Not that I am doing my mentor’s job, but I couldn’t resist marking out the bits I’m dissatisfied with. I’ve noticed that a lot of my rough pieces sound good, but are shoddily constructed. Look at the shoddy structure of this poem. Shoddy, shoddy. Anyway, this is more about the Cowley Road. It really happened: I was standing there minding my own business and a boy stuck his finger up at me. Well, I didn’t take it seriously and we had a right joke flipping each other off – him on the bus, me on the street. I might have taken it as a death threat in London. For whatever reason, our contempt for each other was humorous, silly but strange enough for me to remember. Not sure it warrants a full poem, though…

So! Work in progress. What has Jay been writing?

This is the character I have put the least work into, since feedback from my earlier WIP I have spoken to a few young ladies who are involved in these postcode gangs…. or around it.  The challenge for me was being able to convey the voice properly.. and writing from a female perspective full stop……. also making it distinctive enough to stand out from the other two male characters in terms, of vocal style, and the writing… SO since the bits below I have now decided to write all her pieces in ‘Diary form’ which takes me out my comfort zone in terms.. of rhyming etc.. and gives it an interesting ’swing’ … So the bits of writing below will possibly not really be used.. but gives a little indication of her mindset… and characteristics.

This is the introduction to Male B again the first time you see or hear him is in his personal space.. his bedroom.

Walks into new Bedroom with box of personal items (pictures, trophies, etc)

I’m in a new ends, I’m in a new area

Territory unfamiliar but strangely similar,

I’m in a new ends, I’m in a new area

Territory unfamiliar but strangely similar,

This is the introduction you could say to Male A the first time you get to see or hear any of the characters is in their personal ’space’ or ‘place’, THE BEDROOM.

(Male A in Bedroom smoking listening to music (D’n'B/Jungle) on stereo, really into it)

Thanks to everyone for your comments on the last piece. This is a recording featuring some of the ideas from that initial piece. I’m trying to impose narrative but at the moment it’s very loose. Using the interviews i did with the people in the hostel I’ve been linking their lives to fariy stories and having one central character who meets my other chracters when they go to the hostel. It’s very bitty but i think there’s a sort of tone coming through. I’ve noticed that when I’m writing on the computer i’m always changing words and lines, is there a way i can some how show people my changes without having to post every change i do? Like if they could somehow be in my computer and press the un-do button to see how things evolved?

gutted empty

I haven’t been slacking, honest. This is a rough cut of one of two short films I’m making for Apples and Snakes.

Even though it looks quite simple this took ages to set up and it was FREEZING! In the words of Elvis McGonagall “I’ve suffered for my poetry, now its your turn”

Alchemy in Nowhere Town

I’ve decided to post the little bits I’ve been writing as i’ve been in residence. Some of these were in a notebook, some text messages that i saved in my draft and some i recorded on my device very late at night when i was on the verge of falling alseep and i would suddenly have a line in my head. They may seem to make no sense at all but I’m hoping to rescue elements and turn them into something new.

Well huzah poesy posse! I finally got my hands on a microphone. I can now tentatively present some works in progress for your critical examination, eeek! I’m not sure why I’ve chosen to post this piece first. It’s by far the longest and least comedic part of the set and therefore not exactly easy to digest. I thought I should start with something a little out of my comfort zone so that I could get maximum benefit from any feedback you’re kind enough to offer.

The poem is essentially a day in the life of a man who’s lost in the busyness of his business. He has no ownership or authority over his existence. His life is a nebulous splodge of barely repressed neurosis and self destructive diversion. The only structure being the imposed sequences of a meaningless job and the temporary escapism of toxic excess and mass entertainment. I wanted to explore the alienating cycle of work, TV, drink and drugs, and the belligerent trepidation of questioning the habits that form our lives.

It’s easy to succumb to the lifestyles that are dictated to us, most of us have at some point in our lives fallen into routines we begrudgingly accept, without ever stopping to analyze how we got there, or how we might escape.

Our lives can overtake us; we can drown in their commotion. It’s easy in this circumstance for our actions, thoughts and relationships to become perfunctory and homogenised, leaving us in a befuddled hinterland where all activities become emotionally indistinguishable from one another.

I’ve spent a fair chunk of time over the past few weeks stalking office workers and unethically eaves dropping on their conversations. Many people spoke about their lives as though they were somehow separated from them. Feelings of disaffection and purposelessness were common place.

The following is a snippet of conversation I overheard. A smartly dressed woman was discussing her existential crisis whilst sharing a cigarette with a suited man outside an office in St Pauls.

“I don’t even know what I do any more; I don’t even know what I actually do, it’s a shambles, everything’s a fucking shambles, and David Tennant isn’t Dr Who any more, and my flat mate drank all my shitting Baileys and I don’t even like moussaka”

Its confabulatory confessions such as this that inspired the poem, and I’m sure we can all relate, David Tennant was a great Dr Who.

For some reason this site won’t let me space the poem the way it is intended, so if you’d like a copy of the text, msg me and I’ll email you one. In the meantime TO LISTEN TO AN AUDIO FILE OF THIS POEM, CLICK THE TITLE LINK BELOW, THEN PRESS PLAY ON THE VIMEO PLAYER.

Boiling the frog