I was watching 'Eggheads' the other night, because I couldn't sleep. I then wrote three poems relating to 'Eggheads'. I hasten to add the words in these poems are in no way indicative of the characters of the actual Eggheads, who I'm sure are wholesome, professional people.
Eggheads one.
Judith from Eggheads sat alone.
Daphne (from Eggheads) ambled past.
Judith coughed.
Daphne pretended not to notice her.
But she had noticed.
She had noticed.
Eggheads two
CJ and Kevin on a lawn,
Playing lawn tennis.
Kevin loses a point,
Picks up the ball, folornly.
But a happy day, a joyous scene!
Later, whilst taking drinks,
Their hands brush. Their eyes meet.
Why doesn't he just kiss me?, thinks CJ.
Why don't I make my move? - Kevin - Stupid, stupid, stupid.
But the moment had passed,
And it was CJ's serve.
Eggheads three
Chris wheezed as he stood. His tongue, lolling.
Sweat oozed from his bald scalp,
Forming drips and drops that dripped and dropped onto the leather of the sofa.
He picked up an apple. Tossed it, casually, in the air.
Caught it, calmly. His gaze elswhere.
'Same time tomorrow?' He implored, putting on his glasses.
'Yes,' replied Daphne, with a wry smile, tugging up her gusset.
Barry watched on, seething with envy.
Another normal day,
In Eden.
Friday 26 February 2010
Thursday 25 February 2010
Gritty Northern Crime Drama
A Gritty, Northern Crime Drama. The first section of the first chapter (mayhap I'll post other sections of other chapters, or the same chapter, a bit later in my life ie. when I write them) - It's called 'Barberous Quartet' (a pun on the common phrase 'barbershop quartet' - I'm sure it'll make sense once you read all of it.) Enjoy.
I’m absolutely fooked, thought Detective Clark, stumbling up the stairs, fag hanging out his mouth, lighter in hand. His metal hand clanked against the banister. It had been three years since he lost his hand in that Wool Mill in Huddersfield, but the pain never went away. He still had no hand.(Obviously).
He was fifty-odd, and no longer at the peak of his physical health. When was I ever at t’peak of my physical health, he reflected, in a manner uncannily echoing the narrator. He tried to clasp the handle (to the door of his office) but his steel claw simply bounced off it. It had been three years since he could clasp a door handle. He sat at the top of the stairs and sobbed, fag hanging out of his mouth (but still in his mouth ie. sticking to his lip, via saliva, for example), lighter now pocketed. He wasn’t going to smoke it just yet. Not yet.
Sitting in the damp receipts and cigarette butts at the top of the steps to his grotty, one bedroom flat in Brotton, Detective Clark thought to himself, Shit t’bed, I’m washed up. Fat. Old and getting older. I never even solved a big case. The biggest case I solved was that psychopathic homeopath in Grangetown. He also thought about his pension, and that it wasn’t very good and how he doesn’t have enough money. The smell of iron (which is symbolic of the smell of blood. Which is gritty.) drifted from the rusting banister into his nasal cavity. It was then that the biggest crime North Yorkshire had seen in years was to fall, almost literally (well, actually literally) into his lap.
Yeah, I left it hanging. You'll find out what happens in the next instalment of 'Barbarous Quartet'. You may also notice I left it open for a 'prequel' (ie. 'how did Detective Clark lose his hand?). But we'll get through this one first. Possibly.
I’m absolutely fooked, thought Detective Clark, stumbling up the stairs, fag hanging out his mouth, lighter in hand. His metal hand clanked against the banister. It had been three years since he lost his hand in that Wool Mill in Huddersfield, but the pain never went away. He still had no hand.(Obviously).
He was fifty-odd, and no longer at the peak of his physical health. When was I ever at t’peak of my physical health, he reflected, in a manner uncannily echoing the narrator. He tried to clasp the handle (to the door of his office) but his steel claw simply bounced off it. It had been three years since he could clasp a door handle. He sat at the top of the stairs and sobbed, fag hanging out of his mouth (but still in his mouth ie. sticking to his lip, via saliva, for example), lighter now pocketed. He wasn’t going to smoke it just yet. Not yet.
