Pleonastic Fantastic

Limbo

2010-09-24T07:15:00.001-07:00

I’ve been trapped in Limbo
For a while now, for a while now
The lights are pretty dim, low.
And it’s a bit colder somehow

I’ve been trapped in Limbo
But it’s okay, but it’s okay
It’s not exactly grim, though –
The skies a little grey.

And – I live in the North, I know.
So you’d think I’d be alright.
But there’s something about Limbo
There’s something in the light

It doesn’t feel like a light should.
I still see it – crystal clear and all
It glistens, like a varnished wood.
But it doesn’t shine, it falls.

Like a necessity, like a dead weight
I’ve been trapped in Limbo
Where I don’t occur, I wait.
And the seconds are so slim, slow.

Video-groan

2010-09-09T12:45:00.001-07:00

HAIKU OF THE DAY

2010-08-26T15:49:00.001-07:00

NEW FEATURE: Where, when I am not writing poems I will write lazy Haikus EVERY DAY for the rest of my life. Until I get old. And shakey. Aw.

I'm hungrier now.
Since I gave up on being
A massive cake whore.

DON'T MIND ME

2010-08-25T15:43:00.001-07:00

Caput Mortuum

I care not for the manner in
Which I retrieve my Anadin
But I require Aspirin
I dare not ever grasp the gin

That did this to my head again
That killed dignity dead like when
I chose to rap to Eminem
Whilst chasing wine with M&Ms

My music blog

2010-08-17T18:26:00.001-07:00

I sometimes write about musical things. Often that thing is music.

Scissorsinthejukebox.blogspot.com

I've been awful with all these plugs today. I should call an electrician.

I should also write funnier jokes.

Things that don't happen often

2010-08-17T18:21:00.000-07:00

My name on a poster. A poster with squirrels on.

Come on down, folks! It'll be a lark probably. We all love a good lark

Borderline

2010-08-17T18:06:00.000-07:00

I sometimes think I’m borderline.
But don’t say that out loud
‘Cause talk like that makes chairs recline
Soft mumbles in the crowd

I sometimes think I’m borderline
But don’t look at me like that
Or think I’m slurping Bourdeux wine
That’s not the point I’m at.

I didn’t mean that I was borderline
Insane, ‘cause that’s a bit dramatic
I’m bored of life. I’m bored of mine.
So more - borderline erratic.

This isn’t my tragic decline
More like a tragic stumble
It’s not even technically a whine
More like a blasé grumble.

I sometimes think I’m borderline
And people jump up in a floozy
But that doesn’t mean that I’m not fine
It just means I’m a bit choosy.

You

2010-08-06T16:53:00.001-07:00

Dedicated to you. It was always you, darlings.

My attempt to be poetic
Involves being aesthetically
Magnetic, like kinetic energy.

Using metre to perfection
Involves inputting exceptional
Inflections into witty commentary

My attempt to impress you lot
Who all think that Harry Potter's
Got an awful lot ot offer more than me

Will at times fall into trouble
But my love for you is bubbling
To double what it was previously

As a poet - it's my duty
To deliver to you beautiful
And fruity words so listen carefully

These moments we are sharing now
Are timeless and will no doubt tower
Through thousands of now pointless memories

Well let's face it, I am flummoxed
And am having trouble stomaching
My dumb luck when you first looked up at me

In fact it's just implausible
That you exist or your applause is
Audible at all - extraordinary

You're brimming with intelligence
You're relevant and elegantly
Decadent - and well - that's nice for me

You - with your little funny heads
You - with oleaginous beauty spreading
Far ahead of my dishonesty

May I squeeze your collective cheek
And waggle lobes 'til my knees weaken
And I'm meek with inferiority

You with your sparkling wit
That dangles across your pretty
Mouths oft hits me with a harsh anxiety

You with your pert figures
That in turn make my giggles
Linger as you wiggle your posteriors at me

Some would say that's inappropriate
Behaviour for a poetry lot
But for me - it's so so necessary.

You - with your weird ears
That some would call endearing
But my dear - they just look a bit silly

You with your increasingly angry brow
That makes your eyes tower
Over countless levels of my dignity

You who haven't returned my calls
In 3 weeks - with galling
Excuses that cause such embarrassment with BT

You with - decrepit beauty
That you torture me with beautifully
Hot booty that exists to tempt me

But despite it all I love you
And I know you would be clueless
If you ever were without my poetry

So I'll stay up here forever
Reciting exciting and clever
Verse for you until the end of eternity

Because without you - I'm just a sad
Act, stood up here with scribble pad
So for that I'm glad that you are you

So I guess I'll just be me.

Sky

2010-07-30T20:56:00.001-07:00

Divine chasm caressing the air
Azula lingers low
Celestial beauty’s hidden lair
The Jerry Springer Show

Lustrous lanterns light the scope
Of wistful heat in waves
Pearly provinces of hope
Top Gear repeats on Dave

Twinkling canvas darkens - slow
Encased in misty hands
The golden summit fades below
New Movies on Demand

A Paradise of listless blue
A white swirling marquee
Utopia where once Icarus flew
Loose Women in HD

Arcadian blanket coats the world
A new era is born
Exquisiteness of life unfurled
Old Australian Porn

The delicate grace that I chase
The reason to the ‘Why’
I cannot leave this blessed place
The one that I call ‘Sky’.

Best Thing Ever #2: Krave

2010-03-28T17:54:00.000-07:00

What is it: Krave is a fairly new cereal conceived by Kelloggs. (Are there any other cereal manufacturers anyway? Hmm. Food for thought.) Krave is a deliciously chocolatey crunchy..thing, little square shells with a delicious Nutella-stylee centre.

Why is it the best thing ever: Well that was sort of explained just a few lines above, but it is also the source of many happy (hungover) memories for me with me and my friends. I don't get drunk that often (Why would I? When I am simply so high on life. Do you hate me yet?) but when I do - the morning after can ease the queasy feeling that something simply awful has happened with some perculiar little shells of chocolate. I have never eaten them with my milk, that would ruin the 'enigma' and make them ordinary. ANYTHING after the world of Krave is meaningless, pointless and void. Special K is Bullshit.

Best Thing Ever - A Homage to 'The Room'

2010-03-28T17:01:00.000-07:00

Hello. Did you ever wonder what the best thing ever was? You couldn't be more wrong. Unless you just murmured 'the room' to yourselves in your lonely laptop lit rooms?

I'm sure if you are net-savvy you will already know it. But basically it was a film conceived by Tommy Wiseau..blahblahblah Wikipedia link: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Room_(film)

Now you're all up to date:
Let me show you the most intense beauty in the world, encapsulated here:

New poem..not quite sure if I like it. It's a bit 'serious'

2010-03-28T15:31:00.000-07:00

My Anamnesis

Sometimes - our memories trap us.
Sometimes we try and stop.
Ignore that unremitting buzz
That makes our faces drop

Those shadowed holes that fritter
And stain our coloured thoughts
Distorting them like litter;
Then leave us overwrought.

At least they do to me.
And boy, will I cling
On to every bad memory
And every bad feeling

And inspect it, and dissect it
‘Til it’s butchered and it’s void
But regret I won’t forget it
Lest I turn to Sigmund Freud.

And swiftly come to the conclusion
That I’m fine in all respects
And that my faulty brain intrusion
Was uncharted need for sex

Sig my friend, its’ not that easy
This is unrelenting sadness
Which is why I’m feeling queasy
Not a vast erotic madness

To be honest, I’d prefer that;
To be feeling sexually deviant
Acting as a human welcome mat
Would be slightly more convenient

Than this swift loss of composure
Mark my name in your last thesis
That I’m simply needing closure
For my murky anamnesis.

My anamnesis is in pieces
And I don’t know what to do
As my momentum increases
And I’m stuck without a clue

Of how to fix it, my exquisite
Thoughts of good times and the bad
This isn’t normal, is it?
To be this sort of sad

And to swim in contemplations
That you cannot change again
Analyzing concentrations
That happened god knows when

And to delve into my cluttered psyche
To pick a single thought
About a moment I chose to dislike
Slightly more than I ought.

Basically - these feelings trap us
And we dwell dwell dwell
Upon a moment that is hapless
With emotions that then swell

Into a mammoth lack of grace
That snags my throat onto a hook
And screams with fury in my face
That I deserve to feel this stuck.

And I deserve to feel this hollow
If I continue looking back
Unless of course I choose to swallow
This insistence to backtrack

Sometimes our minds form fingers
That caress our quivering cheeks
And force ourselves to linger
On our memories most bleak

But luckily, some fingers break
Especially metaphorical
So violent acts to induce ache
Are fine, if allegorical

Especially when memories hurt
And secretly we fall to pieces
But outside we can all avert
Our inner anamnesis.

I have been neglecting the blog!

2010-03-03T16:22:00.000-08:00

Well slap me silly.
I'm back now.

BLOGGING DONE.

100 tracks from the Noughties

2009-11-22T11:38:00.001-08:00

Lily Allen - The Fear
Outkast - Hey Ya
The Strokes - The Modern Age
Yeah Yeah Yeahs - Maps
JayZ vs. The Beatles - 99 Problems/Helterskelter
Daft Punk - Harder, Better, Stronger, Faster
Modest Mouse - Float On
The Libertines - Albion
Dizzee Rascal - Sirens
Gorillaz - Clint Eastwood
Britney Spears - Toxic
Kanye West - Jesus Walks
Radiohead - 15 Step
Muse - Time is Running Out
Outkast - B.O.B
Amy Winehouse - Take the Box
Razorlight - Golden Touch
Klaxons - Golden Skans
The Streets - Weak Become Heroes
The Walkman - The Rat
Interpol - Evil
Of Montreal - Gronlandic Edit
Dan Le Sac vs. Scroobius Pip - Thou Shalt Always Kill
LCD Sound system - Disco Infiltrator
Beyonce - Crazy in Love
The Long Blondes - Appropriation (By any other name)
Malcolm Middleton - Four Cigarettes
Glasvegas - Daddy’s Gone
The Polyphonic Spree - Light and Day
Bloc Party - Tulips
Zero 7 - In the Waiting Line
The Strokes - Last Nite
Giant Drag - Blunt Picket Fence
Regina Spektor - Samson
Patrick Wolf - Bluebells
Basement Jaxx - Romeo
Coldplay - The Scientist
Mew - Behind the Drapes
The Arcade Fire - Rebellion
Sigur Ros - Svefn-g-Englar
M.I.A - Paper Planes
Green Day - Wake Me Up When September Ends
Amerie - 1 Thing
Antony and the Johnssons - Hope There’s Someone
MGMT - Time to Pretend
The Pipettes - Dirty Mind
Ash - Shining Light
The Libertines - Up the Bracket
The Streets - The Escapist
Kaiser Chiefs - Modern Way
Sugababes - Freak Like Me
The Strokes - Reptilia
No Bra - Munchausen
Arctic Monkeys - Riot Van
Elbow - A day like this
Jarvis Cocker - Cunts are Still Running the World
The Futureheads - Hounds of Love
The White Stripes - My Doorbell
Radiohead - Idioteque
LCD Sound system - New York, I love You
Eminem - Stan
Shakira - She Wolf
Babyshambles - Fuck Forever
Gwen Stefani - Hollaback Girl
Blur - Out of Time
Blink 182 - I Miss You
Justice - D.A.N.C.E
Freelance Hell raiser - A Stroke of Genius
Kelly Rowland - Stole
Wilco - Jesus Etc.
The Strokes: 12:51
The White Stripes - Fell in Love with a Girl
Pulp - Sunrise
Air - Cherry Blossom Girl
Franz Ferdinand - Eleanor, Put Your Boots On
Jimmy Eat World - The Middle
Art Brut - Formed a Band
Coldplay - Clocks
Sainthood - L.E.S Artistes
Junior Senior - Move Your Feet
The Antlers - Two
Feist - 1234
Ian Brown - F.E.A.R
Emiliana Torrini - Easy
Duffy - Mercy
Phoenix - If I ever feel better
Kate Nash - Foundations
Kelis, Andre 3000 - Millionaire
Aaliyah - More than a Woman
Cut Copy - Saturdays
Kaiser Chiefs - I predict a riot
Daft Punk - One More Time
Calvin Harris - Ready for the Weekend
Datarock - Computer Camp Love
The Teenagers - Homecoming
The Big Pink - Velvet
The Concretes - Chico
Eugene McGuiness - Monsters Under My Bed
Lightspeed Champion - Midnight Surprise
The Libertines - Time for Heroes

