Friday, 24 May 2013

Instant Crush

Hello World

I am writing to you from my sickbed wherein I lie with a face the size of Jupiter. I had a tooth taken out this week and really didn’t believe them when they said there would be swelling and bruising. I look like a very dejected, domestically abused Moomin. But worry not! I have of course taken a series of hilarious photos tracking the progress of it all, so I’ll share that with you when I’m better and we’ll all have a right old larf at my expense.

Anyway! I went to see Star Trek last week, so I’m going to review it for you here and now, though I may have to stop for a little nap halfway through because I’ve been living off rodent-sized helpings of yoghurt and flavoured water for the last few days. I know, I know, I’m a hero of the modern age and a “true survivor” of these harrowing times, but don’t embarrass me by going on about it. (NB, I started this on Wednesday, it's now Friday, so slightly more than a little nap...)

First of all, I LOVE Star Trek. I grew up watching it so there’s a special room in my heart where it luxuriates in the flowing rivers of sentimentality and oxygenated blood.

The main thing I noticed about this film is that everyone is really good at running and jumping. And I mean really good. Spock was particularly impressive when it came to running and adding little twirls in the air, as you can see from the photograph below.

The second thing of note was that Benedict Cabbagepatch was wonderfully involved with the emotions of his character. Emotions of note: sad, crying, serious, stony and being horrific.

I’d also like to bring attention to the fact that William Shatner is being played by Chris Pine in this film and I want to applaud his triangular chin. I mean, I have literally never seen a chin so pointy. His chin is a Pythagorean dream made real.

Overall this film is alright. There are several lines that have clearly been shoehorned in to reference the classic TV series and while several people around us in the cinema did a bit of clapping, I have to say I found them momentarily cringey. But Star Trek wouldn’t be Star Trek without a cheesy script and a bunch of fanboys whacking off because they get the joke.

I would like to give this film 19 tribbles out of 6 sexually appealing jumpsuits. 

Friday, 3 May 2013

Turn the Dial

Well, wow. It’s been a bloody long time since I wrote a movie review, innit! Also quite a while since I blogged at all. Sozzzzzzzz ‘bout that, yo! It’s just that…“because of all the mental things that happened to me. I got shallow. And my physical being could have been improved, as well as my mentality.” Literally 1 million points to whoever gets THAT cheeky wee film reference!

As is tradition, I’ll be reviewing a film that’s been bustin’ dem blocks off their rockers. By which I mean Iron Man Third, obviously.

The first thing you should know about this film is that there are LOTS of sunglasses in it. Like, we’re talking a stupidly large array of sunglasses. Nearly every time Tony Storks is on screen he has a different pair of sunglasses on. I sat through the entire film with bated breath, wondering what kind of sunglasses he would be wearing next. I found myself being worked up into a harrowing frenzy. When we were two thirds into the film, I had panic vomited four times.

It may be the case that Tony Storks wanted to give each of his new iron boyfriends their own pair of snappy sunglasses, because there were roughly 600 other iron mans in this film, all of whom had a different outfit and different powers of seduction to get Tony Storks inside them. I’m just speculating though, because we, the audience, are never given an explanation as to why Mr Storks is always sporting a different pair of sunglasses.

My favourite was Fat Iron Man, who had very little head but quite a lot of shoulder.

My other favourite bit was when Tony Storks was inside one of the irons men and he asked Pepper Potts to kiss him on the mouth clit. Pepper Potts is no fool, however, and avoided that mouth clit like the plague. Maybe she was mad that she didn’t get a pair of sunglasses? We can never know, because the huge numbers of sunglasses that feature in this film are never explained.

Overall, and despite all my anxiety over the sunglasses, I enjoyed this film in an average to above average way. Tony Storks is a sassy hero who loves hitting the baddies with one liners almost as much as he likes destroying their insides with weapons illegally produced in his basement without any kind of government checks or regulations.

I give this film 8 million pairs of sunglasses out of 1 movie from the Iron Man franchise. 

Tuesday, 9 April 2013

Your Terry Underwear

I spent most of the day in a train today, so I wrote a poem about being on a train. I think people will be able to relate really well to this, because trains look like snakes and everyone knows what snakes are. If you have any problems though, do let me know. 

