Poem I wrote, Age 9

Found this on an old disk today and thought I'd share it with the world.
-----
Franky the Phonebox

My name is Phonebox Franky
And I’m very tall and swanky
People often notice me
When they want to phone their wife,
To say they’ll be late for tea.

They open my door,
Step onto the floor,
And in me put 10p.
They pick up the receiver
And wanting to please her,
They say, Don’t mind if I’m late,
Do you Dear?

After a chat
They say, Goodbye Pat
And put the receiver down, gently
They step out my door
Think they’re wife is a bore
And was she really worth that 10p?

Resisting Accumulation

So I went to a beautiful wedding on Saturday. I think they will be happy together, despite being so young. It was very multi-cultural and international.
A= me, F= russian guy at wedding

--
F- What are you going to do after you graduate?
A- Oh, you know. Move to Michigan for summer. After that, hang out. Write stuff. Be a poet in New York. I suppose come back, get some sort of job that doesn't use up all my brain power, write some more.
F- You can make a lot of money from writing.
A- I'm not interested in making a lot of money.
F- But you will need a good house, a good car, good holidays.
A- No
F- Okay, well you will at least need a nice house, and a nice car, and nice holidays.
A- No, not really
F- You can make a lot of money from writing, you don't have to go into international business.
A- But there's no point... Desire is unfulfillable, its like energy. It can only ever be transferred, not used up. So essentially, it doesn't matter what stuff you have. The amount of desire will not diminish, you will always want to acquire more. Therefore, having stuff bears no relation to happiness.
F-... You are like one of those... hippies. But not with the environment. With life. That's weird. I'm going to go into my dad's business. But I'll be more successful than him. I'm going to drive a Bentley. He doesn't drive a Bentley.
A- I hope you will be happy.
F- I am happy. You'll need a well-paid job, though. You need to think about that.
--

He wasn't all bad: he had a habit of folding his cigarette butts in tissue and putting them in his pocket, so as not to leave litter.

Dating? On a Wednesday?

So a man called today and asked me to go on a date with him, today.
Today is Wednesday.

An extract from my diary, May 2003:
''What kind of guy dates on a Wednesday?''

I have, since May 2003, dated on Wednesdays. I've even enjoyed dates on Wednesdays.

But every time a guy invites me to go on a first date, on a Wednesday, I think its sort of weird. The rest of the days of the week are fine. Wednesdays feel so... exposed, right there in the middle.

So tell me John, Why are you leaving?

Find below a poem by the infamous John Wilson. He's my BFF and doing MA poetry at Kingston. I thought this poem was awesome. In fact, it still is awesome. But, he says its not done yet. I am sad he is leaving! But he is leaving for happy reasons, despite the poem.


This is Why I’m Leaving

Amy laughing, taking pictures
smearing thick fingerfulls
of color on my face

I look serious,
use a thumb, write
HELLO WORLD!
backwards

green and yellow,
a white exclamation
a blue dot
a woman with a stroller
looks up and smiles

a phone call from the neighbours

standing at the window
paint dust scattering
in the wake of my scraper

World Beware...

Tonight, around 1am, I met with a man who was angry. His bulldog, not more than a puppy, was running away. The man wanted to hit me.

I was sprinting because it is nice to sprint when it is late. The puppy was sprinting too. I stopped because I didn't want to collide with it. The man was behind, shouting at the puppy that he was going to kill it. I believed him.

The puppy was scared, and friendly to me. Perhaps he wanted me to do something. I did not know what to do. I carried on walking. The puppy didnt know what to do. It stayed where it was. The man was very angry, that he was not in control of the puppy and was hitting things on his way.

He stopped right next to my face. I looked him in the eye. His eyes were brown and his eyebrows quivering. I thought, maybe he wants to kill me, too. He raised a fist and I didnt have time to think anything.

His fist glided close by my face and hit the fence next to me. I was surprised. And relieved.

His hand was not bleeding. The puppy ran on. He shouted some more at the puppy and followed it, confident that he would catch it without rushing too much.

After that I sprinted very fast, for a very long time. I am scared and sad for the puppy, and it's version of normality.

resisting other people's dreams

M= boyfriend, A= me.

M- morning
A- mmm
M- did you have dreams, i was dreaming
A- dont think so
M- i dreamt about x men figures. I thought you had dreamt about x men figures too
A- why would you think that?
M- i dont know. i thought it up until this moment. i thought you just couldnt be bothered to say
A- why would x men figures permeate my conscious?
M- i thought we'd had the same dream
A- really. i really didnt dream of x men figures
M- okay.

Resisting Commuters

Today I went to Golder's Green and sat opposite two fat tired men. Both were well dressed and had faces that just hung there.

It occured to me that my boyfriend might be like that one day, if he becomes a businessman (his father is), but that didn't make me like them any more.

What's the point in making oneself so tired and fat, just to be a bit richer? It won't make you enjoy life any more. Better to be a tradesman, a builder or a chef, a traffic warden, better to use up your physical energy, and have time to hang out with your partner, friends, kids. Better to be hard up and enjoy.

They were at once depressing (people live like this) and life affirming (I don’t, I won’t). I wonder if as young men, they looked at businessmen on the train and thought the same.