var itemArray = new Array(3); itemArray[0] = new Array(49); itemArray[1] = new Array(49); itemArray[2] = new Array(49); itemArray[0][0] = "
Big Chief Editor G and General Editor Niki would like to thank:"; itemArray[1][0] = "
All of our fantastic contributors; Tristan Stevens for putting together the amazing graphics for the site; Hayley, Joseph, Jem, Jonny, Beatts & JK for their help with the magazine and of course and all of you Fingerdancers out there.

Cover art by Jonathan McClenahan."; itemArray[2][0] = "90%"; itemArray[0][1] = "Home & Shi t"; itemArray[1][1] = "The ' '
is j mmed
nd the ' ' is truly ucked

So gl d
th t 'u'
is still with me

GA Brown"; itemArray[2][1] = "35%"; itemArray[0][2] = "Laika - David Cardy"; itemArray[1][2] = "

"; itemArray[2][2] = "80%"; itemArray[0][3] = "Sudoku"; itemArray[1][3] = "The violent art
(Japanese) of wrestling
with numbers on trains.

Kate Noakes"; itemArray[2][3] = "40%"; itemArray[0][4] = "Goya Defeat - Reinhard Schleining"; itemArray[1][4] = "

"; itemArray[2][4] = "50%"; itemArray[0][5] = "Lines written upon meeting a beautiful girl
with a glass eye"; itemArray[1][5] = "Like Gordon facing Blunkett
In a heated cabinet meeting
You rolled your eyes at me
I lowered my eyebrows
One at a time
Leant forwards
And rolled them back

School was never going to be a kingdom of the blind
You were envious of the kid with the hare lip
As she came off better than you
So when you turned eighteen
We all clubbed together
And got you one

You came round from the operation
Looking puzzled
As we shouted surprise

Chris Parkinson"; itemArray[2][5] = "60%"; itemArray[0][6] = "The Asian Painter - Ernest Williamson"; itemArray[1][6] = "

"; itemArray[2][6] = "50%"; itemArray[0][7] = "The Secret City"; itemArray[1][7] = "I said you were a secret city.
Full of empty cafes,
tables of twos and threes
wooden chairs shiny like conkers
from the many points of light in the ceiling.

And I liked to imagine both
that you walked those streets
and that you were those streets.

Furrows in your fingers
neighbourhoods and blocks
ontop of each other,
not like America.

And if you hadn't passed
by for a while
the streets would be dusty.

You were every man, woman and child living in the secret city.
You were the mayor and the janitors.
You flew helicopters for the metropolitan police.

No rotting fruit on the street
abandoned in cardboard boxes by grocers.
No lost books on the flagstones at the docks,
pages swelling like sponges from the rain.
No, nothing but the blight of dust.

The emblem, a silhouette of a keyhole
with buildings
I could see
were inside,
those things I cannot know of you
sit
on the otherside of a locked door,
and I never see you press your pockets
looking for the key.

Edward Long"; itemArray[2][7] = "70%"; itemArray[0][8] = "United Nations - Natalie Kay"; itemArray[1][8] = "

"; itemArray[2][8] = "80%"; itemArray[0][9] = "Leaking Pen"; itemArray[1][9] = "Lying down in the long grass
where once there used to be snakes,
I sensed a sliminess seeping
down my chest and around my back.

After feeling, I found
a fountain pen that was leaking.

Being very relaxed and half-asleep,
I just let things take their course,
preferring the comfort of a leaking pen
to the stealth of a slimy grass snake.

Settling down comfortably in the grass,
I slumbered amidst pleasant dreams.

Later I woke up as the sun dipped
behind a white fluffy cloud.
I shuffled home in a warm glow,
forgetting that my pen had leaked.

Words and phrases flowed right through me,
and that night, snuggling up in bed,
my wife said \"How sweet - you've written
love poems for me on your back.\"

Geoff Lowe"; itemArray[2][9] = "50%"; itemArray[0][10] = "Issue 01"; itemArray[1][10] = "With Finger Dance Festival comes the realisation of a dream born in early 2006. A home for contemporary, experimental, witty and insightful poetry and visual art.

