Writer’s portfolio…writer’s portfolio…oh dear. Wait a second. I don’t have one. No. Definitely. Not. It’s all in my fingers though. These hands wired up to this brain. In a way you don’t see. So you will need to take a closer look. Move closer my dear, I have a story to tell you…
I can tell you a story about what is loosely referred to as my “professional” career, if you like. It started out when…um…well, it didn’t exactly. I don’t know but I can start somewhere interesting. Or, that is, somewhere less boring.
I have written for as long as I can remember. Words flowed and I used little pictures to illustrate my ideas. When I was a child and they told me to write I made up stories. They (the adults) always told me they were wonderful! Very nice! But they (the stories) were only mine. And then when they stopped telling me to write, and when I got older, I usually, as many others, poured out things like emotions in free-falling prose, poetry and written streams of consciousness with stick people and shadows and boxes scrawled in scratchy black ink onto comforting cartridge paper in a black spiral bound book that was held closer to me than any other possession.
I’ve filled about three books like this. These ramblings. And it seems to be a constant of my existence – all this arty stuff. Writing. Don’t I sound like a bit of an artist? I do don’t I? Maybe most of it was adolescent rubbish. But then. Maybe some of it was good.
But then I only did it in secret. All this writing and nobody to read it not even the bad stuff! So I stopped my scrawling for a little while. I stopped. No one to see, no one to read, mostly teenaged babbling – what was the bloody point in all this verbal out pouring? But well then after a short break…of a year or so…I missed my pen. I missed my book. I missed the comfort of the cartridge paper. I missed the feeling I got after I put some emotion or ideal or concept or concern into lovely little words.
I couldn’t stop writing. That wasn’t it. But something definitely had to change. So here we are. Here is my public black cartridge paper spiral bound note book. It’s a mix up of several carefully assembled words. And, like the book, a bit sketchy in places.
So go and settle yourself by the fire. Open it with eager hands. Turn the page. I have been expecting you.
bathroom floors are no places
hearts heal over
harder than before
and people come to you in pieces
Pull me apart again
Flick through my history books
these wide eyes
and grazed knees
will bring me
to un-break these bones
over the bathtub
the pieces of me out of the plughole
I will too
there’s nothing wrong with
making your Heart
and I don’t care about
cuter black haired girls
but I’d rather
What do you do when your heart is
straining under the weight of
someone else’s mistake?
holding on like a dog
to a dead man
tight clenched fist
you can’t wake him up
he’s not here.
i listen to the loudest music
but it still won’t drown you out
she said you’ve got to sleep on it
but my heart’s planning every day
and the furniture we will have.
what did you do to me?
i think it must be some
hell of a
you slipped me
Though I was born this life’s not mine
I cannot be a waste of time
Must uphold faith, truth and humanity
Be a functional member of society…
write a bestselling novel
put out a fire
build a multi million pound
all there is to know
be a classical composing virtuoso
i should teach myself to jump 9 foot high
on something that
would have died
Be an ambassador for peace and
make my country proud
Learn to dance
sing out loud
I should get a first class medical degree
build a school
and an orphanage
save a chimpanzee
Develop good posture
Dress up smart
Do twenty press-ups
Take care of my heart
Don’t litter, remember to put things away
Be punctual, presentable and watch my weight
This and some more
Then there’s nothing I’ve missed
except one vital thing that I left off my list
see we all die fast – there’s not a second to lose
so out of all of the things
there’s one thing I choose
see it’s my most constructive thing to do
all of you
id have had
all of you.
and my arms filled with you
to my skin,
in divine sips.
I gave you
your eyes sought,
for my heart to break
and give you,
all of you,
my pulsing everything.
your furrowed brow
in a sweet sweat filled
fire branded to my memory
like a sacred iron bar.
was all beauty and violent
a bladed flame that left
a sacrilegious scar
It’s all I wear now.
A tribal mark.
But it was less than
In the end.
Nothing at all.
if you’d like to move in
to our life
of our things
they break easily.
but if you happen to knock something precious
off a shelf well
don’t be afraid to put your feet up on the furniture
make yourself at home
this is what you’re here for
make a mess
if you like
we can clear it up together
it’s all yours now
and when you leave
it will be all too cutting quiet
but soon we will smile at the echoes of you
and we will be better for having had you between our walls
you shifted all our furniture to face the sun
we will sweep you out of the door
hang pictures we
took with you
you taught us where we had to look
and our life
will be better for having had you between its walls
(inspired by ‘the light’ by the album leaf)
what you give away
but you can have it
you can have it
When I was spiralling in my mind
The other night
And loud dirty floor faces
And bathroom sinks
Cried out at me
With overzealous embraces
And ill informed naive
Walking on slippery slope slim chances
And slow circled by blunted teeth
On unfed tigers, weak
Eyes baited watching for the first sign,
I remembered You.
And Michael Jackson
And it stopped me
Caught before I folded
Like a gasp, like a safety bar
There are the sorts of shadows
That creep into your life
With or without you.
you were the sort of friend
who loved me
when all you said to me was
It will never be okay
and offered me the top off your burger bun.
Hello dearest readers!
