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So I got hold of Everything Everything’s debut album yesterday and it’s pretty synth-tastic, like a hybrid between Late Of The Pier and a band I have on the tip of my tongue but can’t quite remember….

Anyway, here’s another poem; unsurprisingly it’s called ‘Evening’:

Do you creep up on me when my back is turned

Like paint to a canvas? Some faceless mask is placed upon the silence high above

While Manfred whispers in my ear ‘thinks’t thou existence doth depend on time?’

Sighing I am replying ‘is it a crime to kill time? To hack and to saw and mutilate the old man?’

Manfred titters runcibly so and returns to the mountains, 896 steps through the trees before he can rest in the etchings George made of him.

I shall muse and muse, as it gets darker and darker, until ideas cause

Light bulbs to explode into decadent radiance several million miles above my head, isolated

From one another by a mutual exclusion,

Simply put: a dot-to-dot possessed by the indolent. I wonder

If one could link arms with another and dance to the ethereal rhythm of Psyche’s wings; Thusly

Prancing gracefully before the Zionist peaks below, teasing the old men into a post marital temptation?

The smatterings of beauty are flecked like a Pollock, freckled across the languid and sombre brow of the night,

Whose only smile is illuminated by a billion teeth glittering inside a sleepy yawn.

But where is the light gone? Who snuffed him out, did the clouds eat Apollo or did they box him?

Do I cheer or jeer as life is sapped from my being by the second? As blinks begot yawns, stars begin to fool

Hurling themselves pettily to the ground through circles so small, framing innocence and naivety by rebelling their bedtime.

‘If I can’t watch Celebrity Big Brother then I shall crash into the earth and make Dinosaurs of them all’

Poor little star, so fallish that it burns up and flops, emptily, like a head to the pillow.

 

these are the opening three paragraphs of my autobiography, feedback will play a part in whether I continue this project….oh who am I kidding? It’s a bleeding vanity project, a comical bible of your’s truly’s stupid life x

“My first memory? I suppose I could be coy and demure and extrapolate a genteel image from the back of my imagination, based solely on photographs that I’ve seen of myself. Admittedly when I look back and try to remember my earliest days as a little kiddy-wink it’s pretty bloody hard. It’s gotten to the point where I can now remember things but in a Truman Show sort of way, in that I’m removed from them and I’m watching myself as if I’m a character in a TV show. A pretty bloody good TV show I might add and all, none of this let’s keep Jim Carrey docile sort of malarkey; although in a sense I can relate to Carrey in that Truman Show film because I had quite a sheltered childhood – I was very close to my parents throughout my youngest days as they were loving, happy and indulgent.

I was the first of four children and, egotistical though it may be, I like to think that I may ever-so-slightly be the favourite; the original, unique, one of a kind, maverick Watts sprog, plagiarised by the cruder, younger copies of me. I’m Edward Scissorhands and they’re Johnny Paper-Clip fingers and Rosie Hole-Punch Feet, which are also two terrible ideas for sequels to Burton’s beautiful film, although I still wonder why that Professor gave Edward them Scissorhands, what kind of a stop gap are they? “Oh Edward, I’ve created you but I’m too lazy to give you any hands so have these scissors instead, I’m sure you’ll be just fine and in no way ostracised from society for having potentially lethal digits”, what a silly and remarkable man that scientist were; it’s also saddening that the closest we have to a real life Scissorhands is that punk hook handed Abu Hamza, a man whose soul is as dark as the women’s jeans that I’m currently wearing and who apparently decided to base his look on that of Disney villains…I guess that means Osama is his Smee.

However, like I was meant to be saying, I won’t lie about my earliest memory, because there ain’t no point in stringing you along with a bunch of rhubarb, and so here we go: My dad is asleep on a bed and I, chubby little kid that I was – I must not have been any older than two, stride powerfully into the room, pause dramatically in a spread eagled sort of Colossus of Rhodes style pose, and then proceed to plop out a few childish poops on the floor, a decision that, although at the time seemed like the easiest way of going about things, but in hindsight (a wonderful thing) seems like a lazy, terrible and unhygienic way og going about things. The Colossus of Rhodes could never have got away with that, “Look Jason, the Colossus of Rhodes, one of the wonders of the ancient world…and we’re sailing beneath it!…oh God it’s dropping huge stony shites on our boat! We’re drowning, we’re drooowwwnnning!” Bloody nightmare it would have been, but that is my first memory. I don’t remember much else about it, colours have long faded, but the basic act and it’s players still linger on like a lost Shakespeare play, although admittedly it’s no Macbeth, even though there were several shits in that as well.“

This is what I’ll be doing today…correct – reading.

