Critical mass.

Beware the love child of Bruno Mars and Nicole Scherzinger
who’s superpowers could bore you into a Play Doh figurine
sentencing you to a life of regimental choreogra-yawns
should the only cure escape your malleable mind;
a 21st century rarity that many doubt the very existence of,
a Rhianna costume that covers more than a toe’s worth of flesh.

Night in and night in and night in stabbing Twiglets at your face
whilst your arse sits amalgamated to a spongey sofa of crumbs
the one hundred and twenty million percent predictable
fudge of pram babies whaling through contrivance
upon lording scarecrows of bleached teeth and horse tail hair
would thumbprint dependency into your one tone being.

You’d not find that antidote easily beneath Chris Brown’s bed
as deep thirsts for syrupy intakes of meaningless sludge shake
through your dense, airless, squeezed to inconsequence body
that only moves to a corner shop and back as if a puppet
being unstuck and plodded elsewhere to line up silently
fingering through a glossy about the next impeding brain rape.

Beneath the faint, tinny whispers of a freer co-passenger,
across stores to further, non air conditioned, less lit places,
within pages that don’t hatch down the spine
for a hand to burst out of and pull your eyes from their sockets
to point you in the straightest, most generic and plain of paths,
is where the medicine of a dress beyond buttock length lives.

Wash and iron after every outing you dress within it,
sew any rogue threads back into its delicate seams,
store on a hanger so it may rest after a constructive day,
feeling bit by bit, your being not a state of static decay
but an evolving, reforming, mobile, inquisitive organism,
stronger and of more flesh each bold costume outing.

Status Updates

Notes of cocktail glasses
beside rooftop pools
do leave vast impressions
but not the ones you hoped.

As neighbouring as it is
your flat is in Shepherds Bush
about as Holland Park
as Romford’s the East End.

If your holiday is so great
why are you in your hotel
so logged on to work
that you’re basically home?

Any level of coolness
iPad bus journeys hold
get immediately overwritten
as you read the Metro app.

To endlessly talk diets
to anyone who will listen
isn’t really the point
to being vegetarian.

Ascot tux’s look glam
less so on tubes home
tinted by mustard stains
of a late night kebab.

The Royal London

An almighty block of procedure,
as if dropped onto the city’s grid
within a computer simulation,
hides its dusty high cealing corners
and bricks crumbling beneath fresh paint,
with warm baby blue desks
and luxury padded waiting room thrones,
that for all their designer credentials,
can’t outshine the faint visual buzz of history
bouncing between its walls,
ducking and weaving amongst trainee nurses,
junior doctors, stylish coffee hut tables,
a grand clock gone beige with age and a
lift that rattles like it’s trying to spell you its past.

These in a nine.

The drum patterns, in time with checkout tills,
blended with sounds, regular and functional,
buzz out of wall fittings across controlled air
carrying clean rubbery factory scents,
gridded, polished and identical if not for
subtle neat machine tweaks of colour
that one by one, clusters with limp approach,
extend hands at their most worshipful towards,
gently caressing the soft warm paddings,
slowly running laces through caring fingers
in rare gazes of concentration and ore
before back outside, the traffic of attention
cracks apart soft voices with bellows.
An alien surrounded by shopping bags
struggles aboard the bus on which they sit,
transfixed at their plastic clenching palms,
boastfully keying purchase history to the world.

Back then, just over there.

Ashes To Ashes is playing from the other room,
part of a greatest hits affair.
It’s consolidated and cheaper for now,
as I log in to internet banking, again,
not that I’d ever forget the balance, slants,
like I did Reno’s Pizza Place, old Barnet
at the foot of a steep hill until
yesterday’s business trip home sped past
dragging cabin day dreams of old neighbours,
school faces and bus stops, a short itch from
where I am now, five years on from smokey
car park evenings,
the long, slow, dim Saturday checkout shifts,
church spires turned commerce and
distant fields sectioning concrete and sky,
tempting me to spend a day re-tredding history
like I’m seventy and dying, perhaps for belonging,
whilst I’m not, just ticking towards tonight’s plan,
thinking a trip down Mays Lane will have better impact
if I first live further away, entirely forgetful of its bumps.

Someone I’ve been seeing.

She’s a rosy lady with glasses,
usually wrapped in floral dress,
news clenched in a firm hand,
a swinging bag over an arm.

With an air of Jane Austin,
regimental routine announces her,
two seconds short of the train,
perfect platform position each time.

