halfbakedpoemz

Tap the top hat three times  Turn around and touch the ground Say the magic word and it is done- In one fell swoop the work of tender months is reduced to a bad dream  You made me believe I was lovable despite it all, then  Alakazam! The rug swishes from beneath my feet And I pratfall sideways, Sitting up with a halo of dizzy stars. A jolly trick indeed! And I know a magician never tells But he sure can talk Conjuring apologies and salt crusted explanations  A row of never ending handkerchiefs pulled along your sleeve And now for this last trick You tip your hat upside down  Out flops a white dove  She sighs, thudding flat to the ground From Blogger iPhone client

Things I’ve discovered on holiday pt.1 White sangria is an actual thing and tastes like angel piss I like tuna much more than I thought I did  I don’t burn easily, I’m just an impatient sun creamer  A cover up swim top is less stylish but much better for playing in  Not all tomatoes that look like Pinterest tomatoes are actually yummy I’m more scared of heights than I thought I was- but have the same instincts of my 10 year old self who would not let a tall scary slide go unplayed on  Being fingered in a very specific spot makes me burst into a coughing fit, as does putting a cotton bud in my ear  I worry far too much about what I look like in photos I can go without shitting for 4 days  From Blogger iPhone client

In the dead of morning,  Your furrowed brow knits me a lifetime’s worth of winter coats Reclining into the glassy bloodshot river of your eyes-  I have stopped caring that we can’t get a seat in this rotten room. Their pupils roll like dice upwards to those swollen eyelids and their head drops to their chest. An exhale, and the breath-scent of sour, self inflicted tears fall toward me. Our friend is so impossible to look at.  So I anchor myself to you, Green and unsteady, ironically heroic From when I couldn’t watch the needle pierce their fragile skin, And, stepping forward, you said everything will get better now. A lifetime later, you will cry  Just as I did before- hopelessly, childishly- and as the sun rises we will crawl weakly into bed with no words left to say. But tonight, I have never seen anything quite like you. A bravery that makes me brave Your vomit in the men’s toilet (I love you disgustingly all the more for it) And palms that face outwards so g...

Last drink then we’ll go We’ve had a few to be fair Half cut but happy  From Blogger iPhone client

A sticky pub table, A storybook, a fable A day with nothing to do. Bald cunts laugh behind us The sound travels sidewards  Then suddenly we’re laughing too The weekend is golden and long And on your lips a homely song  We’re glad of this break, that much is true. From Blogger iPhone client

Flagpole, wrestled into Martian dirt Waves our closed-door country, built from clay-mounds of Hurt  Your hand at the door, before  gentle chorus, we weep- As is our custom, cousin, I lay my sword at your feet. Grazing each other’s wounds and licking them clean  Picking ticks from your hair Scraping skin off my teeth. Homing pigeon, tremble in my palm  I’ll pry open your ribs to breathe.  Then I’m familial, pliable, filial-   But you cared, so you can keep. And it’s strange, passing strange Both strangers in a strange country- Substitute the milk for eggs Finding what you need in me But beyond are the rogues, callous-handed thieves Lingering gazes and eyes that don’t see And from my tear-stained turret  A vision of worse places to be When you stole away to foreign shores flattery, sweet-faced novelty Gluttoned on attention and laughter You spilled your guts about me Now you darken my door with guilty glance- taking your chance  You bastard, yo...

BOOK REVIEW- THE GALLOWS POLE BY BENJAMIN MYERS The Yahhhkshire Moorland. Squelcheh leaves. Mulch and muck. Fookin political uprisin’ and clippin’ coins, becos the Moorlands is common lands for the men of the countreh.  Funnily enough this isn’t an actual quote from Myer’s historical crime drama, but I think I sum it up quite nicely. The novel is more Yorkshire than a Yorkshire pudding dipped in a Yorkshire tea and served with Wensleydale. And what a joy it is. A huge Shane Meadows fan, I got a few eps into his prequel/adaptation on the bbc and picked up the book from a vintage shop in Haworth, when really I should have been thinking about the Bronte sisters. Although, I certainly think Gallows Pole would be up Emily’s street. The novel is based around a real-life criminal gang, the Cragg Vale coin clippers, who, led by ‘King’ David Hartley upended the 18th-century economy and stole back some autonomy from suffocating land laws being imposed on the Yorkshire Moorlands. Myers’ inter...

