A Lawyer’s Take on Romance

Poetry, Pulpit

I found half of this in my 41-strong drafts folder. What do you think of the other half?

As the frost settles on their broken bones
Squat in deformity the huddled pair
Clasp hands in perpetual motion
One grey cloak and one green
Both white faces tugging
Eachother’s corrupted
Fingers.
Even
The living
Dead can be beautiful
With a rosy tint to their
Empty sockets and a certain
Pink to their lack of posture that
Crumbles beautifully into fleshy moss –
Even broken bones last centuries.

Love is Animal

Poetry, Pulpit

A quick little poem.

Love is animal
Being willing to beak and be beaked
To curl inside eachother, to scratch in play
To stroke and tend hairs and furs
Flying together
Sharing resting spaces
Pomp and puffiness that comes out in cute
When the other creeps nearby
Love is basic
Essential
A knot of roots that snuff and howl and laugh
Sharp and clear, the bark soft as pig skin
Hairy as sheeps
Because human isn’t love.
Human is appreciation, the better communication
Of animal things, the better understanding and use
of those things. Human is craftiness.
An ability to avoid pain or any emotion at all.
Love is gnawing on a leash.

In Love

Poetry, Pulpit

I found this in my drafts from 2years ago.

I get the funnyfeels these days
Dusting me with darkness on the way home
Threading me with fretty needles
Streaming wavey snake wrigglers come
Cutting me with cold’s scissors
Bonking my billy brain and making
Tiny fissures that look so big down close
When I try and tell wrapped up in cotton wool
Dreams coated in witchhazel
Sniffing away the tears try and explain
How those things I did
Were like only kidding.
I get confused
Which one I did
Because somewhere I
And the Perubird fluttered away
But my smelly wings snapped.
I collapsed into a clucky cloud.
Your pretty face etched on my eyes
Like you didn’t wanted it to be
Because it belonged on my lips
Tingletongue gushing down the gullet
Into the thump bump heart pie
Stretched around my soul
Like a lover’s warm arm.
You printed on me
Pictures of happy things
But I couldn’t see the world for my irises.
Pretty Perubird can’t tell me what to do,
Bubbly Bath,
Singy Smile
Tasty Teeth.
I mistleplaced everything climbing my headtrees
Walking along the wining paths as night fallen on me
Amused the goatsheep like devil dogs
Grass-chewing
Silly soul.
Too far travelled and calling you in mimes to join
This stumbling charge
Home.

I all wealyword.

Please come back.

Sunken Astroboy

Poetry, Pulpit

This is a poem I’m working on to debut my re-entry into the London open-mic circuit. Talking about it to no-one in particular helps me work out where it’s at. Usually I talk to myself, because that’s easier, but being as I’m trying to spool back up into writer mode, I thought I’d write to you instead.

I’m supposed to read it in a JCC-esque vocal range: think steady pace, bass and a bit of blocky nasal influence.

Wilful postulations around the subject of farts
Bring an ellerdine tranquility to the dereliction
Of home comforts and fanny flaps, smells of fish
And excrement, alternately bringing me
Conclusions of the wandering sentiment
That I’m your fast pedal Fuzzbox, your gilt hyena,
Your Quodrophenia, your Swedish Astrodoll in the long cold night –
These niche incantations and silverthread joy:
Like a suckling bottleneck.

I want to touch your hoodie.

Down by the canalside on rubber dinghies
Among the paraphernalia of incontinence
We have the shining glass shards from nearby
Office towers cowering in booze from the babies
On the bank, demanding rubber thingies
And sugarpills of inheritance, they sing a wordless
Melody of near-vomit hiccups extolling life’s
Flambouyant virtues: it comes through the window
And shits down my earholes.

I think of past lovers and friends.

Turning to your feet with their thin film of city dust
Clinging like fine shading to your textured sole
My hands are already fingering and kneading
Your tread, the phalanges in metatarsal embrace,
They are ten tongues speaking to your essential skin,
Reverberating in body parts while you drift, as though
Sea-bound and meanwhile murmuring known songs
With the tickling tide, it’s points at my fingertips.

