Thursday, 21 June 2012

Wiping the Slate

(The basic draft for this was written as I travelled on a coach through the Australian outback. This may be relevant. Then again it might not.)

The light spikes out, a
fruit cocktail of neon
arching through city
streets, past rows of
buildings, wiping
through the concrete of
tired and fickle urban fashion.

It twists around fingers and
waists, curves down
suburban crescents,
knifes through the
snaking pasta of by-passes,
then points in all directions, a
compass giving no clues of
escape or renewed options.

One flash and it
fades with us,
leaving no trace of it or us.
The noise of trees
burning in its wake is
just nature, old,
arthritic, cracking her
bones but carrying on.

It has no concept of
committee, discussion,
debate or worth, cannot be
validated or invalidated, and
views these explosions as
periodically necessary.
It does not know, or care,
about you.

Sunday, 10 June 2012

A Perfect Shot/ All The Hometown Friends You've Forgotten

Years and years ago I put out a limited run pamphlet of ten poems - thanks to the use of a Local Council work photocopier after hours - which was bookended by these two prose pieces, both presented in small print and italics at the front and rear.  I'm sure the decision to have them acting as opening and closing brackets for the collection made some sense at the time rather than being a peculiar random brainfart, since I actually spent far too long thinking about what was supposed to be a really basic, xeroxed publication to sell at gigs.  I've got to be honest, however, I didn't keep a diary or journal in those days and I've long forgotten the logic behind it. 

A few people liked "A Perfect Shot", but within about one week of printing the pamphlet I decided I hated it (I'm still not particularly keen) and never used it in any context again and only read it live once at someone else's behest.  "All The Hometown Friends You've Forgotten", on the other hand, still gets pulled out at live readings very occasionally, though I find the content of it to be less true these days than I once did.

A Perfect Shot

she didn’t believe she could be struck by lightning, and to see her laugh in the face of a camera flash you’d guess she didn’t fear more earthly terrors too.  It was picture perfect, each photo catching her radiance bubbling before it died.  Every shot for her was the picture they’d use in the paper for you or I if we were murdered, in the lonely hearts column if we needed to be held, in the missing person column if we inexplicably vanished.  Her face begged you to look at her, look out for her.  It was as if the lightning fork had found her on a distant plain, frozen in time laughing at the world, laughing at what was to come.  

All The Hometown Friends You've Forgotten

All the hometown friends you’ve forgotten can be seen on Oxford Street in the Autumn, rubbing their DNA on everyone you’ll never know.  They’ll catch your eye for a second like hungry pigeons before being sucked away by the crowd into the bargain electrical store.

You think these people are just the slightly fatter brothers and sisters of ex-friends and lovers, that their hair is the wrong colour, but you would be mistaken.  They’ve just got older and are hiding the grey with new shades, trying to stand out and get your attention.

You think there’s no conspiracy, no notable coincidence in bumping into ghosts in the busiest High Street in the South East in November, but you’re wrong.  They think this is where all Londoners shop.  They believed it inevitable you’d pass someday.  They’ve been walking up and down all year, cowering, crouching, their feet the roots of plants outgrown their pots, mangled toes twisting in their shoes.  You made them this way.  Your time will come to catch their eye.  They’ll make sure you remember them this time.

Saturday, 2 June 2012


Of all the poems or pieces of prose I've written, this is the one which causes people to most frequently ask "Did that really happen?" It seems believable enough, I suppose - nothing much really happens in it, beyond a very cowardly and weedy junior office worker getting frightened out of his wits by a local hard-case.  In some small towns in Britain, you could be on the receiving end of this treatment several times a year.

Whilst I've been bothered by an average share of men with a point to prove before now - especially during my very skinny, speccy student days when I looked like a much easier target - it certainly never happened specifically as suggested below.  In truth, the basis for this piece of work was much more dramatic and eventful.  One night when I was wandering back from a pub in Rayleigh with some friends of mine, we were suddenly set upon (completely without provocation) by a gang of men who were slightly older than us and obviously just looking for a bit of a rumble.  My friends reacted swiftly and ran really quickly.  I did not.  I moved slowly, allowed myself to get confused by the chaos of the situation, and having been denied a huge war in a crappy small town in Essex the men set upon me instead, getting me on the floor and proceeding to give my head and body a thorough kicking.

