Monday, 26 April 2010

Poetry Is...

Poetry Is…
Wearing your mother’s clothes because
At that age no one defines beauty more than her.
It’s the first time you realise parents are just humans
And prone to making mistakes.
Poetry is loving just for the sake of it.
Unrequited love. Only confessed to empty rooms at night.
It’s 70’s blaxploitation films. All pomp and swagger.
Poetry is placing your hands in a cold stream of tap water
When the days heat up because the sun is back from hiatus.
It is the string of thoughts in my head
Begging to be immortalised on paper.
It’s all the poems ever written about what poetry is.
What the Oxford English defines it as.
Incessant faith in a higher force is poetry.
It lies in the crevices of excited conversations
Of Black women sharing hair care tips.
It is my memories of back home. Blurred and selective.
It is a hot shower after a 10 hour shift
Spent getting harassed by Essex girls
Who wear orange minstrel faces.
It’s hating someone and not knowing why.
Hip Hop, Jazz and Blues.
Poetry is,
Being hungry and broke at the same time.
Arriving home to find mum has cooked instead of dad.
It is how everything I find endearing reminds me of you.
Sleeping in your bed. Our arguments.
It is kissing someone and enjoying it.
A genuine smile that lingers.
Poetry lies in a well faked smile.
Bingeing on borrowed boxsets of The Wire.
Clocking the tag line at the beginning
And laughing at the joke because you get it.
It is big, warm hugs where you stop smelling
Anything but the other person’s scent.
Knowing someone is truly your friend.
Poetry is crying for hours till you feel happy again.
Funerals. The mystery of death.
It is eating smuggled food. It tastes better
Because it’s seasoned with deceit.
It is how the universe sprang into existence.
Poetry is,
Sleep and the world beyond the conscious mind.
Defined by infinity. It lives longer than time.

Thursday, 22 April 2010


He rises from his seat and walks away from his desk
heading out the office he avoids the lifts and taks the steps
Existing the building turning right
All the shops, cafe's, cash machine and pub, are on the left

A 5 minute walk to the park he finds a bench.
He takes his book Out of his bag and begins to write.
When he's not writing he recites.
Pacing up and down the perimiter of the park trying to get his words right.
He repeats this 5 days a week.
Monday to Friday.
Day in.
Day out.

He doesnt think he's better than anyone else.
He doesn't thnik he's special.
He's got nothing aaginst his collegues.
He likes them.
he envys them.
What he does think,
is that he doesnt expect them to undetstand.
Is that bad?

Not that there's anything wrong in...........

You know what?

This is bollox.

Treading over old ground.
and again.

I've been here.
Done this before.
On the same park bench.
2 years ago.
A thousand times.
Where's it going?

I finally got to meet some really inspireing people.
Even made a few moves.
I feel like it's pushed me on.
A lot.
A hell of a lot,
and I'm gratefull.
Now though,
after a lot of post work grinding.
5 days a week.
Day in.
Day out.
The adrenline's gone.
The ideas have gone.
The spark has gone.
I'm completley knackered.

I'm still sitting on the same bench.
Writing the same tired self obsessed crap.
When I return back to my desk.
I know I've got a shit load of stuff to do.
I've fallen behind.
This time I don't have the energy.
The patience is gone.

All I'm left with is me.
My job.
Judgeing by the emails I get most days about stats
I'm edging ever closer to the sack.
The flat.
I don't even know who i'm living with now.
the revolving door policy has seen me live with 9 peoplle in 3 months,
at the last count.

What the fuck am I supposed to do?

If I make myself I'll,
then at least I tried.

Sometimes I just wish I was normal

Tuesday, 20 April 2010



I left home to build a home that I can call my own
Devouring time I worry about money that I've blown
Booze, weed, clothes, food
Unessesary sun holidays sold on the promise of hordes of women,
when all i ever got was sun burn, food poisening and flashing cigarette lighters,
from a deaf, dumb and blind mute,
whilst eating some greasy English food,
I swear that dood could see

Home aint home anymore
Home belongs to Mum and Dad
they broke the bank and bust a gut to pay for that,
and it's theirs.
Proud owners and rightly so

Yea I've got a gaff but it's not home.
It's a bed to sleep, shower and a place to wash my clothes.
Occasionly I might cook something.
The flat isn't mine though.

