Living, A Lie

All-Seeing

An evening mask or a pretty

pattern drawn

on the sky of your back

ready for nights waiting hand

the skeletal bottles collect

on the porch

ready for the warm house invite

and the patter of the confident booms strong

I can not wait til the calm

when all the violence is gone

but the walls as thin as whispers

and it reaches the sleeping mind

the inquisitive part

the seas are receding

faster than the beaches are formed.

We are still all the way put together

the slip of years warming the bones of youth

the body is a temple, on a Holy River

and no one descends from the mountains

to hear my truth

when the figures brush against me

and the naked boast they are all seeing

I can not remember for my life, anything

past the point of my own body, that the

light is now catching.

This is wrong on so many levels

Blocking out a Scene

There once was a shape a square, geometric Who wanted to escape a dull life he wished was more hectic. He felt in his family, that he was the dumb dunce No social circle to speak of, not even a circumference

His Square parents, (in both meanings of the phrase) they were that shape and painfully un-hip, Decided that maybe he had to get aways and take some sort of learning trip It was the only way they could think to ease some of the tensions Father square to mother, "He's always been angle-ling to get away and discover his true dimensions!" Though as a block he was fairly sturdy his mother insisted he keep warm You know how maternal shapes do worry "Make sure you wear something to match your form!" The whole family saw him off on that Rhom-Bus "I wonder," said his rectangle sister,"will he even miss us?" Choosing some coordinates so far away but keeping the location discrete for certain The block looked back at his family, as if to say I will come back a far more rounded person And what came with this new sense of space Love triangles and some right angles in the wrong place Some errors were made, mostly directional Life can hit you with these types of surprises He realised that he was indeed bisection-al and loved things in all shapes and sizes and in his mind, the words of his family he could hear 'em "You still must prove yourself as a trusted theorum!" He lost his virginity to an acute triangle who smoked a lot of hypot, was real bad nuse the opposite of his next romantic entangle was an algebra-burning mathematical muse He didn't contact his family, he really didn't give a damn Only once every few months, would they receive a cursory parallelogram He had a few part time but big enough gigs Mostly in text books hanging out with some graphs You might have seen him as some numbered Figs He made some cash and had some laughs So for a few years this simple country rube Expanded his horizons and became a cube He wrote a letter to his family one night and hoped they wouldn't be too critical He decided to give paper up and have a bit more byte "Mom, dad, your block son has gone digital!" "I'll be working very closely with new people  you can really bet this, Tomorrow guys I'm trying out for some new game named Tetris!"

Jeffrey Lewis and The Rain || The Crane Lane Wednesday 17th July 2013 - Noise

A review I did for Jeffrey Lewis and The Rain. To say I enjoyed it would be an understatement.

Noteworthy

The character was in searing pain. Thin skinned and only half formed he lay in a foetal position at the bottom of the writers imagination. He needed fleshing out. The oblivious creator was waiting for his next coffee before he'd continue to muse on the brand new being he was willing into existence.  In his local cafe, notepad and pen at the ready, the writer was also hungry. He walked over to the menu and considered the specials of the day. Half jumbled thoughts of a fractured back-story danced around the characters head. It was agony being barely a form but this was the forge all characters had to pass through on their way to either notoriety or obscurity.  He scrambled around in the dark, trying to find a story hook to hold onto but this must have been the beginning. He was being born before the world he had to fit into had been created. He then found himself on an empty white plain. "Hmmm, Should I have soup, or something a bit more tasty...?" The woman behind the counter stood ready but the writer was proving frustratingly slow with his order. Linda, a girl the creator fancied sidled up to him at the counter. "Hey, how is your day going?" The writer smiled, looking down, losing his train of creative thought. The character could see his creator and this woman talk but it was as if they were on the other side of a tunnel, the picture of them getting further and further away... Running one hand down his body he could feel his underdeveloped aspects. His guts were spilling, literally, "out of character". Where were his motivations? His distinguishing features? He kept thinking this was the cruelest way to be. The long wait towards narrative... It was then, he felt a hand grip his own. Looking up through blinkered, squinting eyes, he saw a half familiar face. It looked like the woman his creator had been speaking to, but slightly different. Somehow the figure was more beautiful, like an idealized painting, an unrealistic impression of that person. Linda sat with the writer and they made awkward small talk. He pushed the pen and pad across the table a bit, wanting to give his companion his full attention. The beautiful figure pulled the unfinished character up on to his still unsteady feet. He felt like a deformed creature unsure of what to do in the face of such conventional beauty. He looked away sullenly. The figure put her hands to his face and said in a comforting tone. "I'm the Muse based on that Linda creature out there. I'm here to help you in this strange new world." The character allowed himself a smile as he stared into his rescuers eyes. "Where did you come from?" he asked, his voice feeble, undefined. "From the margin," the Muse explained. "My...I mean her name..was written there and from that I grew. I guess coming from the template of a person has given me a far more solid form than you as an original creation." She beamed a nice benevolent smile at him . She leaned in for a kiss "This is just the beginnin..." Suddenly the two characters found themselves submerged under water. They couldn't breathe and began to thrash around. The Muse frantically looked around trying to find a dry scrap of paper to cling to. 

