Wednesday, 30 September 2009
Monday, 28 September 2009
Oh god, home. Home… Safe, with food, comfort, warmth, sex, love, media, escape, sanctuary, romanticism, alcohol and quiet to deliciously indulge myself in. The comfort is enormous and I shuffle my way back to
Home to my sweet Helen’s where I’ll go. She’ll be there like always with her inner peace and happiness radiating from her warm face, having been blessed with some natural immunity to the shocks and hardships of the nine to five. Thank god for Helen. The face of every rat on this train, drained and damned to do this again next week, wet from the rain, is a million miles from her. I’m a million miles from her. Maybe they all have Helens too.
Brisk and silent off the train and out into the station, no one’s around – but then I notice him. Sat cross legged on the ground and in neat parallel with the wall, well dressed, junky needles all about him.
“You alright?” I ask hesitantly.
Silence. He lifts his head so that I can see his face, shadowed by a bowler hat. We stare at each other. I tell him, “You shouldn’t do that” and gesture to the needles.
More silence and more staring. He’s winning just by looking at me. Well, fuck you. I have my Helen and you have your heroin. I glance down at my watch, more as an excuse to leave this disquieting man than to check the time.
“You shouldn’t do that” he says suddenly, in a wheezing death-rattle. And then starts laughing. A quiet, self satisfied chuckle at first, but quickly building into a full-blown, sneering, throaty laugh. I stride away into the rain, resisting an impulse to run.
“You shouldn’t do that, Hugo!” he cries after me through fits of machine-gun laughter and the now massive, blasting rain. Fuck this shit. Fuck. I run home. I run home through the rain to safety, food, warmth all that shit and, Helen.
I practically burst through the door showering the cat with cold water to her disgust, and she runs away hissing. The lights are off and the usual tones of Joanie Mitchell are darkly absent. I walk into the front room a little dazed.
There she is. My raison d’etre. Sprawling naked on the floor. And there he is. My best friend Martin. Sprawling naked on the floor. Next to Helen. Ridiculous looking ornate bong next to them, the house stinks of weed, doesn’t take a genius. Surreally, none of us have said anything yet.
I say calmly, softly “What the fuck is going on?” and I surprise myself because there’s no crack in my voice.
Helen looks as if she’s about to say something, her beautiful mouth is opening to explain everything and she’s going to put Joanie Mitchell on and we’ll have sex and I’ll go to bed and have no dreams and she’s… giggling. Martin joins in. They’re laughing. They’re laughing at me. EVERYONE IS FUCKING LAUGHING AT ME. These motherfuckers have fucked me what the fuck is going on SHIT. I’m going to kill them. There’s a hammer in the shed I’m going to kill them. Don’t fucking kill them. They’re still laughing. Today is real funny. Oh yeah today’s real funny. Fucking cu-
The door slams shut behind me but I don’t hear it because of the ringing in my ears. Rain washes some blood off my hands and shoes. I can hear my name being called somewhere. At first it sounds like it’s from home – my old home – but now…
By the time I get back to the train station I’m drenched from head to toe, which I’m relieved about because that way no one can see that I have cried my eyes raw. Not that anyone is here. The man in the bowler hat has gone. I don’t really know why I thought he would still be there. I sit down in a puddle and I don’t care. Then I notice a piece of paper on the wall, where the man who knew my name had sat.
You got off more than one train today. Don’t deal with the fuckers anymore. Meet me at The Honest Lawyer inn, bring your head.
Strapped to the back of the letter was one of his junky needles, full up and shining in the street lamp-light.
I saw a vague acquaintance on the train from theatre, and spent the journey talking to him about the responsibility of each generation to it's successor. It was pretty cool. Tomorrow's dubstep takeover down my student union bar, whoop whoop, and I think Rowan will be here. :D
This is not really gonna interest anyone else, but I'm really enjoying Richard Evans book In Defence Of History which is discussing the extent to which we can find out historical truths as opposed to just best-guess story-telling and subjective speculation. It's intensely academic, but well, I really like it so yeah. I'm a loser. ;)
Rave on, campers.
Saturday, 26 September 2009
Still in my own head, really, but with
Bags packed, ready to leave
Not-quite-stunted conversation -
Flows fine ya know, but
We all still adjust our sleeves
Occasionally wonder what the time is
1st beer, sinks down smooth quick liked it
Doesn't really matter if this event's shit
Talk to this man and these girls sat near me
All smiles and interest in eachother's situations
Slightly rush-released conversations
But that's fine, yeah, understandable
2nd beer, take my tiiiime on this one... yeah
'Cause I like beer you know I can savour it
Either I pretend, or just forget it tastes like shit
Starting to offer insights now
Jokes, commentary, witty quotation
The odd probably misinformed topical observation
And gone that hold-back shrinking sensation
Gone that awkward socio-desperation
And let the good times roll, 3rd beer
Laughter and irreverence and existential cheer
If I wasn't taken now I spose I'd be flirting
But it's alright everything's cool man nothin' is hurting
We're all together here, there's grinning faces all around
And ten thousand acres of precious common ground
6th... beer I, pleurghh,...
I DON'T KNOW I
Fall down I spoooooooozee......
Oblivion and the holy attitude,,,, fuck it.
Thursday, 24 September 2009
Not in our name will you wage endless war.