Sitting in the damp receipts and cigarette butts at the top of the steps to his grotty, one bedroom flat in Brotton, Detective Clark thought to himself, Shit t’bed, I’m washed up. Fat. Old and getting older. I never even solved a big case. The biggest case I solved was that psychopathic homeopath in Grangetown. He also thought about his pension, and that it wasn’t very good and how he doesn’t have enough money. The smell of iron (which is symbolic of the smell of blood. Which is gritty.) drifted from the rusting banister into his nasal cavity. It was then that the biggest crime North Yorkshire had seen in years was to fall, almost literally (well, actually literally) into his lap.
Yeah, I left it hanging. You'll find out what happens in the next instalment of 'Barbarous Quartet'. You may also notice I left it open for a 'prequel' (ie. 'how did Detective Clark lose his hand?). But we'll get through this one first. Possibly.
Wednesday 24 February 2010
On 'Radish' and Some More Poetry
Ok, bear with me on this one.
I hate the word 'Radish'. There I said it. It's such a monumentally displeasing word. Say it a few times with me. Radish. Radish. Radish. Really get your mouth around the sounds of the word. Radish. Radish. Radish. Yuk. Doesn't it leave a bitter taste in your mouth? Doesn't the sound of its composition send shivers cascading down your spine, make your skin crawl? The two composite parts 'Rad' and 'Ish' just don't fit comfortably side by side at all. They don't lend themselves to being said consecutively. The word just doesn't work on any level. It even looks wierd.
I've nothing against radishes themselves. In fact, horseradish sauce is very nice with a side of beef. I'm not even averse to them in salads, say. A very nice garnish. But the word itself is frankly disgusting, and might even be driving me to giving up radishes in terms of my consumption, for fear I have to say their names. Awful. Who looked at a radish and thought "Let's call this a radish, yeah, that's a nice name for something." Because that's what happened. Some idiot thought 'radish' would be a nice thing to call something.
Sorry about that. But I suppose that's the beauty of language. One man's 'Radish' (horrible) is another man's 'Lanolin' (pleasant).
Please do let me know words that offend you from a purely aesthetic or aural point of view.
A few more poems (short), to sweeten the atmosphere.
11. His skin, slack. His eyes, vapid. His breath, dense with raw meat. I miss you, dad.
12. A lamb grazes in a field. A hat falls, far away. The two events are unconnected.........?
13. Twenty three tiny chicks enter a bar. They implode. It was a bar in outer space.
14. DNA - Do Not Ask. 'Incorrect,' says the schoolmaster, exhaling.
15. One day, in Rome, Gaius Maximus is out walking. He sees a dormouse. Tasty looking thing. Put it on a stick, didn't he?
16. Funny, thought the plastic surgeon, I shouldn't have breasts. Someone, somewhere had made a serious miscalculation.
Sleep well. I may not with the rattling cough someone is producing downstairs.
I hate the word 'Radish'. There I said it. It's such a monumentally displeasing word. Say it a few times with me. Radish. Radish. Radish. Really get your mouth around the sounds of the word. Radish. Radish. Radish. Yuk. Doesn't it leave a bitter taste in your mouth? Doesn't the sound of its composition send shivers cascading down your spine, make your skin crawl? The two composite parts 'Rad' and 'Ish' just don't fit comfortably side by side at all. They don't lend themselves to being said consecutively. The word just doesn't work on any level. It even looks wierd.
I've nothing against radishes themselves. In fact, horseradish sauce is very nice with a side of beef. I'm not even averse to them in salads, say. A very nice garnish. But the word itself is frankly disgusting, and might even be driving me to giving up radishes in terms of my consumption, for fear I have to say their names. Awful. Who looked at a radish and thought "Let's call this a radish, yeah, that's a nice name for something." Because that's what happened. Some idiot thought 'radish' would be a nice thing to call something.
Sorry about that. But I suppose that's the beauty of language. One man's 'Radish' (horrible) is another man's 'Lanolin' (pleasant).
Please do let me know words that offend you from a purely aesthetic or aural point of view.
A few more poems (short), to sweeten the atmosphere.
11. His skin, slack. His eyes, vapid. His breath, dense with raw meat. I miss you, dad.
12. A lamb grazes in a field. A hat falls, far away. The two events are unconnected.........?
13. Twenty three tiny chicks enter a bar. They implode. It was a bar in outer space.
14. DNA - Do Not Ask. 'Incorrect,' says the schoolmaster, exhaling.
15. One day, in Rome, Gaius Maximus is out walking. He sees a dormouse. Tasty looking thing. Put it on a stick, didn't he?
