Renting identity, just for tonight…

Tonight was one of those nights. My book became too boring, and my conjuring of dreams turned to smoke. Drinking anything made me end up in the bathroom, pissing it all out again, and then ending up (back on the bowl) with more racing thoughts. So I decided to crawl towards the all familiar nodules of my keyboard, and begin to type out and idea that had been troubling me for a while. You see the thing was…a while ago at college, there was a competition to write a poem on the theme ‘identity’. I’m (by nature) reasonably prolific, and so just handed in one of my older poems that needed little oil and elbow grease to be presentable. This theme of identity still raced around my head and I thought that I had to do it enough justice, and make the topic pinned down and conquered (in my own head).

So I took the word identity. It was eight characters long, and had four syllables. You may ask why this is at all important, and the reason is that for a change I wanted to try building more of a puzzle than a poem. I took the word further and broke it up into i/dent/ity. Still not satisfied, I decided to turn the ‘ity’ into a word and then end up denting whatever the ity-word happened to be.

Sometimes I think writers need to feel more relaxed and loose with words. If you are restricted by too many rules, then your creativity is blocked, because you’re scared of making a mistake. This is part of the reason e.e. cummings is such a massive success, he is today. In his era everything was strict and formal, like having a whole crowd of parents around you telling you how to eat (except they were critics). He threw his hands in the air (metaphorically, of course) and decided to write without using any grammar. He was young and wild at heart and decided to run with the creativity rather than the fear of messing up.

That’s what we’re told in school, isn’t it? We first learn to write, and then to write in cursive and keep it neat and tidy. Even when we color in, we’re taught to stick to the borders and be good little boys and girls. Well by the time the freedom of varsity grabs you and your big ideas, everything that HAS rules seems rather infantile now, and you decide to squash it. So the piece you are about to see it partly about experimenting, but then also about being honest. This is another trap that artist’s fall into, IMO. They’re scared of showing what they really feel and want to say… because if they do, they’ll have society cursing them.

 

That’s another WHOLE topic all on its own, so it’ll just give you the poem instead

 

 

PhilosopherPoet

 

 

identity

 

i dent (p)ity

and the morosembrace

crawling over

our bones

 

i dent (gratu)ity

the feel that

comes once

you’ve given your

beggar his coin

and a bin to lie in

 

i dent (the sh)itty

cigarettes that crawl

out of her mouth like

burnt worms.

i told her

once to stop

this habit of

collecting smoke.

 

i dent (tranquil)ity

with my morning

fart, my wife leaps

out the bed like

burnt toast.

 

i dent (deform)ity

when i shave

the morning after

the stag. i carve

up the face

i use to have

 

i dent (moral)ity

because god is dead

last time i looked,

and remembered

to check my

religious opinion.

 

i dent (char)ity

with a furtive shout

i gave an old man

who should have quit

trying to help

 

i dent (formal)ity

because i’m an ass.

i can’t chat at

supper, or mutter

at weddings,

button my shirt, or

clean out

my psychopath.

 

i dent (proxim)ity

i draw borders

you won’t always

find.

i listen to voices

tucked behind

 

our pseudonyms.

Numbers

please don’t murder my brain

with those numbers, calculated

Time kills the

Life cells

 

long hours, shred, and grind

the lines of fine time

divided, only in minutes

Brackets

Bullets

Square roots

Multiple shoots

can call your sanity into

Question.

 

I…on the other hand haven’t yet

found a sum, that can

ring the un-wrung sounds

of a soft heart, and steady

fragile feet

climb

on the days (numbered)

on our scripted

lives

 

PhilosopherPoet

venus

today venus sat on my bookshelf licked its vagina with her tongue once done she simply stared up at me with yellow poker eyes as if she had forgotten the problem

i know i hadn’t because almost immediately i turned the page of the book i was reading and continued from where i had left and venus simply lay there if it wasn’t for the fur youd see that she was naked right from her breasts to her inquisitive toes that peaked under the duvet when I wasnt watching

her and the games she

taught to herself while frolicking in the garden this morning she caught a bird and two bees and once id finished scolding her about environmental destruction and nature conservation she taught me to forgive and learn by holding a flower with your fingers and listening to its echo that comes out of the buds when only your heart is listening

because thats what the garden was all about i came to learn through an eventual stumble of ideas and soiled trousers swearing at the other clothes that were too clean and full of water

this is another thing i remember about her and the way she seemed to walk through the slush and muddled flowers waiting for my greasy hands and a chance to prance around when the spade wasnt

around

you see thats what I learnt watching her and the way she laughed

the way that her hair stuck to parts of the song she sung

life is a creative experience and you should treat it the same way like the time when she was drunk and dived into the compost heap full of dying shit and creamy humus she didnt care or apologize for the mess or the way she looked with bramble branches tattooed on to her instead with a giddy shake of her head she giggled and said

ill clean it up tomorrow

almost always she had a hangover and forgot about the garden spills and mess since all she ate were panadopills and the rest of the pizza from the night before she climbed into the void of a lunatic that had enough passion to change the day and order in which the garden lay before she sprung on me

armed with vodka and mud and creating enough nonsense to calm a flood that occasionally rises from the inside when i forget to check my stageface in the mirror beforeandaftermeals and let the audience know that when you sit in the mud and nature comes and climbs into you with matted paws eyes stuck in sleep and a wideyawnjaw and tells of a anchored consciousness inside those bones

it calls you

in a whisper and tells

you youre home

 

