Writing Diary, Entry 1, 31/07/2013

So, after knocking it around my head today, I’ve decided to keep a writing diary on here. Feel free to peruse and but it’ll mainly consist of me trying to sort out my scatterbrained ideas and figuring what to pursue tomorrow. My lecturer told me it was healthy to do this online as people can monitor whether or not you’ve lost your sanity while sitting in front of a screen all day.

Once again, I’ve had a dry spell today. I managed to vent out 2000 odd words as part of building a potential one man poetry show but it is very embryonic. I’m trying to make it funny, surreal, poignant and purposeful all at once, which is difficult while free writing and of course, frustrating when you can’t seem to crack it straight away. I am currently learning two of my performance poems for a slam in August and I made decent headway with those today. What I wish I had devoted most attention to was shaping some new material, editing and writing new stuff for those but it seemed like I could only focus on this on man show idea. Not productive. I’m thinking I should divide what I focus on daily and at least practice poems every morning. Sounds like a good way to start the day… Being super articulate after trying to wake up. Looking to submit to some magazines but trying to make sure all lineation is right and the poems are right for the page requires so much time and I haven’t seemed to catch the focus yet.

For those who don’t know me, I’ve just returned from uni, having just completed a Creative Writing degree, so I’m still adjusting to being amid my family again… And my younger brother and sister are on school holidays, so instantly my ethic is relaxed. I’ve never wished for a routine so much. Tomorrow will be sending out to magazine day, along with some edits and competition entries. And practice. I must practice…

We Were Architects

You always fancied the sledgehammer

and I was a dust addict with no air.

The four walls were sterile,

like your stare while the room

we confined ourselves in

shrank to fit your perception of perfection.

You were narrow minded,

my mathematics were always off

and I was tired of being inside,

so I drew up the schematics for trees,

so I could understand the root of our problems.

You couldn’t lift your hammer,

heavy like your panicking manner

with a laughter of lead

no room for a balloon between us.

I’m tired of sterile and no swinging,

we’re saxophones always reading

the rule book and shaking our flat lips,

trying to talk out with longer notes,

holding on and out for a beat to drop.

It’s here we stop breathing,

In-out receiving each other’s air.

The kaleidoscope is leaking in your chest,

we’re colliding now, it’s what we know best,

making love with a wrecking ball,

knowing we could take a fall

of forty stories, land in the rubble,

dust in our muzzles, to push

a breath to thermal dive on,

ready to rebuild all the levels

with all their floors,

because it’s our flaws

that make us want to go outside.

It’s you, me and the wall.

Let’s forget panicking about perfection

and become architects.

The Pickaxe To Your Paintbrush

I threw pickaxes at the blank wall

to make an impression.

Each one looking like a scar,

the cracked skin of an elderly,

not giving me sympathy,

only crow face stares.

You threw paintbrushes at the wall,

loaded with lavender and sky blue drops,

that ran minuscule rivers in the scar cut ravines.

Handing me one of your brushes,

You said first impressions

Should never be made with a pickaxe.


And is the word of possibility,

and is a conjunction,

and should not be preceded by a comma,

and is a breath

and is the beginning of all reasons and lists

and if I showed you my groceries you’d be disappointed, because

and gets repetitive when it’s over used,

and all you can think of are rattling grandparents

and stuttery teenagers who’ve been caught fingering butterflies;

‘and… and… I swear, I only wanted to touch her wings!’

and all the consequences ensue in father fists,

and all we can really appreciate is that without

and, we can’t have grandparents or hands or stand or glandular fever.

And there is certainty that

and makes for disappointing endings,

and mix matched verses ,

and cliffhangers that make no sense,


Sign Of My Times

I see the compulsive man, picking up dead leaves

On his path home, placing them in sun beaten carrier bags

It must take him four and a half hours to get home,

I ask him if he needs a hand and he says

Autumn is coming, then shuffles up the street .


It’s the first of March, my birthday, I’m resolving to kick my habit

of tooth rot and parrot talk, and I’m welcoming the spring.

I contemplate celebrating by becoming a crack dealer

Photocopying my buttocks

And fly posting the university walls

But it’s hard being anonymous here

So we use facepaint and dance instead.


A disco outing after developing a cocktail called Sex

I give my first speech and forget to thank my parents,

The party in my flat cheer anyway and bundle my bed

For a count of 15, raise their glasses and march out the door

Clinking to ring of fire, beer pong anthems.


