Tag Archive: performance poetry


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


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

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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
one
by
one
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.

::::Bombastic Apocalypse Poem::::


Hide from the cursed day!
Let all of creation eat its own face in shame!
This stubborn stain blights us, one and all
– oh humanity! Will you ever find a hairstyle that doesn’t make you look like you’re one stamp away from a free chai latte?
And if Men’s Health declared that
the consumption of one’s own bath water was the key
to tighter glutes would you rush to embrace that Rosé-tinted dawning
of epitimous brain death?

Lest we forget, the signs hang from every rough-hewn surface. They beseech in such definitives
; irrefutable, immutable, as if language herself would deem to pass such proclamations!
Such limitation!
Nay! Before the end credits roll
and this unconscious plague becomes finally known
you would surely question this instience that any resemblance to those
living or dead
is purely coincidental?
What is still fed into this twilight of cognition on which is written
no longer hopes and dreams but residual images of pure distraction unlinked from even the most remedial of comprehensions may still provide salvation.
If only. I know too well your Meyer-briggs indicators
; some
extraversion-feeling-judging
barely sensing twisted flesh and bone and metal wreck of a passing shadow.
Oh, you’ll be there when the streets run red with our own waste chemicals
and i’m sure you’ll mutter and tut as they seep into the water table
and share your disgust across those ‘spheres you hold so dear
if only because they remind you of what you once thought was the best of yourself
but bore really as much resemblance to your ‘self as those vegan converse allstars
covering your crooked feet.

Cast your eyes for once away from that shallow depth of field periphery inside which your every gesture is forever limited and perhaps for once you’ll understand and not just see but frankly I ain’t holding my breath, baby.

::::#BURN::::


So, Bram E. Gieben is this rather talented writer and performance poet I know who does a whole bunch of cool shit all over Glasgow including running this awesome spoken word night that spans both here and the capitol.

Below is a very well produced video performance of a poem I’ve seen him do a whole bunch of times. It’s pretty fucking good. Seriously, not only is it a sound and provocative piece of writing but the effort and cinematography that has gone into this video raises it above the noise of every day self-promotion. Stick it in your nervous system and let it fester.

::::Sonnet Youth::::


Exit ::: A free e-book from OOT YIR FACE.


So, I do this spoken word thing every Monday called OOT YIR FACE. As the night has developed and become more popular I’ve been getting less mic time. This is both good and bad. Good that the night is getting popular, bad that I keep coming up with sets that are far longer than they need be. Below is everything I prepared for the Monday just gone for your viewing pleasure.

Widget takes a little time to load so be warned.


Woke up to find this on facebook linked by Matt Dalby. I found it a really striking and effective performance, its deconstruction of language and repeatition having somewhere between a hypnotic and broken tapeplayer kinda vibe. My advice? Play it whilst getting on with whatever you’re doing and let the rhythms and words tug you about.

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