Wednesday, 26 August 2015

What's happening / what's happened / what might happen

Yea. Summer's alright is'nt it? Who cares about the rain. I don't like getting wet but I like the rain. Any chance to look out of the window and not do anything other than watch the drops dribble down the glass, know what I mean?

I hope it does'nt rain this weekend though, becuase I'm off to SHAMBALA FESTIVAL and tents are one thing, tents and wellies are another thing, tents, wellies and mud can fuck right off. Tents, wellies, mud, and drunk/drugged up hedonstic kids can...anyway I'm looking foreward to it, belive it or not. It's my second year and I'll be performng on Friday and Sunday night with the NATURAL BORN STORY TELLERS. I like these lot, it's a whole different circle to the normal spoken word type gigs that I do, it's just stright real life stories, some of the guys on their rosta are brilliant. Check this video of Martha McBrier, met her last year, she's wicked.



 Yesterday, I was back down at my parents house sorting through some old stuff, making excuses to keep things that I probabaly have no use for, when I got a tweet through from Sabotage Reviews with a link to their review of the 90 Sick E.P launch back at Roundhouse in May. I was pretty chuffed with it, big up Lettie McKie. Have a look HERE. They gave me 4 stars, which I'm chuffed about, even though I don't really understand the whole stars system. 

'Paul has written an articulate series of personal stories that are very easy to relate to. The poems are nostalgic, laughing at but also relishing the silliness of being young, showing great affection for the characters who are struggling against inexperience and a tide of insecurities'

Listen/purchase the EP HERE

Back at the end of July I lead a week long series of workshops as part of the UNICORN THEATRE'S URBAN ARTS WEEK - looking at spoken word and rap (with a bit of singing and beatboxing). I was blessed to have a great group, really talented and indiviudally all really interesting, and as a whole, sick. As with all the other courses in that week, they all came togethor on the Friday and performed in a showcase. I've said this many times before, and I mean it, I actually prefer watching these youth showcases, more often than not, I think they're better, more engagaing and enjoyable to watch than their professional adult equivialnts. Here's a video of Darcy, Cee Cee and Jamal perfomring SOUTH SIDE, which they wrote themselvs during one of the sessions. (and which stayed in my head for days after!)


In other news, had a bit of time over the last few weeks to take stock of things, hence all of the old peoms I've been putting up. These last 2 / 3 years I've certianly learnt a lot and I'm hopefully going to be putting some of that into practise. Think I know where I want to go over the next few months, writing wise, don't want to say too much now but I'm pretty excited..

Have a banging last few weeks of summer.

Friday, 14 August 2015

Words from the archives #14 Crows

Probably the first one I've written that's loosly about Morden since moving there 2 years ago.
More old poems and that, click here WORDS FROM THE ARCHIVES


Crows




The internet said en masse they're called a murda.
I'm murdering time. On the bench in the
common. Sat clocking the crows.
Bossing the green, on the
grass and in the trees,
keeping the parakeets
in check.

They move like a squadron, pepper-
potting across the common.
Communicating in crow
speak. Speaking about
me perhaps.

The internet said they recognise faces, I
wonder if they notice I've been
reading this book for the
last 6 weeks.

Yesterday I experimented, got in amongst them on the grass
with a bag of BBQ Hula Hoops. Within a few carefully
executed  movements, they surrounded me. I got
scared and did that half fast walk – half
run like I’m trying to clench my bum
cheeks under pressure whilst
walking to catch a bus.

This morning I heard them in the tree outside my house going
mental like pill heads in them 90's warehouse raves
blowing on them plastic horns. On the internet I'd
read about these so called crow courts and I
wondered if that's what all the noise was
when the noise just stopped.

It suddenly occurred to me that the murder might have
murdered and what had that poor crow
done to deserve it?

Sat on the bench again and I’m watching them
watching me, I think they know that I know
something about them. Though maybe
they don’t know that I’m no threat.  
I’m just curious, unemployed and
bored of humans.

 

Words from the archives #13 Toothbrush

Another one I found in some old phone notes, probabaly written on a tube somewehere in London.
Loads more of these lost poem thingies here; WORDS FROM THE ARCHIVES 



Toothbrush


My pens not a sword.
It's more like a tooth with which to 
chew the food I choose to digest.

