Long time listener, first time caller. First time radio host. First time erotic novella writer. Slip Wip is a long-form poetic novella about labor relations during a time of political unrest.

The story follows the exploits of a worker in the *ick Factory named Ambidextrous Lover Liar. Ambi is critical of the system designed by Bossmxn, but is determined to have a good time. The poem is ever a work–in–process. It is published serially in various multimedia formats including radio show (No Bounds Radio, Repeater Radio), literary magazine (Ugly Duckling Presse), and noise set (XHURCH). 

Factory is Sick This month. Not hitting production goals, Even while clumps of workers run round its floor. Agitating the *ick factory’s insides. Factory has a pelvic floor. Over lubed, side wall crumbling from the moisture, A swampy wetness for workers to push their boots tips through One after another, in fertile forever. Factory feeeeeeeeeeeels Two large slip tanks sitting in its corners. Not supposed to feel tanks resting heavy on floorboards. It’s supposed to just... Work. Not supposed to feel compressed air rushing through tubes into tight nozzles. It’s supposed to just... Work? Sound is a viscous discharge leaking from both tanks at once. An automatic ugh ugh ugh ugh ugh ugh ugh ugh ugh purrs. I hear a clanking want want want want want want want want. Workers crawl through thick, sweet muck. They crawl around the factory floor like cravings. Factory shakes from the weight of itself. Stack: Floor a priori Garment, splayed open Brick Book that is also a brick Fish cut It’s getting Easier to Come here Each day I like that my body hurts from Workin Now These past years, Shape named body Has only hurt From Sex And being Beat by cops Yes, Racism is a white people problem to solve. Slip is spinning though its infinite line. Foreverspinningforeverspinningforev- Bossmxn laid this line to harness it. Motors pump Slip out of tanks in the *ick factory’s reproductive corners, into pipes U-gly bolted to fantastic scaffolding. Sluice pipes transition into hoses, slinking down from ceiling to factory floor. At every transition, Slip is gooing up cracks. Gooing seams. An errant force, g- ooing up in folds. Slip has to move or it stops being. I, worker I, can never stop moving. Fat ass hoses As wide as my fist and unknowably long Travel from spigot to nozzle in heavy coils. Factory’s architecture feels different From any place I’ve been before, But I can’t remember much About other systems I must have once been a part of … ? The thing I know for certain Is not thought, but feeling. The feeling of a hose laid heavy on my shoulder Its nozzle in my calloused hand. The nozzle is cumbersome, longer than any of the dicks I might wear. Longer than my forearm. It’s sloppy tip spurts Slip loosely and without precision Into the mouths of many molds. I hold this nozzle like a gun each day, Tucking wordless memories Of life before this place In The Space Between My Hose And my Shoulder Meat. My finger curling rhythmic on trigger Gives Factory permission to let Slip run. Revolt and Factory bleed against each other. I smell roasting pigs on a pallet bonfire In middle of a fat-drizzled four lane intersection, and SMILE. Even the memory of revolt is a threat. Colorsound plays a glitchy loop Behind my eyes and in the palm of my ears while I work. A little dreamy, a little nasty. Layers of overwhelming sensation Trigger memory of revolt. A little dreamy, A little nasty. I quick-SPIT my smile into a nearby barrel before Bossmxn catches me with it! Bossmxn is scared of revolt Always authoring preemptive little attacks against workers’ memories. But memory Is gooing up The cracks and folds Of Factory’s architecture, too. All while Slip –Everspinningforeverspinningforever | Spinningforeverspinningforeverspinn | Ingforeverspinningforeverspinningf– | | Dribbles a Messy escape attempt onto crusted over surfaces. Hardening in errant lines tracing futile attempts. I need to fuck her, but I can’t today. Something about production schedules. A big order Of seven hundred dead things, maybe. I wasn’t really listening. I was throwing needy ropes In every direction. Methodically slinging *ick in heavy channels. Desperation twined in what? How absurd. To ache between my legs and look like this, To hurt so much and be like this, Perfect. A universal magnet with two poles. I am Ambidextrous Lover Liar I dream of quitting this job To become an e whore n join An industrial noise band. Factory is a sound knife. I am secret recording from my pocket Leaving mics on machines The pump stopped working one day. Knife taped to rod jammed in her pipe Got her gushing again. Everyone_working_here_can_see_my_b lack_boxers_peeking_out_of_my_jeans.mp3 quick sluice hosepipe over shoulder rows like: Hole hole hole hole hole hole hole hole 10_hour_shift_??_calcium_deglucrate_ for_hormonal_migrane_flourescent.mp3 The Factory has windows. Of cooouuurse The factory has windows! What century do you think this is? Hah The *ick Factory has windows. Bossmxn will simply deduct A dollar from your wages each time you look out one. The Factory has windows is a fabrication. It does.............................Not. And the bedrooms....................Have no mirrors, And the lampshades..................Have no sockets, But the plane................................................................................... ........Circling overhead...........Has a cellphone tower Spoofer. Disc-jockstrap Hunny is stirred up tonight. She’s here to be alone for less than half a living wage, eyes sweet Maybe its [bleeeeeeep]. Maybe she hates her man. Her radio’s playing over our loud mess of machines made to keep Slip stirring. She feels / okay / during a brushy dance the boss can’t own. We’re all fiends in motion in this place. Dogs run loose here. Lick my ankle, Bossmxn wants hull and husk copies of an extruded plastic moment, A