I Write To Still My Inside Songs

 

I write to still my inside songs.

But words escape, they flutter fecklessly away.

I grit my teeth and bite my tongue.

Verbal tics have possessed me lifelong.
The disguises are displaying exponential decay.
I write to still my inside songs,

to shackle them with cursive ink where they belong;
expression of ignorant impression of air from within clay.
I grit my teeth and bite my tongue.

The context is lost and meter and meaning are both wrong
But phrases form perfume and colour my spiritual bouquet.
I write to still my inside songs.

And sometimes they're dripping with venom and vengeance from forked prong
But I never claimed to be Virtue in any morality play.
I grit my teeth and bite my tongue.

It's the battle to wrestle harpy squawk into birdsong
Sit and scribe, instead of say.
I write to still my inside songs.
I grit my teeth and bite my tongue. 

Camping

In this canvas-shanty-holiday town,

you'll hear strange sounds when the sun goes down

and played out families are tucked up tight

in polyester slug-suits in the still of the night.

At half past three

you need to pee

in insomnia regretting that last coffee.

Your tent mate is oblivious;

they've been snoring for two hours

while you slithered up and down the slope

with great rustling sounds.

The decision made, you try to rise

and sit up with a plan.

But your elbow's caught inside your zip

and it pulls you down again.

The zip is caught! You can't get out!

Your bladder twitches a threat.

You cursing, muttering free your legs

which immediately don goose flesh.

Pull on shoes, wrong foot, wrong way

laces tied as long as they'll stay

and with screwed up face and finger tip

try to open the front door zip.

The slower you go, the louder it is.

You think “Fuck it!” and try to go quick;

The zip is caught! You can't get out!

The whole tent gives a wobble

and you burst into the porch of sorts

in a breathless, blundering bundle.

Picking past the other homes

newly acute awareness

of whispered squabbles, saucy moans

and farts confidently careless.

As eyes adjust you realise the toilets are worryingly distant

and like Lara Croft with lasers you must cross the guy rope alarm system.

You wheel and tiptoe, duck and hop

knowing you'll pee yourself if you stop.

Nearly there but then your heel catches and pulls out a peg.

You freeze and hear blamey whispers coming from inside that tent.

“That' the fifth time! I said not to camp here!”

“Fine, you can come on your own next year!”

Run away! Preserve yourself and reach the portaloos.

They'll be equally grubby, no matter which one you choose

and finding one with toilet paper's a great thing to behold.

You lock the door and sit but the toilet seat is cold.

The relief is blessed beautiful. You dress again with leisure.

And water free hand cleaner is a modern camping pleasure.

Confident, collected now you begin the return trip

and trip's the operative word as over the same peg you slip.

Twang! With owl wide eyes you scurry,

ducking, wheeling, tiptoeing in hurry.

The saucy moans you heard before

have progressed to throaty groans of “more”

and their unfortunate head torch shadow display

is giving delight to some, but others dismay.

You pass by and observe all this

but after five minutes, something's amiss.

Where did we put the tent again?

I'm sure it was here. I remember when

we pitched up. That seagull flag,

the leilandii trees, that plastic bag.

Oh look. It's starting to rain.

Didn't bring a coat of course, the noise it would have made

would have been a rustle too far.

Oh God, looks like I've walked right past

it. It's all the way back there.

Stumble, trip, grab the zip.

Slippy fingered wrestle with it.

The zip is caught! You can't get in!

Over in the next tent a stirring begins.

You've woken their kids and they've started to fight

An angry bellow rings out through the night

followed by a man's voice, shrilly;

“I've told you before not not stand on my willy!”

Back in your bag, the rain sounds heavier

but only liquid sunshine falls on the British Riviera.

And fresh air sleep is fuller

you wake feeling so refreshed

and sleeping under canvas for sciatica is best.

So when the sun comes up we'll cook sausages and bacon

And smile like we heard nothing of the other campsite's patrons.

Are You Sitting Comfortably?

If you like the theatre,

or going to live shows

there's a whole cast of characters

who to you are quite well known.

