Poetry Reading

I did the reading on Wednesday and it went very well. Although, having kept myself free from nerves for the entire day, I fell nervous to the point of being sick as we walked to the building. I sat near the front of the Everyman Bistro drinking water, and I'd been unwell for a couple of days (this being the day before I went on antibiotics) I thought I might either vomit on stage or collapse. I didn't, I stumbled over one word and hate the sound of my voice in microphone, but it went down well. And because they thought I'd still be in class (I'd left early) they put me last. But I'm glad I did it, it's like breaking down a barrier for myself, and I'll feel a little more comfortable doing it again.

I read out Explosion #1 and #2 but I made crossings out on it while in class.

Explosion #1


If we rummaged here in the bedroom,
We from earthquakes –
Would feel the explosion,
As black smoke blacks out the black sky,
A red to the left of the window
Embers like fireflies dance in the moonlight,
And you'd say: 'my heart is beating really fast in my chest.'



Explosion #2


Black night had wrapped its fingers round your neck,
Almost beside me, the fire burns outside,
Stockings now boil in a teapot
Beside an old, frail towel-hook,
In the shape of a clawed hand –
We are rustling like leaves in the dark,
Only as eyes and the occasional tooth-shine,
Or a golden onlay, broken on one side –
I imagine you: “Don't be so pregnant,”
Which then swells and bursts, or explodes,
And your other-side saying: “I'm getting married,”
As your heart beats in your chest
That is the same sound, or throbbing feeling,
In my neck or throat –
A woman who has dirty blonde hair,
Is taken away for the embers of the exploded
Car outside, that rumbles us in shifting earthquakes –
Crossed in the air, Hail Mary full of Grace,
Written all over your face,
A red to the left of the window,
Your heart was beating really fast.

Poetry Reading and Starting a Magazine

I've been asked to read out a poem next Wednesday following a prize giving for a poetry prize I didn't win, so it was good of them to let me read out, though I'm terrified at the thought of reading in front of people, I get stage fright easily, but I think I've gained some confidence in my writing recently. The main problem, other than panic (which I haven't been doing) is deciding what to read. Most of my poems aren't really good enough to be read aloud, though some of my new ones are, yet I don't really trust those news ones as much as I trust the older ones, which I grow tired of. I got it down to Three Men With Suitcases, Explosion #1 and #2, and Modern Life, the latter a much older one. Though today I've decided I could do Streets in Liverpool (title to be changed) and I'm in the middle of editing it so it's much more audible. I shall post the final edit.

What I find annoying going through my poems like this is that I'm looking through the ones I thought were my best and I'm thinking "Hmm, no, that's not good enough," and so I know I need to write a lot of new poetry and stop relying on a bunch of old ones I wrote one or two years ago.

I was told by my tutor, after having trouble defining myself to a genre, to start a magazine. I'm going to get my friends involved and first have an online magazine and gain content without really any set issue, then I'll do a print version and publish content received. The problem is, I don't really know how to go about doing it.

I began Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace in the Summer (June or July) and I had to put it back down not only because it is such a difficult book, but that I had other things to read, I still do, but I feel like I should. I'd only read 24 pages, though of the massive 981 of the Abacus 2009 edition I have, with the print tiny and pages thin like a bible.

The thing is I was talking to someone in work today about myself and my friends who have been, in some way, influenced by David Foster Wallace, which began with one friend who was already a fan and each of us now reference him as an influence, bringing about us as these new writers using Foster Wallace as some precursor to our own writing.

But the thing is that David Foster Wallace died in 2008. He was only 46. It was tragic, and such a damn shame. Here's us with our new writing styles, having Foster Wallace to thank for some of it, and the poor guy is dead.

He writes with this formal/informal postmodern technique, which, emerging from that, is this comedic voice so distanced from anything it can say anything - I think it;s better than the traditional god-distanced narrative, becoming this god-like voice that is sprayed out everywhere and sounds so funny (though you do have to pay attention, or else it's gone).

Writing Poems - Meeting Carol Ann Duffy and Billy Collins

I don't think it's quite worth saying how relevant it is to write poetry from one point of view of the world, where the single purpose for said writing is that single and actual functions; though every time I write poetry - it will come about like some kind of celestial or biological function - I'll write about five or so "good" poems, and what I mean by good is that I choose not to throw them away and believe that with the one good line in them they'll be forever remembered as that poem he wrote, and thus I cannot throw them away anyway.

But I've always been one to read Sylvia Plath, I love her use of language and I've seen it in no other poetry so I subsequently mimic that causing me to have written something totally cryptic that even I don't know what I have written (this happened in 2007 after reading Virginia Woolf for the first time, I didn't know what I'd written, I've not read her since). So the polar opposite to Plath I believe is Charles Bukowski, whom I also adore, and they are actually similar in that they both write confessionalist poetry (which I've written in an essay before). Bukowski made me write gritty and often vulgar language, but together I see my influence from the two. But I don't think it's quite worth saying that I read only these two poets, since I do try to read others, and one recent influence is now Billy Collins.

I saw him give a reading with Carol Ann Duffy. I met Duffy and spoke to her, told her I was doing a Masters and she signed her book Rapture for me, which I still have, but I went and got Collins' Sailing Alone Around the Room because I like his use of language, very slow and meditated like his voice, and the message/story that I neglect to put into my writing.

I wrote a poem I've posted called Three Men With Suitcases. I wrote it after I came home one night and three men with suitcases where in my way, but I was thinking to myself about a short story I wanted to write which I never got around to (it was going to be called Conversations with the Vicar, and was to be quite violent). My thoughts then moved onto these men in front of me, they were very strange, like tourists at night. In my tired state of mind I began describing smells as colours. The poem I wrote switches from outside and inside; with three men in suitcases in the way and getting past them, and inside with a man seeming to be freezing to death somehow.

I wrote this:

The best thing I ever knew
Was not yourself or what you do –
It was that time you got the flu,
Sat and said achoo achoo,
Covered in a dangerous heat
A swelling down to your feet
Skin white as a sheet,
Tongue a lump of meat –
The best thing I ever knew about you –
Not your eyes (that were blue)
Or your left foot (with it's tiny shoe)
Or your presence (which sticks like glue) –
It was your sickness inside of you
That made you want to sneeze
To explode or pop
And fall at your knees –
It was you and the time you had the flu –
It was always you and the things inside of you.

This was just something that came to me after reading some Collins and the idea that, with being sick at the time and most other people too, we're more sick than alive. And the result being, I more likely fell for the sickness than the person.

Another one:

The heat of me burns,
I glow a shade of red,
Maybe crimson or rose,
I swell and fill with dread;
Then numb to the knee
(and numb to the arm);

My skin is dried fruit
Or rotten apple skin –
Eyes are heavy,

A shadow is slit along
White wall like yin yang –

I then burst into confetti
As I drift into sleep.

This was a small thing I did to get me to write when I couldn't think of anything. When this happens I just describe my physical feelings. The confetti bit was an interesting image that came to me, the reason I haven't included it in my "good" pieces is because the first part is too weak and the end is paradoxical since 'burst' is the opposite to 'drift into sleep.' It's one of those poems that can't really be edited since a change in the metaphor will be a change in the entire thing, which isn't really worth it in the end.

Three Men With Suitcases

Inside: bathroom yellow smell swells
Around cracked tiles against him,
And five pieces of silver smash
From his fist that fall pink pink pink
The same colour of the disinfectant –

Outside: three men with suitcases
Walk like Disneyfied dwarves,
Humming hi-ho with diamonds
In their eyes, which is to be seen,
With one of them smelling either brown or green –

Inside: he sits on the floor that freezes his body
He is just tired and angry like many others,
And cannot find strength to move
And cannot love a woman who loves a woman
For that woman is in love, and loves not him –

Outside: they stop and start like little ants
Building something far away,
He turns and sees you, and lets you go past
You keep walking, he smells grey,
He hates you with a smile, deep from within his heart –

Inside: momentary waves of non-sound like hummm
Or precisely aaahhh from his throat echo
A weird vibrato or an almost booming electro-magnetic pulse
Through him, which carries on in his skin
Above a soft-ish smell of ochre,

Outside: You are going home
You think you are in love
As three men with suitcases are now behind you,
Their lives safely and neatly packaged
In cases, which smell of black and white and maybe purple.

