Tag: People

Reoccurring Themes.

Hey Mister Oh So Charming
your boots don’t seem too big from here.
Chips on your shoulder are blocking our light
and we’re switching into reverse gear.
Mrs Apathy, please crack a smile.
You don’t know how lucky we are.
Digging yourself a pit of criticism
will only push solutions afar.
And to the friend that thinks he’s a best
that makes us mates, not Romeo & Juliet
so pick up the phone and dial some effort
or our chasing will fade and we’ll forget.
People, let’s not follow made up scripts
ranting in our minds at imaginary scenes.
If we pull our heads out of our behinds
we’ll start being healthier beings.
Loosen up and like what you like
not what you heard’s the trend in New York.
You’ll have less contrived, more honest fun
if you lay down that rusty Pitchfork.
Crack a smile, stretch, breathe, relax.
If we don’t look up, we’ll just fall down.
Stand up, take one step back
and hold a greater view of the town.
We’re all a-part and all alone.
Look around; life is suffering is rife.
But connect, share, support, love
and hope will start putting it right.
Beauty’s in the eyes of the beholder
but you’ll never see it with them closed.
The only truth’s in the power of now
not the regrets and fears we’ve chose.
Allow yourself to be saccharine sweet.
It can’t be any worse than their bitter tea;
round after round, sipping more of the same
leaving us anything but free.

Running Around In Circles

The Nike coach gathered everyone to the stadium’s start line and introduced the first drill; three 200m intervals, alternating speeds from steady to fast. The crowd of enthusiastic runners stood silently whilst the routine was explained, besides one middle aged runner who’d been energetically jumping up and down on the spot and doing lunges back and forth whilst the coach spoke.

‘Yeah, this is a great one guys. Remember to pace yourself and that it isn’t a race. We’re all different people with different bodies and different abilities. Right, let’s go!’ he said, whilst everyone else stayed quiet and broke into a jog, filing behind the young, reserved coach. The drill was completed and everyone gathered back to the start line to catch their breath and hear what was next.

‘Great stuff everyone. Lovely form coming into the back straight. Remember to keep your head up and those knees high.’ said not the coach, but the vocal member of the pack, as everyone else panted, resting their hands on their knees and leaning forward in exhaustion. The coach had his support staff set up rows of hurdles and demonstrate the next drill, focused on technique.

After five rounds of moving over and under the rows of hurdles, everyone gathered once more at the side of the track, some shaking off their now stretched legs whilst others strolled trackside to sip from their bottles of water.

‘You mustn’t underestimate the importance of hydration guys, but don’t just go drinking any old liquid. Train with the drink you’ll be using on the day. Some people gulp any old sugary juice down and end up throwing up mid-race, and we wouldn’t want that, would we?’ commented that same guy, again to a crowd that shuffled back and forth in much silence.

After an hour of drills focused on speed control and running form, the coach introduced the final activity of the day, a steady two lap race. The winner would receive two tickets to the following weekend’s professional athletics event, courtesy of Nike, the run club’s sponsor. The runners lined up across the start line and set off to the coach’s whistle.

For the first lap, everyone moved around the track in one reserved, very British group, all staying in pretty much the same position. As they approached the final lap, the vocal man began moving through the pack towards the front. ‘Time to pick it up now guys. Excuse my running commentary. Pardon the pun!’ he shouted, moving around the outside of the pack into third position.

‘One more bend and the home straight to go. Will experience triumph over youth in the home straight!’ he continued, passing another runner to place himself in second position. ‘He’s got one more runner to pick off before he does it. Surely, this will be a victory of wisdom over naivety!’

With 50 meters to go, the young front runner stretched away, effortlessly striding through the finish lane, creating a large gap in front of his loud competition. The coach handed the winner his tickets as the rest of the group caught up and huddled together, sweaty and breathless.

‘Great session guys. I saw a real improvement in all of you. Well done. This is my eighth week here and I have to say, there’s such a great atmosphere amongst us. There’s not one person that grates on anyone else and takes it all too seriously!’

The coach and group made their way under the spectators stand into the changing rooms. The middle aged man dropped to the floor and started doing press ups.

‘Don’t forget your stretches guys. It’s real important you warm down…Guys?’

Meeting Adjourned

The training course broke for tea and biscuits. Most people left the room to smoke or piss.

’…back when I was growing up in North London’ said the instructor to one attendee.

‘Oh, what part of North London are you from?’ said another attendee who overheard.

‘Up in High Barnet.’ the instructor replied.

‘Ah, I’m from High Barnet too!’ replied the attendee, excited by the rare mention of his home town. ‘What school did you go to there?’ he continued, eager for the imminent skip down memory lane.

The instructor dunked half a custard cream biscuit into his mug of tea, pressed his glasses up his nose with an index finger and stood up, over the attendee.

‘Oh gosh, no. I wasn’t schooled in Barnet. I boarded at Bishop’s Stortford College. The cross country around its 130 acres was divine.’

‘Ah, right.’ said the attendee, giving a polite, empty smile before facing down towards his notepad and making a purposeful ‘I’m not dwelling on what’s just happened’ act of taking the lid off his pen.