The Festival is for people who love art, and hate advertisements. We won't give you cutting-edge opinions on the latest movements; but Fingerdancers can be anyone, boy, man, girl, prisoner, whimsical or death serious. We don't want Keats or Ginsberg re-born. We like originality, and a bit of risk taking.

The Festival is a free, creative space where anyone can share their artwork, where you don't have to be 'up' on the scene - you can be down on it, as long as you're aware of it.

So, what's the plan? In 09 the Festival will skim the cream off the quarterly webzine, and publish these rich pickings in print. Being on the web means we can open the Festival to all, garnering exciting, quality work for the final printed issue.

Enjoy the site,
read the site,
write the site,
paint-spray-sketch-mould the site,
Fingerdance the site."; itemArray[2][10] = "90%"; itemArray[0][11] = "
Big Chief Editor G and General Editor Niki would like to thank:"; itemArray[1][11] = "
All of our fantastic contributors; Tristan Stevens for putting together the amazing graphics for the site; Hayley, Joseph, Jem, Jonny, Beatts & JK for their help with the magazine and of course and all of you Fingerdancers out there.

Cover art by Jonathan McClenahan."; itemArray[2][11] = "90%"; itemArray[0][12] = "Pratfalls of a Lover"; itemArray[1][12] = "He clots under my snuggling, squirms,
False light on dazed feet.

He’s a hobby-horse to twitter
Wagnerian bravura
With an at-a-loss voice
In a beer garden shut off into details
By slogan-crusted screens;
Conceit fills the bill
Of the illusionist.

Instead, a rodent-rash beard chafes
In the vacancy of a thunder-clap gallery.

Christopher Barnes"; itemArray[2][12] = "50%"; itemArray[0][13] = "Adam Lagendoen"; itemArray[1][13] = "

"; itemArray[2][13] = "70%"; itemArray[0][14] = "Nut"; itemArray[1][14] = "Hazelnut eyes
chestnut hair
walnut face
but Im the nut

cos when you fall I cashew.

GA Brown"; itemArray[2][14] = "40%"; itemArray[0][15] = "Over Night Flight - Tristan Stevens"; itemArray[1][15] = "

"; itemArray[2][15] = "50%"; itemArray[0][16] = "Prediction"; itemArray[1][16] = "On February 21, 1205
In the noise of busy marketplace
Lost in the Middle East,
An astrologer-sage predicted
That in 800 years exactly
I would get myself drunk as a cobbler
And when a girl starts playing
With my belly button
I shall cry like a baby,
And get horrified that
At any moment
I will get unwrapped
And break apart in thousand pieces.

Alex Galper"; itemArray[2][16] = "50%"; itemArray[0][17] = "Play"; itemArray[1][17] = "Stuck mid-tuning,
and he doesn’t even drive.

Left to right,

we almost died.

Heated phone conversations, is a cuddly man, all wrapped up in play.

Chishimba Chisala"; itemArray[2][17] = "50%"; itemArray[0][18] = "Path of Life - Hiroshi Matsushita"; itemArray[1][18] = "

"; itemArray[2][18] = "50%"; itemArray[0][19] = "The Slut Under The Bandages"; itemArray[1][19] = "The slut under the bandages
was not without inert charm.
Her nostrils exhaled smoke
like a costumed Japanese actor,
and her distractions allowed
her hand to make the most
beautiful movements.
She lay on a hard wooden bench
attempting to cross and uncross her legs
to the rhythms of exits and entrances
near an automated door.
She digressed from this activity only once
to say \"Hi Hon!\" to a small child
being escorted by a large Policeman,
and added a gracious conciliatory smile.

Colin James"; itemArray[2][19] = "50%"; itemArray[0][20] = "Winkle Pickers"; itemArray[1][20] = "It was his sideboard
that caught my attention –
a huge black one from temple to chin.

I assumed he had
an equally impressive one
on the other side of his head,
but I could only see him in profile.

Then the brilliantined quiff
lolloping down from his forehead.
And down below,
at ground level,
the brilliant shine of his black,
polished ‘winkle-pickers’,
pointing out and slightly up –
as though ready for action.