High lights, low nights! Much love x

On a Train in Spring

Hands up who’s been witness to a sheep
in a field, smashed to bits and sinking?
Really? I’m the only lucky soul?
Well, slap me in the face with an arable documentary.

A woman opens a bottle of water, carefully.
Ain’t nothin’ like a pack lunch to make you feel
like Nigella fucking Lawson. It’s incredible
what an egg salad sandwich can do for your self-esteem.

I huddle in for a team talk. I hear myself say,
“Every one of us was made to suffer,
every one of us was made to weep.”
Life is a parched silence without these moments.

Out in the field they’re readying the soil.
The sun-dried chunks of dirt lie
like the mistreated organs of my circulatory system.
With a little water they’ll be fine. 

Thursday, 4 April 2013

You Should Subscribe


Going a bit old skool tonight 'cause I can't write. As a writer, that's pretty annoying. In other news I'm listening to the preview of the new Yeah Yeah Yeahs album. So far, I'm saying Yeah. I'm orf to see 'em in May so now I'm super excited :)

Anyway, I'm going to Edinburgh tomorrow which will probably be harrowing and lovely in equal measures. But what's life without love and harrows? It ain't an awful lot, brothers, I can tell you!

Hope you're all well and wonderful. The poem is fairly self-explanatory.

NaPoWriMo day 4. Enjoy!

On Being an Outcast

I sit down in the old Sunday school
for my weekly Pariahs Anonymous meeting.
The group speaker stands up.
“Unwelcome to you all,” he says.
Everybody leaves, buoyed for another week
with boundless self-depreciation.

47 Minutes Late

Shiiiiiiiiit, I am WELL late tonight. Sozzer, it's all down to my hectic social calendar. Await no longer. Here is a poem about lost love and lost friendship and live political views.

NaPoWriMo Day 3!

In the Aftermath of Whixley Burbage

Today I saw a dog posing for a photograph; Whixley Burbage, an old friend of mine. We used to snort coke together and cruise around in his Maserati, looking for bitches. How our times have changed.

I remember the days we did everything in a circle. Have you any idea how difficult it is to loop water? Whixley was testing me, that bastard. Some days he wore only a cummerbund, just to prove his point.

Once, he said to me, “If a pony belongs to a gypsy and the gypsy is always laughing, does the pony really exist?” Then he bit into a sweet potato and said, “I can has?” That’s when I knew things had gone too far.

“Whixley,” I said. “Dude, why you gotta act so loco all the time? Boi gotta eat, man, I know that, but this a poison too far.” Whixley laughed and said, “Bitches be crazy.” We never saw one another again.

Until this morning that is; this newly-wed-excitement of a morning. He was so different. He was dressed as a racist trying to blend in with the rest of society. Did you know that racists wear jeans now?

Whixley was always very left wing. “When I say ‘OVERTHROW’, you say ‘A DEEPLY CORRUPT SYSTEM OF OFFENSIVE FINANCIAL OPPRESSION!’” is what would chant in clubs when the beat was right.

Oh Whixley; you’re a twatbag. You broke my heart and called it progress. I would have cradled you. I would have taken you in my arms and listened to your sadness like it was a song. Like it was something that mattered.

Walking away from the scene I feel like an unseen extra in a movie, who is only there to make the leads feel like they’re really living it all. I touch my hair and somebody calls a cut. I can’t even get that right anymore.

Tuesday, 2 April 2013

Press Play to Hear


Didn't realise the time today, I've been so busy watching this amazing We've Become Mango video that I lost track of the entire world.

Writing has been entirely work-based today I'm afraid so I've found it difficult to slip back into creative mode, which is why I've written a wee haiku. And if anyone thinks that haiku aren't difficult, this bastard took me TWO HOURS. And I'm still not happy with it, so screw you!

Hope you're all well and behaving yourselves in a true and proper fashion befitting of your wonderful natures.  You're my heroes.

NaPoWriMo Day 2!


The loose leaf of speech
crackles across the valley;
our modest forum.

Monday, 1 April 2013

After a Hiatus

Well, it looks like the Rattle Bag got a new look, doesn't it? The old one was getting pretty tired and as our pal F. Scott said, “Youth is a dream, a form of chemical madness.” So since a sorry chapter of my youth is now over and done with, apparently it's time to move on.