Top 50 films of the Decade

2009-11-19T12:39:00.000-08:00

1. Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind (2004)
2. Moulin Rouge! (2001)
3. Amelie (Le Fabuleux destin d'Amélie Poulain) (2001)
4. Moon (2009)
5. Spirited Away (Sen to Chihiro no kamikakushi) (2001)
6. Inglourious Basterds (2009)
7. Up (2009)
8. Me and You and Everyone We Know (2005)
9. Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (2004)
10. Lost In Translation (2003)
11. Rachel Getting Married (2008)
12. Good Bye, Lenin (2004)
13. Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan (2006)
14. Synecdoche, New York (2008)
15. Shaun of the Dead (2004)
16. Slumdog Millionaire (2008)
17. Y Tu Mama Tambien (2001)
18. Pirates of the Caribbean - The Curse of the Black Pearl (2003)
19. Memento (2000)
20. Donnie Darko (2001)
21. Låt den Rätte Komma In (Let the Right One in) (2008)
22. The Fountain (2006)
23. Requiem for a Dream (2000)
24. Away We Go (2009)
25. The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
26. High Fidelity (2000)
27. Hour Party People (2002)
28. Funny Games (2008)
29. This Is England (2007)
30. Garden State (2004)
31. WALL-E (2008)
32. In the Loop (2009)
33. Atonement (2007)
34. Chicago (2002)
35. 28 Days Later (2003)
36. Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street (2007)
37. Little Miss Sunshine (2006)
38. Bad Education (La Mala educación) (2004)
39. A.I. Artificial Intelligence (2001)
40. Man on Wire (2008)
41. Control (2007)
42. Punch-Drunk Love (200)
43. The Prestige (2006)
44. Secretary (2002)
45. Revolutionary Road (2008
46. Be Kind Rewind (2008)
47. Adaptation (2002)
48. Hallam Foe (2007)
49. Werckmeister Harmoniak (2001)
50. Pan's Labyrinth (2006)

I wish that I was brilliant

2009-11-15T17:21:00.001-08:00

I wish that I was brilliant
Impeccably resilient
And resolute and aspirant
To be even more excellent

Than others that are brilliant
And others that are excellent
With mothers that will smother
Them in utter love and other

Bits of praise that lasts for days and days
Because they’re just born to amaze
And that is what I want to be
To a tolerable degree

At least, or maybe just this once
The chance for utter brilliance
And glory bursting at the seams
My name played out to seas of screams

But the good type of piercing cries
That aren’t prefixed before you die
The ones that try to sort of say
You’re brilliant in every way

But in case we all forgot
Brilliant? Me? Maybe not.
At best I’m simply adequate
And even that is pushing it

The screams are just fictitious
The screams are simply vicious
Lies that try to compromise to me
And glamorize adequacy.

When I think - I lament
I analyze every event
And pick and pick down to the wick
Of slicker wit I should’ve picked

And when I dance - I flounder
Like a dog loose from the pound, the
Style I have is just detailing
Some sort of synchronized flailing

And when I speak - I stammer.
I do not talk I hammer
Out the words like invisible bullets
And every syllable is dull it’s

Like a storm of over-used
And clichéd phrases so abused
The words don’t make sense anymore
Yet tumble from my jabbering jaw

Like chewed up bits of unused wit
That’s pretty screwed up - isn’t it?
I almost wish I’d never spoke
Or at least saved the awful jokes

For a time that never existed
You’d think I could’ve just resisted
Being just that bit not brilliant
And a lot less unintelligent

But there’s no point hating myself
I mean - at least I’ve got my health
And what’s the point in all the rife
Claims of “I hate my life”
“I hate my life”

I guess things are sort of alright
Not being particularly bright
There’s no point wallowing in spite
Despite my brilliance being slight

The brilliant ones, deserve to be
Because they just are naturally.
And you know what? That’s okay.
(I bet they’re all bastards anyway )

Just a little thing

2009-10-06T05:38:00.000-07:00

MY UNI FUCKED UP, NOT ME. I am not stupid after all. I might get to go back to Year 2 now. And wouldn't that be nice. Now here is a very simple poem. You know the phrase 'simple yet effective?' I feel this is simple, and not so much effecting of anything. Ha ha.

Your Night

Well, it isn’t mine.
It’s unequivocally yours.
And that’s completely fine
So please - shut the door

Let me sleep
Let me filter out the gloom
And fall into deep
Seeping sleep in my room

I am sad and you’re not
And that’s completely fine.
These feelings I’ve got
Are not yours, they are mine

So please close the door
And don’t turn on the light
Because this is my flaw
But this is your night

Your night. Your night
To showcase your glee
To the noise and bright lights
And forget about me

To pour liquor and spirits
Merrily down your throat
And to take life and live it
And feel yourself float

To the edge of the earth
As high as you might
This is what your worth
This is your night

Your night your night
To retrieve pairs of lips
To express your delight
Through wandering fingertips

And to dance on the street
With effervescent grace
With the people you meet
And willingly embrace

And that’s completely fine.
As my skin meshes with the sheets
Of my bed and intertwines
With my neck and my feet

As I drift off and slumber
And hope I don’t wake
As floating shapes and numbers
Make my eyelids shake

And that’s completely fine.
Because as try as I might
This night is mine
And this is your night.

And now everything is shit.

2009-09-26T05:50:00.000-07:00

Oh, toss.

They failed my resits for uni..and now I'm in limbo. And it isnt like the fun version on Sabrina the teenage witch.
Do I resit the year or do I take the year out (As to which I will have to resit the same coursework again sometime next year and then progress to Year 2)...
I think I'll probably resit the year - as I cant bare to be stuck here NOT at uni whilst everyone else is demonstrably AT uni, and also - I want to do 'things'. 'Things' and stuff aswell hopefully. But it does mean doing all the same work again..it might be a bit. You know. Boring.
If they don't let me resit the year - I am still technically at MMU..but I basically have to wait. Which means I guess I would get a job and maybe do more poetry gigs to pass away those few spare months. Either way I'm still at uni..it's not the end of the world..plus this first year wasnt exactly wonderful anyway - it'd be kind of nice to start again. I really need to keep as busy as possible. I even applied to join the Samaritans..not entirely sure why. It was on impulse whilst I was bawling my eyes out all the time yesterday.
*Cry cry cry* Click..samaritans. Ooh sounds lovely. *Send application* *Bursts into tears moreso*

Hmm..
I am in a very big pickle. And I don't even like pickles. x

The Ten Greatest Thick-Rimmed Spectacle Wearers in the World Ever

2009-09-21T12:33:00.000-07:00

I appear to be suffering with a little writer's block that no brand of Mr Muscle or literary inspiration can help with so instead - I will waste my life away with top 10 'things' for a bit. And you will read them, and you will nod and go 'hmm she's got a point there.' and you'll love it. It's going to be emotional.

Lo and Behold - The greatest tick-rimmed spectacle wearing people. Or at least 10 of them.

1. Johnny Depp

Ah look at his face and his cheeks. He doesn't necessarily need any adornment to make his face more chiselled and wonderful in general, but I feel the rule is thus. If Johnny Depp wants to wear thick rimmed spectacles, Johnny Depp gets to wear thick rimmed spectacles. If Johnny Depp wants to star in a mediocre Jack the Ripper drama alongside Heather Graham with an 'accent', Johnny Depp gets.

2. Mark Ruffalo (In Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind only, mind.)

Blast, looks like these specs were a requirement for his character. Anyway, he still wears them quite well I would proudly announce. Geeky memory-eraser man chic, to the max. They probably made Mark wear these because Elijahs eyes are freakishly big.

3. Garth Algar

Party on dude, and all other shameless quoting aside. Master of the mullet Garth also has a fine pair of thick-rimmers. Excuse him, he'd like to get by now please.

4. Woody Allen

Director, writer, actor and all round extraordinaire champion thick rimmed spectacular. Allen has done many odd things in his lifetime, but decades from now I fear he will be remembered as having a pair of excellent eyewear - rather than that whole Mia Farrow's adopted daughter nearly-incest thing. 'What incest?' the fashion conscious minions of the early 3000s will holler. And then back to the quite blatant technology of the future stereotyping but-probably-will-actually-happen hovercrafts they go...

5. Jarvis Cocker

I threw up in my mouth a little bit when I realised I'd forgotten good ol' Jarvis. If there was an Olympic event in immaculate spectacle wearing - surely King of the Geography teacher chic setting alight the hearts of thousands of girls wrapped up tightly in H&M scarves would come away with the Gold. It is Jarvis who is solely responsible for senior citizens to be the fashion trend-setters of the 1990s/2000s. I remember the days Oxfam used to be a place to gaze nostalgically at old VHS tapes. Now it is packed to the brim of people vying to grasp the term 'indie', grabbing away with their vintage ring clad fingers.

6. Truman Capote

Of course Marilyn Monroe is here! Of course she is. She cannot resist Capote, writer of Breakfast at Tiffanys, squeakiest of voices, cleverest of writers, and most importantly, wearer of our favourite vision-enhancers.

7. Graham Coxon

People of the earth:
Important note. Graham Coxon is not so much a musician, or indeed a man. He is a pair of glasses with a man/musician attached. He is geek-chic mecca. He doesn't so much wear the glasses as the glasses wear him. That's an important philosophical statement. Don't try and think it through. It'll hurt your head.

8. Harry Potter

And as this humble blogger finds herself running rapidly out of ideas, and wondering why she started this post in the first place, we find ourselves falling into the realms of the fictional. Greatest fabricated wizard of all time would be nothing without his trusty specs. Did Rowling become inspired to write the adventures of this boy-hero or did she simply think it would be a really cheap fancy dress idea? I think I'm on to her...

9. Buddy Holly

Yeah yeah yeah, so he probably invented rock and roll a little bit and was one of the most exciting musical influences of the last century. Be all that as it may. Check out the specs. Now theres a man with 2020 vision whos looking good. Am I right, or am I right? ..Yeah, I don't know that much about Buddy Holly.

10. Harold Lloyd

God bless Wikipedia. Harold Lloyd of course is a grand ol' mavrick and pinnacle of the silent era. Apparently. He doesn't look much like Charlie Chaplin to me. Ah blessed ignorance. Nevertheless - the man has a FINE pair of specs in and is worthy of helping me complete my list. Thankyou Harold you wonderful, lesser known talent.

Good day to you all.

Familiar Faces

2009-09-05T06:10:00.000-07:00

I tracked down my old friend Damian from primary school the other day. Tracking down people from primary school instead of say - waiting til 30 and perusing through old uni mates, because of course you are already properly developed human beings...created inside jokes together that are not about Jenga, but about that particularly inebriated Saturday evening. You played Xbox360 not the Sega Megadrive together. You drank coca cola, not vodka. You slept in the same room on the same uncomfortable floor - not in seperate camp beds in seperate bedrooms because your mum didnt want you sleeping in the same room.

So obviously it was going to be odd - but me and Damian used to be inseperable folks. Even when I left my old primary school we kept in touch. We even went to Radio 1's big weekend together. And play twister. Always!

I've always half-wondered where he has been and what he was doing now - and by chance I managed to correctly spell his ridiculously hard to remember last name right for once in Facebook and I found him.

Suffice to say things were not promising from the off..he has a skinhead now. Big cheeky brown eyed face remains intact. But chains and England shirts are now interspersed within the ensemble, fogging up my childhood nostalgia somewhat ha.

I messaged him in vain hope - but he didn't really recognise me. When I hastily reminded him he went 'ah yeh i sorta remember classic times. lol.'

Oh dear :)

Music of the Spheres

2009-08-05T23:04:00.000-07:00

You know I hate to say ‘goodnight’
But yet I do with great consistence
The day is gone, I’ve lost the fight
And you’re dissolving in the distance

And so I lie as my eyes close
And drift to twisted reverie
Obligatory picture shows
Of things I do not want to see

So when we say tonight’s goodbye
And our dreams transport us elsewhere
Follow these directions and I
Promise that I’ll meet you there

Catch the last train to Unconscious
Pop the last gray matter bubble
Take my hand and let it launch us
Into Edwin Hubble’s stubble

Don’t question it, get going! Fly
Fly, fly your mind’s invented rocket
Straight into the full moon’s eye
Close the door on Earth, then lock it

Let your eyelids flicker dear,
Blow that star out, over there
Let’s rearrange the atmosphere
And hear the music of the spheres

We’re sleeping in our empty beds
But dreaming under the same sky
We’re together in our heads
Don’t question it. Get going, fly.