I don't mind working 9 to 5,
then utlizing my time outside.
Well i do mind,
but I accept it's what I've gotta do.
The world owes me nothing.
I wanted to start something,
so i had to choose.

Feel numb or be someone.
Feeling numb is what I know.
Tring to be someone?
I've tried with a half commited heart,
and got a sore arse from sitting on the fence
I might as well give it a go - properely.

If I can be someone and make something out of myself,
then I can lay the foundation stone.
Start collecting the bricks and mortor.

Ever since I left home,
I've struggled to keep my head above the water so occasionly I lose hope.

Every now again life throws a new character.
Several if your lucky
I'm lucky.
One word or gesture with a nature of positivity,
can restore or unleash self beleif you never knew was there.
If you don't have hope, you won't get anywhere.
Sometimes hope's all you got.

If everything was easy then there would be no such thing as acheivement.

I've got to belive in what I'm tryiing to acheive.
Right now I'm talking like I've got my head firmely wedged in my arse,
so intravert I've become a collapsed star.

On occasion I need convincing of my own little missionn.
This is my reminder.
It's good for you to see.

I'm not trying to pluck a sympathy string,
I just want you to recognise the chord,
cos you might be me.
I know you can loose the faith and feel ignored.

Friday, 16 April 2010

My Lover

This drug has blackened
My insides.
Yet I'll not give it up,
Not for a while.
It makes me feel pretty.

Wednesday, 7 April 2010

This is not supposed to be therapy

This is not supposed to be therapy

I go to therapy on Wednesdays

Being on stage is my getaway

Or hitting the dance floor on a Saturday

I try to stay home on Sundays

Cos if I'm lucky mum will make Sunday lunch

Roast chicken and potatoes, rice and peas

"And, mummy? Don't forget the plantain!"

Yes, I know she spoils me

I’m supposed to be happy

Because most would be if they were this lucky

I’m supposed to be the one “living his dreams”

The one that they envy and aspire be like

I’m supposed to in-spire but I cry out

I’m supposed to give hope but I'm so full of doubt

I’m supposed to know exactly what I’m doing

And precisely where I’m going

Because I am a leader... right?

I’m supposed to have the answer

Or at least ask the right questions

I’m supposed to be cruising in the fast lane

But I feel so pedestrian

He gave me this notebook to write in

I’m not supposed to tell anyone

But fuck what I’m supposed to do

I’ve always done what I’m supposed to

I was supposed to get my GCSEs, A Levels and a degree

Check one, check two and, yes, check three

A whole bunch of Bs and Cs and a 2:1 in my degree

English and Philosophy

What else was I equipped to be but some kinda writer

Well I'm pretty good with kids I coulda been a teacher

But even my favourite at school, Mr Rattigan, told me

“Never...! ever...! become a teacher. You can do more"

My granddad always asks me

“When you gonna go back to your studies?”

He tells our family back in Cyprus that I’m a professor

Dr Dean Atta

But I'm far from a Dr

My only PHD a Player Hating Degree

But I don't stay put long enough for you to hate on me

I'm a Poet slash Playwright slash Producer

Slash Artistic Associate slash Creative Director

Slash confused dot com

Online searching for my ID

On Facebook faking familiarity

RT @you #completeme

BBM me, B-befriend me

This iPhone is not my phone it's a loan of identity

See I can be whatever and whoever I want to be

With the right accessory, by any app necessary

I’m supposed to be grateful for all this freedom

Free to grab opportunities when I see them

Because some let things pass them by

Fixated on money

Trapped by responsibility

Or bound by their apathy

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.

Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond imagination.”

I believed that first time I heard it and I

Still do

But am I supposed to be afraid?

Cos I’m not

I don’t need words from page to reach out and hug me

Comfort me or tell me that they love me

I just need them to tell the truth

Cos I'm supposed to be here

And I'm supposed to do this

And, no, this isn't therapy...

