monster

I've replaced the voices now.

It used to be I'd speak to them

At every opportunity,

About what I did and what I said and

How to improve my character.

Ha.

I've replaced the voices now.

I've got a monster here instead.

He stands, big and tall and

Bright cobalt blue.

On a cliff top

Just like the good Lord's eagle.

But instead of having wings,

He only has a rope

To climb across the ocean.

I watch him as he stamps his feet,

I watch him as he calls me names,

I watch him plead with me and plead,

To grab that rope and pull,

Pull him across to my world

To make him blue reality.

I'm almost fond of that monster now,

Out on the cliff top all alone,

He'll pine away and die.

Thinner and thinner,

His voice soft and weak,

Until one day, I'll look over,

And my blue monster will be gone.

argos catalogue game 2

The Power Toothbrush, Vitality Dual Clean

Larger head

with

Oscillating

Rotating

Titillating

Technology

and side to side

Bristle pad

for a

Fresh

Clean

Fun

Afternoon,

When everyone

is out

and exams are

Coming,

And stress

Needs relieving.

Ah, Oh,

That's better.

Legs open,

Toothbrush

Held

Triumphant

In the hand.

argos catalogue game 1

Silver combination microwave oven and grill

Like a fortress,

This microwave

Has no window.

The only way to tell

If your beans have

Blown

Through and

Shot

Across the ceiling

Is to open the

Door

Making sure the

Child safety lock

Has not clicked on

And look,

To see your plastic

grill rack

Baking plate

Drip tray,

Covered in

Blood

Red

Beans.

stars

So far away

that I can only see you

from the countryside.

In the city I long for

The Plough.

In the city I long for

lying on damp grass

palms upward

looking at the stars.

Have your palms been read?

They should be.

Their calloused tips would aid

the most amateur fortune teller.

And the good ones would wonder

Why on earth you bite them till they bleed.

My hands have never been bitten.

The nails grow long and I pick out

the dirt and eat it.

Tube dust and salt from old peanuts.

I munch until my nails are clean enough

to advertise fairy liquid.

stormy day away

Standing tall and feeling small

Beside the graceful building,

Can't see the top

She's just too near

To the grand firm bricks.

But the ice cream van is here.

Tight and nervous in the queue.

The brass band background,

The dancers in black suits.

The waiting.

Her legs ask her to run

Families ask for ice cream and ice cream

For kiddies and grannies.

The tourism tires her

With a visit herself.

It starts to spit.

At the front of the line,

She asks for a 99.

Syrup drips,

Thunder rumbles,

Shivers as she licks.

The shelter of the looming building.

The peace of a stormy day away.

Disappointed dead roses, yellow and pink.

The big fat flower plastered on the summer hat,

Goading with its orchid shape.

Upside down feet wait for their velcro home,

Well-balanced woman faces outside world.

Spider plants sharp and regimented wait for light of morning,

And green angel is not helping at all.

I put up pictures,

I'll cover and cover till the cupboard door

Holds no trace of magnolia paint.

Just colours and colours of passionate postcards,

Sad woman looms.

haircut

I'm going to be late.

I'll miss my appointment.

A haircut not to be.

But if I leave now,

I'll be hopelessly early, and,

I'll have to shelter in an expensive coffee shop.

Oh God, I need to pay.

That means going to the cashpoint.

Add 10 minutes onto journey.

I hope I'm not late.

I'd be so ashamed to arrive and

Claudio is serving someone else,

Cutting beautiful stylish hair,

And I arrive sweaty and bedraggled.

Too late, they say, too late.

I stand in the salon, no free coffee,

No smiles at reception now.

And I'll travel back to Peckham

With my frightful hair sitting on

Unplucked eyebrows

Wishing Claudio had waited.

Or maybe Claudio will wait.

Maybe he'll gruffly shake his oily curls

And I'll sit in the chair, terrified,

That he'll cut my hair horrible

On purpose.

And I'll sip my free coffee and worry,

And when I get back to Peckham,

No amount of Looks Lovely will persuade me

That he didn't cut it wrong.

So now I'd better go

I'd better go.