We’re at 80s flirt, loose legs limp on the neon juice,

Beat over the face with dubstep and handbags

I shake them off tell them I’m with wonderwoman

Thundercat strut in my tights to New Order,

Downing Aftershock, meek chemical peel burn

In my throat, pure fluoride,

Need to spit, to head home for the dentist

or a bathroom floor, a porcelain bowl.

On exit, we’re questioned by two bowling pin bouncers,

I high five one’s face and stamp out the fire at the other’s feet

Shrieking like the scared lion I am painted to be.

Wonder woman apologises for me, moaning ‘Lion-O,’

Ready to escort me home.


Catching brain freeze from drinking too much air

My feet are blood balloons trussed up in leather

Too tired I start rolling up the hill on the pavement

That is hiding under a blanket of dead leaves,

We reach the porch,

where two guys shake cum and vomit out of a bed sheet

Into 2.10 AM wind, chatting about chicken kebab

And how tight Stacey is. ‘Are you going to be single for tour

Full on tonguing Spanish heart and whores?’

I shrug the sign of my times and tut at their language,

Kick leaves off heels at the door, held up by my caped saviour

Eager to hide in my cupboard that believes it’s a bedroom.

Inside, I get called a racist by post-it notes

pinned to a corkboard for poetry

tell myself to be calm and deliver slow.

Drink the chalk water, talk to the toaster

For spring loaded conversation,

Hear the after midnight row, upturned beds and wall pummels

Little naked fists, wrist caught and kissed

That love hate relationship knuckle imprints my cheekbones


They know I’m home when they hear my post night out stream

My head hits the ceiling, feet land after a minute, collapse on

My lover wonderwoman, who starts wiping the makeup and tears from

My battered skull, picking dead leaves from my locks

Telling me I’m beautiful,

while I try to articulate why I respect women.

She shushes me with a hand on the back of my neck

I purr and cry at the excess love in my veins, the sign of the times

Fear of autumn coming, thankful for the superheroes

We both painted ourselves to be, both mismatched

But resting in the same, spring time tree,

Two cats in no need of firefighters.


My Little Review – Gravity Chain’s ‘End Times’ EP

I was in my bedroom. I was lying on my bed and I was counting the pimples on my ceiling. Now, I’m in the desert, guessing at the number of all the stars spread out over the various red rocks poking out of the sand. And in my ears, ringing like the wind through chimes, is the sound of ‘End Times,’ the first EP release by Gravity Chain, a five piece alternative rock band from Falmouth, UK. Alternative rock, for starters, doesn’t quite cut the sound that has transported me to this foreign place. If I had to fit this sound into a tin, it would be labelled post pock, with hints of desert blue rock. Doesn’t have the same ring to it as alternative really does it? Perhaps, while I lie here on cooling sand, it’d be best to go through the tracks and tell you how I feel about them… I may as well until they take me back home.

‘From Above’ is the first track and descends on the listener first with quiet plucks of syncopated guitar and echoing vocals, driven hard by thumping drums. There is colour in the simplicity of the bass; it weaves in between the guitar and drums, linking them, throwing ripples under their various waves. I get flowery when I hear polyrhythms… There is such a solid groove, yet it feels light and ambient. What I love is the howling vocals, these deep, bluesy melodies that seem to be calling out to the sky. All of these elements lock in spacious sections that guide me into a crescendo that feeds off of the gathering momentum built up from the start of the song. Oh wow… and here comes the next track….

‘Brother’ rolls in, far more bluesy, taking me into a Doors-esque sound with sweeping chords and playful vocal rhythms. Lyrically, this one feels more poignant, lines like ‘I don’t wanna be me anymore’ call on themes that resonate with me… Those kind of themes that you can’t really put your finger on, but you understand all the more. The vocals in ‘Brother’ give it the most momentum, building into a crescendo with the repetition of ‘brother to brother/soul to soul…’ the music and lyrics culminating in an almost battle montage playing in my head. I’m striving with my brother, I’m walking with him, in a desert and yeah, it’s pretty hot and I’m not sure we’ll make it but… Yeah, we’re gonna make it. That kind of feeling? Don’t get it? Listen!