And so I shall move, completely naturally, to the point. *casually places hand to hip and leans towards you with an awkward jaunt* Say folks, did y'all know that April is National Poetry Writing Month? You didn't? Why, then it's lucky I'm here, isn't it? I don't know, is it? Is anything really down to luck? Or are we all just swimming through a cesspit of indecision, constantly searching for the small glances of light that help to guide us in our choices?

Whatever you believe, I'm going to be posting some more poetry this month. I KNOW! You were all super depressed when I stopped last week, and unlike a lot of people, I actually feel guilt, so I could deny you no longer! Be safe, be calm, be loved by being lovers.

NaPoWriMo Day 1!

The Scar

Out in the garden there’s a scar
shaped like a fat-lipped mouth fighting off sickness.
If you speak to it, you’ll come away
feeling like a sack of vehement diarrhoea,

the kind that keeps you up all night;
the kind that makes you pull at your flesh
and cry for the safe slogans
of your mother’s voice.

The more you press the scar
the more violently it will attack
with the little spears of livid grass
that have rooted around its stubborn edges.

I read somewhere recently that I’m a liar.
That scar would sing blue murder
to keep itself out of the shit.
But we can’t trust a word I say now, can we?

Monday, 25 March 2013

The Alternate Ending


Now to the real business of the day, my 40th poem in as many days. I started doing this whole thing as a journey of personal enlightenment. I am not even LYING when I say this small block of 40 days has been one of the strangest periods of my entire life. And as 25 year olds go I've had a pretty weird life. Not braggin', jus' sayin' yo.

So I guess I really have learnt a lot. I've realised that I have the best gang of friends a gal could ever hope to find, and you're all perfect in your own imperfect ways. This has all been for you. I mean, not really, I literally just said it was very personal, but you know...what I'm trying to say is, thanks for being there and shit.

I wrote this poem way back at the start of the challenge and have been gently tweaking it throughout the whole process. It's aaaaall about personal enlightenment, so rather fitting. It's almost as though I planned it. Imagine that, me, forward planning! What on EARTH.

Anyway, this is the end. OR IS IT? DAY 40.

The Minus Owl

On the third day
the owl flew out to me.

“Any milk today?” it said.
“Don’t mock me,” I said.
“And those feathers aren’t fooling anyone.”

“Axe to grind?”
“How can I take you seriously?” I said,
adjusting my noose.

The owl clicked its beak
and rode off on the sound.

I picked up a stone
and cursed it.

“There, now you won’t ever be loved.”

And I threw it back in the dirt
where it came from.

On the tenth day,
the owl flew out to me.

“What do you hate?” it said.
“When you’re playing a game,” I said.
“And somebody cheats.”

“What’s a game?”
“A party I’m not invited to,” I said.
I looked off wistfully.

The owl laughed its way
out of the scene.

I spent a whole day
putting different wigs on a whale.

“What you need to understand is, I’m unemployed.”

I heard that whale
works in Hollywood now.

On the eighteenth day
the owl flew out to me.

“What do you want?” it said.
“Just a mile or so of solidity,” I said.
“Something to keep me going.”

“Where are you going?”
“Where have you been?” I said,
remembering how scared I was.

The owl nodded,
getting into a car.

I picked through the rubble,
looking for artefacts.

“I’m really starting to appreciate the dust of a place.”

I wrote my name with a stick,
seeing it exist for the first time in years.

On the last day,
the owl flew out to me.

“What do you have?” it said.
“My body,” I said.
“And the teeth of a survivor.”

“What did you ever survive?”
“Life,” I said. “At least this long.”
I held out my arms, shaping the years.

The owl gave a hoot
and was gone.

Saturday, 23 March 2013

A Certain Substance

Happy Saturday, folks! 

I'm still bloody well snowed in and it's really boring and cold. Got some heavy beats laid down for my novel today though, which I guess is a good thing. 

Today's poem is all about the realistic terrors one goes through when faced with a life that has briefly crumbled before your eyes. You just gots to scoop them pieces into a cellophane bag and throw them off a cliff, otherwise they'll get real mouldy and start to impinge on your brand new life, which, though it may be a little slow to begin with, it going to be a thousand times better than the old one because you're not carrying around a dead weight of rancidity. Glean from that what you will my darlings.

