Sidewalk haiku

Moth on the floor, one

careless footstep away from

Annihilation 

I won't do it

The heart wants what it wants

And what it wants is a cigarette

Take yourself out for a walk, to take your mind off it

Turn the corner and hear the seagul honk

Wach wach wach wach

As it disappears into this blue mist

But I can see lilac in it

You'd been so good not smoking

Even forgot what it was like to miss it

But now you've smoked too much weed

Every night

And you've been going out a lot at night

And drinking and y'know

"I only smoke when I drink" and that you do

But you find yourself in waking hours now craving a toke

And it isn't enough to just ignore it, distract yourself 

Because in half an hour it'll just come

Back again

So what's the point?

Go on. Have a smoke

Should of brung one for the walk

You know it'd of made it better

More cosy, and relaxing

But I guess if you were smoking

You wouldn't of been typing

Which you never do anyway

Tell yourself "I'll do the poems"

Fill up that pretty book of yours

Where are these profound thoughts you were meant to have by now

Those interesting insights

What have you really for to comment on?

And the answer is nothing

A very vacant empty spot between those ears, behind those big ol' eyes

Because all you really think about is nothing

Stuff not worth commenting on

Of very little interest to anyone

I'm not trying to be self depreciating

I just don't have any hobbies.

His Love

I met her in the summer. In a tiny seaside town on the coast of Kent she was stood by the side of the promenade. As I walked past I couldn't help but notice how her red dress seemed to dance through the streaks of the setting sun and I said:

“Hey"

She turned.

“Where you headin’?”

And just like that her pretty face was tarnished with a scowl. She went to walk away, I went to follow.

“Hold up!”

I apologised profusely and was met with silence. I spent our venture down the promenade trying to coax out a syllable. I told her of my job at the local restaurant a little way behind us. I promised her all the chips she could eat. I told her she had the prettiest face I had ever seen and all Iwanted was to get a picture with her and her pretty smile.

“It’s not much to ask!”

I talked and I talked and eventually I caught a smile, a laugh. Then she said:

“Fine, I’ll get a photo with you.”

After that we were the best of friends.

She accompanied me for lunch every day, she called me every night. Those first few weeks everyone was certain we’d be an item I never felt the need to bring it up. Eventually though the butterflies started settling their wings and I watched, helpless, as the intensity faded in her eyes.

“Take her out on a date, make a move!” Advised my friends, I asked but there was always some sort of an excuse for her not to go. Eventually she started pointing out girls to me. Eventually she started prompting me to point out boys for her.

“Introduce me to some of your nice friends!”

It was then I knew that she was lost to me.

I spent a night kicking out the bonnet of a parked car. I tried to get over it, tried to just appreciate her company but I couldn’t; jealousy bit.

When we were out together I'd see the passing boys stare at her and I knew their game, I knew what they were thinking. All of them entranced by her red dress, her sweet eyes; it made me sick. After a while I couldn’t contain myself,one day when she asked yet again to meet a friend of mine I snapped and yelled:

“You better just cool it with these boys of yours otherwise everyone in this town’ll just think you’re a cheap floozy!”

She slapped me. We didn’t talk again.

She got herself a boyfriend, played cricket down at Lyminge. All the guys told me he was a great chap, real fun. I spent every night sat on my bed, stewing. My heart leapt every time I saw a girl in the colour red. Ithought about him kissing her about him touching her. My bones itched. I had to get her back in my goddamn stinking life.

And then she called.

“He hit me, George hit me!”

I never had to smash in a window, stupid bastard left it open. I got his address off a mutual friend and went to his house armed with acricket bat. The moon was perfect and cool and lit up the living room for me as I stepped inside. I make a lucky guess for his bedroom, get it right first time.

Standing by the side of his bed I watch his chest rise and fall. I count, I wait, and on the tenth rise I bring the bat down. Gasps and grunts burst out and soon enough all that lovely ink throws itself about us.

He doesn’t die, he doesn’t live much either.

We’re sitting in a park when I tell her the terrible news:

“They said it was probably just a couple of drugged up kids looking for kicks.”

Her eyes stay fixed to the ground, this is my chance.

"I'm sorry I abandoned you Felicity."

She looks up at me, her beautiful sweet eyes. I continue.

"I'm sorry that I couldn't stop him hurting you. I'll never let you get hurt again."

It works, she's looking at me like she used to. And then she kisses me.

All the butterflies come back with their beating wings. I tell her I love her, she smiles and kisses me again. It’s finally happened. It’ll all be okay.  

We date for three weeks. She tells me that it’s awkward and we’re better suited as friends. I hate her for it.

She stops calling. I think of all the different ways I could have acted, all the things I could of done to make her stay and love me. I feel a sort of greyness that seems to stretch itself about me; I can't taste, can't feel. It washes over my future so all that is left is a past that went wrong. I contemplate killing myself in several ways; pills, razors, a rope. I never do.

“Coward!” I call myself, hit myself and call it again. But it’s not cowardice; as long as she’s still here there’s still a chance.