So remember when you miss me
And your losing all cognition
Just let your mind break itself free
And take me on a new space mission

I know I’m not right next to you
But yet we’re flying through the air
We’re gliding through the endless blue
We always are, when I’m not there.

A poem about Youtube

2009-07-30T07:02:00.000-07:00

Welcome to Youtube.com!
Click here to make your own personal account!
On Youtube.com!
Click here to upload a ridiculous amount
On Youtube.com!
Of videos of you doing things of worth!
At Youtube.com!
Or perhaps you’d just perfer to surf
At Youtube.com!
Our extensive repertoire of 10 minute wonders
Our brilliant selection tearing you asunder
Anyone can upload, anyone can cop a load
Of this and that and some of those
At Youtube.com!

Look! It’s an ugly lady singing like a pretty lady!
Five star rating! Maybe leave a comment
“That videos a little bit shady
And the sounds out of sync, love Tom, Kent

Not to worry! Just dislike his comment!
Little thumbs down button, click, I win!
That’s what you get - Tom comma Kent!
Now watch my 4 year old play the violin!

Two star rating! Look! It’s a cat playing a keyboard!
Much better combination of cute things playing music
Five star rating! No! Four! Three! BORED.
At 1 minute 4 watch my drunk friend be sick!

Ha ha ha…that is very amusing to me.
Four star rating! Look it’s that gig I went to last night
Complete with shaky camera and awful quality
But that‘s the BACK OF MY HEAD, so that deserves the right

For a five star rating!
At Youtube.com!
Who’s next for a slating?
At Youtube.com
Look! That man is half tree!
At Youtube.com
Quantity over quality
At Youtube.com
Watch that man fall over!
Listen to Champagne Supernova
Swoon over Maria Shapalova
See me and my friend in Maldova!
At Youtube.com

Subscribe to my video channel! “Okay!”
Swear to it! Sign it in blood!
I don’t care if your arms’ pleading Homo Fuge
To my recollection you PROMISED you would!

One star rating. Oh that is very rich
Just because I left you a nasty comment
You thought you’d act like a complete bitch!
I’m unsubscribing to you Tom from Kent!
I think I’m going to go outside…
NO! Youtube.com demands you stay
Watch videos of ’outside’ inside!
Homo fuge! Homo fuge!

Do not leave your computer screen
Do not heave your entire being
Look at all the things you haven’t seen
Look at all the things you should be seeing!

At Youtube.com!
Watch Suddam Hussein DIE
At Youtube.com
Watch a man bake a pie!
At Youtube.com
Watch an episode of Dallas
At Youtube.com
Comment it with malice!
At Youtube.com
Do not sign out, no - not yet
Pledge allegiance to the internet
Look at the dog play bass clarinet!
Watch Christopher Walken play Russian Roulette
It’s all here! It’s all on!
It’s all free, it’s not a con
LOOK AT OLIVIA NEWTON JOHN
On
On
On
YOUTUBE.Com.

Things..and stuff

2009-07-28T15:21:00.000-07:00

Things

Stuff

*I saw 'Moon' today and I loved it. David Bowie and his son must love space equally. Aww. I like Space too. It's very big isn't it?

*This guy from my primary school oh so many years ago got in touch with me. It was bizzare yet lovely. The best bit is he found me via the catacombs of my poetry. Which was odd. But sort of nice. He also referred to me as 'my old friend.' Which sounded something like an evil person in a film might do a bit. So maybe I'm going to get shot, or at least severely maimed.

*I need to hand in my re-sit essays before I get shot, or at least severely maimed.

*I need to do many boring financial things. (Before perhaps..I meet with a gun, or perhaps indeed some sort of minor assault.)

*And lastly -
I need to stop lamenting.

*I really need to stop lamenting.

2009-07-07T18:25:00.000-07:00

Sorry to not update in a while little blogette. (Lol yes - SORRY minute little piece of webspace because you have a human consciousness and can understand me)

Whilst Ive been away Ive been reuniting with my uni-bound companions and I also won a poetry slam at a beautiful town called Hebden Bridge the other day, and it was a very happy happy day. Ive also been sort of half-failing my year at uni but not in its entirity. I should've done some bloody coursework.

But for now folks - I leave you with this

Catch the last train to Unconscious
Pop the last gray matter bubble
Take my hand and let it launch us
Into Edwin Hubble’s stubble.

:)

2009-07-04T08:54:00.000-07:00

Why I stole David Cameron’s bicycle

I have a little confession to make.
Nothing I’m proud of, make no mistake.
But now the press has settled down
And the green of summer is now crisp Autumn brown

I’m just going to come out and say it.
And yes, I’m really going to pray it
Doesn’t cause such a tabloid furore,
But it will - obviously - like it happened before.

I stole David Cameron’s bicycle in the summer of July
.God, I’m so embarrassed I think I’d rather die
But - listen to me though - let me make my cas
eBefore someone congratulates me with a fist in face

Which I strongly discourage - nothing got solved with violence
Which is why I’ve chosen now to break my much publicized silence.
Let me paint you the picture, of what happened that day
I promise you I’m not some thug who made a swift get-away

I’m just a guy, aged 32, my name inconsequential
Revealing my dark secret, that so far was so essential
Information referential to something so confidential
That I thought if people knew me they’d see me as influential

And I don’t want to come across as a Tory hating, bandit
I really dread to think that people think that’s how I planned it
I’m not a Labour partisan, don’t think that of me, please
I honestly used to think that word just meant a type of cheese

So why did I do it? I can hear you all thinking
I can tell from the rhythmic way you’re all blinking
Do you think me an anarchist, fraught with wrong-doings?
Or perhaps a saint, with a mind for justice brewing?

Either way - the news has dumped me on the highest of the pedestals
Everyone in the UK seemed delighted with my pedal skills
Accompanied by a riotous act against a Tory party leader
I’m a beacon of pure hope for every News of the World reader.

So why did I do it? I can hear you all processing
Well - alert The Daily Mail - the lunatic is confessing
So let me put it right. Heckle me if you like -
The truth is - it just looked like a really cool bike.

Seriously. I don’t care about the Tory Parties policies
I hope that Mr Cameron can just take a bit of solace the
Real reason I performed this quite well publicized faux pas
Is not the loony actions of an indignant bourgeois

Just a guy who fell in love with a set of handlebars
I couldn’t give a stuff about the toxic fumes of cars
Ever since I was a boy it was my dream item to own
Not my polite way of helping the already doomed Ozone

Like Mr Camerons doing which I guess he thinks is proper cool
I’m sure with every pedal push he’s fixing every molecule
But know my act was cowardly, and certainly not heroic
It wasn’t to inspire the work of a finger on the pulse poet

It was just what it was. A boyish misdemeanour
Just think of me as an overenthusiastic street cleaner
Who had a dream and took it, and restored his childhood youth
In exchange for a reputation as a man who acts uncouth

When I curled my fingers round it’s nimble silver frame
I catapulted myself into the catacombs of fame
Whilst it looked like I was a beacon of political pretension
All I wanted was a bike with a decent front fork suspension

And that is what I got. For committing a crime so tiny.
Who needs anarchy when there’s a set of wheels this shiny?
So like my bike, I now can steer my life to back on track
And if Mr Cameron’s listening - no I’m not giving it back.

Que Sera Sera

2009-06-13T19:34:00.000-07:00

Well today was an absolute riot, but its' over now..well the debris is still lingering over the trenches obviously - but as always Que Sera Sera.

I'm writing one of those 'serious poems' I've heard so much about, har de har. Its nowhere near finite but it is quite freshly spawning over MS Word quite nicely. Here's how its going so far. Its about me mumsy.

When I was born
My mum fell asleep giving birth to me.
With a half hearted heave, and a yawn
She was gone. She wouldn’t set me free.

And how times change.
When I was three
My legs were strange
And new to me

So I would power
Down my street
Million miles per hour
Perplexed by my own feet

Mum would call out my name
And charge like rutting rhino
To get to me, put me to shame
Say I’d crossed the line so

I’d have to be grounded
She’d yell as I’d cry
As her threats resounded
And I spat out my eyes

So I wouldn’t have to look
At that disappointed stare
That wavered, and took
My breath out of the air

Before I was born
My mum succumbed to nicotine
Ciggie-slapped lips from dusk til’ dawn
I figured that was a bit mean

To scramble over cigarettes
Clutching matches to her swollen bump
Come on woman - simple etiquette
I’m a foetus, not an incidental lump...

***

That's all I've got so farr..brewing away quite nicely. It's my half brothers 1st birthday tomorrow and I have made a pin the tail on the donkey for the occasion with my absurd crayon skills. That B in GCSE Art seems so far away now as I awkwardly crunch bits of pencil lead on a white page forcing a donkey to happen.

Hot diggidy damn.

Nothing short of pantomime

2009-06-04T08:47:00.000-07:00

I can either think about that statement for a while and get annoyed again or I can go and vote Lib Dem and go to a BBQ party.

Choices choices...

Being awake is a collosal mistake

2009-06-02T23:27:00.000-07:00

It's half seven in the morning and I havent slept and I'm sort of tired, but my mind's frittering away trying to understand the world AGAIN - oh silly gray matter, you will not achieve such goals - the answer to everything is 42 - lets just stick with that - Mr Adams is a funnier version of God. (What?)

Is it election day today? I need to vote..but I dont like David Cameron's face. Or his policies. Is that politically correct? (Ho ho ho.)

I did a poetry slam the other day - it was okay - it was fine. I'm very shaky but I wasnt ...afraid of the audience or anything I was quite happy to stand there and voluntarily release my inner monologue of dirge but my hands felt like violent rubber. Totally unfair. Is there a charity for the aid of rubber handed folk? There should be. Work on it Cameron.

I came joint 5th, which is fine...but not as good as 4th, 3rd, 2nd or 1st, or indeed lone 5th. Lone ranger just grazing the outskirts of the finalists - breathing on their victorious linguistics. I'm probably overthinking it. Maybe.

I have to paint on my amused smile for my half-brother and funmum tomorrow...I can't decide who has the more developed motor skills (I AM A HORRIBLE PERSON WITH HORRIBLE UNFUNNY JOKES) but we shall see how that goes.

BBQ on Thursday, Buffy the vampire slayer night AND added Buffet for comedic punning effect on Friday.

A week full of plans.

Dear Father Time, please make me older and wiser. Let me skip the learning and the treacherous mistakes it takes to get there - let me just aquire the wisdom automatically - cant you squash it into a new type of breakfast bar or something? Screw calcium, stick some masterful wit in there instead, and an understanding of the world. And make it crunchy.

2009-05-31T09:26:00.000-07:00

Being sentimental
Sent me mental
Being sentimental
Makes me detrimental
To my sensational
Words I write
Beside my frustration
Trying to get it right
I’ve tried to strip it down
Return back to the start
But it’s hard
When my part in the
Art is heartless
I feel like my heart’s
Just an empty carcass
My mind’s like a dart
But I can’t regardless
Of my soul harness
That’s strapping me in
And confining the din
Of my screaming mind
And I know I can’t find
The right thing to say
But maybe, just maybe
Its better that way
Being sentimental
Sends me mental
Being sentimental
Makes it fundamental
Crisis not averted
Cause it’s existential
Crisis inverted
Onto me, it’s mental.

2009-05-28T08:31:00.000-07:00

Something is bugging me.
I can feel a process tugging me
Chug - chug - chugging the,
Frustration is lugging me

Towards something.

But what something could that something be?
Is the air around me drugging me
Did someone spike this sugar tea?
Oh damn my eyes, oh bugger me

I can feel it, tapping again
Rapping and clapping and snapping and then
Slapping and trapping and wrapping my head
Up in a mask of tight, viscous lead

Towards something.

Something I’m not sure.
Come on, I bet you’ve all felt it before
That consistent, non-resistant
Ever existent, insistent

Feeling that something is definitely wrong
Just a small dumb thing that’s turned into song
Melodies tighten and pour down my ear
Forcing me to listen to my own fear

Well that’s my blissful complacency
Forced outwards and facing adjacent to m
eAnd I want it back, I liked being unknowing
To the ever lurking feeling that is now growing

I want to be ignorant, Just cut out my brain
Before my awareness drives me quite insane
I want to be stupid, so technically brain-dead
Rather than feeling my mind slowly gain dread

If an axe murderer had waltzed into the room
Ready to cause inevitable doom
I want to be so senselessly out of synch
That if he sliced my head off, I’d just merely blink.