Day 38! (Scary number!)

The Four Stages of Overcoming Defeat

Stage 1 involves covering your face with PVA glue
and singing along with the microwave.
Become a bed. Let everything inside you fall asleep.

Draw 1 inch of water and then eat the paper.
You are ready for Stage 2.
Carve a story of the sea onto the back of a chocolate bar.

Sell it to a sheikh for a thousand apologies.
With them, buy yourself a new backpack;
we’ll be going on a hike.

Whitewash a cabbage and use it as a snowball
against the fiends of the mountain.
They might look like thin air,

but they’re definitely going to try and kill you.
Take ‘em down to advance to Stage 3.
Stay in for twelve years waiting for a phone call.

Stage 4 arrives when you realise what a fool you’ve been,
at which point you will stand up, turn once around
and be transported to a train station of yesteryear.

Get on the train and don’t look back.  

Friday, 22 March 2013

Feeling or Showing

Fellow travellers, how are you?

I've been snowed in today, which is surreal, given the date. But it's a strange old world we live in I suppose. Anyway, here's today's poem...I appear to have been channelling Sophie's Choice, despite never having seen the film. I think it's probably because Meryl Streep and I are sisters and we have a very close bond. 

Nearly done now, day 37!

The Supercilious Technique

If you grip your teeth like that
they won’t thank you for it.
Those little sheep
in the pasture of your mouth
need to be free to graze
when they want to.

Leaving something behind
was never going to be easy.
But you pick a favourite child
for a reason.

Give it one turn of your body,
swift and unyielding.
There will be pain,
there always is,
but when your muscles begin to forget
you’ll wonder what it was you were ever holding on to.

Thursday, 21 March 2013

A Proper Title


Yes, everyone, it's World Poetry Day. It's almost as if I timed my challenge to coincide. That sounds like sarcasm, it's not, I didn't. What I have done is gone and rit you a poem about being a poet and what it means and ting. I hope you've read lots of other poems and written loads yourself and just given poetry to respect it deserves for at least one bloody day out of the thousands you have/will live. 

Peace and poems guys!

Day 36

On Being a Wack Poet, Yo!

I mistook a set of garden furniture
for a small urban horse.
It was all downhill from there, really.

Like complimentary porcelain figurines
the words purchased themselves
and stood in the living room of my pages.

It’s one of those chapter-less books,
so I never know where I am
or when to stop.

Wednesday, 20 March 2013

Of All The Named

Hey hey hey!

So, I've spent the day coming up with alternate life plans and buying large envelopes. That's right, ENVY ME. But for reals, this poetry lark is taking its toll on my inner tubes and whatnot. 

Just as a joke, answer me, who would read a novel I'd written? Not that I really HAVE written it, but it's coming along, and I'm pretty sure that if I sent some positive public opinion polls garnered from my very own blog to the agents I'm going to approach, they would DEFINITELY want to add me to their books. So do me a favour, tell people I'm a writer and that I'm coming to write the shit out of them, yeah? Thx bbz.

Day 35, love to you.

The Book Of

In the beginning,
we went to a pearl
and asked for forgiveness.
The pearl said,
“Let he who is without a stone
cast the first line.”
And with that, fishing was born
and all the people were saved.

We cut out small stars from our skin
and cooked them into a stew
so that we might taste
the darkness of universe.
Our mothers and fathers didn’t trust us
with the sharp knives,
but when we served the meal,
they sat back and thought it was good.

They say there are cabbages out there
that are bigger than houses;
so big in fact they hollow them out
and have people live in them,
like giant molluscs.
There, they make lists
of everything that could improve
at the hands of anyone but themselves.

We’re all born in black and white,
coming out of the dark room,
pleased with our exposure.
In the end, everything is a sea
and we have drowned and drowned again
searching for a precious stone.
Wandering through the suburb of my mind
the streets ring with nothing.

