WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
(applause! applause!)
Thursday, October 28, 2010
A Story (Gasp!)
Wow it's been a while, well since it's Halloween i thought I would just contribute something at least
Please Enjoy;
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Room
The room had been cast in shadow, with only a hint of the outside sky's pink haze seeping through the closed shutters- battered wood panels sparingly covered by flaking paint.
The throbbing of an old heater could be heard, muffled, sounding like the decaying house's moaning heart.
"Where is the Light?"
He scarcely saw the point in this
I sat in an old, battered arm chair, one of those that has a design somewhat assimilar to a pin cushion- buttons pounded in to make round-coned crevasses in the back rest, giving the doughy leather a soft, almost cloud-like look (you'd just be absorbed by it, and float in it's passive embrace), when in reality they were as stern as stones. Bits of the brown-wine hide had gone and left white patches of sewn string, which would lend the chair a certain thrift-chic outside of the devastated house.
The Chair was faced towards the door, so when it opened the outside light of the hall would strike my pale, hollowed face before unveiling my faded black attire.
I'm not mourning, well not for anyone I know at least, but confrontation is a good, if hypocritical, first impression for me, before the willowy personality I inhibit becomes glaringly apparant.
People never forget their first impression.
This way I can save myself from being vulnerable
or even hurt.
I hoped I'd look like a ghostly floating head, Like a beheaded heathen from some forgotten time
I notice that beheaded ghosts are always portrayed with just their headless yet animated corpse, shuffling aimlessly. Why do we never see just a floating head? Is it some belief that our hearts contain our souls? That our own psyche and ideals are not even related or connected to our incorporal essence? Could it be logic is for procrastination and an indicator of a weak soul? While those of heart are chosen leaders of men or just merely lucky?
It could just be, to digress, that it's gorier
-Oh what is that? Oh it's bowed! Ewh! severed trachea, sliced spine Arghh!-
A severed head is far more terrifying with some splashes of imagination - hanging bundles of arteries and veins looking like weightless nooses swaying in the breeze, the faint whistle of air against the vocal chords as it spoke, and of course those dead eyes- bleached with horror, lob-sided and struggling to focus as if battling brain damage or a fracturing psyche.
I sat in silence, figuring out what to say. When I did, it meant nothing to him.
/
/
This is ones of my better ones I think
It's still a bit shit but enjoyable at least
Please Enjoy;
/
/
/
/
Room
The room had been cast in shadow, with only a hint of the outside sky's pink haze seeping through the closed shutters- battered wood panels sparingly covered by flaking paint.
The throbbing of an old heater could be heard, muffled, sounding like the decaying house's moaning heart.
"Where is the Light?"
He scarcely saw the point in this
I sat in an old, battered arm chair, one of those that has a design somewhat assimilar to a pin cushion- buttons pounded in to make round-coned crevasses in the back rest, giving the doughy leather a soft, almost cloud-like look (you'd just be absorbed by it, and float in it's passive embrace), when in reality they were as stern as stones. Bits of the brown-wine hide had gone and left white patches of sewn string, which would lend the chair a certain thrift-chic outside of the devastated house.
The Chair was faced towards the door, so when it opened the outside light of the hall would strike my pale, hollowed face before unveiling my faded black attire.
I'm not mourning, well not for anyone I know at least, but confrontation is a good, if hypocritical, first impression for me, before the willowy personality I inhibit becomes glaringly apparant.
People never forget their first impression.
This way I can save myself from being vulnerable
or even hurt.
I hoped I'd look like a ghostly floating head, Like a beheaded heathen from some forgotten time
I notice that beheaded ghosts are always portrayed with just their headless yet animated corpse, shuffling aimlessly. Why do we never see just a floating head? Is it some belief that our hearts contain our souls? That our own psyche and ideals are not even related or connected to our incorporal essence? Could it be logic is for procrastination and an indicator of a weak soul? While those of heart are chosen leaders of men or just merely lucky?
It could just be, to digress, that it's gorier
-Oh what is that? Oh it's bowed! Ewh! severed trachea, sliced spine Arghh!-
A severed head is far more terrifying with some splashes of imagination - hanging bundles of arteries and veins looking like weightless nooses swaying in the breeze, the faint whistle of air against the vocal chords as it spoke, and of course those dead eyes- bleached with horror, lob-sided and struggling to focus as if battling brain damage or a fracturing psyche.
I sat in silence, figuring out what to say. When I did, it meant nothing to him.
/
/
This is ones of my better ones I think
It's still a bit shit but enjoyable at least
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Poetry Vault
This is a poem I more or less finished about three weeks ago - Enjoy:
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Stargaze
This Ain't Love I Know
But the Feeling Fills You In
to a world you've never really known
To Stargaze this will be
I Gaze for You and Me
What will come, go, be learned
And How We'll unravel in time.
