It’s my birthday today. What better way of celebrating it than by dissecting the fragmented notion of identity that we are afflicted with in our twenties (and probably beyond). Enjoy.
Stranded in a sea of unharnessed potential
Pounded by waves of the existential
Crisis
Looms from one minute to the next
Praying my faulty wiring will soon be fixed
A man-boy without a compass
Or even a clue
Lost in translation between a where and a who
Tortured by the twin evils of ambition and sex
With girls in floral dresses and NHS specs
I suspect
This disease is not easily cured
A lifetime of uncertainty due to be endured
My sense of self goes up in smoke
Bursts into ashes
Revealing a lonely man hiding behind beards and moustaches
A studied impression of post modernity
A fully paid member of the hipster fraternity
An eternity
Of ironic distance cruelly awaits
For those of us to cool to engage with our fates
We sit around maintaining an invented identity
Persona through the fractured prism of non-entity
My true nature shadowy and elusive
I can be myself but that’s not exclusively
The case, for without a trace, this face becomes replaced
With another just like it
Incrementally erased
Existence through a haze and a perpetual erection
Peppered with snatched moments of emotional connection
Introspection
Permeates every pore, every cell
Constant analysis is making me unwell
I can’t tell
Who it is I’m supposed to be
What’s a mask of convenience and what’s really me
So I send up this flare of transgression
And confession
While practising my patented, wistful expression
I’m curating a night of music, spoken word and visual art. Interior/Exterior (2) will take place at The Old Hairdressers, Glasgow on 21/03/2013. This poster courtesy of Mick from Le’Thug, headliners on the night.
Let’s write a letter to the past, we’ll read the reply in our future.
Most Pens Are Post Men’s
Most Pens Are Post Men’s
Cheap envelopes and second class stamps
Assorted postal paraphernalia
Was all you left me with
Communiques lent a veneer of regalia
Our relationship had regressed
Not for us - email, texts, facebook
Enveloped in some Victorian notion
Self preservation overtook
Most Pens Are Post Men’s
Most Pens Are Post Men’s
Normal social interaction was out of bounds
So chequered was our past
The antiquated art of letter writing
Unlike us, an institution built to last
You set the terms of engagement
With your much admired resolve
That threatened to crack into pieces
As we felt our bond dissolve
Most Pens Are Post Men’s
Most Pens Are Post Men’s
Round robin formalities failed
To relay our shared history
Laser guided missives
Familiarity tinged with mystery
Coded cursive concealed
Emotions and intentions
An opaque veil of politeness
Shrouded our naive pretensions
Most Pens Are Post Men’s
Most Pens Are Post Men’s
The last of the laughs
Your absence like a death
Dusty relics soon forgotten
Like whisky on my breath
Our final correspondence sank lifeless
The postbox, a dark den
Adorned with the legend
Most Pen’s Are Post Men’s
Most Pens Are Post Men’s
Most Pens Are Post Men’s
Most Pens Are Post Men’s
Most Pens Are Post Men’s
May I present The Majorca Trilogy - The Good, The Bad & The Ugly.
Part 1: The Good.
A united nations of sunbathers
Put the world to rights
Joined in the human pastime of excess
Where worries rest just out of sight
An affordable paradise
Interned by a luxury sea
On which delegations bond over weak booze
And even weaker tea
With manic gesticulations
And reassuring smiles
We mix and share, with an implicit harmony
That fails to belie our miles
A model of diversity
The global village so diffuse
Converge and mix seamlessly
Like the sand in my shoes
Part 2: The Bad.
Somewhere beyond the waves lies an island
Untouched by the burden of culture
A charred desert of no discernible feature
Given up in disgust by the Mediterranean Sea
Bereft of identity it spreads those languid legs
And once more invites
Europe to have a go
Half finished holiday homes haunt the horizon
Spectral shells yearning for life, occupancy
Familial strife
Abandoned in a daze when the bubble
Burst like a blister
Market traders tout the obligatory tat
Fake brands and straw hats
Tacky goods not built to last
A material declamation of our recent past
Pockmarked with temporary settlements
Fortified villages housing a foreign legion
proclaiming home comforts offset by tropical sun
Man made environments, scheduled relaxation
- Someone else’s idea of fun
Artificial wine coils around my inner tracts
Bypassing my brain
Plastic pasta lies obtrusively in my gut
As we attempt to consume
Our entertainment
An amateur production of Grease
- Someone else’s idea of fun
A transient populace, just passing through
No-one really lives here
Some merely forget to leave
Nomadic folk who stopped too long
May the searing sun sink lower in the sky
Until it ignites the ground itself
Razing this outpost from the map
And returning the diaspora
From whence they came
