I’ve been doing a lot of researching for my writing. Because I’m really a writer. I’m a writer man. I write in old jotters that I’ve found and stolen from family members. There are mathematical equations next to my beautiful, deep and profound poems. That is rather beautiful and deep and profound in itself. Poetry and mathematics, side by side. But I’ve been doing a little writing in this one old jotter by my bed, cos that’s how I roll, and on various websites recently. Mostly I’ve been writing stuff like “tongue my bumhole” and other similar things on these websites, getting people going. What is sweeter, really, than someone wanting to tongue your bumhole. I wish someone would tongue my bumhole.

Rap is the modern poetry isn’t it. It seems to me that if someone wants to make it as a poet they’ve got to be a rapper. Rap is the big thing. That’s where the fame and the recognition is at. So I’ve been rapping a lot of my poetry. Look at Biggie and 2pac. They were writers who rapped what they wrote, and now they’ve got films about them and everything. All of da yoofs no dems mans. I’m going to make it, I just know I am. I have the talent, the drive, the commitment. I committed to not shaving for a few months once.

He that hath a beard is more than a youth; and he that hath no beard is less than a man.

I felt such a man. It’s a proper man’s country down here. Chopping wood, burning stuff, growing beards. I almost killed a rooster on Friday as well, but was prevented at the last moment. There are two kinds of people in this world that go around beardless — boys and women — and  nowI feel like a boy.

But that’s why I’ve been doing all my research for all my writing, cos that’s what I do. I write, being a writer and all. One experienced journalist found this blog very well written and very funny, but did launch quite a personal attack on me, calling me a ‘nasty shit’ or something along those lines, and a ‘Labourite’. That’s only to be expected from from an aristo Tory-voter. I got working class roots me, I love my people. Another, less experienced, journalist, said that it was “excellent”, or at least “extremely readable”. I don’t think that’s just because she wants in my pants.

I’ve been watching a lot of films that all have lovely happy ever after kind of endings. Everything turns out well in the end. The film Submarine seems to be one recently that a lot of lovely happy young ladies and the like were raving about. It is indeed a very good film (87% on Rotten Tomatoes, 3/4 stars from Roger Ebert), but I went to see the film with K-, and we both left with a certain hollow feeling.

I’m sure that there is some artistic criticism in there, and doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that we both were (are) alone and trying desperately to come to terms with it. The little Welsh lad stands by the sea every night, and then the love of his life comes along walking the dog, and then the film ends with a wonderful scene of redemption and rebirth. It is the most obvious sybolism you will have ever seen, but it’s beautiful. He’s washed clean by the scene and they presumably go and burn more stuff and have more sex and have generally a great time.

Maybe K- and I are just bitter, because we lost our loves in heart-rending circumstances and the bloke in the film didn’t. Maybe good things and happy endings don’t come our way because they just don’t; we’re not the kind of people that have good things and happy endings like that. It may be that we’re just not allowed redemption. But it makes me feel better to think that there is no salvation for us because there is no salvation. REDEMPTION FOR NONE! kind of thing. It could be I’m wrong, but if I can’t have it surely it would be better if nobody had it. Or it could be that realising that it’s not really going to be ok in the end, that I will never be saved, there will be no redemption, means that I’m mature and grown up and don’t give a fuck.

 

 

Wait it will be ok, I’ll be dead.

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