Something quivers amid the elastane blend fabrics;
Your hands engage it like tongs considering a lump
Of metal that might, eventually, be called sword
But only after furnacing in a sheath of fire: you
Never liked my medieval metaphors; and the balloon
Goes up, the skyrocket inclines toward the moon
In banal American movie symbolism of misogynistic
Idealism, which idea lays me out on the bed early,

Bubbling canal passing by while you’re left unsatisfied
I think I remember a phrase from somewhere dank
And pleasant: I will go to the Cellar Door, the most
Beautiful phrase in the English language, tongue
Those words with their pink stalactite detailing,
Mouth the whole phrase into you with a seething cultured
Joy that moustache tickles round the edges…So lapping up
The canal I sink into the Cellar Door more meaningful
Than skyscrapers, more loving than rockets.

*************

At the moment it’s about men, or a man, and alienation. About drifting from the traditional discourse on gender, but specifically the discourse on relationships and conventional love.

Sunken Astroboy: his immature dick “Astroboy” sinks early and so he goes to the vagina which we usually link to cave/water/earth imagery. Sunken Astroboy is meant to be the poem in summary: the moment a sub is created by the powers that be.

I’m trying to do this properly for a change, hence the attempt at breaking it down/analysing it. I need to see what it is to properly work on it, so I thought I’d let you people in on the “creative process”.

My main issue right now is that it sort of fades out in the last two stanzas, which I kinda want to do because it reflects what I’m trying with the narrative, but I’m worried that it’d just piss people off.

I have Eddie Izzard in mind when he says “I like to finish my shows with a sort of ‘oh’. And I think I’ve achieved that”.

It’s like the narrator gets bored because he’s finally dropped out of the dream and is literally face-first back in physical reality. He switches to the other extreme: the thought drops away and he’s all about the moment’s sensations. But is that asking too much focus from the audience?

I mean I probably wouldn’t look that deeply into a poem I’d just heard at an open-mic. I kinda want to do it like this anyway though, specifically for that “oh” feeling. Like a secret I can keep from everyone to laugh at when I get back to my seat.

Not sure. I’ll keep at it.

Headlines Breakdown:

Stanza 1: the male narrative voice philosophises about relationships and love vs lust; it’s trying to get a sort of hot, hazy afternoon effect. The fairly dead-pan delivery will reflect this.

The hoodie: in his near-dream world, the smallest contact becomes a huge act of commitment and intimacy. A simple statement of the complexity/depth/stupidity of his feelings.

Stanza 2: the wondering takes him out of the window to the canal, either next to or below him. Drunken weekend warriors of the alcoholic world float around, mocking life.

Lovers and friends: I needed something to bridge the gap between the shit and the tenderness. I actually invoke names of certain people when I’m stuck in a bad place. Like making a spell of positive experiences. I wanted to include that somehow.

Stanza 3: he runs from the sadness outside back to his partner. He goes to her feet because he’s a knowing and wilful sub. It’s hopefully starting to suggest some sort of intimacy.

Stanza 4: he gets an erection and sex happens with awkward and weird metaphors. The meta sentiment is about how he holds this knowingly outdated relationship ideal: medieval romances. At the same time he’s struggling to fix this alongside the role that and modern love gives the woman.

Stanza 5: having cum prematurely he follows his instincts and either deeper or almost sexless desires to express a more important love in cunnilingus.

The Meeting

Poetry, Pulpit

Wrote this about three/four years ago. Think it’s out on another blog somewhere, but wasn’t yet here.

They dribble into the room and float around like swirling twigs in a wavy pond, wetting their leaves. A commotion of expectation arises from the chaos of existence: a circle forms, as circles do. People swirling together to form a sphere.