The room fell silent besides the distinct second hand of its wall clock, before people started filing back in.

‘Right then, everyone back in their place and we’ll begin’ said the instructor.

Damp Shoreditch in July

Daddy bought Polly her flower pot store
The drill chipped any empty pixels off the map
Ad boys blasted change holding batons of Pret
Crowds snapped up bricks of fading paint
A lady ruined her picture puffing a stick
Dog walkers mystified workers heading back
The piercing parlour gunman rolled up his relief
Vintage record players turned tuneless necks
Window seat diners nodded out to friendly faces
Self service taps tugged on a lunch timer’s cheek
Packed cars of rowdy youngens sped by
Motionless bodies sat beneath the barber’s heat
Cowardly students stood clumsy in doorways
Faint rain rode the indecisive warn breeze
A truck’s reverse beep leaked into a phone call
Oil stained brown paper bags filled a bin

Narrative

My favourite new poet emailed back
but only with a link to his new book.

A man looked in awe at his dog
sniffing the arse of another’s.

The pub doors were bolted closed
and the joker just started to bore.

Boys became shadows of their baggies
fidgeting through to another Friday.

Little heart shaped icons on screens
have never constituted keeping in touch.

Being alone with your own thoughts
can outdo the streams of distant men.

Buskers are only interesting in the way
they dream with other people’s songs.

The cycle of commerce is well oiled
by parents coating babies in brands.

A night bus passenger stirs imagination
with crates of shrink-wrapped eggs.

People forget they have legs
and decline friends two stations away.

Hype turns worthless TV sets
into unaffordable bar stools.

Fantasies of the experimental
bookend missionary days.

People’s futures hanging by a thread
get determined over smoke breaks.

Astounding is the human’s skill
of twisting ethics to justify means.

The First Weekend In May

The cockney Rastafarian down on the street
fought the Russians in Afghanistan(?) and if he
doesn’t stick to his word and run the bad guy
on Watney Market taking money from oldies
all the way back to Poplar, he’ll throw himself
under a double-decker bus himself, swear down.

The proud ground floor flat owner’s busy
weeding a few side road patches of flowers
in the bright morning air as bus engines hum
and the skinny jeans brigade march satchels
sunnies, rolling paper and sandals passed
abandoned crusty sofas and damp wardrobes.

A relentless blizzard of tuneless beeps
creates a supermarket symphony as tinnies
barbecues, sun screen, gum and crisps
slide into a plastic carrier bag that will wrap
around Monday lunch’s Tupperware box
as a fog of recollection and discourse lingers.

For now, minefields of eye contact
shuttle back and forth a pick n mix of
fiery youngins forming their routes
content middlemen so sure of their stance
and the elder people wrapped in scarves.
If not a myth, multiculturalism’s certainly mute.

The Hungover stare at looping news stories
gradually expanding as if a cloud of candy floss
but there’s nothing sweeter than a liberating
finger pressing down on the remote’s off button
to make way for finally showering and acting on
the eager, rallying texts of a tireless thinker.

Forced Conversations

In March they’re leaving Whitechapel
but not before a Jack The Ripper tour.
She thinks it’d be too scary for now
and he doesn’t really give a shit.

He seems to be a writer of sorts,
preoccupied with a first draft deadline.
As he daydreams and says nothing,
her questions and comments stack up.

The White Hart’s been given a revamp
of new woodwork and hoppy ales.
It’s just a shame they’re moving on
as they prefer it to over the road.

They trade spuds and carrots,
sticking to an orange juice and wine.
A darts game fills a wide screen
and another sleepy Sunday concludes.

Not A Man Of Want

A few novelty sized chocolate bars
did him on Christmas morning
with a promise of something extra
once the shops opened their sales.

He routinely served up cups of tea,
then toasted egg sandwiches,
as wrapping paper covered carpet
to raise smiles, praise and thanks.

Presents got stacked up in piles
and the television was switched on
whilst he collected empty plates
to wash the first load of the day.

After a day of playing chauffeur,
tidying the sideboard down
and willingly being of service to all,
he sat with a beer to watch the game.

Nothing fitting stood out on shop shelves,
such was his straightforwardness,
so one size fits all tracksuit bottoms
were bought and well received.

Quietly and agreeably he drove
over to one visitor’s house,
for glasses they mistakenly packed
so she could read a little before bed.

A Friday Standard

Just a cheeky one before the weekend
then all of a sudden it’s half past ten.
The office bike’s eyeing a cycling
and warring rivals are trading grins.
Out come the shots after sugary shots
before a frantic march to new bars.
Scrambles for entrance and coat fees
precede disco balls, tears and scars.
Sleepy mornings the following day
see sketchy shuffles to McDonalds.
Patchy memories of hands astray
line remorse ridden thought tunnels.
Pleas to not share the awful photos
meet chuckles, cringes and sighs.
Efforts to stay dry are announced
but calendar planners suggest a lie.

A long weekend.

