All entries for December 2009

December 11, 2009


Follow-up to How I Spent My Summer, 2001 from THE burning boy

Here is a rewrite of 'How I Spent My Summer, 2001'

broken tree

The tree startles
the clouds.

We shiver praise.

One time lovers
sheltering from the rain.

We shock no-one.

The tree gorges
on the birds.

My brother fled over the river.
I saw his shadow wain soft
Through the mottled glaze of my window.

Patches of Iron heather
strangled my attention away
from his garroted gait.

Only tree. My brother fled.
The stench of age hung
strange on its matted branches.

The river and the bark
mould love on the bank.
We cull romance.

My brother fled, and I followed.
The tree stretched my
blue dungarees.

The branch twists me.
Still. The branch twists.
Oh, and I fled

over the river, to
the hovering rope swing.
To the spindled branch,

swinging soft on the pink
rope. It rests, taut, around
my view of the stars.

The clouds fled, and I followed.

I cannot taste the moon.

December 10, 2009




Dog politics
make diabetic
greed aesthetic

and we were made
to feel angry
that the soldiers

did not have
ample equipment
to create



It’s like Men and Men
didn’t breathe
anywhere else

but behind hedgerows
in dark parks.
And priests didn’t

understand that
Jesus was more
than a paycheck.

Ribbon schism,
scamming holes
over religion.


No. There is
nothing grand

in making
pain rhyme.

(But now,
but now,
we celebrate.)


The point is
that time
can only

cupboard married
It makes nothing
, additions,

and this is
the same year
that Hitler-PE
was the greatest

fear of the swollen,


I cannot remember
much about Tony Blair,
but he had a big
cartoon smile

and lovely big
hands in those
pictures in the back

of the Guardian.
And there was a war
in a desert,
but nothing in Ireland.

He made nothing.

.Cat (and) Dogma

,photo ideology,


Lube Protest
at the May march
for more rights
or something

Tears float.
Water ruptures
the ocean’s shiny
floor dry


,poster philosophy,

Steak (and) Religion.

Vomit marriage
shocks no-one.
Crystal smack

of 1950s love.
Nostalgia died.
We are modern.

For the family!
I got married
to someone I

barely knew
(because I
could and

because we
were already

with food babies)
But I never

Unlike most people,
I am ancient
without my divorce.






And you’ve already

forgotten about
Ice Cancer.
You lose.


ten dead men.

ten dead men.

you choose who.

ten dead men.

December 08, 2009

Things they never told me when I was young

Illustrated by Juliette Aristides' 'And It's...(Boy in Room)'


When Strawberries rot they taste
like the eyes of an orphaned calf.

Love is dogs. 

The moon sparks change around the
world, but everyone still drinks milk.

Dogs kill babies.

Cocaine fucks are better than
the satisfaction of just.saying.NO.

Babies become rapists.

Adults are just children with
more skin and mortgages.

Rapists eat chocolate.

Wonder rusts, with age, like
pet dogs die and die.

Chocolate kills dogs.

People don’t make any noise
when they die. And forgotten.

Dogs aren't love.

December 04, 2009

Cast Off Miranda and Big Top please, THANKSVERYMUCH!

Miranda, Big Top
1 out of 5 stars


I feel more confused than an obsessive Gary Glitter fan circa 1997. I thought that my relationship with BBC comedy was strong. The Office was funny. I love Never Mind the Buzzcocks. Outnumbered is laugh-a-minute hilarious and I am a big fan of The Mighty Boosh and The Thick of It. Heck, even Little Britain used to tickle my pickle back in the day. However, it revealed its dark side this past fortnight by bringing out two godawful new shows, Miranda and Big Top, and I don’t know whether I should starve the beast that is spawning such dross or simply carry on in forcibly blissful ignorance, pretending that these atrocities simply don’t exist.
Miranda is a program about a fat woman who owns her own joke shop but all she really needs to make herself happy is the love of a good man. Well, the love of any man will do, and by love I mean a five second grope in the back of a night-bus from a dirty stranger. Yay, feminism. This was a show that should have been released and dropped thirty years ago when the BBC realised that this was just a really very cheap rip-off of Are You Being Served?. Miranda doesn’t even try to veil its smut. It believes that innuendo is telling a joke with a phallus in hand as if the viewer is too stupid to grasp that a joke about sucking could have some sexual connotations. Interestingly, the BBC have also resurrected the cast waving goodbye at the end of the show one by one. I actually quite like that, but not enough to sit through another whole episode of this bilious twaddle.
Admittedly, I only sat through five minutes of Big Top. I maintain that that was five minutes too much. These five minutes consisted of Amanda Holden (the multi-faceted actress well known for her range of facial expressions and total non-ice-queen aura) reading a poster for their circus which had been defaced by a rival circus. I don’t think that Holden knew her lines. I don’t even think that she understood that she has to interact with the other people in scene. Moreover, the entire production was shot with more botox than Holden’s forehead. It was stiff, void of personality and less amusing than the 10‘O’Clock News.
Compare and contrast with Cast Offs on Channel 4. Whilst BBC is happy to gorge on its own rotting corpse, devouring any glimpse of inspiration and regurgitating it so that every single program that it produces is tainted by the stench of its dereliction, Channel 4 is softly mocking its identity as the channel for kooky reality TV shows. Exponentially a show about five disabled adults being told to survive unassisted on an island for six months, Cast Offs is one of the first television programs that I can think of that that presents disabled people not as victims but as actual adults. The characters drink, have sex, are bigoted, swear and, unlike every Channel 5 documentary that you will ever see, function in the real world. Because of this, Cast Offs is not self-conscious. It is littered with really very amusing black humour and led by a cast of characters who the viewer can identify with. It is innovative, necessary and, ultimately, everything that Miranda and Big Top aren’t, so it is truly depressing to see Cast Offs scheduled after 11pm and Miranda and Big Top on prime time. I’m starting to feel like a lone voice against the increase in imbecilic programs on television. Help.

December 03, 2009

The Gadsdens, Sailor Song


earthworm dry

There is not a lot to say about a dirty earthworm. It’s dirty. It’s an earthworm. It’s a dirty earthworm.
It squirms like it can be compressed into a single, pink ball without breaking. It is perfect. Earthworms are never starched. They cannot be confused with the mourning collar of a parish vicar. Burrowing through their mud-pit, I doubt if they question why they can’t spend their lives lounging on a plush armchair reading Dostoyevsky and complaining that their tea is just a little too hot and their children a little too smug.
If silver, each of its rings would gleam, gleam with each of its lazy contractions. It would curve itself around my wrist and be my super-amazing-awesome-bracelet...but it is pink. It is mushy. It is the wrong sort of supple. It would fall, fall and die to enable my indulgence. Oh, Earthworm. Oh, martyr.
No, there is not a lot to say about a dirt-sodden earthworm. Perhaps, one day, they will become extinct and nothing would change. I will miss rescuing them from pavements. I will miss saving them from the grubby mouths of seven year old boys who think that just because The Twits made worm spaghetti it’s OK-COOL to eat them. Oh, Earthworm. Oh, martyr.

Walking Home, I Saw

red riding

Walking home, I saw

a black lady
walking the street
logo emblazoned
above her left

Walking home, I saw

the same patch of
vomit on the corner
of the street
that was there
two weeks

The vomit, not the
Although, I suppose,
the street as well.
The same street
with the black lady

who walked, cross
armed, past me
with her blue,

December 2009

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