyes from Spotlight to my head with spirit gum in a fashion that our taxi driver described later that evening as “the perfect way to get a schooner to the face on a Saturday night”.
This book is no doubt going to be presented as some kind of beautiful literary fetish object, which is a great achievement for the author. Nice as that may be, I would encourage you to embrace the spirit of his original presentation of these pieces. Tear out the pages. Douse them in clag and water and stick these poems all over your suburb. Enlarge them to A0s at your local stationery chain store. Perhaps graffiti stencil them on the wall of someone who you think has an ugly house. Release this poetry out of its binding and let it flash its ideas at random passers-by like the dirty trickster of its title.