puckered spout into wastescape She will give it to them yes baby give it to them til her thighs ache. The glaze boys peek around around corners at her, pumping Boy metal through their separate stereo til sound shakes the factory windows. Buzzy glass panes wanna wiggle the light coming through, But it’s nighttime. Somewhere out there, a voice is live on air. She is hearing it. Somewhere out there, a designer hit clickprint. We are working it. _copyreal I’m sitting on a bucket eating breakfast cereal, since our break room got deleted. Am I looking out at the sky and getting my wages docked? It’s the infamous Anti-government breakfast cereal called Ephemera Smacks! Made of all those zines that pop out from between floorboards or curl Between pipes and U-bolts. All tore up into spoon sized bites. No printing on the back of the box, Only COLOR like you would not believe. I am quick looking at her like the glaze boys peek, but I’m looking right through open space. Two radios are tied in an aural knot ---; one limp, one LIVE. She stops working for a minute to text the station. Her eyes flick up, Mine away! Like I was looking out the windows, eating my cereal, and getting my pay docked. She and I see that the windows aren’t there anymore. Light was only wiggling From heat and chemicals in the air. I’m a fool, The word desire written in rings around my mouth. My tongue cut out, flapping along the factory floor with all the other loose dogs. Pile for sculpture: Double stack O Ring Warp Chubby Faceted Teardrop slice Puffy Oyster Ball pin Hook My wrists are wilted Like smush soft dicks when the cum falls I tell my mxnager, Middle Sam, about it Say, “My pump is spurting everywhere,” with a whiny “Uhnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnhhhhh Mmmh.” Bottom lip bite, Urgency. I flop around my kilt wrists as evidence. Middle Sam’s eyes go big, dart round dusty aisles Making sure Classic Jack and Hunny and Average Joey and Glaze Boy No. Two aren’t around because Their wrists have gone nummydummy here, too. I ask her to touch my flaccid stalks. Her eyes are two dollops of goo wrapped in crepe paper Before she hardens them. Tells me, “This is Your Individual Problem. Clock out, no pay for a while.” Clockout. Nopay. Clockout. Clock out, no pay for a while Nopay. Rattles around inside of my boots while I Jiggle this busted body up a staircase. Clockout. Nopay. Clockout. Nopay. Clockout. I feel anxiety As I watch My body Break down Slowlyyyyyyyy Inside this place. Each day, Work Breaks Down This form I can’t Get out of, And I never Seem to work Fast enough. All of us Bootips Pushing accross Factory’s floor Time our movements In 90-second Intervals To meet Bossmxn’s goals. Last month, We actuallyyyyyy Met the Production goal. Bossmxn left us A bowl of Candy on Upturned Bucket By the Heavy metal Stereo system, In place Of healthcare We were Promised. Bossmxn had Middle Sam Inform us Simply, The goalllllll Had changed. I don’t wanna give into anxiety about this shape called body. Because I know Bossmxn is afraid of bodies. I know the owning class is afraid of bodies because of how quickly workers turn to fighters. They are always surveilling us for moments of dissent because We are in a powder keg of bodies. Weight falls right off of me in the *ick factory What women call The Weight, honorific. And I am embarrassed! Like where did the rest of my body go? My plushie :( I get myself a fork and forget it Eat with my hands when the food is good Inside the factory, I can move freely (As long as Pu dna nwod Production lines) (senil noitcudorp Down and up Sa gnol sa) Walk outside, and police are filming our feet All the (everywhere) All the time. Gauzy maroon stain fantasy metal Lines of cartoon camera lenses wearing Ugly cop shoes you know the ones And they hate it when we yell out their names or serial numbers Classic Jack and Average Joey say “Ah leave it all at the door there are No politics in here mhm mhm,” and “We could do this forever.” Classic Jack works like automaton Would do this at home, too if they let him I fix a Zip tie through two belt loops, make the waistband smaller. Zip tie. Loop shut. Slip body Somebody Forgot to drill. I leave a note for us both, me and it, By pricking pencil through yellow sticky Needs hole I can see a line of women workers from where I’m installed on the factory floor. Nightmare girls. They shriek jokes and shreds of gossip to each other like hyenas, Their voices traveling across aisles, keeping the *ick factory big and vaulted. Mocking, Bouncy, Mournful laments. One boxer brief babygirl sees me lookin, and signals to me with her tongue Against the nozzle in her hand. All the objects around her pretend not to watch while the head of her pipe Goes from machined cylinder to bulbous growth Split five ways, Seedy inside splayed open to reveal squirming meat. Juice spills on the floor, wetting out dust in gorgeous circles around her boots. Oh and she Bites her outfit off It’s red inside. Mentally, I am pinning her onto my grid Waiting For our times tables to line up. The things I have to touch all day wanna pull all moisture out of me. Heavy pregnant plaster drums with smooth ridges in ghost creme Want my sweat and my Slip and my cum. We touch until my hands and lips are cracked. All while I keep my psychic tendrils tuned On the blur of movement across the way that is _her.mov When she splits off from the group of Amazonian worker women, I am right behind her. Traveling through rows of muck and fire to our one single- stall gender- neutral bathroom. I peel her cunt out of Slip caked denim. Suck the grime out Her eyes are on me, pretty, and her hands feel strong. We begin to smell less like workmetal, and more like animals. Anarchist girls only want one thing. And its fucking everything. So I give it to her. She cums all over me, saying something with her touch and pulse In a way the boss cannot surveil.

