my first interview

15:38

a plant might grow out of your bum

would you smoke it if it did?

15:38

id see how long i could grow it for

maybe pick off a few buds yeh

if it were female. knowing my luck itd be male and id just have a strong rope making material, which i dont really need

i could maybe make it into a cloak and trousers if it grew large enough

getting ready for hotly anticipated film 'Burning Bright'

a great film you can't miss, coming soon..

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2joCXWy8-A4

I think i might try this on a rainy day..

http://www.guardian.co.uk/technology/2010/oct/23/emails-solicit-money-king-arawi

camping one morning

Once, very early in the morning when camping in Cornwall: 

The screams made by Seagulls are the screams of the lost souls. 

They are screaming 'HELP', swearing and cursing as their only expression. 

It is Hell. 

Portrait view; narrow and tall, arched and structured, I see straight through. Onto the path, that's laying to the bottom, a squashed cola can and cigarette butt; flat, round, shiny/ tumble rolls, blown in a gust, sits looking with it's stubbed out end. Cigarette butt watches me and turns from the bustle, while the squashed cola can looks around at giant legs and nostril hair. He waits. And is ignored. In fact, so is the cigarette butt, he tries to avoid big feet and nostril hair; kicked and squashed but bounces back!

Onto the path where the people go; the street is pedestrian and a Biffa man smiles and packs the load. He'll be back in 10 minutes, and again after that. A hum and a purr as he works all day!

The cigarette butt reminds me he's there, grabbing my attention in a darting roll backwards and forwards, then my eyes land on his, he stops, toying with me. I wink

Sooner than expected the Biffa man returns, clockwise around the street. His noise passes but is still there, the street is now quiet. 

Again I spot the cigarette butt prancing and showing off in front of the squashed cola can. I feel attraction for the cigarette butt, but sorrow for the poor squashed cola can; stuck, no life but his eyes, I can see his pain. Yet the cigarette butt continues his dance, arrogant, mocking, trying to impress me. ALL I SEE IS THE BEAUTY OF THE COLA CAN'S EYE. Now the cigarette butt sits still, pondering his move, turns his profile at me. I feel lost, I miss the dance. IT'S NOW TURNED BACK! STRAIGHT FOR ME, EYE TO EYE, AND HE DANCES!! My heart beats. Do I see forgiveness or lust for the cigarette butt? Do I look back to the beauty of the disabled cola can?

They watch me, pondering my move. I wait. I'm ignored. I wait. My thoughts are disturbed. Hum,..  purr... The Biffa man returns, green purr and smiling black glasses. He smiles at me, I feel warmed.

The cigarette butt moves. I see them all, three figures.

(What would you do in this situation?)

deadman

IF YOU CAN LEARN TO BE ASSERTIVE WHEN LAYING ON YOUR BACK, 

THEN IMAGINE HOW ASSERTIVE YOU WILL BE WHEN STANDING EYE TO EYE...

YOU'LL BE A MONSTER

a living room poem

Red china table
stood in the sunshine
with rusty stubby leggies,
as if trying to escape the living room.
It couldn't manouver itself
to rest on the balcony in Hackney.

Seeds growing
to reach the washing line
and it's clingy stringy peggies,
as if trying to form netting for the birds.
They couldn't pull the weight of the mud pots
to swing upon the hamoc in Hackney.

Bricks with windows
look over at me
across depressed tiles and dead grass.
A black dog scratches the gate
for his granny to answer and feed.
One person becomes the next
in a single turning
of a corner in Hackney.

aphra song

Golden hands of the trees;

the lush green grass;

a path to the street.

 

Birds that sing;

sky that moves;

a brown fence

just over there.

The garden has trees,

it has life,

it has everything you need.

From my window I can see

one sparrow: he sits

scratching his wing with his beak,

twitching his head

left, right, left, right.

He jumps and flutters

to the next tree,

he sits. 

BIC

I THREW MY PEN DOWN

AND THE TV WENT OFF!

SO I PICKED UP MY PEN

AND THREW IT AGAIN..

BUT THE TV DIDN'T COME BACK ON.

another conditioning. june '10

Speeding train, running through,

escaping one city, entering another.

Burning rubber smells waft through nostrels;

then mutters of disgust in an English way.

Where even are we?

My head aches as I look tired in the window's reflection...

greasy hair, bags under eyes, tight lipped, stressful frowning,

from city to city.

Curly haired girl drinks too much at once.

She's a poppet and is spoken for,

a fine gentleman I'm sure,

chequered shirt of course.

Oriental girl combs back her dark hair.

She's a poppet and is spoken for, 

a long haired, young lad, bad clothes, sneezes,

can't grow a beard,

though he's a fine gentleman I'm sure.

A well spoken lady has spoken all journey, 

as constant as the wheels turning.

the condition. in june '10

Continental jass sounds down Cheltenham ped street, across hare and coffee table, green leaves over brown wood, the magic lantern under Wilkos bag, next to old man book, film and music.

One knife and handkerchief sitting in silence together united by jass sounds. Small conversations in cafe scenes, baby shrieks.

'Shut the fuck up, dumb arse baby' Greg mutters, coughs and clears his throat, and again.

'Who am I going to have a child with?' Gregory laughs, the music turns blue, guitar sweeps lonely notes through mellow sadness while the paper's turned and a table is cleaned. I stole his latte and croissant then he sneezed and I laughed out loud, it seemed appropriate. 'Less is more' I thought.

The croissant wafted good smells from my lap, imagine the butter melting inside the warm, flaky pastry. I pick at it, the baby giggles, unrelated of course. What a delight children can be.

'Tomorrow's hero, where will he come from?'

The jassy voice walks over, my croissant and coffee hiding gag gets rumbled. Greg lets off a massive backside grunt and then says he wants to live with the girl he met last night. 'I don't know' I replied.

I'm going to give this pen back to the lady.