There can be no more deaths.
No more transfusions of blood for oil.
Not in our name will you invade countries, bomb civilians, kill more children, letting history take its course over the graves of the nameless.
Not in our name will you erode the very freedoms you have claimed to fight for.
Not by our hands, will we supply weapons and funding for the annihilation of families on foreign soil.
Not by our mouths will we let fear silence us.
Not by our hearts will we allow whole peoples or countries to be deemed evil.
Not by our will and not in our name.
We pledge resistance!
We pledge alliance, with those who have come under attack for voicing opposition to the war or for their religion or ethnicity!
We pldege to make common cause with the people of the world to bring about justice, freedom and peace!
Another world is possible - and we pledge to make it real.
Tuesday, 22 September 2009
Sunday, 20 September 2009
Peter Pan has fucked off
Don’t, don’t disillusion me yet
The illusions are far too wonderful and wild
The adult world is beckoning me with problems unmet, just
Bury me in fiction, let me remain a child, just
Let me dream a day longer
Let me live for free
Let me indulge and love and fantasise, and
Ignore what I’m supposed to be
Take back your shackles of responsibility,
Turn back them hands of time
Take me back to an age when I
Was enthralled by sweets, and pantomime
Give me my long lost innocence
Make me naïve and pure
Growing up’s a subtle disease, I’m
Subtly SCREAMING FOR THE CURE
Hey, hey man. Calm down. It’s all okay.
The big wide world is scary, yes
But trust me you’ll find your way
And it’s not all about dodging bullets
Or working to stay alive
The world can be a magical place
A place where you can thrive
A place where you can do your own thing, like
Start a career
Have mid-life crises
Cook your favourite dinners
Go for long walks
Discover new perspectives
Fall hopelessly in love
Fall hopelessly out of love
Realise that ultimately nothing matters and
Make endless cups of tea!
So you see
And I’m sure you’ll agree
Adult life is a diverse tapestry
Spose you’re right mate. Here goes then.
Here comes the world, with independence and depression,
With boredom - and ecstasy - and many chaotic storms,
I’m going from security - and domestic oppression,
To a world of freedom… and council tax forms.
sits heavy at platform lines
two minutes early
rushed deadline faces
march in black trouser suits
leaving offices empty
they board together
minding the gap
sucked into this carriage vacuum
as shuffling raced paces force the doors
first come first served seat selection
leaving those left panting to stand
fume heavy breaths fill the space
as the doors slide and fuse shut
the engine hums and hisses
leaving the passing station viewed
behind evening edition news
the air is stale with coughs and sighs
awkward glances followed by
small advances for the paper
which rises dividing eyes
they sit confined in domino rows
waiting for the first to fall
decision makers and no.1 fakers
folding dreams neatly away to make room
for mortgages and schools
the carriage reels off destinations
counting down the track
leaking commuters at each station stop
squeezing me the last drop
as I make my leave from this repetitive drone
minding the gap
between work and home
Tuesday, 15 September 2009
Stars Amongst The Gloom
Just another boy who hates things
Striding without purpose, into the heart of our town
A down-trodden denizen of
With special brew in his hand, and a long-learned frown
To his mother a misunderstood hero
In a world beset by urban decay
To the papers, a social menace;
A benefit fraud; a church-starved stray,
To his mates jack-the-lad, a diamond kid,
A party animal always ready to play,
To himself an elusive phantom…
A ghost, just finding his way.
As he strides into town though none of that matters
It’s Saturday night – leave the philosophy at home
But as he hits the club, his composure shatters
‘Cause his girl’s kissing his dealer and suddenly he’s alone
And then his fists start flying with sickening speed
No thoughts of consequences or how he might plead
Just a perversely sweet oblivion, an ecstasy of revenge
He picked the wrong target though, that dealers got friends
And no one saw our boy again.
To his mother, a source of endless pain
To the papers a story for profit gain
To his mates a tragic reason to pray
To himself an elusive phantom
A ghost, just finding his way.
This is all we’d normally see of the story
The sad surface angles of inescapable doom
But his life had some beauty and a humble glory
There were stars amongst the gloom…
…A fact not captured by any home-office tally:
That boy found joy in The Hastings Arms
And confused young love in Bottle Alley.
Saturday, 12 September 2009
Friday, 11 September 2009
Talking to Rowan about her caravan and her magic mushrooms growing outside the caravan is cheering me up. :) Can't you just imagine her? Little Rowan? In the caravan? With the mushrooms outside? It's somehow kinda sweet and faintly ridiculous as an image.
My parents are leaving for the weekend. Yay. :)
I love you all. x
Thursday, 10 September 2009
There's no performance poetry society at my Uni - I'm gonna start one. We WILL have a vibrant, anarchic, revolutionary and family-like spoken word scene in south-east london, if it kills me. Here's Maya Angelou:
The highway is full of big cars
going nowhere fast
And folks is smoking anything that’ll burn
Some people wrap their lives around a cocktail glass
And you sit wondering
where you’re going to turn
I got it.
Come. And be my baby.
Some prophets say the world is gonna end tomorrow
But others say we’ve got a week or two
The paper is full of every kind of blooming horror
And you sit wondering
What you’re gonna do.
I got it.
Come. And be my baby.