So what is happening? Why am I losing my calm
What is causing this inscrutable qualm
Forcing inside me some inner alarm
Oh wait - wait. It’s just a fly on my arm.

Eurgh.

2009-05-27T09:41:00.001-07:00

No.

Well - I believe the technical term is EW.

2009-05-26T07:31:00.001-07:00

So I just had a dream me and my boyfriend were cats. And then we were humans. And then I asked him 'Hey - why were we just cats?' And then i was pregnant but it turned out just to be kittens. Of course, fulfilling the popular figure of speech to literal levels there

Yes, all dreams are quite odd. But if you read my poem below...its just plain creepy. Cheers gray matter, loving your sense of humour.

How not to respond to the text message 'I love you'

2009-05-25T09:00:00.000-07:00

“I love you.” - I know, me too
But not all the time like you do
I know we’re too far from each other
And yet I’m technically your lover
But please don’t call me by ‘sweetheart’
I know we’re miles and miles apart
But don’t woo me with clichéd art
Don’t take me on a horse and cart
My organs aren’t confectionary
Why not look in a dictionary?
Don’t take my hand and smile like that
Don’t stroke my hair, I’m not a cat
A twat perhaps, starting a spat
But not a saccharine kitty cat
I’m not a saccharine kitty cat
I just don’t need that pity pat
Don’t talk to me like lovers do
Annie Lennox hadn’t a clue
We are no longer star-crossed teens
We’re not Sonnet number eighteen
Stop adding sugar to the tea
You know it’s far too sweet for me
You know too much will rot my teeth
You know I love you underneath
The numerous layers of plaque
You’d see that if you scraped it back
But this is love, not dentistry,
Don’t push, or I’ll resent it, see?
You don’t have to love me like this
Don’t cling to me, you’re not a cyst
You’re forcing momentary bliss
You’re puncturing it with every kiss
I really need you to stop this
You think you’re hitting when you miss
I’m not a saccharine kitty cat,
I’m just trying to tell you that -
I’m just trying to tell you that -
I think I love you too.

You are a flabby metaphor

2009-05-25T07:37:00.000-07:00

You are a flabby metaphor.
I’ve not decided which one you are
You make globules of allegory
Make chewy, chewy verbose gristle.

You’re sticky bits of unsung wit
From some old leftover poetry spit.
Stop the glop stretching upwards and outwards
Waiting for the gentle snap, that dry crack.

All over an unwanted epilogue.
You spouted flouted epilogue.
I really have to castrate you
Snip right off, and flip my mind over.

Let me caress your nimble finger
Your taut digits upon me linger
And push their way inside my skin
Caressing big black sticky similes

Novel idea - to just kick and piss
Over every rhyme, Syntactical kiss
Break my caesura, and penetrate my
Intimation, thrust into it and spit.

Those rigid, snide, and petty hands
Slipping and sliding against my plans
Narrative complexities, linguistic melodies
You bent them, and crunched them up

On yellow shards of disregarded teeth
You’re grabbing me from underneath
You shat all over my perfect metre
My tidy, tacit, trimetric dialectics

Finally, you squeeze your oleaginous probing
Fingers down shirt, and my self-loathing
Adverbs and punctured pronouns
Stroking my hasty proverbial utterances

You squeezed your oleaginous probing fingers over
Your vein popping gristly pulsating supernova
And you extended your metaphor all over mine.
Make it end, make it benign.

Tragic Trick

2009-05-24T10:29:00.000-07:00

I’m a little magician with my little box of tricks
I’ve got some coloured tied up scarves, and some juggling sticks
A plastic wand I picked up for just two pounds ninety nine
A jaunty top hat passers by have said looks mighty fine

So I’ve got the look tied down, I’m sure you’ll all agree
I look like a bit of a twat, to put it simply
I can only assume that is good for my career
I guess if it goes down the pan I’ll just make it disappear

I’ve read so many magic books, Even kidnapped a dove
I’ve got to grips with Derren Brown, and bought some long black gloves
I cut out some paper stars, stuck to my shirt with tape
And then found out that curtains make a really fetching cape

My new ensemble turned heads, especially in the playground
The head of course, usually mine, as the kids knock it around
I never knew that blood could come from out of my own ear
Maybe I’ll put that in my show, it’s bound to get a cheer

At the moment, I’m on the search for a glamorous assistant
Some of the girls down at the park so far have been resistant
I’m not entirely sure as to why they’re being so modest
After all - there’s magic - then there’s a girl in a gold bodice…

I didn’t get into this business to score with loads of chicks
But when I get to tie them up, I’ll admit I get kicks.
I don’t exactly know why, but Mummy says its okay
I’ll understand when I’m older, well - I really couldn’t say

But I’ve no time to worry about potential romances
My life is my career now, cause I’ll get no second chances
The stage is all set up, and I’ll admit I’m getting tense
I’m a little magician, and they’re my big audience

I’ve got to stick it out though! I’ve got to make my mark!
But now I’m really nervous, good job that these pants are dark…
I walk on to the platform, my knees positively shaking
Good thing my arms aren’t, as I juggle - and there’s no mistaking

That the audience are clapping, and I’m a total hit
Just wait ’til they see ‘the sawing girls in half bit!’
Which might I add goes brilliantly, the audience are silenced
I guess I should’ve warned them that my magic show is violent

‘Behold! The girl is cut in half!’ I announce, my face beaming
It’s just the same as on TV, except without the screaming!
It’s okay though, ‘cause I know, they just edit it out
One day, I’ll get that luxury too, that’s what its all about

I then slot back the bloody box, the audience disbelieving
Remove the lid in triumph, ’til I notice she’s not breathing
“But I don’t understand!” I murmur, the crowd silent as ever
“When I see them do it on TV, the girls slot back together!”

The audience disperses, all fingers thrice hit nine,
Coupled with my mums’ insistence that “it’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine!”
I notice lots of cars pull up, I figure they’re my fans
I take off the bloody gloves, and get ready to shake some hands

A man in blue approaches me, and takes me by the arm
My mother begging him I never meant anyone harm
“Shut up mum, I’m famous now!” I say, face turning red
But in replace of the man’s grip, were handcuffs now instead

“Wow I’m very flattered” I gasp, clasped in metal
“A private showing just for you? Well sir - then it is settled”
My fan looks most confused, as I contort my arms in shapes
Escaping from the cuffs jubilant, as the gent just gapes.

“I’ve been practising that one for years!” I proudly declare.
God, he looked dead impressed, that’s one hell of a stare.
The next thing I know, I’m in his car, dare I say by magic
“Son, the only word used to describe that trick is ‘tragic.’”

“I think the word is ‘magic’, sir” I gently intervene
“Unless you were removing the biggest splinter seen…
We could begin to understand, and maybe just respect the
Completely mind boggling reason why you would dissect her.”

I am a little magician with a little box of tricks
But for reasons I can’t state, they took away my sticks
In fact I’m not permitted to say much more than I ought,
‘Cause I might have to rely on this poem later when in court.

I don't need a hero

2009-05-22T12:00:00.000-07:00

Here’s why.

To me, the day had broken me
Internally impaired, you see
Not physically, more like I had
The reason to feel a bit sad.

Except I didn’t really feel like that at all
Sorry to lie - about my fictitious recall
But for the purpose of narrative consequence
And for this to all make a little more sense

And for me to acquire from you
Synthetic sympathy for feelings untrue
It’s easier than actually being upset this way
So I did. I did. I had a terrible day.

Except you all know, that I didn’t.

But say I did - say I’m utterly despairing
Over something so unfortunate that really needs repairing
In the foreground of a derelict backdrop that looks upsetting.
I have nestled quite nicely in my fabricated setting.

It’d look very miserable and forlorn
My face would be shadowy, my feelings withdrawn,
My manner would be tepid, and my mood low
And to hastily slide back to topic -

I would look for a hero.

To free me from depressive chronic hooks
I search curiously through comic books
And strictly for the purpose of narrative ease,
Just play along and believe I have these.

I liked the webby-man, with the red suit
With the wrists with which white webbing shoots
And that other guy - that Superb Gent…
I think he hangs out with Clark Kent?

Now that guy is a hero. So incandescent
But there is one glowing flaw present
Although you could never call his depiction dull

He’s

Fictional
Fictional
Fictional

How can I love a hero who I know isn’t really there
How can I look up to a man in bright red underwear
If I was dangling upside down off a burning building wrecked,
The only thing being spared that day would be my self-respect

I’ve checked, and I’ve checked.
There’s nothing left to inspect.
A comic book hero is not someone I’ll heed
Pencilled rutting biceps are just not what I need.

So I feed and I feed
My mind more as I read
About Gulliver, Scout and Robinson Crusoe
Always aware that their stories aren’t true so

Sorry, Mister Daniel Defoe.
Congrats on the book and all that, And although
You could never call your depiction dull

They’re

FICTIONAL
FICTIONAL
FICTIONAL

So I disregard every book, every comic and memoir
Of my apparently extensive prose repertoire
Maybe I’ve been looking in all the wrong places
Erroneous names, gazing into wrong faces

Maybe it’s family and my companions
Who I should look up to right down from steep canyons
As my mentors to me, the simple protégé
Rather than just bulk up and do things my way…

Except that’s the thing. Why must I size
Up everyone and look into the eyes
Of another whose fortunes have been greatly embellished
Who’s journeys have been long and decidedly hellish

I can save my own life quite easily.
I don’t need to wear PVC
I don’t need someone to behave heroically.
The hero - dare I say, is me.

And often I’d call my depiction dull
But at least I’m not

Fictional
Fictional
Fictional.

Bubbled up and strictly unnecessary

2009-05-19T10:41:00.000-07:00

Boo and indeed hoo to reccuring dreams!

2009-05-19T10:40:00.001-07:00

- come on grey matter, throw me a two parter!

My Train Journey

2009-05-17T09:29:00.000-07:00

As human beings, we are blessed.
With such a life defining zest
To make our way around this world
And pick up pieces which we’ve hurled

And as these human beings we,
Are gifted individually
To cascade through life with slight grace
And leap through years at our own pace

Or else, just catch the train.
So catastrophically inane
Of me, as it turned out to be
On my train journey.

On my train journey, my eyes
Chop up the blissful countryside
Through those shitty train windows
Absorbed in seconds as the wind blows

It all away. On my train journey.
My fellow passengers and me
Completely unaware that we were
All part of the same adventure

We’re all travellers, set to make goals
To meet our friends, or beat our foes
We’ve got so much to learn and share
We’re restless warriors without care…

Aren’t we?
Because to me, we all appear to be
If you examine the facts
A bunch of uptight, silent twats.

I’m always the one wedged inbetween
A man behind his laptop screen
A slick taught teen trying not to be seen
And a senior citizen named Geraldine.

Who is the only one who’ll make
The quite foolish mistake
Of trying to make conversation
With the grumpiest fuck at the train station.

On my train journey.
Makes me learn the
Correct train etiquette is thus
We don’t like you. You don’t like us.

Even though Geraldine will give it a try
You can’t help but glance at her glass eye
And then get off one station earlier
Before my stance grows slightly surlier.

I’ve got that look in my eye - see.
That means you have to pass right by me.
Not quite the same as Geraldines
But you catch my drift, I mean…

I’m not usually like that! Injecting with conveyed ease
Verses in my poetry mistreating dear old ladies.
I’m four stops away from my destination
And completely immersed in indignation

I can’t believe what’s become of me.
On my train journey, I’ll get you to see
My quite requited plight of such refutable transportation
That might ignite a conjugate of mutual frustration.

Maybe, I overlooked the potentiality of the bus station.
Maybe I would loosen up, and flex with celebration.
But bussing is another thing that brings me to such treason
But fussing’s more enlightening if you have a decent reason.

So I hang my head low, and I sit.
On chewing gum embedded seat, and spit.
Next to the passenger who looks like Yoda
With the unusual pungent odour.

As Platform 2 slides into sight
Meadows, and nature blurs to white lights
And I might try and start to see
The perks of my train journey.

As human beings we are blessed
But with such life defining zest,
To live our lives right to the max we
Probably should just take a taxi.

My thoughts on the new Doctor Who rumours

2009-05-16T07:43:00.000-07:00

sjklfjlsklsfdjkldjdkldjflksjfs???????

Yeah, that pretty much sums that up.

Orange Juice

2009-05-15T18:51:00.000-07:00

There is only one drop of orange juice left.
I’ve never loved like this before
I‘m gasping, unsatisfied, and oh so bereft
But I refuse to leave the floor.

The door seems like an eternity away
And when you open it you see
A wasteland, Soulless vacant bay
And that’s not great for me.