I'm not sure if they're real

or some sort of rent-a-crowd

but where ever there's a view to obscure

you'll find them gathered round.

It doesn't matter if you book seats

or turn up hours previous

to guarantee your front row view.

They're cunning and they're devious.

First up in this parade of pains

is the Giant Head-Geared Horror.

Whether hat or hair it doesn't matter;

its mass is a thing of wonder.

You crane to the left,

you strain to the right

attempt to secure

uninterrupted sight

of all the stagely treads afoot.

You finally find the best place to look

and now the 3 rows behind you's view's hidden.

As you hear them all shift you're a bit guilt ridden.

What you don't realise in your angsty little quest

is that now you've taken the entire armrest.

“That ignorant bloody space invader”

is how you'll be remembered.

But this about-to-be-a-bad neighbour

is of an individual standard.

He's invading space on the other side!

He got quite claustro when he tried

to avoid to being touched or crowded or crushed.

Now it's becoming apparent he's the Great Unwashed.

The stench started as just a whiff

the woman on the end wasn't sure so she sniffed.

It made her eyes sting and her nose hairs burn.

She gagged and the woman in front of her turned

and over glasses chastised a “hush!

You're ruining it for the rest of us!”

Gagging woman sees her chance

and joins the crowd at the front to dance.

And just as she's found a great view of the feature

enter the Four Legged Staggering Crab-Like Creature.

United at the shoulder, mutually supportive

but with feet and legs at war with each other,

attempts to walk are abortive.

Everyone they stumble into spills their drinks in shock

but from their own never-empty glasses they don't waste a single drop.

Another multi-organismed beast

makes incremental attacks and never retreats.

It's starts in on your peripherals,

usually embodied by a group of girls

who over time push their way into the space

that previously was taken by your arms, or your face.

They never tie their hair up

and it all goes in your mouth

when you try to light your cigarette,

then try to put it out.

Their bloody hair's on fire!

They use so much spray and mousse.

You put up with it for so long but in the end it's just no use.

You sidle to the sidelines and go for a quick wee.

At one point one of those girls ended up sitting on your knee!

Upon returning to the scrum,

sweaty, dancing, joyful.

Your space has been taken by a man

wearing a coat half-duvet, half-hairball.

A firm-fan-favourite song begins

the surge forth irresistible

and you fall forward into him.

As least when you land it's comfortable.

His po-faced wife or girlfriend is leaning over the railings

looking bored and slightly offended by these audio assailants.

I don't know why she came along,

it's not like it was free.

I think her space would be better taken by

a fan. You know, like me.

Upon closer inspection, you recognise these two.

They're the one's that annoyed you earlier

by pushing in the queue.

It wasn't fair, it wasn't cricket

But you 'd never say anything,

you're far too British.

And besides, you've been waiting a third of your life

for this very gig, for this show tonight.

So you put up and shut up,

choose the obstruction least offensive

and if you can learn to live with it

be an audience attentive.

So if by some lucky twist of fate your eye line's unimpeded,

you're comfortable and the toilet queue's non-existent when you need it,

check you aren't just pushing in or obscuring others' view.

Because you might be unaware that the annoying bastard's you. 

Lyrical Living

So I’ve been to all these gigs

and listened to the bands

and heard how nobody understands

the loss they feel,

the heartbreak, the pain.

It’s the same old story Sam,

sing it again.

I’ve heard all the fills, like

“Oh, baby, yeah”

Did you run out of words to fill that space there?

Am I getting old?

Or just getting pickier?

Or perhaps, with experience, cynical and bitterer?

It’s just that all this monotonous crap

as about as profound as clickbait video soundtrack.

Calculatedly sentimental,

as irrelevant as Blockbuster video rental

to the age we are living in and the way I experience

emotional ambush and unspoken inference.

Blandy McBlanderson.

Selected generic

when we lives in such interesting times.

LED screens on with lightshows mesmeric

to distract from the mundane straight rhyme.

That’s not to say I don’t love it.

Dancing is pure bliss.

Eyes-closed-bass-pounding-through-my-chest-my-arms-a-twist.