But it sure feels good to me

To be sharing this, with you.

Shadows and Bricks



Sunday 18 April 2010
17:30 - 21:30
The Broadway Theatre
Broadway, Barking IG11 7LS

Tickets £5 (£3 concession)
Box Office: 020 8507 5607

We have guest performances from fantastic singer/songwriters Aruba Red and Maverick Sabre, Limitless Dance (East London Dance Youth Company), SLAM Poetry Champions Aisling Fahey and Deanna Rodger. Music from DJ Joe Grime.

SILENCE IS NOT GOLDEN is a creative response to the forthcoming election and the big issues of the day, using spoken word poetry, music, theatre and dance to create an exciting evening of collaborations and conversations between artists and activists, youth ministers and youth workers, campaigners and councilors, audience and performer, younger and older.

SILENCE IS NOT GOLDEN aims to get to the heart of the issues that matter to the young people in Barking & Dagenham, those too young to make their voices heard at the ballot box on May 6th.

Focused around a diverse group of 14 young people (The Broadway Youth Board) aged 11-18, who have been participating in weekly workshops at The Broadway, directed by Dean Atta, and collaborating with the hard-hitting all female spoken word collective Words In Motion and highly acclaimed Rhymes Won't Wait collective.

In a 3-way collaboration, these groups have created spoken word and theatre pieces dealing with racism, the criminal justice system, fair trade, boarder control, human trafficking, domestic violence, child abuse and many other issues that we too often stay silent about.

The evening will be in 4 sections of performance with 4 corresponding conversations chaired by Dean Atta, Sabrina Mahfouz and The Broadway Youth Board members, who will be coming out into the audience with roaming microphones – allowing you to have your say!

After the show please stay for networking in the foyer and Words In Motion open mic hosted by Shan Amaru.

Special guests confirmed as attending:

* Aissetou N'gom (Presenter & Cross-Platform Producer)
* Alex Delaney (British Youth Council)
* Alys Zaerin (Unite Against Fascism)
* Dwain Lucktung (Ctrl.Alt.Shift)
* Gary Trowsdale (Spirit of London Awards)
* Josh Hollands (Love Music Hate Racism)
* Lee Jasper (Operation Black Vote)
* Mariam Sheikh (National Council for Voluntary Youth Services)
* Naomi Jane (Channel 4 Education Advisory Board)
* Rebecca Palmer (GLA Children and Young People's Unit)
* Richard Taylor (Damilola Taylor Trust)
* Rob Berkley (Runnymede Trust)
* Sean McDermott (Barking and Dagenham Youth Forum)
* Simon Woolley (Operation Black Vote)

Facebook Event Page:

Sunday, 4 April 2010

Eternal Engine

Women and children first, I hear you cry
A thirst to reproduce and survive: it’s demand and supply.
Each day I listen to the insides of mine thrive and jive to the internal murmuring of a metal hide.

Just in case the rush hour ice age is coming.

For once I'd like to strip these fancies, fineries that make me an individual,
Expose these mechanisms that make me truly me and watch them work
Without my consent: this is mutiny.
Mother Nature with her unwanted nuture has forced herself on me; monthly bleeds her morning feeds that go on and on and on.

This is a pre-set of so called mind set; it’s game set match to this path of regeneration, a dance that feeds this nation.
So here I sit, skirt for the hit, hoping the next card I’ll play will start some motion in the ocean - Don't blame me, I'm living up to Gaia’s love and devotion.

What's good?

Super Nintendo
To leave where you are
Childhood, depending
My mum
My mums food
Clothes that look good
Girrrrrls that are nice.

Friday, 2 April 2010


I quickly capture the picture in digital format
Stepping to the cold air I'm accustomed to
Habit tells me to go left but for some reason i go right
, We embrace
The colours are new to my eyes
They're duller
Jokes from frank about the camera on my neck
with a click I save buildings forever
"A patti-Baguette" he thinks he's being clever
I take a quick breath as i see my father
at the stall we laugh together
I never thought I'd see this building again
Greets me like an old friend

Thursday, 1 April 2010


Sometimes it’s impossible to get guys anymore

They’re too much of a challenge; I’m too much of a chore

Don’t spread my legs immediately like some cheap whore

So they’re in some other girl before my pants kiss the floor.