I didn’t notice much else,
but when you’ve got sideboards like that
and winkle-pickers on your feet,
you don’t really need anything in between.

Geoff Lowe"; itemArray[2][20] = "50%"; itemArray[0][21] = "Untitled - Natalie Kay"; itemArray[1][21] = "

"; itemArray[2][21] = "60%"; itemArray[0][22] = "Whatever Happens to Dead Bees"; itemArray[1][22] = "I almost screamed in surprise.

There on the carpet a fluffy bulk,
a hulk quivering with death.

It was a bee, so much bigger
now it was in front of me,
nature's jumbo-jet dropped
from the air. Its great body
shuddering, the sting
rearing up like a last erection.

And then collapse and stillness.
The bee’s soul sighs
and flies away to heaven’s garden.

I take great care scooping
it up in the newspaper, afraid
it would fall out or burst into life

and sting me for being too quick
to think it dead. I flicked
it into the garden to rot or be eaten

or whatever happens to dead bees.

Matthew Friday"; itemArray[2][22] = "50%"; itemArray[0][23] = "Issue 02"; itemArray[1][23] = "Issue 02 is finally here! As the Fingerdance goes into full swing, the magazine takes on a life of its own with a shining array of new and established writers, and some fantastic visual art. This quirky little jig has just begun to experiment with the boundaries of voice, wit and form. Come join us and see where it goes.

Enjoy the site,
read the site,
write the site,
paint-spray-sketch-mould the site,
Fingerdance the site."; itemArray[2][23] = "70%"; itemArray[0][24] = "
Big Chief Editor G and General Editor Niki would like to thank:"; itemArray[1][24] = "
All of our fantastic contributors; Tim Leach for his enthusiasm in coming on board and looking to the future; Tristan Stevens for putting together the amazing graphics for the site; and of course and all of you Fingerdancers out there.

Cover art by Jonathan McClenahan."; itemArray[2][24] = "90%"; itemArray[0][25] = "Object of Love"; itemArray[1][25] = "Does DNA fall in love, tremble?
Captively thundering, in the blind cells of lovers
under the pulmonary sighs, and aortic pain,
in countless cages in catacombs
is the helical balance at work?
Sexual chemistry, that intuitive term!
In weighing relative immunities, hip-width,
the baby-friendly gamete of a proposed partner -
is the helix mute, or can it “select for”
and express the arrow
that we call desire?Does love live in DNA
and express the arrow?
Is the helix mute, or can it select for
the baby-friendly gamete of a proposed partner.
In weighing relative immunities, hip-width -
sexual chemistry, that intuitive term -
is the helical balance at work?
In countless cages in catacombs -
under the pulmonary sighs, and aortic pain,
captively thundering, in the blind cells of lovers -
does DNA fall in love, tremble?

Philip Burton "; itemArray[2][25] = "75%"; itemArray[0][26] = "The Season"; itemArray[1][26] = "What season is it?
You have slept for some time. I know this, because I have watched you.
I watched you
Slip
Down into
This hibernation.
I watched you stir
Into motion. You
Ask me the
Season.

Season? Seasons are moments.
You have slept, tired from the hunting season.
Hunting. Hunted. And I watched.

What season is it?
What light is it that warms your skin. Creeps in from the same
Orifice in the window that remained open and permeated
Through your stupor? The cars still passed, and you heard them,
In your sleep you heard words and fragments of meaning.
In your sleep you felt words that demeaning your thoughts
Passed diagnosis. Even in your sleep, they spoke and you listened.

What season is it?
You ask me wide eyed. The light gently scouring your skin.
I don’t know.
I know the time: 1:54 but I can’t determine this- the sky is
Grey. And being so
I can’t decide if it is night or day. But the time? 1:54.

Still you press me, what season is it?
I have not watched the world, love, I do not know.

Emma Williams"; itemArray[2][26] = "50%"; itemArray[0][27] = "Untitled - Alice Hartley"; itemArray[1][27] = "

"; itemArray[2][27] = "75%"; itemArray[0][28] = "The Cheese Thief"; itemArray[1][28] = "It was a perfect cellar:
a vaulted roof in precisely placed red brick, dry, bare walls and a polished floor that deserved slippered feet; subdued lighting and chilly under the air-conditioner’s hum.

