Thoughts of an Anarchist

But here’s me doing it anyway.

Sometimes, there are paper colours

                        that the clever ones can’t see.

It’s not that they don’t want to;

(lord knows I’ve tried)

But every time we try

       they blow away, hide,

       dance in the sky

no more than a metaphor

for all I peer through their rose tinted eyes.

And so I don’t believe.

Those who can –

those lucky few –

speak in rapture of colour and hue

of golden glows and silver touch

But I see no silver, just shades of grey,

and isn’t that beautiful enough?

These colour catchers want to tame the stars, to see in black and white,

I feel no need to. (I’ve seen the light.)

And so I don’t believe.

These children, chasing a rainbow’s end

                                                a mythical pot of gold

say if I don’t believe I’ll go to darkness

and then there’ll be

 no colour

            at all.

Can’t you see?

Maybe it’s me whose eyes are blind.

Maybe I can’t see.

But show me the colours I see

            in my lover

                        in your god.

and then I WILL BELIEVE.

But not ’til then.

Actually, as colds go, this one has been nice. No vomiting, which is a plus. Nasty heatrash and a minor fever on Sunday evening, and a sore throat today and yesterday, but it is going and assuming no evil additions are made (it would be so like my immune system to turn round and go “HAHA, DID WE MENTION YOU’RE NOW GETTING A SWEATY TEMPERATURE AGAIN?”, because my immune system hates me.

There are some people who never get colds, or who just get sniffles. And I hate staying off college and doing nothing but homework or lying on the sofa feeling useless, because I hate being useless and bored. And I always feel so silly. Yuck.

Anyway. Get over it, Abbi, and go have some lemsip.

“They want to drain his bile through a hole in his stomach. Is that alright with you?”

 Um, it doesn’t really bother me, but I get the point?

“Your ringtone stinks. Get a new one!”

 … Cheers.

“Calculate the name of your perfect lover!”

 So that when I meet them I can freak them out by going “OH MY GOD IT’S YOU I HAVE THE MARRIAGE PAPERS READY!”

“What if he got you pregnant!”

 What if he didn’t? (he being the male from the new ‘Knocked Up’ film, a man I’m sure  should recognise with terrifying hair.

“Create your Zwinky!”

 … I don’t think I should discuss my zwinky with strangers.

Website adverts. They’re so amusing and yet irksome.

In addition, I’ve finished The Picture of Dorian Gray, and found it disturbing and really good. Will have to read again in detail, but it seemed like nothing was explained for the first half and then suddenly it was over. And yet somehow that was really good. The characters were believable and fun, and it had some sparkling dialogue.

I look forward to dissecting it for Eng Lit, then… ¬.¬

Oh, and my Shakespearean Insulter would like to tell you that you are an “elvish-mark’d, abortive, root-ing hog”!

Abs x 

 Written partially on the YPC Residential. I’m proud of this one. Feedback is, as ever, love.

i: Election day

goodmorning she says

            conforming to the hurried way we speak

squashed and worried

                        we don’tthink.

                              Don’t think it’s right?

call onyour muses

and beg for a tune to dance to

            I don’t think you’ll getone, somehow.

we shield ourselves in letters;

it’sthe only way we know.

we never learnt thewordsto freedom,

            only the lyrics to dictatorship.

A revolution, a storm is oming

            helloit’sgoodto meet you

            i am your voice

                        what would you like to say today?

ii: The Meeting

and of course,

            again

we return to the fray

once more unto the breach,

dear poets

         your words splicing

                             cutting

                              biting

splitting thick skins of liars

here we are

        we are? we are.

here we are

        we are the word soldiers.

    Young Voices

all shouting; it’s what we do

Best.

and we don’t know what we’re doing

and we don’t know if it’s working

and we don’t know if they’re caring

but we do.

iii: (sarcasm)

pretentious strands of purple

weaved on apathetic looms

is this what we’re all fighting for?

(idealism)

No.

We have our own personas

            And individuals are the key.

(optimism)

Together we stand; divided we move.

(realism)

but,

    if we all hold hands

(hope)

                                    and squint

                                                    maybe we can see the future 

                                                                                                        today?

iv: Breathless

and in this silence,

 we are finally breathless.

“there will be a perfect moment”

when the skies burn red

and the fingers reach

and the final ecstatic twists of day

            will break away

                        to

nothing

leaving us

  staring at each other

  across this abyss

our words mingling in the dark

until even that fades

and leaves us

perfectly still; we are calm at last.

and, in this silence,

we, the soldiers of words, worlds apart,

are finally

            breathless.

GAHAHAHA I’M FINALLY WRITING IT.

It’s a play now, thanks to Dingle’s input, with Arrhenius and Eddie and Patrick and ooooh it’s fun. It’s a lot of fun. Nyahaha. Prologue finished. I can’t describe how it feels to finally have started writing something I’ve been planning for over a year, but that’s exactly what it is and it feels like you’d imagine it to.

… erm, yes, I have writing skills…

“When I say bastard, I don’t just mean ‘not a very nice person’, you understand; I mean an absolute, cold-hearted, kitten-kicking misanthrope. I don’t just steal candy from babies, I steal mothers. Home wrecking is my favourite hobby… I find it’s good for the soul.

