All entries for October 2009

October 29, 2009

Decrepit

Yeah, not a fan of this one. Serious editing needed but there are timed limitations...literally wrote this on the way back from seeing the Bowerbirds play in London (go to Cargo, it's really cool there) so it's only fitting to put one of their songs here.

Here is 'Hooves':

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wkPGHdo7Xk0

I don't know how to make the video come up, so I'll just post a pretty picture of the band. Actally, I'll probably write a review of them soon enough for The Boar SO here is another picture more appropriate to the poem, Egon Schiele's 'Dead Girl':

deadgirl



Decrepit

OH, decrepit.
Let it be known,
Known, here,
now, now.
Let it be known,
decrepit,
that you won’t
delay my youth
any more,
for fear that
you will quench
the milk
that my mum worked
so hard to
force into my
bones.
Yes: you make
me brittle,
old man.

You are the
incoherent
seventy-year old
squawking war

You are the rust
that settles out
of court for an
undisclosed sum

You are startled
wood, waxing
memory into that
cull that killed

You! An order
that sparks
bitter botox and
livid libidos.

BUT, decrepit.
I am your fool.
What ever ‘decrep’
is, I will do IT. I will
swallow IT for you.
Beyond flaked
skin, grey eyes,
inappropriate
tracksuit bottoms
and Cancer-
pression-betes,
you are life.
You are a French 
man in a London
cafe, glazing Paris
by omitting
to order that ‘t’.
Dechrep-ee.
Oh, dechrep-ee.

You are sweat
seeping from the brow
of a deputy-headmaster
conning the Skins Generation

You are a victory
for masculinity, our
pity for the tiny cocks
on roman statues

You are the roman
statutes. You are PAX
AUGUSTUS. You
are Obama

You seduce the notion

of lifelessness made

vibrant. You are

neo-cocaine

OH, decrepit.
Let it be known,
Known, here,
now, now.
Let it be known,
decrepit,
that you are
my aching,
strangled,
knife-point
master.
And you won’t
delay my youth
any more.


Rain Making

"And from these, gather enough dream to sneak out a back door".

This is a poem that works like a dual stream of consciousness with the purpose of 'making rain'. Pow.

The picture is called 'A Child' by Ray Caesar.

a child


Typewriter clutters
the space where-
                       My habit was to gnaw the knot
                       Stiff to the doughy molar. For
-, on polyester
bedsheets (stained-
                      coyotes and tractors and men
                      and getting lost in that field of
-wet with ribena),
ultra-secret reading-
                     sheep at that fair where that
                     old lady took me to that jam
-of Atwood’s nameless
victims took precedence-
                    stall, raspberry jam stall, damson
                    jam stall, strawberry jam stall
-over trying to find
where the hell Wally-
                   stalling, stalling, stalling,
                   and having to eat that muddened
-was running to, page
turning whispers of rape-
                  gravy on those anti-death
                  death sausages and artery
-making adult my infant
dreams, he will come-
                 clogging up my arms, and not
                 fitting between the black key
-dark in the toy box and
consume my whole, my-
                 and the white on the piano
                which caused the breaking       
-brittle, bitten, brazen
body, sequestered
                of my headmaster’s thumb   
                nail, and pools of blood
before Barrie wrote   
me, whole, by cracks
               being sprightly ignored
               by nonchalant cigarette
in the paint in my door
where my father SHOUTED
               men, puffing appetite
               for all but
    SAY THANK
   YOU FOR
               their lust
               for lust
   NOT GETTING
   CHINESE   
               their lack
               for lack
   , REMEMBER
   KICKS, AGE 8
               their rust
               got rusted
   and silence
   in that space
              shut by
              the rain
   where the
   typewriter,
             damp,             
   damp,
       remains.
      


October 23, 2009

The World's Strictest Parents

It's that time again...here's my column for the now bi-weekly Boar.