BOOK REVIEW: EARWIG BY BRIAN CATLING Hello. Turn of events. I’ve finished the old A-levels and delightfully have sweet FA to do (well, almost) but am going through a real poetical dry spell. It’s this bloody heatwave! I’ve tried to write- but its all roses are red, violets are blue tripe so, if at first you don’t succeed, stop flipping trying. Instead of mooching about all day on instagram reels, I’ve been mooching about all day with a stack of books from WOB- that’s about 5% more productive, so why not give it an extra 2% and mooch about on my iPad tapping out some reviews.  Anyway, autobiography out of the way, I never thought I’d feel strongly enough about a book to actually write about it of my own volition (No, A-level English does not count) but that was until I came along to this delightful book. At precisely 150 pages, this slender, neat novella is the equivalent of a cat-scratch across the face: sharp, unpredictable, and leaving you to wonder what on earth it was for....

The legs of the synchronised swimmers, Coming up for air simultaneously.  The steady procession of rain, Pooling in the wrinkles of our anoraks. The sliding second hand on mummy’s watch, As time sneaks imperceptibly by. But I was lost in the Victorian railway, Between rising steam and flaked candy paint. Your hand over mine, falling into step, All a model-train memory: The rain The music The air The name Your hand  Your voice- And its sadness, a frequency I was too little to tune in to. From Blogger iPhone client

 I managed to get into drama school, and now meditate on future career prospects. Probably won’t be raking it in for a good while yet. Made up my mind, come to a decision. I need to choose a career, stake my claim for dominion. I could be a rocket scientist, a nuclear physician, I could fizz, buzz and spark as an electrician, A journalist scooping for the latest edition, A private pilot, spewing carbon emissions, A chemist neatly packing your prescription Or the founding father of a strange new religion (And its staunch defender when it’s met with derision). With a good pair of glasses I’d pass for a statistician Or marry into wealth with a thoroughbred patrician If I got better at lying, perhaps a politician? Something meaningful, that fulfils my ambitions. Actually, who really needs monetary provisions? I reckon I’ll just be an actor-musician. From Blogger iPhone client

This is a silly one where I experimented with rhyme and a bit of a palindromic structure!  My good friend, steadfast tin soldier, And years of wishing I’d been bolder When your tin soldier boots march you away  From your girl at home, and things she didn’t say. Wave goodbye, steadfast tin soldier, But turn and glance over your shoulder To childhood, measured in ruler-spans- A memory of how we began: Tin toy face, enchanted glass look A hearth was lit, a matchstick struck. The clacking knells and whizzing bells of my toy shop heart- Confirmation of an infatuation fated to start. Music-box laughter on cross-legged floors When our amusement left us silly-sore, Stitched up sides and wiping weeping eyes At marriage, a carriage and all it implies. Or when we grew up to be Capital-Cee Clever, Stroking our chins and humming hmmm forever Trading half-baked knowledge, taste the weight it brings Old chap, how did we enjoy such childish things? Then my cat-burglar thieving glances, Your metal...

sorry- another half arsed poem as im still working through auditions etc etc etc. verryyyy important actor dahhhling dont you know x anyways, here are some Haikus myself and friends composed in the workroom instead of finsihing my carol ann duffy coursework. Soz Carol. I hate miss jardine She hates my coursework  What a fucking bitch- Scarlett I hate gimps so much  They are jarring and weird Scarlett is a cunt- Owen  Reece has a moustache I think it is a bad one  Men do not matter- Freya Goku Egg stands tall Watching over the workroom I love him so much- Reece When it is raining  It is also thundering  Dancing in the rain- Toby  I don’t even know Oh my god erm hello you Nice to see you now- Alice  From Blogger iPhone client

Apologies for the radio silence- currently balls deep in drama school applications, so ive not been thinking anything remotely poetic these past few weeks. This is a poem I wrote to be performed as spoken word alongside a devised movement piece for one of my first - round auditions.When the world ends all  colossal climate-induced natural disasters will be such distant memories that they become folklore. White sunrise on a nuclear morning The suffocating shock-white of another withering day We passed the night telling stories of ancient tempests screaming battering winds hot seas boiling over onto indifferent shores rain like a fickle lover falling at once in violent slats then absenting itself for cruel desperate months old testament chaos rabid and vengeful but vivid violence in a shimmering technicolour there is a vile delight that sits in our throats we awake on sterile barren ground and try not to look at the footprints in the sand to hear the howl of dark ancestral spectres ca...

