Jonty Tiplady

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Biographical note:  Jonty Tiplady grew up in Doncaster, South Yorkshire, moving to London, Paris, then Brighton, where he received a PhD on Jacques Derrida. He has published 8 chapbooks of poetry, including ‘Zam Bonk Dip’ (Barque Press 2007) and ‘At the School of Metaphysics’ (Fly By Night 2008). He won the 2009 Crashaw Prize and currently lives in London.

BIC Basic

EAN13:  9781844717378
ISBN:  9781844717378
Author:  Jonty Tiplady
Title:  Zam Bonk Dip
Series:  Salt Modern Poets
Product class:  BC
Language:  eng
Audience:  General/trade
BIC subject category:  DCF
Publisher:  Salt Publishing
Pub date:  15-Dec-10
Extent:  112pp
Height:  198 mm
Width:  129 mm
Thickness:  8 mm
Weight:  168 gms
Supplier:   Gardners Books
Supplier:   Ingram Book Group
Supplier:   Inbooks (James Bennett)
Availability:  IP
Price:  GBP 9.99
Price:  USD 15.95
Rights:  World

Short description/annotation:  Jonty Tiplady grew up in Doncaster, South Yorkshire, moving to London, Paris, then Brighton, where he received a PhD on Jacques Derrida. He has published 8 chapbooks of poetry, including ‘Zam Bonk Dip’ (Barque Press 2007) and ‘At the School of Metaphysics’ (Fly By Night 2008). He won the 2009 Crashaw Prize and currently lives in London.

Main description:  Jonty Tiplady’s prizewinning first collection Zam Bonk Dip is a must read for anyone keeping up with contemporary poetry. Awarded the 2009 Crashaw Prize, this book brings together “At the School of Metaphysics” and many other sought after Tiplady chapbooks. Zam Bonk Dip is a heartfreakingly necessary read, bringing poetry right into the age of internet addiction and ecological comedown, taking its cues as much from Larkin, Beckett, Lispector and Derrida as from Facebook, 80s’ TV, Donny Darko and Popeye.

Tiplady’s poetry is a seriously popular and accessible blend, full of compulsive highs and lowbrow pleasures. This is also a deeply sexy book, dealing as it does with the surprising and funny side to our internet-touched sex lives. Few books of poetry are as simultaneously funny and moving. Here ET rubs shoulders with Amy Winehouse, drowning polar bears sing, and the poet goes with his Mum to headbutt cacti. Tiplady’s verse form transmutes and glissades as it needs to, becoming strikingly broken just as the heart telling it, and suitably dark as it takes in the still haunting vestiges of 9/11 (the jumbos and jumpers of the opening poem for example) and other worldwide seisms. Here are not only the costs and exhilarations of our Googlised happiness, but the decline of America, a virtual phenomenolgy of pop music, a new type of literary tourette’s, the 20th century as it echoes in this, and some of the most explosively hilarious love poems ever written.

The work of Tiplady has quite rightly been heralded as something fresh and important. Look no further for the essential poetry of the twenty first century.

Table of contents:
Zam Bonk Dip
Manic Milk
Float Away Milk Bath
At The School Of Metaphysics
Madrock Gunned Down In Flowers
Sahara Ha Ha
Eskimo Porn Belt
For The Brazilian Rocket Queen
Dear World And Everyone In It
The Triangle Fire At 19/11
Thirst Pockets
Tout
Simple Phrases
Give My Love To The Sunrise
The Broken Heart
Sold Out The Ice Cream Van Today
Love Don’t Like Me
Black Funereal Cone
Wrong Answer
Hope Spasm
OOV
Julius Impossible
They Exist
Tout
You Bunnies, You Will Just Have To Wait
Andre Brasil
Lava Music
Disney Roofs

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Excerpt from book:  

Eskimo Porn Belt

Like a grass burn in space, like a virtual joy-bender, like a mad head smashing bits of stuff, like look a pop-up erection book!, like I myself have three penises, two hard, one soft, one for the beach, just in case, the flying saucers, like switch to manual, wow the rat dies, like nothing but hound dogs.

Like God who Prince said was a traitor, like little and large in leisure suits, like it ain’t gonna suck itself, like switch to the manual, like monkey reclining, that’s what we find different now the mechanism of death.

Like old phones rock different in space, switch to manual, like go back to weekend feather school for free, like go ahead sit on my poem, like watch dog electric support scores a double zero, utah, domino, chew on this, saint legs juice.

Like sputters of pink, like I have a micro colourful new C3PO pants with exquisite species under white water caps sacs and a conveyor belt and ball-buster kit for a ratchet clang, like I myself have my own big dictionary, and in it Jimmy says don’t compare you’ll despair or use other language it sounds better.

Like tissue for some universal fucking soul beat, tippo, teach snow, get your human ass/night on, like I’m going off!, I was really very pleased when I did that duck.

Like Devon and Miles and Michael and yes Lisa and Abi and Cadabby and Manky I mean Banky Moon, like pull back my trousers, like you make goal posts for my sugar, like slip in the snow monkey metaphor with an e softly but firmly, like look how little large is.

Like can you get me a copy of your penis, like you understand the women body thing, like put on your Eskimo porn belt, don’t touch the green square, like fun fur like orange fun, like fun was taking over the planet, like I think I might be able to get you some work down there.

Like little spanners rising and shining, like don’t do what Donny does, like Jimmy does it, like Miles does it, like ants are back in, like I wear swastika pants, on the stars on the floor, like I wear orange and red fur, like you fucking chess fag, like spring in my anus, like summer in yours, like sleepy animals that don’t make phone calls, like Buffo only emerged when you stopped sex and gooed her back together, like cherries popping in the, like smudge pudding, like sledge hammering your pinko, like a jam jar, drinking from a jar, like wow get your sheep dog nose on, like no point not loving just better to love, simple, like don’t be like that duck, like it’s thirsty work being daffety.

Like avalanche lilies, like the silk road online between us, like laugher goo on your ass, like fucking the future, like abracafuckingsexdabra, like happiness things, like gags and crams, like sword palace, like otemesando, like a little more, pudding duck, like smutly it cedes away from the deck, like, like the gold boy runs out of berries in the straw, like juice the brick, like rodeo beasts gathered round, an old haunted heart sputtered, a giant shiver, a wanky moon, like milk her over the bedchamber made milk-made, set her to the milk tune star, presto, a dark kisses it off, like sexember, like I believe you thousands wouldn’t.

Unpublished endorsement:  A poet whose engagement with 21st century culture (high, middlebrow, and low) exhibits a playfulness and clarity of language that has not been seen in Britain since the mid-70s volumes of Tom Raworth.

Tim Atkins

Unpublished endorsement:  Jonty Tiplady’s is the least guarded and most engaging voice I’ve heard in years, and ZAM BONK DIP is, at the very least, as funny as poetry gets.

Peter Manson

Unpublished endorsement:  Delirium is not usually tender, hallucination is not easily kind. Cartoons don’t often succeed in making sadism irrealisable in a specifically human heart. The three dimensions of most objects are hardly a triptych at all, their fourth and up rarely if ever a chamber music infolding unlistenable loss. Most things don’t hurt like they do inside, or sing like the love they must yet have of us. This book by the person Jonty Tiplady, patient and impetuous, wild and soft, disjointed and palatial, will: as fragile as our clarity itself.

Keston Sutherland