I move country, end up in Florida, always summer there. As time goes by I procure a wife and kids, grand-kids  We have close friends and comfortable jobs. Every day is the same; in the morning I check the post and in the evening we all sit together in the garden to eat.

Every day I imagine her with her husband and kids. Group of friends. Comfortable jobs.  I think about her in the red dress and smiling at me. I like to imagine that she thinks about me but I know she doesn't  perhaps once in a while I may pass her mind, nothing more.

All this time I spend waiting until finally, a letter comes:

It is with great sadness that I must inform you of the passing of Felicity Hart…

I never finish it. I slip it back in the envelope and place it on the table. I spend the day with the grandchildren playing cricket in the garden. When the evening comes I kiss them all an early night saying I have a headache. I take the pills out of the medicine cabinet and pour myself a glass of water. Before I get into bed I crouch by the window pane and pull out the section by the floor that I had tampered with years ago; inside is the picture of myself and Felicity, her smile, all those years ago. They find me clutching it to my chest the next day.

Now I’m ready.

Feet

I like feet, I always have. They have character.

Now I can see why people wouldn't. The majority of feet are unkempt; smelly, boney, crooked. Freaky wiggly toes.

It was perhaps my fathers demands for foot-rubs whilst watching weeknight television which nipped this phobia in the bud. I won't divulge such personal information as of the state of my fathers feet but rest assured, I'm able to withstand any kind of decrepit foot you wish to throw at me. I'm also very talented at foot-rubs in case you were wondering.

Feet are unique, like snowflakes, big meaty slabs of snowflakes.

Some are nice and plump whilst others are flat waddling flippers (think Uma Thurman). Mine are particularly grotesque, all skinny long and boney. I've got a severe case of bunions, a word I believe which sounds far more grim than the thing it actually describes.

If you don't know what bunions are look at your feet. Now look at the knuckle of your big toe. If it sticks out, you got a bunion!

My dad used to get me walking around the house with toe separators on as a preemptive strike against bunions. It didn't work.

Apparently when I get older my ever growing bunion will push my big toe underneath all my other toes. My foot will end up looking like a huge dinosaur claw. This I don't mind really, like I said my feet have never been lookers, what I'm worried about is that it means I won't be able to wear high heels when I'm older.

I've always been under the grand illusion that as soon as I reach a certain age gone will be the doc martens and the leather leggings and the denim shirts. I will transform myself into an elegant, well kept lady always in modest heels and dresses.

If this is ever going to happen I'll have to get my bunions shaved. An incredibly painful procedure apparently but worth it if I wish to avoid a life of uggs and crocs.

But theres a lot more to my feet than bunions. The hard skin on my heels and the balls of my feet are so thick, due to my insistence on walking around bare foot, that I can cut off huge chunks with scissors.

And the smell, my lord the smell. Any of my close friends could tell you just how awful my feet smell.

It was a lot worse when I was younger. I went through a phase of wearing nothing but worker men's boots with nylon tights.

To give you an idea of just how foul this combination is I shall recall a day in particular. It was incredibly hot and of course having my feet cooped up in thick boots I was starting to perspire.

I was with my friend Frankie on a bus heading towards New Romney, visiting our friend Faye at her home.
Now when we finally got to hers I pleaded to cool my feet off in her bath and for whatever reason she let me. A cold bath was run, my feet were dunked in and to everyones horror the water turned green.

So yes my feet are bad, but this isn't to say you can't learn to love them. The lesson today is to accept and embrace the grimness of feet, the more interesting of the limbs. If you can't do this I'm afraid that one day you'll look down at your poor, weathered feet and find that you can just no longer bare to look at them. This is why so many old people wear slippers.

Christmas, and hello again!

So I'm back home for Christmas and for the last few days have been in a baileys stupor. It's been grand.

I know this is my first post in a while. My attention has mainly been focused on university and completing all my modules. I'll upload all the completed drafts when I have access to a computer.

In all honesty I've felt creatively stunted as of late. Anything I write I immediately regard it as a load of boring twaddle.

I also want to start making things; to be creative rather than dribbling away on the sofa watching cheaters and eating fried chicken.

With this in mind I vow to start spending my time doing actual, real life things (hello new years resolutions). So hopefully, if all goes to plan, I'll be able to start regularly updating this blog with interesting content. Fingers crossed.

So, other than that, you wanna see what I got for Christmas? Yeah you do! Of course you do!

Adios x

Fifty Shades of Grey by E L James

This book is so badly written that I have in fact highlighted the parts which I find the most offensive. Let’s begin shall we? 

“Why don’t you like to be touched?” I whisper, staring up into his soft grey eyes. 

“Because I’m fifty shades of fucked up, Anastasia” page 269

This is in fact the first time the term “fifty shades” is mentioned in the whole book. No, the title is not some clever reference; it is in fact just him being a pretentious twat. E L James repeats this term several times throughout the whole book, probably because she thought it sounded so deep and she wanted everyone to know just exactly how deep and dark and mysterious Christian Grey really is.

