Where is Jason Oberheim?
Is he doing overtime?
Was it him that told you why
he wasn't coming home tonight?
"He needs the work - the dough is tight" -
But he's the one that phoned you, right?
You shouldn't make this oversight.
It's heavy stuff. Vital stuff.
Wednesday, 21 October 2009
Friday, 16 October 2009
Cooking with Chocolate
For the second 'non-poetry' blog post, I attempt to explain why I took out the cooking with chocolate book from Barbican library two days ago.
But I can't. The picture just looks so tasty.
I thought I might try to write a poem that explored man's (some might say woman's) obsession with all thing chocolatey, but in beginning, the only conclusion I came to was that I really wanted some truffle. So a trip to Sainsbury's is in order.
----------------
Now playing: The Airborne Toxic Event - Sometime Around Midnight
via FoxyTunes
Apt
Her apartment appeared
to dangle eight feet above the ground,
resounding like a sodden cloud -
a thunderous clang of bricks,
a scene from one of those epics.
Melting into one messy 'mezcla'
of 'hoorays' and 'hoorahs' -
an architectural masterpiece.
The 'hanging house', they called it.
It would swing in the rain
like a sling on a frame.
Some declared its splendour. Some spat.
'How could you sell crap like that?'
A common occurrence, the feeling arouses
hippocracy from those in glass houses.
But still, for her, it was apt.
----------------
Now playing: Incubus - Admiration
via FoxyTunes
to dangle eight feet above the ground,
resounding like a sodden cloud -
a thunderous clang of bricks,
a scene from one of those epics.
Melting into one messy 'mezcla'
of 'hoorays' and 'hoorahs' -
an architectural masterpiece.
The 'hanging house', they called it.
It would swing in the rain
like a sling on a frame.
Some declared its splendour. Some spat.
'How could you sell crap like that?'
A common occurrence, the feeling arouses
hippocracy from those in glass houses.
But still, for her, it was apt.
----------------
Now playing: Incubus - Admiration
via FoxyTunes
Tube - Have a Night Out
(So I find that I'm getting ideas whilst sitting on the Central line on my way to wherever I'm going, and the trains are smothered with ads for the latest this or that, so I use some of them as inspiration. This short, cheeky and slightly simplistic poem comes from an AMEX ad.)
Have a Night Out
Have a night out.
The lipstick,
the pouting,
the champagne,
those trout things,
the endless discussion,
the headaches,
concussion.
The hot date,
the first round,
the last train,
the underground,
the night bus,
the lip gloss,
the phonecall,
the lost keys,
the kerb-fall,
the knees,
and the crying,
and the crying,
and the weeping.
Have a Night Out
Have a night out.
The lipstick,
the pouting,
the champagne,
those trout things,
the endless discussion,
the headaches,
concussion.
The hot date,
the first round,
the last train,
the underground,
the night bus,
the lip gloss,
the phonecall,
the lost keys,
the kerb-fall,
the knees,
and the crying,
and the crying,
and the weeping.
Wednesday, 14 October 2009
Trigger III & IV
III
Steadily failing
Realising the drone
A doubtless mechanism
To which we've all become so prone
Sanity trailing
Pushed out the back of our minds
So quick, so refined.
IV
In the clouded sky,
a little replica
of an understated friend.
The classy 'high-pay' customer
- wants all he can buy -
Tea sets with gold plated spoons
(If he could; the moon)
Steadily failing
Realising the drone
A doubtless mechanism
To which we've all become so prone
Sanity trailing
Pushed out the back of our minds
So quick, so refined.
IV
In the clouded sky,
a little replica
of an understated friend.
The classy 'high-pay' customer
- wants all he can buy -
Tea sets with gold plated spoons
(If he could; the moon)
The Rickety Chariot
For a start,
it was being driven
on the wrong side of the road.
The old fart -
can't read,
can't drive.
Co-ordination of a halibut.
Stupid, rickety old chariot.
it was being driven
on the wrong side of the road.
The old fart -
can't read,
can't drive.
Co-ordination of a halibut.
Stupid, rickety old chariot.
Tuesday, 13 October 2009
Trigger II
Often we wonder
how to realise it;
how to make true just one thought.
The secret to making a hit
is surely longer
a process than might well seem.
Truth into a dream?
how to realise it;
how to make true just one thought.
The secret to making a hit
is surely longer
a process than might well seem.
Truth into a dream?
Trigger I
(To introduce some sort of form into what I'm doing, I decided to arbitrarily create a rhyme scheme (ABCBADD) and syllabic 'pattern' (5678575) and apply it to 12 poems called 'Trigger'. Don't expect a running theme, although my intention is to start functional and end well. A little bit of self testing, you could say.)
Like a can of worms,
opened to make things worse,
the next photograph taken
was of the highly guarded hearse.
He's not on good terms
with the dead guy's family -
even the Army.
Like a can of worms,
opened to make things worse,
the next photograph taken
was of the highly guarded hearse.
He's not on good terms
with the dead guy's family -
even the Army.
Apple Quentin
Apple Quentin
Apple Quentin was a bit strange.
Not loony, not crazy, not even deranged.
He was just a bit loopy to one extent,
and quite random. Yes, as random as
Rome and Tashkent.
He seemed to lack direction and form.
As though being very odd were the norm.
It's worth noting that he wasn't a fruit
Not even a marrow or bamboo shoot.