If I had one. Which I don’t.”

More a random blah than a story, actually, but hey.

April is National Poetry Month, so when you see this, post a poem you like on your blog.

NOISE, BY POOH

Oh, the butterflies are flying,
now the winter days are dying,
And the primroses are trying
To be seen.
And the turtle-doves are cooing,
And the woods are up and doing,
For the violets are blue-ing
In the green.

Oh, the honey-bees are gummingOn their little wings, and humming
That the summer, which is coming,
Will be fun.
And the cows are almost cooing,
And the turtle-doves are mooing,
Which is why a Pooh is poohing
In the sun.

For the spring is really springing;
You can see a skylark singing,And the blue-bells, which are ringing,
Can be heard.
And the cuckoo isn't cooing,
But he's cucking and he's ooing,
And a Pooh is simply poohing
Like a bird.

            A.A. Milne

This isn’t a family; it’s a fucking war.

We’re all on different sides

and we’ve none of us got a general.

We’ve never had a cause but if we did

it’d be the same one. The

casualties are

sky

fucking

HIGH.

                                                   Bliar. Blair. Mum.

                                      Slave to the bottle; your personal

BUSH.

                                                   you did care. once.

but you’re so busy caring about

CO2

Methane

and all those other gases

you spew out/ gassing about

students and pubs you can’t hear your kid cry out

YOUR PEOPLE ARE DYING.

How selfish, in your cruel delusion, to care for others.

No, there’s no war.

Honest.

traitor.

-

Wanker. Bush. Dad.

Perversion.

Just another angry young man….

                           grumpy old man.

who are you to lead a revolution?!

               Hypocrite.

You start a war with your words;

     your cutting verbs of mass destruction,

your atom nouns.

your people? Just a necessary

                 sacrifice.

  YOUR GLORIOUS CAUSE.

And now you need us.

election’s coming up.

Just you see who I vote for.

BRIAN W.

-                                          

Insane. Hussein. Self.

                                     anger; fear; loathing

                                 a certain lack of tolerance

                                                            an arrogance        

                        and all the time you smile and wave a clock is ticking

                                    your people are dying – lesser men, lesser men.    

                                                “how the mighty have fallen,”

                                            Every time you smarm it over,

NO MORE EXCUSES.

Now you’re scared.

                                   a rope of retribution

                                                       CRACK.

                                                            -

and on the outside, the world watches,

as our world tears in three.

                                    ever the casualties mounting

                                                rising and rising and rising and rising and

This isn’t a family, it’s a war, and, parents,

we are losing.

This is what I have been saying to you people! In PINTER’S. OWN. WORDS!

(Spoilers for the plot, but if you’re coming to see it chances are you know the play from me making you go through lines with me anyway…) 

A View Of The Party

I
The thought that Goldberg was A man she might have known Never crossed Meg’s words That morning in the room. The thought that Goldberg was A man another knew Never crossed her eyes When, glad, she welcomed him. The thought that Goldberg was A man to dread and know Jarred Stanley in the blood When, still, he heard his name. While Petey knew, not then, But later, when the light Full up upon their scene, He looked into the room. And by morning Petey saw The light begin to dim (That daylight full of sun) Though nothing could be done.	Allied in their theme, They imposed upon the room A dislocation and doom, Though Meg saw nothing done. The party they began, To hail the birthday in, Was generous and affable, Though Stanley sat alone. The toasts were said and sung, All spoke of other years, Lulu, on Goldberg’s breast, Looked up into his eyes. And Stanley sat — alone, A man he might have known, Triumphant on his hearth, Which never was his own. For Stanley had no home. Only where Goldberg was, And his bloodhound McCann, Did Stanley remember his name? They played at blind man’s buff, Blindfold the game was run, McCann tracked Stanley down, The darkness down and gone Found the game lost and won, Meg, all memory gone, Lulu’s lovenight spent, Petey impotent; A man they never knew In the centre of the room, And Stanley’s final eyes Broken by McCann. 1958
II
Nat Goldberg, who arrived With a smile on every face, Accompanied by McCann, Set a change upon the place. The thought that Goldberg was Sat in the centre of the room, A man of weight and time, To supervise the game. The thought that was McCann Walked in upon this feast, A man of skin and bone, With a green stain on his chest.

Squee!

Also, Jimmy is the best ever. I may have found the cure for period pains. More on this theory later.

Abs x

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the blog
Not a reader was stirring; they were sleeping like logs.
The entries were posted and titled with care,
In hopes that some comments soon would be there.

She spoke not a word, but went straight to her work,
And filled all their stockings, then turned with a jerk.
And, handing them presents and cuddles galore,
She glanced at the chimney – then left by the door.

She sprang to her emu, and away she flew,
(It’s the end of the poem - no more rhyming, yipoo!)
But they heard her exclaim, as she drove out of sight,

Geez, that took forever. Probably won’t talk tomorrow, as it’s finally Christmas - but thanks to those who sent presents and cards and what not. Also thanks to Loup, Eiphel and Jim for their help yesterday - they know why.

MERRY CHRISTMAS, MERRY HANNUKAH, MERRY YULE, MERRY WHATEVER YOU CELEBRATE TO ALL OF YOU.

Have an anarchic one!

Much love,

Abs x