Sunday 8 November 2009
Thursday 5 November 2009
No Barking
Cris is ever so good at regularly publishing his posts. He is also ever so good at expecting people to read them. I think I just post this shit so that if the shed roof caves in beneath the bonfireworks tonight, and I am found impaled on the tails of the beastly Crocosaurs and Robo-Dogs with which I share this 'room', when my slug-appareled, unplucked and unblown form is recovered from the dust of the big man's broken dreams, then one of the somebodies that knew me won't have to delve too far to see that, huh, you know what, she wasn't shit. Right up to the end, she was not shit, ya know?
How's that for posterity? I'll make it reallllllly easy for you not to forget about it.
No Barking
What use are baked eggs
in the morning?
Before coffee or doughnuts,
The acquisition of rest
Thwarted, recompense
Suspended in a jellyroll
Dial tone.
What use are pink pyjamas
in the evening?
When oil magnetizes wine
Plucked from the bare bones
Of an almost hairless chest;
Matrimony a matter of milestones
And memories.
What use is a lie?
Drawn up between two posts,
Each strung out nerve host
To the latest version
Of the last goodbye
That got away;
No barking,
No use.
How's that for posterity? I'll make it reallllllly easy for you not to forget about it.
No Barking
What use are baked eggs
in the morning?
Before coffee or doughnuts,
The acquisition of rest
Thwarted, recompense
Suspended in a jellyroll
Dial tone.
What use are pink pyjamas
in the evening?
When oil magnetizes wine
Plucked from the bare bones
Of an almost hairless chest;
Matrimony a matter of milestones
And memories.
What use is a lie?
Drawn up between two posts,
Each strung out nerve host
To the latest version
Of the last goodbye
That got away;
No barking,
No use.
Monday 2 November 2009
Receding
This January, whilst trying to squeeze, squish and maim my round peg through London's various, interlocked and rapidly disintergrating square hoops, I wrote this. Promptly forgot all about it. But it's not rubbish, is it? xxx
Receding
Some trotters roughen
In delight, my mind
Coughs. Toughened toes’
Fair white hairs curling
In contented toil.
Chipped, chalky heels
Soldering sediment, stacking meals.
Amazed, by the parting ways
Of a horseshoe?
Slack shod concepts track
A jealous politics, a narrative
Of two looped misfunctions
And dispronounced frisson,
Running ten minutes late.
Nothing is typical in mirrors,
Votive facades, arrowed alcoves.
Five seconds silence
Rushes tough above,
Obscuring the passing
Fission of mutual accord,
Bloating those strong disappearing legs
With all you can’t take back.
Receding
Some trotters roughen
In delight, my mind
Coughs. Toughened toes’
Fair white hairs curling
In contented toil.
Chipped, chalky heels
Soldering sediment, stacking meals.
Amazed, by the parting ways
Of a horseshoe?
Slack shod concepts track
A jealous politics, a narrative
Of two looped misfunctions
And dispronounced frisson,
Running ten minutes late.
Nothing is typical in mirrors,
Votive facades, arrowed alcoves.
Five seconds silence
Rushes tough above,
Obscuring the passing
Fission of mutual accord,
Bloating those strong disappearing legs
With all you can’t take back.
Monday 26 October 2009
Avoes
For Eric
For you to save these broken avocado shells
I'd throw the stone over the wish won rainbo.
Cos all shades meet change,
And all lights have hours, my friend;
Even mother-brother's sheltering souls.
The room fills up
With lavender cures.
What will we do now we can't smoke,
Or scream at the ceiling
For keeping us down?
You built me this bed
Out of quinoa and hope,
I missed the start
Now I must depart
From the rotting heart
Of you big bad nut gone wrong.
These darkest days are impenetrable.
This scribbled light can't scratch the surface
Of grief,
It's claws climbing flaws
Beneath,
Before,
Behind.
Be lungs, be bones, be spine,
Be nodes, be hips, be silent.
Be strong, be there, be kind.
For you to save these broken avocado shells
I'd throw the stone over the wish won rainbo.
Cos all shades meet change,
And all lights have hours, my friend;
Even mother-brother's sheltering souls.
The room fills up
With lavender cures.
What will we do now we can't smoke,
Or scream at the ceiling
For keeping us down?
You built me this bed
Out of quinoa and hope,
I missed the start
Now I must depart
From the rotting heart
Of you big bad nut gone wrong.
These darkest days are impenetrable.
This scribbled light can't scratch the surface
Of grief,
It's claws climbing flaws
Beneath,
Before,
Behind.
Be lungs, be bones, be spine,
Be nodes, be hips, be silent.
Be strong, be there, be kind.
Monday 22 June 2009
The Shahnameh and Me (and you, and you and you).
There has been a call for me to start keeping a research blog on my work on this project, and especially how I think a feel about this work in the light of current political developments in the motherland (Iran, for those ever-imaginary new readers). Well, here's the first update - up to date and excited about taking you on a date some time soon:
I'm making a play. Again.
More updates to come! xxx
I'm making a play. Again.
More updates to come! xxx
Shahnameh-ye Azadeh
Being devised in a school hall somewhere near some of you soon:
SHAHNAMEH-YE AZADEH (Azadeh's Shahnameh: A Royal Dispatch)
• Shahnameh – The Persian Book of the Kings, by Abolqasem Ferdowsi, was completed in eastern Iran in around A.D. 1010 and is a royal chronicle, spanning the reigns of fifty Persian monarchs.
• A work of mythology, history, literature and propaganda, the Shahnameh is a living epic poem that pervades and expresses many aspects of Persian culture.
This young cast breathes fire into Iran’s national epic with ‘Shahnameh-ye Azadeh’, the first dramatic adaptation of Abolqasem Ferdowsi’s Shahnameh: The Persian Book of Kings.
The energetic chorus of aunts and uncles are our guides, inviting us into the world of Azadeh, a young British-Iranian girl. Azadeh invokes the poet, Ferdowsi, who tells her stories that help her understand her cultural heritage, using mantic shadow puppetry, stylistic mime and bilingual verse.
An accessible, intimate and apolitical devised promenade production that conveys the warmth of Iranian hospitality whilst weaving a playful narrative thread between Iran’s ancient, modern and expatriated cultures.
SHAHNAMEH-YE AZADEH (Azadeh's Shahnameh: A Royal Dispatch)
• Shahnameh – The Persian Book of the Kings, by Abolqasem Ferdowsi, was completed in eastern Iran in around A.D. 1010 and is a royal chronicle, spanning the reigns of fifty Persian monarchs.
• A work of mythology, history, literature and propaganda, the Shahnameh is a living epic poem that pervades and expresses many aspects of Persian culture.
This young cast breathes fire into Iran’s national epic with ‘Shahnameh-ye Azadeh’, the first dramatic adaptation of Abolqasem Ferdowsi’s Shahnameh: The Persian Book of Kings.
The energetic chorus of aunts and uncles are our guides, inviting us into the world of Azadeh, a young British-Iranian girl. Azadeh invokes the poet, Ferdowsi, who tells her stories that help her understand her cultural heritage, using mantic shadow puppetry, stylistic mime and bilingual verse.
An accessible, intimate and apolitical devised promenade production that conveys the warmth of Iranian hospitality whilst weaving a playful narrative thread between Iran’s ancient, modern and expatriated cultures.
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