‘The End’ is lead in with the end of the climactic ‘Brother’ feeding off of the previous track’s energy, but progresses to a new sound. The spacious sounds of the EP culminate here in gradual builds and echoing guitar, making for an exceedingly haunting sound. I literally feel like the end is coming. The vocals drone, bass and drums lock in a dirty breakdown, thundering at the end of the track. Rocks are falling from the skies. The clouds are dying. This post rock crescendo and sound lands on my paralysed body and amid the awe, I wake up, in my room.

‘End Times’ is finished. I sit up and check that I’m still alive. Luckily, I have arrived with conclusive details with the EP, safe and sound without the harsh winds of the desert. ‘End Times’ marks an impressive and ambitious for Gravity Chain. They link a variety of genres and rather than making an inconsistent, failing sound, they have delivered a cohesive three songs that feed into each other stylistically and . I’m thoroughly astounded and I must admit, I’m a sucker for music that makes you close your eyes and lose yourself. It’s just crazy that Gravity Chain did it so easily in their first release.

For those who like a mix of bands and genres; reminiscent of Foals, Radiohead, Warpaint, The Doors, Kings Of Leon, but merely drawing on elements from these sources. To really get your own idea of their sound, check out Gravity Chain’s ‘End Times’ EP on here: https://soundcloud.com/gravitychain/sets/end-times-ep



Laying on a bed cradling your first born stab wound,

You’re left looking like a heart attack

after you’ve stepped past the exact

point of standing against the common ground

that is the earth held on the tip of a knife point,

so concerned with shoving a statement in your chest

like vacuous motivation is what you need

when you’re trying to Beep… past the radars

of those expecting things from you. Great things.

High expectations for long disappointments.

All it takes is the foot placed wrong

and you’re in Monitor City Beep… Beep…

Every single word and beat and feeling

Registered, processed, jerked with an arthritic

lie detector arm. You’ve got the wrong guy.

I’m a victim, believe me, I have no voice.

I’m sorry, is that my heart so truthfully scripted there?

It looks like a child’s fridge drawing, scribbles of nonsense

scored with decaying crayon …Beep…

It would just be nice to say things without interruption …Beep…

Definitely a forgery… Beep… Last time I fisted a …Beep…

See I can’t even complete the sentence.

The wires in my skin are trying to fix the pump within

and all its redeemed with is a Beep… Beep…

what I might say next is free from the chest,

for a thought provoked from the bottom

of the barrel headed minds that so frequently roll around here.

Beep… I never used to talk like this. I feel as though I’m in code

…Beep… Encoded by the …Beep… So making sense

while I lay here might be the …Beep… ends of all reasonable

discourse from a tired soul. News is on.


*Suspects questioned today in a lyrical hit and run enacted

last night on rappers Blatently Overated and Uncreative.

They were riddled with assumptions and deaf ears,

leaving them in quite a shock after their lyrics

had been stolen. They are both trying to recover their voices

and are glad to have put one of the assailants in hospital…*


You can only make a living from what has been done before.

Some people are more literal about this than others.

I could question the morals at hand here,

while I’m dying on the suspension bridge of …Beep…

They still have their voices and words revolving

around the corporate music media, instead of being locked in

to a tape recorder, a dying artist monologuing to a transcript

that will make it no ears or minds or …Beep…

Come inside me. Close your eyes. See what I pretend to see.

Here is the vast plain of creativity I have here,

locked under eyelids and blood vessels and bones broken

as a milk bottle left carelessly in the wind. It falls to smash

and out blossoms the word ‘WHITE’, which can be assumed

stands for canvas or convex or concave, a shape at the very least,

of something you can mould beyond all comprehension.

Or simply let disappear, here, in the back garden,

where Dad used to cut the grass and now the lawnmower sits

next to Mum’s fabric sunning chair, shredded by hails stones,

with grass grown all around it and the Spring weather

has bounced off again, so all it does is rain to rust its metal.

You roll around as a dog and wonder if you were a cat,

the moon would be the most enticing bowl of milk

but instead you are …Beep… relaxing, coming to terms

with the fact you will never mould yourself into something

that will excel as high as the moon …Beep… but it’s enough

to want to create the journey, to pull from yourself,

lying on the ground, the ideas of ladders or spaceships

beaming down and pulling you up from your daily dog/cat duties,

to reach something as unimportant but beautiful as space,

time takes nothing from you, just a day dream daze

for half a day and there you are, laying in thin air, despite the …Beep…

that stops your free thought …Beep… Dad forgives you for not mowing.