angry parents

This past Thursday, a scrag end from my past appeared on television. Like the unwelcome stench of red wine long soaked into a dirty nylon carpet, the emergence of said scrag on ‘The World’s Strictest Parents’ brought the taste of bile back to the roof of my mouth. Expelled for general delinquency from my school a few years back, I thought that I would never hear from him again. Oh, how wrong I was.
I had forgotten, of course, that we were ‘friends’ on Facebook. The announcement, “Wheeeyyyy, an hour til i’m on TV :D” popped up on my homepage and, naturally, my interest was piqued. The voice of reason in my head questioned whether he could actually be on TV; Jeremy Kyle isn’t on this late, is it? Well, in a way, it was. Think of ‘The World’s Strictest Parents’ as a Jeremy Kyle exchange program. We send the nation’s attention hungry shouty misfits to a far away country where they are taken under the wing of their new ‘parents’ for the week, told that they are hopelessly scrotty little children (but not really, just give up the smoking and do some maths homework and all will be fine and dandy), and sent back to the UK to their real parents who, in their naivety, actually think their children may have changed. News to parents: scrotty scrag ends never change their scum.
This week was the turn of my favourite delinquent and some girl who liked to smoke too much weed. For the purpose of this article, I shall name her ‘Potette.’ Potette was notable for her sudden bouts of energy when she believed that her human rights were being infringed upon. Potette was truly a freedom fighter. When the parents told her to stop smoking, she reacted like they had just carved out her pancreas with a rusty spoon. Of course! It is SO (expletive) UNFAIR! Of course! They have NO (expletive) RIGHT! Just like that damned Headmaster at the private school they were so maliciously demanded to attend who requested that she wear the school uniform. Potette: Feminist came to the fore here and refused because it WASN’T (expletive) RIGHT to make her wear a dress. Girl power...!
Potette was, sadly, a footnote in the program. It was all about Mr. Scrag himself. The boy who refused to clean up rubbish in the slum because, and I quote, “It’s gash. I i’nt gett’n paid shit.” The boy who when given the opportunity to earn money at a factory runs away to a back-street tattooist to get the word, and I kid you not, ‘Wisdom’ tattooed in Hindi onto his side. I wonder if he’ll be feeling so wise if that needle wasn’t actually sanitized... I’m sure he’s fine though, I haven’t seen any Facebook updates like, “OMGZZ I GOT AIDS! LOLLLS! :P”, so he probably got lucky. Yes, this program was about Scraggy Mc. Scragginson in all his grotty glory.
However much he made my skin crawl, I must call into question how genuine and ethical this program is. How do the producers find these delinquents? Is there an audition progress? Do they actually go out into the wild streets of suburbia to find messed-up children willing to whore their dignity for an hour on BBC3? Not that scrag is all that messed up. The knowing glint in his eye in the cut off scenes where he would say some ridiculously exaggerated comment about how ‘gash’ everything was betrayed his bad boy persona. Yes, even he was selling himself short for some sullied praise. Shame on you, Scrag.


October 22, 2009

Murdering Ophelia

This week I had to rewrite my first assignment and incorporate random words into it based on the idea of meaninglessness presented in a comic strip yadda yadda yadda. Basically...I vaguely adhered. The initial poem...um, it's right the way down the bottom of the 'blog', titled 'Their Rhetoric' was already fairly obscure so I wanted to basically do a whole rewrite. So, here follows...ANOTHER fairly obscure poem! Yay...

I was interested in the way that literary critics project meaning through history, so I thought that if I associate my poem with a literary history, its abstruse syntax and lack of progression would be inately attributed with a 'meaning'. I was going to go with a more obscure literary history than that of Ophelia (I was toying with playing with the Casabianca legend but I want to devote more time to that and I don't think I can do Hemans nor Bishop justice), but because Ophelia is a character who has herself been distorted both in the play itself and in the cultural shadow of Hamlet's monster I thought that she would be an appropriate victim of a loose betrayal.

So, ignore all that because here is my poem, OEIAphl, illustrated SHOCKINGLY not by Millais but by Mikhal Vrubel. I know! CRAZY, huh?

Vrubel



Emphatically frozen,
ringlets rank his combats.

The gasp of fashion roars
formless that fades-clear mould.

Frailty! Mock still their prince,
dart youth-age cold artillery.

(HE SLEEPACHES. THEY STARTLE.
HE CURDLES. THEY CRADLE.)

Romance binds those flowers
stuck in fainter applause

for that sham-shackle show
hidden, like the ash blooms.

Oh, it showers! It flusters
those reckless libertines.

(CATCH THE CONSCIENCE COMFORT.
SULLY THAT TOO,TOO FLESH.)

Ill aims feign floating up,
outstretching whorish palms

as if placed in perfect
suicidal beauty,

outraged dry. Dramatic
dreams of decay. Oh, rue.

(HE SHOUTS FORTY THOUSAND.
THEY MIST THE PRELUDE.)

Ink drowns sweets to the sweet.
Paler now, ghost ridden

frozen corpsed dalliance
a wistful necro-treat;

the stars are fire. Melt them
the steep and thorny way.

(THEY STARTLE SOME STAR-PICKED
DELINQUENT DREAM. SUFFER

THAT SILENCE. THAT SILENCE.)



October 18, 2009

Archive number NINE

Another poem. The photo is just a photo from Deviant Art.

old lady


There is no luster
in the clutch of her
little finger,
just filament;
brazen, broken
bone.

Yet...she will marry
one more day. Mark it.
Probingly define
colder cunthood,
stronger than mercy
alone.

YET, circumspection
surely fucks with her.
Foetal membrane
infecting teeth
with cloned, loving
plaque,

yet she will touch,
window-framed scalp
crushing her terrible
Tremble (sharp fingers
stiff).

Still barren and wiry,
shock structureless breath.
He loved her clutch
breaking curtains,
making sullied
beds.