Exchange of energies intense,

connection of rhythm and chord and cadence.

Dance for sorrow.

Dance for rage.

Dance for anxiety.

Dance for tomorrow

belongs to those that can see it coming.

Dance because knowing what’s going to happen isn’t always a blessing.

Dance when you feel powerless. In

some small way you’ll feel better.

And whether you know it or not

the shot of joy I feel,

knees buckling after a night on the tiles

is the same depth of smile

I get

from poetry.

And so, although I seem

ungrateful

I’m really not.

I’ve had a summer of music never to be forgot.

And from my depths, thank you

for you’ve all heartily moved me.

It’s just that if I’m honest

I’d rather be at poetry.

                                                                                                                    

This was one of my entries for the Manx Lit Fest Poetry Slam this year. One young man mistook my friend for me. He asked her at the interval what her problem with modern music was. To him, I say two things: 1) Wrong tall dark-haired girl. and 2) You've totally missed the point of the poem. 

Much love. X

31

My body is my body. I’m not bothered what you think of it.

It’s carried me through all these years no matter what I’ve thrown at it.

The marks on my flesh; the scars on my organs

They’re trophies from my battles with the metaphoric gorgons.

I’m feeling freed from the cycles of love and hate and love and hate

Now I’ve relinquished thinking on self-comparative debate.

Some people get my name wrong and they pronounce Georgina

But I’m not diminutive in stature or demeanor.

Dubbed as weird, mad, aggressive and crazy

Because the clarity I see, to them, is hazy.

Censored by illiterati, told I’m inappropriate.

Asked if I was born with bollocks, labeled frigid, called a slut.

I’m conscious of all my decisions, chosen to remember them

At times when I am finding out if they were right or they were wrong.

I don’t claim omniscience. I hold intelligence in awe

I’d rather know I’m ignorant and perfectly flawed

For the journey’s earning’s learning in its absolute form

And it gives your seasons reasons for your earthly sojourn.

They say “Don’t get her started” and “Not again, here we go”

When engaging in discussion and opinion of their point is low.

This is my elixir, though. This heady mix of raw debate.

With sowing of seeds and the joy to watch them germinate.

Frustrated by the limitations I cannot see

That seem to bind most others to a life semi-free

With their worries of decorum or etiquette or saving face.

I’d like to rip their blinkers off, put Technicolor in their place.

You’ll never know what you could be if you never try

And then you’ll blink and you’ll be at the end of your life.

I’ve seen too many dreamers go to holes in the ground

And damsels in distress choosing to wait to be found

By princes preoccupied with kissing the seeming dead.

I can’t understand why they don’t rescue themselves instead.

I love Lara, Xena, Tank Girl and Janeway

For standing up and counting, for doing things their own way.

Ignoring real heroines, a culture habitual.

The women on that list were completely fictional.

I’m not sold on the Lady myth. Keep your expectations.

Sell them to someone who’ll accept that degradation.

Do you want your daughters to grow up with choice?

Then encourage them to speak in an authorative voice.

Teach everyone to accept that “no means no”

But it also means “stop asking” and “leave me alone!”

If someone cannot answer it’s still not consent

And you don’t get to decide what unconscious people meant.

Those lines that you claim are blurred beyond compare

Are clear as Autumn air, no matter what clothes you wear.

Attraction’s not a circumstance of pink and blue

So stop trying to squeeze a right foot in a left hand shoe.

I stole that line from Carroll, from the Man Upon A Gate

But unlike him I know that there is too much to relate.

For the journey’s earning’s learning in its absolute form

And it gives your seasons reasons for your Earthly sojourn.

There is too much to discover for to ever be bored

And you’ll find its only you who is even keeping score.

So accept your physicality and mistakes of the past

For your time here is limited and goes pretty fast.

Do you honestly want your last thought to be

“I didn’t spend enough time just being me”?

TEDxDouglas Video

Here is the video of my TEDxDouglas performance.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kVlINYfigNw

I had a ball being involved with this.

I hope you enjoy watching it. Xxxx