Category Archives: Bio-giraffe-icult.

Untitled *Biopic Poem (Draft)

Video tape is
black under music,
shut out from playing fields,
working behind its plastic window.

Soil segmentations are
aerated by earthworms,
next to pinned
flags of the world.

A cut of Schindler’s List for schools,
shook us behind our desks
in a room with
pencil crayon atlases.

I caught your biopic
by luck, in the cast net of stars,
flicking through satellites, stations,
happy enough without pause
to be embarrassed for them now,

because what a hold our new self-images had,
not yours I noticed, the beyond-wise (or a bit mad)
escaped their young shadows.

The lesson differently pieced together by everyone,
who is ever going to learn the role that
fumbled then crushed dialogue
once played in sweetly stupid
love.

At a paranoid pitch, too,
making molecular
wildness inside
tone-blind to what feelings
seemed to scream.

I passed through an obsolete sleep
into days that test me more,
sure that you were a movie star –

what significance might be best asked of
the miscast stars I dreamt for us,
their celebrity easier
wound back for memory
than innocent as wax torches
held to faces we don’t have.

But I forget the horror of each
awkward hallway
shivering in bones,
bodies jostling for steps on stairs,
and names called to be heard.

I’ve yet to label my working title
in a smudged, thick,
left-handed daub

and almost yours,
wise and tall,
joined up and circled Disney dots to i’s of yours,
remembered only just but like
ice cream in a cone,
clever and kind,
and you would put up with
this nonsense – and more

bursting through in spits

and I remember a bit about
my better double in History.

If Your Space is MySpace, I’ll Sleep in the Wardrobe.

This is an old Surrealist game that might be as informative as surrealism can be:

SCOREBOARD
Rate the following:

(+20 = unreserved approval, 0 = utter indifference, -20 = total abomination)

Irrationality +14
Humour +20
Civilisation +17
Desire +19
Honesty +20
Religion +0
Madness -16
Logic -10
Happiness +20
Weakness-6

Continue reading If Your Space is MySpace, I’ll Sleep in the Wardrobe.

Peter’s House

The hare’s settlement in turvyland,
was an abode on the nose of a flee,
built with bricks
which,
brick-by-brick,
refused entry to
three little pigs.

The hare’s house was a
house of wolves –
he found them agreeable company,

he smoked a pipe
and talked politics
and gave up any pretence of decency.

APPENDICES –

Peter has moved house and swiched to Firefox. It is his very own house, and the first house of his very own ever. We would all prefer a better poem to commemorate such an occasion but “oh well”, as they say, “one cannot have ones cookie and crumble it”.

“The hands that do,
and hearts that dare,
leave monuments
upon the square”

– author unknown

THE LYRICS TO THE TRADITIONAL BLUEGRASS SONG, “BIG ROCK CANDY MOUNTAIN”

One evening as the sun went down and the jungle fire was burning
Down the track came a hobo hiking and he said boys I’m not turning
I’m headin for a land that’s far away beside the crystal fountains
So come with me we’ll go and see the Big Rock Candy Mountains

In the Big Rock Candy Mountains there’s a land that’s fair and bright
Where the handouts grow on bushes and you sleep out every night
Where the boxcars are all empty and the sun shines every day
On the birds and the bees and the cigarette trees
Where the lemonade springs where the bluebird sings
In the Big Rock Candy Mountains

In the Big Rock Candy Mountains all the cops have wooden legs
And the bulldogs all have rubber teeth and the hens lay soft boiled eggs
The farmer’s trees are full of fruit and the barns are full of hay
Oh, I’m bound to go where there ain’t no snow
Where the rain don’t fall and the wind don’t blow
In the Big Rock Candy Mountains

In the Big Rock Candy Mountains you never change your socks
And the little streams of alcohol come a-trickling down the rocks
The brakemen have to tip their hats and the railroad bulls are blind
There’s a lake of stew and of whiskey too
You can paddle all around ’em in a big canoe
In the Big Rock Candy Mountains

In the Big Rock Candy Mountains the jails are made of tin
And you can walk right out again as soon as you are in
There ain’t no short handled shovels, no axes saws or picks
I’m a goin to stay where you sleep all day
Where they hung the jerk that invented work
In the Big Rock Candy Mountains

I’ll see you all this coming fall in the Big Rock Candy Mountains.

All this has got me thinking about rooms, therefore:

Neutral Milk Hotel

The Orchid Room

= good spaces.

Schools.

water takes the shape of the container in which it is poured. it is not a gas.

we learnt these obvious things in school.

I swore that I could hear the soft hum of electricity passing through the wire, if you listen hard enough. I was told not to be silly.

I was no good at algebra, because there didn’t seem to be much sense in adding numbers to letters, if they did not result in words.

On one occasion, I deliberatly misheard the rules of the task, so that I could write a poem.

When I was a fan of Micheal Jackson, I became enraged with Jarvis Cocker’s stunt:

Jarvis Cocker’s Stage Invasion (1996)

“In 1996, Michael Jackson was given a special “Artist of a Generation” award. At the ceremony he accompanied his single “Earth Song” with a stage show, with Jackson as a Christ-like figure surrounded by children. Jarvis Cocker, of the band Pulp, mounted the stage in protest of the performance. Cocker ran across the stage, lifting his shirt and pointing his (clothed) bottom in Jackson’s direction. Cocker was subsequently questioned by the police on suspicion of causing injury towards three of the children in Jackson’s performance, although no criminal proceedings followed. “Earth Song” became Jackson’s biggest hit in the UK, spending six weeks at the top of the chart.” – Brit Awards

I rallied some of my little schoolfriends around to produce posters denouncing the actions of the lead singer of Pulp.

