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Tinder Tyrant: joint second!

Adam V. Cheshire:

I got strong-armed into performing at this due to a lack of wildcard signups. Was an awesome night with some startlingly good performances.

Originally posted on Cat Hepburn:

Tonight I came joint second with the talentedCalum Rodger in The Rhyming Optional slam Game of Poems, hosted by Kevin P Gilday, as part of the South Side Fringe. The consistently greatKatie Ailes, complete with Blue Peter style tinfoil armour, was the night’s deserved winner- hats off to her for altering her poems to fit Game of Thrones references. I’m just glad that guest judge Ron Donnachie seemed to like my Tinder poem!

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Causing a Rockus

Adam V. Cheshire:

I’m branching out….

Originally posted on Cat Hepburn:

Tonight I opened with a ten minute set for Rockus’s spoken word event Poetry n Power Chords. Aside from the obvious buzz that comes with performing, getting the opportunity to see the other poets read their new work is often the greatest pleasure.

Every spoken word night I attend introduces me to some ones to watch- either emerging poets or people I just haven’t come across before, and tonight was no exception. The fellow female performers (such as Polly Burn, Charlotte Le Good and Hussie Rodriguez) gave witty and striking performances, mostly focusing on the struggles of modern women and challenging patriarchal expectations of sex and relationships. Having noticed a gender imbalance in like, everything (!), it was great to see young women holding their own and delivering punchy, strong poetry.

A good bunch of Glasgow’s well established poets, such as the ever energetic Sam Small, and the force to be reckoned…

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::::Amongst the Dust:::: [ BETA ] [ video ]

An unfinished poem that I just like so much I’m performing it in its raw state.

:::This beatific slice::: [ video ]

Shot by the illustrious Bram E. Gieben
check me waxing lyrical
on the merits of pizza
like a motherfucking ninja turtle.

::::Negate the Meat:::: [ spoken word ]

This is my most widely published, widely performed poem. It dates from my days living in a semi-furnished flat provided by social services, out on the fringes of what counts as the ‘West End’ of Glasgow (the posh part), a few months after i crash landed homeless in the city.

Poetry is alive. It’s vibrant. It’s language that’s made to dance.

Or at least that is how it should be.

On the page though it can feel less so. Like fossilised remains. echoes of something long since gone.

The Oral tradition is where it all began. It was all we had – before we developed written language everything was spoken. Everything was heard. Stories were told around fires. Words were shared only in person. This ancient lineage gives the words a power that simply cannot be attained when you slap shit onto pieces of dead tree. Just speaking them out loud gives them a life they can never have when they remain solely on the page. There is a sense of communion between performer and listener, an alchemy that transforms inkblots into fireflies.

And so i begin to release work as audio. To break down the barriers between myself, the words, and you.

Look at me being all earnest and shit. It’s almost as if that crunchy, sarcastic and deeply cynical shell I present to the world hides a gooey centre of sincerity and feelings and stuff.

::::Complex 01::::

::::and the sky will consume us all::::

It is the insignificance of the human race that allows me to get out of bed in the morning.
Knowing that we’re only hurting ourselves somehow soothes that
frantic butterfly aneurysm
that sticks like shit to the walls and drips and collects in pools.

Brings a skip to my step to realise
Nothing really means anything
And that we’re just the setup of a racist joke
With no punch line.

Feels fine inside to know
no matter
how many books I read
I’m still just a waste product of time.

Line ‘em up boys,
I’ll watch them fall
and when it comes I’ll greet oblivion like an old friend.

It pleases me no end this knowledge that no matter what we do;
Declare war as an excuse to pillage, condone rape with silence,
or even condemnation towards victims,
Profit in cashmoney
from inflicting severed limbs and misery
on Islamic children,
Acting father knows best to those that won’t bend the knee
to the International Monetary Fund for a loan designed
to stripmine public assets for corporate interests
and leave people recycling their own feces

– we’re barely a blip on the radar of the cosmos.

It pleases me that all we seem to do is suck each other dry
And leave behind stumblebum husks of one another.

Doesn’t bother me in the slightest that each day is more empty
Than the one it proceeds.

The fact that the whole of human knowledge is the intellectual equivalent of a 2 dollar handjob down the greasy alley next to the library causes me to stifle a chuckle.

Fuck All Belief.
Just bed time stories we tell ourselves to give the illusion of autonomy.
Freedom is a myth
Invented in the 1950s by Levi jeans and constructed from the yolk of Jack Keuroac’s wet dreams.

The awareness that we belittle and degrade
50% of the entire population
For having tits and giving birth to
Every single soul on earth
To the point where we got them thinking they’re worth less
Than some prick with a penis
Is really an impressive feat of irony.

And when the surface water is so polluted from Hydraulic fracturing
That it burns your throat and makes children blind
And when the roving gangs of UKIP voters beat
The shit right out of you because of your country of origin
And when bigotry becomes national unity
And Well being is replaced with misery
And the source of your next meal is a mystery
Handed out from food banks built out of desperate necessity
And when the government sells out what few rights we have left
To a company that promises to make poverty profitable
And when it all becomes too much to take
And when we are left to drown
In our parents mistakes
And in the moments before we finally break

I’ll know deep in my heart
That being human is great.

::::loss of appetite::::





::::We the Abstract::::






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