I’m kicking off this site by doing something for which it was set up to avoid: letting people know about gigs on the day they’re going to happen. Fortunately this time it’s the start of a 10-day run, so you still have time to get along, if you happen to be in the vicinity of Edinburgh.
The show is called 3 Slam Champs and is a ‘high octane, satirical, spoken-word comedy showcase’ featuring me, Pete The Temp and Steve Larkin, for free! Bargain.
I’ll also be doing a guest slot at the Hammer & Tongue Open Slam too, and appearing at Tim Clare’s Poetry Takeaway at some point this week, serving up ballad kebabs… or something.
Being up in Edinburgh I should probably have some merchandise to sell, but unfortunately my book and CD won’t be out until September 13th, so maybe I’ll have to ask people to sign direct debit forms. The book is a collection of my poetic scribblings from the last few years, and the CD is some of those poems read out and set to some of that modern music that all the kids like these days.
Both the book and the CD are called Light Made Solid and when they’re ready you’ll be able to buy them from Flapjack Press, and other outlets, such as my gigs. There will be a launch in mid September too, date and venue to follow. And special guest announcements of course. I’ll be posting free MP3s of some of the tracks when they’re completed, and there’s a poem below from the book.
Finally I’ll be performing at Shambala Festival on the 27th & 28th August. On the Friday afternoon I’ll be doing a set with Léonie, acoustic-beatbox-singing type stuff, and on Saturday evening I’ll be doing a set of spoken word-poetry-rapping type stuff. Wow, I am dangerously cool.
On Paper
I wasn’t always this;
A crisp white straight-edge
From a box of five hundred,
Waiting patiently
For my blank face to be
Laden with lines
Which barely make sense
And my bottom to be numbered.
I slumbered as a seed,
Spent fifty years growing to a tree
Before being lumbered,
Hacked and packed.
But that previous incarnation
Is just a tiny part of me,
The timber plantation a mere
Fibre of my memory.
I’ve been weaved
From pieces of paper
More numerous than
The leaves of the trees
They were made from,
More multitudinous
Than the stories and sums
Written on their faces,
Created to make people believe
The imaginary status
Of the places they came from.
I’m the glossy magazine
The teenage girl threw in the bin
Along with her dream of ever being
That fucking thin.
I’m the two stuck-together skins
Binned with all the others
By the little boy
Teaching himself to make
Those long cone-shaped cigs
Smoked by his older brothers.
I’m the torn up letter
In which she explained
Why she had to go,
Or wouldn’t stay,
(He couldn’t tell the difference),
And one of many
Bunched fist tissues
Soaked in tears or
Frustrated jism
Which littered the flat
As he grew accustomed
To the company
Of his right hand.
I’m the stamp on the envelope
Sent to the home
Of an old lady living alone
From a far away cousin
Who’d just discovered
A distant leaf
On a branch of his family tree
But which arrived too late
For her to see
As she withered in the
Autumn of her life,
And fell.
I’m the paper bell that tolled
For the trader who
Neglected to invest in gold
As the market crashed,
His fortune dashed
Against the rocks
Of his stock portfolio
Now shredded, along with
The unfettered free-market
Beliefs to which he was wedded.
I’m the last fiver,
Sole survivor from
The dole docket,
Unable to keep my promise
To pay the bearer the sum
Since I swum to my death in the wash
When she forgot to cheque her pockets.
I’m the photo in the locket,
The last memory
Of a painful legacy
From which he was finally free
When he accidentally dropped it.
I’m the screwed up sheet
From the rhyme-book of
The wannabe emcee
Who gave up spitting consciously
Because she believed gangsta paper chasing
Was the only way to succeed.
I’m the paper bag
The lad was told he couldn’t punch
His way out of
By his dad
As he beat him,
And the train ticket
That was all it took to be punched
To eventually defeat him
I’m the wood-chip
They stripped from the walls,
Hoping to paper over the cracks
I’m the final reminder for your
Gas, phone, water
And Council tax
I’m your kids detention slips
I’m the last piece of bog roll
When you’ve got the shits
I’m Enron’s share certificates.
I’m yesterday’s obituaries.
I’m the fragmented dreams
Of a thousand trees
That aspired to great heights
Imagined through photosyn-theses.
I am light made solid.
I’m the register of all your lives,
From the most angelic, to the most squalid.
But I have no voice. I have no choice
But to rely on your hard work to
make heard all my hidden songs,
So please, make sure your words are worth
The paper that they’re written on.
Very nice.