Confessional piece of performance poetry I wrote as part of The Roundhouse Poetry Collective. Click the above link to hear a recording via Soundcloud. Content Warning: Suitable for over 16, contains word-nudity…
Hello! I have a few of my poems recorded here if you fancy hearing how I talk, perform, throw them! I aim to record more soon, so stay tuned and hoping to film more performances too, once I can find cameras to follow me around….
My Invisible Friend Is An Insomniac – Translated!
My Invisible Friend Is An Insomniac – Translated!
An amazing gentleman and friend from over-the-sea very kindly translated ‘My Invisible Friend Is An Insomniac’ into Spanish. You can read it at the link below. You should also check the rest of his blog, there is some beautiful wordsmithing there! Thank you Mauricio González Álvarez!
Listening To A Street’s Voicebox
Standing attention to the sound of first shouts
post dance floor, I listened with my stabiliser wings
clipped by taxi rank breath of engines, a howl
in the concrete cube alley outside Revolution
where a punch drunk fist blew echo holes
in the throat throat throat…
It turned the whole street into a procession
with blue light sirens and kebabs spilled,
neon vomit on the high heeled
‘Oh no,’ flamingos, pencilled into their skirts,
holding onto their fannies with their clutch bags,
squawking with tiptoes around the rugby kit mobs
oofing the championship brawl of the curb,
oof oof to each fist landed, the proper Reading lad
beating a Northerner for looking at him funny,
at least, that’s what he thinks he said,
in testimony as the law enforcing, luminous jackets pile
batons on his boxer brains, echoes his claims
that he’s not a racist, he just hates Northeners
and I recognise his bloody eyebrows from school
and his mouthy grit stained lips, spitting curses
and baseball bats at the officers, who monotone
their radio, cancelling backup, checking in the arrest,
test, test, they boom the mic, as a band starts in a bar
down the road, swooping the echo attention
of the crowd massing to a shout fight,
where a guys is almost killed for his accent
by someone I used to break juice boxes with
and watched him hiss at pupils, teachers,
without ever trying to stop him.
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.
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…