Explosion #1 and #2

Explosion #1


This blackness first, through a window –
No stars the explosion
Hum-vibration through my body
Earthquakes the bedroom
Like we would do if we were in bed –

If we rummaged here in the bedroom,
We from earthquakes –
Because we are tectonic plates –
We would feel the explosion,
As black smoke blacks out the black sky,
A red to the left of the window
Embers like fireflies dance in the moonlight,
And you'd say: 'my heart is beating really fast in my chest.'



Explosion #2


Black night had wrapped its fingers round your neck,
Almost beside me, the fire burns outside,
Stockings now boil in a teapot
Beside an old, frail towel-hook,
In the shape of a clawed hand –
We are rustling like leaves in the dark,
Only as eyes and the occasional tooth-shine,
Or a golden onlay, broken on one side –
I imagine you: “Don't be so pregnant,”
Which then swells and bursts, or explodes,
And your other-side saying: “I'm getting married,”
As your heart beats in your chest
That is the same sound, or throbbing feeling,
In my neck or throat –
A woman, whose terrible blonde hair,
Is taken away for the embers of the exploded
Car outside, that rumbles us in shifting earthquakes –
Crossed in the air, Hail Mary full of Grace,
It was written all over your face,
A red to the left of the window,
Your heart was beating really fast.

Translation of 'Romance Sonambulo'

Romantic Sleepwalker
(Translated from the Spanish)

I want you to be green.
Green wind. Green trees.
The boat on the quiet sea
And the horse on the mountain.
The shadows around the girl
Who dreams on the balcony.
Green body, green hair.
Eyes like cold silver plates.
Green, I'd love you to be green
Under a gypsy moon.
They all see her.
She does not see them.

Green, I'd love you to be green.
Giant stars of frost
Under quiet fish of shadows
That open the morning road.
The fig tree rubs the wind
With its rough branches.
The world is a cunning cat.
The cactus has sharp bristles.
'What are you doing on the balcony?
And where are you?'
She is still sleeping there.
Green body, green hair.
Dreaming of the bitter sea.


Romance Sonambulo

Verde que te quiero verde.
Verde viento. Verdes ramas.
El barco sobre la mar
y el caballo en la montaña.
Con la sombra en la cintura
ella sueña en su baranda,
verde carne, pelo verde,
con ojos de fría plata.
Verde que te quiero verde.
Bajo la luna gitana,
las cosas la están mirando
y ella no puede mirarlas.

Verde que te quiero verde.
Grandes estrellas de escarcha
vienen con el pez de sombra
que abre el camino del alba.
La higuera frota su viento
con la lija de sus ramas,
y el monte, gato garduño,
eriza sus pitas agrias.
¿Pero quién vendra? ¿Y por dónde...?
Ella sigue en su baranda,
Verde came, pelo verde,
soñando en la mar amarga.

Novel Extract p.28

It's hard keeping up, I now write a novel and work 8 hours a day in work, I'm getting exhausted and I'm still doing the MA Writing. Not written any poems in a while but still on my novel. I've written over 22,000 words so far. Here is another extract:


I woke up on a hospital bed, my left arm wrapped up in a bandage with dots of red like a polka dot dress. There was a dark red/crimson colour in a triangular pointing-down arrow of the cubital fossa on my arm where the needle had intravenous access and burst through the tissue, and had kept on bleeding down to my hand. It was very warm, I remember. I'd woken up very tired and cold, my lips felt swollen and raw; the abscess under my tooth had taken ground after the lack of blood, and I wondered how much infection I'd succumb to after this escapade. It was dark in the room only because there was a heavy sky about to rain (it was afternoon). Melissa was sitting on a chair. She had a slightly miserable face, which I'd done, this having me feel the muddy effects of guilt. I thought of apologising to her, but thought against it. I didn't say anything, though I did look at her for as long as she looked at me without talking, her eyes on mine very cold like icy water – I began to shiver, breathing heavily through my nose, hoping that this headache was only from the vacuous space left in the superficial vein that was now a long dead worm that stretched up to my armpit where it ached – the skin all bruisy and tender, skin paraffin-white, skin very porous, cold and dry. Melissa looked away, glancing out of the window, now becoming the only light available, shining on my sister's face, a poor pathetic thing less pathetic than me – I looked at her for minutes longer, knowing she knew I was looking at her, could not find words with which to express whatever it was I wanted to express to my little sister, who, by now, had crossed a leg and her arms, sighed once and clenched her jaw. I looked away.

Novel Extract (p.18, without formatting)

When I am walking here with these noises in my head I feel dizzy with the effects of whatever is inside of me right now and cannot keep my eyes open, there is (–) who is probably shining like a holy thing, but I cannot see properly right now and my throat is on fire with the effects of something and someone is screaming and it gives me a headache – I wish this woman was not so full of lies as I think she is, because I cannot marry a liar – though I do not know what she has done just yet – I sit down (I am inside somewhere) D. was here but cannot see him – can I see at all? The time is 17:58; my home feels like a temple, round as a Stupa (a heap of power I have now used in the wrong way [18:01] whereby I dwelleth not in temples; he who does not believe dwells on himself).

'You are stupid,' (–) says, but I do not know why she thinks I am stupid as I find my body stood on the other side of the room, which is wider than normal – Oh, it is my room, I recognise the window, I recognise the mirror (not my reflection, but the Café Tabac menu) and pick up a book (heavy) and notice the bulging blue veins in my fingers constricting … something … there is a pain in my wrist, which causes a lump in the joint (or does that cause the pain?) which is an old injury that comes and goes, though it strangely notices the weight of books (Infinite Jest) … feels like I'm one of the Satori Mowri of the Inhubai Village who used bullet ants within a glove as initiation to become a man, the pain of which is unheard of, you'd want to gnaw your own hand off, rip it clean off the joint –

She called me stupid. I stand there with not a dickie bird in that I've no idea what she's on about – I think she may have said Stupa, the shape of my temple, although I've no idea what her face is saying to me – her stupid voice is saying something.

'You are so stupid, you know that?' she says. She has the look of someone who has licked a stinging nettle. Her clothes are the colour of tooth decay, which is going to rot itself into her skin – she's too sweet, rotten to the core, but I can't keep my hands away, I'm simply attracted to filth. I cannot help myself. I spoon-fed this one sugar after sugar and given myself my own healthy dose of a potent analgesic, though does nothing for the pain which resides in my lowerright molar (and the pain in my shoulder, and my headache) – doctor said I need more tests. Mouth dry, I see Christine's cat on the outside of my window, a little black and white thing saying Mao as if it is a Chinese Communist revolutionary, (specifically of the Hanzu ethnic group) who, by a cult of personality, has come to have it's picture hung in my living room, along with a million other households, by which he can uphold his own charismatic authority by way of hero worship. I hate that cat.

'Why?' I say, my eyes rolling underneath the drunken stupor I thought I was hiding very well, though I cannot – what, with me still stood, wearing my uniform-black coat, and unable to sit still, seeing through a mist of red/green/blue – 'Why am I stupid?' I ask her, but I know why and it's not how I'm acting, not at all, I know how I'm acting, I always do (up until the point I forget, but I always always know what I'm doing – not that that means I can control it), no, what she means is what I've said. This dialogue between ghosts is so difficult I'm unable to comprehend. I'd asked her to marry me.

'You idiot, you actually think that I'd say yes?'

'Yes.'

'Well no.'

'No?'

'Yes!'

'Damn.'

'Yeah. You can't marry me. We're hardly even together,' she says 'together' as if it tastes bad. I now have a bad taste in my mouth, it's a metallic taste, which is much more prominent because my mouth is as dry as cotton anyway, and my tongue is cracking and splitting in two.