"Shit!I'm so sorry!" Linda said as she was trying to dry the piece of paper. She had spilled her bottle of water all over it. "I've ruined your work!" "Don't worry about it," the writer said. "It was nothing really, just some random thoughts and notes. Actually my phone battery has died but here...if I could take your number..."

A strange black object with an ink stained nib began to scribble something near the bottom of the page. Cradling the barely formed character, the Muse tried reaching out for what had been written. It seemed to be a collection of numbers but the "0" or the "8" would have been the ideal life preservers for the drowning couple.  "Urgh..." Her hand pushed closer and closer until she could feel the tip of the ink. It was just out of reach. No matter how hard she tried she couldn't close the distance.  Reality itself seemed to fold over as the top of their world began to crumple up. A drop became a wave and bombarded them. The character and the Muse looked back to where their possible salvation had been. The island of numbers was gone. It had been torn away.

It Goes Without Saying

The debate was getting lively and from inside the mind Mr. Quote was ready to leave his house. He was fully prepared for the flight. He had been training for it all his life. His wife Chatty was waiting for him at the door. As he kissed her good bye,she was talking incessantly while he remained his stoic self. Noticing his nerves, she softly said "Oscar, don't worry. You'll be well received. We all know you're popular. Weren't you named after Oscar Wilde?" The walk from the Mind to the Mouth was a short enough one. However he wanted to take a steady stride and not rush out. So many thoughts and words stream out too soon. This business was all about the timing. He looked upon a nice neighbourhood in the Larynx. Chatty and he had once thought about getting a rent controlled Statement in that area but he wasn't sure about the area. He was quite vocal about the place failing to strike a chord with him. Stopping to freshen up in a recites-room he took a look at his own inflection and felt good. Confident. He was Wildean and people love Oscar Wilde quotes. He was lucky he was born into such a well respected family.  A piece of food, an obvious out-of-frowner, which had been staying in Lodges, (lodged inside a tooth actually) stopped him asking for directions to the Esophagus. Some people in the Mind and Mouth mistreated such foreign substances in their area but nothing bothered Oscar more than facial tensions so he was only too happy to help. "Follow the path you were on and keep to the cleft, past that Orifice building there and you should be fine!" Oscar then found himself staring at the tooth fields he'd have to navigate across. Lucky for him a breath stop was nearby. Waiting for the next strong Breath he amused himself by reading a newspaper, Tonsil Today which was a publication that was floundering after one of the founding partners had been removed. An editorial touched on the subject. It read: While we will of course miss one of our esteemed editors and wish him well in these troubled times all is still speechy keen here at the paper. We needed to collectively clear our throat as it were, and this was felt to have been the path(ogen) of least resistance. Don't reach for any lymphoid tissues as of yet however, the palate cleanser that we have planned in this issue will not only be a mouthful but shall be quite cheeky in places!

It was obvious this was them paying mere Lip-Service to a disgraced colleague. Oscar sneaked a quick peek at his favourite comic strip Jawbone as the 214 Breath arrived. It was lucky for him too as a saliva shower was just starting. The Breath drove next to Timbre fences and vocal tracts could be seen out in the fields. He heard a Lisp behind him remark, "I'd get the breath more often if the frequency of them improved." They reached the tongue and Oscar prepared himself for his flight. If successful, his Quote would soar in the debate and punctuate some fundamental point that could win the day. He'd hang in the air, having made his mark and would eventually seep back into the mind and be back home before his absence was noted by the Mention family down the street. The tongue launched Oscar and some other Phrases into the air but as they were just getting shy of the mouth, the engine and the speaker stuttered. Oscar felt his body being mangled and distorted as only half of his being was uttered. He was mumbled beyond recognition and as he fell from the argument into the seas of obscurity he thought about Chatty and how she should have married her talkative ex-boyfriend Luke-Quacious. Wildean quips couldn't save him now and due to his now misspoken nature he was wit-out hope as he plummeted to his fate. It was then his panic subsided for a moment and his training kicked in. He quickly looked under his phonetic seating and discovered something that would save him. Placing an item on his back he let his body relax like a slurred sentence. He pulled the string on his Para-phrase and it slowed his descent into the forgotten remarks below.

