Wordlurk
Tuesday, 10 September 2013
Matchstick poetry
The Sea at Bognor-
An inkwell
With screaming V's
And salty poster paint rocks with their grey faces
And the swimmers drowning in the watermarks
Like flies doing a death dance atop a pond.
Beer froth or spittle.
Drifting.
Van Gogh's Shoes-
Bitter coffee leather
The tongue
gagged with strings
And bent back
Like a finger.
An inkwell
With screaming V's
And salty poster paint rocks with their grey faces
And the swimmers drowning in the watermarks
Like flies doing a death dance atop a pond.
Beer froth or spittle.
Drifting.
Van Gogh's Shoes-
Bitter coffee leather
The tongue
gagged with strings
And bent back
Like a finger.
An Ending Sketch- Published by WORD GUMBO 2012
I catch the
train: Bognor Regis to London ,
Victoria .
It’s about half seven in the morning and my eyes itch as I ram the flimsy travel card into the barrier machine. The grey muzzled bloke overseeing this looks rough as hell. He’s a big bloke, and he’s wearing one of those fluorescent safety jackets which makes him look like a canary on steroids. I can’t tell if he’s going to say good morning or not until the last second.
I’m the first one onboard.
My hands shake
as I plunk my takeaway Costa coffee down onto a little fixed table on the
train-surrounded by one of those four seat affairs. Two forwards and two go
backwards. I opt for the one which looks cleanest, although the pattern is
ghastly with swirls of clashing browns and oranges, like Technicolor vomit. I
realise choosing one going backwards will make me feel nauseous, but think it
will look stupid to switch. The coffee is lukewarm and bitter with sea-surf
cataracts of scum. It tastes like shit.
Some of it has slopped over onto the back of my hand, so I wipe it off on the thigh of my dark jeans as I stash my worn rucksack down by my feet. The hastily ironed check shirt I’m wearing has a huge neglected crease down the torso, and I’m pretty sure I look as rough as the bloke at the barrier. I stretch and smooth my hands through my rakish hair like a guy in a movie. I take off my square glasses and push my fingers into the corners of my eyes until it hurts. I’m really short-sighted. I mean, really. I’m like Velma in Scooby Doo when she loses her specs and mistakes the monster for Shaggy. Funny I guess- but when it comes down to it I’m practically blind and it’s bloody awful. A few more people are starting down the platform towards the train now. They are blurred creatures who slur through my squint.
I needlessly wipe a lens with the corner of my creased shirt, and push my glasses back on.
I glance at the few bleary-eyed characters that’ve started to board the carriage. I decide to name them. There’s some ginger guy,(Ron) and a Scottish sounding older couple talking about their daughter where the wife has some sort of lazy eye (christened McWang-eye). Everyone else is pretty unremarkable, aside from this ferret-faced man in his mid fifties with anaemic hair who reminds me of the white rabbit in ‘
Then a woman
sits opposite me. Glancing up from my coffee for just a second, I observe how
the dark skirt-suit she’s wearing hugs her slender body. She holds a satchel in
one hand, and a thick manila envelope in the other which she places on her lap
and folds her pale hands over, before smoothing out a little furrow in her
skirt material. When she crosses her stocking clad legs I think to myself that
a weaker man may splutter on his poor quality coffee. Although they’re probably
tights, not stockings, since this is not the 1950’s.I would prefer it if they
were stockings, however. She has long, dark hair which lays softly either side
of her face as she stares intently out of the window as if she’s looking for
something. If this were a Chanel advertisement, a hotter version of me would
wordlessly lead her out of the carriage and into my abode. I can’t help but
smirk.
Sensing me
staring, she averts her eyes and goes to tug something out of the satchel with
a little ‘click’ of the bronze clasp. I stare down at my crappy rucksack feeling
like a massive pervert. Then a miracle happens. To my surprise, she tugs out a
little book and a gleaming silver pen (which looks damn pricey), before
scrawling something on one of the back pages. The book looks like a diary, but
the tiny printed numbers at the bottom of each side, and the way the spine’s
bound tells me it’s a printed copy of something. The cover is blank. She tears
off the page which bears whatever she’s just written, and pushes it across the
course table towards me.
It can’t be. Oh God, it is. A phone number; namely, hers I presume. I am overwhelmed with a sensation of horror and delight. And nausea, actually; but I put that down to the fact I’m travelling backwards. I glance up at her, probably holding the expression of someone who has just been diagnosed with the bad news that yes, you have cancer, but no, it isn’t terminal. She winks at me and I almost throw up in my mouth. I look behind me to check the hotter version of me from the Chanel advert isn’t there, and she’s grinning when I turn back to her. The front to carriages of the train could easily have been consumed in a mushroom cloud of smoke and fire in that instant, and I would have been none the wiser.
