April 03, 2005

Bottom, part 1

Iím trying to forget her
That girl that doesnít like me
Iím trying not to like her
The girl who doesnít want me.

I bury my head in the sands of literature;
Other times, other places
Far and not so far away.
In sonnets, stanzas, sestinas,
Epics, novellas, fable and fiction,
Men who were great,
Men who were not,
And men who just were.
And of course the women who made them fall,
Whether accident or otherís implement
Or own deliscously deliberate fault.
Thereís always a woman.

In my mind I craft a drive-in theatre
And away from reality I speed.
On the screen my imagination plays
Brings to life all the things held in my head,
I see the film where Lancelot slays Gawainís brother,
So he could rescue a girl
So Gawain challenges him and he accepts
And they donít fight to the death:

I saw Sir Gawain swing his sword,
And saw Lancelot raise his shield,
Eyes locked, they saw the loser without words,
And both saw how he would refuse to yield.
Lancelot of the Lake, the knight, the lord,
And Gawain, each a master of the field,
Flew together, lances sharp tips like eagles soared,
But landed like lances.
Lancelot, the greatest knight who still lives,
He cannot help but win,
His tip splinters into Gawainís chest again
In the wings (on the eagleís) I watch, Gawainís life his to give.
Gawain challenges again to avenge his kin,
I watch in the hope the lesser man might win.

But my imagination twists
Off the screen
And out of my grasp,
Squirming it makes a picture I donít want to see.
Every thing that I imagine
My imagination twists to her.
Maybe she is twisting it
Making me think of her.

I saw Gawain again, in Technicolor,
I saw her again in a pretty dress
Gawain was wooing her with all his power
She was the damsel causing me distress.
Gawain the not-quite-perfect knight,
Applies his charms and then sheís his,
Then he becomes perfect in his own right
And Iím forced to watch their first kiss.
And I canít look away as he lifts up her dress
And I catch a glimpse of her perfect breast,
How painful it was you canít even guess,
Yet the more I saw the more I fought less,
There was a bizarre fascination I confess.
Like when you turn up unprepared for a test,
And if you survive then count yourself blest.

I tried not to look,
At the porno my film had become,
Tried not to see her breasts and bottom,
Tried to make Gawain go away,

I closed my eyes,
Breathed in deep,
Let the drive-in go,
But my imagination had fucked me right over.

Literature had failed, so I tried friendsí advice
And we went down the pub.
After all
At the bottom of a pint,
Everybody is just fine.

March 29, 2005

Oh no, more of the blighters

How insane are you?

Dangerously Insane!

I would image that most people try to avoid you at all costs. You think nothing of going on violent rampages or saying 'bleep' for absolutly no reason. You're a bloody maniac.

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How sexually perverted are you?

Pretty Pervy

You just cant help yourself, can you? Maybe if you took your mind out of the gutter for 5 minutes you might be able to make something out of your life.

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What are you?


You're a clever, self-obsessed supreme being. You are probably going to have lots of weirdly-named children like Harangue, and Viddidunk.

Personality Test Results

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Deep Purple just have songs for everything

Describe yourself using one band and song titles from that band

Created by naw5689 and taken 23533 times on bzoink!

Choose a band/artist and answer only in song TITLES by that band:Deep Purple
Are you male or female:Hard Lovin' Man
Describe yourself:Child in Time
How do some people feel about you:Mule
How do you feel about yourself:Space Truckin'
Describe your ex girlfriend/boyfriend:Strange Kind of Woman
Describe your current girlfriend/boyfriend:Hush
Describe where you want to be:Black Night
Describe what you want to be:Highway Star
Describe how you live:Lazy
Describe how you love:Smoke on the Water
Share a few words of wisdomYou Fool No One

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March 26, 2005

So what?

So What?

So what if Iím a poet?
So what if you know it?

Should I present to you a few poems on parchment?
Try to pick out the few arenít terrible,
And wonít scare you?
Try to trick you into telling me
Iím actually quite talented.
Iím not. Iím just deluded, obsessed and
In pain.
Sometimes that looks like talent,

But itís not.
Itís a twisted tin chain,
With delusions of silver.
Itís a clay pigeon you pretendís the real thing.
But illusion smashes when you shoot it,
Or when it falls on your ears.

So what if you care?

Iím not a performing pony,
Turning cute little tricks
For you to sigh at and say
ďAhh, thatís so sweet!Ē

Iím not even a performing poet
My words are mine, and ours alone,
No one can put them in their mouth,
Steal them away.

My words are for me
And my band of poetical brothers,
The metaphorical masses of my fellow unwanteds.
Iím a romantic revolutionary,
A poetical partisan
Iím the Pablo Neruda
Of the middle class white angst-filled male.
Iím the fucking Che Guevara
Of the rejected lover,
Leading the romantic revolution,
A non-military coup on emotion,
And with our banners of metaphor
Our uniforms of simile
Our rifles of oxymoron we will overthrow
Your preconceptions.
ĎNice guys unite,
Itís time to be bastards!í
The Marxian slogan of a younger,
Self-obsessed age.
And girls like you will see,
Too late,
How nice guys are in fact just great.