“Map of Factory” in 
Second Factory: Issue Four
Ugly Duckling Presse
(Brooklyn, NY)

Chapbook Saddle-stitched, Self-cover. 44 pp, 5.5 x 9 in
March 01, 2023

Buy for $7 from Ugly Duckling Presse

SECOND FACTORY: ISSUE FOUR

Alana Solin
Blue McCall
Brittany Dennison
Heesun Shin
Jackie Braje
Jancie Creaney
Jarrod Annis
Josh Stein
Kristen Steenbeeke
Kwame Daniels
Margaret Yapp
Matthew Valades
Nate Berneking
Nathaniel Rosenthalis
Oliver Dybing
Olivia Tse
Rosemary Carroll
sadé powell
Samara Skolnik
Tony Mancus
z.No scott

ART, CONCRETE POETRY, POETRY | $7

2022

Slip Wip: FANTASY INDUSTRIAL
Live at XHURCH
(Portland, OR)

Recorded Live at XHURCH in Portland, OR by
Ashley Ona Bott and Blue McCall on April 21, 2022.
TRT: 19:00

Broadcast April 28, 2022 in London, Manchester and
online on No Bounds Radio

Slip Wip: FACTORY EROTICA
On No Bounds Radio
(Manchester, UK & online)

Text, voice, and field recordings by Blue McCall.
Produced for No Bounds Radio by Jan Julius.
Poem edited by LA Warman.
TRT: 18:00

Broadcast May 1, 2021 in Manchester and online during No Bounds Radio’s International Worker’s Day Special

Rebroadcast May 2, 2021 in London on Repeater Radio by Repeater Books 

Broadcast Schedule: 1 May 2021, BST

Listen: here, here, or here to hear my favorite sound collages and DJ sets from May Day 2021

9:00 AM Shovel Dance Collective - May Day
09:30 AM Creg and his Grandad - My Grandad the Newspaper Printer
09:55- Ella Malt- Archival Workers' Mix

BREAK 10:55 - 11.15

11:15- Tendencies Bulletin - Tendencies Bulletin issue 3 launch!!!
12:15- Aimee and Anoul- Opiate of The Masses Mix
13:15- Natassja Barker- The State of Horse Free Lands

BREAK 13:33 - 13:45

13:45- Mimosa Collective - Attendant Emotions Mix
14:45- D03 3Y3S- Hillbilly Jewels
15:45- Blue- Slip Wip FACTORY EROTICA
16:03- Dámaso - Workers of the World, Tonight
16:15- Alberto Hepworth & DJ Aquatics- Money for Nothing
16:30 END