I used to be open before and they abused it,

But when I was used at least I assumed I would get it

Long list of catalogue and I was the cheapest

So quick buy, bargain sale and then you lose interest. Me.

And now I come, no confidence with a package

Guys can never be assed to open jars

Unless they’re guaranteed to smear it

First signs of struggle and they’ll goddamn leave it

I don’t blame them but you see

I was abused by the people I thought I had loved

So if you can’t see the problems I face

I guess you ain’t thinking hard enough.

Wednesday, 31 March 2010

I Like The Way This Word Sounds

I like the way this word sounds by Talia Randall

Friday, 26 March 2010


yes, I'm counted
I'm one in a sea of other ones
none of us no greater than our own sum
too disorganised for collective good times to come
and we know where we're from
grew up in your palm
but given half the chance
I'll run up your arm
and smack you for not seeing making a fist
would have done us harm,
for not becoming what you could have been
not for not doing what you should have done
but would my blow even land?
when you're a mini man in a promised promise land
Trying to get in where I fit in my position is filled in,
"sorry we're filled up, good luck with giving up"
never, never. Doctor, doctor,
it's my city i think she is knocking on heavens door
I want to help her but I'm piss poor
don't know why this abuse is being ignored
she'd scream if she had a mouth
but it's going on behind closed doors, so
only through graffiti do her words come out
did her shine get lost in the rubble after
the second world war?
campaign done forgot what she's about
we have i love london t-shirts
but we're not about love
because we're not new york
london is about rising above no matter what
we're the teeth that grind the diamond in the coal that shines
proof that only mediocre minds think imitation works
and no politician can hide behind their face, mouth full of teeth hair full of snakes
the last time i was inspired by a politician he ran with the slogan "change"
we all fell in love but it didn't do anything to the weight of our rain
serious every politician apart from the name is exactly the same
the bus fairs would have gone up no matter what, i don't get angry at pain
because the fact is their greed wont ever stop,
never, ever, doctor, doctor
my friends mum is having kids to keep bailiffs from knocking at her door
is it about who's fucked up or who's fucked up more
every artist that gets big is desperate to jump to another shore
everyone wants a leg up without thinking about who's getting stepped on
real cliched but baby don't forget where you came from
in the mean time I'm going to sing the same song but remix the rhythm
to no longer have my head in the clouds but walk upon them
just to get the people learning that london when got going gets burning
I'll be doing not telling, providing not selling,
so please don't tell me I'm counted, tell me I'm counting.

Wednesday, 24 March 2010

They Had Faces Like Grotesque Masks

He asked me why I didn't kiss
I said too many snakes have bitten my lips.
Only poison resides there now

It started with uncles
Who wanted to spill their incest
Inside my thighs when babysitting
For my working mother.
Their desire of turning
A child into a woman so strong
They failed to see it was wrong
To turn nieces into wives.


It’s a man touching your body
But never touching your soul

It’s being afraid of intimacy
Because you are so used to its company

It’s saving the world
But no one saving you

It’s the gift they despise you for
It’s the silence that comes after their applause

It’s sadness masquerading as joy
It's realising your arms are too short to hug away your pain

It’s not the cold side of the bed
It’s the cold

It’s not the phone that never rings
It’s the silence


It’s deafening.

Thursday, 18 March 2010

The weakness of many tellers of tales

She always talks: giving away too much.
The benign immensity of her words he ignores
The secret intensity of his words he stores
He stacks them on shelves and they gather up dust
Hidden and heavy, the weight of their trust.

She looses strength with every sentence.
And though she chooses carefully she’s
Betrayed by vowels and consonants.
Stung by sour regret as those sounds leave her mouth
Wishing he would save her and just interject.
But he’s tongue-tied, mouth dry:
His silence is a shield with which he’s protected.