A dormitory of cheese, in racked boxes
waiting for inspection or, in our case,
theft.

“Take the best” Jean-Luc said.
“We only have 20 minutes”.

I paused. The boxes had no prices.
I like the stuff in sandwiches,
on toast.

This was the wrong turning down a hospital corridor, the changing room door without a label, the first day at a new school, mid-term.

I was the driver, the fast-talker, the stalker, “I’ll guard the door”

Claire Diacopoulos Craig "; itemArray[2][28] = "50%"; itemArray[0][29] = "Punch - David Ford"; itemArray[1][29] = "

"; itemArray[2][29] = "50%"; itemArray[0][30] = "I Claudius"; itemArray[1][30] = "a life measured,
In forkfuls of truffle and
bloated caviar,

innards of a
bitch-whale

Onome Ekeh "; itemArray[2][30] = "50%"; itemArray[0][31] = "Face - Sophie Hoyle"; itemArray[1][31] = "

"; itemArray[2][31] = "50%"; itemArray[0][32] = "Jack’s wife"; itemArray[1][32] = "I grimly tap
the typewriter, spilling alone
I tilt:
O sagging loser, O masquerader
bare second-best belcher,
setting knowingly a nocturnal laser
on your sad self.
Come air
the blisters on my hands
instead of nestling
daft fortune-tellers

Tulay Gunes "; itemArray[2][32] = "50%"; itemArray[0][33] = "Abstract - Sophie Hoyle"; itemArray[1][33] = "

"; itemArray[2][33] = "50%"; itemArray[0][34] = "For Forty-Seven Read Twenty-Nine
(for Pirandello)"; itemArray[1][34] = "At the hotel lobby my key forty seven
was obstinately kept on hook twenty nine.
Right you are if you think so, Mr. Pirandello!
The manager smiled at my invisible joke.

In Agrigento lie the headquarters of Kaos
where Luigi was born silver spoon in mouth
tasting of sugar, codes of honour,
and doubt.
Tonight there’s a full moon over Kaos
You can see the steep gorge below the house,
recently blackened by an arbitrary fire,
and smell the childhood scent
of his beloved pine.
I stand with a torch at the gate.
Taxi waiting for my return.
A madman likely to be arrested.

For forty seven read twenty nine.
What does it matter?
Illusory key. Illusory room. Illusory hotel.
Perhaps some presence still passed through
was allowed respite from the great not knowing,
wavered over a key hook
asked to be saved by a stubborn fingerprint
or at least, I hope, a lighter touch?

Alan Price "; itemArray[2][34] = "50%"; itemArray[0][35] = "Untitled - Sarah Catherine Firth"; itemArray[1][35] = "

"; itemArray[2][35] = "75%"; itemArray[0][36] = "Spreeing is My Thing"; itemArray[1][36] = "because my birthright’s a bean tin
no money-forge spoon
from a mainspring
I buy a crateful of videos,
gather an armful of receipt-till prose.

Christopher Barnes"; itemArray[2][36] = "50%"; itemArray[0][37] = "Issue 03"; itemArray[1][37]= "Issue 03 has arrived, amidst great changes at the FingerDance Festival. We are bidding goodbye (for now) to editor Graham Allen Brown, who is entering his new role as guardian angel of the site.
Timothy Leach is our new Finger Dancer. Tim and I will be continuing to rummage through the netherworlds of poetry and art - bringing you quality, eclectic work from new and established authors and artists.

Enjoy the site,
read the site,
write the site,
paint-spray-sketch-mould the site,
Fingerdance the site."; itemArray[2][37] = "70%"; itemArray[0][38] = "
General Editor Niki, Literary Editor Tim and Art Editor Katherine Harding would like to thank:"; itemArray[1][38] = "
All of our fantastic contributors; Tristan Stevens for putting together the amazing graphics for the site; and of course and all of you Fingerdancers out there.

Cover art by Jonathan McClenahan."; itemArray[2][38] = "90%"; itemArray[0][39] = "Pigs"; itemArray[1][39] = "1
Foot or four stationed in the snow,
all the pigs establish.