And then you have to go down stairs,
And sidle towards the fridge
Ignore malicious invisible stares
Then jump a broken bridge

Fight fires as I reached the kitchen
Swim the wild seas of my living room
My thirst, my motivation itching
As I immerse in perpetual gloom

To get my delicious orange drink
As my head lulls to the left slightly
My throat parches, as I think
My complexion pales, its so unsightly

Maybe I’m not thirsty
Maybe I’m just friendless
And need a mate to immerse me
In laughter that is endless

Either that or -

I just cant be bothered getting up..
I bet I’d get concussion.
But if this is one empty cup
Then this is one damn cosy cushion.

MMU Writing Comp, Festival Season, and delicious biscuits

2009-05-15T18:30:00.001-07:00

A blog about actual me, in my own form and with my own little typing hands using my own brain. Wow - its times like this its good noone reads this thing.

Okay so

My uni is having its yearly Writing competition thingy. (I can say words like thingy because noone reads this. Its like walking around your house naked, but the sort of..linguistic equivalent)

And eurgh and eurgh. Oh and guess whos judging it. Only the new bloody poet laureate who just HAPPENS to work at my uni. So I will definitely enter it, and definitely not win, and feel inadequate for a bit. How dare the world be talented. How very dare they with the idealistic wit and their meaningful metaphors which might be about a shoe under a rug but is actually a ritualistic attack on feminism or some balls quite similar. 'Stards.

Festival season soonyohsoonyoh.

Ive just applied to review this one that happens in humble old Manchester on the northern quarter called Hungry Pigeon I believe. It looks like a lovely time - and I do love a good festival. I wont even need wellies. Huzzah.

Open mic tomorrow at the Blue Boar with Jefforama. Pass the impossibly delicious Cadburys animals please. I need something wonderful to regurgitate.

A haemorrhage and a Lawnmower

2009-05-13T09:06:00.000-07:00

Ashley Hayes entered her stuffy living room. A woman with freckles dotted all over her skin and limp brown hair curled her thin, wobbly branch legs into the folds of a tartan cushion. Flickering lamp light glimmered down into a humble pair of ocean eyes as she gazed up unknowingly at everything and nothing at all. Ceiling tiles and the future. Curtain railings and forgotten visions. Dust mites and the meaning of life. Ashley Hayes could be an awful nuisance. And was 22 - punchy, inquisitive, yet so very sombre. An odd combination. But she wasn’t to blame. Ashley Hayes was lost. In such a boring place to be lost in as well let it be noted. A forest. So conventional. Whether she met up with Little Red Riding Hood, Goldilocks, those Blair Witch Project kids and the rest of the Too Stupid To Fall Into a Less Predictable Narrative gang remains to be seen. Nonetheless, this is where you will find Ashley if perhaps you are after her for unpaid bills and wish to incarcerate her. Or of course if you wish to just pop in to say hello. She liked it this way. Tree after tree enveloping her ongoing malaise for humanity. But the being lost part was on purpose. She lived in Lost, she was ‘Lost’. She was lost in herself, so she decided to live there - in a vague breach of logic. Had it worked? Of course it hadn’t. Ashley was still as miserable as ever. She sought to fill a gap that had been savagely wrenched from her life, her thoughts, her memories. She wasn’t even trying to be momentous or figurative. She was genuinely a jigsaw short of a few pieces (in want of a more adventurous metaphor). It’s a shame because it was a vaguely nice jigsaw too. It had a whimsical cartoon rabbit on there somewhere and a sunset at it’s most majestic. The part where it resembles a splodge of orange paint that the artist of the sky couldn’t be bothered to rectify. Ashley Hayes had forgotten. Forgotten so many things too. Some were stupid little things like forgetting to buy milk so she eats her cereal dry one morning. Disgusting. She hated that. Or forgetting the time of her favourite TV programme and thus never coming across it again. It had never occurred to her to purchase a television guide. Then there are bigger things. Like forgetting her family. Forgetting her name. Forgetting her whole being really. And the thing that makes all that vaguely bemusing is because Ashley Hayes isn’t very forgetful usually. One thing Ashley hadn’t forgotten was when the doctors told her she had been in a coma for five years give or take. Another was that her family had never come back to help her, abandoned the house and just given up and had not been able to be contacted since. Another thing she remembered was that she had forgotten to turn off the lawnmower.
When Ashley stepped out to retrieve the rogue garden appliance it was to her utmost surprise (And our utmost amusement) that the lawnmower was rip-roaring up and down the garden like a hamster on helium, tearing up the precious lawn that was the only thing she really had to care for. Sheets of turf scattered for miles and a garden officially massacred. A masterpiece. This sudden complete and utter turmoil of a creation that for a few years now Ashley had honed and nurtured was met with a surprising reaction of nonchalance and indifference. It even surprised Ashley herself that wonderful layers of luscious green blades no longer would greet her every morning and make the world seem slightly more colourful. Instead all that met her now was brown sludge. So the chase began to assassinate her garden murderer. As she wrestled the lawnmower to the ground, she tripped. But not because of the intoxicated machinery - but on something else. Something lumpy and peculiar that was definitely not some sort of weed or green irritation at all. Ashley swept away pale auburn strands that tickled the groove in her nose so merrily and picked up the new addition to her garden. At that moment a new piece to the jigsaw was added. A blob of colours, red, green and yellow most particularly were hastily painted into place. Silver foil wrapped over what could’ve been anything. A crumpled package from the past. A cross examination did do nothing to diagnose it. Days past and it remained an indecipherable mess of an item but Ashley abandoned all housework, all gardening to stay with this lump of colour in desperate need to work out it’s secret. For some reason - this wasn’t some sort of everyday household rubbish - and she lived near no idiotic teenagers who could’ve planted it. Ashley had cleaned the creature, straightened out it’s box-shape with the iron, and picked aside lashings of soil that collected up in every crevice. A week of solid concentration passed by as Ashley came no further to a conclusion. It was by this point that Ashley had completely lost sight of everything else that wasn’t a peculiar implement in her garden and the house she dwelled was nought but an empty shell. Overly hasty, instead of giving up - and perhaps doing a bout of shopping (She still had no milk after all) was to order greasy take-out food instead. The same boy always visited. A black mop crowned along his head, and a gangly pale body draped in woolly jumpers from the 80s and flares so flared they looked like they had been designed for a trapeze artist. Despite his over-friendliness and desire to chat every time another 12’ margherita graced the front door step - Ashley ignored his oafish presence to return to her package of underlying mystery. But one day - the pizza imp decided that he could wear the most disastrous jumper in the world and he would still not get noticed. And it was essential he would get noticed. As he thought he knew her…no. He knew her. He knew her very well. Or at least he thought he did. Perhaps melted cheese and stuffed crusts were all he really knew anymore. But Ashley Hayes had something. And Anthony Miller had seen it all before. He blinked. And years and years suddenly slipped behind him for a moment.
“Excuse me miss, don‘t suppose I could have a word could I?” An irresolute but defiant voice chirped as the door began to shut upon his bore-ridden life once again. But not this time. Ashley caught the handle and clutched at it. The door handle was more of a chalice of social reawakening now. Or perhaps it was still a door handle. It wasn’t too important to say the least. But it was true - Ashley was alone. She hadn’t spoken to anyone in so long. Not properly. Ashley’s mind lingered to something crumpled and colourful on her desk down the corridor, but she scrunched it up and threw it aside in her mind and swung open the door. The boy had an oddly peculiar nose that curved outwards. Then inwards. Than outwards again. It would’ve made a fascinating rollercoaster.
“Is there anything wrong? Did I not give you the right change? I’m terribly sorry wait there..’ Ashley fumbled around with her purse more clumsily than she was fumbling around with her words.
“No no, miss, not that at all. It’s just I..’ He faltered. He didn’t quite know what to say. Was there an actual point that needed to be brought up at all? He had a ‘feeling’ about her. This was ridiculous even by a 22 year old pizza boy’s standards.
“What is it?” Ashley asked, a clueless look glazed across her pale complexion and funny little freckles.
A pause swept by the two of them. A ghostly pause that singed their lungs and allowed niether to speak. But Anthony breathed and his chest lessened it’s harsh grip.
“I think I know…do you remember me?’ He timidly questioned. Ashley gazed into his brown eyes with interest, but didn’t know how to tell the boy she did not.
“I don’t remember a lot of things” Such a sad sigh she breathed out after explaining to him. She briefly mentioned a car crash. A coma. A haemorrhage and a lawnmower. She went from brief to highly detailed, but the words flooded out. She didn’t even know if this boy, this man - he was much older the more she looked at him - cared. But Anthony lapped up every word. Knowing now he was right! He always had a knack for faces. She was who Anthony had pondered over. In a way Anthony felt he had always known…the simple order of the same pizza all the time was so typical of her. But the tragedy of her story - and the intrigue of the parcel made Anthony decide not to worry her over who he was right now. What’s another nameless pizza boy?
So Anthony was a stranger for an afternoon as he immersed himself in this odd crumple of paper. He missed his pizza round for a couple of days as the pair puzzled over the massacre thing. And inevitably, as people do - the mystery object became neglected in favour of Ashley and Anthony’s new friendship. Chit-chat replaced dissembling, laughter replaced examination.
‘The day it happened.’ Ashley murmured, as her stiff thin fingers trembled along a flimsy piece of green cellophane. ‘The day of the crash…was my 17th birthday. Or so I had been told.’
But Anthony already knew.
‘The doctors said that I was so close to dying…’
But Anthony already knew.
‘And when I finally got out - my family had gone. Eloped. They couldn’t find them. Said they didn’t want to deal with what had happened from the grief…hadn’t even stopped to hope.’
Already knew.
‘And I can’t remember them…or why they left. I can’t remember my own mother’s face…’
Knew.
‘Apparently one person stayed with me all the time. And I should never know him? Isn’t that sad, Anthony? Anthony?’
Fade out. Fade out.

Anthony Miller could be an awful nuisance. He was 2 weeks late with his Science project and was already in detention for the rest of the millennium. But detention in a cold dark school room with Mr Yates was hardly a desirable way to spend a bright summer’s afternoon. The sky was clear, and inviting. An ocean of crystal blue waiting to be swam in. So Anthony decided the detention could wait, and sped at the speed of light on his bike to his favourite garden. Acres of luscious green blades waiting to be crushed. Talking of waiting to be crushed…a familiar body had launched itself upon him, and he was buried in pale thin hair and a bony, but sprightly little frame.
‘You great oaf, Anthony - you can’t keep skiving Yates!’ emerged the clear ringing voice through layers of arms legs, heads and hair.
‘Get off Ash! ASH!’ He had screamed over and over until the words melted into each other. But those flimsy paper arms were unpredictably powerful like iron staffs. How embarrassing.
‘You wanna stop over? We’re having pizza for tea’ Ashley proposed, a glimmering smile emblazoned upon her lips.
‘Eurgh I hate pizza…’ Anthony wretched.
‘Besides, I bet you’d never hear me say this but Im gonna do my Science project tonight.’
Ashley rolled on to her front with her scrawny legs dangled in the air, brushing against the light wind.
‘What you going to do for it then?’
‘Something really smart…I’ve got to impress Yates’
‘So nothing then. A cardboard box with a bit of rubber stuck to it and you can call it your brain.’ A shrill giggle bounced across the grass and soared into the sky.
‘Shut up Ash, my mums going to kill me if Yates doesn’t get to me first…plus the only reason I’ve left it so long is because I know everyone’s gonna laugh. I hate it when they laugh…’
‘Okay okay. So do something we’ve done in Science and impress Yates! He’ll love it! Like erm. Well what’ve we done in Science recently?’
Anthony crossed his legs and his scabby knees. His brow furrowed.
‘I don’t remember.’
‘Not even yesterday?’
‘I’ve slept since then!’
‘So?’
Ashley sighed. He could be so stupid sometimes.
‘Let’s play tig.’ So the two nine year olds took chase around the garden of lush green. Their footsteps punctuating the beauty and time Ashley’s mother had sacrificed for it.

Focus.

‘Anthony?’
Anthony faltered.
‘Sorry. It’s just…’
Fade out, Fade out.

Sellatape. Glue. Glitter. Flimsy rolls of crêpe paper. Felt tip pens. It was all it took to create a masterpiece. Their Magnum Opus.
‘What is it?’ Mr Yates asked with a leering cynicism caught in his throat.
‘It’s a memory machine sir.’
‘What?’ A man of many words, Mr Yate decided just one was needed to tear apart poor Anthony’s science project he had spent all day and night on.
‘It’s a box that keeps memories for if you forget them! You press this button here…’
‘What you mean that Smarties lid?’
‘Erm yes…’
‘We truly have reached the 21st century haven’t we Mr Miller?’

