The Backlists Poem #5

Beirut

At the border-house, halfway
up the wall, unexploded Lebanese
devise new harmonies > our singer
flees his lover’s moustache
{&} summer’s disorderly gasp
in the right direction < oriental
melodies raise wallflowers from their beds;
throw pop to the wind, fashionably
alive because there is no elegance
in waiting for strings of pearl
to light a room > if I was young
I’d still love (your exploding face)
entirely, we’d raise apples under
a waterfall of TVs / dancing
strips of sun inside their peace
{&} no freedom but these temporarily
complete partings of sea >^>^>

carry on

The Backlists Poem #4

Trust

This man has a stuffed mouse taped to his head.

The lobby’s ever-changing guard of attention-seekers
click into focus:

These fashionable diagnoses keep chipping away at our penchant
for the accurate: here is a clump of badger hair, bathing
in a pool of neon. Here is the invisible man projecting films
of his absence onto a wall.

Other convoluted gasps in the rosy dark of a fontanel:
A dreaming surgeon strips the skin from his thumbs.

Having already broken, rebuilt & enshrined the heart
in a heart-shaped estuary, Maddy will charge Japanese tourists
£15 apiece to admire / ridicule it using kaleidoscopic goggles.

‘All art tries to swindle death.’ The drunken doctor hands out
freebies: charcoal, pastels, massive blank X-Ray cards
& sends his ladies trundling off, nursing delusions of artistry.

We are informed of the season’s whereabouts by
a series of effective illustrations. We are quietly influenced by
the distant quack of a car alarm / every single thing
we see

The Backlists Poem #3

Two Step

glad to indulge a hefty drinks order the lady pays in kind?
judging by her trail of disregard climbing window {&} pen
I assume wetness evades fat {&} heads tally tails moving
in circular diction I replenish friends of online strangers
approach waving glass models money counts for less in
trash talking of isms my watch forms a basic accord polite
{&} repulsive equally she wins > clap hands > light switch

off

The Backlists Poem #2

Parkin’s Rooms

Our town kips
under a pall of pie-smoke. We’ll both be eaten by
hours, by mislaid flowers, my northern caff.
Cigarette butts, Olbas oil, blobs of porridge.
We’ll both be eaten by flowers, by mislaid
hours, my northern town. Town,
the old front-porch
after lectures; the rush
of water-light tips over carried books, held hands, idle
papers below high windows; faces, tossed
in all their oceanic thoughts. These rooms are proof of
bachelor fog, cigarette stubs, Olbas oil.
A spyglass, overhanging
the quad: damson, pear-cider, tangerine.
One boy trips over
another’s tongue; every sense trained on
the juicy stall. Cashew,
tissue. Gently, at first – Miss King rinsing her parts
in the bathroom of my mind. Ribbons
tugged, bruised knees.

She kept her blouse intact. What a cheek.

 

The Backlists Poem #1

I’ll be posting a poem every day this week from my new pamphlet – The Backlists, which is available now from The Knives Forks and Spoons Press.

 

Spectrum

Honey-spoon {&} dry cereal no milk
he always had less hair does that mean
something the paediatrician said
humming the 20th Century Fox theme
{&} spinning in a circle prevents
fingernails / teeth / eardrums / limbs
{&} all the other children can stop
eyes rolling back in sockets rolling
back the fingernails / teeth / eardrums
other kids understand horses
trample if provoked > now play fire
engines / helicopters / NORMAL
ONE Two THREE Four FIVE Six
all the way happy > sad to adulthood
expect the worst nothing > best
maths you do the maths {&} tell teachers
murdering the 20th Century Fox logo
American / no he pretends to be
too much television yes overstimulation
idiosyncratic > words are supposed to
mean the 20th Century Fox theme
Eight NINE Ten ELEVEN Twenty
TEN in the dark, build a forest of toys

 

Fear. Doubt. Gardening.

Removed, due to publication in Stride magazine.

The Vanishing Age of the Blockbuster

Having enjoyed the playful, if unbelievably dated original Superman film yesterday afternoon, then sat through what seemed like several days worth of Tropic Thunder (maybe the “in-jokes” sailed over my head, but isn’t it just f*cking terrible?), I was left wondering: What’s happened to the traditional Hollywood blockbuster?