16. Funny, thought the plastic surgeon, I shouldn't have breasts. Someone, somewhere had made a serious miscalculation.
Sleep well. I may not with the rattling cough someone is producing downstairs.
Tuesday 23 February 2010
First Up.
And, to get the ball rolling, I thought I'd share ten small poems that I wrote just recently. I hope you like them.
1. He trampled the candles underfoot. Bollocks, he thought, that's going to take ages to clear up.
2. Roaming across a mountain, a sheep slips on some shingle. That was close, he reflects.
3. If I'm leaving, I'm taking you with me, thought the enthusiastic shopper.
4. Two mothers meet. Mothers meeting? Yes. Mothers' meeting? No.
5. Disgusting slop, thinks the nurse. Old bitch, thinks her patient.
6. An Englishman, an Irishman and a Scotsman frequent the same bar without ever meeting.
7. Happy Birthday to you, thought the spider, eating a fly. Alone.
8. 'Time flies when you're having fun,' said the Elephant, splashing the Hippo. 'Please stop splashing; my allergies are acting up,' replied Hippo.
9. Roses are red, bruises are bluey-purple. Please don't give me either. I have hayfever, and I don't like being hurt.
10. The other night whilst handling nitro-glycerine I slipped. This could be problematic, I considered.
And finally, a haiku to finish it off.
The Spring beckons soft,
Not likely in Brown's England,
Political one.
1. He trampled the candles underfoot. Bollocks, he thought, that's going to take ages to clear up.
2. Roaming across a mountain, a sheep slips on some shingle. That was close, he reflects.
3. If I'm leaving, I'm taking you with me, thought the enthusiastic shopper.
4. Two mothers meet. Mothers meeting? Yes. Mothers' meeting? No.
5. Disgusting slop, thinks the nurse. Old bitch, thinks her patient.
6. An Englishman, an Irishman and a Scotsman frequent the same bar without ever meeting.
7. Happy Birthday to you, thought the spider, eating a fly. Alone.
8. 'Time flies when you're having fun,' said the Elephant, splashing the Hippo. 'Please stop splashing; my allergies are acting up,' replied Hippo.
9. Roses are red, bruises are bluey-purple. Please don't give me either. I have hayfever, and I don't like being hurt.
10. The other night whilst handling nitro-glycerine I slipped. This could be problematic, I considered.
And finally, a haiku to finish it off.
The Spring beckons soft,
Not likely in Brown's England,
Political one.
My First Blog
As the title describes, this is my very first blog (post? blogpost?). In it I will lay down what I plan to do with future posts (posts.), and the blog generally, in the future, I think.
My name is Anthony Cule (ie. Ant Cule (for short, or Ant, for even shorter)) and I am doing an MA in Theatre Directing, and as such, have a passing interest in, well, theatre directing. I also have a passing interest in writing stuff. So what I plan to do, really, is blog about (post about? blogpost about?) musings on theatre, musings on writing, maybe some writing, maybe even some theatre, if I do any recordings of it, and don't infringe any copyright laws. I will be blogposting about these things because they are close to my heart and the only things that I really know a bit about, apart from football; but there are a lot of ways to read peoples' opinions on football, and I'm sure one more blog about football would just clutter up, not only the Football Blogosphere, but the Blogosphere in general, so not football then.
I hope that's all clear then. I will try and actually keep it up, because it seems to me a good way to at least focus my mind on what I want to do, so even if no-one reads it, or everyone hates it then at least it's doing some good in the world. Blogoworld. To one man. In his pants. (Me.)
My name is Anthony Cule (ie. Ant Cule (for short, or Ant, for even shorter)) and I am doing an MA in Theatre Directing, and as such, have a passing interest in, well, theatre directing. I also have a passing interest in writing stuff. So what I plan to do, really, is blog about (post about? blogpost about?) musings on theatre, musings on writing, maybe some writing, maybe even some theatre, if I do any recordings of it, and don't infringe any copyright laws. I will be blogposting about these things because they are close to my heart and the only things that I really know a bit about, apart from football; but there are a lot of ways to read peoples' opinions on football, and I'm sure one more blog about football would just clutter up, not only the Football Blogosphere, but the Blogosphere in general, so not football then.
I hope that's all clear then. I will try and actually keep it up, because it seems to me a good way to at least focus my mind on what I want to do, so even if no-one reads it, or everyone hates it then at least it's doing some good in the world. Blogoworld. To one man. In his pants. (Me.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)