Tuesday, 19 March 2013

Missed the Programme

Ommmmmmg! I'm in a good mood for the first time in about 2 weeks! Cray cray innit? I wrote this poem off the bat and haven't had time to look over it properly - I did not realise how late the hour. So yeah, I think it might be a bit odd, but really, that's kind of my speciality, so I suppose things are just moseying along nicely. I also think it's not quite finished, but I AM stupidly tired just now, probably because I've got SWINE FLU or some other retro illness that everyone has forgotten about.

Hope you're all in good spirits. Let's just really try to end war, yeah?

Day 34.

On the Requirement of Sleep

When they said, “What do you know about birds?”
it felt like an accusation.
I told them I didn’t know anything,
that whatever birds were mixed up in,
it had nothing to do with me.
I hadn’t seen birds in years;
we move in different circles.

I took out a pen and a city emerged from the tip.
I said, “This is where we’ll all live one day,
when the heat leaves for a better party.”
And they said, “If you can only see life
through a square window,
how do you ever expect to be anything but square?”
They had me on the ropes.

I realised we were at sea.
They handed me a telescope and said,
“What’s that on the horizon?”
I fell, eye first, through the slim brass tube,
the scent conjuring hours spent
desperately trying not to eat dirt.
At the end of it, I saw a little grey man.

“It’s sleep!” I cried. “He’s coming this way!”
And so he was, rippling, like a punch in slow motion.
“He doesn’t want to see you,” they said.
“Your heart rate is disrespectful.
Your name is all you have left.”
My face fell, splitting into exactly one million pieces,
scattering like a handful of chickenfeed. 

Monday, 18 March 2013

Little Place

Bloody days, eh? If it wasn't for the threat of vitamin D deficiency, I'd wish for it to be night all the time so that I could sleep bloody well LOADS. But that's mostly because I'm starting to worry about getting wrinkles under my eyes from a lack of good quality rest. It's important, okay guys? Please bear it in mind when you're thinking about being awake all night.

Here's the effort of day 33 anyway...

The Glass

When I look out of the window,
I could cry. Simple tears,
like those of a dog without a treat.
Haven’t we all felt this teenaged?

I’ve always been a 99% empty kinda gal.
The 1% is only there as a buffer
between the glass of my soul
and the outside that presses down on it.

Oh leaves, you don’t know anything,
you innocent bastards.
And colours, which child’s psyche
did you vomit your way out of?

I have come to unknow the world,
through all its perjury.
The sun was built to burn us,
who are we to question that?

Sunday, 17 March 2013

Any Connotations's another poem about being upset about ends of eras and shit. Alright, alright, I know! I keep going on about it, and I'm sorry. I'm just using poetry to purge, k? When it's all over, we'll all be better people for it and we'll have a right old knees up, drinks on me*, right? (*I'm not buying anyone any drinks. I'll be having all of the drinks. All of them.)

Oh, and ST PATRICK'S DAY, isn't it? Yes, that. 

Day 32...

Grand Canyon

So you took a melon baller to my faculties
and scooped them clean out of me.
I just thought we were getting ready for a party,
but the empty skin that is left of me
doesn’t really feel like dancing.

It’s hard to pinpoint
the exact moment of ending.
There was no swell of music,
no credits, no spongy clouds of popcorn
stuck to the soles of our shoes.

They say the Grand Canyon
was just a hairline crack once;
that the earth saw it getting bigger,
while the sky blindly tried to fill the gap.
I guess you could say the earth is a secretive asshole,

but where’s the use in that now?
That old canyon serves its purpose.

Saturday, 16 March 2013

Slow Guitar

Today has been largely unproductive, although I did decide to move to Canada, so that's something. But then I remembered I don't have any money, so it's just another dream dashed. Here is a poem about feelings and shit.

On Being Irrepressibly Angry

I have triggers,
just like everybody else.
And once they’ve been pulled,
it’s hard to get the bullets back in.

Friday, 15 March 2013

Free, Expressive, Exaggerated

Dear readers of my blog, also known as friends

I didn't post a poem yesterday. I'm very disappointed in myself, but in my defence, I HAD given up my dream of becoming a writer after one too many let downs (it's been the week from Satan's arsehole, NOT EVEN KIDDING), so trying to write a poem just felt indecent. However, I woke up this morning and decided I wasn't quite ready to let the dream die. SO I'VE WRITTEN A POEM AGAIN FOR TODAY! 