My hand looks oddly haggard

I’m tired and smelly, therefore the most logical thing to do is throw this at the screen and hope it sticks

Blitz : Gloam

It starts in an evening full of encounters and it’s a soft shock to your sharp side

Piercing vehemently and blossoming into fruition,

Only to wilt when you lose focus, shaking you like a ladder to the sun;

It’s the nightmare of your life that whispers softly silkily

Flooding you with a plum’d hue, drowning the room in a subtle silence

Washed clean by a light spring shower, each drop devouring the rest.

It’s now lost in the transfixing beauty shining beyond, hovering in stillness

And illuminating the swarming darkness. Lights rush eyes,

Pouring into souls, a window ajar all day letting in the cold.

Should I open the pod bay door HAL or let the light freeze in

Parcels consisting of farcically dancing particles?

Ok, right, so I have my first 3rd year poetry class tomorrow and need to start thinking of a new project already, so below find the first of ten poems in my collection from 2nd year called P.U.L.S.E. – it examines how human loneliness can be reflected in the cosmos/night sky. It was fun but intense to write, so hope you enjoy it.

Sunrise is played into life by an aubade having climbed through the night

To spread life giving rays of platinum and peach; much to Midas’ dismay.

Because over exposure breeds contempt for much that is Heaven sent,

Whereas jealousy vents tangerine dreams that lash out in every way

Over and over and extra, extra read all about it:

The day is shot down by the night and plunges upon the horizon,

Whose sharp edge cleaves the sun into infinite specks of light,

Forlornly remembered as stars. A million pieces of a broken vase

Forces me to get up, get up, get up, get up and fall time and again.

What’s so special about shadows covering shadows? The silent darkness

Of peace of mind, remixing consciousness until the heating bill expires;

Wherein cold now embraces cold, copulating in the frostlight of

Crystal moons, the embryos of my mind who live and die

Within the blink of an eye. The fleeting beauty of an indolent dream

Carries sticks and solutions swiftly down a summer stream

That washes over me, cleansing and beseeching the becoming

Of beliefs that belie the promises of those betrothed to a single notion,

Hunting Moby Dick all alone in an ocean stitched from reactions to opinions

And reflecting Saturn’s rings, a piercing that opines how adolescent mistakes

Never truly fade but linger like an orphic lyre plucked time immemorial.

Fade but linger like an orphic lyre plucked time immemorial.

Linger like an orphic lyre plucked time immemorial.

An orphic lyre plucked time immemorial.

Time immemorial.

We know how to have a real heterosexual piss up…

I travelled about 1200 miles yesterday on my return from Villez Rubio to Egham, from the little mountain town to the little commuter town.

I still can’t get my head around how picturesque where I stayed was, being surrounded by mountains and huge arid expanses, punctuated occasionally by a swathe of pungent lavender. The silence also; I stayed in a small little Villa at the foot of a mountain, a mile or so from town and so there was little to no sound – just silence, but not an overbearing one, which was very agreeable and pleasant.

On Thursday we climbed up one of the local mountains to see the crumbled castle that is nestled amongst the debris at the peak, I think it was called El Castellon – which translates as ‘the big castle’…pretty original right? What struck me was that the higher we climbed the more the mountain took on a life of its own, there were thickets and blankets of pines creating sensuous bowers at the top of the peak, which I had no expectations of finding, but they helped lend themselves to a few lines

A fragile fort resides upon a lofty peak

Hidden among rocks for travellers to seek.

An Ozymandias crafted in southern Spain,

Skeletal and ruined, long crumbled in silent pain;

Seeking virility in vain during the scorching day

But finding solace only in the dusty, arid, clay.

A watch tower bears lone witness to

Feathered Pines, whose time passes through

in tandem to the perished fort.

If death begets life, who should have thought

A saving grace would be sweet lavender,

Pale jewel amongst forts that wither

and crumble to dust. A scent so faint

‘T is almost imperceptible to feel the weak taint

That colours the silence in so soft a lilt –

A silence that blankets the ruins no man built.

Got back involved in the scene, go and scope these:

Francesqa – http://myspace.com/francesqa

Futures – http://myspace.com/futures

OLDIES! – The Maple State – http://myspace.com/themaplestate

will post more as i find them, but in the mean time the new Klaxons record is worth a few spins