Laughs and giggles plagued the classroom. Only a girl at the back with fine light hair remained as solemn as a beefeater.

‘And right here is where the memories are kept - and you put this net here over your head like that and then…’
‘Jab your finger on to the plastic button, that’s the pinnacle of technological history right there. Step down Miller, and take your empty cereal box with you, there might be a few crumbs at the bottom you can have for tea considering you’ll be very late home tonight.’
The man was literally a pantomime villain. Anthony grimaced as he glanced at a man who very clearly needed a purple cape adorned around his shoulders.

Focus.
‘What is it Anthony?’
‘I always knew they would…’
‘Would what?’
Anthony looked at her. How could she not remember?

Pools of rich caramel chocolate poured into an ocean of deepest blue. Mahogany blended into the twinkling clear water, sweeping the blue with splashes of deep brown. The artist of the jigsaw slotted another piece into place, and smiled a humble grin as he spent hours perfecting that final flicker. That last glimmer of melancholy that glistened away in their eyes until Ashley found Anthony’s lips. As they kissed, all motion blurred. The object got knocked on to the floor and smashed in two. It had been a shell. Preserving within it a 2 weeks late Science project. Their Magnum Opus. Had merely been an empty cereal box with a net attached without her. But she had made it what it really was. It was her memories in that box. Anthony’s hands rested lightly upon Ashley’s tense shoulders, his fingers trying to sooth her. She was nervous. She had always been nervous.

‘Anthony come back! Come back Anthony!’
Four pairs of scrawny legs merged into a haze travelling at the speed of light down road after road until Anthony fell head-first into freshly cut grass, tears streaming down his red raw face. Blades plastered all over his cheeks.
‘It doesn’t matter Anthony, it’s just a Science project! Mr Yates is an idiot! He’s never liked you because your dad beat him up once! Come on Anthony please…’
‘I’m not bothered about being laughed out or Yates! They were your memories in there. We tried it out! We tested it and it worked! And now you don’t have memories because you put them all in here! And the buttons fallen off! I can’t get them out again! And now you won’t remember that we’re friends anymore…’ And then sobs. Oceans and oceans.
‘I’ll never forget anything Anthony. I’m really clever.’ she said soothingly her arms stroking his shaking back.
‘We’ve got to keep it safe before Yates smashes them all up. I knew they’d laugh.’ he whispered. And so we dug.
Severed daffodils where draped over the garden fence. Grubby child’s fingers clawed hungrily at the fresh soil beneath them. Ashley’s mother gazed sadly from the window as she saw her garden in shreds, but didn’t stop them. She simply gazed, with eyes splashed with such a perculiar shade of azure as layers of luscious green blades no longer would greet her every morning and make the world seem slightly more colourful. Instead all that met her now was brown sludge.
‘That’s deep enough isn’t it?’
‘Of course it is it’s not as if we’re hiding a dead body’
And so the children dumped their project into the pit below, forever to be kept - a memory that would last forever. Hidden away from the laughter. And as the shell cracked open, Ashley finally remembered. She remembered her life, and she kissed Anthony deeper. She remembered her mother, she held Anthony tightly. She remembered her love. The puzzle was complete. The artist threw his paint box to one side and slept. Like Ashley and Anthony slept. Their pale skin meshed together.
And in the morning, as a bright burning sun shone over a massacred garden, a neglectful pale haired family munched soundlessly on a lavish breakfast that would never fill a certain void - and a failed Science teacher made redundant who now sat alone staring into dust mites that would always just be dust mites - Ashley Hayes remembered the most important thing of all.
‘How much milk do you like in your coffee Anthony?’ she asked - as the white droplets sprinkled merrily into rich warm tea as she crunched on delightfully soggy cornflakes. Imagine cornflakes dry. She hated that.

Sophie Hall

PS: I finished my exams. :D

Oh my god..

2009-05-08T08:35:00.001-07:00

I'm swaying with unbridled glee.

Completely different

2009-05-08T07:59:00.001-07:00

She is a stupid, ignorant person sometimes.

I know - I know, she made me. I owe her one. She sat for 9 months, bloated and miserable whilst my feotus developed and grew, whilst she couldn't eat pizza because it made her sick. (A punishment I wouldnt bestow on anyone - pizza's lovely.)

But her stupidity grates me, and I feel a bit guilty that it does - but she really is truely and utterly moronic.

She doesn't live near me - well vaguely, she lives in Leeds with her fiancé and her child, and her fiancé's children. (Their mother died quite recently.) Quite a lot for my mother to contend with - I feel bad for her from this respect. But my respect for her is so severely punctured that to 'cheer her up' I bought her a Take That DVD, and she was happy with that(!)...whilst I picked up an old Mike Leigh one - 'Never heard of him' my mother chimed in...well - no, she's not that sort of person.

I just find it odd how different and removed from her I feel - even something as menial as picking up completely different dvds in HMV displays our completely different mindsets.

She phones me up, if I miss one call, I'm 'in for it'. Uhoh. Here comes trouble. And when she does call me - she doesnt listen to me. She thought university lasted for one year. I want to go see the In the Loop film. She wants to see Night of the Museum 2. I mean - I get cute little guilty pleasures like that sometimes..but...

YES - yes. She's going under a momentous amount of stress - and with every snide comment I make about her, I feel more and more like a piece of unruley dog excrement. Did I mention her dad (my granddad) is currently going through chemotherapy? Thought I'd leave that little gem out. Now the unruley dog excrement has a big fat boot in it doesnt it?

Time to end this momentous twattery...and I wish my mother the best. I truely do. And it was nice of her to make me. I'm very fetching.

Haha.

2009-05-08T07:07:00.001-07:00

As the last exam crawls up on me with gnarled crooked (And thank god, metaphorical) claws...I'm in bed sniffing away feeling a little bit worse for wear.

I havent even been out drinking the night before - just regular ol' illness..my body's such a loser.

However - wrapped up in a duvet shivering endlessly chic is a wonderful look for me.

OH I don't want an exam. I know it's a film one and all I need to do is watch Pedro Almadavor films to revise but..I would rather just sell Big Issues.

No.
No I wouldn't.

Davina's calling for me downstairs...should I go to her? No. No fuck her, I'm going to sit in bed and surgically remove my own stomach.

2009-05-04T14:04:00.001-07:00

Lazy Day - me and Davina made out. I mean worked out. Naturally.

And now - here's another poem, should hopefully be meeting Jefforama soon! 'Citing!

How to like pretentious music.

Dear pretentious music lover,
Or to whom it may concern,
I’ve been living undercover
Because I simply have to learn

How to like pretentious music
Or pretend to, like you do
My taste in songs would make you sick
I actually don’t mind U2

I can’t describe just quite how much
I really need your help,
My records need the magic touch
They don’t sing as much as yelp

So I tried to read the NME
But the pages were too shiny,
Tried to listen to Gwen Stefani
But her voice I find too whiney

If Goldilocks had a record player
I think she’d understand me
So could you please be my surveyor?
And feel free to reprimand me?

At all costs, lay into me
And not in the good way
Don’t accost me, I’m too gloomy
I’m a big walking cliché

I just want to be ‘the cool one’
Or pretend to, like you do
Because I listen to Elton John
Which I’ve heard is just taboo

I bought one of those Ipods
Under strictest of instructions
But they seem, at least to my eye - odd,
I’m confused by its construction

I’ve pressed every button available
Even checked you don’t need a key
But it’s completely unassailable
Where do I put my CD?

Am I missing something here?
Dear Pretentious music expert
Yours sincerely, girl living in fear
Thanks for reading this dull excerpt

Of my life and of my letter
Hope to hear back from you soon
For the worse, or for the better
I guess that’s the name of that tune.

Dear Girl Living in Fear,
You’re a lost cause, my dear
What good will it do
To try and change you

You haven’t a clue,
Of how exactly to
Like things that I do
You lost me at ‘U2’

Okay - Joshua’s Tree
Was quite easily
The best thing they did
Back when they were kids

So I’m just writing to enquire
Into this immediately dire
Poor taste in a group
Who’s music has had to stoop

To consuming in distortion
Foot pedals out of proportion
Unrealized, self-indulgent lyrics
That could bore to death any old cynic

I judge you’re mindless manner, low
If you listen to Barry Manilow
Your taste is far more than a mistake
Throw your Ipod in the lake

You’ve not a chance, you
Don’t even know who to dance to
You’re deception seeps right through
You can’t possibly choose who

Will make you feel great
Will help you celebrate
Who you close your eyes to
I mean - freaking U2...

Who makes you realize
That your inner self flies
When you just close your eyes
And fall to blissful demise

But - wait. That’s good!
I think maybe I should
Stop a moment and backtrack
Cut you a whopping chunk of slack

I sit at home all day and night
Browsing what I think’s wrong and right
My music collection is perfection
I’ve carefully crafted each section

Oh sure we can get jiggy
To Ziggy and Iggy,
From Beach boys to Kraftwerk
This life does have it’s perks

But I must admit to you.
I quite like Elton John too…
Rocket Man is quite a tune
It definitely sends me to the moon

But yes, I get exactly why
This new lifestyle you want to try
Your heart suffers a daily pang
Because as Elton John once sang…

You just want love!
I’ve sussed you out! I’ve cut above
My level - you’ve done nothing wrong
After all as someone once sang- this is ‘Your Song’

Oh god, what the hell am I doing?
I feel something new, something true, something brewing
The days have long passed since I was a Mick Jagger Teen
The closest to The Rolling stones I’ll ever get, is the magazine

In my skinny jeans I thought people looked up to me
But the reality is an NME has thrown up on me
I thought I was ‘all that’ to no ends
But now I’m a bit of a twat with no friends…

So in answer to your letter,
You’re ignorance is for the better
Some guilty pleasures are endearing
Don’t worry about how you’re appearing

To live a life adjusting the settings
On your ears and therefore letting
Yourself listen to bands that are apparently kitsch
Isn’t half as fun as a round of Bewitched…

So thank you for enlightening me
My thirst for authority is frightening me
Maybe…you and me could hang out some time?
Lay down some tunes, bang out the rhymes

You let me know, you say - okay?
I’m free all week - just name a day
Lots of Love Pretentious music fan (Just call me Stevie)
Now if you will excuse me, I must find that Take That Cd…

Freelance Writer

2009-05-03T11:42:00.001-07:00

Freelance Writer.
Finance Fighter
Good chance biter.
Romance brighter
We dance righter
We prance lighter
Our stance tighter
Nights seem brighter
When you write a
Out of sight, a
Fictive blighter
Novel delight, sir!
But, these writers
Like all-nighters
Sleep gets lighter
Page grows whiter
Ideas triter
Conscience smiter
Words spit spite, the
Plot’s not right, the
Narrative’s shite, the
Freelance writer’s
Drowned in plight, the
Thoughts contrite, the
Deadlines’ tighter
Smashed typewriter
Words requite, the
Way he writes, the
Way he fights, the
Pay is slight, the
Works a fright, a
Dim limelight,
On a neophite, a
Night grows lighter
And time gets tighter.
Freelance Writer?
No chance, writer.

Poem: Vodka Strike (Slight Edit)

2009-05-01T15:13:00.000-07:00

This poem can be viewed in it's hot fetus form here:

I am happier however with this slightly altered version. Is it too long?

I’m on strike

It’s decided it’s official

I don’t like

How superficial

And cliché I’ve become!

I’m drinking on street corners

At quarter past one

As everybody scorns us

“You stinking student layabouts!

Your throats and stomachs are bottomless

AA Centres’ the other way, you louts!

You fucking hippopotamus!

Go wallow in the mud!

Happiness isn’t in a bottle

So really you should

Go home before I throttle

You! You mindless drunken students

First comes liver cancer - then you die!"

The taunts were not exactly prudent.

And as said mindless drunken student I -

Should slide neatly to conclusion.

That being told that you might die

Is not a comforting intrusion.

