RUBIX ROOF POETRY - Paul Cree's, The Plight of St. George

Buried Instinct

BURIED INSTICNT

I watched a cat in my garden attacking a bird.

2 separate species surviving on instinct.

Going about their business as the creator intended.

It's gone 10a.m and I'm peering at the world,

through a french window,

via dehydrated eyes,

burning images in the back of a mind,

lacking stimulation and exercise.

A mound of muscle and membrane slowly giving up the ghost.

Receding into the decline,

like the hairline,

on the head of the host.

The who stares vacantly,

as a cat attacks a bird,

wondering,

“where's MY instincts gone?”

RUBIX ON THE ROOF

Yo

Chima Merge, mighty member of the Rubix Collective, filmed both Zionite (also a member of the Rubix) and myself on the roof of East Lonodn office...

and here it is

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PKVisdSEb00 

Manorlogz Spoken Word Competition

Hey

I had a busy day today filming 2 pieces for the Manorlogz spoken word slam here's the link http://manorlogz.co.uk/profile/paulcree

If you like it (or anyone else on there for that matter as I've seen a few and they are really good) then please vote.


I also did some people today with fellow Rubix members Zionite and Chima, at Chima's creative layer in Shorditch.


A lot of fun


A good days work


Paul

TAKING THE CHRIS

 TAKING THE CHRIS (Reece)

“Birds and Cats don’t get on Chris, she’s a bird of prey and you’re a pussy. That’s why you buy her Kit Kats and Coke everyday and still haven’t even got as far as holding her hand. By stringing you along, she’s merely sub-contracting the puppetry strings being pulled by the older boy she thinks is in love with her. Just tell her to jog on mate. If all you do is feed birds, they’ll gladly accept your offering then just fly away, leaving you lonely, hungry and skint. It’s the nature of that particular beast”

Of course I’ve never said this too Chris, his 15 year old heart is as delicately fragile as the egg shell of a new born chick, which is sadly ironic.

Chris steps off the scales in the bathroom, with the digital screen beginning to flirt dangerously with the 13 stone mark, I tell him to try and put this Abi girl to the back of his mind and concentrate on revising, girls aren’t worth the effort, etc etc etc. He doesn’t say anything and just scuttles away into his room to play X Box. The only reason I managed to get him on the scales is because Mum was out, gallivanting somewhere. Only on rare occasions will he admit to me that he has a problem with his weight, and this acceptance of the truth is never displayed verbally. Just a silent agreement between him and I that he gets on the scales, I take a reading, then he goes back to his room to daydream about Abi, play games on his xbox and daydream about Abi whist playing games on his x-box.

Chris is a smart lad, smarter than me. It’s partly why I feel so false each time I tell him to forget about this Abi girl, he knows I’m just paying him lip service. He also knows that I know that it’s nigh on impossible to eject a girl from your head when you’ve already surpassed head over heels and your now kissing your own arse, which is made even harder when you have an arse the size of Chris’s, and a self esteem the size of the full stop next to the word “sentence” at the end of this sentence.

The bathroom is pretty small; the scales are next to the sink which moulds on to the end of the bath. There’s just enough room to swing the door open without hitting the bath tub. The Ikea dream. There’s a window with a sill which is populated with products, mostly belonging to Mum. There’s my few bits, a razor, aftershave and some Lynx shower gel I bought for Chris about 2 months ago which has hardly been used. Next to the bathroom is the toilet; next to the toilet is Chris’s room. I can step out the bathroom in one stride and be outside his door, which is mostly locked shut. Years of coming in late also taught me the where the creaks in the floorboards are. I do the one stride thing and knock on his door. “Chris mate, I’m making some dinner, you want some? Just burgers, chips and a bit of veg?”

If I get an instant reaction after I’ve knocked, that normally means he’s knocking one out, as I normally receive an involuntary “NO.......................THANKS” within milliseconds of knocking.

He was knocking one out. I was already half way down the stairs when I heard the “THANKS”. Sure enough in five minutes he’d be down stairs saying he’s hungry.

This girl, Abi, the one that keeps coming round. She’s in his class and seems friendly enough. Young enough to not know what she’s doing, young enough to think she knows what she’s doing and by now, most definitely old enough to understand and harness one of the greatest powers a female can ever possess, the manipulation of a pussy, which is sadly ironic.

Anyway, this Abi girl, who is quite pretty, so I can see where Chris is coming from (though I’m probably not allowed to say that, as a 23 year old male I’m sure that makes me a sex case and the tabloids would metaphorically burn me at the steak If I was vaguely famous or interesting) comes round a few times a week to revise and chat. They watch DVD’s. Chris likes DVD’s. They eat Ice cream and look at random silly stuff on the internet then she does one.

Recently it seems she’s been spending a good deal of the time she spends with Chris either texting or talking on the phone to this older boyfriend of hers (on Chris’s phone no doubt) who I know is 17, works at a mobile phone shop in town, has just passed his driving test, and is called Brian, who’s the sexcase now?

They started hanging around each other probably about 6 months ago, I think they were paired together on some coursework and have remained friends ever since. From what I can dissect of their friendship, I think there is a genuine part of Abi that feels sorry for Chris and wants to help him, as I do, but this unfortunately is only a reserve team player in comparison with the multi-million pound international striker that is Abi’s insecurity, which like any pre-Madonna teenage girl who thinks she's older than she is needs constantly satisfying. It's the dick in a glass scenario that the comedian Chris Rock talked about, break in case of emergency. Chris is most certainly locked into the glass cabinet and Abi is wheedling the axe.