‘Hi, can I help you?’
‘My friend asked me to order myself a chocolate McFlurry.’
‘Which one would you like?’
‘I have never had a McFlurry before.’
‘Well, there are many varieties, like these two pictured here.’
‘Okay, I’ll have that one.’
‘Do you like chocolate?’
“Yes. Yes, I do.’
‘That’s £2 please.’
‘Oh. I don’t think I have that much.’
‘Oh.’
‘Oh. I do.’
‘Thank you. Enjoy your meal.’

‘Excuse me. Sorry to interrupt your journey. Can I sit here and ask you some questions?’
‘Yes. Okay.’
‘I’m from TFL, doing a survey about your experience today.’
The man proceeds to ask around five questions about the customer’s satisfaction.
‘So, you have rated this journey seven out of ten. Can I ask you why?’
‘Oh man. How long is this going to take?’
‘This will take around three minutes.’
The polite Polish woman sighs but with a kind humoured exhale.
‘I said seven because there were stairs to the platform and I prefer lifts.’
Nine more questions exceeding the duration of around three minutes are asked.
‘And what is your phone number so that should my management want feedback on me, they can ask?’
The woman proceeds to tell the man her phone number and postcode out aloud to a packed carriage.
As she says the last digits and hops off the train, a seated passenger makes notes on a paper bag.

10 ways Zack De La Rocha spends his days.

  • Vegan cookery courses and foraging weekends away with Saul Williams
  • Mowing the lawn and growing vegetables in one of his mansion’s gardens
  • Deleting voice messages from Tom Morello
  • Laughing therapy to the Audio Slave back catalogue
  • Dusting the fireplace’s antique Zapatista ornaments
  • Writing a line of lyrics, scribbling it out and then reading Immortal Technique’s blog
  • Reading Buddhist teachings on excessiveness and learning to ride a hand made unicycle
  • Transferring Rage Against The Machine reunion pay packets to Questlove, DJ Shadow and El-P
  • Felt tipping over brand logos in his cupboard and reading biscuit baking recipes
  • Ignoring beats posted by Questlove, DJ Shadow and El-P. He doesn’t trust e-mail

The sleeping man.

They move the sleeping man on
like there’s some place he belongs
as a rich Russian’s news stand’s
merchant sings his paper’s songs.
You skip over their litter
in a dash through inky news sheets.
Audio, visual versions play out,
in front of your wide screen seat.
If in luck he’ll hostel it tonight
and see you after tomorrow’s pints.
If you break enough notes,
some coins will pity his plight.
To be a moved on sleeping man
is a twisted tale we’ll never unwind.
We like to think we’re aware
as much as we’re utterly blind.

Green face paint man.

Placing his bag of tricks on
the side door steps of
St. Martin-in-the-fields
a day of poses prepares.

Out comes a plastic gun
swamp coloured
and passers by file the sight
before crossing to his theatre.

Between taped plains of chalk
dreamy in pastoral hues
and concrete symmetry
he stands on a shoe box of cans.

Seagulls patter at the mouth
of an empty crisps packet.

Toddlers wobble to his cap
dropping small coins inside.

One leg is suspended in air
as an arm points forward to battle.

The gun hangs playfully over
a bus engine’s waves of bass.

Woman Child.

Quieten down and breathe for an hour,
peacefulness offers far greater a power.

For all the noise that you create,
first impressions soon sit second to hate.

Rare glimpses are testament to
the goodness buried somewhere in you.

Push yourself to dig them up.
Lackluster drills holes in a soul’s cup.

Consideration goes a long way
to keep critics and negativity at bay.

Self-absorption will leave you alone,
coating sorrow around each tired bone.

Take the challenge to wake with a smile
instead of turning pessimism’s dial.

A strain at first, contentment is tough
but effort calls complacency’s bluff.

So busy finding faults in the external,
you present yourself a deranged colonel.

Ugly is an abundance of obliviousness
and only a fool considers ignorance bliss.

Politeness is disinterest in a friendly coat.
Save us dry cleaning and rest your throat.

The world is far from being all about you.
Retreat and stop baking our cool.

An agitated mind can soon manifest
to real, infectious physical unrest.

Surrender from the war you create.
Spiritual showers are never too late.

Out in Greenwich.

With the excitement of a family abroad
lucky dipping from a dozen restaurants
they one by one sat into their places
sliding fingers down laminated choices
ahead of the waitresses pen and pad.

‘Do you have a fish only menu?’ asked
the mother of three identical daughters
keen to express the latest life choice fad
profiled in the forests of magazines
piled on staff and waiting room tables.

In the corner a mute son and brother
sat shredding fat with his teeth from
a pile of barbecued chicken wings
whilst the girls shot energetic glances
towards each more seasoned diner.

Those others, formally clinking glasses
above plates of salads and breads
held softly murmured conversations
contrasting with the vacuum cleaner noise
of straws hitting a cocktail’s end.

Couple by couple by foursome
the suited and booted paid and filed out
back home to movie hire, chilled wine,
drawn curtains and faint buzzing
kitchen appliances of white and shine.

Three drinks and crispy cod fajitas later
the outgoing, intimate relatives danced
along a bus journey back East,
the lad’s head resting against a window
out to roads of the black cabbed elite.