I Am My Father's Son
A piece exploring how much control we have over our own lives and the concept of genetic predestination, set against my relationship with my own father with our differences and similarities.
September 2011
10 posts
I Am My Father's Son
I may see it fit
To borrow an expression or a phrase
To be executed by my tongue
Or written all over my face
A half remembered bead of wisdom
Or a bawdy little pun
All recycled as my own
I am my father’s son
A restless mind and greying hair
Amongst other things bequeathed
A bulbous sac filled with bile
A mouth of crooked teeth
Three generations of men
Who let spirits loosen their tongue
But despite all that’s said
I am my father’s son
A propensity to sadness
A genetic predisposition
Joins a hereditary dissatisfaction
Amongst a litany of conditions
Yet to unselfishly oppose injustice
Is something I’ve never done
But there’s still time for me
I am my father’s son
I eschewed tools for language
Curtailing tradition as I went
Assigned societal roles
I’d attempt to circumvent
Reigned in by lineage
Impossible to outrun
As he was before me
I am my father’s son
Mixed Up
This is a blatant rip-off of a Tim Key poem. All the hall marks are there - use of first names, an ironic distance, an absurd punchline. So why am I drawing your attention to this fact?
Mixed Up
Jane slapped David hard across his cheek, catching the edge of his nose as she went.
He had gotten mixed up and called her Suzie.
Again.
This needed to stop.
He vowed to only go out with checkout girls from this point forward.
And to invent an elaborate fetish that required them to wear their name tags at all times.
Tweets #1
I threw these little shorts together for a competition as part of Social Media Week. It was pretty fun to create these little snippets though so I think I’ll make it a regular feature.
Tweets #1
Ed crumbled under the weight of Jane’s erotic confession. He got the train, bought a pasty from the trolley and cried furiously
“It’ll be hilarious”, laughed Jim with abandon. But when the water soaked Irene with a flourish she found it infinitely less so.
As the brisk mountain air cascaded down into the valley, invigorating shrubs with artificial movement, we held our breath - in awe.
The laptop arced through the air and hit the ground with a dull thud. Chris wept. She had changed her status to ‘in a relationship’.
Secret Magician
A sneak preview of sorts. This is the original poetic version of this piece which will appear as a full How Garbo Died track on our next EP release.
Secret Magician
I filled out a questionnaire
To see if I was depressed
Had trembling in my hands
Or tightness in my chest
I circled some numbers
To quantify the pain
Described my abstract feelings
Qualified my disdain
Discussed the fear of failure
That weighs heavy on my back
The man I’d like to be
And the one I’ll have to hack
Misanthropy, in human form
The irony, not fully worn
I’ll protect myself from thoughts that sear
I’ll make myself just disappear
We numb ourselves
With bottles of wine
To make us ignorant
To the passing of time
To quiet of souls
And quell our ambitions
To shield ourselves
From our human conditions
We consume poisons
That make us feel sick
Lay prone, abusing
A flaccid dick
Misanthropy, in human form
The irony, not fully worn
I’ll protect myself from thoughts that sear
I’ll make myself just disappear
An Unremarkable Shade of Beige
I don’t hate hipsters per se, I just find them an incredibly frustrating sub culture. How can you ever believe in anything if you’re moving around so much? It must be so exhausting keeping up with what’s cool, or attempting to define it. I find it very contrived to be in a guitar band one day then an electro act the next - all on the whim of some unseen, omnipotent trendsetter.
Having been terminally uncool my whole life this isn’t something I’ve ever needed to worry about, for that I am glad.
An Unremarkable Shade of Beige
This one is for the hipster fucks and the aesthete cunts
I will hunt you with my voice
This art is a compulsion
Not a fucking career choice
With your twee little melodies
And your synthesized sins
If it were up to me
I’d consign it all to the bin
Beside the tattered brogues and the vintage chic
You’ve appropriated as your look
Try discussing Dylan with me
And I’m liable to puke
Your vacuous façade hums quietly along
Market research disguised as a song
An unremarkable shade of beige
Snivelling sycophants sniff
Around the corpse of a scene
Jumping from tweepop to mathrock
And everything in between
Whatever tickles the fancy
Of their esteemed peers
Fuelled by delusions of grandeur
And self congratulatory cheers
Comets orbit moons
Orbit planets orbit stars
Space detritus fallen to earth
And drinking in trendy bars
Your scripted drama unfolds so predictably
You identify, use and abuse so instinctively
An unremarkable shade of beige
