A tour of the exhibition

I spent the last week as one of the artists at a community-based arts festival organised by this fine new local organisation, the Southampton Chamber of Arts - here's a tour of the work on display...

Deep in the heart of heritage

Chain-heavy, iron cobra’s caught mid-strike,
Halloween-themed stove spits sparks
from once-discarded engine-parts
and the shepherds’ skull and trident flies
above a split black cat, LED-red-eyed,
cyborg skeleton inside,
guards a charred-black infant, never cried,
dustbin perch, peeled-back hide,
while sharks chit-chat with flamingos
gold-chain style, watercoloured curves
beckon me and sigh, lick fingertips,
turn their faces coyly to one side
to bat their lids at stained-glass poppies,
portraits, skies and symbols back-lit
as the rare cog-headed butterfly
alights upon the pulpit and the chop-shop motorbikes.
Across the aisle, oblongs shine out at me –
images of Tuscan countryside
boardwalk shadows, misted seas,
sunsets, sunrises, winter trees,
way-back-when St. Denys scenes,
and happiness is boxed
by a smirking purple dame,
turquoise feathered hat on top,
looks knowing at a Merlin motor in a frame
and the seasons’ turning burns like flame,
a lyrebird sings angelic strains,
strings strummed and humming on church columns,
piano hammers hung on silent springs
awaken tigers, lilypads and poison frogs,
happy ‘see my bits’ blue dog,
layered skull and octopus,
half-a-Dalek, Ganesh dances,
Hanuman makes mischief on a plinth
and a plus-size waxwork hand
with giant whorls and arches
reaches out to teach us –
what might come of this?
Nothing’s ever lost by asking.

Origins are not the only fruit

Here's the first-ish version of a poem that came out of Apples & Snakes/Adam Kammerling's fine Origins poetry workshop as part of Fareham Arts Festival. It'll probably get edited n times before I'm happy with it, or maybe not - who knows - and may even end up as part of the long 'Stingboy' piece I'm (still) writing - but it came from an exercise looking at listing places we've lived, things we've said, music that was formative and so on, with the aim of incorporating them into a poem. Hope you like it.

Untitled

I was born into a house of golliwogs,
spike-eyed toys,
soaps and sitcoms,
of throwaway laughs at 'Pakis', 'Micks' and 'nig-nogs',
of being dangled by one bony wrist,
a skinny meat piñata
hearing the repeated line
“if you won’t respect me,
at least you’ll fear me”,
a self-fulfilling prophecy,
all an inadequate man could offer me
bar processed pap
and welder’s-callus slaps,
driving home the message that
I wouldn’t like that foreign crap,
those raucous songs,
and anything beyond the grey-and-beige
is wrong, looks like trouble,
but doubled-up one school night,
snuck out to taste the flavour
of Iron Maiden,
so much sweeter than copper on the tongue,
a lonely lad’s first gig
well worth the late-back round of Dodgefist.

Fast-forwarding from ruddy rage,
riffling halfway through biro movies,
corner-paged,
I’m in Nai’posha, the Maasai’s cattle waterhole,
named for rough waters, ‘that which ebbs and flows’,
sun-drained then quenched
with rains and silty seasoning,
and it’s my inauguration by means
of shield and spear and knobkerrie,
story-telling,

quaffing nailang'a,

blood-and-milk straight from the gourd,

now I am a tribal brother,
clansman,
witness to the intimate cutting of others.

In the latest scene,
I say “I do”.

Inspired by Strummerville

Performing at Strummerville didn't only induce me to write about evil spaniels, it also got me writing some more political fare, a follow-up to this one. Audio version here.

Social surgery II

I’ve got a criminal mind but not criminal intent
and the sorts of convictions that’ll never be spent
on sucking up to bosses just to pay the rent
‘cos my sharply worded mockery’s sincerely meant.

