I (sometimes) call myself Mr. Pondersome. I'm a rather wordy, weirdy person. I say hullo a lot. I write a lot more. While you're here, why not give some of it a read?

Saturday, 31 October 2015

DEEP-SEATED (a.k.a. A Halloween Haunting of a Kind)

            I'm legging it. I know I'm late, have to make up for time lost on that shitty train. Got in fifteen minutes late, can you believe it? Fatality on the line. Yeah. This late. I thought they liked to go pop in the daytime.
            All right, I'll shut up. How far's the club? Actually how the fuck do you even get out of this station? I see signs but they're fucking ancient. No-one's around either. Weird for Saturday. The pissheads got off at the other city.
            Wait. I've got it now. Just about. This place is twisty as shit.
            Yeah, I've had a drink. Or two if you count the lager from dinner. Could go for a few more though. What are the prices like? Reasonable-ish then.
            What did you say it was called again? The club. Fast 87? 87 what though? Sounds like an anthem mix or something. No, it's all right. That's the kind of music I like.
            Just about figured the way out. Long corridor, lots of posters. I don't know: books and plays and shit like that.
            Now that's a good-looking bloke right there! Christ, you should see how shady this fella looks. Big eyes sunk into his head. Yeah, deep-seated.
            Scrawny too in an all-black suit. No, I'm not in a suit, he is. I think he's meant to be a magician. Creepy bastard. Arms out, fingers like crazy spiders. He's got hairier knuckles than you, if you can believe it.
            I'm going, I'm going. The entrance is just down the stairs.

            All right, I'm out. Course I'm panting, we're not all rugby stars like you. Gave that shit up for a reason. Still got cauliflower ears. Thanks for that.
            I'm crossing the road. First crossing, is it? Good. It's pitch black out here except for the...well. Our magician again. Creepy fingers reaching out the billboard, heading for traffic.
            His eyes look worse at that size. He's obviously wearing mascara. Who does he think he is? New Romantic? Yep, showing my age. I grew up in the 80's, lad. Best time.
            Anyway I'm on my way to the bus station now. Longer than a few fucking metres, mate, that's half a mile. I'll make it though. Course I will.
            So I've heard the girls are pretty good at this club, that right? Hand jobs in the toilet? My kind of party. I'm sure I'll get further though, proper cop off. Wanna make it interesting? All right, twenty. Fifty? I didn't know they paid you so well for what you get up to on the pitch. Can't match it though, unless there's a cash machine nearby. And not one of those that charge, mind. Fucking ridiculous.
            Reached the bus station. Where now?
            Fucking phone cut out. Useless shit.

            How you doing, love? Long night? No, I'm not buying, just waiting. Not even chewing gum, no. Got to save me pennies for now.
            Hang on though. Do you know who this guy is? The magician on the poster. He's everywhere, isn't he? Been to see him? No. Well, I'm new in town myself. Never seen his like before.
            Sorry, love. Got to take this.
            So where now? Yes, I'm at the bus station. Carry on right. Okay.

            The woman at that till was a bit all right. 40, I'd say. Sounded Polish. Remember Agata? Hoo boy. Worse comes to worst, I might be back before the night is through.
            Do I take the shortcut? Between the factory buildings? Worth it? I'll manage it.
            Hey, do me a favour? You're already at the bar, right? Yes. Bacardi. Good lad. I'm parched.
            Getting a bit tight between these buildings. I'll suck my gut in. Shan't be more than five minutes now.
            Fucking hell, he really is everywhere, isn't it? That magician I talked about. Saw him in the bus shop too. There's two posters around me, one on either side. His eyes and hands are...well, he looks like he's about to grope me. Don't laugh.
            Yes, the deep-seated eyes. He looks old up close. Really thin and wrinkly though that might just be the damp on the wall. Still don't like it much.
            It's pinching me now. I am squeezing, trying my best. I'm not claustrophobic or anything but this is freaking me out a little.
            I have this recurring dream, yeah? Being fed through a letter box. Don't laugh, you dickhead. Never sharing with you again. Jesus.
            That was close. This club better be good or else I'm forcing you in here, you prick.
            I see it now. Just across the road from it. Can see what you mean about that line. Might be an hour getting in.
            Whoa. Slipped. You still there? I am, just about.
            Tripped on a something sticking out of the road. It's still flapping. A fucking flyer stuck on the tarmac. Half-melted.
            I'm getting up now. Might have twisted my ankle. Jesus. Let's have a look at this slippery piece of shit.
            Fuck. You'll never guess. It's-
            A van.

Thursday, 8 October 2015

ON READING POETRY (a.k.a. A Reason for Why It's Not for Everyone)

You can read it from a page,
get the gist,
guess the rest
but that's not proper poetry.

Catch a performance but
you'll need an ear
to get to the essence of poetry.

Middle ground: perform yourself
but is that honestly poetry?

I don't read poems right.
I don't write poems. Really
I've been nodding 
all my life.

At a reading, I don't shut my eyes,
don't connect,
can't switch off to hear
even half the words.
I catch what I can,
join the wow afterwards.

All I hear is a rap,
a rhythm,
lyrics filling melody's absence
with a well-meant melody
of words.

I love those,
I love them,
it's just the form they come in.
Plots may plod along but
at least I feel the breaks,
the pacing, the pay-off.

And so breathless too
or breath-heavy
though that is usually the poet.
He has a sinus problem.
He said.

It could just be the poet's drone
but no. The actors, presenters, performers,
they're too pretty,
I hear their voices too well
for the words to tell
rather than sell themselves.

Perhaps I'm no good at poetry,
all that intention they expect you to find,
I fall asleep if the thoughts get too deep,
snorting awake at a cheap para-rhyme.

I do see humour
far better than beauty.
Cheek is fun.
Keep a tongue in there,
we're golden.

I still go out for poetry,
still stay in, thumb it,
plumbing for perfection,
peering proper but
leaving tired.
Prose, pick me up.

It's not really my nature
to think of nature
like that.

THAT WHICH IS TRULY TERRIFYING (a.k.a. National Poetry Day and Halloween: Two Red Letter Days with One Poem)

The everyday played up to expectation
and then
a turn -

People maiming themselves

quite willingly. Everything a lie,
a conspiracy on

The figure in the distance,

framed in moonlight or
sunlight, depending
on safety.

Events shrinking 

to an inevitable
Small joy - 

Little blood, 

more sweat.
A subtle, scratchy recording.
A real dead body. Significance
sharper than the knife.

Hurt by a friend's hand.

Lies waking life.

Slow boil.

Staccato tension.
It happens.

And she's dead. She's always been

dead. You just weren't looking.
but the promise goes on.

Just one jump scare.