Still holding
my bewildered gaze with her dark eyes, she abruptly picks up the envelope on
her lap and tears along it neatly, yet somehow brutally with a fingernail,
before glancing at a broad sheet of paper inside. It looks as if it’s been
wedged in the wrong way by somebody, as she struggles to tug it out from the
envelope.
It’s
breached.’ I blurt out, reverting to comedy in a desperate attempt to dowse the
awkwardness of the whole situation.
She laughs
like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard, and I imagine how this would
make her lovely face light up if the sun could filter properly through the
grainy window. She seems pleased with whatever the contents of the envelope
reads as she scans it, and then slides it wordlessly into the satchel. The
little book she keeps grasped firmly in her hands. I wonder what it is. Her
knuckles are white.
I am unsure
whether to be horribly offended, or immensely flattered. She doesn’t look like
she either cares or expects an answer, which makes two of us. Then she leans across
the table towards me, and gives me a peculiar and evasive look. I feel both
flattered and threatened.
So, if you
had to shag a Mr Man, who would you shag?’ She asks quizzically.
Damn. I knew
this was too good to be true. But the churning in my stomach and the soft
rumble of the train below me tells me she has actually just asked me this
question.
‘Mr Bump,’ I
reply, triumphantly, ‘so that I could kill him afterwards and make it look like
an accident. That way nobody would ever know.’
I notice that
she checks something in the little book before she gives me a little glance of
approval and giggles at my response, which is strange. I throw up in my mouth a
little again. The feeling of nausea persists as she asks me the next few
questions. These included whether I thought that Boris Johnson looks like a
Little Britain character(yes), and the most crazy thing I’d ever done(getting a
temporary tattoo on my face when I was thirteen). It starts to feel like an
inquisition, and I don’t like it. Each time she checks in the little book
before laughing.
She suddenly
says she needs to go to the bathroom, and winks at me before saying she trusts
me to protect her things; even the little book, so long as I don’t look inside
it. The last part is spoken with a severe tendency which alarms me. What alarms
me more is the fact she trusts me with her things.
Of course I
look.
On closer
inspection, the cover is warm from how tightly she’s been clutching it. It’s
dark and rather smooth, but not like leather; moleskin perhaps. Feeling guilty,
I flick to the back of the book where a page is turned down. I presume this to
be the place she kept referring to. Today’s date is printed neatly in the top
right hand corner, and it seems to be a set of questions and responses set out
with a different font corresponding to each, like a script. No, wait; it’s
actually a joke book.
In type ink,
each of the jokes I made in the last few minutes stand in bold on the page. How
is that possible? I think I may vomit onto the seat next to me.
I flick back a
couple of months, and it’s the same thing. Stuff I can barely remember saying
that made someone or other laugh. And it’s all here in this book. Suddenly, the
content of the envelope slips out from between the pages. She must have put it
inside here for safe keeping. It’s a letter confirming a publishing contract
for this material- the little book. All my material.
Hearing a
voiceover make the announcement of the next stop, I grab my rucksack and jolt
out of the door, not caring which stop it is or where I’m going. I think that
on my own two feet I can go wherever I chose, and I laugh all the way sprinting
down the platform towards the exit barrier until the sound distorts into a
curdling sob like a drowning infant.
I throw up on a rough looking bloke at the
barrier.
Harry Potter vs. Twilight Rap off.
Rowling:
You
put the ho in horcrux
If
you know what I mean
‘Cause
more snitch been near your snatch than there’re types of every flavour bean.
While
Ed sparkles in the sun,
Bella
be so pale it be obscene
Where’s
this shit even come from?
Oh
yes, it came to you in a dream.
See
it does not do to dwell on
Dreams
and forget to live ‘cause even if
Edward
is the hottest undead guy ever,
He’s
pretty and likes the dark? Should work in fucking Hollister.
He’s
such a shallow prick
The
only depth is in his hair
No
wonder fire is a hazard
All
that product in the air.
And
Bells put the die in Indie
She
be so emo, apathetic,
New
Moon of her pathetic depression,
You
can obliviate. Forget it.
Meyer:
You
say my ideas are shit
My,
you’re such a hypocrite.
A
ginger with two friends?
We’re
both being unrealistic.
But
I guess your ending’s smart:
‘I
open at the close’
It’s
just a shame that yo’ villain doesn’t even have a nose.
And
if your hero’s so magic why does he need specs to see?
As
for the Weasleys: offensive.
I
have ginger sensitive epilepsy.
See,
I find that more tragic than the whole ‘orphaned’ thang.
And
‘the chosen one’ is such a cliché,
What
in the name of Jacob’s wang?