So I guess we shouldn’t celebrate

Our blatant self-debauchery

I’m going to get a job

And do all of my laundry

I’m not going to sob

About it, I’m just going to quit

All the alcohol that’s assembling

In my unrestricted pit

Of a stomach that’s trembling

And begging for more

My brain needs the stimulant

And if anyone’s keeping score

You should know I’ve always been ambivalent

To pouring treasured nectar

Down the ol’ oesophagus

For getting flipping wrecked the

Whole thing is preposterous

A tribulation and a sin

But now my life is just a cocktail

Of trepidation and gin

So I’m going on strike and I shall not dither

About plastering up protest signs

And handcuffing my liver,

And throwing out my best friends' wines

(My default birthday gifts)

That they bought for me - from the heart

Of the offy between their shifts

Well - they’re still doing their part.

But for now I’m on strike

“You can’t slack off the cider maaate!”

Well actually I can do as I like

And surely I’m not a mate if I really fucking hate

You! The girl who hasn't been vertical in life, ever?

From what I’ve learnt you seem to be on the floor

Horizontal for the most of it - how clever

But how do you ever get things done? I abhor

My slightly sozzled self, that girl is a chore

A whore, a bore, caressing the floor

On her knees Oliver-style begging for more

So - no- more.

I am entering the realm of the teetotal

It sounds pretty good from just the word

I can’t wait to be so anecdotal

I'll tell the world of what I’ve heard

About staying sane and not drinking instead

From the ears of a sober person and the oculus

Of a restrained identity not drunk off her head

Like a giant one legged octopus

A few months pass by, and I’ve so far stayed true

Empty vodka bottles line my bin, so

I’m no longer like you

Wanting more Cheeky Vimto

Undulating on the carpet

Brassiere round your ankles

Smashing up a guitar kit

As my good nature rankles

You and everyone at all of our parties

As I do the good kind of Coke

And you do the wrong kind of Smarties…

But something is wrong.

A feeling about to jerk me

Towards that terrible throng

That’s a coop of cold turkeys

You see - nobody told me

That seeing life more clearly

Just demonstrates the futility

Of the world, of the mind, of the voice - and of me!

And besides. None of my friends like me anymore

I ring them everyday

But they're out destroying brain cells by the score

In every membrane, in every way

And I guess I sort of miss it.

Nothing like an alcoholic refresher

To piss all over my tea and biscuits

And just give in to my peer pressure...

It probably defeats the object

Of all my defiant work

My little tee total project

Of course did have it's perks

But fuck it - I want friends.

I crave our cloddish banter

So to Bargain Booze I will descend

Pouring out the Diet Fanta.

So yes I know I don't know much

But I think I do know

That a slight vodka touch

To the mind can't be so

Bad after all.

Everything in proportion!

So once I get that phone call

Asking me to immerse in distortion

Inebriation, celebration and dissaray

My morals have gone

So I sigh and I say

'Alright, just for a small one.'

Без перевода.

2009-05-01T14:08:00.001-07:00

I am so very tired and my cat is so very awake..all wide eyed and moist-nosed.

I've had 2 hours sleep! And yet I did so many things today. An exam, (MACBETH YOU BASTARD HEAD.) drinks with uni people, (I know..what?), went to Preston to watch Jordans film with Lauren, and stole lots of free wine. Delicious wine! Mmmm..

Oh the exam was fine by the way. They always are - I'm good at exams, not so good at deadlines haha. Even a shuddering moment of Macbeth sillyness couldn't hinder my joy. Oh and I didn't sniff and cough and splutter like what usually happens in exams. No swine flu here!

The only bad thing that happened was the following sentence.

"Macbeth is disenfranchised by the ghost of Banquo" ...

WHAT. At least I didn't make some joke that the character BANQUO was haunting a BANQUET. Ha ha ha ha it is the same sort of letters. Mirth. Achieved.

I do apologise if all of the above is utter linguistic twattery.

I am a tired lady, who will not sleep early - I'll do that when I'm dead. That's what the cool clubbing kids of our generation say, yes? Of course I pretend that I am not of that generation when I truely am.

I need an apple. You hear that superlative? NEED. They wake you up better than coffee.

Go team conscious!

2 days and then the exam will slice open my stomach.

2009-04-28T18:22:00.000-07:00

And little gremlins of worry will crawl out of me all over my bloody exam paper.

Deary me - how morbid I've gotten. I blame Warhol's saucy pink knives - they're making me violent.

Today I went to visit me ol' mucker Vicky (I can't pull off Cockney phrases coming from the North West but damn it I will try and muscle it on their media stereotype). We talked about..well not much. Fancy dress, what if rain was actually wine? And the plight of Aids victims in Africa. No really.

Then I went home and had a crumpet and pretended to revise. No time for the Davina workout for today...she's probably rolling in her...bed. Because she is not dead. Unlike her mother - which makes those Loreal adverts incredibly unsettling.

So for now, ciao!

Oh jesus I MUST revise tomorrow. Yes I will yes I will yes I will. You watch.

Gather round gather round, it's storytime.

2009-04-27T19:17:00.000-07:00

Now - enough of hebephilian mantras - here's a short story I wrote last week. I very much hope you like it.

****ATOMIC DOM****

“Ladies and gents, the time has come. The earth is finally ready for us. We have arrived.” A voice without a face boomed.

Five pairs of eyes rolled in perfect sync. Two brown, three blue. All sharing the same degree of disinterest as their respective oculus’ all headed upwards.

“Behold…a treat for the ears, the eyes, and other places if you’re lucky, ladies!”

“Oh Jesus.” muttered one of the spectators, who happened to be called Melissa. And a lady - much to her dismay at this dreaded point in time.

“Ladies and gentlemen without further ado…”

Five heads vaguely tilted in the direction of a hastily assembled silver curtain hooked at about seven disproportionate angles at the back of a very cramped basement. Apparently, the five heads were about to be dazzled.

“The latest shock-rock sensation…”

“Here it comes…”

The curtains were whipped aside. Or at least it intended to be whipped aside. Twenty curtain hooks instantly began cavorting into the air, rebounding off all angles possible. The curtain meanwhile floated gracefully downwards for the big reveal. The big reveal - it turned out was the audience’s two other best friends - Dominic and Jack. But not just Dominic and Jack. Dominic and Jack adorned in the entire contents of their respective fathers’ 1970’s ‘found at the back of the wardrobe’ fashion repertoire. Denim that looked as if it had been fused onto their bodies, silk shirts emblazoned with the sort of patterns only suitable to the naked eye when published in Magic Eye picture books. Tapering blocks of hair congealed in 79p Wonder-Wax - and all heading in different directions (presumably to escape their owners’ scalps out of sheer shame) And the definitive piece of work that cemented the whole, staggering look together. In untidily ripped sheets of tin foil, emblazoned across Dominic Sr’s basement wall - the name that would become emblazoned across the brains of the 5 witnesses for days to come.

“Please welcome to planet earth - our new band.”

“Atomic Dom.” The two friends simultaneously broke into awkward masculine flexes.

Stunned silence could have been the best of what Dominic and Jack had hoped for that Saturday morning. And would perhaps been preferred instead of the outcome they instead received. This was of course, earth shuddering torrents of laughter.

“You look like you’ve both been hit by the ‘atomic dom!’ one of the blue eyed eye rollers - this one called Tom - quipped, choking on his unrelenting sniggers.
“I think you’ve genuinely given the entirety of the band Culture Club brain haemorrhages!” Melissa squealed.

Dominic and Jack’s virile poses instantly wilted. All flexed muscles abandoned stations, and suddenly the two rock stars found themselves looking suspiciously like two 17 year old teenagers in their parents’ rejected clothing. And this simply would not do. The pair took to their instruments - Jack clutching his 1981 branded Tokei Flying Vee, and Dominic’s fingers wedged firmly into the drum sticks of his ’bought off Ebay recently and it didn’t come with a name’ drum kit.
Jack approached the microphone with an unabashed grin crawling across his lips.
“We will ignore your cruel jibes - as you have obviously never been to a rock concert before because as we all know you prefer to stay indoors and lick the insides of crisp packets whilst watching celebrity reality television until you fall into a stupor induced by how desperately dull you all find yourselves.”
“But don’t worry, we forgive you.” Dominic followed on. A triumph.

A triumph suddenly thwarted they realised as instantly - five middle fingers punctured the air with their mutual animosity.

“We assumed you would respond this way. Don’t worry it is a natural reaction - cured by outdoor air, and the having of social lives we hear.” Dominic replied smiling.
“Of course we wouldn’t know about that.” Jack added.
“Now. People of ‘My dad’s basement’ - are you ready to rock?”

“People who use the word ‘rock’ as a verb are self-confirmed wankers.” announced the audience member by the name of Rebecca - who was currently being attacked by the thickness of her own hair.

“Well you are about to be doing so - so now whos’ the…idiot?” Jack retaliated, apparently picking out words from his self compiled mantra of desolate bafoonery. He chose to do this because he had dreamt about kissing Rebecca all last night - much to his dismay when he woke up to discover once again that dreams don’t tend to reflect what is happening in reality.

“Anyway this is a song we wrote a few weeks ago - and it’s all about growing up and realising what we want from li-”
“Get on with it!” Five voices bellowed back at him - perfectly intertwined - it couldn’t’ have gone better if they had rehearsed their abuse.
Ironically as it turned out, the audience was a lot more well rehearsed than Atomic Dom were. Although musically, the band rarely churned out a wrong note, there was something deeply wrong that started to become apparent. A prominent feeling of wrongness that as it turned out - was gradually transfiguring itself into Atomic Dom’s song lyrics. The band launched into their sensitively written ballad ‘Baby, I fancy your sister’. Twenty seconds later, the dream was over.

“Stop.”
“Yes please stop.”
The pounding drums and soaring guitar chords were instantly drowned out by loud distortion.
“FOR GOD’S SAKE, STOP!”
Obligingly, they did. As did the world. Atomic Dom certainly had perfected the accuracy that was their band name.
.
“Was it supposed to be ironic - please tell me it was supposed to be ironically bad.” Blue eyed Tom pleaded shaking his head.
“I liked it!” a chirpy voice uttered by the third as yet unspoken female audience member. Her name was also unknown, as she had been brought by the girls. She smelt new.
“Really?”
“Apart from the music and lyrics of course.”
“Ah.” Jack and Dom replied with equal monotony and disappointment. If only their harmonies had been so well accomplished in their performance, they thought to themselves.
“Anyway thanks for letting us have the exclusive first showing” Melissa smirked, killing Jack a little as he gazed at her. The others also began to rise to their feet.
“We do have a few extra songs..” Jack murmured - knowing full well that raising the volume in his voice right now was about as pointless as doing so on their records.
“You can turn the volume down on life, but it’ll still be happening!” Jack howled after them, as one by one Atomic Dom’s audience began to descend into the big wide world where they did not exist. Or indeed belonged.
As their figures became silhouettes, gradually minimizing into shadows of strangers - Dominic sidled over to Jack and put a silken-clad arm around his equally very silken-clad shoulder.
“Why are our friends tossers, Dom?” Jack inquired, slumping against him.
“Come on, if they started a band we’d be throwing very large blunt objects at them and you know it. This is what friends do. They pretend to hate each other until something very serious happens. And then they pretend to like each other for a while.”
“True, true.” Jack sighed, fully exasperated and ready to melt down a drain somewhere utterly insignificant.
Atomic Dom looked down at themselves, took in the few moments of absurdity that awaited them - and burst into paralytic fits of laughter.
“Maybe we were wrong to go down the nostalgia route…” Dominic concluded.
“You know there was a genuine moment in my life where I looked into the mirror, and thought these outfits looked good. I mean, genuinely attractive in a sort of - a woman would definitely be sexually attracted to me due to my wearing of these clothes - sense.”
“I can only assume we were drinking heavily at the time.”
“That’s probably it.”

Saturday morning transcended into Saturday afternoon - and the artists formally known as Atomic Dom had returned to their living working exterior’s as Dominic and Jack. Back into jeans with air in them, and t-shirts with less than four colours woven into the fabric. It was a humdrum life for the best friends.
So bored, and humdrum they indeed were that Dominic forced himself to have a semi-epiphany.
“Hey - I know what’ll cheer us up.”
“It better be good.”

So good as it turned out to be, the pair found themselves outside the basement for the first time in two days.
“The outdoors eh? Profound.” Jack grunted, gazing up at the flawless blue skies and the sun furiously beaming at them, as if trying to impress them.
“I’m unimpressed.” Jack murmured.
“Alright, here’s the plan.”
“Blimey, there’s a plan?”

Dominic Ainsworth had always been the driving force in the friendship with him and Jack. He had motives. He had goals, and dreams and better hair. He dreamed of becoming about five professions that somehow all interlaced into some giant hybrid super-profession that only he, Dominic Ainsworth was capable of doing. Singer, writer, actor, comedian and artist. His brain swerved so strongly to the left by the weight of all these ambitions it was a wonder Dominic didn’t fall down more.