I'll just tack an extra day on at the end of the challenge to make up for the indiscretion. This is an older poem that has been completely reworked for the modern era. And also because people who read it first time round said it was too balls-out weird to make any sense. This one will also be dedicated to a good friend of mine, because she was one of those people who read it first, and also just because she's awesome. 

Talk my advice folks, live slow, die old. PEACE OUT.

Bearwood: An Introduction

Upon arriving in Bearwood, I found the place strange and myself strange in it. The train pulled away like a disillusioned lover and I stood obtuse in the smoke. After several months of lobbying, a busboy was elected to handle my trousseau.

The Bearwood Arms lies between two classic eras of history. I was shown to an attic room by a small curse of a man called Tripe McKenna. He told me he had known my father, when my father was not more than a chilly, moor-wandering whippet.

Three days later The Captain arrived at my door dressed as a piƱata shaped like an old naval captain. “Warum bist du hier?” he asked. I handed over the advert I had nursed from the paper: “Bearwood – Professional person wanted, must have own organs. Time travellers need not apply.”

His moustache billowed. It was made up of gaunt Edwardian ghosts, each one locked there by an earthly woe. “Follow me please,” he said, leading me through the dance of a lifetime. As we krumped across the village green, I smelt hazelnuts on the air and life was good.

In the post office, Mrs Gherkin looked me up and down with her cold, obese eyes. “And she’s never travelled through time, you say?” she asked. “No ma’am,” The Captain told her. She went to the oven and took out a key.

“You’ll be staying with the train driver. He has an unhelpful disposition but you shan’t go wrong with his knowledge of the Bearwood catacombs. The grass has been telling tales this past lambing season; too many heads break the neck, if you catch my drift?”

I hadn’t a clue what she meant so I reached into my case, took out a defaced copy of The Anubis Gates and a garrotte wire and laid them on the counter. Mrs Gherkin smiled, revealing not teeth, but minute hula dancers hung from her gums in tiny cages. “They like you,” she said.

And with that I secured my position as the Bearwood Mystery Solver.

Wednesday, 13 March 2013

A Natural State


Just a teeny tiny poem today I'm afraid. Don't really know what else to say about it...I guess I've always liked that word, muscovado, and now I've gone and made it into art. Or not art, whatever.

Day 29.

Seeking Help from Inanimate Objects

Oh muscovado sugar,
if you can’t do it, no one can.
Unfortunately you are sugar
and can do little more
than flirt with cake mix.

Tuesday, 12 March 2013

Stiff Upper Lip

Life, you defeat me. But only briefly. And not brutally enough to stem the poetry, amaright? Yeah, I am. 

I've also convinced myself I've skipped about 10 days or summink...are we really on day 28 already? I'm lost...

On Feeling

If you were to count the footprints
that crowd my face,
you could walk from here to hell.
Tough luck innit, kid?

Looking at the backs of my hands,
I hardly know them.
They’re like the first day at school,
shaking and too small.

What can anyone achieve like this?
Who can bounce around the roulette wheel
and avoid landing in the black?
Chance has a hundred fingers

stretching the length of the country,
getting into every corner,
exposing every curve of fear
to leave you looking like a fool.

I poured my feelings into a giant rubber ear
and buried it in a secret place.
It’s just what people have come to expect now
from a maverick like me.

Monday, 11 March 2013

The Cusp of the Wave

My mind is elsewhere again today, so I'm afraid it's another journey through my back catalogue. We'll try afresh tomorrow.

War Biographer

The War paces back and forth,
restless in his agitation.
“I’m not all bad, you know?” he says,
turning to me, his hands wrung almost to powder.
“I had a life once; parents. Lovers.
But you can’t escape destiny, can you?”

He lights a Camel cigarette, sits down to regroup.
Across his face I see the scars so chronicled:
the small, country-shaped burns,
the trenches gouged into his forehead.
His eyes never stop moving.
I find myself drifting across his map.

He’s on his feet again, snapping me back.
“Let’s talk tactics,” I say.
“Must we? There’s so much more to me than that.”
“Okay,” I consider him for a moment. “Favourite book?”
“The Bridges of Madison County.”
Unexpected. I cross and uncross my legs.
“Movie?” I ask.
“Basic Instinct.”

