Thursday, 26 April 2012

NaPoWriMo April 20th

Disclaimer: It may appear that I've been terribly slack with my poem a day writing. However if anyone's read the earlier poems they might have clocked that my life situation hasn't been entirely delicious recently. Writing and sharing are two different things and while quality is not something that concerns me for NaPoWriMo, certain preoccupations have funnelled my poems down a route I'm not currently comfortable sharing. So I'm not sharing all of them. There's no governing body to tell me off and no points to lose. It's a bit of fun. So there.

Not slack. Just bummed out. Cue violins.


The train is stopped at Three Bridges.
We've been here 15 minutes now.
I am three Guiness in, Nick Cave's crooney echo loud in my ears.
Abbatoir Blues' gospel backing flushes my eyes of cynicism
I jig and twitch in my seat, head rolling over and around my neck
In the aisle feet tap and stamp even, 'Let the bells ring!'
'It's the real thing.' We're going nowhere.

NaPoWriMo 19/4

The reception is all colours,
garish chairs like cherry toms,
tiles squeak silver.
In a vase of fake flowers
grit is bleached, washed
onto eye-shaped table
like glaucoma.
Turquoise blots drip
perfect drips down
cubes of cardboard.
A green fluffball with eyes
swollen like babies heads
is set for table tennis.
A jar of sweets, 
lonesome wrappers.
Just a roll of thick,
black liquorice remains.

Thursday, 19 April 2012

NaPoWriMo April 8th

I'd been writing bars the past few days. To music. So that's poetry of sorts. I'll put it up when it's recorded. And not a moment before.


First Impressions

There is a man in a black tracksuit.
He swigs from a soda bottle, lips spudding wetly
round the neck, and burps out loud,
then repeats the process six or seven times.
His shoes are off and he is spread
across two seats,
yawning angry like an ape,
his collar is open, a thick, unlinked silver chain
winds his neck like a slow worm.
When he sneezes, I bless him.
He looks at me blankly, and says nothing.

NaPoWriMo April 5th

The taxi driver barely spoke English,
Our urgency bounced off his forehead
like ping pong balls off kerb stone.
'Mate, she's gonna miss her coach! Where is Queensway?'
'Coach Station!' He replied, 'Coach Station for you!'
Vanessa had missed her bus.
I lent her some money and made a joke
about biting off a finger if she ducked me.
It wasn't funny.
Then, phone battery died,
and with it, my chance for redemption.

It's not a good story, barely worth telling,
But I would have told you on the phone now,
Days mundane details exchanged
on the train home.
But battery or no, I cannot call
And I have no one else to tell.

Tuesday, 17 April 2012

NaPoWriMo April 4th

I would just like to remind everyone before they read this that it's 'poem a day' month.

Pissing On A Coach

The first thing that hits me is the heat,
engines grind and sweat under this tiny cabin
they rattle through my shoe-soles, they are close.
Standing before the bowl it quickly becomes apparent
this is not going to be easy.
Straddle plastic, one arm braced, belt, button-
fly, arched back, crooked knee, trousers
slide down my 's', pile from ankles.
I lower myself onto the seat, right forearm
and fingers rigid at the silver tube handle.
Sitting there unable to piss, lurching forward
with every freckle of road, I feel that somehow
I have failed. As if standing up to wee helped define me,
helped define my sense of 'man'.
That's bollocks though, I know that.
Still I can't help but want to shit.
Too far, dispel the notion.
Reverse the motion, snaking my jeans back up
to my waist, flush my shameful water
to have its splat cruelly snatched
as it's swept to vapour stretched
over the outskirts of Swindon,
leaving no mark, no record, no sound.

NaPoWriMo April 3rd

I am stuffed full of Burrito

rice and peppers settle as a brick in peat

all bulges, I felt bad before.

This huge room sways around me,

the gentle scratch of my pen on page

fighting off the empty space.

NaPoWriMo April 2nd

Today I lost my memory stick.
It fell from trousers shamefully torn
Carried over arm to cashpoint.
When I realised, I scoured streets, frantic
like a clucking tramp with cigarettes on the brain
but in triple time, head twitching back
and forth like a ravens, throwing myself
towards bits of litter resembling the USB.
After last Sunday's decisions this is the morning
I don't need. Rationale flashes a yellow 'E'
and I scurry about crab-like, eyes groundward.
I need you to tell me it'll be alright.
I need your measured voice, your gentle ridicule
but you've asked specifically that I don't call.
I give up on the memory stick, quickly grieve
its contents with a sharply sucked roll up.
I am an hour late for my workshop,
I'm committed now to giving up.
Here's my bus, I get on,
time to start again.

First Blog

How does one begin blogging? It's a strange notion to me. Firstly, no one reads this blog yet so I'm currently writing to myself and an imagined audience of future ghosts. Secondly, blogging isn't something I have much experience in. When I say the word, 'blogging', it feels strange in my mouth. 'Writing', however, I'm all over that. I can say it real natural like it's nothing. I'm going to use this blog to share my writing and keep anyone that's interested informed on what gigs I'm doing and what music I'm making and with whom I am doing those things.

To start with I'm going to put up a few of my NaPoWriMo pieces. The fact that one day somebody might see them will force a splinter of discipline into my rather relaxed approach to 'a poem a day'.