Christian Grey is not deep, he is an arse. A terrible, pretentious arse who cares far too much about other people’s eating habits and really should be focusing on his career instead of stalking some boring cretin. I bought this book because, like everyone else, I was lead to believe that Mr Grey is the epitome of sexiness, I was thoroughly disappointed.

As for our protagonist, Anastasia Steele, I may be sick with rage because of how dull, annoying and just downright terrible she really is. This is the kind of girl who gives her sub-conscious and inner-goddess (whatever the hell that is) personalities. If I wanted to read a book about multiple personality disorder I’d read Fight Club, at least then I wouldn’t be so inclined to stamp the book into the ground out of the pure hatred I had for them.  “Surely she can’t be that bad?” I hear you say:

 “I KNOW WHAT HE’S REALLY LIKE- YOU DON’T!” page 352

Moving on, let’s discuss the sex part. Now here is where E L James writing flourishes and actually becomes fairly decent, you can tell she’s in her element (the dirty cow). However what I can’t get my head around is why she would think this would turn anyone on:

“Your ass will need training.” page 256

Literally the most un-erotic thing I have ever read. She also seems to find it necessary to repeat “The Contract” several times.

Ah yes, The Contract, about as interesting to read as the iTunes Terms and Conditions.  It’s basically a list covering all the details involved with having sex with Christian Grey and he thinks it’s appropriate to shove this, this creepy, boring contract, right in Anastasia’s stupid little face. If this had happened in real life the girl would have looked up at him, fear in her eyes, and slowly realised she was dealing with a sexual predator.

There are in fact a lot of choice mistakes, particularly with wording, which I believe someone should have pointed out to E L James during the editing process, however seeing that one of the editors was her own husband he probably wanted to avoid a shit-storm, “Of course that works honey! Oh you’re just so good at writing!” Luckily I’m here to point them out for her:

“I steal into the bathroom, bewildered by my lack of underwear” page 332

“He grins a wide, white-toothed smile at Kate, and she almost literally dissolves into the couch” page 306

Almost literally. ALMOST. LITERALLY. 

And you know what? Despite this, despite all the continuity errors, the poor choice of words, the absolutely terrible characters and just down right bad writing, I still got hooked. By the last 200 pages I just couldn’t put it down, I can’t even explain why, I imagine it’s how grossly overweight people feel, devouring more and more shit until you lose all reasoning. I just had to know how it was all going to play out; will they be together in the end? What deep, dark secrets is he hiding? How are they gonna fuck this time?

And you know what, I’m gonna buy the second book, I have to buy the second book. And I shall clasp it to my chest and weep at my own inadequacy as I realise I have given my hard earned money to such a terrible, terrible author.

tl:dr – Creepy rich weirdo hunts down and beats up some boring ass girl.

kindle

The Death of Bunny Munro by Nick Cave

“Where are you going?” she says and smiles at Bunny. “We’re so outta here,” says Bunny Junior, who has found himself a pair of shades. He cocks his thumb at the Punto sitting in the car park. “Like, gone.”

I finally got round to using my HMV gift voucher to treat myself to a few books. Enticed by the blurb and ominous title I decided to buy "The Death of Bunny Munro" for a mere two pounds and trust me, it was worth every penny. (I'm aware that due to the low price this isn't much of a compliment but it should be taken as one.)

The book follows Bunny Munro, a sensual glutton, thrust into the responsibility of looking after his only son following the death of his long suffering wife.

Nick Cave's writing is flawless. This fact in itself is a little sickening since not only is he an excellent writer but also the lead singer of the critically acclaimed band "Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds" described by NME as "a gothic psycho-sexual apocalypse".

I am almost tempted to dismiss the man altogether (grossly successful people disgust me and make me feel small and insignificant) however I will let it slide this time due to the fact he managed to write a book which successfully glamorised the British seaside, a near impossible task.

"Glamorised" is perhaps not the right word, it's too tacky for that, he made it sexy. Bunny Munro himself is sexy, in a sordid, filthy, evil way. This makes the book excellent reading since there is nothing better than a nasty protagonist that seduces and shocks you. I found myself calling out "No, Bunny, no!" whilst reading some of his particularly nasty deeds. 

Bunny's abrasive character is contrasted well by his son, the strange and endearing Bunny Junior. Cave manages to create a convincing voice for a child with his simplistic logic and an eerie naivety in the face of horrendous traumas. Following the pair together as they come to terms, in their own way, with the death of mother and wife, it gives the novel a heart rather than just being a glib shock story. 

I highly recommend popping into HMV and finding this book. I highly recommend popping into HMV anyway since it's an absolute goldmine for cheap yet surprisingly spectacular books but I'll be nice and include links for where you can buy the book online.

tl;dr - Sleazy dad with a stupid quiff takes his crusty eyed son on a road trip so he doesn't have to think about his dead wife.

hmv

kindle