What it is see, is that I’m a lazy writer. No, it’s true, I know that I could work much harder and craft every sentence, every paragraph, every chapter, every verse, every simile or metaphor into something that is entirely professional and rock solid. No, I could, I really could do it – every time.
Thing is, I don’t.
Why is that?
More importantly, does it matter?
And, in any case, lazy people deserve to have their voices heard too. After all, there are a lot of them about. Yeah, I know, there are a lot more people who don’t have the skills or experience to write well, whose voices are never heard, and it’s not their fault, so you could say, so what if your voice is unheard, for every one of you, lazy writers, there are a million others who will never have their voices heard and it’s not even their fault, it’s not their choice, they just don’t have the option. They may even be illiterate through no fault of their own.
But you do, you do have the choice, and the opportunities and still you produce sub-standard work simply because you’re lazy.. And don’t try and say that you have produced millions of words, published novels, short stories, poetry, articles, opinion pieces, musings and whatever else. They are lazy words. A million lazy words are less than equivalent to a thousand well-crafted.
You could say all that couldn’t you? But, what the hell, I still say that even lazy writers deserve their voices heard or at least out there in the ethers of life in the twenty-first century.
I wrote this poem yesterday while sitting in my car in a car park in Cardiff. It took around 15 minutes to write and another 2 minutes to record after reading it through.
The original text was not edited and neither was the recording, but I was tempted.
Sometimes the raw unedited material has something special about it that should be preserved.
Here’s the audio recording.
and here’s the original text
A Deliberate Poem – Brown Black Birds
A blackbird, a finch
This is their Eden
as they watch
from the green leaf-laden
perched on a chimney pot
You don’t normally see them
Maybe it’s a big starling
or a small jackdaw
It’s a bird anyway
A fat brown blackbird
a collection of worms
from its beak
It’s a car park
in an inner city suburb
where people suffer
from drugs and poverty
from ignorance and brutality
from neglect and abuse
from the greed
from the selfishness
from the well-rewarded
via each other
while the blackbirds
and the finches
and the starlings
and the jackdaws
and the brown black birds
chirrup in their paradise
It’s kinda tucked away at the side of the Café-Bar near the entrance to the Art Gallery
A place to look
There’s a woman with her daughter slurping on soup and munching on salad and drinking diet cola
A family with two parental figures
one presents as a man
the other a woman
They are at a long canteen-style table with 5 kids
Aged from two to ten
by the look of them
(later you realise that there are three people who are presenting as parents and just 4 kids and you realise that whatever narrative you are imposing is full of your own perspective and is not a universal fact)
Their table is laden with drinks, some alcoholic, and café-style plates of food
They have screens with games
“It’s not cheap cheese”
says a young man
delivering a plate
to a solitary middle-aged woman who must have complained about the price
I’m eating dirty vegan fries – a special order they said – and a pint of some German beer, that cost me thirteen pounds
And thinking about the fish and chips I bought in 1964 for one shilling and three old pennies
before decimalisation and before, long before, I became a vegan 30 years later
but now it’s 2022
and things have changed
as they do
And my friend, who works here and greeted me on my arrival 30 minutes ago told me about how he came to consciousness earlier today in the void and thought for a second that there had been a nuclear war
These vegan dirty fries are difficult to eat because the melted vegan cheese sticks them together in clumps
And when you spear one with your fork it brings half a dozen of its closest friends with it to your mouth
So you have to separate them with your fingers and stuff them in or eat too many at once
so you look around the café-bar to make sure no-one is watching you being a messy dick and then you realise, it doesn’t matter it’s not real because there probably has been a nuclear war and you probably are in the void dreaming of what might have been
And your friend, the one who woke up in the original void has disappeared and you realise that you are a dot the size of a neutrino in a universe the size of . . . . . . the universe
and it really doesn’t matter – even though it really does
Message to mes
This is a message to all the mes in all the parallel universes
You are the light
You are the love
The Younger Generation
I am a member of the younger generation and I always will be
you are too
I’ll never be old
that’s what the 60’s did
and for you
Beware of people
who sit alone
in the café-bars of arts centres drinking something like a pint, or a cup of tea and they’re writing in a notebook or a paper pad or on the touchscreen of an ipad (type thing), and they look up now and again and scan the room
Beware of them
They are writing about you
No one’s got a clue really, but we try to do our best.