 

PhilosopherPoet

Simple Living

I’m a poet and I know it

So the caffeine tells me

Long hours behind the

Screen,

Coffee cups clattering and

Releasing the muse, y’know

We share a bed and pajamas

And a toothbrush, to keep the

Costs down, because

I’m a poet and I know it

 

I spend my days behind the

Books, who feed me new ideas

And a chance to share with the

Muse on the loo.

Art magazines and greasy poetry

fill the void, if you can

mind the smell, because

I’m a poet and I know it

 

Mornings are the worst,

wiping away sleep and trying

to keep the cats from my bowl.

I stick to the thick book,

plastered to my chair, with last nights

spree of sex and hair.

I’m not that bothered, and who should

be with an army cats, and a litter of

books that swamp the shitter, because

I’m a poet and I know it

 

Days run away from me, like a

giddy spastic. Today I kicked a

cat up the arse, to get to my mug

of plastic. I don’t think

much of the kitchen, and the

bombed out sink I live in, because

I’m a poet and I know it

 

Remember these words, when you’re

next on the john, expressing an idea

That’s yet to come loose.

No one can keep up

with life in general or the

joy you’re meant to find. Britney

Told me this from the Playboy, before

I could kiss her goodbye, because

I’m a poet and I know it

 

 

 

PhilosopherPoet

the wires inside

i closed a coffin today,

it was black with

wires of time inside

its burnt body

 

it lay on the floor

the silver fan

(cooling its heart)

Stopped and sighed

It lay in the warmth

Of my own curiosity

 

i was more technology than

this carcass, splayed before

me and the wooden desk

i could get off the floor

crawl away from the slow

undergrowth – over

our lives.

 

i wept more for the

numb life hiding in

the cage and its brain

my tears fell out

 

so did the battery

 

 

PhilosopherPoet

a poetic experiment

In case any readers get confused, I’ve recently picked up computer programming, and thought it’d be an interesting creative exercise to combine the layout with poetry…just to see what would happen

 

PhilosopherPoet

 

Code

 

Start

    the process makes it look trained and sufficient because there

are no more girls in the front row.onlyYou stuck to

 

(a Visceral_keyboard

 

we can be cyberMonks

    (brainy and bullet proof))

 

If

we stick to thePlan…keep our numbers down, that are

our heads down, and enter in stripes of Science

        rows of bracketMath_and reason

 

Else    

    the codes spaghetti out of our hands, and spiral down

spin into the flux of updates coming down –you know what

        i.m_trying_to_say

 

Endif

    

you are (oneHundred % sure, you can drink another bucket of Coffee,

    since failing_only_means_you.ll_do_it_from)

Scratch) ) and ready to crunch the number stream

 

 

–sit down with your worried Cappuccino and wovenFingers

    the night is about to becomeCold_soon you.ll_feel

what I mean !number and code.ll grow onto your iced knuckles

 

*it can make

ClosedBracket

you a little less normal than Human*

 

Stop

peanut butter jar

i scrape out the peanut butter jar with a silver legged spoon the water is speckled and dark as the feeling of an old hand it presses up to you and creates a shiver that rises in bubbles and foam i scrape out the crap the grumpy residue of a crusty morning even the sleep behind my eyes became slightly nervous and leaves the scene

the kettle boiled but only enough and on time for the army of cats to congregate around an angry frankenstein juggling the implements of desire and experience but that was enough to turn around and shriek like some primal werewolf and call forth the pungent primal archetype waiting for coffee to slush down his gut

the kitchen is mine and you are the wrong kind

of utensil to be stirring my coffee i grab grubby paws and people into my duvet and hoist them behind the berlin wall splitting sanity and calamity but i do realize i can be a tad dramatic by asking for the kitchen as my own and claiming naming blaming marking my territory

pardon me but i’m a male

probably not enough for as i venture out the kitchen and climb into the couch i avoid the paper and rugby and scoop up the poetry resting the rusk i wait for the feline family to swarm the kitchen climb into the exposed jar

naked and wet with water

 

PhilosopherPoet

Dreaming of Dragons

I’m a writer. This can be seen as either good or bad…or just a gift you choose how you want to wield it. The point is because I’m a writer I’ve got a hyperactive, creative, over-stimulated and garrulous mind. This makes me suffer from insomnia, not by choice…but rather by nature. So this wonderful blog post is here because I went to sleep for about four hours, which is when my mind woke me up saying, “Hey! It’s time to do some more writing!”