Though most slips through.

Straight down the gullet.

To the pit of my stomach.

It's only then I think I should of chewed.
 

Tuesday, 11 August 2015

Words from the archives 12; Trap It

Don't think this one is actually that old. Though the idea has appeared before in a few other peices I'd started. The incicent I speak of has happeaend me to more than once in my adult life, and for that split second it's the worst feeling in the world. 



Trap it


I was walking home from work;
Tie and a shirt trousers and shoes.
Got to the cul de sac and
Some young boys were playing
football in the street;
full kit, replica tops, shirts,
socks and astro boots.
They must have been about 10.
I must have been about 30.

One of the kids has over hit the ball and
it's rolled over towards me.

I freeze.

I can feel my heart beat fast suddenly going up a gear
whilst time has slowed down.

Out of nowhere I can hear a crowd.
Some cockney sounding coach, red
faced bulging blood vessels in his neck, Chelsea
tattoos and a pink Ralph
spit coming out of his mouth is
screaming out at the top of his voice;

'KEEP IT SIMPLE KEEP IT SIMPLE!!'

I take a breath.
I tell msyelf;

'Don't try and be flash,'
'just trap it,'
'get it under control and'
'play it back.'

Just before the ball reaches my feet,
another voice, deep inside
the isolation unit of my mind jumps
up and screams out;

'THIS IS YOUR CHANCE'
'YOU'VE GOTTA TAKE IT!!'

Somere in-between thinking about
those two opposing views,
I've stuck my right leg out and
my right leg is confused,
unsure what to do.
The ball hits the outside of my
black leather lace up shoe,
taking all the power out and meekly
trickling behind me like water
drops dribbling out of a
tap in a drought, and
rolling into the road,
like my very own You've
Been Framed Video.

'Shit, I've fucked it' as I slap my forehead.

Just to rub salt into my wounds,
I look up, and the
kids in the replica kits are laughing, and
making wanker signs at me.

I put my hands up and say;

'Sorry boys, I just aint got it anymore.'

When I walked away,
feeling ashamed, I
realised I was speaking in clich├ęs.
I never even had it in the first place






Saturday, 8 August 2015

Words from the archives #11 Drunken freestyle

Found this one in a file called i Phone notes. Above it was a note that said 'North on the northen line.' Thought it was pretty funny reading it back. Maybe the 'August line was a typo, think it works though...


Drunken freestyle


Can I have a go
Not "let me" as I would of said
Demanding is for the likes of ...:..
I'm not them
Am I pacifying myself to avoid confrontation?
Am I pussying out?
Probably.
But who cares?
Who really cares what I say in a rhyme?
A rhyme that doesn't rhyme.
Fuck it.
I'm here on a tube half cut
Fucking up my £4.30 budget
I think I have £5 left
To last
To Sunday
I had the shits today
Sort of
Probably from the date expired food
What can I do?
I'm broke
But I've had a few beers
There's Nikes on my feet
A goi goi jacket on my back
And a nice house to go back to
I can't complain
And if I do
Then I'm August

Words from the archives #10 Catching Confetti

Again, another one written a few years ago when I was back in Horley, part of a whole bunch I wrote from around this period. 

For more old stuff check WORDS FROM THE ARCHIVES  


Catching Confetti

I remember the temperature of her body, stood
at the bottom of the station steps, warming
my hands on the tops of her arms. A
climate of perfection that would have cultivated passion, on
any degree of London's volatile thermometer, red
carpeting the path towards our first kiss.

That moment was a ship worthy of splitting tower bridge.

My rationale stepped down and bowed, to
an ancient force a thousand times the power. All
unnecessary thought slipped away, like
a spacecraft discarding it's redundant super structure.
A separation I rarely experience.
The road leading to this was long, and
Full of false starts. It
took hindsight to realised that at last I'd arrived.

We parted ways at the station. I
went up the steps and she walked back down the concourse, looking
as if it was a routine Saturday evening for her, and
I remained on the stairs trying to catch
every last shred of confetti that was
that memory.