Between the light and dark
They are grey
Our Dreams are Grey
But Why Let us Be That? -
Let's be our Limit
The Sky is the Dark
a Neverending Arch
shot by the stars
As They Shine From Afar
Lets lie back on the grass
And Stargaze at the Sky
Pointing Out You And I
/
My Spell Check is a bit out of whack so sorry for any mistakes I've yet to correct
/
Stargaze
This Ain't Love I Know
But the Feeling Fills You In
to a world you've never really known
To Stargaze this will be
I Gaze for You and Me
What will come, go, be learned
And How We'll unravel in time.
Between the light and dark
They are grey
Our Dreams are Grey
But Why Let us Be That? -
Let's be our Limit
The Sky is the Dark
a Neverending Arch
shot by the stars
As They Shine From Afar
Lets lie back on the grass
And Stargaze at the Sky
Pointing Out You And I
/
My Spell Check is a bit out of whack so sorry for any mistakes I've yet to correct
Friday, June 25, 2010
SONG/POEM?
Above - Today's Dilemma /
I Felt Like Doing Another Post, But What On?
Poetry, Although Nice, Should be Broken Up With Variety Surely?
Ok, I'm Decided
Song
/
Because I haven't ever written a full song, I'm just going to introduce All Kinds of Different Songs That I love to pieces, or that just have taken control of my brain that day -
Warpaint are an LA All Girl Quartet Who Make the Sounds of Dreams almost ridiculously easy /
The fact that any of their twinkly guitars and hushed, whispered harmonies haven't been soundtracked over a BMW haunting empty bypasses at night is a strange bundle by marketeers, but a victory for us and presumably Warpaint, who despite a star studded following in LA, have refused to climb themselves in to fame - Hell! even at The Great Escape in Brighton this Year, after their gig they went outside and performed a cappella for a few fans on the boardwalk!
Regardless, this is my favourite song of theirs so far, a 6 minute wonder that shouldn't work on paper (Whispery Vocals, Repeated Noodly Riff, 6 minutes with little change in tempo) but it somehow works in to something in the same Fantascape that Florence Welch seems to reign,
Hope You People Have The Same Taste As Me
Enjoy:
/
/
I'm Not Sure How You Get Videos Up on This but Hopefully This Works
I Felt Like Doing Another Post, But What On?
Poetry, Although Nice, Should be Broken Up With Variety Surely?
Ok, I'm Decided
Song
/
Because I haven't ever written a full song, I'm just going to introduce All Kinds of Different Songs That I love to pieces, or that just have taken control of my brain that day -
Warpaint are an LA All Girl Quartet Who Make the Sounds of Dreams almost ridiculously easy /
The fact that any of their twinkly guitars and hushed, whispered harmonies haven't been soundtracked over a BMW haunting empty bypasses at night is a strange bundle by marketeers, but a victory for us and presumably Warpaint, who despite a star studded following in LA, have refused to climb themselves in to fame - Hell! even at The Great Escape in Brighton this Year, after their gig they went outside and performed a cappella for a few fans on the boardwalk!
Regardless, this is my favourite song of theirs so far, a 6 minute wonder that shouldn't work on paper (Whispery Vocals, Repeated Noodly Riff, 6 minutes with little change in tempo) but it somehow works in to something in the same Fantascape that Florence Welch seems to reign,
Hope You People Have The Same Taste As Me
Enjoy:
/
/
I'm Not Sure How You Get Videos Up on This but Hopefully This Works
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Poetry: Accelerated
Ok, This is some more Accelerated Poetry - something may come who knows - right now I'm in complete silence, no music to influence anytime signatures
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Parasite, come here
bite in deep
the blood is warm
Parasite, stay near
let me be your feast
you keep me calm
Parasite, my dear
you forgiving beast
look at what you've become
Parasite, oh dear
your nectar seeps
you seem so overrun
Parasite, see clear
our bond must cease
let go of my arm
Parasite, leave here
please release
this is causing me harm
Parasite, memories won't clear
those permanent scars I can see
remind me what happened here
and how you left with a part of me
/
Wow I'm Surprised /
This Won't Have a Name, It's Very Easy To Figure Out The Meaning
If It Has One
/
Parasite, come here
bite in deep
the blood is warm
Parasite, stay near
let me be your feast
you keep me calm
Parasite, my dear
you forgiving beast
look at what you've become
Parasite, oh dear
your nectar seeps
you seem so overrun
Parasite, see clear
our bond must cease
let go of my arm
Parasite, leave here
please release
this is causing me harm
Parasite, memories won't clear
those permanent scars I can see
remind me what happened here
and how you left with a part of me
/
Wow I'm Surprised /
This Won't Have a Name, It's Very Easy To Figure Out The Meaning
If It Has One
Poetry: Accelerated
I'm gonna try some instantaneous poetry right now /
For some writers there's something unnerving about writing STRAIGHT on to a laptop
but I like the thrill of an artistic challenge
/
With The Shadows
Black hollow whispers
the scratch is deep within the wall
the dark corroding through insulation
the foam leaks out
The island will be submerged
three thousand miles below
I'll shine a torch up
to the surface
and make shapes
with the shadows
cha cha chu
cha cha chu
The blank tape reaches it's close
I want the static to envelope us
it has texture and a groove
It is like no other;
it has consistency
yet evolves constantly
Life is Static
/
A Tad Scatter Shot but hopefully I saved it in the last verse
That "cha cha-" bit? don't know why but I felt like it but also probably because I was listening to The Horror's "Primary Colours" and I guess that affected the overall tone of the poem /
I like to think of my poems as songs with no music and my readers bring their own beat, rhythm and melody to it in their heads as they read it.