'I'm going to have to go,' she says (I've offended her) 'I'll see you tomorrow,' (Just embarrassed) 'Maybe,' (she doesn't know).

She walks out of the flat, closing the door in slow motion so as not to hurt my feelings further, but it's okay because I'm so drunk I've forgotten the whole thing. I begin to laugh because I think I've been talking to D. since I thought he was here, but he's not. I suppose he's out in the street, up to his eyeballs in ketamine somewhere, probably near Canning by now, harassing the waitresses with false hopes of love by producing large amounts of money he obtained from his own shitty job, which pays much better than my own. There is no sign of him, except the one glass tumbler (lead crystal) browned to the sides with Jack Daniels and Coke, which, itself, smells of lead.

I suppose it is now September and the Summer leaves are on the ground (I see them through my window); sky is the colour of a gun. I feel sick to my stomach – feels the partial depression within the walls of my arteries pumping the 5.5 litres of blood pounding into my brain, which feels the after-effects D. has left me with: musculoskeletal relaxes. I am jelly. I turn my head away from the window and this knocks me dizzy – head jerks forward, and I vomit. I spit some blood.

Evil brain. What have you done? I must leave, I cannot bare this much longer. It is disgusting. Man dwelleth not in temples.

Poets That I Read

Sylvia Plath
Charles Bukowski
Allen Ginsberg
Jack Kerouac
William S. Burroughs
Philip Larkin
Dylan Thomas
Arthur Rimbaud
Guillaume Apollinaire
Frank O' Hara
T.S. Eliot
Ezra Pound
Brion Gysin
Heathcote Williams
John Sinclair
Ted Berrigan
John Giorno
Harris Schiff
D.H. Lawrence
Wilfred Owen
Siegfried Sassoon
Keneth Rexroth
W.S. Merwin
Geoffrey Hill
Elenor Ross Taylor
Joe Dunthorne

Time Out of Mind

I have been listening to Bob Dylan's Time Out of Mind recently, although it wasn't up there with my favourites including Blonde on Blonde, Bringing it all Back Home, Highway 61, Times They Are A-Changin', and John Wesley Harding. I stuck by his 1963-67 era music mostly.

Having listened to his later albums, and loving the blues sound to them,

indicating how much he has become his original idols of blues music, I wasn't as inclined to Modern Times and Love and Theft. (Though Together Through Life is a keeper). As I began listening to the haunting gruff voice of a love-sick man, I kept listening to it over and over. It's not a sad album per se but one of perspective and nonchalance.

I kept listening to Love Sick ("I'm sick of love, and I'm in the thick of it,

this kind of love, I'm so sick of it"), Standing in the Doorway, and Highlands, the latter being the only 16 minute song I can listen to all the way through 5 times in a row.

I suppose it's one of those albums that will keep you going because it's full

of words you're thinking, but not hearing so well. I'd love to get in that big mind of his, unfortunately I'm stuck in mine.

Why I Believe Infinite Jest To Be Following Me

David Foster Wallace has only recently come into my literary life, and has already become very important in adapting my style. I now have Infinite Jest, though only having read 25 pages of 981, I have notice his name has popped up a number of times before even knowing who he is.

My friend from Uni is a fan of DFW, and lent me Oblivion to read, which is by DFW. In this is a story called Incarnations of Burned Children which we studied for one class last October, while we were in Wales.

Before this, August 2009, I downloaded some e-books to read because I didn't have any money to buy any new ones. I found this website to get them for free, so I was getting the usual stuff I liked to read, plus some random names I thought I should give a go. One being - yes, that's right - David Foster Wallace. I'd only read some of this before Uni and did not remember the name.

But, further back when I was in University in Preston, my tutor in Creative Writing had Infinite Jest. I recently told her I had Infinite Jest and was about to start reading it, and she said she'd had it on her shelf for years (inc. the years she taught me) but never read it.

And now, flicking through Generation X by Douglas Coupland, which I bought before I even started Uni, I notice in the back it has advertised a number of books published by Abacus. One of which being Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace.

Although books cannot follow people, I've come to the conclusion that this one does. I should start reading it soon, but it's the biggest book I've had to read. (I've only read 300 pages of 933 of Ulysses).

On Poetry and a Novel - Gainbourg Vie Heroique

The previous Poem, Two Mystics, was written over a few hours at night, after reverting back to Sylvia Plath's poetry, which I hadn't read in a while, and she's a huge influence on my poems. It is basically my experience around people and the actions between them. How I could give a person so much - feeling like I've "had to" give something - and then feeling like I have given not enough: "I have given you less than your smiles," and "I have given you hardly a thing."

I suppose it ends with feeling ashamed; with the obvious symbol of "red,"

which then bursts into flames. The title came to me right at the end of writing it, when the line "mysticalstill" came to me (forming one word is apparently Joycean, I got from a friend at our writing worskshop), and I decided to call it, not Mystical Still, but Two Mystics, making the two people seeming exactly the same, as they act so awkwardly around each other in the exact same manner.

Havva I got from Bob Dylan's song Hava Negeila, which is a Jewish song

of the same name. I wanted to put that word in, so I looked up it's meaning and it means "Eve" which I think fits perfectly.

I have begun writing my novel. I submitted the first section of the first chapter to the workshop and got some really good feedback, so I must be doing something right. However, the thing I was worried about was true, which was I wrote something impressive, and then as it went on, it lost the impressiveness to the end. It's like I've push out every bit of stylistic writing I have in one bit, and the next bit its diluted. But with the advice I received, I think I know how to go about writing it.

It's a 4 year old story. I thought of it in 2006 and never wrote it because I

liked it so much I was worried I'd ruin it. I told this to a friend back in May, as he'd already begun his novel, and he'd said to just write it and then see where you stand. But I hate that, when people say "just write." It's really not that simple. It's so comlex that it's taken me 4 years to adapt my writing style to be good enough, and I can now use the previous mad experiences I've experienced into which I can form a somewhat semi-autobiographical novel, which I think Hunter S Thompson used in Fear and Loathing which is called a Roman-a-clef; a story based on real events, turned to fiction.

Because a lot of things have influenced me 4 years after I had the original

idea for this novel, I wonder how long I should take with anything. So if I write and publish and novel and then see it some years later, I'd probably have some better ideas for it.

I'd been using David Foster Wallace, which a friend had lent me, as an

influence. And I was also looking between Catcher in the Rye and Naked Lunch as two distinctly different first-person narratives as influences. But I recently saw the French film Gainsbourg, which I saw after I'd started writing the chapter. The life of musician Serge Gainsbourg is illuminated through Johann Sfar's portrayal in this film, which uses Absurdist-like charactures, including a giant walking head of a Jew that comes out of the propagandist poster of Nazi-occupied France and walks with the young Gainsbourg. Another is La Gueule (The Mouth), which is a 7 ft. tall persona of Gainsbourg, with a long nose and long finger, very creepy to look at, but very funny as you understand that it's just Gainbourg's thoughts personified. This is something in what I wrote, in which the character is somewhat divorced from his own body. Someone had mentioned Beckett's Molloy, (though I'd only read Malone Dies out of The Trilogy). Someone mentioned to me that at the end of season 4 of House, there is another similar concept, in which House views his own mind in the form of a dead person. I will have to watch this. I will have to get writing this thing, having been reading up on more of Pinter and about to read Hamlet for the first time.

