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Post by cal on Apr 14, 2008 5:41:01 GMT
I AM A FORTRESS
I am a fortress
I am a beacon of hope
That left hook that will save you
When your backs against the ropes
The bribed referee
I am above the tallest tree
You all want someone
That someone’s me
I am the reason that you wake up everyday
Drinking with your sorrows wont make nothing change
I am the light, the life, the one to keep you strong
I am the future
I do no wrong
I scaled the highest mountains
I swam the seven seas
I am the 999 call when your mate took to many E’s
I am the emperor
Get down on your knees
Your waiting for someone
That someone’s me
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Post by cal on Apr 14, 2008 5:56:54 GMT
GONE TO THE DOGS
I’ve seen faces of friends turn to frowns of fiends
People too mashed to say what they mean
A beak fuelled Friday which soon becomes Sunday
Regretting it all, comedown on Monday
A pint and two E’s to start you off
By 8 o clock your off your box
In and out of the toilets like a substance fuelled Yo-Yo
What would your bird say? She doesn’t have to know though
You will chat sh*t for hours, And nobody cares
Because nobody’s listening, Nobody’s there
Jaws are clenched, pupils dilate
You kicked off on that lad, who WAS your best mate
The girls are all crying into there beer
Every one of them wishing that they weren’t here
Lock them selves in the cubicle, spend the night in the bogs
The pubs and clubs have gone to the dogs
I see people I know, who somehow aren’t the same
Slurring there words, mind in a new frame
the blonde with gurn from here to outside
That fella still sniffing, last week he nearly died
Britain’s pubs and clubs, these boys and girls
There nowhere else like them, and no one else in the world
Should you join in the fun? Or get up and run?
Join the gang and feel rough when the weekend is done
Or stay out if it all, above it, outcast
Die old and live slow, not die young living fast.
If you step in that world, 6 am you’ll regret
You want to sleep but you cant, cause it aint wore off yet
A beak fuelled weekend that had to end someday
you’ll say “never again” on comedown Monday
Avoid the cubicles, stay out of the bogs
The pubs and clubs have gone to the dogs
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Post by scruff on Apr 14, 2008 18:14:07 GMT
Endless Rain. (a short)
Rain like daggers into my heart. Grey skies to perfectly mirror my distant mood. This is summer two thousand and six. Infinite boredom. A tree shimmers lonely through my window. I think of myself in bloom, this rain, this endless rain. I consider my plight, the tree sways cowering from the relentless attack of natures cruelty. Is this rain ever going to cease. I consider walking boldly outside to challenge heaven with outstretched arms. It is but brief consideration. I fall gently downwards staring into the eye of the storm, the storm inside of me fuelled by the poisonous intake of soul destroying malcontent. The bottle almost empty. I see my distorted reflection down the eye of the needle, raging eyes of lethargic reason staring right back at me, vanishing in the slow motion stream of day old malt upon glass towards its welcome host. It is 11-34 am.
Through broken glass I ascend to take on God and all his fucked up reason, barefoot on grass, blood pours from the open wound. I ask the invisible stars "Am I your only son, on hands and knees I bleed for you". I hear the cocophony of muttered rumouring and see the gallery of unconcerned faces behind twitching curtains as I fall back to earth. I laugh merciless and wild. The crowd filter back behind bitter windows.
Full of hate, daytime television replaced by the flames of state of the art Japanese technology and the stench of melting plastic, strangely fascinated by the flickering imagery I sit and stare. Disturbed only by the passing of teenage sex. I stare from the window, sixteen years of strawberry blonde hair perfection, legs of infinite mystery. I dream of those days. Im reminded that never will I hold such beauty again. She disappears from view. I hold her image and make love to it in my mind, later to repeat the process. My first and only lover
The waiting destroys me. Filling my days, when all the talkings done-nothings really been said. Thats the aching truth. I retire upstairs to shine my collection, my pride and only joy. Taking the silver neck of finest American steel between my drying lips I tenderly caress the trigger. One tender loving stroke and all the talking will be over. The voices gone forever.My shaking hand caresses the steel, endless rain battering against the bedroom window interupts the silence. I place the gun down onto the sheets and polish it gently. Every stroke a moments weakness until back into the wardrobe she goes. Maybe we will share another kiss tomorrow. I step outside for the second time today, curtains twitch,tongues ache with tomorrows stories and next weeks memories. My lonliness forgotten for the few hours I spend each day with my friends.
Each night around 7pm we sit on Mick's wall. Somenights we decide to fish upon Gerrards Lodge, it depends on the weather. Todays earlier rain went away around 5. We await Darren joining us denouncing life in his Southern gravelly tones. We wait for our other friends Curly and our writer friend John. Curly will drive us to the water, John will sit back seat and analyse for future masterpieces. Micks next door neighbour Anne with friend Jane join us for a fleeting moment before departing to meet two lucky young punks. Jane smiles sexually at John as the car pulls up, John and Darren decide not to fish tonight I'm driven with visions of their brutal murders as they close the doors to Darrens place, Anne and Jane giggling behind them. Lucky punks indeed. The vision soon passes. We load the car with rods and baskets as we assissinate the character of our chosen friends with jealous spleen venting longingness.
