Monthly Archives: November 2015

Fossil Fool

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In the age of the son of Dick
dinosaurs roamed the earth again
funneled and shovelled into rooms of steel and of brick,
grooming in new taxes, fees and contributions
looming over tracks of grey grey grey…

In the age of the son of Dick
Shellfishness was on the rise
oil say – yeah, back to back
to the sound of beating drums
a black hum rising from
your interests – only green concern
is what you make when you burn.

In the age of the son of Dick
we fly our flags with pride
wear our badges, sound our voices
we have nothing to hide, Dave
and it’s not just ‘save the planet’:
We cry divest, divest, divest!
Do not feign interest, Dave
you’ve turned to fossil,
you look like a fool.
The solution? Divest.
Because we won’t rest tonight
we won’t rest tomorrow
we will burrow into your grey
with our orange – and we have no rhyme
but plenty of reasons.
We’re here to stay as long as we have to
as long as it takes, Dave,
until you say – we do different.

Partially improvised piece in occasion of the UEA Fossil Free 26-hour occupation. Read more about it here.

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Ghostwriters

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They were huddled in the same room, as if in a crooked nest, some scribbling away, some, admittedly, were typing on small keyboards. At seemingly regular intervals, they would silently squabble as if their worlds mattered more than any of the others. It was a peculiar circle, with more sharp angles than you might envisage – you could feel the tingling tension zig-zagging around the table. There were some lights, but their warmth felt unsure, tentative, even scared of shining too bright, as the shadows would only grow deeper as a result. The trickling noise of tapping on the tables, the clicking of pens, keyboards, thin fingers scuttling across the surfaces, was only interrupted – almost as if on a loop – by a peculiar but all too familiar moan. It would hang in the air for a handful of seconds, haunting all present company, lingering just enough to become uncomfortable, only to slowly dissipate into the incessant scritching on paper, the constant clicking sound of keys.

No eyes looked up, no contact made between the figures in the circle, no movement other than what required for the production of more work, more words, more paper, more screens, more, more, more. Lines building upon lines, stories stacked up precariously and vanishing to other rooms, to other – much wider, much louder, much livelier – worlds.

 

Outside the building, in the growing chill of that autumn night, people passed by, entirely oblivious to the figures inside. It was as if they weren’t really there after all.

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140story – Transcontinental

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140story is still running, terribly strong for a tiny Twitter thing. Give them some love!

Werepoets

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Original Italian by Alessandra Racca (1979-), from Bastarde Senza Gloria.

Beware the bad poets
they don’t just come at night
but roam about
whipping out their lines by day
dumb and overbearing
if you do not turn your ears away
they slither into your skulls
filling them with sickly sweet scents
they’ll make you hurl
but your victim’s face
stunned
will smile:
a smile of kindness
lax, fed up
and with no trace of sincerity.

Better a poet who’s bad
than a bad poet.