April 28, 2010

Ambitious

I fear it is far too ambitous to try and write 4000 words of poetry, near enough from scratch, in about 3 weeks. However, it is marvellously self-indulgant and justifies afternoon trips to the pub for 'poetic' inspiration. Alas, my liver disagrees.


April 26, 2010

Sharing

Sharing

We shared 204 microwaveable dinners
but never a fish pie,
I’m much thinner now you left me
the best thing about heartbreak
is the loss of appetite,
my waist 4inchs slimmer.

We shared 38 verbal fights
(and 2 with fists)
I don’t condone violence,
let alone that time I threw the iron at you
(but seriously, clothes belong on hangers
not the floor, I told you it was the last straw
if I had to pick up one more lip-stick stained collar
and you’d be out the door).

We shared 2 beds,
a single, which was cosy,
then a double.
The trouble was we didn’t share the covers,
you were always cold,
hogging them,
you were an unaffectionate lover with poor circulation
(if you know what I mean...)

We shared 13 photo frames
smiling half-heartedly on our walls
to fool other couples at pretentious dinner parties
that we were in love.

We shared 251 bottles of red wine
(please note, this was more than microwaveable dinners)
but it was the antidote to the arguments.
I’m doing the drinking for the both of us now.
I’ll even drink rosé, but who knows hey?
Maybe I’ll go t-total somehow.
Prove you wrong.

We shared 23 ice creams,
and 6 holidays,
a getaway
from the suburban everyday
and then I’d find out you booked
self-catered
and I was your waiter for the week
because “seafood didn’t sit well with you.”
Then you’d announced in front of honeymoon couples
“go to hell! I’m not paying extra just to eat at a restaurant that just happens to be on the seafront.”

Oh you old romantic you,
taking me across the Atlantic
just to frantically serve you tea and toast
whilst you roasted in the sun,
and boasted that you looked brilliant with a tan
and that I looked like a lobster.

No, seafood really didn’t sit well with you,
but you still managed to give me crabs in Ibiza,
and you confessed over pizza in Rome
that you think we should just stay at home next year.

We shared everything,
1034 days, 9 dark secrets, 212 lies,
just to find, our traits didn’t match.
So I can eat my crayfish
and you can soak up the rays with another floozy.

Now we share nothing,
and I eat prawn sandwiches alone
in what was our home...
And I doubt you ever think of me...
and what we shared,
unless you walk past the chippy.


April 19, 2010

Neglect

Oh I do apologise dearest cyberspace for the lack of attention I have given you over Easter. It began well, with a very productive week in Warwick library, even using the moving shelves at the risk of my death. I got two essays complete. Marvellous, bravo me.

Then I came home and went into my funny "I'm not leaving my bed, ever" moods. I watched 3 series of Lost on megavideo and spent the remainder of my loan on ebay. It was a sad a lonely two weeks of turning down plans just to wallow in pointless misery. Why do I do that!? But to summarise, I got threats from my bank and only left my bed to frantically try and lose weight on my exercise bike and answer the door to collect my pointless deliveries.

But, then I got sick of living in my own filth and got back on with living which was wonderful. I spent a lovely few days in Liverpool shopping in Quiggins which is this beautiful vintage place and writing some poetry on the train. I was breathing and moving again, but also The Fear wa slowly setting in and I knew I would soon have to return home to revise.

Thus, today I am back to working (and writing)... I will post some more stuff up soon. It's been too long!


March 28, 2010

I have cut my leg open

and when I mean open, I mean very open. The odd thing is, I am very unsure how I have acheived this. I do confess, I was ever so slightly intoxicated tonight, but that is no excuse for this massive assault upon my thigh.

I'm sorry I have not spoken in 10 days but, life has been a cruel mistress, resulting in the following findings:

1) Really do never judge a book by a cover, even for good reasons, like believing someone is lovely, because they will still lie to you whilst you cry, and you will soon find out they lied, and you'll want to cry some more... and now I feel like a bitch for holding a grudge.

2) Go with gut feelings, I don't even know where my gut is, but I know it's right in comparison to some of the decisions of both my heart and my head recently.

3) When you wish to write, even if this is after 48 hours lack of sleep, write. When inspiration comes, milk it for all it is worth. I lost something yesterday, and I have a horrible feeling it is brilliant.

4) Self discipline is a wonderful thing, in all walks of life.

5) Dance more, alone, with a locked door and open windows, at 6am, to songs you would not normally dance to. It is a more glorious feeling than ice cream dribbling down... well, it is a glorious feeling.