Words; An Experimental Poem of Words Around My Room

Words Around Room


BadFormat Sin City Abbey Road The Beatles
Knight The Broken Family Band
O2 Academy Liverpool Sat 23 Oct 2009
Frank Turner Barfly Liverpool Sat 17 Jan 2009 7:30pm
price 8:00 #113
Death of a Hero Fri 23 Apr 10 #33
Greasy Lips Club Babyshambles 14 Dec 2009
Hundred Reasons plus support @ 53º Club, Brook St, Preston
27 Feb 2006 Open to the public
NME Awards Shows @ Liverpool Academy
30th Jan 2004 £13.50 Advance
Sheffield Hallam FM Arena Sat Apr 14, 2007
ITB Presents Bob Dylan and His Band
Block 215 (Row) H, (Seat) 10
Lovely day for a Guinness
Jaws Robert Shaw Richard Dreyfuss
Poker Howl Ginsberg Coca Cola
Philip Larkin Whitsun Weddings Staying Alive
Refill Pad A4, 160 page perforated Parental Advisory,
Keep Out Goodmans Volume Play Open Star Wars
Withnail & I J.G. Ballard Bootcut Fit
Jack Daniel's White Rabbit Fydor Dostoevsky,
Notes From Underground July
Trainspotting Begbie #1, Diane #2, Sick Boy #3, Spud #4,
Renton #5, 18
Seven Brad Pitt Morgan Freeman,
Gluttony, Greed, Sloth, Envy, Wrath, Pride, Lust
Made in, Sony, Orange
Vans, Duster. M. 10.0 Coffee/Pale Khaki
Osiris Shoe Adams Grey/ Grey Gum 9.

Two Mystics

You stand cursed with insight – too much to look at
A dirty look smiles so easily,
Touches and un-touches; mouth pink tongue red as a poppy –
Liver-thick – it moves and shows itself once or twice.

I wish I had you; or the illusion of you,
Dangerous as ideas, hot as my spiralling blood,
A body – quite short – skin of a female god,

I have had to give you Goethe and a burst of Medusa,
Always there, talking at a distance –
Touching and un-touching,
I have given you less than your smiles –

You shrink like a pupil, Havva in late afternoon sun,
I have given you hardly a thing,
Rings around the wrist, a drink a drink –

I am seeing everything in you
Nothing happens – the world ends at your look.
Do you have anyone? Are you with someone?
Still attached at the hip and waist, smiles out of place,

I have had to kill every bit of red shame,
Bursts into flame, holds like a tunic, shares the same look,
I have had to look into your eye – brown and white –
Held there quick, in a box of fright.

Will I ever get you, or you get me?
We are stuck inside one another – mysticalstill.

B. Is For Button

B. is seated next to You, his hands out in front of him as if playing the piano with Twiglet fingers, stained with tobacco.

You look at him more than once, and resolve to do so until B. catches You at the corner of his eye. He stops moving because You have fastened him to his seat, surrounded by thick, woven arms and animal pictures with stark, glassy eyes shining in a heavy summer light through caged windows. It takes him three seconds to look away. He settles back into his mind, facing forward and listening to whatever is going on (whatever this is does not matter).

The Twins are talking, You don't know which because they both sound similar. You describe one of them in your mind: an oval-shaped head, in which are pea-soup eyes with a these-are-facts-so-listen-to-me-talk expression; thin body with no attempt at constructing either shoulders or posture. This x 2.

B. begins to write something down, as if prompted by the other one sitting next to him, which both You and B. believe is called Olive. You show an expressionless smile, jaw pushed forward, eyes glancing around. The Twins are still talking, You hear their voices like a beating hum from a sub-woofer.

The Next one in the room sits between You and the Twins, and has a permanent smile of latex, curved through a weird blue/yellow bruise, which no one includes in the conversation for fear of offending the Next one, who is now bent over, almost prostrate from the chair, reaching at her ankle to scratch. She smells of over-cooked food for some reason. It's not terrible, You think it's like she's been left in the toaster too long and You look above her head for signs of black smoke. There is none, but still You shift over by a centimetre, stopped by the arm of the couch, unable to go anywhere else. Your eyes glance over at B., who sees You at the same time, his eyes like the eyes of your dog: big round things, uncontrollable and unaware.

Finally, Olive throws a button to the floor, which lands onto a pile of buttons already there. You love how B.'s eyes follow it to the ground and bounce in synchronised motions. B. leaps forward to grab the buttons as he yells something along the lines of I've won, but Olive leaps too, and wrestles him on the ground, hits his body with a mechanic force and smashes his head against the floor. She does it again and blood squirts out, thick like soup. You smell him, it's like meat.

The Twins had stopped talking, but now resume talking, You don't know which. The Next one jumps out of her seat next to You and takes the button. It is green and orange like the iris of a smoker's eye. The Next one leaves. You are still sitting down. You don't often gamble, You are looking at Olive who sits on top of B. You think this is too bad, You liked B. His round dog-eyes were a bit like the buttons she killed him for.

You sit still and watch Olive now wrestled to the ground by three new men in white pyjamas. She kicks at the floor and the buttons stick to her bare feet. The Twins are still talking, You can hear them in your head. You are as still as B., who lies there with streaked blood footprints around his head. You are now smiling a little bit, and this is good, because it's good to smile. B. liked it when You smiled. You're smiling because You love it when this happens. You hug yourself and rest your head back against the soft, padded wall.

© 2010 Michael Holloway

This story was written along with Kouponophobia around June 2010. It was written as part of an exercise following the theme of "button" whereby anything could happen, only it has to involve a button in some way.

Kuponophobia was, obviously, about a fear of buttons and was largely praised for it's detail in such a small format, and I found that I was actually good at short fiction or 'flash fiction.'

B. is for Button is an experimental story. It was written with the intention that every character spells out the word "button" and that was how button appears in the story. ie., B., You, Twins (tt), Olive (O), and The Next One (N). It was appraised for the imagery and style, but was quite confusing to read. It wasn't really understood why B. was attacked for the button, of which is used as a type of poker chip in some betting game. In the workshop, I was able to come up with the idea - thanks to my friends - that B. is actually a mental patient who has created the entire game in his head. Revealed when he rests his head against the padded wall.

It was put on the website The Button Jar, which a friend from class had made. The stories/poems from which are being put on there.

http://www.staff.ljmu.ac.uk/ICDSHAYN/mywriting/buttonjar/pageofbuttons.html

Some Drawings

V. Short Narrative

There was a young man who knew a girl and she was around the same age and were both very close friends, spending a lot of time together. One day, unprompted by anything, the man decided to ask her “Are you in love with me?”

After a short pause, in which she was stunned by the question and slightly embarrassed, she said “No.”

He said “Well then, I think you should keep away from me.”

And she did. They stopped talking, in effect stood back-to-back, no longer friends, no longer acquaintances, no longer anything; they didn't even see each other to speak. Soon they did not recognise each other on the street with the time they spent apart.

Ten years past. In their thirties, the girl soon marries, and not long after, the man, too, marries. One day, they past each other on the street, but this time the girl recognised him and she says: “You're – ”

To which he replied “Yes, and you're – ”

And she confirmed it was who she was.

After a short pause, she looked at him and said “You're in love with me, aren't you?”

To which the man replied “Yes.” And there was nothing either of them could do about it.

Hop Farm Festival 2nd - 4th July 2010

About 3 weeks ago I went down to Kent to the Hop Farm Music Festival. Me and my friend headed down to London, but we didn't know the way, with being Northerners, and we ended up walking around Waterloo Station with heavy bags in over 20 degree heat and when we finally found the coach station, we'd missed our coach by 20 minutes. It drove us mad because we walked past that road in the first place, and if we'd walked that way to begin with we'd have made it. So we were stranded in London. A massive city, never been there before, and with thoughts of sleeping rough.

Luckily, my fiend had a stroke of genius. He said we could jump a train to Paddock Wood, Kent (£14 each), and then get a bus straight to Hop Farm. And we did! It was a long journey, I tore a muscle in my left shoulder, and we were both exhausted. We were 3 hours late, but that didn't matter. We set up our tents after I'd collapsed into the grass. I couldn't believe we'd walked so far, and for so long, through London, and I was sweating and in pain and we thought we wouldn't even get there.

After we set up our tents, we walked down to the main field - still knackered - and saw Blondie. Had some drinks and then saw Van Morrison in the evening. It was good, considering how tired we were. In the night we sat in the grass at the small acoustic stage on the campsite. I lied down and was talking nonsense as I looked up at the stars, I think I was talking about reincarnation. I suppose it was interesting to hear me talk like that, though as people said sorry as they stepped over me, they must have thought I was on something.