People suspected that I'd write about this experience immediately - "Well, at least you've got some material there!" they quipped, after I'd luckily returned from A&E with no apparent fractures or brain damage - but I didn't.  The whole thing was probably over in about two minutes, and there's only so much you can say about such an event.  The pointlessness of it doesn't lend itself well to a short story, and violent poetry about street fights is a tough thing to pull off without seeming like you're trying to prove a point.  But one image did stay in my head for a long time, that being the "bulb flash" you get behind the eyes after a powerful blow to the head.  The last time I'd noticed it I'd been in a fight at school, and seeing it again immediately felt peculiar and a metaphor for the ridiculous situation I'd found myself in.  Years later, I finally picked up a pen and tried to rationalise everything, but with the threat of violence hanging in the air rather than the actual act of violence itself, which (as any hired thug knows) is usually a lot more chilling and effective anyway.  Hence, I am the man in the poem the "local star" got and is talking about in the past tense, not the person he's actually addressing his comments to in the pub.

This was both an extremely popular and divisive piece of work at live spoken word events, and I got so sick and tired of reading or performing it that I haven't bothered for a few years now.  This is partly me being bored with the work, and partly being tired of having to talk about it or justify it.  The content picked up admiration from some people who felt it was authentic in the way it approached the subject, but criticism from others who felt that it contained a Daily Mail worldview (which I don't think it does, it's a wee bit more detailed and rounded than that, I'd hope - small town boredom and Friday/ Saturday night culture deserves more focus than sneering headlines) and some others who just plain didn't like the violence contained within the poem and didn't feel it was what they'd come to a poetry night to hear (to which I would honestly say "Tough").  It was also a tricky one to pull off live, as I usually had to deliver both the man in the pub's lines and the feeble office worker's internal monologue, which meant switching back and forth between red-faced aggression and neurotic consideration every other minute.  It's also incredibly long - three poems could fit into a live set in the place of this one.  Anyway, it will probably make a return to live sets soon.   We'll see.  

In other news, you'll be pleased to know that I'm really, really quick at running these days, if nothing else.  

“Oi you.
Oi, stood next to me.
Don’t ignore me.
My life is like a film.
You got that?
A film.
Are you listening, mate?
Well then I’ll tell you something,
there aren’t many stars in a small town
but I’m one of them.
I’ve seen you sat there,
lips smug as the arse crack of the Duke of Kent
but who knows your name?
Who notices when you’re here?”

(Don’t ask me how this conversation started.
I don’t know this man.
I was walking towards the bar,
my mouth dry from too much office coffee,
mucus clinging like pond algae
to the back of my throat,
when like a bird necked boy
I flitted into this space nervily,
jerkily avoiding his gaze.
Gazes are only friendly to some people,
and you can generally guess who).

“Ah see.
You looked at me then, didn’t ya?
You know,
it don’t make no sense
but I can tell how powerful I am
just by how many people in a bar
don’t look at me or say hello,
don’t return my stare.
I have that,
I’ve always had that,
and you can’t learn it.
Did you hear me?
You can’t LEARN that, I said.
Are you listening to me?”

(He only thinks I’m listening
if I look right at him
though I don’t use my eyes to hear,
and nature has taught me
to know my place.
I smile, I look, try to be on equal footing,
cowering, contemplating my
soft suede shoes,
raising my eyes just slightly,
and take him in, up and up,
notice his footwear is reassuringly
non-steel capped in its appearance,
his jeans are faded with continents
of lager splashes,
Australia on his ankle,
Greenland on his groin.
His Nike T-shirt delivers a tick
across a bear-like chest to
assure me he even meets
with corporate approval,
his hair is bristling over a
face dented and hit
like grey plasticine
with a wooden spoon,
his pupils pinpointed in
pure 360 degree eyes).

“You’d better be listening, mush.
I think it’s about time you knew a bit.
You don’t know shit, you.
Never spoken to me before, have ya?
Well I’ve never offered permission,
but I’ve made a few enquiries,
found out bits about you.
See, that slag you was with last night,
I’d fuck ‘er, me, given half a chance,
so naturally I wanna know more
about the bloke on her tail, and
I must say, I reckon
you’re a waste of space.
You reckon yourself some sort of
poet I hear? 
Let me tell you,
last week after the Lewis fight
we got tanked up,
looked for the nearest bloke like you,
got ‘im on the floor and
kicked him til he crunched, and
y’know that flash behind the eyes?
The one you get with a head punch,
bursting like a bulb in the
corner of your eye?
Well, that’s the press
shooting your defeat and another
victory for me
That, by the way, is also
poetry, which any tosser can do.
You can sit down now,
You’ve been warned”.

(I have turned into a ragged
shaking skeleton, rib cage hollow and
echoing fear, sparks and needles
replacing my internal organs
one by one, and I sit down, drink up,
and get out of this bar.
I caught only one glimpse but
his face is etched on my mind
more than any of the late night
TV hosts who gibber like chimps
for the after pub crowd that evening.
I feel as if I have just narrowly
avoided being star struck).