The water looks calm tonight considering the afternoon storms. I cast my float and chosen bait ten feet in front of my chosen peg. Mick and Curly are to my right. Is my imagination telling me that they are choosing to greet me with more sideways glances and whispered half truths than usual? I shout insult with reference to John and Darrens choice of company. Their bitter laughter alerts the attention of the other anglers. We smile at each other knowingly and contentedly. I stare at the waters surface, hypnotic patterns catching my eyes. In each of them an aspect of my life. Heaven opens briefly, brutal hard rains spearing the pond. Along with the fish we retire to safety. Sheltering in the derelict hut behind the pond we see the sun return to the sky. A rainbow appears behind Winter Hill on the distant horizon. I dream of finding new colours and taking polaroid pictures to show to Darren and John. We return to the water, I cast again. My hook tangles and sticks within the surface of a solitary lilipad. I struggle to free it. An impossible task. The float dissappears forever and my rage is undefined. I take the rod in hand splintering it into a thousand tiny fibreglass pieces. My friends and other companions look upon me astonished. The fishing over for tonight.
We return to Micks wall, not a single word spoken on the journey back home. Dusk has fallen and in the light of Darrens window I see the silohuette of Jane's perfect naked body as John pulls her towards him. Mick chooses not to see it and blows cold air onto his steaming coffee. Im boiling inside. Curly drives away leaving us to reflect upon the day, hours pass. Midnight welcomes another day as John leaves Darrens place with the two girls,one either side. Anne smiles innocently at me. Moments later I glance backwards as her bedroom light flickers into use. Behind pink curtains I picture her writing her diary and dream she will write about me. Darren joins us on the wall as John walks Jane home. He tells us of the nights events and we pretend we dont believe him.
When all the talkings done we call it a night. With what could be the last goodbye. I return to to empty bottles and broken television sets to compete with my terminal boredom. Switching on the radio I hear "live forever" by Oasis, reminding me of last years concert that everyone still talks about. A concert attended by everyone but me. I feel all alone. I switch off the radio. I hear the distant argument of marital discord from the house next door. The barking of a dog on the needle spread playing fields and the revving of engines from the drug chalet at the end of the row. The phone rings. A voice cackles satanic vulgarities at me. I go to replace the handset. It is already there. I tell the voices to stop as I rock backward and forwards upon my bed. Insomnia strikes its mortal coil. I pace around my madness barking insults at its twisted reflection. I switch the radio back on, the pounding rythms of drum n bass encompassing my insanity. I hurl the radio through the window without first unplugging it, sparks fly,glass smashes. Its 3-16am. I'm surrounded by sychophants,hypocrits and the desperate few. I decide its time to barter with the moon. The moon isnt listening, it just smiles its illuminating wisdom highlighting my figure at the shattered window. I see the bedroom lights of the Apathenian royals switching on like a neon snake. Someone shouts me down, another hurls impurities from mocking lips. I close the curtains for the endless rain to attack me through the jagged glass. A puddle forms on the barely carpeted floor.Its so cold. Voices urge me on. Defenceless I walk the lonely length of the bedroom. I open the wardrobe door.
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Post by cal on Apr 14, 2008 22:25:05 GMT
powerful stuff there, hopefully not drawn from first hand experiance?
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Post by cal on Apr 14, 2008 22:59:12 GMT
FRIDAY SATURDAY SUNDAY
up at eight.
school mates.
things changed.
rearranged.
meet at the shops.
opinion swap.
blameless fight.
who cares whos right.
saturday afternoon.
turn up the tunes.
get some cans.
argue about bands.
play fifa.
everyone beats yer.
out late.
up at eight.
sunday morning.
funds falling.
chester shopping.
no stopping.
new top.
next shop.
"we off mate?"
up at eight
more like a stream of thought than a poem but hey who cares
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Post by scruff on Apr 15, 2008 18:07:07 GMT
powerful stuff there, hopefully not drawn from first hand experiance? 3rd party, but based on someone I knew |
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Post by cal on Apr 15, 2008 22:17:19 GMT
Knew being the key word?
"Voices urge me on. Defenceless I walk the lonely length of the bedroom. I open the wardrobe door. "
dark stuff
are all the poems youve done on here 3rd party or are some like drawn from real life n that?