Next day my shoulder was so painful. But we had to do what we came to do, which was get as close to the stage as possible to see Bob Dylan. We got to the main field around 12 or 1, and watched a guy called Johnny Flynn, then The Magic Numbers, and as each act finished, and people scattered to the toilet or bar, we moved forward, and held our place. Pete Docherty did an acoustic set. Laura Marling (who has sang in Noah and the Whale with Johhny Flynn). Mumford & Sons were very good, as was Seasick Steve.

By now were were quite close, and couldn't risk moving from our spot (not that we could without squeezing through). It was kind of claustrophobic, I sat down when I could. The heat was immense. There was warnings about covering up and drinking water. I had my hat and the t-shirt I'd bought was round my neck. Unfortunately, I'd left my bottle of water on the ground and someone had kicked it.

Ray Davies from The Kinks came on and was amazing and everyone wanted him to sing Lola, which he did last. Then we moved forward one last time as he finished and we must have been about 10 feet away from the stage. I was feeling too good and there was no room at all to sit down. It was ridiculous. I stretched my legs (and I think I kicked someone behind me) so the blood would flow properly - I didn't want to faint. Bob Dylan took ages to come on, there was a weird voice over talking instead of music as his roadies set up.

Then he came on. He was amazing. I'd seen him twice before, but this was the closest I'd ever been to him. And, as my friend said, the closest we will ever get to him. I think he is the best musician in the world, and always has been the greatest lyricist. He is a living legend and I couldn't keep my eyes off him - until camera began to block my view. A bunch of girls behind me were short and could't see and tried to look over my shoulder - which I didn't mind- until I felt a hand on my torn, left shoulder.

He began with Rainy Day Women (Everybody Must Get Stoned). It was hard to know what he was singing, because he changes the sound all the time, I still liked it, though. We all sang along to Just Like A Woman. At the end, he finished the set with Like A Rolling Stone, which sent everyone crazy, including myself, screaming the lyrics into the Kentish sky. His encore was Forever Young, which means a lot to me, not that it's my favourite Dylan song, but that it was the first Dylan song I heard, and I love that song. We all sang it the way he did on Planet Waves, and he sang it his way nonetheless.

Rainy Day Women # 12 & 35

Don't Think Twice, It's All Right

Stuck Inside Of Mobile With The Memphis Blues Again

Just Like A Woman

Honest With Me

Simple Twist Of Fate

High Water (for Charlie Patton)

Blind Willie McTell

Highway 61 Revisited

Workingman's Blues #2

Thunder On The Mountain

Ballad Of A Thin Man

Like A Rolling Stone

Forever Young

Old Experimental Poem I Found

Conversations Overheard on a Train 17th April 2008

I wanna eat or suh 'un,
I'm gettin' paranoid now,
What time d'ya reckon
We'll get 'ome?

It was dead good
When I was werkin' on it,
I'm gonna get off the station at 'ome

Like Crosby or suh 'un.

If you get off at Aintree station
You can cross over and get the bus.

You know, er, signs –

It's twenty-past
No hasn't gone yet –

Don't notice it, do yeh,
When you're on the road,

Signs, you don't see 'em.

He had the most perfect bird whistle,
He's like a kid and he's twenty-two.

I had like four sugars,

Surprised I could wake up this morning.

Are we here?
The next one.

A replacement bus service is in operation.

No Sleep - Myth of Sisyphus

I'm listening to Blonde on Blonde on a warm rainy morning, after I cleaned the room and found about 7 socks under my bed. I love the rain, it makes a morning. I could do without it being so warm. I think I'm so warm because I've been moving about, and the hoover heated up the small room, but the window – as always – is wide open, and I think it's 17 degrees today.

I'm tired a little bit; I woke up around noon. I couldn't sleep again last night, it's probably the same thing I had about 2 years ago in Preston when I had a big manic episode that lasted about a month and I hardly slept or ate and I just got drunk and wrote. I wrote a lot of poems back then, most aren't that good, but I still have some in my collection now, which I'm still working on.

Anyway, I was crowded with thoughts and trying to write my first novel, which I couldn't do and it drove me mad. I kept looking into Naked Lunch and then into Catcher in the Rye, seeing how two very different writers can write so differently in the first person. I was stuck with this terrible terrible piece of writing I just couldn't have in the novel, so got rid of it, leaving me with nothing again, because I keep starting again. And back again 2 years ago, with my dissertation, which drove me crazy, and I re-wrote the whole thing at least 3 times. I thought, forget it, I'm not writing it simply because I'm actually not writing it. I was sat there staring forward, and then the bad thing happened.

There's a poem I've written called 12:24 am, in which I travel 35 miles to see a girl. I began to think about her. (Because it was written about a real person). I then found on my laptop old MSN conversations that had been saved somehow. I read over them and it was a terrible feeling. We were quite close. And now we're not. Thing is, at the end of the poem I write something about her going to Falmouth, this was our plan, to go together and do our Masters Degree down south, but we didn't. Now I've found out, not only is she getting married, but she has the same plan with that new guy. To move down south with him.

I wonder what would have happened if we had gone. I mean, the Masters I'm doing now has improved my writing so much, I'm much more well read, and I have some new friends. I probably wouldn't have any of that had I moved away because I would have been drooling over her all day, whining about her all the time like a lonely puppy. Such an idiot. Still, I was thinking about the other people I knew in Preston, and it depressed me to think it's been 2 years since I've seen them, and they're all split up anyway, since Uni finished and everyone went home. All scattered over England like seeds in the soil. One girl has gone to Australia. One guy is now in Canada.

I felt like doing a Rimbaud and quitting writing altogether. 60% of the time I don't get much enjoyment out of writing, it's just something I'm compulsed to do. However, people do say writing is a method of relieving stresses and things like that, maybe it's the writing that driving me crazy. I know I'm not going to quit, I'll always have the compulsion to write something, because I'll always think of it. I suppose I should get my poetry published and then my novel, and then I'll think about it.



I read over some of Albert Camus, who wrote The Stranger (L'tranger). This is one of his novels, in which he talks in relation about The Myth of Sisyphus. It is about the Absurd life of man, and the acceptance of the Absurd as something to support the idea of life or living a meaningless life. So, to accept your life is meaningless, you in effect, accept the absurdity of your situation, and thus you are free to be contented.

Sisyphus was a Greek myth who put Death in chains so no human had to experience death, which defied the Gods, and therefore, angered them. Death escaped from Sisyphus, and so he had to die. However, Sisyphus escaped the Underworld, but as the Gods were still angry with him, they punished him to push a large rock up a mountain, once at the top, the rock rolls down, and he has to start over again.

Camus uses this Greek myth as an example of the Absurd notion that life is, indeed, meaningless, but if you only accept that meaninglessness then you are freed to experience contented acceptence. Just as if Sisyphus would have acknowledged the absurd situation he was in, he would be have been fine. “One must imagine Sisyphus happy.”

I think Camus also made three examples of absurd people, or “The Absurd Man.” The Lover, one who is a serial seducer like Don Juan. He does this because he lived a passionate life to the fullest, as he recognises life to be short-lived.

The Warrior is the man who sees life and death as one thing, and chooses action over contemplation; he wants to engage in human history and become something after life by laying down his life for what he believes in.

The Actor, one who becomes a number of different personalities to achieve fame. “Appearing creates being.”

Koumpounophobia

Those plastic things hooked in a line, from her throat – the V of her collarbone – down to her stomach, like a list of eyes the colour of a dilated pupil. She looks at me and smiles with her teeth, and her teeth look like buttons, and there is no way I could get any closer to that, she'll taste of plastic and I'll choke on her as if she is a button herself.

It's strange how quick she moves compared to me. I cannot move, I'm fastened to the hardwood floor. Her hands are by her side but I don't move my hands. I pretend I am in control and I look at her clothing and the pieces of plastic holding them together, which are looking at me – little eyeballs of a CCTV biologically inserted intravenously with nerve endings and wires and veins into her body.

She says something about unbuttoning.

I say something like I'm not entirely sure that would be appropriate.