When the law becomes a gag it’s our duty to defy,
shout out official secrets, broadcast far and wide,
expose the Selfservatives, the ConDems’ lies,
they only represent themselves, we’ve no reason to comply.

So, I fought the law and the lawman threatened,
winked at a crony and then a second,
there was no-one watching they must have reckoned
but their truncheons went limp when YouTube beckoned.

The powers-that-be, they like to throttle
out the life from dissent until they’ve got all
of us cowed, so whack ‘em with a champagne bottle,
a posh cosh to show that not all

Magnums are the same – ice creams, Dirty Harry,
Guy Fawkes in the Bullingdon, clubbing all the barri-
caded toffs, Moet on cranium,
crowds gather round, mushrooming like uranium

clouds – dark skies over Eton,
larval future ministers lie buggered up and beaten
by a black-masked man like Michael Keaton,
but not the sort of batman they expected to be meeting,

doesn’t care about the Joker, the Penguin, the Riddler
when there’s bricks to be lobbed at smarmy cufflink-fiddlers
like Hugo Boss ads made flesh in the middle of
Whitehall, soul-less suits who should consider a

change of career, break their drone-programming
like Red Dwarf’s Kryten, Ed Snowden, Bradley Manning,
pick up a spray-can, get culture-jamming,
give the world something more than fake orange tanning

and TV – reality’s much better
than game-shows and Noel Edmonds’ sweaters,
so don’t worry about whether ‘they’ will let us,
permission’s not required, and they are not our betters.

Hound of hell (with the softest ears)

Spaniels are all docile and friendly, right? Wrong - this one hails from the fiery doom-filled depths and manifested at the Strummerville all-dayer in The Joiners last weekend... Audio version here.

Hound of Hell (with the softest ears)

Sir Teddy Devil-Spaniel
swallowed the manual
on evil, and he liked the taste –
don’t let the soft ears fool you,
he’ll eat your face,
if you don’t offer him snacks,
he’ll bite and Darth Maul you,
piss on your remains
and in dog-speak call you
‘breakfast’, ‘cos that’s how he rolls,
a blood-sucking demon who’ll drain your soul,
then look at you like a harmless pup,
but approach with caution or he’ll fuck you up,
if you stare into his eyes you’ll pay the price –
give him onion rings as a sacrifice
but never let him get his fangs into your wrist,
so wear gauntlets and bring an exorcist.

First time into the breach

Last night was interesting - the first time I've read at a poetry competition, and in a huge, splendid mediaeval barn. Though short-listed, I didn't win (the band liked it!), but it was an interesting experience, especially as the audience were very different from what I'm used to i.e. much more 'trad' Shakespeare fans (unsurprising as it was part of the Titchield Shakespeare Festival) - not like the audiences for the more contemporary fare I tend to go for. Saying that, I am partial to a bit o' Bard once in a while and I still like As You Like It, despite being taught it for O-level (not GCSE) English Lit, *ahem* years ago. So, with the competition themes in mind, and inspired by the 'All the world's a stage...' soliloquy, this is what I came up with and it seemed to go down well...

’69 – ‘13

Last year, prime-numbered age held sway,
since then some extra throat-beard grey,
shirt buttons slightly more tum-splayed,
maybe it’s time I was re-weighed.
Oh God, I’m 44.

On average I am past halfway,
it takes less beer ‘til bladdered spray,
and if hungover lose a day,
my liver yells at me ‘no way’.
Oh God, I’m 44.

These days, more trespass than affray,
older than pre-prison Krays,
once Dangermouse, now Colonel K,
or tatty-eared old tom-cat stray,
will my hair fall out with mange?
Oh God, I’m 44.

Docked my first iPod yesterday,
with Paypal not quite so au fait,
watched vinyl’s decline with dismay,
hookers my age carry change,
I fancy Bellatrix Lestrange,
Oh God, I’m 44.