Every morning she boards first,
however early I begin waiting,
too tall to provide eye contact
and quickest to rare empty seats.

I used to stand shooting daggers,
now blunt with resignation,
too proud to respect her order,
not strong enough to admit defeat.

Winnie, downstairs.

My surprise and smile outshone
the eight yet to bud daffs
handed over by a near stranger
who’d taken up a forgotten offer.

She’ll put that soil to good use,
dashing colour onto the mornings
of those passing her pots along
each metal step down to work.

The wild twigs of neglected boxes
border frosted glass, saying lots
of neighbours you wouldn’t get
from a wander inside

though weed free mine might be,
the receipt’s still sat by the fridge;
four quid for a ready grown tray,
a small cost to avoid the stares.

Doctor’s Surgery

You’re hot and snot’s blocked your nose.
Hot to cold shivers dance up each toe.
You have an iPhone but it’s all about the snow.
You’re an hour in and waiting, redefining ‘slow’.

You’re next in line says the girl to all who ask.
Pointlessly, you keep sulking and acting an ass,
sneezing over the counter, explaining you’re ill.
that all you want are a few feel good pills.

You’re finally in and your doctor’s not there.
Instead, medical students are having a fair
of text books and questions you just can’t bare
and want to tare up and throw in the air.

The real doctor enters, observing the rest.
Your patience undergoes yet more tests.
Your ears are blocked, your head’s an ache.
They act as though your symptoms are fake.

‘What do you want us to do?’ asks the guy.
You take a deep sigh and almost cry.
They don’t seem to have the foggiest clue.
‘You’ve gone viral, there’s nothing we can do.’

You’re sent on your way and told to stay warm,
to have lots of rest and you’ll soon reform.
The body’s buzz will calm from the storm
and you’ll soon forget once back to the norm.

But you’ve got little time and don’t want to wait.
This is the age of instancy, soon’s too late.
They sit blankly, up goes your heart rate.
You stage a collapse and they take the bate.

You’re home now, watching TV sludge,
a Lemsip in one hand, chewing warm fudge,
having dropped their pills to make things calm,
a leaflet on hypochondria screwed up in your palm.

Hand shakes and hugs.

Hand shakes and hugs
open trap doors of banter,
the clink of a wine glass or
screech of a pizza slicing.
In jokes isolate a waiter
whilst piano keys bop.
Pepper rains silence on chat
until it sits before more jokes.
The how is she’s, what about’s
and when shall we meet again’s
zap together levels to the same.
A bill, bus and key jingles
wrap it all up until the next beer,
dance, date or breakdown call.

On watching Bright Star

I am trained to bite the tongue of affection’s announcing calls. Sense tells me they’d scare or spoil our smiles beneath these warm songs. Why throw hurdles of language into the foray of simmering chuckles? Surely taming expression to sustain the familiarity of looping comforts is of greater consequence than evoking words that may but fright. Yet as time slides on and our grasps tighten and conversation peals beyond what was thought to be at its most unguarded extent, shelves of sonnets crumble fiercer each time, the rule of favouring silence over what may terminally disrupt this most enjoyable of meetings that so brightly provide content across each dinner table, dance floor, car, sofa and pavement shared, all remarkable yet snagged on the fence of a word I do not climb.

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0810784/

Aisle drifters.

The silent tangles of shrunken jeans
had her panting beside late night shifts
omitting microscopic details at high speed
as he moved to power off automatic doors.

It wasn’t good enough. It simply wasn’t on,
having bought it but two days prior.
No meat should fall off the bone like that,
refrigerated bargain bucket or not.

Running back and forth the static door,
serving and sliding out isle drifters,
the day’s final restrained sigh
squeezed his top button to chin.

Taps shut it up; that persistent stream
of meandering detail, so minuet, airless,
braised, sliced and bubble wrapped
from her gut to anyone who would hear.

A receipt penetrated the slit of her purse
documenting detail and date,
each shopping trolley’s wheel scratching
the little amiability a refund retained.

Reaching for volume controls she battled
the noise of an empty home,
photo frames of catalogue cut outs and
telephone books of call center care.

There, he stuffed the security safe,
beeping alarms, looking to the moon,
reversing through car park gates,
padlocking to some, a world.

Eminem’s Recovery

I’ll always be interested in a new Eminem album, ever since his early stuff appealed to my suburban teenage days in High Barnet around the time that I wrote awful raps in notebooks about the people at school I didn’t like.