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Post by scruff on Apr 15, 2008 23:59:51 GMT
Knew being the key word? "Voices urge me on. Defenceless I walk the lonely length of the bedroom. I open the wardrobe door. " dark stuff are all the poems youve done on here 3rd party or are some like drawn from real life n that? he's still alive, so knew isnt the operative word.. I just pictured him making that journey to the wardrobe every night and let the story hang there so the reader can make their own mind up. the poems on here are a mixture, some are based on me, some on other people and some are just pure fantasy, like the King Kong love poem.. that Endless Rain is dark though, I got the idea for the title from a James song I love |
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Post by cal on Apr 16, 2008 0:06:38 GMT
yeah i read the King Kong one and just thought "fucking hell" its a bit weird at first but after a few reads it kinda makes sense.
im no good at that kinda stuff me, i can do all that "other peoples perspective" and that but when it all gets a bit abstract im shite like.
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Post by cal on Apr 16, 2008 0:09:34 GMT
I just pictured him making that journey to the wardrobe every night and let the story hang there so the reader can make their own mind up. The pessimist in my was screaming Bang Dead. But He's alive so its all good. |
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Post by Fergal on Apr 16, 2008 8:45:13 GMT
Cal, "gone to the dogs" is mint, very true as well. The bit in it that proper does it for me is:
"Jaws are clenched, pupils dilate
You kicked off on that lad, who WAS your best mate
The girls are all crying into there beer
Every one of them wishing that they weren’t here"
Scruff, Endless Rain is incredibly dark stuff, made a proper good read and all, like Cal I assumed that the character was going to die as well. The depiction of his thoughts on suicide was proper chilling as well, captured exactly what I imagine would go through the mind of someone suicidal whilst with a gun.
How old is all of the content on here?
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Post by Fergal on Apr 16, 2008 8:51:35 GMT
A poem I wrote when I was in primary school that got published in a young person's poetry book (the regional kind that is basically a scheme to get money off parents). The poem's about recieving a bollocking off my teacher. Class.
"That Terrible Feeling by Fergal Kinney, aged 9, St Mary's Langho Primary School
That terrible feelig,
Your stomach thumps,
You hear the footsteps,
Like the sound of booming jumps.
The footsteps come nearer,
Your heart burns in fear,
But you're stuck in the trap now,
All hope disappears.
The fires of Hell,
Rage and sizzle inside,
You see what you dread,
To begin the frightful ride.
If flames were to be words,
This room would be burnt,
After the shouting he's given me,
To be bad again, I daren't."
Mint haha
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Post by scruff on Apr 16, 2008 12:25:21 GMT
Scruff, Endless Rain is incredibly dark stuff, made a proper good read and all, like Cal I assumed that the character was going to die as well. The depiction of his thoughts on suicide was proper chilling as well, captured exactly what I imagine would go through the mind of someone suicidal whilst with a gun. How old is all of the content on here? they all vary really. Endless Rain was written in 1999. Some of the poems are older than that. The King Kong one was last year, and a couple of them are bang up to date. Might as well set the record straight too. I am not Liam Fray, not sure how that came about but it amused me. Amazing how one Jacob Golden lyric can fit so well isnt it? What I was stunned to discover reading last weeks NME is how much alike me he is though, my Manc heroes are pretty much the same, as is my attitude to life. The fact his inspiration on that HMV poster is also "sometimes" by James was pretty much unbelievable, seeing as I used the same song 9 years ago for that story. So I can see its an easy mistake to make. I still think I'm the better lyricist mind you. ;D |
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Post by Fergal on Apr 16, 2008 12:28:47 GMT
Scruff, Endless Rain is incredibly dark stuff, made a proper good read and all, like Cal I assumed that the character was going to die as well. The depiction of his thoughts on suicide was proper chilling as well, captured exactly what I imagine would go through the mind of someone suicidal whilst with a gun. How old is all of the content on here? they all vary really. Endless Rain was written in 1999. Some of the poems are older than that. The King Kong one was last year, and a couple of them are bang up to date. Might as well set the record straight too. I am not Liam Fray, not sure how that came about but it amused me. Amazing how one Jacob Golden lyric can fit so well isnt it? What I was stunned to discover reading last weeks NME is how much alike me he is though, my Manc heroes are pretty much the same, as is my attitude to life. The fact his inspiration on that HMV poster is also "sometimes" by James was pretty much unbelievable, seeing as I used the same song 9 years ago or that story. So I can see its an easy mistake to make. I still think I'm the better lyricist mind you. ;D Thats a written confession if ever I saw one. A few interrogational questions though - who are you? and you're a mint poet and that short story was class, have you ever been in a band at all or had an inkling towards that direction? |
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Post by scruff on Apr 16, 2008 12:35:17 GMT
I've managed a few bands in and around Manchester, although I dont want to name them. A couple of them had a modicum of success.
In my short time on the internet I've been mistaken for Guy Garvey, Liam Fray, Paddy Considine, John Simm, Chris Evans and John Cooper Clarke.
I'm none of the above.
I've been writing poems since I was about 14, some published some not, that Endless Rain short was published in a book of shorts, also wrote a novel called "dark circles", as yet unpublished... sadly.
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