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…

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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…

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,

and

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