Distant twiglets dripping quietly in corners or wandering back and forth with excitement seeking direction.
People talking in hushed tones and loud moans.
The group gathers. Mumbling, fumbling.
People reclining technology wining, the excitement and anticipation drones on like a frozen error warning. That sound of a single xylophone tap. A memory of Fridays past.
The voice is assertive.
People relieved by the order but distrustful, gabble on in guilty sobs. Mumbling, fumbling.
The voice gathers like a sunny storm of happy promises and hopeful laughs and sympathies.
Slowly the people calm. Then twiglets swirling round, mumbling fumbling. Flies investigating a living corpse and find that it survives. Twigs and twiglets revolving, resolving, in quietly deafening anticipation.
A commune is being formed. A dam in the pond, pointless and beautiful, wondrously useless, yet model and fine. The twigs are curiously inspired.
Poets are gathering in a mirth of red and yellow sounds as the first recital begins. The heartfelt short stab. The mood is of a blue fire, burning naturally and comfortably in its long hue. Heartfelt. Silence. Contemplation. Acceptance.
The twigs revolve, mumbling, fumbling. The twigs revolve with snappy chatter and screeching laughter and petty distractions of flies. The guiding voice rides the waves of the pond.
The students are sat listening to the teacher. Another recital drifts into beginning. Silence slowly falls like snow. Thinking. And claps of wetted leaves and hands.
The students are aroused and engaging, thinking, speaking, talking, discussing. Enjoying. The voice is rising on the overarching tide and spreading and calling and telling. Stories and lives.
And lives and sex. The post-adolescent obsession with unbegun lives and the meeting of minds and hearts. The mood is red.

And the tide crashes and the dam slowly splits in pieces, now hovering round the home of the whole, wondering however there might have been a hole.

Splitting to revolve and evolve.

Ending;

In a green silence.

Busy Old Fool

Poetry, Pulpit

The sun behind glasses
Its sparkling eyes warming, lighting
A soft bed and you’re snug in a duvet,
Or spreadeagled mid-day in calm
Breathing light beauties in a balmly world
On white sheets like an angel’s skin,
Pillow of pure cloud, damp and darkling
With your storm of hair,
And the sun takes off his glasses
Tickled by the sight through his bedroom window,
Eyebrow flared wondering what will you do
Lying snug in your duvet of thighs and wet kisses,
Tries to warm you with his bright eyes
As he’s met by an eclipse from the bouncing moon.
And he thinks he hears your song, your howl
To the night, wishes it was his.
The pretty old, busy old sun, up in his window
Shards falling off his beard to illuminate the dirt
On his floor with stark pallor, like broken seeds
In grey stone dust. He doesn’t know if you
See him. He’s too bright to look at, but you feel
His stare and wriggle, clearing the clouds
With your hips, drinking the rain before it falls,
Keeping the sun here, among your ruined
Bedclothes.

Garnet Fair

Poetry, Pulpit

In some of the myths Merlin is trapped in a cave or an ice cave or a block of ice by Nimue, Lady of the Lake. I wrote the following poem inspired by that tale of entrapment. As I wrote, a music like circus music was playing. It seemed to fit the bombastic theatre of poetry.

In the evening drift of fairground sounds I’m wandering
sunken mind through the caverns of your youth,
caressing those roses you sent me,
and the relentless tune of a moonlit melody rolls through
Whispered by tender lion tamers to their red coats:
A sound that softly vibrates and echoes off the dripping walls,
Riding down where the water pools around my shoes;
I hear your strained vocals, your pondering words
Slowly tumble with the tune making a refrain soft like fur.
You’re wandering through my mind as I walk:
I feel your circus heels soothing the pink stuff, a hypnotism
Swirling through my blood like blood dripping into water,
It doesn’t swirl back.
And the pool rises up the cavern, through the holes in the rock,
Suffocating crystal formations with the slow rolling music;
My feet are wet. Cold and hard and soft and supportive,
The glittering wash, the underground river, the silent spring,
Woken by this noise of songs and swan boats.
I’m feeling your heels around my feet and in my mind
Your stockings clinging to my calves,
Your corset clasping pelvis and crushing waist, pulsating gold
And hugging my chest, but,
Cooler now, like floating:
In your arms, I open my mouth –
Transfixed by garnet crystals –
Tongue goes deep.

Bee’s Prayer

Poetry

All meaning has left me
Whatever value I once had
Was on loan from the Great Greaseball in the sky –
My lines are squiggled
My signature no longer has those defining shapes;
Somewhere in the past I cut the last investment
Of my soul from my heart and dropped it.
Images of the future that crossed my mind
Are static. Friends I love mere memories between
Meetings that keep me chained to reality.
The life I had: it accepted everything I gave,
Advising that I keep some for myself instead.
I didn’t. Looking into the bleakness of the final
Night I wonder what dreams await in the hour
Before work begins again and again I forget.