Mum has fresh lemonade, despite the cold … Beep…

Nurse puts a sponge in my chest cavity and soaks up some blood.

It tickles, too much. Hahaha stop it you cheeky …Beep…

I don’t feel like waking up just yet. I’ve got too many

restrictions waking up for …Beep… sake. Stop it, this is

…Beep… of the highest… Beep… Let me see my mother

…Beep… for another …Beep… I’ll tell you everything

…Beep… I was the one stabbed … Beep… Beep…

For my …Beep… Beep… Beep… Beep…

The Day I Forgot About Yeast

Breadmouth is talking about the fall of the economy

while we drown in the sinking pink sunset,

letting the geese fly off and out of the crèche

we built for them on the hillside, using wicker

and wicked thoughts, for freedom is featherless.

We’ve been here every month, catching every one

with the loose crumbs of our speech, for we

are the careless talkers of the century, digging grass

angels with our lack of movement, watching a sunrise

and wishing for it to set, as we are set in resin.

The dew climbs and rests on our pale naked bodies

that we’re obsessed with tanning to the degree

that every leather sofa we pass, is jealous

and lounging around is our disrespectful game.

No longer are we baking today, we’re dining

tomorrow and the day after, without laughter

or intonation or pitch or birdsong climbing

the vapour trail ladders that descend from rescue jets.

No bread for grandmother today. It’s mouldy,

sour dough and coughing yeast, easing itself

into a shallow grave of atmosphere eaters,

no plastic containers or fridge preserves

as we are unreserved wasters, here, upon hilltop,

flocking like the wingless geese. We are

wise to the ways of addiction, plucking the fat

bread obsessed birds from the sky and making

pâté patios, for more beach loungers, so we can

fart and ignore our bed sores, argue about towels

and whose skin is getting thicker in the rising sun.

Our days as vampires have ended, blood is no longer

appropriate, it’s just a distraction, you don’t need

circulation if you’re not rising for anything

other than a waiter bringing a sandwich, and usually,

a goose will die above you, ready for rotisserie,

so here we are, waiting for our feed, while releasing

our geese so they can grow plump and pluck worthy.

Breadmouth’s economy plans are flawed; he likens them

to buoyant balls amidst an ocean of sinkers and stares

at the sun, saying that’s the biggest star we could catch

and yet, all I can offer to him is my lack of opinion.

I am dead for moving, junked up in over fed state,

eating flatbreads, wondering when I had forgotten

to put yeast in the mix, for these crumbs will attract

no foreign flyers or picnicking couples upon the hill top.

I may have to become vegetarian and eat the abundance

of green or a cannibal and over power Breadmouth,

devour his form, so full of bread and rising breaths.

Saliva is masquerading my mouth roof and tongue

eager for a taste of my dearest friend, who is now

honking for his flocking friends to return to his side,

basted with bread and yeast on a mattress of crumbs

browning well in the rising sun. I stand with a struggle,

hearing angels and devils applauding my momentum

as if this is momentous and the hills are witnessing

the death of descent, welcoming the limp body’s ascent,

timed perfect to the sink of the sun, unmotivated

by the light, daring the dark. I clamber, weak on the legs

who have forgotten emoted motion, stagger on what

could be pins propping up a boulder and I tumble

on to Breadmouth, who screams in surprise, ‘HONK!’

And I eat the goose away, the body of my friend,

cooked to perfection, tasting of everything but,

feeling nothing but hungry and lost. I ask the sky

whether or not I should be a cannibal and eat the rest

of the loungers and it doesn’t respond. I guess

that means ‘NO’ and instead, I lay on the grass again,

wishing I had not forgotten the yeast. The sun begins

its rise and it no longer welcomes me, for now

I am cold and brown, ready for migration. An allergic

reaction bristles my skin and feathers begin to puncture

underneath. Like a cocoon I am enveloped, waking

with wind in my bones, hearing the migrant call of

the geese set free. In me, there is a flight taking place,

of the rib cage parting ways with my heart, lifting

me upwards on a thermal current, that before felt

lackluster. I leave on the wings of the foreign flyers,

my brothers and sisters that rise to the sun, despite

knowing it will always descend. A trail of breadcrumbs

fall from my beak lips and I honk goodbye to the hillside,

certain that soon, someone else will be lying there,

wondering why they didn’t put yeast in their picnic bread.