I am a feminist
wiling decay,
she will fuck dragons,
she will slay cock,
she will love no-one
more.



October 15, 2009

Archive number EIGHT

I like this poem of mine...The picture is 'Antigona' by Alexei Golovin.

antigona


The water was dry.
She’d extinguished the flowers.

Orchids littered her
Linoleum  floors.

Soaked into their petals was
The funeral,

More time that could be clogged
In the Hoover.

They look like broken hearts
Strewn all around her;

She didn’t understand
That

The dust can no longer be drowned,
It just settles, waiting.

She can’t know
That

She hadn’t lost anything
But another face

Morphing into the past,
Overreaching fragrant memories.

She can hear the petals crunching
Under her polished black heels,

But she knows that she can’t
Smell them anymore.

She grazes the lock on the door
With her abdomen.

The coldness of the steel
startles her solemnity

Is it love?
Is this love?


Archive number SEVEN

So, I wrote this after feeling uninspired by the Fairy Queen. This is my...reimagining of some events. Initially this was illustrated with a crude picture of a knight. I know that it's not even customary around these parts to incorporate art with literature...but after struggling to think for a while I remembered this painting by Paris Bordone (titled 'Nymph and Hunter') which I hope should compliment the poem. OH HOW...I frustrate myself sometimes.

nymph and hunter



The Fair Queen

Guyon stared at the woman
with contention. He wanted
nothing more than bliss.
A blower, a lover, a threat.

She stole his blank shield
way back, when they were
still fucking, and cunted
all over it. Smegma’d to shit.

Her beloved was stoic. Some sod
stood sick. She swallowed (for him)
some stunning shock.
So much the slut, the lust,

That lame excuse for destruction
of the lack in enigmatic discussion:
Sinking, sucking, striking
that hellish, hawking hole.

Blowing, loving, threatening;
bliss is more than nothing.
He wanted the contention.
Guyon stared at the woman.


Archive number SIX

Yes! Yet another poem for he/she whosover is unfortunate enough to stumble upon my blog. Read and enjoy. The painting is 'She's in her Mind' by Jill Emery.

jill emery


Stains


The shake soaked
what was left
from the drum.

Trawling sharks
fever schools,
elicit support

all for none.
For that space
on time news.

Diffused (fuck
emulsion)
drip dialogue

-all FOR NOT
-involving
-some more blow

on blot pad
notes. Squirm, more.
For that space.

On time news,
a plot dulls
the pliant mass.

More blotched
with the nerves
of erred youth,

the snare rag,
the dolled lips,
the stains, stains,

stretching SKIN
OVER AND IN,
FOR WAR IS

declared, here,
todaytoday, for
war is here.

Emulsion fucks
dialogue
dripping drought.

Schools licit
with those flare
red torches.

Organizing
waste landing,
bussing skin,

fevering the
shocksoakstain,
fetter.that.din.


Archive number FIVE

Just because I want some sort of online archive...sidenote: I probably should have explained this a few posts ago. Well. Whatever....ANYWAY, just because I want some sort of online archive, here is another of my older poems. The photo is 'Glasses' from 'What are you looking at?' by Joel Kerr.

joel kerr


his SECRET (the won’t die lie)
I wrote about
CAPITALS
shouting some line.
For lasting night.

The won’t die lie.
She was there. Chat
chat with him. Hand
crept, with vodka

complicit, like
fairies flitter
to that sleeping
beauty. Obese

thighs, now, seemed
existent, Then.
I didn’t have
hairs, that much, when

the flesh curved. More
startled strain,
repeat that shake.
Nerve, us. Nerve, us.

(Earlier, we
had sung pop songs
and called them poo
songs. We sung shit.)

‘...OF SOMETHING NEW’
sings to the girl.
His eyes grapple
her scaling skin.

My bag is tight,
arm strained. Lids go
awry, somewhere
to bathe, wet. Nails

join. Clutch sappy,
distort angle.
To the bloody,
meshy, climax.

Repeat that shake.
I didn’t have
startled strain.
That flash curved, more.

Chat chat with her,
Hand clutch, with vodka.
Repeat that shake,
that won’t die lie.


Archive number FOUR

To mark the announcement of the air date of my much anticipated appearance on Primetime TV, here is the poem that I wrote the night before filming. The picture (for there is always a picture) is...golly I can't remember, but it's cool. Innit.

uum


ABT

On some TV show.
The paper dances 
in the blaze, short man.

That switch blade
never happened.
In london, they bleed.

The dirt bird stifles
it’s nest by the train.
No more babies here.

There are no stalkers.
There is no murder.
Abortion repertoire.

The cattle cry, slow,
when the offal dies.
The moan. To assist.

Old ladies wait still
for the stock response.
We are animals.

Dusting creases dry,
quotidian key.
Filling all those mugs.

Fields of water, that skin.
The window sparks fire
in the reaper’s stare.

And we burn like ash.
And we rot like oil.
We were animals.


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