No, he was a cable. USB, labelled
"Plug this then plug me!"
A desperate cry for attention was Quentin.
Connecting laptops to printers,
he filled the gap like a Pinter.
"Plug this then plug me!"
Order was Apple Quentin's largest plea.
He knew that to unplug could upchuck
and muck up the good stuff that should have been
happening inside his little green tufts.
Apple Quentin's name became less insane.
Green cable like an apple is how it goes.
Quentin?
Nobody knows.
disclaimer: this is my work (ben southam's), not yours, so please ask me first before doing anything with it. nintendomad@gmail.com :)
Apple Quentin was a bit strange.
Not loony, not crazy, not even deranged.
He was just a bit loopy to one extent,
and quite random. Yes, as random as
Rome and Tashkent.
He seemed to lack direction and form.
As though being very odd were the norm.
It's worth noting that he wasn't a fruit
Not even a marrow or bamboo shoot.
No, he was a cable. USB, labelled
"Plug this then plug me!"
A desperate cry for attention was Quentin.
Connecting laptops to printers,
he filled the gap like a Pinter.
"Plug this then plug me!"
Order was Apple Quentin's largest plea.
He knew that to unplug could upchuck
and muck up the good stuff that should have been
happening inside his little green tufts.
Apple Quentin's name became less insane.
Green cable like an apple is how it goes.
Quentin?
Nobody knows.
disclaimer: this is my work (ben southam's), not yours, so please ask me first before doing anything with it. nintendomad@gmail.com :)
Pegasus
Pegasus
A boy lived in a home
not far from the shore
His hands rubbing together
to make himself warm
It was cold weather.
Hat and scarf weather.
He didn't quite expect
Anything magical
No ground-shaking wonder,
not a sign, nor the improbable.
School was over.
Going home was excitement.
In the distance it appeared,
a red sun was setting.
'It' was a creature the boy didn't fear.
He'd never met it.
"What you don't know
can't harm you"
The words rang,
like a silent telephone.
Full of nothing.
'This is a dream, or a freakshow',
feared the boy. No,
hoped the boy.
'I'm Pegasus. A horse
with wings'
'Makes no sense, of course,'
thought the boy.
'so it must be a prank -
a joke - a scam.'
It would be a costly scam.
A scam that gave no second try.
A professional hoax by
professional people with too much time.
Too much on their hands.
Too much money in their pockets.
Cynicism and the boy made friends.
Pegasus didn't enjoy the same fortune.
'What troubles you,
young one?'
'You're not real, so do one',
was the boy's reply.
'Charming'. But as Pegasus left,
the sun's journey reversed.
Dusk became day.
Peace met its demise.
The winged, talking horse -
(a fake he was) -
took off his disguise.
'I knew it', said the boy.
'But what is this manipulation of time?'
'Oh, nothing', sighed the man revealed.
Morning was approaching.
'If only I weren't
a one-trick pony.'
September '09
disclaimer: this is my work (ben southam's), not yours, so please ask me first before doing anything with it. nintendomad@gmail.com :)
A boy lived in a home
not far from the shore
His hands rubbing together
to make himself warm
It was cold weather.
Hat and scarf weather.
He didn't quite expect
Anything magical
No ground-shaking wonder,
not a sign, nor the improbable.
School was over.
Going home was excitement.
In the distance it appeared,
a red sun was setting.
'It' was a creature the boy didn't fear.
He'd never met it.
"What you don't know
can't harm you"
The words rang,
like a silent telephone.
Full of nothing.
'This is a dream, or a freakshow',
feared the boy. No,
hoped the boy.
'I'm Pegasus. A horse
with wings'
'Makes no sense, of course,'
thought the boy.
'so it must be a prank -
a joke - a scam.'
It would be a costly scam.
A scam that gave no second try.
A professional hoax by
professional people with too much time.
Too much on their hands.
Too much money in their pockets.
Cynicism and the boy made friends.
Pegasus didn't enjoy the same fortune.
'What troubles you,
young one?'
'You're not real, so do one',
was the boy's reply.
'Charming'. But as Pegasus left,
the sun's journey reversed.
Dusk became day.
Peace met its demise.
The winged, talking horse -
(a fake he was) -
took off his disguise.
'I knew it', said the boy.
'But what is this manipulation of time?'
'Oh, nothing', sighed the man revealed.
Morning was approaching.
'If only I weren't
a one-trick pony.'
September '09
disclaimer: this is my work (ben southam's), not yours, so please ask me first before doing anything with it. nintendomad@gmail.com :)
Intro
So, I'm going to start typing up the random poems I write and then put them onto the internet for people to scorn and dislike.
Jokes - I (almost) don't really care what people think of the poems. I just think it's better to share them than keep them stuffed in a little journal that nobody but me can read.
I'm almost certain that I'll forget to update and this'll soon turn into one of those blogs that gets added to every 6 to 8 months, but I think there's certainly no harm in seeing how far I get.
(No, it's not pessimism! Oh, and I plan to sync this with facebook - however that might work)
Jokes - I (almost) don't really care what people think of the poems. I just think it's better to share them than keep them stuffed in a little journal that nobody but me can read.
I'm almost certain that I'll forget to update and this'll soon turn into one of those blogs that gets added to every 6 to 8 months, but I think there's certainly no harm in seeing how far I get.
(No, it's not pessimism! Oh, and I plan to sync this with facebook - however that might work)
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