An interesting experiment for me - but what did you think of it?
For some writers there's something unnerving about writing STRAIGHT on to a laptop
but I like the thrill of an artistic challenge
/
With The Shadows
Black hollow whispers
the scratch is deep within the wall
the dark corroding through insulation
the foam leaks out
The island will be submerged
three thousand miles below
I'll shine a torch up
to the surface
and make shapes
with the shadows
cha cha chu
cha cha chu
The blank tape reaches it's close
I want the static to envelope us
it has texture and a groove
It is like no other;
it has consistency
yet evolves constantly
Life is Static
/
A Tad Scatter Shot but hopefully I saved it in the last verse
That "cha cha-" bit? don't know why but I felt like it but also probably because I was listening to The Horror's "Primary Colours" and I guess that affected the overall tone of the poem /
I like to think of my poems as songs with no music and my readers bring their own beat, rhythm and melody to it in their heads as they read it.
An interesting experiment for me - but what did you think of it?
Poetry: The First Of
This is Perhaps my best poem, it actually was recently Highly Commended in The National Poetry Company, so that must mean there's some merit to it
Also, I feel that I should go in to some description in to what i meant by "Swanny" to describe this - Imagine a Swan sitting on the black, rubbery riverbed by a lake on a dark overcast day; The White of it's feathers has dulled and there are specks of black mud in it's coat; It rises and readies it's heavy, weighted wings to fly, and soon it escapes the struggle of the river bed and soars as you watch and weep -
That's How I'd Describe My Poetry
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This Has No Name (Untitled Was Already Taken)
I am from the vapour of the shirt
I am from the puff puff puff like a calabash
I am from the very thin, burning rim
I am from under the cold tap
I am from the pain that wouldn't go away.
From the door with no knob
From the unused tree house
From tiny cushions home to severe amounts of moss, damp and spiders
From the trampoline covered in the faded petals of a blossom tree.
From the traditional Lamb
From the no lamb on Sunday
From the lying toad
From the escape of a mental home
From my Dad's office
From the standing hare that looked like a dog.
From the union of blood, success and tragedy
All these things I loved dearly,
so odd and on their own.
Home is where the heart is; but first you have to find home.
/
What Do You Think? - Has This somehow made my blog somewhat more credible or to your interests? - or just added to the pile of regurgitated shite? -
Opinions People, It's My Heroin, Supply Me Guiltless
Also, I feel that I should go in to some description in to what i meant by "Swanny" to describe this - Imagine a Swan sitting on the black, rubbery riverbed by a lake on a dark overcast day; The White of it's feathers has dulled and there are specks of black mud in it's coat; It rises and readies it's heavy, weighted wings to fly, and soon it escapes the struggle of the river bed and soars as you watch and weep -
That's How I'd Describe My Poetry
/
This Has No Name (Untitled Was Already Taken)
I am from the vapour of the shirt
I am from the puff puff puff like a calabash
I am from the very thin, burning rim
I am from under the cold tap
I am from the pain that wouldn't go away.
From the door with no knob
From the unused tree house
From tiny cushions home to severe amounts of moss, damp and spiders
From the trampoline covered in the faded petals of a blossom tree.
From the traditional Lamb
From the no lamb on Sunday
From the lying toad
From the escape of a mental home
From my Dad's office
From the standing hare that looked like a dog.
From the union of blood, success and tragedy
All these things I loved dearly,
so odd and on their own.
Home is where the heart is; but first you have to find home.
/
What Do You Think? - Has This somehow made my blog somewhat more credible or to your interests? - or just added to the pile of regurgitated shite? -
Opinions People, It's My Heroin, Supply Me Guiltless
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