Applying weight to the wrong side of the see-saw

Applying weight on the wrong side of the sea saw

As my bank balance sinks into a digital abyss,

my self esteem seems to be reaching limits never before seen.

The sea saw of life,

leans towards a bias of living.

Defined by me as,

writing performing making friends and meeting women,

and occasionally drinking.

Though I crave equilibrium to balance the scales,

weighed down with too much of one and not enough of the other,

and vice versa.

I surrendered the tender part of my twenties,

making ends meat in menial jobs just so I could eat.

Lining my belly DID NOT feed my soul.

So before I became resentful,

I ran,

and here I am.

Skint.

Looking at a letter from the bank.

I've never before considered myself a tease,

but I've been flirting with that overdraft limit,

like it was wearing a short skirt and fluttering it's eyelids at me.

I just can't afford to buy the drinks.

There's a big carpet in the back of my mind,

smothering memories of times,

when I genuinely felt I was a complete waste of space.

A leech bleeding dry the oxygen supply,

belonging to people actually doing something meaningful with their lives.

As opposed to me,

living only to pass the time between work and sleep.

The letter informs me of the last time I deposited money into the account.

At that,

I deposit the letter onto my bedroom floor.

Where it quickly becomes absorbed in a sea of paper,

containing scribbles, ideas and event flyers,

the closest thing I have to a justification for the direction I've taken.

The bedroom ,

belongs to my parents.

My possessions,

are stacked and boxed,

in a corner,

and have been that way,

for well over a year,

awaiting their next placement,

in this permanent state of transition I find myself in.

When I wake tomorrow,

the search for dough begins.

Scouring the net for office jobs,

like a smack addict relapsing.

I knew the risks.

I made the jump,

now I'm in danger of drowning.

If I go down,

believe,

I'm going down fighting,

and If I have to go back and sit in front of a desk too collect debts,

knowing the only professions more detested than mine,

are tax officers, politicians and traffic wardens,

then so be it,

at least I tried.

And I did have a bloody good time

Embarrassment Harassment

This is another work in progress. I've been trying to take a leaf out of Indigo Williams' book who told me once she was really trying to push the boundaries of her comfort when writing, subjects like the one below are certainly things I tend to avoid

Eyes with grins,

found normally on faces,

burn skin and scan movement,

as I become,

painfully aware,

of every move,

I make.

Trying hard,

to make

a move,

to this,

pretty,

brunette.

Straight shiney hair,

slowly sliding,

to her,

shoulder blades,

gently bouncing,

off her back,

like,

the brush strokes,

of a delicate drummer,

providing a rhythm,

to accompany the jazz,

every time,

she answers,

one of my,

never ending,

stupid questions.

Paining a picture of perfection,

with my own,

internal airbrush,

whilst I muddy,

my frame,

fouling the air,

between

our heads,

with desperation,

as her attention,

towards me,

slowly diminishes,

like the fading light,

of a solitary car,

moving along,

a dark,

country lane.

In front of an audience,

of my mates,

laughing,

at my,

predictable

decline.

House Party

At the moment all roads point to The Roundhouse on March 9th for The Rubix  work in progress show of "House Party." Were now deep into rehearsals and gearing up for lift off so come join us

http://www.ayoungertheatre.com/feature-roundhouse-rubix-poetry-collective/

Up Coming Project

I Love music. If it wasn't for music I wouldn't be writing. I picked up a pen because I wanted to write lyrics to Drum and Bass and Garage music. I still do. I was actively involved on a small scale as a MC and rapper for few years before, not intentionally, drifting away. Now things seem to have gone full swing and I've back in the booth, on a project I previously mentioned, with Conrad Murray (Producer, Singer, Rapper, Actor, Director) and Dani Marshall (whom I've worked with many times in the past), we are currently in the process of making an EP with hopefully a few live tricks up our sleevs.
This footage was shot partly at BAC in a live improvisation, and in Conrad's studio...

This spirit will not be diluted (work in progress)

This is something I began working on a few weeks ago...

Mates

My Girlfriend thought I was cheating,

When I told her I was meeting,

Donna and stella,

for the evening.

Not Quite.

A few pints,

a lot of banter,

and a passion for grease.

My belly clucks for the pulp of processed meat,

blushing red at whiskey's cheek,

drowning in larger,

we sink deep,

into verbal cesspool's,

where rule's cease,

and profanities rain.

I love seeing my mates.

Cusses fly in unrestricted airspace.

Energy,

breeds energy,

voices become raised,

stories are relayed,

amplified and distorted.

Glasses are raised,

to us,

as friends,

comrades,

mates.

We don't meet merely for the sake,

of partaking,

in alcohol,

booze takes second place,.

Public houses,

as opposed to houses,

provide a neutral space,

for us to congregate.

We don't meet merely to provide,

wingmen,

for when,

we attempt to fly alongside the birds.