She frowns and takes to the motions of unbuttoning her clothes, as I rub my hands together so as not to touch the plastic discs, which I imagine feel smooth between my fingers. Black like coffee, white like cream – or cataract of a blind eye – I can taste the plastic in my mouth as the first button is undone and it's like coins sliding down my gullet, more and more, choking me with the acrylic taste, right at the back of my tongue, touching my tonsils and scraping at the bitter taste buds.

I want to be sick, I say.

She says something like, Oh no, is it me? What have I done wrong?

I say, Of course not. But I cannot carry on this conversation because I've been trying to hold my breath. The talking has brought a quick release of carbon dioxide and the reaction of oxygen in my head sends me blind for a second.

I am now sitting down, looking at her face, my dizziness giving her four eyes like a button. She tells me I look pale. The rest of what she says is white noise from a radio. She is sitting so close to me that the buttons are almost touching my hand, and I'm frozen again. Don't move, don't move, don't be sick, don't be sick.

I tell her it's okay, I'm fine, I just felt a bit dizzy. And then I sit back into the cool leather couch. The buttons are undone, I don't have to look at her now – but her eyes, great big black buttons, just staring at me.

© 2010 Michael Holloway

Object of Dreams Mag - Haikus

I updated the blog because it was old and worthless. It still is, but it's much better to look at, like me in 50 years time.

I've been writing freelance for a small magazine called Object of Dreams Magazine, which is an arts, music, fashion and culture mag aimed at people around Liverpool. So I took it upon myself to call myself a Freelance Music Journalist, even tho I've written 2 small reviews for some bands and the magazine is only up to issue 2. Still, It's about getting yr name out there, regardless of money, and while I'm working my name into the arts scene, I'll be getting my actual writing out there.

Here's my review of the band Misery Guts: http://objectofdreams.wordpress.com/ and further down is the review of Dirty Tricks, which appeared in the actual print version of the mag.

Also, click here to see the actual print version of the magazine, and my small, edited review of Dirty Tricks on page 34.

To listen to Dirty Tricks click here
To listen to Misery Guts click here



Haikus I wrote last night:

The sound of yr voice
Is like heavy rain on me
It feels very wet.

and

Seagull on chimney
Sun burns thru clouds like fire
It stays 'til it goes.

Sophia De Mello Breyner

I found a note in one of my poetry anthologies for Sophia De Mello Breyner. It only said her name. It was a reminder just to read the two poems of her in that book, which I did back in 2006 or 2007 or whenever it was I made the note.

She was a Portuguese poet. She wrote these beautiful poems, which were usually quite short but powerful. They had these perfect one-liners that were quite brilliant, burning a poingiant thought in you, leaving you with a feeling not so dissimilar to sad, but with a certain power to it, as well.

I never knew she's died in 2004. A year before I was even in Uni. I only found out today. The one poem that sticks with me is Inscription.

Inscription

When I die I will return to seek
The moments I did not live by the sea.

Sophia De Mello Breyner

Based on a Short Story, I write Like DFW

I write like
David Foster Wallace

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

My June - My Poems - In The Casa

I went outside 20 or 15 minutes before I had to read it and paced up and down in my suit, I liked how odd I must have looked. I talked to my brothers friend (who was also my friend when we were kids, I'd seen him once in 10 years). I got a cigarette off him and we talked a bit. Then he went in. Soon my sister came out, looking for me, thinking I'd done a runner. I told her to go back in. I got ready, mentally, and I went in and did it. Never been so scared.
Too bad I promised my friend I'd read out some poetry at an open mic night in the Autumn.

So I'e got back into my writing, and it helps that I've taken a month off work, and now I'm reading about 7 books at once. (Not including the 5 or 6 books of poetry).

The last poem I posted was "What I Remember of Sunday 16th May 2010." I took this, as well as fie other poems, to the workshop last week. We sat in the back room of The Casa and we talked about them (as well as my friend's extract of his novel). We both got good feedback, and I was glad about this, having put off submitting poetry for the past 9 months, which is silly, being more of a poet than a writer of fiction.

This poem, though, was interesting because it was the most prose-like piece of poetry out of the other convoluted, absurd pieces. It was like a diary extract. That was the intended effect, to just show the memories in such a mundane and simple form - a form I don't usually use.

However, I've been reading a lot of poetry, and putting some poems together for publiscation soon, and having come across T.S. Eliot's The Waste Land, I realise what I want to do. I read The Waste Land when I was at University in Preston, but I didn't study it, so didn't know much about it. But I want to re-write my poem and try to adapt the simple diary-format into something not as weird and Beckettian as I do, but also not a pastiche of Eliot either, but to write a long (4 or 5 page) poem regarding one day in a strong poetic language, relevant to today.

What I Remember of Sunday 16th May 2010 (2 Days Ago)

It began with like a square of light at Waterloo Station at around 3:04 pm
And I had to wait half an hour for the train,
I had to sit down because my leg was aching at the hip
And someone had dropped an ice cream on the ground near my foot,

I felt warm in my hoody with the heat waving down, magnified thru the perspex
And kind of stupid because I'd had a haircut, but no one in the station saw me
With my long-ish hair anyway, so to them I looked normal,
So I calmed down, and looked at the clock, it was 3:10pm
When Sara texted me she'd meet me at the Contemporary Urban Centre
And not at Dean Walters Building on Upper Duke Street like I wanted,
And I was running late, and I wouldn't get there until quarter to
And James was going to read out a chapter of his novel
And I didn't want to be late, and I didn't know what room it was in,

The train was packed full like hot vegetables in a pan
And I kept looking at my reflection when we went thru a tunnel
To check my shorter-than-usual hair,

I'd heard there was a delay on the Ormskirk train,
This didn't affect me,
I got off and walked fast, forgetting to go the shop
To buy some chewing gum and water,
I'd not eaten a thing, except one finger of a Twix
An hour before,

It was about 3:42pm when I reached Chinatown,
Sara said:
“I was gonna go in
but will wait outside
if you like,”

And I said:
“Yeh wait
for me,”

The writing competition was at 4 o'clock,
The part between my foot an shin was aching
So badly is felt like they were burning,
But I kept walking, breathing heavily,
And I got to CUC and saw some graffitti artists
Spraying a wall, and I saw a dozen parked cars
In which I saw my reflection and my strange head,
And two or three people came out for a smoke and looked at me
As if they thought something of my haircut,
And then I saw James, who was late because of the Ormskirk train
And I asked him why he was late
And he said because of the Ormskirk Train and his dad drove him there
So he went in and I followed because Sara hadn't shown up yet,
James went to look for the others and find out where to go,
I saw Christof but he didn't say much to me,
Although all I said to him was:
“Hi, I didn't know you were coming to this,
I'm just going to get a coffee,”

I didn't know who was in the queue, so I just stood there,
Then I saw Sara come in and I waved to her,
She said she saw me come in with James,
I asked her if she wanted a coffee,
She said no,

Steve appeared behind me,
He said something about going to a different building
On a different street, thinking it was this one,
Then he went away, following James,
And I still hadn't been served, and I wanted some coffee
Because I hadn't eaten, and I needed at least something in my stomach
Not food,
Sara was talking, her chin resting on the counter since she's so small,
I said forget the coffee, we should go,
We'd be late, and there was a girl who'd been waiting for longer,
Who wasn't getting served,

We saw Steve in the lift as the doors closed,
We jumped in the next one,
The room was the same room I'd been in the day before
When I saw Richard Milward and Joe Dunthorne
Reading from their books, and I'd got Joe Dunthorne
To sign his book of poems for me, of which I'd already memorised
The poem Worship, I wanted to tell someone, but I forgot,

It was crowded, but I found two chairs to the left,
The others where to the right, I waved to Hazel and Sarah,
I saw James and Christof, I looked around for Robyn but couldn't
See her, but I knew she was working there,

Sara sat down and said something I can't remember,
I couldn't stop thinking about not having coffee,
Then the readings began, and Jim arrived, and the man read the names
And I couldn't count how many there would be
Before I could get out
Because I heard James's name and then Sarah's name and Hazel's name,

I saw Robyn standing at the back and waved to her,

When James read Aracnophobia he looked nervous and kept
Pushing his hair back with his hand, so he looked more cool
Than scared, the writing was good, a woman in front of me
Liked it, he answered the questions well, he was the favourite to win
Like a horse at the races,

I found the bar – which James and I couldn't find the day before –
If I wasn't going to drink coffee I was going to drink beer,
I sat with Sara, Steve, Sarah and Hazel,
Sara was talking to me about something,

I was drinking Hoegaarden,
I wasn't hungry, I was impressed with the bar,
I was impressed with James, I could smell beer and Sara's gin
And I kept looking behind me for Robyn and James,
I was fidgeting, not jittery, I wasn't listening to anyone
As they spoke to me, I couldn't hear myself,
Sara said something about a music pub quiz she went to
The question was songs with colours in,
I said: “Yellow Submarine,
that's all I got,”

I was glad when it was time to go because I felt like I was being stared at
And I walked with Sara to the lift, wondering where James and Robyn where,
As Robyn appeared behind me, and I said:
“Hi, Where'd
you go?”