But then, what if I arrive on time,

And he sees the state of me,

If only I knew what to wear,

If only I knew what Claudio wants,

Then I could have the most marvellous hair.

haiku

Decided on haikus today for my daily practice. Here we are -

penny plant wavers

in breeze from kitchen window.

new flatmate brings life.

schizophrenic girl

stands on kitchen table, and

wonders if she's cured.

Character Sketch

Something different today. I decided iambic pentameter could wait because the more pressing problem of characterisation has come up. I wrote a play with four characters and it was rubbish. After discussion with Melvin I decided it was because I didn't spend long enough on characterisation. So here's a wee character sketch written in 15 minutes.

Inside his new front door, the dark green curtain was drawn and the bedsit was dimly lit. Richard felt a tear prick and blinked fiercely. It was good he'd got his own place at last. Here he could play his music too loud and there would be no Sarah moaning. He could stain his mugs and spill his milk safely now. Mice were welcome. He walked to the window, edging sideways between the single bed and the musty great armchair, and opened the curtain. The weak light of three o'clock in Winter was enough to see the dust. So much for the landlord's promise of a cleaner. He'd probably lied about the new mattress too. Richard sat on the bed. Seemed alright. Better than his last bed. From here, he could reach and touch his fridge. He laughed. He could invite his mates over to see how many people he could fit in. It would be like that advert where they fit everyone in a telephone box, what was that for again? Tango? He couldn't dance a tango in here, that's for sure. At least the telly was big. He could crawl out of bed and sit in the armchair to watch Jeremy Kyle in the morning. He'd have his breakfast on his lap, all without touching the carpet. Richard began jumping from bed to armchair to fridge to kitchen cupboard. Good way of avoiding the last tenant's dry skin on the carpet. Good way of settling in.

Ban

I think with iambic pentameter I need to give my images more space and explain them more otherwise it is too dense. I've written a poem about my good friend who died a couple of weeks ago. He would laugh at me for it because he hates poetry but he's a passionate subject to write about so here is my first draft:

Up late at night we talked of God and cigs.

He often made me tea, I gave him figs.

He's gone from this world now with no goodbye

I don't begrudge him that despite my cry

Of pain at losing Ban the Buddhist monk

Whose friendship knew no bounds, my dharma punk.

He came to A and E because I bled,

E'en though we never went to the same bed.

Our friendship was so great, not gender-based.

Before girls notice that boys smell of poo,

Before boys think that girls are silly too,

And long before they think of any touch.

And so we talked of Mooji and gurus much

He talked me out of being the Chosen One,

And so goodbye I say now he has run.

This poem ends too soon, and so did Ban.

Been Helped

Chris helped me write an iambic pentameter poem in the pub last night. Here is what we came up with together:

I was a-walking down the streets at night.

I came across a very scary sight,

The sun had disappeared from the sky

I thought I saw a tiger who could fly

A man with four big heads came jumping out

And all that I could do was scream and shout

A heavy blow came down upon my head

I wish the tiger wasn't so well fed

But soon I will be gone and then no more

My body parts are spread across the floor

I wish that I could have them back again

Instead I watch them eat in tiger's den

My eyes are last to go and so dear friends

With a crunch and slurp I come to my dear end.

running against time

This is another struggle with iambic pentameter.

Running Against Time

The smell of cold against nostril hairs,

Ice cream headache when it hits the brain.

Who holds the stopwatch, tick, tick, tick?

Without fourth dimension, no stress, no fast heartbeat.

The taste of adrenaline, to run against time.

The cold cross country run that took my love

Of sport away, and shut out competition.

terrible poem

blog

My world meets your world,

Smiling serenity.

Yuck.

This world is full of sadness and pain.

I don't feel this.

I don't feel anyone's pain.

I smile a peaceful smile,

Because we are all one.

Piano music,

Fast, urgent.

Sad songs

Sad songs

Songs that make me weep.

The only ones I play.

The daily grind of thoughts and feelings

Written for my eyes only.

No censorship.

Honesty runs through me

Like a dripping tap.

I hate to hear it dripping

onto people I don't know.

Exposed.

I'm exposed.

A wound to be poked.

Nothing to fear,

Comfortable in horrid humanity.

I don't feel this.

I fear pain.

Because we are all one.