It now seems a pre-requisite for all big-budget films to be around 3 hours long, overwrought, digitally enhanced and lacking any kind of soul. A case in point being Superman Returns – while a reasonable idea in theory, Bryan Singer’s laboured revamp wound up being one of the most pointless extensions to a franchise in Hollywood history.

Presumably led by Christopher Nolan’s bleak take on Batman, there also seems to be a current trend for grit, hyperrealism and a calculated violence in today’s blockbusters, totally at odds with the Spielberg-initiated template for family-action-adventure films which had been prevalent in the previous 3 decades.

The latest instalment of the Die Hard series, for example, utilised this modern formula, and veered away from the original’s unaffected bonhomie, witty dialogue and perfect pacing. In recent years, only the Pirates of the Caribbean trilogy (despite clocking in at over 7.5 hours) has offered any sense of light-hearted fun in the face of all this po-faced solemnity.

So is anyone capable of producing another blockbuster as faultless as Raiders of the Lost Ark today? Another Back to the Future? Even taking into account their brazen commerciality, it’s the boundless enthusiasm, the work ethic on display, a feeling that the filmmakers are striving to entertain their audience, rather than indulging in stylistic emptiness, that contributes towards their enduring appeal.

Perhaps it’s only nostalgia that gives rise to these sorts of appraisals,

but it seems to me that the lack of pure imagination, or at least a willingness towards commercial artistry within Hollywood’s big league, is cause for concern. Or maybe just boredom.

I’m off to watch Jaws and pray the new Transformers movie proves me wrong.

May the Best Man Win?

If nothing else, his comedy maid’s outfit certainly drew attention from the bride’s black eye. She gulped her champagne like a furious bulldog. The chink of impatient cutlery. “This guy”, Gavin finally yelled into the microphone, slapping Adam severely on the neck;

“Well he’s always been there for me, yeah?” A wayward burst of the Friends theme made every toe curl. Shifting chairs. An anecdote about spooning in Corfu. Raised eyebrows. The groom wished for a rickety table and some rope.

“Then Wendy came on the scene…” Gavin lurched, cheeks resembling two bowls of roasted beetroot, “… and I was evicted from my own home.” A forlorn yelp: “No more pissing in the sink! No more Die Hard marathons…”

He hacked away a concerned arm and wept, quoting the Auden poem from Four Weddings. Wendy’s father stepped in with a gruff scruff of the neck: “Car park. Now.” The buffet-disco kicked off early with Come on Eileen and lamb kebabs.

Gavin studied a crow’s reflection in the muddy puddle.

Ah, Rejection

After a 6 month wait, the poetry journal “Alice Blue” sent me this… unusual rejection today:

“Unfortunately we were unable to find a place for your work in this issue. Sometimes this happens. Monkeys press switches and little babies freak out & cry, “pick me!” “pick me!” but it’s all monkeys here so don’t despair. More opportunities skitter towards you with alice blue hypodermics, ice water, and The World’s record for rapid eye movement.

Much love, The Editorial Staff ”

I assume this is the standard response they send every rejectee. In a moment of confusion and misplaced bravado I considered mailing this reply…

“Thank you for the contrived response, Editorial Staff. According to the internet, Alice Blue is both obsolete and a failure, so please accept my sympathies. I enjoyed the monkey reference, but rest assured your attempt at self-importance drifted past virtually unnoticed.  

 

Ever willing,

Writer”

 

On the issue of editor-writer exchanges, these Letters from our Editor were crafted by Salt’s Chris Hamilton-Emery. Brilliantly written, and very funny indeed.

 

A Game to solve (or compound) Boredom

 

A friend showed me this yesterday. It’s an online game for the truly bored. Click here – http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Special:Random - whatever comes up is your band name.

 

Then go to Random Quotes – http://www.quotationspage.com/random.php3 - the final 4 or 5 words of the last quote is the name of your album.

 

Finally go to Flickr’s “last 7 days” page -http://www.flickr.com/explore/interesting/7days - the 3rd photo is your album cover…

 

Then, if you have as much empty time on your hands as me, go to http://www.online-image-editor.com and put it all together!

 

Maybe I should find a new job.