Most of the time I think of my brain (this is just a personal theory), exists independently from the rest of my body. Because no one feels like dragging their corpse out of the bed at 5:00 am, although, I do it anyway. I find it comforting to have a blog. The reason is it stops me dumping my opinions of the universe on an un-expecting friend of mine. Everyone has that garrulous friend that they wish they could shut up for a coupla minutes, to achieve some sort of peace and quiet. So maybe I have this blogging addiction is because I’m scared of being that ‘annoying friend’ to my RL (real life) friends.

So this is what woke me up…my dream. As you can see from the more-than-obvious title, it was about big scaly creatures coming to life inside my house, and mutilating/possessing my friends. This sounds like something that would scare anyone. The point is it didn’t scare me. I think this is due to my addiction to horror movies, violent video games, and the heavy metal albums buried on my computer. So I sort of had a horror movie play inside my head, and the only reason I woke was to analyze the movie structure.

*sighs* Such is the life of a critical cynic – or vice versa.

Dreams can be the best when it comes to analyzing who you are, but can be the worst stories possible. Now that a strong cup of coffee has perked me up, I can mentally crunch up all the crits I was going to put forward about the dream. Dreams don’t make logical sense. Instead, it is unconscious sense. You sort of have to know a bit of psycho babble, and the language the brain uses in order to know why, you dream the way you do. Anyway I’m nervous of boring you with too much detail on the subject, so I’ll just end with this favorite poem of mine. (unfortunately the poems is about dreams and not dragons, apologies Sci-Fi geeks)

 

 

PhilosopherPoet

dragon

some sudden compulsion drove me to it was an out of hand and over-the-top gesture you could say I wasn’t too happy about doing it my hand rang out like the long warble a telephone gives before it’s about to die all the others in the crowd didn’t seem to notice either it was weird in a sociable way the way I hugged her I gently spun half a shoulder into a cradle to catch her voice and her words but then I realized coming to the end of an intense experience that maybe I was being too forward with my words

you see not all woman will listen to the words we hold in our hands it’s about as communicative as we can be throwing out silent strokes and shadow hugs not everyone wants to mourn and eat all the anger into a shoulder but those that do will let you know with time and perhaps a tear that will run and hide in the folds of her skin buried and left to sink and swell and rise and fall with the beating rapid rhythm she’s given or what she received

pardon me my mind was wondering under your skirt

at the mentioned of such boyish and blunt words I traced the inky dragon on her back in an attempt to bring my mind to the front of affairs and audience members dressed in pairs and ready to dance they didn’t though most of the time you could see that they wanted to by the way that their mouths moved and the way conversation seemed to sway in and out of beat rising through the fires and black stones on the mantelpiece I listened to the flames argue with each other they ran through choked logs and smoked each other with a glowing regret in their eyes

you can tell I read into things too much even jessica realized this when her handle wondered over my cheek for a gentle stroke and hello instead was greeted with the slack jaw of a day dreamer but her giggle and brave embarrassment made my mind slot back into the simmering small talk and the wine glass’ gleaming throat which is more or less when she stroked my chin again and I

rode her dragon in the palm of my hand

 

PhilosopherPoet

Ted Hughes – Macaw and Little Miss

I’m an image whore. I love poetry because it achieves this almost immediately And of course you don’t get much better than Ted Hughes. I enjoy him because he’s the Beethoven of poetry. He creates the storminess and ferocity that many other are afraid to mention and talk about. He uses the animal kingdom to reveal the Dark side of Humanity. He can be tender at times, but generally he’s vivid and intense.

This poem is probably more suited for a horror film, but I really like it. Comments are always welcome

Macaw and Little Miss

In a cage of wire-ribs
The size of a man’s head, the macaw bristles in a staring
Combustion, suffers the stoking devils of his eyes.
In the old lady’s parlour, where an aspidistra succumbs
To the musk of faded velvet, he hangs in clear flames,
Like a torturer’s iron instrument preparing
With dense slow shudderings of greens, yellows, blues,
Crimsoning into the barbs:

Or like the smouldering head that hung
In Killdevil’s brass kitchen, in irons, who had been
Volcano swearing to vomit the world away in black ash,
And would, one day; or a fugitive aristocrat
From some thunderous mythological hierarchy, caught
By a little boy with a crust and a bent pin,
Or snare of horsehair set for a song-thrush,
And put in a cage to sing.

The old lady who feeds him seeds
Has a grand-daughter. The girl calls him ‘Poor Polly’, pokes fun.
‘Jolly Mop.’ But lies under every full moon,
The spun glass of her body bared and so gleam-still
Her brimming eyes do not tremble or spill
The dream where the warrior comes, lightning and iron,
Smashing and burning and rending towards her loin:
Deep into her pillow her silence pleads.

All day he stares at his furnace
With eyes red-raw, but when she comes they close.
‘Polly. Pretty Poll’, she cajoles, and rocks him gently.
She caresses, whispers kisses. The blue lids stay shut.
She strikes the cage in a tantrum and swirls out:
Instantly beak, wings, talons crash
The bars in conflagration and frenzy,
And his shriek shakes the house.

-Ted Hughes