Max Scratchmann's Blog, page 4

Poets’ Girlfriends

You see them on the fringes of every gathering,

Bored witless and fortifying themselves with half pints of strong larger and endless packets of crisps.

Poets’ girlfriends.

Stoic. Uncomplaining.

Although, sometimes, in the confessional sanctuary of the ladies’ loo,

You might hear one of them whisper,

Well, it could be worse.

He could be into football, and then it would be all that hanging around on the sidelines in the freezing cold,

Pretending to watch him play.

Oh, life can be excruciating for a poet’s girlfriend,

Like,

When some intimate moment is broadcast to a roomful of strangers at the top of his stentorian voice,

Or that lovingly detailed description of the mole at the top of her thigh thundered out at forty decibels.

But poets’ girlfriends don’t falter.

They just sigh and smile and, drinking down their strong beer,

Try not to look bored or terse,

For they are here, and for the long haul,

They are poets’ girlfriends,

For better or verse.

Festival Pics

Some pics of me performing at the Blind Poet pub in Edinburgh during the Festival Blind Poetics Gala Open Mic Night – over 35 performers! What a night!

See Me at the Edinburgh Fringe

Well It’s Woody

If you’re in Edinburgh this weekend I’m the guest poet in this fabulous cabaret. Catch the show tonight (Sunday) at 9 pm – FREE ADMISSION!

Flyering The Mile

This one’s for everyone out there trying to snare audiences for their Fringe shows in Edinburgh

I went out to the Royal Mile to distribute some flyers,

I didn’t need a license, “O” Levels, even Highers,

I just took my neck of shiny brass, and my resolve of tempered steel,

And asked the people that I met to share my showman’s zeal.

Oh, come and see my little show, I begged, cajoled, I pleaded,

I have the script, I have the hall, an audience is what’s needed,

But they looked at me and laughed aloud, begone, they said to me,

We want to go see famous men, we have no time for thee.

And so I felt another scheme I surely should anoint,

And now I bring my audience in in handcuffs at gunpoint.

See me at the Edinburgh Festival

Animal

As part of this year’s PBH Free Fringe Spoken Word programme Alec Beattie is presenting his one-man show, ‘ANIMAL’.

Use an ANIMAL as a metaphor to explore lying panda police, smartarse crows, dead foxes, socialist camels, and to answer the question: what if Hitler had been a cat?

Downstairs @ the Fiddler’s Elbow, 4 Picardy Place (venue 71). 12:15 – 13:15. Free. Not for kids.

Two shows:

Tuesday 6 August with guest Tracey S. Rosenberg

Wednesday 7 August with guest Max Scratchmann

Strange Meeting

He was coming towards me in his royal buggy,

His hair already by Sassoon, his diaper by Huggy,

Who are you, friend? I asked in the eerie light,

He said, I’m the royal baby that shall be born tonight.

Shouldn’t you be a dead German, I ask in the greenish glow,

Bearing a striking resemblance to me, me old bro?

But the baby merely gurgles and shakes his head,

I am the ghost of monarchy yet to be, I’m unborn, not dead.

I have come here to meet you in this dark and spooky tunnel,

To get a preview on this life before I descend the funnel.

So tell me, friend, he ponders, what do I have in store?

I tell him, TV, Hello Magazine, gossip columns, the internet, more.

Pretty shitty deal, then, he says with contrition,

I’ve got the media, you’ve got the coalition.

Royal Baby Countdown

Bye Baby Bunting, Pippa’s gone a-hunting,

Gone to buy some mayonnaise,

To dress your royal salad days,

And write a book of baby names,

And many other media shames,

We’ll call you Charles Fredrick James,

And leak your pictures, all the sames,

So shake your rattle, shake your bars,

The paps are circling in their cars,

And Hello mag waits in the wings,

To write about your toys and things,

So stay up there and don’t come down,

You’re far too small to bear the crown.

The Sad Man

In the grey dawn light and faint smirr of rain they were all as one, indistinguishable. The strongman melded with the roustabouts and the acrobats, the latter now ground-bound and strangely like rain-slaked moths without their spangles and gilding.

And the ground was soft under his feet, his shoes still bearing the last clinging remnants of sawdust from the ring last night, hazy memories of a brief moment under the klieg lights in some already forgotten town on the far side of nowhere.

Take the slack, someone shouted, and he felt the cold texture of the rope in his hand begin to bite as they all hauled and pulled, the canvas of the old tent rising like a phoenix from the damp ground, turning the barren field into a palace of dreams for one night only.

Cheer up, it’ll never happen, someone said, patting him on the back as they secured the swaying cables with heavy pegs.

Most morose bastard I ever met, another voice snorted, and all the faceless shapes joined in the laughter like a devil’s chorus.

Not that he cared, of course, slinking into the shade of the underside of a wagon to rest until dusk and the discordant melody of the hurdy-gurdy men and the barkers’ raucous cries. Fires being lit and onions frying, the cooch dancers stretching from their beds and drowning the scent of their stale sweat with cheap cologne.

Another show, someone said, clapping him on the shoulder as he sat by the mirror, but he never answered.

Miserable sod, they said, walking away.

Oblivious, he rose, stretched, and pulled aside the striped canvas flap, drinking in the aroma and the sight of the crowd bustling through the turnstiles.

And then that delicious moment of rebirth. A little boy saw him and pointed, his drab care-worn face lighting up like a Christmas tree.

Coco, he cried, beaming. It’s Coco the Clown!

Dad, Dad!

Monday

Dad, Dad, who was Hitler, Dad?

He was a very bad man, Son, we went to war against him.

Dad, Dad, how bad was he? And why did we go to war?

Oh, he was very bad, he invaded Poland. That’s why we went to war.

Ohhhhh…..

Tuesday

Dad, Dad!

Yes, Son?

What are immigrants, Dad?

Immigrants are bad people from Poland, Son, they steal our jobs. We’re trying to send them all home.

Like Hitler did, Dad?

Read your comic…

Date for Your Diary