Set List Poem 18/03/2015

In the box where we kept love illustrations,
I have put the map of a city
I drove toy cars around
when Houdini taught me the locks
of a space can change
if you think infinity. Like school.
We were small and wrapped
in tear-pages in the library.
The sun is a lightbulb spark.
There is a man in this foldable city
who stays in the same place,
weird from a heart-letter,
navigating time at the speed of my hands.
I have sold him an advert.
It says, That’s not lightning, it’s cocaine, boys!
He gets the jitters, vibrates his own form,
walks to the place a train station will exist
when I can set magnets at either side
of this continent and the metal
will know where to travel between.

The box is a well of handles
to doors that have retired
and abandoned shells we took
from the sea. It’s in here
that I know I never bought roses.
You thought it was a warped present
to get someone, something that dies.

I gather the shells from inside.
I’ll donate them to a vase maker,
they believe in life.
I’ll lock the handles into the air,
see what else I can open.


Set List Poem 14/03/2015

Steam lifts out of the bucket
when you stem the spark.
It reminds you of a friend, their glow.
We’re catching firework
and the exploded limbs in the eye.
Dent the sky. Star’s aren’t important.
Learn the loss of night,
how it stays as long as it can.
Grab the boys, feed them salad
all evening. Dark tricked them
into eating chocolate wrapper still on.
Forget the time for how weighty
it moves into our body,
lays us out like roses.
Wonder how many people read tear
as tear, when you mean tear.
I tell you this is how books can die.
Listen to the reverse HEY of the friends
leaving. Know the train home tomorrow.
Wish Houdini was still around to inspire
doorways to cut into the air and lead
you anywhere. Pick up
the rusty-burnt metal with a magnet
in the morning. Count every heart,
the beats that are listened to,
hold the ones that aren’t.
Say the word love, know it’s a stone
you could imprint on the sun.

Set List Poem 13/03/2015

Heart eats a mattress, digging for a spark.
It’s a shovel built inside boys
who are writing songs about the girls they break all the time.
My bag is full of homecoming-windows, jingles before the train.
The water was bubble-thick, my brain said milk. Before here, I was running a magnet
through a bath of iron shavings, a puddle bent into love.

Pushing a RomCom into a DVD drive teaches a TV to love.
The microwave is church for metal being more than a spark.
I have alloyed the inside of a nest, lifted it from the tree with a magnet.
The birds will not know a home to come to, blame the boys
with their morning-shot song, punctuated by a leaving train,
holding men hauling house-guts hoping they make back time.

Mum tells me two years is a long time
to lose. I slept through all my burling in love,
wrecked by the push downs on the earth until I can train
my heart to follow more than a spark,
so I’m not written about as one of the frozen boys,
the ones obsessed with becoming a flesh magnet.

I don’t know enough about gravity. I carry it’s reject magnet.
They put it in your chest to keep it in time.
You will show the river-scar in your breast to boys.
Their hands, fresh in grab, hope to earn your love,
because they’re amputated, thinking rubber. You push them back with a spark,
know that on a platform, it’s tempting to outrun the electric of a train.

He’s talking about his sound on a train.
I’m trying to be a listener, hands clutching a paper magnet.
The couple opposite rub the Standard pages to make a spark,
the flames are the articles who forgot time,
a section of anons who thought they saw love
in a face in the blast-through landscape. Tired boys.

You grow with the damage, the lightning skin of boys.
How sorry you are, carrying a train
into a person you wanted to love
for longer than their body, from their toes to their skull-magnet,
the mind that chooses time
before static, before dampening a storm into a spark.

I wanted to be more than the boys, a hand-magnet,
to train my heart into a steel-woollen nest, take the come-go of homebirds and time,
bury what the mattress teaches love, breathe further than the spark.

Antosh On Antosh – A Reading Review Of Ayoade On Ayoade: A Cinematic Journey by Richard Ayoade

Morning. Antosh and Antosh sit around a novelty tea party table. The cups are empty. There are no other guests.

Antosh:                                So, you’ve decided to review the book in the form of the book?

Antosh:                                Yes.

Antosh:                                And why’s that?

Antosh:                                It’s a visual representation of what the reader is in for when they sit down with this book expecting something straight forward, which I would argue was a mistake given it’s written by Richard Ayoade.

Antosh:                                OK… One of your comments whilst reading it was that you read more of the latter end of the book before the first half.

Antosh:                                How did you know I said/thought that?

Antosh:                                I was there…

Antosh:                                Ah yes. Well, it’s true. Ayoade essentially embarks on ten interviews with himself, all the while throwing you into the appendix section of the book to read reams and reams before you’ve advance past page 20. It’s a great technique. It means you can’t speed read and you’re totally focused on Ayoade’s voice, jokes and analogies.

Antosh:                                And did you learn much about cinema?

Antosh:                                Nope. Diddly-squat.

Antosh:                                So what was good about the book?

Antosh:                                It was funny. If you like Richard Ayoade, you’ll find this funny.

Antosh:                                But not one for cinema buffs trying to learn about ‘the process?’

Antosh does a dramatic claw-grab-the-air motion when he says ‘the process.’

Antosh:                I wouldn’t say so. Ayoade does his usual undercut-type humour where he leads you down the path of maybe talking about something that you will learn from and then makes another joke. But I think it works. It’s like a show-don’t-tell guide to him as a person. You’re never going to see him outside of his persona. Maybe he has no persona? He’s embedded in himself. I just love the fact that the book might have lured people into thinking it’s biographical and/or going to discuss his process, when really, you’re sinking into another facet of his comedic work. And he wants the reader to be angry, cheated, disappointed. He wants this book to be overanalysed. All of this is SO intentional. Which is why it’s worth a read.

Antosh:                                So, it’s an anti-book?

Antosh:                                That’s as good a conclusion as any.

Antosh shakes Antosh’s hand. They then break their tiny chairs over each other’s heads, laugh and exit the review.

Ayoade On Ayoade: A Cinematic Journey, by Richard Ayoade, Faber and Faber, 2014