Yeah
Harry is such a four eyes,
Some
nerdy looking twat.
Protected
by his mother’s love?
What
the Forks is with that?
Rowling:
I
created Potter, more,
And
an entire magical world.
All
you got’s some pasty hipsters
And
a whiney little girl (Edward).
I
gon’ wingardium my leviosa in yo’ face,
You
literary disgrace,
Wish
you’d jump off a cliff, like that stupid bitch, and sink without a trace.
See
my characters are deep, and my plot is complex.
Your
stupid fans just watch the movies, to see Taylor Lautner’s pecs.
Meyer:
Well
I know you think you’re better but you shouldn’t even bother,
Bet
your boggart looks like me, you think you’re such a great author,
Yeah
Dumbledore died,
So
will the era of Potter,
Because
this saga is far larger
And
the Cullens are way hotter.
A Rap on the subject of Hipsters.
A rap song I wrote to the song ‘Ridin
Dirty’ by Chamillionaire, on the subject of hipsters:
They see me scrollin’ (On
Tumblr)
They Hipster, Patrollin and tryn
catch me riding mainstream
Tryna catch me riding mainstream
(x4)
My music so new, you ain’t heard
They hopin’ that they gone catch
me ridin’ mainstream
Tryna catch me riding mainstream
(x4)
One time I caught me a bream
It’s a metaphor for the
mainstream
See ma bike ride, see ma lights
beam
Savin’ the planet Ima hipster
machine
Riding with organic veg I’m like
hold up
Next to my scrolla controlla
Not enough mousse in my
moustacha
Fetch me some product and a coma
Wear second hand clothes like
from an orphan home
It’s vintage bitch, jeans tight like
skin tryna get me some
And I like old movies cause I view
the irony
Despite glasses (without glass)
don’t do shit to help me see,
It seems contradictory,
Different yet other hipsters
look exactly the same as me,
It’s like a f*cked up
philosophy,
Prove society ain’t the boss of
me
Wear a branded t shirt?
I’d rather have a frickin
colonoscopy,
And look at my triangle- symbol
of my faith,
It’s equilateral man,
area equals height times half base
Iva non-conforming pale little
face
Cram my books in a satchel bag,
cause other guys use a brief case.
I hate anything liked, by the
majority of the human race.
They see me scrollin’ (On
Tumblr)
They Hipster, Patrollin and tryn
catch me riding mainstream
Tryna catch me riding mainstream
(x4)
My music so new, you ain’t heard
They hopin’ that they gone catch
me ridin’ mainstream
Tryna catch me riding mainstream
(x4)
Munching a biscotti,
On my mac in starbucks,
I’d try and blow juice up my
straw
Cause everyone else sucks
Researching a thing
Omniscient God’s never heard of
Pondering the silence,
Stroking ma moustaaaache,
The only book my face is on,
Is a vintage gothic novella,
See I deleted my account,
Cause too many friends were on
there too yeah
See the others are all stuck
Up the mainstream creek without
a paddle,
I’d dive in and save ya’ll,
But I’m wearing too much goddam
flannel
It’s a battle, I’m a judge,
Bet you’ve never been attacked
with a gavel
Yeah I won’t drive by, my bike
Is how I like to travel.
And I like reblogging pictures,
Backdropping irrelevant phrases,
It’s how I spend my nights,
And some of my dayses,
Now this is done it’s final,
I own this shit on vinyl,
And when I trip I Tumblr cause
that is just my styyyle.
The Perils of hobbying.
At the tender age of eighteen my friends lovingly purchased knitting
set for me, whereby in the end result you produce a lumpy little man. It took
me thirty five minutes to figure out how to cast on, but only a couple to cast
him off.
I jest, but it did make me consider how little I actually do that may class as a hobby. Of course you do things which may aid your university application (e.g. having a swarm of kids aiming for a kill shot with lumps of clay the size of golf balls whilst attempting teaching support), but you never do anything really just because you want to. I used to go swimming weekly which perhaps qualifies, however it did alert me to the fact that merely ‘swimming’ is not enough anymore. Oh no. According to the nice group of hippies clanging symbols and chanting in the adjoining room and their leaflets, there are now whole arrays of new things- crystal healing meditation, baby aqua yoga (Christ), and pilates (which sounds like a type of Asian cuisine to me) etc. I can’t even cope with the swimming- have you ever noticed how the floats always have bite marks in them? Most disturbing.
Mind you, traditionalist hobbies are equally horrific. ‘Would you, with no experience, like to strap a pair of knives to your feet and attempt to navigate on a surface designed specifically to prohibit friction? Oh, and you will be with a group of people you have just met from work so this will be your first, and quite possibly last impression to present them with.’ Sounds crazy. Yet. ‘Hey, want to join us in the ice skating rink by the forum later, it’s gonna be mega.’ Sounds perfectly plausible and you go along with it. The level of pain/humiliation was indeed X10-9 (check), but no, other than that the experience was most certainly not bloody ‘mega’.