Just twitched a rare Siberian Jay,
rewatched the Darling Buds of May,
but please no cocoa on a tray,
against the dying light I’ll rage,
find my As You Like It stage,
at least men don’t go through ‘The Change’,
Oh God, I’m 44.

‘Cos I still wield a wicked blade,
so far no urge to dress more staid
in crimplene slacks of dun-tan-beige,
I’d fear that mournful colour-change,
rather weekends spent in adult play
than tussling with cheap underlay –
I’ve never felt quite so alive,
I’ll soon be 45.

Here I am performing at the Festival.

Out of the Ejector Seat

Words written after a day of hot sun and inspiration at the Ejector Seat Festival...

Penstroke

The Pen beats down,
Roasts my head with inky heat,
Nothing blocks the ABC, the UV to XYZ-rays,
No Ambre Voltaire,
No slipped-on shirt nor slapped-on hat,
No slopped-on factor-many –
The Pen pierces the shady canopy of trees,
Tans the page,
The vellum of my skin –
Tans, turns, tans, turns,
Makes more melanin,
Does my melon in,
Burns,
Leathers me with verbs,
Words inhaled like pollen or hot smoke,
Sneezed-coughed-spat back out in order,
Arranged as palisades,
But the Pen is unrelenting,
May bring into being
Jungles or deserts,
Savannahs or bleached reefs –
It does not care what
As long as it is not
Ignored.

A poem for the Glitterarti

A short verse for Nina Fraser, face-painter and commissionee of creations...

Full-face a fiver,

Two quid a cheek –

Colour me, fork-lobed lady

With your pram of party-pigments,

Perambulating festivals and fairs,

Today I’d like to be a beetle,

Possibly butterfly-browed,

Or maybe a big fierce polar bear –

Can you work around the hair?

I’m sure you can;

You can paint the crowd.

Oh what a beautiful morrrrrninggg

Gotta love the beautiful spring sunshine...

The People of the May

Dance, you bullet-headed lobster-folk,
Parade, o pretty solar-powered ladies,
And sturdy chaps, don’t hesitate to stomp
In off-road action flip-flops -
Put away those gloves and scarves,
Bring out your tents,
Even if they be Cath Kidston, gents -
Light up your long-forgotten barbecues,
Waste a work-day in the park -
Such larks -
Dust off the shades and flowered shorts,
Quaff an ale or coloured cocktail,
Forget to hydrate properly,
Baste in factor oops-forgot,
Embrace the hot,
Think ‘please-no-monsoon-mud-this-year’
Festivally optimistic,
Sacrificially,
Cast the runes of Womad,
Question old Inspector Glasteau,
And send Sir Bestivale to quest -
It might be dry, you never know (I jest),
But for now,
The Green Man and the May Queen,
Bathe us in reflected glory,
Even tom-cats and old terriers,
Cease bite-and-scratch on such a day,
Bask on -
Enjoy the joyful sun-sent rays.

hey hey it's the first of May

May 1st is brimming over with symbolism - the transition from spring to summer, regrowth, the meeting of the human and spirit worlds and of course the international labour movement.

May Day liminal

Where were you, thirty-first of April,
And the zero’th day of May?
Obscured by smoke from Beltane beacons -
Drive cattle ‘tween the tway -
Or fervent recitations of
The Internationale, comrades,
By Billy Bragg, with fist on heart
Unite on Workers’ Day?
Did I oversleep Walpurgisnacht
Or get drunk on Calan Mai?
We’ve skipped from spring to summer
Without my notice either way.

So quick-quick to the holy well,
To sunwise-walk and offer
Up a precious shiny thing,
Picked carefully from the coffers.
Set yellow flowers at the door,
Roll, maidens in the dew,
Burn the horse-bones, ember-leap,
Appease the spirits true.

A festival of optimists,
Regrowth, fertility,
Though those two days I thought I glimpsed,
Keep calling out to me,
Forty-eight hours I’ll see no more,
Though e’er imaginary,
Lacunae of the calendar,
When dwell the faerie-sí.