I can't remember what she said,
She was wearing either her pink or brown coat,
She'd been for a smoke, about ten of us got in the lift,
Robyn was at the back, I stood by James who was drinking
Hot Chocolate, which Robyn found funny,
I still had my beer in my hand, I didn't know where Sara was,

We stood in the hallway outside the lift,
I stood with James, Steve and Jim,
I found Sara, she must have been behind me,
We knew James would win it,
Robyn called me from behind and – sitting down –
Introduced me to someone called Roy, I think,
I said: “Hi, Roy,”
Then heard her say the other's names,

Back inside, and James won first place,
We clapped really hard, Robyn screamed, James looked nervous
I hugged him, then we went to the bar,
Sara and I bought him drinks, I bought myself drinks,
I bought some more drinks, I got drunk, I saw Jim manically handle
His beer, James called him nuts, Hazel was talking about
Jackie Kay for some reason, and I described a book
She'd already read, Robyn came and sat on the arm on my chair,
I was looking at the stamps on her hand, then she was gone,
I saw her leave but no one else, it was James, Sara and Myself,
We took some food from a Christening party,
A man at the bar asked if I'd had Hoegaarden before, I said I had,
He said I'd be on the floor soon, I said I could handle it,
He said wait til I breathed in the fresh air,
The three of us went to The Pilgrim,
We sat in the outside bit, I was talking nonsense
About the Lord of the Rings and Doctor Who,
Jimi Hendrix and Slash, The Breakfast Club,
And James mentioned Buffalo 66,

James left and said me and Sara would stay,
He hugged us and went, we sat inside,
I can't remember what I was drinking, it might have been Cains Pilsner,
I remember feeling funny when I said the word “Pilsner,”
Because I never use the word “Pilsner,”
It's just another word for beer,

We sat at the end of the long table in the middle,
We sat opposite each other, I can't remember what she was saying,
I didn't say much, I think I just laughed with bleary eyes,
They called time and we had to leave, so we left,
I had to catch my train, I had work in the morning,
She was still talking when we walked down the road,
I would have said more, but I couldn't hear a word she was saying,
I couldn't hear anything, the whole world became a vaccuum,
I said goodbye with a hug at the station and had to wait 17 minutes
For the train, I got home,
I found my roast dinner in the oven,
I ate it in bed, it would give me indigestion in the morning,
I wanted to carry on drinking because my thoughts
Were coming back, I was beginning to hear them,
I texted my brother because Ronnie James Dio had died,
And I wanted to bother somebody,
I fell asleep at around 1am, but I should have texted the girls
To see if they were alright.

In the Event of Kidnap

In the event of kidnap
The air solidifies and cracks
Gets boils on their backs
Stares at stars til they turn black
Revolves around moon, hits with a smack
Against its face –

In the event of theft
The diamond-hard head shines and breaks
Moves with clarity and knows what it takes
Lets eyes open til it wakes
And sees a hand move and breaks
Against its face –

In the event of freud
The paperwork done and posted
And the fear in which is hosted
For so much money to be boasted
And glasses lifted and toasted
Against its face –

In the event of murder
The drunken leans forward to smell
The evil rising and swell
And knowing he's going straight to hell
And the buried one is going as well
– It's written against his face.

Free Hire in Reverse

This room when I touch it keeps its fire
As they speak from tongue-coloured mouths
And over my arms I hung her,
Bit down the way a dog chews a bone,
And moves smouldering hands up to smouldering face
Forces a sentence of laughter and spit –

Girl stands behind gleaming red throws
Arms against black woven sky
Armed with thick stolen lips
Drags upon ghost when I touch
Feels like a million people vanish
And forces thousands of heart attacks

Face of lead or the angry smile of the girl you love
A rat painted on the wall
Stands like devils on our backs
With that hot soap smell
The skin of my hand the colour
Of the skin on her belly

Feels miserable I imagine lying on the floor
And her eyes in her head still
On me like my own eyes on me
And between me and the window
Sits next to me, chin in hand
I cannot be here at this place need to leave

But refuses with perfected laughter
Higher up in my chair pushes people away
And the man speaks to the lady
And she replies with less anger
And when she looks at him
I see her eyes and nothing else

Lying down forever in the foetus-shapes
In front of her – regressed to lies and insults –
Looks at my hand arms reach out to her and
Nothing but air in fist-shaped room
And she talks to me all night
And then she talks to me all night.

Untitled Poem 18/4/10

Betray me please why

Should I stay?

I enter the cold to follow
And I follow your mouth
Out calling to follow
So short the soft ache

Is beautiful.

What happened to that girl?
She got married, didn't she –

And I died,

I got married myself,

And I lied.

I yell into the grass
Where I lay,
And I bite you hard on the arm–
What's that noise?

It's you, it's you

Being eaten alive by the world.

Fever-hot burning a tongue
And throats she came
Along the road carrying
Two bags & and ancient earring

Then butterflies who scream at
Spiders who scream at
Each other –

The mysterious clock

Is an old woman banging.

She only believes I
Can protect her. This is good
For her.

Death of a Clown [final version]

The Death of a Clown


I leave the dressing room door open as I walk in. The make-up is hot and heavy on my face. I sit in the chair, feeling the weight of my body pull downwards and I smell a funny smell in the air. It could be the mop in the corner, or the greasy paints and make-up in front of me, but all the smells are mixed together. In the mirror, a clown's face is looking at me – ugly as a germ, magnified a hundred times under a microscope; an old, crawling thing; blue, white, and red.

The single light bulb hanging from the ceiling burns thin streaks of

light into the room allowing me to see where the thick mascara has bled, leaving inky crow's feet near my eyes. My dry, ridiculous mouth, stuck in a permanent grin, is thick over the lips with the powdery consistency of eye-liner. I lick my lips, tasting the greasy paint. I roll it on my tongue, it tastes a bit like wax crayon. The metallic smell is getting up my nose and begins to sting and gives me a headache. My tired eyes are kept open with painted-on plus signs near my corpse-white cheeks. Green hair shoots out past my ears. It's my real hair, I don't wear wigs. All this make-up makes me feel heavy. But my reflection seems to like it a lot with that mad, crooked smile.

A cold draft blows in through the open door and a small fly buzzes in.

