Tuesday 25 February 2014

This is how I imagined it might have gone... as spoken word

Another video. Ignore the dopey face:


Unfazed as spoken word

Following the advice of my friend and colleague Michelle Madsen (now a published poet. You should definitely buy her book), I'm trying out a few of my poems as spoken word, partly to see if it works and partly to try to get over my camera shyness:


Tuesday 18 February 2014

Unfazed


The earth is black, where
the fire has got to it,
scorched and bruised
where match and lighter fluid
met.

A mess. Dead and barren,
smoking still, awful in the
English late summer sun. Sadness
hangs in the thick, pungent
air, for a livelihood laid waste.

A field once bright and rich with
life, rent asunder by careless youth,
lies lifeless now, outside the window,
behind his house. He sets a stony
face against his ruin, but he is
caught unawares by something
unexpected

A heron. There’s no reason for this
bird in an inland island of dashed hope,
standing one leggedly, out of place and
lost. He laughs, before he can stop
himself, and stares for a full silent
five minutes, at the misplaced animal

until its wings swing wide, and white
and surprising in their big, open span,
unfazed by the death beneath its
feet.

Monday 17 February 2014

This is how I imagined it might have gone, if there had been an ending

You suck on the end
of your cigarette
its red eye
winking at me
in the failing light

Look, darlin'

you say

Look

With studied insouciance

A pause

Another deep drag
You take in a breastful
of white, whispering smoke
and blow it out
in precise curls
(A little cough
threatens to ruin
the effect,
though)

It's not you
or more specifically
it is you
You're not the you for me
and that's the problem

There's nothing wrong with you
per se
It's just there's nothing right
not right for me
at any rate
You're too good
and that means
you're not good enough

You were a transgression
I'll give you that
But you
just weren't
transgressive enough

Don't get me wrong, love
Having you wasn't bad
Don't look like that
It's just
you just didn't
cut the mustard
That's all

Cigarette burning down
you look at me
really look at me for the first time
and for a tiny fraction of a fraction
of a second
I think you're sorry
and then it's gone
like the winking red eye
winking out

I want to hate you
I wish I were angry
or even surprised
but
here we are
ending it
over a cigarette butt
(you've sucked one dry
already
in silence, slouching
and shifting from foot
to foot, scratching
your three-day stubble)
outside the tube station
and I just
don't

No hard feelings, darlin'
you mutter
with a squeeze of my shoulder
and you suck on your cigarette
one last time
in the failing light
before you go

Saturday 15 February 2014

Poems from my old blog

Streets (21/2/13)

There are crocodiles
That walk the streets
Round here
Jaws snapping
Coming for me
There are lions
And angry creatures
Unknown
And they catch at me
And snatch at me
And furiously try
To drag me down
Into the swamps
Of the streets
Round here
There are shadows
That whisper
And creep and claw
And swallow me whole
There is death
With his hood
And his scythe
And they try
Their very hardest
To make me one them
And make me part
Of the streets
Round here

Perfect (21/2/13)

I am made up
Of the things
That make you up
I am bound up
With you
And your bones and
Your flesh and your sinews
And I think sometimes
I made you up
Because you make
So much sense with me
And I don't know how
Or why or where
You came from
But I am glad
Very glad you did
And I want to go
Back to that place
And see
Whether there are more
Like you
More perfect men
I've never known

I wannabe (16/1/2013)

I am 26
Or nearly 27
I must admit
But at any rate
The point I'm
Trying to make
Is that
I'm too old
For this shit
I look at you
Hear you
Shoot a rhyme
Straight from the chest
And I guess
What I wonder is
Do I wannabe like you
All that pain
All that glory
All that terrible energy
Ripping you
At the seams
That desperation
To be heard
To tell your story
I don't know
You're all of 19
With these great ideas
And great big plans
And dreams
Dreams of being
The artist
The tortured soul
And maybe you are
I don't know
Because after all
your rhythm
And flow
Have that certain something
That ring of truth
And I wonder
If I'm too old
Or maybe just too
Plain vanilla
I mean I do have
The requisite
Drug habit
Prescribed of course
And I do have
Issues with depression
And repression
And regression
To dark
Places filled
With dark memories
But I wonder
Do I really wannabe
Like you
With your heart on your sleeve
The star of the show
The one with
All the
Places to go
I bet you think this song
Is about you
Don't you
But I'm not like you
No
I think maybe
I was once
At the very least
to some extent
But then again
I'm not from
London town
I can't spit riffs
On smoking spliffs
Or watching my friends die
No
I'm from bonny Blaydon
On the banks of the coaly Tyne
Aye
And I tell ya
What it is
I'd get the shit
Kicked out of us
For talkin' like this
Back there
And I wonder
If what I've got
Is worth the paper
It's written on
Maybe not
But the point
I'm trying to make
I think
Just to reiterate is
I don't think
I wannabe like you
Because at the end of it
Really
I'm too old for this shit

Your face (30/9/2012)

I look
At your face
And it says
Unfinished
Your face
Speaks
Silently
And I wonder
How
We got here

Trap (24/6/2011)

I am caught
In a body trap
With two minds
One to govern
My outward self
The other
Ungoverned
And convinced
I do not belong

Loved (29/5/2011)

The drugs make her sick
They quiver
In her stomach
And your face
Heaves into view
Swimming
Across her weary
Dank and dreary
Eyes
And music sounds
Plaintive and slow
And she wonders
Weakly
Whether you
Hero, sinner, child
Man, maybe
Ever really loved
Her
As she did you 

This

He breathes in deep and slow and
smiles wide
and lets the air slide out through
his teeth
whistling and old as it leaves
his lungs

His eyes are older than time
and his
skin is like a map of all the things
he’s done
and the places he has been
and the
women he has known and loved and
the ones
who taught him what he is about to
teach me

In the cracks and crevices around
those eyes
there’s a deep knowledge of all
the things
I wish I knew. And he says he will
share it
here and now, in this cold and new
and hard
and ugly place. What is happiness?
he asks

What is joy?
What is love?
What is pure, white
bright, unfiltered
bliss?

It’s this, he says, and waves his hand
in a
big, broad, comprehensive motion
it’s a
blue empty sky with the smell of
the sea
in it. It’s the coldest cold you’ve
ever been

when you think you might just
die there
and someone who knows your skin
pulls you
into their body and suddenly it’s
so warm
and you can feel the blood beating
in your
shared heart. It’s the end of the race
when you’ve

run so hard and far that you thought
you’d fall
and never find the way back home
It’s the
hard earth under your feet when
you thought
you were drowning. It’s the
wide blue
yonder. It’s the day you let go
of all

the hands and claws and chains
that stopped
you. It’s the first breath you take
without fear
It’s the one little grain of perfect
truth in
amongst all the dark and dirty lies

It’s hot sunshine and cool water.
It’s the
long, long, long days that seem
to last
forever. It’s throwing your arms
out wide
and screaming, I love you, I love you, I
love you

It’s everything
all at once
It’s life, life, life
It’s handstands
It’s having your
heart broken

and finding someone to pick the
pieces up
It’s you, here, now, with me
Alive
It’s words and music and big, mad
scary thrills
it’s everything you’ve ever wanted and
never knew

It's friends and flowers and letters
and hands
and feet and toes and tongue
and eyes
It's all the things you've ever felt
It’s this