He can’t expose himself with words.
Instead he makes her read in-between the silences
Expresses all he needs in the things left unsaid.
He belittles her words as babble, conjecture.
So she waits for him to respond to her with gestures.

Wednesday, 17 March 2010

Dusk fell on the stream

Dusk fell on the stream
Time had long past curfew
But my mind wasn't yet ready to be freed from the paceful peace of the running water
Thoughts followed where it was going 
Wondering whether it hoped to return or longed to escape
Searching for shared fear of the unknown
Seeking strength
Eroding apprehension and 
Gathering courage.
I wondered 
Did the force of it's forefathers 
Drag it downstream
Through tributaries it would have never self chosen
Or was the current flow free?
Direction discovered in passing moments
Paths improvised intuitively

As I sit at the stream
I think of the knowledge earnt in school
Worked hard with
Pricked ears
Still eyes
Calm heart
Closed mouth
Scrating pen on paper like psoriasis
Eager to see red ticks
Preparation for red brick
Pretentious buildings 
Built for the minds of a scholar by the hands of a slave
And I am a slave
An unwilling lifter
Of the family name
To never let it fall to shame 
trampled down and/i'm 
drowned in blame.

Citizen's Arrest

I want to take you on a tour

The inches between my skin and insides

My gears that grind your hate and judgement

That make you feel the need for punishment

To call, insult me on what you see.

Should I apologise for my presence?

Needlessly minding my business

As my body is there as witness

And unknowingly I’m committing a crime.

So here I am. Correction Facility.

Changing my identity a necessity

So I can fit inside with that world of yours

While I’m rotting to the core.

Tuesday, 16 March 2010

The Tears Still Haven't Come‏

Finally I find the feelings
I understand that I may never understand you, and I'm dealing with it
There it's dealt with
My emotions on this
That situation with you is now removed
I made u seem more than you were
That even you started to believe you was
I wonder if I stab my heart, will it bleed?
I wonder why I call you dad when I never did to your face?
I've been trying to cry about this for the longest, but it's been so hard
I'm so scared of what will happen
Now I'm struggling to breath
The tears hardly hit the corners of my eyes, but I still push my head back wanting them to go back in
I'm drowning
Thinking about the card that never came
The big 21
No love from
No, paper or words or money or call
No tears
Just wonder
It's never gonna happen is it?
If I see you I will be awkward
I would hardly look
I would walk away
I need them to replace the pain that I'm not even sure is here
And everyday I think of you and try my best to cry
But it doesn't come and I wonder why
Do I know what love is?
Did you ever?
Let me not go anywhere until these tears have come
And I will smile and be nice
And maybe not hold back me
Not wanting to let go until it happens for real
I cry to see if I still can
It's me admitting I've got pain
I'm confused
I don't care that much for you
The tears still haven't come

Monday, 15 March 2010

Edgy Corners by Talia Randall

Edgy Corners by Talia Randall

Friday, 5 March 2010

Group work- white flag.

I don't have a clue
Spitting with my silver forked tongue
the devil and I moved in toe
an oxymoron: I love my phone
his power inspires me
like moonbeams kissing the sea
Two lovers.
Walking perplexed.
White the colour of beautiful truth
Red. The colour of a beautiful lie.
Tongues dancing the kiss of death
who would have thought, what we said
we'd really do.
Hands up.

Wednesday, 24 February 2010


Lights out.
I study the stillness of the dark
My eyes roam everywhere,
My only company: the baby-like cries
Of rampant foxes outside
And my sister's heavy breathing.
She sleeps in a fetal position.
I am filled with envy
Eyes green, glowing in the dark.
I wish I could sleep right now.
Maybe in another realm
My brain wouldn't be in overdrive
And I would be able to survive
The sick feeling in my gut
That shoots up to my throat
Forming a huge lump of emotion.
I have to snatch breaths
To stop yourself from crying.
The type you know once it melts
It will melt, flow everywhere
Soak you up.
It will wet the bed and wake
Your little sister
When she asks what's happening
You would just sheepishly
Tell her to go back to bed
As if it's easy to fall asleep
In a soaked bed.
So I just hold the lump.
Let it choke me
Inbetween shallow breaths.