I’m a huge fan, can roll off most of his lyrics to this day and am quick off the mark to download his latest leaked efforts (before purchasing on release day to keep the collection complete – something few artists have the ability to make me do these days).

When The Marshall Mathers LP dropped and the red tops had a field day over his ecstasy pill (bits of old chewing gum) taking on stage, I was in the audience. When The Times ran a double page spread about his wordplay and his song’s lyrical techniques, I enthusiastically ripped out the page and showed my English Literature teacher. I got hold of and still listen to the pre-major label album Infinite. I can tell you in great detail and passion about how Eminem destroyed the careers of Benzino and Ja Rule and it’s fair to call me a bit of a Stan.

I love the way the words roll off his tongue like no other rapper (I’ve listened to quite a few – www.rapnews.co.uk), his unmatched range of styles in delivery, the sharpness of his one liners and the depths of subject matter he dives to. So enthralled by the thrill it can be to listen to him when he’s on form on album tracks and non released treats on the ‘digital underground’, I unashamedly tell people ‘I’m into Eminem’ regardless of whatever the inevitable sugar coated pop single he’s most recently released might be and how that’s influenced the Radio One listening average Joe’s perception.

The Slim Shady LP had an immensely fresh, cartoon quality. The Marshall Mathers LP is a text book example of creating and playing to a media circus. The Eminem Show showed that there’s more to the cake than an icing of jokes and filling of stunts. Then came Encore, the going through the motions, ‘I’ve got nothing to say right now’ release, an output of various well documented things going on in his life around that time.

With late last year’s Relapse CD, fans were treated to a showcase of what Eminem does best. It had refreshing, non synth soaked beats unlike what many were using (Bagpipes From Baghdad), concept songs (3 AM) and his freshest, hungriest penmanship in years (Underground). Received by his public well, sales and chart positions were good. Encore was forgotten and in twenty tracks, the hiphop world was reminded of who’s the best at it. That said, it was an album that people have referred to as having little playback value.

On Recovery and in its marketing, Eminem discredits Relapse as being good, but not all that, echoing those views that it wasn’t a body of work you can listen to time again, blaming its content. However, the issue wasn’t the content at all – it was the most imaginative, consistently entertaining and varied effort since The Eminem Show.

There were no desperate attempts at humour such as the bathroom sounds from Encore – those sounds were so far from what online communities of fans expected and wanted that upon initial internet leaks, conspiracies formed claiming them to be a record label trick to confuse and deter file sharing ahead of release date though they were no joke.

It was just that Relapse came 12 years after Eminem waked up the universe of MTV with My Name Is that the world domination of ‘The Way I Am‘ and ‘The Real Slim Shady‘ wasn’t repeated. People now know everything there is to know about the man, are accustomed to the horror raps and expect the jokes and jibes at pop stars. Whether Eminem’s going through the motions or doing his greatest work ever, people aren’t going to be as up on it as if it were a debut effort and it’s not going to provide as much impact.

So what of Recovery, besides the rather confusing title and marketing angle that’s all got a bit muddled and confused? Relapse‘s narrative is of a drugs fuelled Eminem though all the press was about how he was clean and was on the straight and narrow. Is Recovery then, a less autobiographical title and more an indication of quality, and does it provide the playback value that the twist of Stan, sickness of Kim and childishness of My Dad’s Gone Crazy provided years prior?

Well for starters, it’s very solid and more along the lines of The Eminem Show than Encore or Relapse with a focus on well rounded songs of chorus and structure, less plotted humour and more statement than story line. It’s a welcome change to hear an Eminem album not dominated by now predictable and dated Dr. Dre beats in favour of something more reflective of what’s happening in the charts (though he’ll do well not to develop Busta Rhymes syndrome and see out his career trying to hook on to whatever is hot). They sound bold and will provide a lot of club and radio coverage.

Then there’s the vocals. There’s a hunger and energy in Eminem’s voice, he’s rapping like he did on Till I Collapse, the faintly Arabic accent of Relapse is gone, there’s a ridiculous pound to the punch that transpires further with each listen and there’s a mix of straight to the point ‘I’m better than you’ rap tracks to those on romance, mind sets and relatives. References to his kids and ex wife immediately grab your attention as would a series premier of a soap opera you’ve been following for years might. For the first time ever, he doesn’t reference his Mother. Heart felt and honest references to his late friend and rap partner Proof are moving.