So that’s how I missed the point of Britpop, while Rich was at his happiest when discussing Sonic The Hedgehog.

 

 

 

A Patch of Life 

Ain’t Misremembered: A Patch of Life, In Colour

Today I met a gingerbread person, who foretold the end of the world. My uncle is a baker, and a realist, so while some of his gingerbreads smile, others seem very sad. The Curse of The Gingerbread People, as it is well known, is that unlike humans they are doomed to wear the same face forever. I am glad to be human.

Today, I purchased a set of second-hand toothbrushes and a book of children’s stories. I spent a lot of time on facebook, with the result that a lot of people now know too much about me. The colour of the wind is blue. I’m sure there are still jewels hanging in the sky, along with the jewellery stores that sell them.

I am still afraid of change, so there is no change there. Perhaps I miss some things and people. The echoes of laughs reverberate from the top or the bottom of a well.

I have yet to watch my favourite movie. I’m documenting the things I’m scared to lose. Except, to do this I have rehearsed a story of likely-to-be-lost things. Who knows what things I have already lost in the process? There are gaps here that might want to be filled. That is your homework. This story is useless. I hope that you like it.

 

1. Religion

I remember my school teacher in a fit of teacherly rage, rapping her ruler against the table…

“YOU WILL LEARN MATHMATICS WHETHER YOU LIKE IT OR NOT”

I commenced crying instantly whenever things seemed to be happening louder; a habit I did not shake off for a while and one that, perhaps, did not win me many friends. Mother says of her once-fragile-little-cupcake, that I missed out on numbers because I spent a lot of time abroad, seeing – not “Doctors” exactly, but I’m making this easy for you.

Since this is not exactly my life – my life being something that has existed essentially out-of-time, conducting itself in the manner of an unruly shopping trolley – I need not bestow on you the many confusing, vague details. They were “Conductors”, not doctors. They wore white – they wore clogs. White clogs of course. The clogs offset anything intimidating.

There was the bust of an intelligent person displayed in the lobby, an old fashioned kind of elevator, and one of the other parents – who was not my mother – had green hair. I bathe in sage, as my mother is advised.

I sent my mother searching this new terrain for the exact kind of cocoa – or tea – we all drank at the Institute. The children needed a break from being pressed against wooden things. This was new and revolutionary and my mother trusted it.

Soldiers marched in the square apparently, and it was colourful.

The kind women gave me a storybook about Ferdinand the Bull, who refuses to fight and would rather smell the flowers. These are the women I remember the least, but I remember the story.

The Institute’s rigorous regime, which apparently worked a few miracles of evolution, did not afford us much spare time. I spent a lot of it at the puppet theatre, and my mother buys me toys from the Popeye Shop which has a neon sign animating the smoke of Popeye’s pipe. At home, I once jammed a big red candle into the VCR, fully expecting to see a glorious lit church candle ablaze on screen. I have always been interested in animation, and still find watching cartoons to be a semi-religious experience. I was a spoilt child.

At home, a giant wooden ladder occupied an entire wall of our living room.

I had brought a lot of sights and sounds back with me, as well as ludicrous exercises, and “splints” like drainpipes to strap to ensure my feet were positioned right, and not experimentally. We went back and forth many times. At home, my brother had freckles and “bum-bags” were in fashion.

To be good at different words. Was I ever? I wish I could be. I had the songs given to me on counterfeit cassettes from a shop near the market, where they also sold bread – excellent bread, and cakes, better than you have ever tasted. I am now a great believer in bread.

If time must progress let it move slowly, through thick layers of chocolate.

In the evenings, I would put new labels on the covers of books, with my own titles. I had a wooden xylophone.

I dreamt about a little girl at the Institute who had perfect blonde hair and a perfect, palsy-ed smile of innocence, who fell and I could not stop her from falling, and the wooden things falling on top of her.

This is not a dream for your text books.

I was convinced that Ennio Morricone’s theme to The Good, The Bad and The Ugly was sung, in part, by swans. I described it as “the song with the swans in”. Nevermind.

My mum made friends with another mother who was not my mother. This one was welsh and a thick, unmistakable accent of perfume followed her. She wore furs and was differently soft. So there were three soft and pleasant people together; the third was her daughter who again was very Welsh and liked dolls. So my mum bought her lots of dolls – sorry, babies – complicated babies that rode bicycles. I was jealous. Her daughter grinded her teeth a lot. Eventually it became a sweet sound, coming from a sweet person. Nevertheless, my mother urged me to not to imitate her.  There were a lot of mothers here.

I need someone to get me out of hilarious and unlikely scrapes. Fortunately, I have been blessed with a loving family, and they are constantly blessing me. We need a brick-built semi to contain all this light. Straw would not do, and neither would a mansion. I am okay here, thank you, although a mansion would be nice. Can I have a mansion, without clouds and all this light? There are very few curtains in this house.

In my little school in England we are learning about the Victorians; specifically Victorian children and all the dreadful things that happened to them. The cruelty of history is novel and comforting. I’m threatened with the mines if I say the slightest thing.  I am a Victorian boy – I have a stick and a hoop and with this I am satisfied. But of course I’m not and my pretend games now have a serious aim – I must escape history, if it ever comes my way.

I share a bedroom with my brother, and as time goes on my yearning for a space of my own intensifies. In one of my nicest dreams I find myself in a prison cell which is flooded by yellow light, and through the bars of a single window I can catch a piece of moon.

 

Ain’t Misremembered: A Patch of Life, In Colour is available in some shops but not the kind you frequent. It doesn’t really even exist here, if you look closely enough. The ISBN number begins with 4. That, I believe, is what they call “The Rule of Four”. If you want a copy, use a photocopier, consult The Nurse, or do me curious sexual favours atop an apple cart.