An Untitled Poem.

A casual remark sparks talk
simple words
words I have dreamt to hear
for months.
"Hello how are you doing?
I'm doing all these wonderful things in my life" she said.
Cool arty things mostly,
I admire the talent.
Those horrible angry arguments seem
so trivial, so futile.
This is both deep and small talk,
words read in your voice.
Though I am ever cautious
A slight mistake
throw me to the dogs and destroy
Maybe this is why we fell apart?

Manchester & Movies

So I'm back in Manchester. And it was sunny today. Nothing like walking down Oxford Road in my shades eh? 
It's weird being back at Uni though. Coursework is done and its time to crack on with exam revision. There's a lot I need to go over but it all should be fine. Just got to spend less time pissed., which shouldn't be too hard since I'm yet to see half my flat mates. Less people to encourage me to the pub.


In other news I watched a film called Down In The Valley the other day. It had Edward Norton (Fight Club) and Evan Rachel Wood (Across the Universe) in it. They are like two of my favourite actors ever and they really worked well together. It was one of those weird films that people like Norton always seem to do. It really just put me in a space. I just sat there for about twenty minutes after it had finished. It's definitely one of my favourite films. 

Ramblings on writing. Plus Kerouac.

So I was going to write some deep and meaningful poetry because well, I'm just that cool and haven't written much in a while. But then I got distracted designing this blog (isn't it pretty) and now all those deep thoughts have skipped away to the back of my mind, not to be discovered for a while. 
Which is a shame. But oh well. 


Slightly unrelated I have just noticed my copy of 'On the Road' sat across my room begging to be read. It is such a wonderfully written book it almost makes me sad to finish it. Just let me read Kerouac forever please? 


I promise actual semi-serious writing will come soon. Probably poetry but you never know. 


Peace.  

"Don't Try" - Bukowski

A person very dear to me once mentioned in passing that I would probably like Bukowski. (He's a poet) A quick search and a cursory read of about two poems piqued my interest, but due to short attention and the rush of life his poetry was pushed to the back of my mind. 
That was until a random encounter in the Deansgate Waterstones. His worn inquisitive  monochrome face stared at me from the cover of his book - "The Pleasure of the Damned". I instantly recognised the name, and memories flooded back to me of that dear person. So after around 20 minutes flicking through this book and debating whether I actually had the funds, I just had to buy it. 


His poetry reminds me of people I don't want to meet, but may end up becoming. Rough. Poor. Desperate. Old. There are only faint glimmers of happiness in five hundred pages of beautifully tainted words. 


My friend was right.