Friday, 18 March 2016
Gary Shipley's conception of reality is more like our actual present reality than our literary culture's usual inbred narrative realism can afford; that is: grotesque, cornered, starving, horrific, on the verge of being ripped to shreds. Yet in the same breath, by way of his attentions: finally transcendent of that same ongoing mundane, excised of playground made-for-TV horseshit, thought-bendingly alive in a way most ways of storytelling couldn't begin to wish to ape. Literature almost doesn't deserve this maniac, and thank hell he's here.
– Blake Butler
Wednesday, 23 September 2015
Res | Exta
Dark Creatures, Michelle Hannah, Lewis den Hertog, Emilia Kurylowicz, Stuart
Middleton, Eva Papamargariti, Tai Shani, Gary J Shipley
+ performances Thursday October 1 6pm til late
runs September 26 – October 4 2015 open Thu-Sun 12-6pm
opening Friday September 25 6-9pm
through the rotted entrails of a corpsed body-politic, intoxicated by the acrid
fumes of old flesh, Exta performs the dredge-core evocation of a corpus
mysticum; an ecstatic futurology divining an alien socius of (anti-)social
bodies. It presents an untimely vision of a dank sludgescape populace that is
disoriented, corrupted and feverishly fucked; new flesh, new territories, and
new headaches… An anabolic fibroproliferative mess.
mobilises occult intensities, Sci-Fi dynamics and slime-vectors of decay to
divine a future body-politic and its delirious inhabitants.
Monday, 2 March 2015
Gary J. Shipley’s poems are besotted missives from the orangier regions of a burnt mind. Their tetherish angularity and bestial drool make me harder than a priest in a kindergarten. The world is a void and there are no more prophets left to serve. There is still vision, however, and Shipley’s is one we might all surrender to. As Ol’ Dirty Bastard once said, “Y’all can’t use the word ‘napkin.’”
– Travis Jeppesen, author of The Suiciders
Gary J. Shipley has performed a limit-experience for the unafraid, for the unhampered ballsy world immutable from our big, big casket.
– Sean Kilpatrick, author of Fuckscapes
Gary J. Shipley isn’t fucking around (“They’ll ask me to smile. I won’t.”) because he knows we’re all both killers and abattoir meat and in Gumma Homo he’s in and inside your face about this. The only natural thing then (“nothing is ever faked”) is to “swallow the sun,” “breathe the buried dog” and make “the accident berserk with nails.” But there’s nothing even heroic about these “dead babies” that are “lab grown/ in tinned sequences.” Gumma Homo is an industrial Grendel, jaded and zombie, rising daily out of a wasted, mechanical bed, to gleet over us all, the sleeping Geats. Unrelenting, uncompromising, and endlessly surprising in its language and imagery… I'm in love with this book!
– Rauan Klassnik, author of Holy Land