March 18, 2010

A Howling Work in Progress

I saw the worst minds of my generation
try to quote Ginsberg like they knew what the fuck he was going on about,
like they too, could feel the beat from lecture hall seats
before hesitating,
to eat packed lunches their Mother’s had made,
ungratefully scorning her over-zealous application of butter,
before returning to pretend that they related
to poems about cocaine and gutters.

I saw the worst minds of my generation
idolise Oscar Wilde and tattoo his oh so quote-able brain
across their backs,
and proceed to talk about crack,
riding in their Daddy’s cars, who bought them the insurance,
hoping no one caught them, washing it for tenner in the alley
so they could go and watch French films they didn’t understand at the cinema.

I saw the worst minds of my generation
discussing capitalism in Starbucks,
drinking mocha-crapa-cinos,
calling knock-off bottles of pinot grigio “Vino”
throwing out their Nike trainers
because they saw some programme
where a kid called Teeno worked for 10pence an hour in a sweat shop.

I saw the worst minds of my generation
diagnose themselves as depressed,
as they undressed for anyone who bought them a drink,
coughing up lungs in nightclub sinks,
writing diaries that they thought rivalled Anne Frank’s misery,
bitterly putting “KEEP OUT” signs on bedroom doors
but who never ignored their parents calling “dinner” from the stairs.

I saw the worst minds of my generation
looking shady whilst buying records in HMV
even though they didn’t own a gramophone,
and moaning how unbelievably alone they are in their partiality for
post-Marxist-afro-cuban-experimental-nintendocore
because the lyrics really reveal the existentialism of their inner Hades.

And I saw the worst minds of my generation
trying to write poetry,
trying to rhyme words for the sake of it,
trying to make it look like they could take a word and match it with another,
and if they were really good,
it would only rhyme a little,
reading Philip Larkin just because “they fuck you up, your mum and dad”
and then standing in front of you guys,
with a complex and a with a poetic creation,
as if they really were any better
than the worst minds of their generation.


March 16, 2010

INK Magazine

It may only be a small Warwick based arts issue, but I am having a poem published in Term 3 Week 1 in INK. It's on this blog somewhere, called Visiting the Hospital.

It's a fabulous oppurtunity, the campus is certainly in need of more arts based publications promoting new writing, poetry, prose and the general lamb stew of imagination we have steaming on the Warwick campus.

Copies are 50p, I suggest everyone buys one to support our creative community as well as encouraging other such publications on campus.

(Also, I'm going to be in it, so of course you should buy a copy!)

emi.jpg


March 14, 2010

Performance @ Curiositea, Warwick campus

Follow-up to To be performed. from emily's coffee cups & poetry.

[media] [/media]


March 07, 2010

In the words of Oscar Wilde…

A true friend stabs you in the front...
well that one felt like I was made to kneel with a bag over my head whilst you plunged a dagger into my kidneys.


March 04, 2010

Performance Poetry

Creative Writing assignment from last week, unfortunately I've been ill and was unable to go perform it with my class. I love Wednesday too, why do I have to be ill? Okay, self-pitying over (I've spent the entire day in bed feeling sorry for myself, no need to use up pixels and giga-space or whatever you call it, pitying myself any further...)

EVERYONE:
Your verbal venom
Like sherbet lemon

A palpable sunset

On your tongue

let it run, run, run
down your throat

MYSELF:
each note
the swelling of violins
your lips a flaming ring

crying

MALES: goodbye

MYSELF:

We dined

Certain of maturity
Ordering a bottle of red
the very one that led
to our untimely demise.
We lined
up our insecurities
like green bottles on a wall
and watched them fall
as we shot them down.

EVERYONE:
Your verbal venom
Like sherbet lemon

A palpable sunset

On your tongue

let it run, run, run
down your throat

MYSELF:
each note
the swelling of violins
your lips a flaming ring

crying

MALES: goodbye

MYSELF:

We entwined
And lost our purity
in the glorious sheets
that smelt sickly sweet
of your Mother’s perfume.

We timed
how long it took
17,468 desperate hours
only to realise our
traits didn’t match.

EVERYONE:
Your verbal venom
Like sherbet lemon

A palpable sunset

On your tongue

let it run, run, run
down your throat

EVERYONE WHISPERING AND GROWING SLOWLY LOUDER UNTIL END OF POEM:

Run, run, run, run.. etc.

MYSELF:
each note
the swelling of violins
your lips a flaming ring

crying
goodbye

We find
ourselves together
in two separate beds
replaying things said,
ruthless untruths.
Lies.
Crying things like
goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.


February 27, 2010

Musings on muses

I am itching to write this one poem that has haunted me for weeks. It's got it's claws into my shadow and I'm dragging it around with me when I shop for milk and take a shower. It's a jekyll on my back, a tumour on my soul. I shall take the scalpel and remove it before it becomes terminal.

emi.jpg


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