A friend of mine took in an aging hamster when his owner moved away- we all thought he wouldnt last a week, but he had a very good innings. He died peacefully in his sleep two days ago- heres a silly poem I wrote for his funeral service: A boy with massive bollocks  But an even bigger heart You spent the days in a sawdust haze Waiting for your life to start Till a girl called Millie took you  To a big scary new home Tasty meals and a hamster wheel And plenty of space to roam  And plenty of adventures too Like meeting cousin Rupert from down south Or hiding away, Milo’s prey  In a holiday at the twins’ house You were never without friends You bit and wriggled when we held you tight But Bertie, I hope you were happy  When you had to bid us goodnight What a privilege to love you In your autumn days and twilight years And to see you off to hamster heaven With a smile, despite the tears And I think about you looking down From that big wheel in the sky  Bertie, ...

I drive us to the retail park.  It is that first night of autumn  When lightness starts to pace away, A trembling-pistolled dueller. My hands are childishly clumsy in steering Veering into the wrong lane I have never been this far before Exhaled with the ghost of laughter You smile at this too- But I am sweatily serious. The thinning branches that scrape the doors Remind me that each second is excruciatingly novel, That a life can hurtle by and leave you choking on the exhaust. In the slow strobing streetlight  We career past the farm gates That were the boundaries of my universe, To a terrifying, brave and nauseous world.  From Blogger iPhone client

Summer strides off the way she came A train pulling out of the station. The six alacritous weeks  that watercolour-bled from one to the next  Are phrased off neatly,  punctuated into nothing- The tree only falls if it thumps.  I’ve snowglobed my time, Traced over the scribbled edges in marker pen  To make an opaque period Of open-gate days and unscaffolded nights  A tale I can get my mouth around  Both storyteller and shuffling child- I sit myself down and tell myself Of setting light caught in green bottles Transfigured into lush jungle emeralds  And vague embarrasments That become comic relief, light as air Uncertainties bubbling in the pit of me Are rubber victims- faint white dents on the page, Words half-said Each balmy evening is enbalmed, Dog days dropped dead  Just in time for a snowdrop-garland grave. It is a comfort that I can position the corpse just so- I mutter six feet under my breath narrating to myself only the story I wa...

She pulls the gallows lever And leaves their sentences dangling in mid air Stepping a strangling tarantella. The cat that gets their tongues lives in shadowed corners  Eyes brighter than the furnace glow of her fag’s end- A look that spits ‘if you think you’re brave enough…’ Cutting through the tar nights  Cutting boys down to size Their slurring vodkabulary concrete-grazes its knee Black-blue-bloody in the wake of her K.O thesaurus fist Her turn of phrase that turns and turns and Smacks them, with metal ring knuckles ringing their ears for the foreseeable  In the low nights When I am wide eyed and frozen By the slurring sliding hands of the interloper Face crumpling beneath that oppressive inebriated grin Heartbeat in my ears  (The shrill cry of a dog beneath a tyre)  A figure steps between myself and heartbreak  In all of her smoking glory, The static glow of her forked bolt anger Warms me to no end From Blogger iPhone client

And I tie my temporal lobe into balloon animals In the green effort to make You ancient Childhood’s clumsy fist tea-stains printer paper Grazes a lighter against the crumbling edge Time is medicine but I want Ibuprofen relief So settle for self-administered chronology instead From Blogger iPhone client

 It goes like this: Looking down the chasm Expunging liquid remains The once-a-month vacuum Where sharp edges soften. I’d spent the night wading waist-high With mucoid utterances sliding To half-absent friends. Leaky-tap eyes. Lips drawn up as curtains The imbecile’s persistent half-smile. Remember, then, my atom-splitting in-breath In the minuscule hour your hands- Your estranged hands- crossed the length of No Man’s Land To hold back my hair. Knuckles planting a kiss on the nape of my neck- Is it Pity that instructs you? Does she guide your hand carefully down my spine Mark it FRAGILE, heaving, shaking-ugly. My back to view, but seeing straight through In shades of shame-stained glass. Or do you quake, too, under the weight of what could have been? And the unmouthed words that halo us, solitary Us, In the dim bathroom glow Marooned from distant downstairs In a closed-door country where we have never hurt. Is it that you want me, lolling head, sobbing shoulders- Whilst your other ...