Schemes swirl in my head.
I plan how I'll confront him
Pretend not to be hurt.
If I act upset he might
Actually think I care.
I convince myself,
It's not me who is hurt.
Just my pride that's all.
A few bruises here and there.
Deep down knows the truth
Of the full battering of my feelings.
The choking my ego received
But to admit, would be to
Say yes I care.
The clock by the bed blinks 0432.
Such an awkward time.
Or laughing at his jokes
When all you really wish for
Is long nails to scratch the
Fuck out of his eyes.

I try to count sheep
Hoping that would bring me sleep
Instead I wonder why he can't
Be mine alone.
Mine to keep.
She would just have to be
The one to fuck off.
I hate her. Hate him,
Myself and the fact that even
With this evidence before me
I will not let him go.
She's cute. Nothing on me though.

I think to myself,
If love were easy,
I would have fucked her by now
Just so I could brag like
Been there, done that.

Group work- Walk.

The laughs we had were great
staying up so late
walking, killing some time
no ones in central london at this hour
but they left the lights on
listening to bob dylan and free
and walks till he's tired
a bus stop
a man that thinks he's homeless
drunken couple
memories of our moments alone
he's passed out she's pissed off
passes on peoples radar when they're begging.
i felt you had love for me
you think about chatting her up
fingers crossed her boyfriend doesn't wake up

Tuesday, 16 February 2010

Cool Blue (Jazz)

I'm addicted to the Cool Blue
Cool Blue, she takes me high
Makes me high till I grow
Feathers and fly.
Addicted to the Cool Blue
Follow her wherever she takes me
I ask no questions
But listen to how she
Makes the saxophone sing
Like a lover's deep slow moan
Feel how she makes the trumpet
Burble tales of pain
I watch how she digs, digs
Searching inside me
Just so she can see me weak
Vulnerable, tears flushing my eyes.
Cool Blue makes me feel content
She uses Coltrane as her interpreter
To translate music notes to colours
She speaks. I listen.
I take her all in, absorbing her
Till my heart swells. Explodes.
I'm slave to the Cool Blue
For she makes me feel free
Addicted to the Cool Blue
Dark as the rain
Loud and insane
Her rhythm rests in my head
Making me feel like making love
The way she injects jelly in my knees.
Chills climb up my spine
Till my ears burn like a nut allergy
Goosebumps planted all over my skin
Whenever I take a hit of Cool Blue.


She spoke English to alienate us
We spoke back in Shona
Voices laced in adniration. Fascination.
How could one as black us.
Young as us. Speak so white?
Pearls spilling out of her mouth.
She wanted nothing to do with us
We wanted all to do with her father's money.
Eat lunch after school in fancy restaurants
Have ice cream after each meal & Barbies to behead
Knowing Mama would but new ones anyway,
Birthday presents from the President
Because were best friends with his kids.
She never joined in our streetgames
But sat by the portholed roadside
Watching. Pretty face marred with disdain.
We almost broke legs in competition
For her friendship and attention
Just so we could impress her.

She frowned at our barefeet,
Dry skinned heels adorned with deep cracks.
She wore American clothes.
Our mothers made ours.
We would marvel at her All Stars.
After all we could only afford North Stars.
Before she came we hardly ever noticed
Our homemade garments, ashy knees & nappy hair.
She breezed in on her high horse: Daddy's Benz
Lotioned skin, store bought clothes
Chemically boiled hair & an English accent.
She made us look poor. Feel poor.
Us children of whote collar professionals.
We didn't realise that private school
Didn't crown her more intelligent.
It just opened her to a wider world
One we only experienced on black & white TV screens.

The grass is always greener.
So blinded were we with envy
We failed to see hers.

Sunday, 7 February 2010



For approximately 1 minute
I was king

The feeling as the ball rolled from my hand,
arrowing straight down the centre of the lane,
mantaining a position of perfection,
as it travelled at the speed of delight,
equal distance between the two gully's.