These days,

if anything,

it's an escape from the avian race.

As life moves on and we all approach thirty,

like a train,

pulling into a station,

ready to unload a load of commuters,

reluctantly heeding to work in a job they hate,

our meetings as mates,

are few and far between.

This only makes the cake taste that little bit sweeter.

Cherries of news like,

Benny telling he's getting married,

Richard's missus is expecting,

and Gary's got a mortgage,

serve only to pepper the ingredients,

for what is already,

the bakers best kept recipe

Even when I had no news to report,

or,

when Rich was still signing on,

none it mattered.

For that short space of time,

when we meet,

career progression,

success with women,

money in the bank,

just become,

minor crumbs of information,

deriving from slices,

belonging to the cake.

Perceived negative side effects,

such as,

intake of fat saturated take away,

hangovers the following day,

are a small price to pay.

Away from my mates,

I feel England frowns,

everytime I open my mouth.

Concerned I might,

rupture the delicate eggshell skeleton of political correctness,

without ever assessing,

my integrity,

or intentions.

Prosecution judge and jury all rolled into one,

poised to condemn every word,

on the verge,

of slipping off my tongue.

Maintaining a snipers eye on my p's and q's,

was mandatory,

in my upbringing,

along with,

the importance and encouragement,

to step back

and laugh at life,

once in a while.

The communal sharing of stories,

told through beers with my peers,

is a nod to the culture of my forefathers,

who lacked the ability,

to read and write.

They immortalised their legacies,

through music and folk tales,

recited in boozerz,

swimming in ale, guiness and spirits.

Anytime a beer tap pumps liquid kisses into a pint glass their spirits live on.

I doubt my Grandpa would approve,

of the amount of booze,

I consume,

of an evening,

and I'm sure he would have something to say,

about the badge of lad culture I wear,

sold through football,

as well as,

the sise of a,

modern player's wage,

and as for gastro pubs,

we best leave that there,

however,

sitting in a pub,

with my mates,

laughing

being loud,

but not over the top,

regardless,

of whether or not,

this is no longer considered acceptable,

I'm sure he'd fight my corner,

And understand,

the necessity,

and love,

of seeing my mates.

A Cold Turkey Is Still A Bird

A cold turkey is still a bird

I found her like a needle in a playground

It wasn’t long before I found myself,

wrapped around her little finger,

smothering my foresight,

a pillow to my head as,

she sweetly whispered goodnight,

each night

down a mobile phone,,

melting my eardrums,

and frying my brain.

Viewing her lying and scheming,

through rose tinted spectacles,

like Specsavers,

selling specs,

to spectators,

in order to watch,

Specsavers ,

advertisments,

all day and evening.

My friends said,

“you're a fool,”

I said,

“you don't know her,”

they said,

“she's stringing you along,”

I said ,

“you don't know her,”

they said,

“don't come running to us when it all goes wrong,”

I said,

“I'm in it for the long run,

and the only strings here,

belong to a symphony,

playing my favourite song,

so you run along,

in fact,

jog on,

and don't come back..”

Exploiting my weakness must have been easy.

A sitting duck,

stranded at the back of the pack ,

starved of attention.

Struggling to swim in a lake of insecurity,

where identity,

is forged early,

and if not gained,

one can float,

to obscurity,

hidden in the shadows of stronger swimmers,

never having tasted,

the sweet offerings,

from another's hand.

She was the first to throw bread.

The excitement,

created the illusion,

I was no longer paddling,

but flying,

if only internally.

Unleashing feelings I thought belonged only in Hollywood,

and Holyoaks,

lumps in my throat,

and flies in my belly,

eveytime she phoned

Thing is,

she weren’t even that nice.

The benefits of companionship,

and endless promises,

had clouded my head.

I should have known she was a bit dense,

when she said,

“Why don't you ever call me babe”?

It was her reassurances,

that validated my existence,

which until then,

felt minimal,

to say the least.

It was this dependency,

on aligning my own self esteem,

on her very being,

which saw her prey,

on my need,

for her,

as she seemed to take pleasure,

playing ker-plunk,

with my soul,

measuring,

the lengths I'd be prepared to go,

anytime,

she threatened to end it all.

I think she enjoyed my consistence.

Knowing that,

whatever the weather,

I'd be over the moon,

to receive a text or a call,

It was like a cartoon rabbit,

with a habit for carrots,

she could dangle an orange stick in front of my eyes,

and I'd be desperate to grab it,

and she knew it.

I was addicted.

Her voice was like self harming by proxy.

The more she kept me hanging,

the harder I clung,

until I went clean,

and concentrated on me,

removing the dependency,

for living through a third party,

for the time being,

at least.

The ability,

to review hindsight,

and laugh,

is a gift,

worth more than Gold,

and should be treasured,

When I told her we were finished,

her final text read,

“if dats ow u feel den dats ow u feel”.

Enough said.

What was I thinking?