The author of this blog (me!) has a live spoken word gig at the Poetry Cafe, Covent Garden, London UK
Saturday June 14
at a great night called Platform One Poetry
see you there
my goldfish is black and silver and proud
he eats his own poop
but he’s not stupid
i fed him a pea and it came out green
he’s a murderer and a bastard
but the cutest one you ever seen
you know i dont even know if he’s a girl or a boy
he’s a fish
who gives a shit.
I swam some more.
I have a memory vastly longer than 2 seconds
I remember this bit of the tank.
I swim up and down.
Explorer of my own land.
A hero in my own mind,
A gallant warrior and a god of my earth a brave… oh look! poop! nom…
we gave up on the fist fight a long time ago
now we’re making bets
and cheering on the violence from the sidelines
they’re hidden behind frosted screens
like magic cards up magic sleeves
while we fill in the inbetweens
with theory, booze and magazines
see I’d tell you if I knew
but I wonder what you’d do
if someone filled in all the bits?
Magicians don’t reveal their tricks
not sure if it would be enough
if it would make your life less tough
if it would help your heart to beat
if you knew where to move your feet
and would it take you magic places
if life filled in it’s missing spaces
and answered all it’s question why’s
with more than silence, gaps and sighs
see I’d have told you long ago
If I’d have known – but all I know
is every breath and tear and this
exists because …
because it is
They tell me
Give it up
Eating Junk food’s such a sin
But when I open up my cupboard
All I want’s a piece of him
I was glad that I had you
I introduced you to some gentlemen
I shouldn’t have introduced myself to
I watched you spin in your bowl
Like an executive toy
Didn’t even know if you identified
As a girl or a boy
You always looked after me
So I’m sorry I didn’t know
I never realised that parts of you
Stuck out like broken bones
And the smell of too much cologne hung off your skin
Like flakes of rot
I never realised
Your skull was so scuttle-like and mottled
Greyed and stained like a stepped over dust sheet
Or your dim paper boy walk, heavy booted and clumsy like a
Darted fat drunk.
I never saw
The colour of warm lager that washes out the taste
Of the morning after
Or the words spat from your split lips
Propaganda of your times
Self serving, blank and sharp suited in their sell-something eloquence
No I never realised
But now I look again
She wants to be a dancer, a singer, an actress, an artist. She has no time as she’s a teacher and hates it. She is sleep deprived and doesn’t tell jokes.
He’s fabulous on guitar. He’s 33 and working at the same company he was at when he was 23. And he still hates it. He worries about the washing up.
She’s got a job and is studying. She has a boyfriend who is addicted to coke and doesn’t have any money.
He’s 24, married, with a pet rabbit. He acts 45. Unless he gets drunk. She bickers with him a lot about who’s right about the technicalities.
She is young, studying the best thing in the world but she lives with these people in a house in a neighbourhood full of dead ends. People penned in to theirselves.
So she moved out to nowhere and the story began.
written nov 10 2009
nothing that you say is real
it’s just a caberet
when you told me i was beautiful
it was just a thing to say
when you pushed away my hairline
it was just another move
when you asked me to go out with you
it was just you being smooth
when you made love to me all night
it was just the thing to do
when we spoke up in the morning
it was really nothing new
and i don’t know what you want from me
or what you would suggest
What should I take away from this
Don’t know why you had me over
When you didn’t want me round
Thought that you were buried treasure but
You’re just some junk I found
I should have had that threesome with
Your pretty little friends
But I thought we were seven
when we’d stopped playing at Pretend
Sure I shouldn’t be so foolish
when I’m looking for romances
But I’ll never hear the music
Till I take these stupid chances
Nothing that you say is real
lines written in a play
couldn’t tell me if you meant it
or you thought you were on the stage
beneath that dust sheet of an ego
you think you’ve got a lot to prove
And me? Just a dusty old romantic
Falling for a stranger’s moves
Don’t be confused by surfaces; in the depths everything becomes law
Rainer Maria Rilke
Letters to a Young Poet
No one gets their words out right in public. Maybe they get the right ones, but not the true ones.
That might be a good reason why some people write poetry. Because it’s easier to get truth out that way, without the noise.
There’s an eyeglass I use
To turn over all the polished crystals in your mind
I look every day
Even you don’t know how many carats
You are to me
I hope there are more boys like you
Who eloquently love the Pixies too
But you’re done with me
Next time I break
I want to break in two
To be lost in rivers into you
I want to cry out my heart
And go insane
Not this dull edged, half arsed, paracetamol pain
Give me concussion, knock me out
Don’t make me shrug, make me shout
You were a thump on the shoulder
Not a slap in the face
Not blood in my mouth just an unpleasant taste
Next time you break me
Do it properly
At least then
I could write some decent poetry
And you perfectly emptied out
Like a bed ridden girl
And there’s an oblique way you say it
That is like not saying it at all
I have no signs
You are beauty turned cold
No one gives a flying fuck
about your wrinkled sweating genitalia
or what you do with them
(I am sure)
are in/around/under them
and talk about
or Child abuse
And leave your
To your fast moving
I get butterflies in my stomach when I think about you. Knocking against my diaphragm like retarded moths.
Vex not thy soul with dead philosophy,
Have we not lips to kiss with, hearts to love and eyes to see!
Panthea, Oscar Wilde
I am skinny pretty and smart enough to get on in life
The rest is anyone’s guess
But my own.