My own projectile missile,
Target locked on.
Upon Impact,
producing a harmonic sound of an organised crescendo of chaos,
as the ball struck the centre pin.
The catalyst for the chain reaction,
collapsiong all 10 pins.
Nothing left

That was my moment

I'd long ago accepted my position,
as issued by God.
My rank being verbal punchbag,
in the great order of things.

I'm the one you wonna play pool against,
after you've just taken a whipping.

Talk to me for an instant ego boost

My social scene is like a fruit machine
My mates are like the cherries,
always in pairs.
I'm the lemon.

I turned back round,
and saw my 3 friends,
and their girlfriends,
with their mouths open wide,
as if they were about to engage in speech,
but nothing was coming out.

I never knew silence could make a sound so beautiful

Another Monday afternoon
Sitting at my desk
Biting the spoon that feeds me
It's my teams shift to answer the phone

I'm pretendning to help the girl on the desk next to me
When really,
were both just making excuses,
to not answer the phone

Were currently in a very deep conversation,
about what jobs we used to have.
She tells me,
she used to work part-time in Mark One
I tell her,
I worked as a groundsman for an old school freind,
he was a tree surgeon.

"Becuase your a dick"

"Mate I've changed"

"na, I'm not having it. I don't wonna hang about with you no more"

12 or more years of freindship
No more.
Slammed the phone down like I,
cut the power from,
life support.
Sending 100,000 volts down the telephone chord

Standing in the hallway at Mum and Dad's.
but still consious of other people in the house,
over hearing my conversation.
12 or more years,
no more.

I stare at my computer screen,
my screen stares back at me.
I'm not intrested in the information it has to offer.
I'm too busy,
going over the same of train of thought,
I go through at least once a week.
Sick of the commute.
In my head,
I'm still trying to justify,
the reasons why,
I ended the freindship.

Was I right?

Course I was.
I had too.
The lies.
I sometimes wonder if he even saw me as a mate,
or just a trusty sidekick,
who's powers were not as strong,
makeing him feel better about himself.
The lies.

The phone rings.
I answer it.
The person at the otherr end is angry.
I'm angry.
I've made myself angry.
I'm sending letters,
threatening to reposess this persons car.

I could hear his girlfreind in the back ground.
One of the many wrong-un's,
that used to occuppy,
the passenger side,
of his badly modified,
ragged to shit,
Fiat Punto.

Big key scratch down the driver sider.
The latest episode,
in some tit for tat spat,
he had,
with some other prick.
Dick swinging.
I told him he was gonna get kickin if he carried on.
And no matter how much he reved that car,
it was never gonna compensate,
for that part of his life,
where he felt small.
Pity the fool.

I take a payment from the person.
Holding off repossesion,
for another month.
My thought train contiunes,
doing loop the loops.
His train,
was off the rails.
Should I have stuck around,
till he was at least back on track?
Or was he always destined for that path?

I wonder if his family hold a grudge against me

Sunday, 31 January 2010

flashback then back and back again.

Facing the door, keys in my hand. Now for compilation- contemplation. The flats were once an office space. All so sterile. People could definitely die here. It's a harsh- argh- keys face this.
I'm greeted with a smile and my adidas hoodie never looked so good with a hug round my waist, happy I'm home-are you?- yeah-ah-well-man-so-up-stairs-watch some sopranos?
"helllllloooo" 'hi' 'sorry' 'no you know what it's out of order'
don't bite
'i know, i know'
'if you're annoyed, it doesn't give you the right to be rude'
'bu'-don't bite don't bite
'you're right, sorry, i know'
'well you obviously DON'T know do you?'
bite- bite the tongue, the tongue
'lets talk about this'
'I'm not trying to argue with you'
my back on the bed her head on my chest
played her out like i did my old super nes
it's weird to think sex could become, pure
exciting and sort of, i don't know, fun. Before
it was always sort of a chore. Like talking
to my dad.
'are you even listening to me?'
Swimming in memories I reach the surface
to see reality is raining on top of me- makes
the sea that much warmer. But i have to get out sometime
Or I'll get raisin fingers