Tackling the hard hitting issues

Work is always in progress

A few things I've been working on recently:




A Scream by the Music College

Held, in the fist of the throat
filched from lungs, spilched over
the voicebox
a shriek that has me
                                    in a panic

a Hotscream
you were
                enough to confuse anyone

gutteral, and a tribal dance on your tongue
to run run run on the overheated
singe of summer evening

it's audio      snatch
a flotsam
a rogue,        roamer of eardrums
sanity pinched long ago
by a breaking voice


the garden, the hedge,
diaphanous
stands a paltry referee
in all of this
mediating from me only
your vision

the last minutes of
the fifth hour
of post meridiem
die and the
good day gnarled itself


When I can
                    look, you're just a boy
playing football.




What if

Clutching the moon one night
in your cased eye
propped lids
manufactured, cased head
the moon were to drip,
trickling and tickling
                                     treetops

shivering the backbones of petty   clouds
taking with it distractions of   stars

a frozen, pyroclastic flow of landscape
as she licks the floor
swoops in her grasp
a little bit of space currency

- you would be avaricious.

She will both engulf and cradle.
After her felling of dark,
she enraptures, captures worthless values
as she simmers at the window

like a rhythm at full flight
the promise of intimacy a white temptation.

Open the window then
for this mysterious, swimming creature.

After her journey she is a clamour of pallor.
Oceanic light, evading eyes
pervading sighs
and pushing, pushing
Sing and sigh.

She is poised; the glow props open your mouth,
pillowy between teeth.

Do I speak of another world?
Dripping moons?

Her only tides for the shores of dawn:
lashings of adventure, lyrical history and mystery -
the careful mechanics of an epic;
the residues of all stories.

She is poised;
and in her, you see, we are all just the faces of characters





...this one is quite old but mixing it up a little (time wise):

First Minutes - An Account


The day is hard.
The sun accusatory - a final win over the moon
it stands proud, livid, charred
it's armies on my bed sheet.
I turn, we face each other.

Defensive, I am at a whirlwind of petty sheets,
- that will do little to soften the sun's perseverance.

Blazes the windowsill, seethes
and finally my eyes are conquered. Half of me gone.

A finished and fruitless cornfield
the sun has caught me raw.

Only the sun's heat rash on my cheek,
I have not once woken to a lover.

We note each other's solitary ways.

Unchallenged, he is at once immodest.
His armies weigh a tonne.

Undefeated, Ozymandias of the sky, his kingdom did come.
A sharp, early horizon and raiment of rooftops,
he has all but conquered the bedroom wall in his mercilessness.
Alone, I rule the bedside table. I am done.

Sordid lives

I have a glass front door; in fact, a large portion of my house is made of glass. Life is one of involuntary exhibitionism, and a constantly clothed state, or darkness. Just now I was passing the door, and therefore had to open it, to a squat man shorter then me, who said nothing but "From the Treasury", handing me a huge brown envelope. The envelope is addressed to my dad and contains something of indescribable, three-dimensional shape.



Another thing you'd like to know about life in my house is I found a pair of pants in my "slut box" (which is basically a trunk with my underwear in but it also contains half my clubbin' gear hahaha) that are a thong, made of cheap grey striped jersey and say in pink letters "If ur seeing this you're a lucky fella!". All fitted neatly into the centre of the crotch!
Anyway I'm pretty sure they're not my brothers so they must be my mum's?

ps: I tried to find a photo of my mum to go with this, but a quick google later reveals she shares her name with an obviously better-known African-American news reader and:

Mystery

Naomi

lol yeah but still its so entertaining

lets not tell anyone we read it tho

it can be our little seccret

LOL


21:04Ali

hahahahhaah

excellent, masturbation and acid trips all round

i'm gonna go catch up on my Oedipus Tyrannus


Naomi

okkkkay good luck with physiccs tomorwow

xxxxxxx

Seeing Britney on Thursday

Britney's a slice of celebrity-culture genius. She's a hybrid of hundreds of Americans' 'creative' visions, a maxim of pop culture, and I for one strongly suspect her entire life is scripted?

She's also a blank canvas of a person; everyone can have their own Britney:

She listens in class:


Likes to relax in the great outdoors:



She's an animal lover:


She will maybe give you head after class, if you buy her sweets after:


She's goofy, just likes to have fun:




.....just one of the gals:



She'll have your kids (so no generation is ever without a bit of Britney):


World hunger angers her:



...but she has a sensitive side too!


She's got a non-discriminative love life :



She likes to play around with her appearance:


and occasionally powdered methamphetamines :





Some personal favourites of Britney lyrical stylings:

And I don’t want to explain tonight
All the things I’ve tried to hide
I shut myself out from the world so I
Can draw the blinds and I’ll teach myself to fly

I love myself
It’s not a sin
I can’t control what’s happenin’

‘Cause I just discovered
Imagination’s taking over
Another day without a lover
The more I come to understand
The touch of my hand

Sometimes I think she's writing just for me:

Im not a girl
Im not a girl dont tell me what to believe
Not yet a woman
Im just tryin to find the woman in me, yeah
All I need is time
Whoa, all I need is time...
A moment that is mine
... thats mine
While Im in between
Im not a girl
Not yet a woman



all this googling around I'M SO EXCITED AAAAH

Makes my day a little better

....maybe the education system was worse back then?

Also I will never ever tire of Richard O'Brien

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cEpOJgdPM40

(it gets best around 2:30)

Would you like a life replacement service?