A Salute to the King of the Tribes

When the spirit had form

the time the muse danced

it traced its steps

using the faint light in the storytellers eyes

they thrived in a furnace

where the kindred slept

embers giving rise to the warmth of song

the blanketing of a voice

the stars flung so far into the eternal ink

One could weakly grasp  and clutch only the trail

of a moment

the passing laugh, the hushed hello

the stillness of the quiet beat after the performance

this peace should only be disturbed

with the diviner of memory

the precious pause of the last few years

The King is ageless

his spectre pure in its remembrance

the King lives on in the shadowy brethren

the King illuminates and is in turn illuminated

by the ever lasting song

the gathering of the like minded

the tidal pull of the inevitable encore

A salute then for the man, the King

his endless energy, hemmed in by no earthly shore

A Blood-splatter analysis of the Dexter finale

The confusions to be found at the base of this narrative seems to suggest a sadistic writing team who used whatever "blunt instruments" were at hand to overpower the audience. The angle they took, if you can follow the attempts at tying up of all the messy loose ends to the right of the victim tells us that this was not a Six Feet Under copycat killer as Michael C. Hall's work there was at least given a satisfying conclusion. The abrasions to this body of work could be described as heavy handed and seems to be the act of a showrunner in a rush, perhaps fleeing with a large amount of money before the true nature of his crime is discovered. Writers of this type seem to have an innate lack of subtlety probably stemming from a childhood need to insert unnecessary symbolism and a love of endings which require absolutely no investment. We're looking at an 8th season suspect who very often talks to himself in the guise of ponderous "voice overs". The suspect is syndicated and dangerous and currently at large on the re-run.

Well, for Starters...

Amy and Mark had several reservations as they entered the establishment. A tray of champagne glasses bubbling over with resentment glided by them as they were approached by a well dressed man. "We have smoking or non-smoking seething. Which would you prefer?" Mark looked at Amy. "Well her constant smoking is a factor so put us there in smoking. We wanna make a real meal of this." The well dressed man smugly added. "That's our job, Sir. Welcome to Bickerings, known throughout the country for it's fine quizz-ine." "We could have just had this out at home, Mark," Amy sternly said. The couple were being led to their table.  "If we're going to have a proper argument we might as well do it in a five star row-staurant which is what Bickerings is, "Mark retorted. "Let's just try and have some fun here." Amy sighed as she pulled up her seat. Looking around she noticed a number of sobbing couples and a few others completely in silence. "Spend all this money to just sit in silence. That's a good thing?!" Mark didn't reply as he was already perusing the menu.  Amy picked up hers and began to scan it. "Hmm...infidelity is never rare...that's sort of funny..." Mark saw a chance for first blood. "But it can be well done!" Amy glared at him.  "I'm not sure I have the right appetite tonight. Destruction doesn't look all that appealing," Mark was wondering aloud, not really addressing his dinner date. "I'm going to have the salad," Amy flatly said. "I hear they use some of the finest olive vitriol around for it." A waitress walked over to them. "Hi,  my name is Tiffany, Tiff for short. I'll be waiting on you this evening. If you'd care to look at our specials. We have fresh recriminations, chicken bones of contention and of course our famed Fracas bar which is located to my left or if you wish to argue with me, to your right." Mark addressed her. "I know revenge and all that serving cold stuff, but I'd rather it hot. Any suggestions?" "Well, we could bring it out when your conversation is getting more heated or we could have the meat roasted on a spat!" "Hmmm...I don't know," Mark mulled. "I do have a real beef with this woman but I don't want it overdone. Ro-Misery cooking doesn't do it for me. I'll stick with plain revenge. Straight up." Tiff smiled and handed another menu. "The resign list?" Mark took it while Tiff looked at Amy. "Salad was it?" "Yes, with some rude barbs." Tiff corrected her, "Do you mean Rhubarb?" Amy nodded. "Just a pint of Bitter for me then." "And a drink for you Miss?." "Faultless to a tea, thank you." Their first (dis)course were some insults they skewered each other with. Amy was unhappy with the belittle portions but didn't make any more of a scene than the two were already making.  Their main coarse was intense. Mark had to send back his first piece of revenge as it was raw. He settled with the second piece even if it was a little undercooked. Tapping a nearby table he asked. "We got some wounds here, but no salt. Could we trouble you for some of yours?" Over the meal a lot was aired but this was no mere food fight. This was Dinner breaks all. The sort of argument that chews up a couple and then spits them out. They scoffed at one another before they scoffed down some more food.  During a break in the hostilities and as a palate cleanser they decided to engage in perfectly civil chat. Mark laughed."I've heard such good things about this place. It's way nicer that that old dump we'd go for a little bite, I mean fight. What was that placed called?" "Oh yeah Quarrels. I don't know, it had a nice in your face quality. The Anger-biance there was second to none." It wasn't long, though it felt like an eternity like most arguments do, before they had im-gibed enough drink and devoured enough food for thought and were onto their just desserts.  Having had their fill of each other they got up to leave Bickerings and as they were making their way out, Mark noted, "It's a bit steep. But we've had too many disagreements tonight. We won't dispute the bill." Amy replied, "I hear they like when people do that though!" As they neared the door they came across the well dressed man once again. It was clear he was the Haître d' of the place.  "Finest fight we have ever had! Thank you! My compliments and complaints to your staff." The Haître d' just sneered.  "Well, what else would you expect from a 5 Star location such as Bickerings? We're hardly Fast Feud!"

Emmet O'Brien takes on Superman.

Here is my review of Man of Steel. I've made it pretty much spoiler free but still approach with caution if you're trying to stay uninformed before the film is released!