Too thick to dance
they dream of penis

and attendant creams.
Dim pigs.

An army, they suck on ice.

2
The land lies full
of itself,

tells no porkies
and has no majors.

On the ridge
of coastal precipitate

nothing is red.

3
Why so many?
Honey,

it's Escher with pigs,
it'll be forever, and

this isn't a planet.
The landscape is full on

and almost repeating.

4
We see through shades,
but that's all we are–

flat things
observing the porcine wonder,

calm without change.
A pig sniggers

then returns to its lovely daze.

Thomas Hutchinson"; itemArray[2][39] = "50%"; itemArray[0][40] = "Evacuation - Dan Ruhrmanty"; itemArray[1][40] = "

"; itemArray[2][40] = "75%"; itemArray[0][41] = "Envoi"; itemArray[1][41] = "These words crave
the spring of speech- its give and take,
laughter's suppleness-
a child's...

As that may morning
at the bus-stop:
a brother to his sister,
coaxing her quick laughter

(A wing-skirr blossomed in near trees,
unnoticed;
on a branch a caught carrier bag,
tongue to the wind).

Go, light-footed song
into the air's immediacy,
where the light, outside office windows,
falls on stunned stone-

There, on the grass, take your ease
by unloosed students, upturned sleeves-
the grass is there to lie on-
don't mind the guards!

Catch the tone in those voices,
buzz and gush of movement-
dusty tome, shake yourself off,
as that bird, water from its feathers.

Michael Lee Rattigan "; itemArray[2][41] = "50%"; itemArray[0][42] = "How Many Men Dream? - Annabel Schenck"; itemArray[1][42] = "

"; itemArray[2][42] = "100%"; itemArray[0][43] = "Don't Ask Anything of Me"; itemArray[1][43] = "Don’t ask anything of me.
Don’t ask
            Why
Unless you want the truth.
And please don’t ask for the truth until I know,
Because
Until I do, the story won’t write it’s own ending.

It all began with an egg
                      Inside the egg
        A seed
Which desired to grow.

I reached into the depths of my self and found nothing,
A nothingness so vast
That it encompassed infinite dimensions of possibility
And as each possible future
Unfolded before me in a single moment
A smile crept into the corners of my heart
And spread throughout the room
Stitching my reality together with that of the walls
The carpet
The door
The insulations and mortar
Bricks
Grass
Air
Molecules
Space

…
      everything floats, here.

The only attachment is a knotted rope stretching from the heart
To the beloved,
Upon which everything else hangs.
Here, in silence,
                    mutuality and plurality
                    are one
                    I and you
                    are one
                    service and subsistence
                    are one
                    .

Love me
For that is the only thing
worth its time in this life.

Sholeh Johnston "; itemArray[2][43] = "75%"; itemArray[0][44] = "Electric Blue Squid - Helen Innes"; itemArray[1][44] = "

"; itemArray[2][44] = "100%"; itemArray[0][45] = "The Perfect Crime"; itemArray[1][45] = "I slept like an unsheathed knife that night,
blood dried on my blade as whales
with harpooned eyes slashed my thighs
with their tails.

Dreams are the perfect crime, turning grime
into block-coloured shine.

My hands were a tangle of wires
on which notes dangled precariously
like gossiping birds, their legs half burned.

Seas turned into fields – the octopus adapted
accordingly. We wracked the bellybutton
of water left with shovels,
typewriters imitated the sound of rain.

I slept like an unsheathed knife that night,
blood dried on my blade as whales
with harpooned eyes slashed my thighs
with their tails.

Claire Trevien "; itemArray[2][45] = "50%"; itemArray[0][46] = "Fleshbook - Helen Innes"; itemArray[1][46] = "

"; itemArray[2][46] = "100%"; itemArray[0][47] = "IV - Verklärung"; itemArray[1][47] = "Trafalgar’s fountains have frozen, love.

How human our fascination
with a transformed state.

The concrete bowl where once
we would plunge optimistic
copper coins.