“Yes, a plan. And I’m the man with it.”
“The plan, you mean?”
“Yes, obviously.”
Whereas Jack Parkinson was a little confused as to what he wanted. He was also short and a little rotund, and was liable to being patted on the head by his peers often as a result much to his annoyance- presumably giving reason to why his hair looked like a badly asserted mahogany wig. Unbeknown to most however - were Jack’s brilliant mathematics skills. He could count a number of objects from a persons’ palm in up to seconds, and had an extraordinary ability to fix the unfixable - which was handy, as he only lived with his father who had become an empty husk of a man since his mother had cheated and left him in the just passing year. Jack decided to leave his dad to mend his heart. He would sort out the dishwasher.

“Okay - how much money have you got on you?”
Jack caressed the crevices of his pocket and pushed out a number of coins and other fantastical shapes and objects.
“Four pounds, twenty six pence. Half a ginger bread man, and a receipt kindly reminding me I used to have a hell of a lot more money. Well - at least that‘s lunch sorted” Jack weakly smiled.
Dominic beamed.
“Well, a lot better off than me. I have a 2 pound coin, and about 84 pence in coppers.”
“Alright, well you win. We can probably get a couple of cans of White Ace-” Jack was interrupted by an uncharacteristic shove from Dominic.
“What are you saying? We’re not drinking now! Maybe in a couple of hours, but not now. I have a challenge.”
It was Jacks’ turn to roll his eyes.
“Jack, you were right - our friends are absolute bastards.” Dominic admitted, finally not joking - and looking a little put out.
“Mate they were just messing around-”
“With each other. They never include us in their ‘who’s got the sharpest tongue’ competition, do they?” A light breeze flicked through his blonde curls to make him look slightly important and a little magnificent.
“No, but that’s just how it is.” Jack reasoned, not really believing it though.
“It’s not just that.” Dominic muttered, looking down. Followed by shuffled feet, and more looking away.
“What?”
“Jack - I know your dad’s going through a hard time but he’s been treating you disgracefully over the past few months.”
“Oh come on Dom - that’s well out of order! He’s doing the best he can!” Jack began to fume on the inside, how dare Dom have the nerve.
“I didn’t want to say anything about this Jack, but come on. When was the last time the fridge wasn’t empty? When was the last time he had a job? How many jobs down at the local garage have you had to barter for just so you can maintain that fabulous gut of yours?”
“Where the hell has all this come from?” Jack wanted to pummel Dominic’s head into the pavement. “Jesus Dom, he’s having a rough time of it, I think I’m old enough to sort stuff out for myself, he’s had his heart broken and you’re having a massive go at him! What the hell is the point in bringing any of this up now?”
“We need to get away.” Dominic merely uttered. Jack stared at Dominic incredulously. Dominic was spontaneous, certified. Jack would humour him for now if it would shut him up about his dad. Jack didn’t like talking about his dad.
“Alright where do you want to go?”
“Well.” Dominic finally grinned again. Jack breathed a sigh of relief.
“We have about eight quid altogether right?”
“Seven pounds, ten actually.” Jack interjected.
“Nonetheless!” Dominic said, returning the optimism back in his personality that had momentarily deserted him.
“Let’s see how far away from this dump we can get with seven pounds and ten pence.”
“Ah, I see. The challenge!”
“Exactly! I want to get to that nice beach off the road where my aunt used to live.”
“Dom that’s like a two hour drive.”
“Aha! There in lies the challenge!” Dominic put on his faux deep comedy voice for effect.
“On seven pounds and ten pence?”
“And our wits.”
“Oh, them.”

As these final words were spoken, Jack turned away to see a rickety blue bus rocketing in their direction. Dominic forced his wrist around Jack’s arm and flung it outwards. The bus screeched to a halt.
“Atomic Dom’s world tour starts here.” Dominic grinned. Jack couldn’t help but smirk back.
“Great. Now duck down.” And as quick as a flash, Jack found himself pummelled to the floor of the bus himself. The bus drivers’ eyes skirted around for a moment or two trying to assess why the two young teenagers had just miraculously rehabilitated into one.
“One single please.” Dominic casually requested, flicking his two pound coin into the bus drivers’ general direction. The bus driver gaped.
“Alright smart-ass, where’s the other one of you?” The few passengers on the bus began to gaze at this cunning piece of trickery. Luckily for Atomic Dom, they remained gratifyingly tongue-tied, albeit a few bursts of snigger escaping through air holes of closed fingers clasped around quivering mouths.
“Sorry, sir - it’s just me.” Dominic asserted, as Jack began to crawl his way up the aisle.
“Don’t think I’m stupid, son, where’s your mate?”
It was this moment - the little bus-drivers’ door swung open.
He swung his bearded, slightly unkempt head around the bus in search of the chubby misfit he was certain was trying to mess him around. But alas, he found himself mistaken. All eyes fixed upon him - all eight pairs of the innocent oculus, with nothing to hide. Apart from one lady, who had a teenage boy hidden under her long green, bohemian skirt.
“Never mind.” The bus driver grunted, scooping up the money like a fly on a frog’s tongue.
“Much obliged, madam!” Jack whispered, kissing the rose haired bohemian on the cheek before scooting to the back of the bus. She giggled. Jack hadn’t made a girl giggle since last night in his subconscious. Seven grins met with Atomic Dom. Now why couldn’t these folks be their fans instead?

The bus fled the scene of an unknown crime (That happened now to be a passenger on that very bus), and breezed down village streets and countryside. Speeding down rocky roads as rows of terrace, shot past like a film reel unravelling. Schools and hospitals were nought but blurs to them, terracotta bricky blurs, and the children could run as fast as the wind would carry them - but the bus made everyone look like a smear on a blank canvas. Gone, rushed and twenty colours packed into one. In one second, their lives mattered to those who glimpsed. And then gone. Hurtling down city streets, wistfully. Taking in a thousand peoples lives in milliseconds. Some people look at peoples’ lives under microscopes. Dom and Jack chose a bus window. Finally - their destination had reached it’s last stop. The bus had emptied. Dom and Jack sauntered down the aisle, amused as their defining moment was about to reach them.
“See you then.” Jack cheerily called out. The bus driver’s face crumpled and contorted with rage, as Dominic and Jack sped off into the city lights laughing merrily.

Six pounds and 42 pence later, they were on a beach somewhere not very significant.
“Maybe we should write some new songs?” Dominic asked, as their bare feet dug themselves into the grainy texture of the sand.
Jack snickered.
“Yeah, you’re probably right.” Dominic agreed, smiling.
The pair took in the ocean for a while. Jack was secretly thinking about his dad tearing up unpaid phone bills. And Dominic was secretly thinking about how he had kissed Rebecca last night, and still for some reason having a shuddering feeling Jack would hate him if he told him. But maybe…
“Hey Jack?”
“Yes, Dom?”
“How are we going to get home?”

Que Sera Sera.

2009-04-27T19:00:00.000-07:00

Oh bloody hell.

I am going to fail, I am going to fail.

Now I really am going to go to bed.

2009-04-27T18:52:00.001-07:00

I am so very, very awake
Sleeping in so late
Was a colossal mistake.
So I ponder to myself
Is everyone else awake?
Is everyone else awake like me?

Of course - the children are sleeping.
So many of them
Are tucked up in bed
Pillows caressing their small, weary heads
As they dream of seamless worlds
That make sense only to them
Circuses accumulating their favourite things
Brought to life, and animated especially for them
An empty theatre splattered with copy pasted images.
Boys playing football with David Beckham
Girls adorned in lace, pink satin and tied up in bows
But that’s just shameless stereotyping.
They dream of livid, enraged monsters, that the Disney animators
Could only dream of inventing
Their subconscious is a goldmine and they never knew
And when they grow up and are slammed up against desks
And call centres, and counters, and tills
They will never know that for one night in their lives
They created visionary masterpieces, that could’ve earned them
Millions.
Compressed joy slapping their lips viciously
Smiles widening, as their eyelids flicker
Never knowing.

Whilst there are couples undressing each other
Hungry, and ravenous, yet clumsy, knocking over unknowingly priceless items
That could’ve earned them millions.
For a few moments of unbridled passion
It’s okay when this sort of demeanour is happening in pornography
But in real life, slamming up against that wall just hurts.
But the couples continue regardless…all bruised and pink and nude
The gentleman tearing off the lady’s disappointingly cotton underwear
“What? It’s a laundry day.”

And cats squeezed up in tight fleecy circles
As only cats can.
Dreaming of chasing mice…
But that’s just shameless stereotyping.

The children are sleeping

Middle aged men and women of the ‘depressed’ sort -
Stapled to their settees smeared with tears
And nasal secretions because they’ve had a truly awful day
An awful day which makes them think that all days are this terrible
That their lives are terrible. Every laugh they ever had
Was meaningless, because they aren’t laughing now
Every ringing titter
Has been deleted, life’s a giant backspace button
On a computer keyboard to them.
But to them, a computer keyboard is a way of finding more pornography
And it makes them feel a little better.
Forty year old divorcees browsing vibrators on the Ann Summers website
The same expression will grace their faces
When they find a 2 for 1 offer at Sainsbury’s the following day.

A teenage girl with a terrible cold can’t sleep
Congealed pieces of nasal secretions escaping her
On to her pillow, and her long curled follicles
Reminding her of how very ill she is
Cemented to her bedclothes, hoping and praying
That the mucus will thicken and clog up her nose
To such a gloriously relieving extent where she cannot breathe anymore
And can just die, and not have to tell the handsome boy called Paul
From Science on Tuesdays’ and Wednesdays’,
That she really really likes him.
But that’s just mindless stereotyping.
But she really does quite like him.
She wonders if Paul will go to her funeral if she died.
She wonders if he’ll look devastatingly attractive in a fitted black suit.
She sniffs, and four miles worth of congealed nasal secretion shoots upwards

The children are sleeping.

The cats have now moved on to chasing other small animals
Inferior to themselves, as they hunt, hungry and ravenous
Yet clumsy, knocking over priceless items.

One young child in particular has just slain a dragon.
Hopefully - she is still dreaming.

The animators’ of Disney’s next film feature
Are awake too, trying to keep to their schedule
By stealing old footage from The Jungle Book
And using the same animation on vaguely different characters
And slightly altered plotlines
“The kids will never notice, we’re just so tired”
“We’re so tired”

Couples heads respectively slam against their pillows
Engulfing themselves in weary light headedness
From the past hour of rampant thrusting
Hoping the head banging hadn’t woken up the other residents
“The kids will never notice, we’re just so tired.”
‘We’re so tired’.

The children are sleeping

The ‘depressed sorts’ scatter their fictional personalities
Over various chatrooms - not pausing to stop
And realise how tired, they all really are
And their idle banter, and frantic typing is their caffeine
Building up in their blood streams, as they seek
Plastic friendship over and over
Envisaging the perfect versions of themselves, and telling
Other fictitious people about their fictitious lives
And slightly altered plotlines.
The lies are stimulating them, surging through their skin
Like teenagers again, energised and wired

I am just so tired now.
So tired.
Why am I not sleeping?
The children are sleeping

Pleasant Dreams

2009-04-27T18:41:00.000-07:00

My exam is ever looming ...can you hear that?

That's the sound of Mcdonalds' deep fat friers bubbling.

If I don't revise I will be manning one for the rest of my life!

Probably a pointless alagory - I'm sure I will be fine. No I won't. I will not be fine - that was a lie! Didn't you hear me lie just then? Or did the perpetual Mcbubbling drown me out?

Oh jesus. I think I might go to sleep in a moment.

I am secretly concerned about something. Which makes sleeping all the more tedious.

I'm going to inject this little blog with some poetry in a minute. Just one more hit, and then it really is beddybyes.

And they sound a little like this.

2009-04-27T15:53:00.000-07:00

Welcome to my boudoire and my feisty little new blog.

I have 2 other blogs under my hasty alias as Razzamatazz - one is me eagerly slicing up alternative music, and my other is me pretending I am writing for The Guardians' Organ Grinder. Amidst a haze of shoddy embedded Youtube clips.

I will blame all of the above and its aforementioned 'shittyness' (It's a technical term) on youth. I will learn, oh I will my sirs.

Now - this one's basically for me to moan, albeit slightly articulately - on my own life, and stop purging into everyone elses. Leave that for Twitter!

Nice intro post I think. Let the whinging and binging on whinging begin.

Ciao! xx