PARIAH PRESS is a UK based independent publishing house founded by Jamie Lee of M o n e y and Jonny Walsh of Only Joking Records in 2013. We seek to establish an alternative vision – a wild and memorable departure from conceit and mediocrity – based upon our considered selection of authors.
All submissions, permissions and complaints should be directed to:
“Nothing dates so quickly as the gnomic didactic or reads so boringly.”
~ Anthony Burgess ~
• 50 Theses •
02 We fetishize the written word through an intractable belief in the myriad mind.
03 The originality of a work is directly proportional to the ignorance of its readers.
04 The pedantic mediocrity and cynicism of England leads to an unerring stillness, ergo stiltedness.
05 Pissheads do not fall in the mud.
06 The tired vernacular of: good, bad, moral, free, expert, importance, taste, and so forth… we interpret as entirely defunct within the contemporary paradigm.
07 Exercise, do not exorcise, your demons.
08 May the nun-poets stay in their cloisters.
09 We all have the Right to imagination and madness.
10 Hell is in Hello.
11 We do not associate with the paedophilic Establishment.
12 We are bored, and unbordered.
13 You are not a worker bee.
14 The names: Pariah, Madman, Loser, Lost Soul, are viewed as Titles of Honour.
15 Human beings are made up mainly of space.
16 Terms such as: novella, prose poem, vignette, outsider art, psychogeography, curator, catharsis, metaphysics, auteur, tastemaker, belong to The Realm of the Journalist, and/or the puritanical Chancer.
17 The religion of innocence must be smashed.
18 Isms are narrow criss-crossing underground tunnels with skylights to the surface.
19 The best lack all conviction, while the worst are filled with a passionate intensity.
20 Paraphrase at will, and well.
21 We reserve our awe for the doctors, nurses, scientists, road-builders, heretics, joiners and lovers.
22 Recourse to verbal discourse on writing and writings is strictly prohibited.
23 Sex & death: shallow depths of profundity in which to paddle.
24 The planet Earth is large.
25 Theses or faeces?
26 This the way to the museyroom. Mind your hats goan in!
27 We thrive from a sense of subordination. Art has no living space for the internal or externalised superior.
28 The unfortunate drive of the overly untalented.
29 Your crimes are mechanisms of redistribution.
30 Urgent, subtle, concise.
31 The familiar insanity of money in the pocket and no defense against the urge.
32 Drown in the freedom of fictions.
33 We believe in the song, rarely the singer.
34 Late night taxi drivers remain our favourite DJs.
35 Attention is your only true fealty.
36 Publish or perish!
37 Somewhere without language, or streets.
38 The theft of books from person or persons drunk and/or in love is the last refuge of the savage fool.
39 By the current reckoning: there are 15 dead for every person alive on Earth today.
40 Our pyjama tops stained with tears, and eggs.
41 Knowing your place is nowhere.
42 53% of the time, the Author is often entirely wrong.
43 Beware the owners of moleskin notebooks.
44 Emu controlling Rod Hull.
45 A book read by 1000 people is 1000 different books.
46 Flashy shit is back in style.
47 Intoxification is used to prepare and stabilize an attitude.
48 All works of art are acts of utter desperation: a sly wank during the apocalypse.
49 Everyone must be published.
50 The above is a roundabout invitation to explore our tomes and preposterous, improbable tombs.
• Tract •
The sham of respectability and the acceptable signs of credibility remain the symptoms of demented habit. Who is your favourite football team, and which is your favourite oil company? All mirrors are distorted by hand and mouth, but what of the arse? Embedded within the machocosm of the monoculture of received thought and repetitive yearnings, my empirical cock. Why should not young men be mad? Woman take tenure of the World, tired its flailing and scavenging discourses; we all have sick on our shoes. From recusants to recanters; as we dine upon each other may the road sink to you.
The coruscating bliss of a life’s feeble exegesis. Another dolt with a pen, altering the verbs in Baudelaire. The Doherty Scam; in a smug-cosy coterie of fathomless bathos. Fame, Money, Ego and the Child Molester within. Send us a dreary ticket to Bedlam or the scenic route to oblivion to keep our drowsy emperor asleep. Swaying above the sheer cliffs of artifice, buffeted by the warm wind of contrivance; you’re on the wrong bus! Alight at the almshouse, cite poverty of imagination. Upon the hope we live that there is room.
The sweet, demented Harpy chorus of woe that we cannot rid, we shall encourage with our attentions herein. While our prophets contemplate the barbed walls of the high security ward, horses commit mass suicide from realisations far beyond the dreams of this wretched human zoo. Your indifference remains the greatest weapon of all.
Put us in a taxi. Take us home.
These four arms to hold you with, withered from misuse. Atrophy from beyond the abyssal minds of a cum flecked management horde; dallying upon this street of crocodiles we lie in wait. Your means can never justify our ends. Sum total will be reckoned right. The smell of almonds. Soft, loved, breath upon a hairy backside. Time, gentlemen please. Unthanks to our mums, and dads.