Skipping Time

Poetry

Wrote this at work today and after the bar, having coffee before bed. Otherwise tailoring a verse story for someone. Taking a while or two whiles or so or maybe more.  

Nobody noticed in the boxing hall
Past dark when the moon was gone
The black light covering rings and
Skipping ropes as the boxers were done
Where Gerry Louis laid on the mat
Bleeding from his nose, shivering
And cowering because he knows
He’s no good to no-one, not even
Nothing can save him with the whimpers
Echoing off the walls the way punches
Do, and the song voices in the theatre:
Too much for him to enter with a third class
Whore – they stop him at the door while
She goes on through. Gerry hung himself
With a skipping rope above the boxing ring
Floor,

That stadium of gladiators throwing steel
Fists at their more unfortunate com-padres
In battering, bruise-brokeness. Gerry lost
A fight with his Dad and won a fight with a post,
Splitting his face burning with whiskey,
Iodine of the soul, and hookers who wouldn’t
Look at him, or laughed on his cock
After the battle since Tom Slammer bid ’em
With his, and after the rope snapped the tears
Finally came like that drizzling pissing rain:

Gerry Louis hung himself above the boxing ring
Floor, but the rope snapped like with so many
Others before: you can see the marks of their
Knees, their blood and tears with the blood
And sweat and pre-fight spaghetti. While
He choked on his pride in the moments
Before Hell, he forsook his name and took
Up Gerry Lou, beat-down boxer kid from
Some Chicago suburb: never even got a place
In a factory, just ran paper rounds and salty
Coffee shop stalls on those bleak streets

Until he broke in the boxing ring, falling
On his face and into the long dark where
Even the moon wouldn’t go and though
He had friends they were as bad and barely
Talked about the things they never had. So
Sitting in the blank by himself, Gerry Lou
Got a notion to rise if for nothing but
The yearning in his throat
For whiskey
Or hot coffee and pie, back in the diner
At 4am where he could tell the waitress
He was about to start life anew, find her
Perspective on things, old Dave the coffee
Fiend, Frank about to give birth to a melon
And Mel Tenko the friendly whore who did
It for free, yeah, maybe they’d tell him
What he needed to be but now…

He’d just hung himself above the boxing ring
Floor, echoing a thousand kids before his time
Blurting and choking on the drink they’d never
Tried, about which everyone seemed to lie until
You were hooked yourself and you told the same
Tales about how maybe a night here and there
Crumbled but it ain’t so bad as hanging from a
Skipping rope above a dirty old floor, snapping,
Wishing you had the gumption for more
Then crying as you call your own name,
Gosh, ain’t it a damn shame skipping time
Until your last lump of pie is swallowed
And even as your beverage burns the eyes
They’re saying goodbye forever.

Well, Jerry Lou might’ve been his name
But to tell you the truth,
I’ve stopped seeing through my own pain
For a while now and all the words go on
Break sometimes and I don’t really mind ’em
As long as in the morning I can still find ’em
Which, isn’t always so, but most of the time
I know and I can go back to the boxing ring
And talk up to the youngsters, showing them
A few little things before they bring back
All the fame I need of being drunken Jay,
Hey, it pays at the bars I can tell you.

Barrel Blues

Poetry

When you’re sitting at the bottom of a barrel
Thrown out all the golden apples
To or at friends
You’ve eaten some too, time to time,
And in the cider-crush smell of rotting fruit
You’re waking up to a need to breathe
Maybe make amends to the owner, whoever,
And the claustrophobia of the barrel
And the emptiness
No-one outside
No-one looking in
You’re calling and they’ve all gone
For a while you’re thinking they’re all thieves
The farmers
The clerks
The herders and horses
The friends
Fiends, all took it from you
Trapped you in it
Yeah
For a while you’re sitting in some barrel
Licking alcohol dry stench and splinters

And then you get out.