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“In Thomas Sharp's thrillingly original 'Gnostic Noir' verse sequence, humanity’s shared reality might prove ‘a crime / too zeitgeist to truly solve’ – but even as these mercurial, ufological poems confound orthodox moral and narrative expectations, they build a subtle, learned case for language as a tarnished key to the labyrinth that lies within us all.”
Naomi Foyle, writer of four poetry collections, five science fiction novels and Reader in Critical Imaginative Writing at the University of Chichester
🔎
“We feel it. The Biblical swarm. Choking. Bard’s mouth explodes. Language kinked tight. Bardic tendrils starting the overrun. Psychic warfare licking the holes to “the last, wet second”, the world is in fusion, in heat, sticky, rigged, and we are narcotically unaware, lapping, inviting, prone, illiterate. My favourite book by Thomas yet. He is rattling the bone. Read it.”
Karina, Poetess, Playwright
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Here’s the carny pitch, the righteous blurb – the serious city’s only Consulting Poet-Detective Mr Fictor takes a case from the Grey Woman whilst in a hypnagogic state. Grey skin, grey as pre-dawn concrete at the tidal riverside where dead mobsters without mothers wash in.
An actor, with a jawline not too in-fashion, not too out of it, leaves the business after an encounter in the desert, starts a UFO Church. The authorities get involved, there’s a siege and a deadly fire all television blue, flying-saucer silver. The trial gets ratings, the women sit on sidewalks and make the sign of a probe. Get me into the prison to interview him, says the Grey Woman.
Mr Fictor has started seeing demonic entities in packaging. Everything he knows he knows from logos. He meets a UFO whistleblower, a wood-and-paint prophet, who says I want to confess everything rapturously. I want to testify on my knees with a live locust in my mouth to a congressional committee.
In the prison the actor says I’m nothing but a jester with a head full of bells. I know what the UFOs really are and I know love is a dimension we move in.
Do you let all clients abduct you? the Grey Woman asks Mr Fictor. This is no abduction, I’m intrigued, he replies.
Caught in their own mechanised wind, the trains that do not stop at the station instill an agreeable fear lasting their relentless length.
🔎
A Gnostic noir in verse. Hardback. 50 copies of first printing, first pressing being made.
“In Thomas Sharp's thrillingly original 'Gnostic Noir' verse sequence, humanity’s shared reality might prove ‘a crime / too zeitgeist to truly solve’ – but even as these mercurial, ufological poems confound orthodox moral and narrative expectations, they build a subtle, learned case for language as a tarnished key to the labyrinth that lies within us all.”
Naomi Foyle, writer of four poetry collections, five science fiction novels and Reader in Critical Imaginative Writing at the University of Chichester
🔎
“We feel it. The Biblical swarm. Choking. Bard’s mouth explodes. Language kinked tight. Bardic tendrils starting the overrun. Psychic warfare licking the holes to “the last, wet second”, the world is in fusion, in heat, sticky, rigged, and we are narcotically unaware, lapping, inviting, prone, illiterate. My favourite book by Thomas yet. He is rattling the bone. Read it.”
Karina, Poetess, Playwright
🔎
Here’s the carny pitch, the righteous blurb – the serious city’s only Consulting Poet-Detective Mr Fictor takes a case from the Grey Woman whilst in a hypnagogic state. Grey skin, grey as pre-dawn concrete at the tidal riverside where dead mobsters without mothers wash in.
An actor, with a jawline not too in-fashion, not too out of it, leaves the business after an encounter in the desert, starts a UFO Church. The authorities get involved, there’s a siege and a deadly fire all television blue, flying-saucer silver. The trial gets ratings, the women sit on sidewalks and make the sign of a probe. Get me into the prison to interview him, says the Grey Woman.
Mr Fictor has started seeing demonic entities in packaging. Everything he knows he knows from logos. He meets a UFO whistleblower, a wood-and-paint prophet, who says I want to confess everything rapturously. I want to testify on my knees with a live locust in my mouth to a congressional committee.
In the prison the actor says I’m nothing but a jester with a head full of bells. I know what the UFOs really are and I know love is a dimension we move in.
Do you let all clients abduct you? the Grey Woman asks Mr Fictor. This is no abduction, I’m intrigued, he replies.
Caught in their own mechanised wind, the trains that do not stop at the station instill an agreeable fear lasting their relentless length.
🔎
A Gnostic noir in verse. Hardback. 50 copies of first printing, first pressing being made.