About me

I'm riding an elephant in the jungle. Three men holding guns appear from either side of the path, we stop. Three moments pass. I see their knuckles are white and each of them have a hooked finger poised over the trigger. The middle one steps forward, they now form a spearhead. I remove my hat, wipe my forehead and place it on the elephant. The men begin to laugh, I smile back at them. The middle one points at the hat I realise it is sitting comically on the elephants head, I let out half a chuckle. The laughter dies out and we all listen to the noises between the trees. The middle man speaks, 'Tell me about yourself'. And so I tell him, I tell him everything. I tell him about what I've done and why exactly I did it. I daren't get off the elephant as I speak. When I finish they step aside and let me pass.

Viral mash-up videos are everywhere

but let's not forget one of the greats

The ability to produce these videos well should not be underestimated. These guys spend hours and hours it seems traulling through footage of shows, precision editing the music, video and sound with amazing comic accuracy. They're now becoming music videos promoting musicians, rather than bedroom editors locked away in darkness mastering the art of making people look silly with their own words. 

It's also an extreme example of how powerful editing is, think about the way in which X-Factor/BGT auditions are edited to make you hate or love an act. A hell of a lot of people can't tell that a shot of the crowd cheering or standing up was from another performance or the sound of booing is added in or enhanced. Maybe these renegade editors should get a hold of some of these reality shows and have some fun there too.

The Triangle Flag

Outside of science and law

all rules are bent and broken.

Like the smell of a war,

the blood is a token

for everyone to take home

with a folded flag creased

the same way as their bones,

and they'll never cease

to see the crisp packet

gathered in the exact same way.

 

The world is split in two

like a magician's assistant,

and it will take more than glue

to ever unite the two.

A Scene

Mother lies slumped over the closed toilet. Simon arrives.

She looks at him with half-opened bloodshot eyes. She smiles longingly at him as her heavy lids close.

MOTHER: I'm not drunk. Help me to bed babe.

Simon takes her weight with his tiny frame and struggles to get her upright.

They hobble down the corridor. She falls into her bed, Simon places the steaming tea next to her bed.

He closes the door to her room and pauses outside for some time.

'Oh, Is This A Walkout?' a Poem

I hear myself in every song you play,
as if they were written about scenes played out
by infrequent and too-eager friends;
and not some aristocratic ponce
named Beavis who knows little. But what
does that say of me, you seem to ask.
                                                              Nothing.
I answered.

And then I tell myself this is what I need,
like a headline scoop spiralling into sight,
this is the shit that inspires me to write,
but leaves me blinded. With nowhere to go
like you. At least that’s the way I read things;
oh shit, is this a walkout?
I’ll show myself the door, for a few months
with little thought of what I’ve kept out,
or what I’ve left in.

Those lines in red, they are rooted
in something tangible,
although out of reach.
But still tangible.
To hand, but in no ones grip.