Comforting, the thought of fluid
that could leave the best of us drowned,
will - on such a relentless day -
become safe and stable ground

Phil Brown"; itemArray[2][47] = "50%"; itemArray[0][48] = "Issue 04"; itemArray[1][48] = "Issue 04 sees our team continuing to grow, with Katherine Harding coming aboard as Art Editor.
The festival is now flung to the far corners of the seas – as I am working on a newspaper in India, Tim is helping run a bookshop in Greece (devouring the classics while the waves lap at his toes), while Katherine is out pilfering artwork in the Big Smoke.
We hope our global hunt for art and poetry has paid off.

In other news, our facebook application W3:Ds is up and running again, and now the voting power is all yours. It’s a whimsical, just-for-fun poetry competition, where all poems must be three words long.

Enjoy the site. "; itemArray[2][48] = "70%"; var numOfItems = itemArray[1].length;var currentItem = -1; function showNavButton(showButton) { if (showButton) { document.getElementById("NavButton").style.display = ""; } else { document.getElementById("NavButton").style.display = "none"; }}function setStatusBarMessage(chosenLink) { window.status = chosenLink;}function issues() { /*setStatusBarMessage(" "); document.getElementById("contentDiv").style.width = "20%"; //showNavButton(false); document.getElementById("contentSpan").innerHTML = "

"; document.getElementById("contentSpan").innerHTML += "Issue 03"; document.getElementById("contentSpan").innerHTML += "

"; document.getElementById("contentSpan").innerHTML += "Issue 02"; document.getElementById("contentSpan").innerHTML += "

"; document.getElementById("contentSpan").innerHTML += "Issue 01"; //document.getElementById("NavButton").innerHTML = ""; */}function submissions() { setStatusBarMessage(" "); document.getElementById("contentDiv").style.width = "80%"; showNavButton(false); document.getElementById("contentSpan").innerHTML = "

We are looking for innovative, thoughtful and idiosyncratic pieces of poetry and visual art. We would love to hear from both old veterans and new, developing talent.
"; document.getElementById("contentSpan").innerHTML += "
Please send 1-3 submissions to:
"; document.getElementById("contentSpan").innerHTML += "
submissions@fingerdancefestival.org.uk
"; }function subscribe() { setStatusBarMessage(" "); showNavButton(false); document.getElementById("contentSpan").innerHTML = "
To register your interest in a subscription to
finger dance festival, email us at:
"; document.getElementById("contentSpan").innerHTML += "
subscriptions@fingerdancefestival.org.uk
"; }function editors() { setStatusBarMessage(" "); showNavButton(false); document.getElementById("contentSpan").innerHTML = "Niki Seth-Smith"; document.getElementById("contentSpan").innerHTML += "
niki@fingerdancefestival.org.uk"; document.getElementById("contentSpan").innerHTML += "

"; }function other() { setStatusBarMessage(" "); document.getElementById("contentDiv").style.width = "40%"; showNavButton(false); document.getElementById("contentSpan").innerHTML = "

Our Facebook Page"; document.getElementById("contentSpan").innerHTML += "

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"; document.getElementById("contentSpan").innerHTML += "Tristan Stevens"; document.getElementById("contentSpan").innerHTML += "

"; document.getElementById("contentSpan").innerHTML += "Monkey Kettle Magazine"; document.getElementById("contentSpan").innerHTML += "

"; document.getElementById("contentSpan").innerHTML += "Poetry Kit"; document.getElementById("contentSpan").innerHTML += "

"; document.getElementById("contentSpan").innerHTML += "Poetry Library"; document.getElementById("contentSpan").innerHTML += "

"; document.getElementById("contentSpan").innerHTML += "Brittlestar Magazine"; document.getElementById("contentSpan").innerHTML += "

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"; document.getElementById("contentSpan").innerHTML += "Poetry Society"; }function nextItem() { setStatusBarMessage(" "); currentItem--; if (currentItem < 0) { currentItem = numOfItems-1; } document.getElementById("contentDiv").style.width = itemArray[2][currentItem]; if ("" != itemArray[0][currentItem]) { document.getElementById("contentSpan").innerHTML = "" + itemArray[0][currentItem] + "

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