......I'm so intrigued

http://www.hexrpg.com/

better than sliced bread!!!!!

Emma Jones' poems exercise the imagination. By the end of a page or two, your imagination has woken up, brushed it's teeth and is half way around the world in time for tea. I have no doubt a lot of the poems in 'The Striped World' (her only book so far) examine her own life situations or feelings, but Jones relishes a storyteller role, picking at her life through original and vivid scenes. They fluctuate between their often everyday roots and oneiric qualities. A great writer rebuilds situations in a way to eliminate the need for distinguishing between page and 'facts'.  In a way this is far more timeless then poets who constantly update their poems with the language 'of the minute'; it is inescapable that in the end we are all just characters and life is just one big fat "Once Upon A Time".

Sentimental Public Man

I was a penitentiary.

A self-held 

man, and bounded.

But when I stood up,

the world was righted,

and I saw the horizon just fine.

The sun rose there and bled.

It's got a rhythm.

I felt a dull commensurate beat in me,

and I said, what's that bird in a cage?

Who's that man?

My barred heart

saw the striped world turn like a beast

and said 'open yourself up,

son, and spread out for loving.'

So I wore my heart on my chest,

all decorative.

And it flared like the hair of a parrot.

That was my trademark.

They kissed it, the girls.

They died, and subsided.

Just a little bit, mind.

A pill in water 

foams and subsides like the sun in water,

it spreads, and is rested.

Two in one,

a new thing.

What a blue union there is

between this wall and it's shadow,

this open door and it's held world.

Scenery's its thought

It veers and is tilted; it swings from its roots.

My keeper unlocked it, a grave man.

I want to walk alone 

on the city streets.

But is this permissible?

Someone walks with me for my protection.

And if I say 'things happen, and an average man

is made a brilliant thing

by solitary acts

and the gaze of his countrymen'

he says nothing;

it's as if his pocket mirror had spoken;

it's as if we must 

as he says, go out, bright and blank,

and draw the world in,

and make it in our image.

Man, it was hard to turn thirty,

to feel my youth

thin to an alley, a kind

of pale propped girl on a garbage bin.

Such hunger, apprehension.

Such a handled thing.

But the buildings listened.

When they leaned in, it was like the day

leaned in with it's lights on,

every window a wide eye.

The streetlamps listened,

and the businessmen, and the office workers.

I was a piece of work, ticking.

And my songs

were their measure of longing.

I said, well, take it.

Please take it away!

How good it would be, I thought, to be empty.

So I wiped myself out.

For days I lay, a gin-clear man,

a beaten man, of beaten glass.

A trammelled man.

And as though I were a path

lit for their use

the stars dwindled, losing sight,

the brain dwindled, 

that cracked house

and the overhead light

flared backward like a rearing girl,

and passed away.

Their love dismembered me.

As though my head lay 

in the sea, my arms in the desert,

and the cool promontory

of my singing throat in the city streets.

My limbs gathered grass.

When will the end come

and the chorus sing?

Baby, your arms feel sweet.

I remember them,

the subtle wheat of their pastures.

They've rocked me awake.

And I say, if this is life, if death is life,

then let me die

the way I died when I was born,

alone, with you. That straddled light.

And I also say: don't touch me.

....I basically can't be bothered to type any more, but read the book! It's a nice colour too

t0tally ironic as a first blog post

It seems crazy to a large portion of our society that there were times, before the HELLO of internet.. - well maybe just that there were times before the HELLO of internet? It could be just my fresh-faced youth that means I find it weird whenever I am reminded that the internet was only established on the larger scale in the early 1990s. In fact, there is only about one generation of people who have grown up with idea of logging on, clicking refresh and replacing poor grammar with abbreviations for poor grammar. However, being the giant lumps of human-putty we all are, it's always good to learn the effect it has on the brain - God's best playdough creation. I will probably never study psychology, but Professor Susan Greenfield did! According to her calculations there are definitely some downsides to the whole World of Warcraft, friend request-dominated life approach. In short:

- The extent of many youths' screen life, including computer games, internet browsing and Facebook presents the fairly likely danger of "infantilising" our brains, "keeping it in a childlike state of a short attention span, with literal images, no metaphors of abstract concepts, no sense of narrative, no empathy, no consequences - just sensations." And all this, just a click away!

- Social networking sites risk inhibiting the development of understanding of real-life communication, as it fails to offer social interaction skills such as judging tone of voice, body language or visual cues. Unlike anything that involves leaving your house, most technology-related past times are solitary pursuits. This lack of experience of galavanting in fields and other real-world activities runs the risk of the average youth failing to collect a smorgasbord of experiences that make everyone different (aww). Our 'brains' are all, biologically, the same yet our 'minds' are different.

- Demands on our memory are also becoming rarer than a chinese polar bear for some, in an age where we can google any knowledge we come to need.

The main part of the problem is the prefrontal cortex, which is a probably really really small part of your head that deals with complex reasoning, interpreting social behaviour, decision-making and the expression of personality. Lack of development of the prefrontal cortex is often characterized by obsessiveness, a lack of idea-generation and is found in schizophrenics and the obese. The stunted awareness of cause and effect points to an obvious explanation for a rise in violence amongst teenagers, as well as rise in obesity (I'm not sure what's worse ho ho ho).

There are clearly more dangers to your average Facebook stalking session than forgetting to press the 'Clear History' button................

I'm not sure why I have a blog all of a sudden

Maybe I'll become a more active member of the community?