Check Cube radio for spoken word performed by Callum
I write because... I like to read,
The words I wrote when writing what,
I wrote about what it was that,
The words I wrote said about what,
I saw and what I thought when I saw,
The stuff that made me think about
About the things that work well when I
Write them down,
And when I see the things that make me think,
Of the things I cannot see or hear,
Or paint or draw or close or open or cook or clean,
And that makes me think;
“Y’know I could write about this”
..............
I am...
I am the man who stole the duck
and took it to San Francisco.
I am all the overcast afternoons….
when I could not think of a thing to write.
I am Pink, Grey, New and The Fan Man…. and all their stage directions.
I am the cheap bic biros I ‘borrow’…
from the information board.
I am that goddam hill….
and all the items I’ve dropped down it.
I am my hats…. and all the badges I ever lost.
I am the 51 bus which never arrives,
And the 83, 88 and the 81…
And everything they lead to.
I am the Goon Show…. and all of its voices.
I am every coffee shop I ever visited…
and their empty cups.
I am the Winter Gardens, the Peace Gardens…. and my own garden.
I am the space between these lines… and every letter I ever forgotten
I that which I am….
And I am not purple.
.............
Winter haiku
Deep wet slush
Worn holed boots leaking
Damp socks for all.
. . . . . .
Wordsmith
Take the words of those who lie
Who tell foul stories and weave false tales
Burn their thoughts and songs away
Weak are words without true mending
Break them down in fire and flame
Stoke the blazing brazen boilers
Strike the match beneath the bars
Then wood and oil pile on high
Build a scorching pulsing pyre
Take the ore of newer reason
Melt it down and sear it clean
Then raise high hammers and beat down on them
Weakness will not match steel
Smelted down by furnace burning
Cast in moulds made anew
Coated black by smog and smoke
Cooled in embers though yet glowing
Sealed and stamped, approved now gleaming
This new history from words still burning
....................
(This is a poem about someone who enjoys messing with the human mind)
Psychologists
What’s that?
Speak up.
I don’t understand what your saying.
Are you tired?
Perhaps the answer lies in your childhood.
Were you abused?
Beaten?
Traumatized?
Can you remember your first day at school?
Where you bullied?
humiliated?
mocked?
Hmmmmmm...
I have no answers for you my friend.
It would appear you’ve gone off your rocker.
Your heads a giant tangle of wires.
Twisted and snapped.
Your personality’s toxic.
Your thoughts are confused.
I see no reason why you are still alive.
Thoughts of suicide seem to have eluded you.
So far that is.
Unfortunately, I have not the cure.
This madness is quite unique.
These dreams you’ve been having.
The ones with the beans.
They’re very interesting.
But I haven’t a clue what they mean.
Give me your hand.
Now this will hurt just a little.
It seems that you are utterly mad.
And for that you must be treated.
Not by I, Who deals with the sentencing.
A judge you might say at least, No…
Locking you up,
Would be best.
I truly believe that you pose a threat,
To every member of the human race, Stamp!
‘INSANE’ is you brand,
Your mark,
Your kind,
It is just what you are.
Now don’t looked so shocked,
What’d you expect?,
Oh I know that you came to tell me about,
How your wife left you.
But on closer inspection,
What can I say?
Your nuts,
You’ve lost it,
Completely off your trolley,
All in all my friend,
You Stark Raving MAD,
NEXT!!!!
...............................
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