But by then weíll have thrown off
The shiny tin chains of our oppression,
And claimed our rightful place
Above or beside
As we decide.

So if you think that Iím a poet
Then whether or not you know it,
If the poetic revolution comes at all
Youíll be the first against the wall.

Now tell me that you care.

So then

So then

So then you liked me
And then I felt smug.
Then sad,
In mourning for nice.
Yet there was no time for mourning,
When finally I had you,
(And in the having, lost you too)
The sum of my pathetic fantasies
That I had to lose, then missed
And amongst the crocodile tears,
Found you,
Who I thought more wild and dangerous
Than my tears,
But now are tamed by my lack of thought.

So the you that I had found
Was not the one I sought.
And you found me in the change around,
Due only to the cruelties that we wrought.

For when niceties failed,
Sitting in the corner
I watched your lips curl into a laugh,
(I glimpsed you through mindís shadows)
Imagination might have made you snarl,
At my words that never were elegant enough,
To capture the illusion,
Nor shrewd enough to reveal delusion.

Cruelties won,
Harsh words eventually reached your ears
In a circle of slanderous gossip,
The adolescent equivalent
Of throwing paper balls in nursery,
And I saw you snarl,
(Teeth ripping fantasy away)
Though it could have been a smile,
At my lies that proved I cared.

(Cruel, no longer wonderful, you)
Were mine
The dream became real,
Empty air became ice,
Then I realised you werenít ice, just nice.
And I no longer wanted you.

March 16, 2005

So now

Bit of an odd sonnet this turned out to be, it's about a nice guy who gets sick of being nice, so he stops.

So now

So now I know nice is liked, but not desired,
Now I know youíre unkind, but are.
I seem to think that youíre a liar,
I seem to know youíre lifeís deluded star.
I wanted to be liked for who I am.
I didnít think I deserved your ire.
But I was an idiot, well God-bloody-damn,
I guess to diffírent heights I will aspire.
As a bastard pulling strings I will go far,
Iím playing with your life, like fire,
I inhale power and perfume like itís tar,
Your life entwined with mine, both sinking in the mire.
Iím an arse Ďcos you didnít like me nice.
Now Iím not, does it seem strange I entice?

I Would – A pathetic poem

I would

Thereís a girl out there who doesnít like me,
Sometimes I think that girl is you,
Thereís nothing I wouldnít not do for thee,
But thereís a list of things that I would do.

I would pick you plucky, pithy flowers,
Pull them from the earth, imagining your heart
Not breaking,
Ďcos Iím not strong.
Dandelions, buttercups, nettles, a little daisy chain,
A childís bouquet for childís listless love.

I would write a bad poem,
It wouldnít have meter or form or
Rhyme or rhythm,
And Iíd fill it with a thousand clichťs, more
Clichťs than stars in the sky:
Clichť clichťs.
Totally unromantic, and not the romantic way.

I would be the least romantic man,
In the history of cavemen.
I canít even claim to be able to provide.
Except a sense of annoyance,
Almost weak enough to be loathing,
Iíd be the burr stuck in your hair.
Iíd scratch your neck.

I would cling on
To you
Tightly, pathetic, pitiful and wet,
Knowing you are too nice to throw me off yet,
Clinging doggedly on,
Vague attempts at puppy dog eyes,
My limpid resistance a surprise,
Knowing you wish me gone.
But I wonít go,
And I wonít try to fight,
So fuck you and what you want,
Iím not doing this right.

I would do nothing

Shakespeare, a different view

To Shakespeare's Man

1. Thou wert, apparently, more beautiful,
Than dryad, nymph, fair siren's song,
That phrases elegand and plentiful
Did flowst from Bard's mouth, like a river long.
So 't'would everlong run, a monument,
To thy wondrous visage, that men hath said,
If they had half thy looks, would be content
Pyramids, chruches, Helen in her bed.
Yet twerps who read out poems do not know
Your name, place, status, hair colour, nor can
They remember S. placed own worth below
Yours, nor do girlfriends know you are a man.
So we (instead of you, forgotten quick)
Remember Shakespeare, monumental prick.

2. I pity you, who's beauty Shakespeare sought,
Entombed in words, eternally onlooked,
By those like you trapped in schools, or else bought
In sappy cards, copied by kids from books,
Where you are half remembered, not recalled,
As muse of one's talents, who knew himself
(delluding you that beauty fades nor falls)
He would be famed, remembered, and yourself
Would be evidence to what we suspect
But shouldn't care for, it's talent we hear,
Your only remembrance, what could be more perfect,
Is proof that Shakespeare really was quite queer.
So a poem to set you free I offer
Hoping my talents none will remember.

February 18, 2005

Real Men Don't Use Porn

A play in which I play some small part, come see it, I guarantee you you've never seen anything like it before!

The Cooler, Monday and Tuesday of Week 8 (i.e. next week), 1pm. Be there or be somewhere else.

For more information

February 17, 2005

And now I'm worried

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