I jest, but it did make me consider how little I actually do that may class as a hobby. Of course you do things which may aid your university application (e.g. having a swarm of kids aiming for a kill shot with lumps of clay the size of golf balls whilst attempting teaching support), but you never do anything really just because you want to. I used to go swimming weekly which perhaps qualifies, however it did alert me to the fact that merely ‘swimming’ is not enough anymore. Oh no. According to the nice group of hippies clanging symbols and chanting in the adjoining room and their leaflets, there are now whole arrays of new things- crystal healing meditation, baby aqua yoga (Christ), and pilates (which sounds like a type of Asian cuisine to me) etc. I can’t even cope with the swimming- have you ever noticed how the floats always have bite marks in them? Most disturbing.
Mind you, traditionalist hobbies are equally horrific. ‘Would you, with no experience, like to strap a pair of knives to your feet and attempt to navigate on a surface designed specifically to prohibit friction? Oh, and you will be with a group of people you have just met from work so this will be your first, and quite possibly last impression to present them with.’ Sounds crazy. Yet. ‘Hey, want to join us in the ice skating rink by the forum later, it’s gonna be mega.’ Sounds perfectly plausible and you go along with it. The level of pain/humiliation was indeed X10-9 (check), but no, other than that the experience was most certainly not bloody ‘mega’.
Besides, who has time for hobbies when you are
struggling through bloody A-levels? Essentially, about as much as time as
somebody with young kids has. To extend the metaphor in your direction (oer): they
keep you up until the early hours of the morning, you are often unfairly judged
by them, and they leave you broke as you cannot take up too many hours of
employment if you want to scrape through and spend time nurturing them.
The Perils of Fitness.
I have just paid a sum of five English pounds to get shouted
out by a Columbian gentleman who goes by the name of ‘Nad’, along with a room
full of sweaty women a decade my senior. The following hour involves thrusting,
embarrassment, and the (failed) attempt of a group of British women to subside
to the Latin rhythm without cringing. Alas, Nad was not the ringleader of a
local orgy, but the local Zumba instructor.
I knew it was a bloody mistake as soon as I walked in the door- to see that the more experienced looking women at the front were wearing a spandex ensemble and had brought towels with them. Actual towels. Who sweats that much they need a towel? At the other end of the spectrum there were two women at the back who left half way through the class to go and ‘have a fag’. God Bless.
Varying somewhere between these two extremes, I knew that the five pounds would have been better spent on a cup of tea and fucking massive slab of cake. But the Hell was not over when ‘Nad’ withdrew from the room (saucy), oh, no, this was merely the catalyst for the next awkward part: changing room Politics.
Now, I don’t know why this is, but older women are inclined
to flash everything, with the attitude ‘Once you’ve had a baby, you don’t care
who sees it.’ Lord. They also will discuss issues of a ‘sexual’ nature to a
graphic extent e.g. ‘Oh, it was really great, he was so lovely and let me put
my legs behind his ears with no trouble at all.’ In this instance it turned out
she was talking about her having ridden an elephant on holiday, but my point
still stands.
Thus, since then I have ventured to find a form of exercise which doesn’t leave me needing therapy. So far, I have toured a gym with a scary man who looked like he lives on protein shakes and adrenaline, and who could probably wrestle a lion with his bare hands.
The guy was so fit he boasted that he could jog to the gym (unnecessary) in about five minutes from his flat quite a way away.
It takes me five minutes to get the bloody trousers on. Needless to say, I didn’t sign up.
Cake time.
I knew it was a bloody mistake as soon as I walked in the door- to see that the more experienced looking women at the front were wearing a spandex ensemble and had brought towels with them. Actual towels. Who sweats that much they need a towel? At the other end of the spectrum there were two women at the back who left half way through the class to go and ‘have a fag’. God Bless.
Varying somewhere between these two extremes, I knew that the five pounds would have been better spent on a cup of tea and fucking massive slab of cake. But the Hell was not over when ‘Nad’ withdrew from the room (saucy), oh, no, this was merely the catalyst for the next awkward part: changing room Politics.
Thus, since then I have ventured to find a form of exercise which doesn’t leave me needing therapy. So far, I have toured a gym with a scary man who looked like he lives on protein shakes and adrenaline, and who could probably wrestle a lion with his bare hands.
The guy was so fit he boasted that he could jog to the gym (unnecessary) in about five minutes from his flat quite a way away.
It takes me five minutes to get the bloody trousers on. Needless to say, I didn’t sign up.
Cake time.
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