Not Afraid offers a similar stadium anthem mood to Lose Yourself. No Love features a strong guest spot by Lil Wayne that Eminem feeds off to drop one of his strongest vocals on the CD (similar to how appearing alongside Jay Z saw Eminem record his greatest ever verse) and Rihanna provides a well sequenced reflective vibe over piano and guitar rolls. With each listen, rhymes within rhymes within rhymes become more easily picked up on and the statement that nobody else of Eminem’s stature is doing anything remotely as close to this in terms of skill rings truer.

Several tips of the hat references to Kanye West wet the appetite for what that collaboration could one day offer and will perhaps remind and leave fans wondering as to what became of DJ Premier and Just Blaze link ups spoken vaguely of by involved parties throughout interviews in the past few years. TV and radio show performances with producer Alchemist on DJ duties also raises questions as to why few collaborations have been attempted or surfaced between those two.

So where next for Eminem? With a more stable, settled home life there will be decreasing opportunities to capture listeners imaginations with confessionals such as Cleaning Out My Closet and if there is to be another big personal period of upheaval, would listeners have any thirst left to follow it?

Shuns of engagement with battle tracks by Canibus and Pace Won would suggest competitive tracks aren’t high on Eminem’s agenda and now that Relapse and Recovery have exhausted the ‘I was poorly, now I’m well’ story line, what’s left to be said? Has the glass ceiling of what can be done within hiphop in terms of scale been met?

It’s been a long time since Bob Dylan’s 34 studio albums long career has had a u-turn in creative direction though with each release he gains critical acclaim and pleases fans as he sticks to formulas that he and they both know work best, though that route’s rather contrary to hiphop’s culture of artists aiming to rule charts and strive to maintain mass exposure.

With all things said and done, after their initial catapult to greatness, coked up dips in the middle and re-considered last efforts, Oasis’ own recovery was an apt moment to push out a singles box set and call it a day but again, that model’s not appropriate in hiphop which sooner sees careers halted by gunshot or scandal amongst younger generations of listeners. (It says a lot of Eminem’s career to look beyond hiphop for predictions of his next move).

To elder statesmen of hiphop for another ‘what next?’ possibility, there is of course Jay Z who’s remained current with efforts such as full length studio albums sound tracking movies and albums produced by a who’s who of big beat makers. Another option could be a reincarnation of yester-year’s Bad Meets Evil project with reunited friend Royce Da 5’9. The pair sound good together and the shared alias opens up a new area of concepts and characters to explore.

Regardless of what happens, I’ll be there listening and discussing as that’s the real nugget of Eminem’s act. People connect with what he puts out, for better or worse, and find with him a point of debate and analysis that no other hiphop artist musters and that after over 12 years, shows little sign of quieting down anytime soon.

Cavell Road Way

A short back and sides for loose change.
Simple enough, square turfs for games.
An unfurnished corner shop selling simple meals.
Vintage pub rooms turned apartments, the run of the mill.
Gelled heads swagger anger around the blocks.
Discount stores up the price of their stock.
A dog’s droppings keep the commuters on guard.
The local road death Mafia skid cars.
Safely away, media and city types play.
Moulding cash to six packs and pint glasses like clay.
Baggy jeans and bikes switch to suits and foot
when the weekend’s gone and freedom gets the boot.
Flyers pasted over scribbles and stains
name club nights the council will close with blame.
Across the market sits riverside retreats.
Waves crash into the heated garden’s beat.

Mobile muse.

See me in Brussels for a day or two
once the papers are shuffled and
stamped.

We’ll drink and laugh as we did those
first weeks, tip toeing around our
smiles, studies.

As you point to meat, I’ll blush for veg’
beneath a waiter’s bemused gaze,
whilst the city’s neon buzzes.

We’ll stumble, shout or snore.

Apologies for how disturbed you’ll roll
when I wake up first and nudge.

Forks of yawns and mugs of daylight
will set us over map folds for a
miniature weeing boy, pretence.

Boxes ticked, we’ll secretly think the
other isn’t as good a dancer.
We’ll both be equally as bad.

To London, we’ll tap and scroll.
Another photo set to escape into,
more distractions to plot.

Farewell, Britain.

You have treated me kind.

I have appreciated your health service,

enjoyed adventures on your buses, tubes,

watched my little cousins be schooled

and felt that your leader cares.

I hope The Big Society works out for you.

Send a postcard when you find out what it is!

…if post offices still exist, your roads don’t crumble
and you actually find out what it is.

See you in five years.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EKFTtYx2OHc