Its sexless, compound eyes watching me. It says:
– First she took off her clothes, undressing with the slow precision of a machinist, dropping a thin layer of fabric showing muscle discharge and afferent, the articles of clothing like shedded skin … Always drinking … Always drinking … Lips no use for kissing; tongue like a rat's tail …

The fly buzzes around my head and dips in and out near my ears, the

sound rising and falling as it does. It's small and sickening. It's a little black dot moving from side to side like the pupil of an eye. I look back to the mirror and I see myself, cleaning off the make-up. I apply Pond's Cold Cream with my hands and rub it in an upward motion over my cheeks, then in circular patterns, then under my nose and over the thin skin of my eyelids. I rub it over my forehead, moving towards the centre of the glabella between my eyebrows. It's freezing to touch at first, but then it goes cool and my skin becomes sensitive so I can feel the draft coming in through the open door behind me. The colours melt. I wipe the cream off with a tissue, and now it looks like my eyes have burst as black goo runs down my cheeks. My lips are swollen. The white skin wipes off. I am a ghost. I look terrible. My eyes are bloodshot as if I have been strangled and my head is pounding, still, from that horrible metallic smell. My stomach contracts. My hands clench and relax. I feel sick. I want to be sick. Am I wearing clothes? Yes, I'm wearing clothes. The door is open. There is no one there.

– You look ridiculous … Always drinking … Slow muscles, the clothing,

the skin … You look as bad as her … Covered in paint, poor old thing … Creaks and moans, struck down with sick grins, the moaning catches a glimpse in the mirror, undressing with slow precision, ruined her body … Stuck, you go back and forth … Wipe your face, you look terrible …

Now my make-up is ruined and I look ridiculous. More ridiculous than I

did before. I'm so tired and I just want to sleep but I can't with that fly buzzing over my head. Why are you so attracted to me? I say to the fly. I turn and my spine cracks and there is the odd moment when my spine makes the only sound in the world, like gunfire behind a pillowcase. I lean forward and bang my fists against the dressing table and the lamp jingles and everything rattles, the rubber chicken squeaks, one juggling ball rolls and drops to the floor with a muted thud as the fly flies around the room watching my every thought.

– You look terrible. You look ridiculous. Put that make-up back on …

Always drinking … Covered in paint … Stupid thing, used up … Struck down with a knife, with slow precision of a … Poor thing, she was, her sick grin, no clothes, painted face, you look … Muscles, the clothing, the skin …
Why should I put the face back on? I say.
Because you look terrible without it. So did she, that's why she wore it. Haha!

In front of me are a number of face paints and some make-up with

coloured thumb prints on the lids. I apply a red paint over my mouth, which feels so thick it's like lard, and now my lips are thick and swollen again like a woman's. The red has gotten onto my teeth. The carmine hook I call a mouth is stuck in a permanent grin. I am tired. I … I am … this flesh-thing sits … face like some dead creature … face white … face like melted oils, morphed into an animal … I can smell the danger like a dog.

I look into the mirror. I hate having to clean my face, and I haven't

even finished cleaning it; pale with red lips, I look like a dead woman. The fly buzzes around my head. It says:

– You are old and used up, just like she was, poor old slut … poor and

old … I know you're thinking of her, it's all over your face …

– I hate you. I was never old.
– Poor old thing … Hate was such a strong word, throwing them back and

forth, back and forth … Your body is old, it creaks and moans, she was a scorpion's tail stuck suddenly like a knife, but it doesn't hurt … Aren't you going to clean your face? You look funny … She looks funny … Poor old thing she was, stuck suddenly, but it didn't hurt though, it didn't hurt … It didn't hurt, not really, not like you did … Old thing … Sick grin, the slut, smells of oil … Throws the knives back and forth … Your mouth looks funny, she said, stuck in a permanent grin …

I wave my hand through the air to shoo it away and I catch a glimpse of

my half-done face in the mirror and I feel like laughing at it. I should clean the rest of it off to get ready for the next performance in the theatre, but I see this sick grin over my lips beneath low hung eyes caked in blue powder, and I don't want to lose it.

– Pay attention to me … Why aren't you paying attention to me?

– No, go away. You get on my nerves. I say. I think I'm smiling.

– Stuck suddenly like a knife, the scorpion throws strong words … She creaks

and moans … Poor old thing, moaning, back and forth, back and forth … It didn't hurt though, she looked ridiculous with that sick grin, hardly one to clean her face … Such strong words, weren't they? … Poor old thing, poor slut … Put that make-up back on! Haha! Makes me think of her, old thing, dead as a body …

– Can't you stop that?

– From the left ear to the right, through that old shilling you call a brain

… Makes me laugh sometimes, when I think back … Back and forth … Throwing those old strong words … It didn't hurt, though … Remember her, do you? She would draw attention in the same way you would empty rooms … You still do empty rooms … Stings suddenly, stuck like a knife, forth and back, she throws them, hardly ever wiping clean her face … cleaning, cleaning, but still the flies, like me, flies round you … She catches a glimpse in the mirror … The poor old ridiculous thing …

I dab the Cold Cream over my face again, rubbing over the lips and then

wiping the paint off with a tissue. I toss the scrunched up tissue aside and wipe my face with facial wipes, making weird, contorted mouth shapes as I do. My skin is slightly pink now, but quite soft. I might get a rash on my cheeks if I don't moisturise, but I don't feel like doing that right now. The pores in my skin still feel clogged up. So, that's what I look like. I'd forgotten what I looked like. I'm looking in the mirror and my eye sockets are huge black dents with green circlets inside. It's this skeletal figure with a cubic jawbone looking at me, the faded red smile almost entirely gone. I'm hardly recognisable at all without the make-up. I feel the cooling effects of the cream on my skin and smell a mixture of antiseptic and grease. There is that metallic smell, too, coming from either the metal aerosol cans or the pigments in the colours, the vapour sucking up all the air in the room; my head is so painful now, making me wince. I don't have any painkillers, just make-up and paint and more greasy colours all over the table. Used tissues with black and red smudges, and empty spray cans mixed in with the full ones.

The fly buzzes around my head, almost hitting me. Once it hits the

mirror, making a papery sound and it almost falls down, but it carries on flying, dipping up and down, getting so close to me I can almost smell it. I am still sitting on the chair. I am smiling. I say:

– Why don't you just go away and leave me alone?

– Left ear to the right ear, back and forth … She would draw attention, but not anymore … She would creak and moan, but not anymore … She used to sting, not anymore …

– She did this, she did that. Is there anything she didn't do?

– She used to wear that make-up like you do, remember? That would draw attention, not like you … Poor old thing … Stuck a knife in her, that happened, didn't it?

– Poor damn thing … Damn thing, damn thing, I say.

– Stuck suddenly, you didn't think it could happen, did you? Stings like a

knife … She moans, she moves back and forth, back and forth. God, don't you love it?

– No. Of course not. Shut up, now, I don't want to hear anymore of it.

– But she's not here anymore.

– I didn't do it.

In this little dressing room, I feel a chill on my naked face, and I realise

I have taken off my face. I feel so bare. I turn my head away from my reflection at last, and stand up. She protrudes like fingers when I reach the door, and there is the icy breath of the draft on my damp face. It makes me shiver. I begin to smile a lot wider and a small giggle hiccups out of my throat. The fly buzzes over my head and I start laughing, I can't help it. It's almost like a seizure in my diaphragm and it hurts; the sound of a horrible mechanical thing as I think Two clowns walk into a bar and I burst into a fit of laughter, holding onto my stomach. The fly watches me and I can't stop laughing. I knock over a bottle of moisturising lotion and the rubber chicken and I laugh so hard I feel the blood pound in my forehead. My stomach begins to cramp. I can hear the buzzing above me and I just can't stop laughing. I smell the medicinal smell of soap and creams and a metallic smell and the laughter is coming out of me like vomit.

– What's so funny? It says.

– We're just clowns. That's what's funny.

But the fly doesn't laugh, it has no sense of humour. I take in a huge

breath and let out a long, relieving sigh, still grinning, knowing she won't be coming back. What's funny is that I'm still dressed as a clown with my baggy pants and suspenders. I still have green hair, too. There's no escaping it. I think I'm always going to be a clown whether I wipe it all off or not, and I find this hilarious. But what's really funny is that she's still here, on the floor, where she died. The blood is still warm on her arms, half-congealed over the floor and her baggy pants. There is a fly buzzing round her smell. Her rainbow-coloured hair hanging off with her head hung down. I realise the noise I must be making down the corridor when I begin to laugh again, and I hear the manic echo of my voice, going on and on. The fly leaves and there is silence. I close the door shut.