This website exists to display a bit of one person’s attempts to do their best. When I say ‘best’ I’m not sure if that’s true in the sense that everything here is perfectly crafted, because it’s not. Some of it is roughly hewn or not hewn at all, simply pointed at, but then again, maybe that’s the best I can do.
I reckon that less than 1 in 100 visitors to this website are actual human beings so if you’re one of them and not a bot, and have managed to read this far down the page, I hope you can find something of interest here.
Just scroll and click and search. Turn over some metaphorical stones – there’s quite a lot to uncover even if I do say so myself.
blah blah – you know the score – here’s a poem from 1999 about knowing the score
you know the score
in a movie
or a tv show
or just one
we’re allowed to be flawed
it’s ok as long as in the end
we’re fucking good at our job
in my real life i’m an artex ceiling of cracks and fissures
with some small redemption
it’s kind of arse-backwards ain’t it?
I recently completed writing a new novel. The title of the book is ‘Skin and Bones’ . More news on that soon, but in the meantime here is an update on a major work-in-progress.
It’s a book with the working title of ‘The Flying Boy’. The title refers to a recurring dream I used to have when I as a boy, probably no more than eight or nine years old, possibly younger.
The dream involved me flying along the street where I lived at rooftop height. I think it influenced me a lot, in fact I am influenced a lot by the recurring dreams of my childhood. There were a lot of them.
I already wrote a book based on the one about The Three Bears and much of my other thoughts about what the universe is, how time works, reincarnation, spirituality, morality and so on, originate in my childhood dreams.
There will be more info about The Flying Boy in future I’m sure and one day the book will be published. Don’t expect a ‘normal’ novel-like thing, but it is a novel. In the meantime, here’s an extract from the work-in-progress. Continue reading “The Flying Boy”
if I don’t paint I can’t write, in fact if I don’t paint I lose the plot . . . it takes a while, months, sometimes longer, but here it comes again . . . sorry, got to go and paint . . . if anything decent comes out of my forthcoming painting session I’ll post it here, you’ll be the first to know . . . back in a bit . . . . . . it’s later . . . well, that didn’t go very far, there was a fair bit of tidying up and sorting out paints and brushes and canvases, not to mention collecting all the other stuff that had accumulated in the shed and putting it out of the way . . . then it was too hot to paint in there so very little got done (painting-wise) . . . then there was cooking and generally mooching about and just being unfocused . . . and now . . . here’s the result . . .
I had one of those writerly moments earlier; you know, when you have a brilliant idea for a piece of writing; something clever and insightful, something entertaining and wise, something beautiful and exciting, and all encapsulated in the same simple concept.
The words blossomed in my head, metaphors leapt about like lemurs and stunning similes smiled at me.
Right, I thought, I’m going to blog this. This’ll have ‘em dancing on their keyboards – now how do I begin? Ah yes – fantastic, that opening sentence will slay them, and then I’ll say that, and then I’ll bring that in and then I’ll end it like that – wow.
So, I hopped out of the armchair and skipped jauntily over to the laptop.
I’ll put the kettle on, I thought. Now where’s that box of cheating chai, and I’m sure there are some of those melt-in-the-mouth chocolate coated ginger biscuits left in the cupboard.
Damn ants, you only need a grain of sugar to escape from the spoon and they’re all over the place like an army of Eng-er-land supporters on speed. Better clean up a bit.
‘Busted’ is a story about a struggling businessman and his family who get involved with some serious criminals. Set in the large coastal town of Elchurch in the 1990’s Busted is a straightforward story and a satisfying read.
I actually wrote this story in the 1990’s but basically shoved it in a drawer (well on various data backup devices). Then, recently, because I’m late finishing ‘Beats’, the second in the Bums, Beats and Bones trilogy of stories featuring Detective Inspector Frank Lee, I dug ‘Busted’ out and decided to publish it, come what may.
To be honest I’m still not sure it’s wise to publish it, but what the hell that’s what’s happening at the end of May / beginning of June 2019. That gives me a couple of weeks to do some serious proofreading and copy-editing.
Anyway, more info soon. In the meantime here’s an idea for the cover.