Are we flirting right now?

The War gazes out of the window,
his fingers hung from the end of his hands
like long stems of wheat.
“You know, I’m a very wealthy man,” he says.
“So I’ve heard.”
“I have a condo in the heart of every human being.
I could take you to yours if you like?”

His eyes are trained on me
and black as bullets. 

Sunday, 10 March 2013

Some Were Betrayed

I've never been one to give up on a sequence, and I'll be damned if I do it now. Day 26, you're up, you bastard.

On Finding Out

Just when we thought it couldn’t get blacker,
the sun goes down.
A sickness blisters.

The ceiling holds an indefinable answer,
though to stare
is to let the minutes
tremble from your eyes.
They loop the neck to strangle,
every breath less real in its certainty.

What have we been doing all these year?
The faded games of unknowing
sound in our ears
as uncontrolled explosions,
taking us by surprise
like lost cities.
Like the noises we make
when we’re dying.

Saturday, 9 March 2013

The Bitch of Living

What's that I hear you cry, dear readers? Do I have another morose poem for you today? Why yes I do! Soz about all the feelings, guys...I'm in the grip of one of life's major heartbreaks. I ain't the first and by sure as heck ain't gon' be the last, but it's apparently manifesting itself through my work (and the monotonous hours of crying and wanting to vomit), so you're just going to have to DEAL, right? Right. I'm glad we're on the same page. Literally! LOL, see, I can still be funny! *insert fart noise*. 

Day 25, whut whut!

Dull Days

The clock is harbouring secrets.
What time was it you left?
When was I really alive?
Happiness is a temporary disguise.
Underneath it we are all in the clutches of longing,
longing for that underappreciated past.
We can say, “Today was a good day.
I did not cry,” but what does that mean, really?

I had forgotten how good it felt
to taste water after a meal.
So much has changed.
One day, we will wonder
where these days went,
wonder why we sprinkled them away
like salt from clammy fingertips.
The threads, once so tightly woven,
are working their way loose.
We grow slack with despair.

Friday, 8 March 2013

My Heart Will Be Blessed

Hey hey guys and girls!

So it's taken me 'til now (21:19pm) but I've written a proper poem about things other than the shadowy women who hide in my imagination. I fell back on my favourite form, the PROSE POEM - is it a story? Is it a poem? WE JUST DON'T KNOW. So we say that it's a bit of both. In fairness, if I added a few more line breaks, no one would ever know, because my cadence is so fucking right on! WOO YEAH! Poetry Masters FTW!

Anyway, I hope you enjoy it. While it's about anyone working in a job that they might not be too keen on, it's going to be dedicated to a good friend of mine, who I cannot name for legal reasons, but they're definitely NOT made up. 

Day 24.

On Office Work

Another chilled out fucker of a morning. The sun is just throwing off its preshow nerves and the leaves mutter something about Pernod. A beautiful song about latent life expectations revolves in my ears while the small plastic ballerina makes me feel so terribly ample.

Someone has left a tiny shoe on my desk. I put my bag on the hook and it hangs like a German paratrooper caught in the solid arms of an oak tree, dying. I take out my paperwork and begin circling the tittles. I’m told it will help to emphasise the writer’s point.

I leave and re-enter the room. For some reason Colette is crying; that awful middle-aged, dry-crying that seems so much less real. “We’re just having a moment,” Janet says. We’re always having moments, Janet, that’s how the semantic reasoning of Time works for humans.

The sobs continue all afternoon, each one connected, jointed, a skeleton of misery scaffolding around us, holding us up as the 3 o’clock slump approaches. Oh for a mirror to smash my face through, that I might truly see the reflection of my agony.

I gaze out of the window with all the abject air of classic Hollywood. A fat dog sits by a bin, his spindly legs splayed like a bunch of keys that belong to an old manor house where a hundred ghosts have gathered for a series of lectures on spooky poetry.

By the end of the day, my elbows are flat as northern vowels. I try to eat a banana, but feel like it’s laughing at me. As I leave, a percussion band follows me with the sound of ironic rain. The dog looks up at me with a sad smile that says, “I used to be just like you.”