Chris stumbles into the kitchen, hands in the pockets of his jogging bottoms, shoulders hunched, looking at the floor, belly handing out from under his red England shirt that he clearly outgrew, but still insists on wearing. He stands next to the sink. Like the bathroom, the kitchen is small, an all in one unit with cooker, sink, fridge freezer and surface unit. The Ikea dream.

“You changed your mind about dinner mate? There’s plenty here for you?”

He nods his podgy head, resembling a slightly deflated beach ball. I take that as a yes. He heads over to the bin where I see him put an empty kit kat wrapper into it. With his foot on the lid, the bin remains exposed, revealing more Kit kat wrappers and junk food packaging. Chris quickly snaps the lid shut with his podgy right hand. He looks at me, I look at him. He knows. I know.

Birds and Cats don’t get on, but it never stops the Cat from chasing. I don't tell that to Chris, but I remind myself of the fact, as I know only too well.

RAIN ON ME

 RAIN ON ME (STUART SIMMONS)

I find solace in melancholy. When Summer becomes Autumn, and the leaves drop and turn brown, I retreat inwards. Burrowing deep into layers of misery, I bore through unhappy memories, examining and analyzing their content. Memories of being dumped, girls I was too afraid too ask out, disappointing Christmas presents, England world cup and Euro exits, being dumped, girls I was too afraid too ask out, grandparents passing away, being dumped and girls I was too afraid too ask out, dropping out of School, being dumped....... I keep on tunneling deeper and deeper until my gormless head pops out at the other end (my arse most probably) and I feel back to normal, until it rains again.

A cycle of suffering. Pointless, but I can't seem to stop it. I don't want to stop it, I like it. Sort of. Presently, I'm sat in the kitchen by the back door, observing the rain. Switching my focus between the lines of liquid descending from the sky into the garden and the rain drops on the window doing what looks like some obscure contemporary dance piece as they slowly make there way to the bottom. I'm glad I'm not at work, that would remove the solace and amplify and distort the misery already present.

A hot cup of tea embraces my hand and radiates to the the tips of my long boney fingers. It's like the modern day equivalent, or the slightly poor man's but never the less pressed for time and space equivalent, of having a roaring log fire in the living room, whilst one is perched in the comfiest of Grandad style arm chairs, sucking on Whethers Originals (or fizzy Chewits in my case, whatever happened to them)? listening to Vivladi (or speed garage in my case, whatever happened to that?), reading the collected works of Shakespeare (Or in my case Essential Punisher, yes, he's still going strong)

I'm not at work today as it's my loo day. My assertive, communication and team player skills are not required until tomorrow. The customers will be missing my service, the service I give, as a customer service assistant, assisting the customers. The center of a squillion callers will miss my presence, I'm sure a shrine will be placed at my desk where my body was last seen, yesterday, until tomorrow, when I return. A minutes silence will held at 11 a.m.

Truthfully, work don't even know If I’m coming or going. My team-leader / boss / nemesis / stalker, Noel phoned me up this morning on my home number asking where I was. I told him I was at home, hence I was able to answer the home phone. Plank. I reminded him it was my day off. He paused for 3 seconds (I counted) and mumbled something I just about made out as an apology followed by another pause (4 seconds this time) breaking the silence with a sudden enforced injection of some pathetic authority, to hide his blushes. The kind my Dad once used when Mum walked in the front room just as he was looking at porn, barking something about trying to be creative and his privacy needed to be respected or else he would loose his concentration. Noel decided to remind me I had an appraisal due in 2 weeks and 3 days. I told Noel I'd be looking to seek compensation for the medical damage caused when I had to suddenly awake from a deep slumber to answer the phone. The dramatic rise in blood sugar required to get out of bed and answer the phone caused my heart undue stress. He hung up the phone. Bellend.

Being that I was awake after that phone call, I decided I might as well remain up and have some breakfast. It was an opportunity to sit down and watch the Holy-oaks omnibus I'd recorded on Sunday. The wonders of the recordable SKY box. As I loaded up the episode I remembered as a young child recording a WCW title fight between Sting and Ravishing Rick Rude (WCW was the slightly poor mans equivalent to WWF which was on SKY, we only had terrestrial back then). I'd eagerly anticipated this fight for weeks and was heartbroken when the VHS tape chewed halfway though, ruining the picture.

I'd finished the omnibus having only just noticed that 2 sugar coated and now dry cornflakes were stuck to my dressing-gown, from where Id been eating breakfast on the settee, when the rain started to pour. I then abandoned the spilled surgery milk on Mum and dad's settee and dived, like my life depended on it, straight for the kettle.

Since I was a young I've always watched and listened to the rain, and ever since, I'd always stop what I was doing and take a moment to let the gray clouds sing to me. Stop. Look. Listen. I never did listen in School. Much. I was probably looking out of the window at the rain (those windows with the black square grids inside, apparently they made them shatter proof). Information goes in one ear, with only partial amounts of it being captured by the nerve endings associated with memory which seem to scramble it and store it in the wrong place, while the majority of the information floats through unchallenged to my other ear and drifts out into the abyss, only to evaporate into air molecules which get absorbed into gloomy looking rain clouds who then spit it back straight towards earths floor, where it gets trodden on, by me. Grey clouds pissing out my education, as I stop, look and listen. Swimming in my own downpour of educational downfall.

The mug of tea in my right hand is empty. The rain appears to have halted and there is a threat of sunshine, possible rainbow action. I had a vague arrangement to go and meet my friend Reece and his chubby little brother Chris. I look at the clock, then at the kettle, then at the clock, then at the kettle again. My dressing gown stinks of soggy cornflakes, and that general morning smell. Rain starts lashing back down again. On autopilot, I walk straight to the kettle. I was supposed to have met Reece 10 minutes ago. I can hear my mobile phone ringing.