Dane Cobain's Blog, page 36

Time

I can be an animal,

when I’m stuck in a rut

and I can’t get up,

and I’m hungover as fuck

racing cursors around a desktop

and trying to stop myself

from vomiting.

 

Sometimes

I feel ashamed

of the way I behave;

quite frankly,

I often find

I don’t have a shit

to give.

 

And so the world seems grey,

and I feel the weight of time

as clocks tick

and we turn over pages

of the calendar

before it hangs itself;

 

it’s quite alarming to think

the most powerful people in history

could not stop the clocks

or not be buried

in a wooden box.

 

I mean,

it’s cool that time is like a river,

but what if I’m dragged under

by the current.

 

I was never

a strong swimmer

to begin with,

and besides,

wolves are afraid

of water.

Signposts

Mate

I don’t carry

signposts;

I can be more useful

with a pen

than with a pennard.

 

I’m just standing

where I always stand

in the shadow of the Eden

House of Fraser,

red hands with scabs,

chapped and angry

but always

a peaceful

protest.

 

We called them racists,

we called them fascists,

and despite the images

plastered across the media,

we’re still running market stalls

and listening to speeches

in the semi-sunshine.

 

This poem is

sponsored by Barclays,

a blue pen with black ink

helping me to think straight.

 

Lorraine is here,

not selling cakes

but just dressed in black

against fascism;

I’m wearing orange

for peace and happiness.

 

This is

the colourful clash

against fascism.

Bare Man Blowing Bubbles

We’re blowing bubbles for peace,

great big transparent balloons

of air and fairy liquid,

hiding from raging dipshits

and my sense of peace

is something wonderful.

 

You can taste their sweat in the air;

your legs cramp up

and you’re almost falling

down again.

 

People are scared

of what they’re scared of,

but the police

keep peace

along the high street,

and this is an interesting metaphor,

because the locals are hopeful

standing in the high street,

while the actual demonstration

marches down a side street.

 

Horse shit

from the police force

for the public

to stumble upon;

dumb organisations

calling for racism

ruining my Saturday

afternoon.

 

Bare bubbles

blowing down

the high street.

The EDL

The English Defence League

is unwelcome here,

their unwelcome collection

of sunburnt flesh,

covering all of the reds

of the colour chart.

 

These hateful racists

making chaos,

and they forget that

this is our town,

and while we do welcome strangers

these strangers are dangerous

and faceless.

 

Okay I get it,

a healthy society

relies on free speech,

and racists have rights

just like anyone,

which is why I don’t mind them coming,

and why I’m compelled

to march out

against them.

 

And yet we get bad press,

tarred with the same bad brush

what what

the fuck

are you talking about?

 

Me,

I have my friends,

and I don’t think Neil

is a hooligan;

Amanda doesn’t even eat

animals.

 

What,

you think Dave Ford

is going to punch someone?

You’re more deluded

than Tommy Robinson.

 

Basically

all I’m saying

is LOVE;

believe what you want,

but be nice to other people,

bake bread and break it

and share it wherever

it needs to be shared,

and if you want to act divisive

then find your own society;

 

muslims aren’t the enemy,

you are.

Staring at Goats

Don’t break the gaze

or disturb the concentration,

and don’t reverse slowly

and fall over;

 

the goats’ll get you

and they’ll forget

to let you go again,

and you’ll HAWWW

and HK-PRFASHAA

and a little gob of spit

will hit you

like a brick

shithouse.

 

Don’t let ‘em win,

‘cause this is a lingering instinct

you don’t even think about,

six billion years

of evolutionary biology

and you’re staring

at goats

and being stared at.

 

Personally,

I’m an old goat

in a new coat,

I’ve got the stubbornness

my species is renowned for.

 

I gaze at gay strangers

and make my own way,

with my four feet

leading me out into infinity,

and the farmers

shear sheep

and turn cows into beef

and I’m still easy,

but someone’s got my goat

and don’t I know it?

 

Now I’m choking

and hopeless,

eating feed

from the people I meet;

 

I chew cud

so you don’t have to.

Odds Farm Park

All the animals

in the world

or at least

all the animals

in south Bucks

on the first real day

of spring,

2016.

 

It’s the goats

chewing straw

and spitting

at your feet;

it’s the sheep,

the golden-fleeced meat

you eat at carveries,

that you feed feed to

bleating

eerily.

 

It’s a feeding frenzy

as you write

in a perfumed

notebook,

farmers farming fast

and vastly outnumbered,

outgunned,

hidden in mazes

in the Sunday sun.

 

Magnets for your fridge

probably hiding

in the gift shop

but I wanna take

a piglet home.

 

Still hating kids

that aren’t interesting –

kill all hoomins

and break bread with goats

and their children,

worshipping

the horned god

of the countryside.

 

I caught

mad goat disease

at Odds Farm Park

and now all my poems

are fnarfled.

York Literature Festival 2016 Journal

Note: This article comprises of the notes and poems that I jotted down whilst my friend Nick and I were in York for York Literature Festival. Enjoy!

 

Wednesday

Hung over at work after the Travel Marketing Awards – a busy day, but I survived it. Then home, and Nick came over in the evening, ahead of the festival. I made dinner and we watched Django Unchained and a couple of random documentaries, and then went to bed.

 

Thursday

Up at about quarter to nine, then we got ready, finalised a few last bits and bobs, and then we walked to the train station and hopped on the train to Marylebone. From there, we headed towards Kings Cross, and then on a train to York. The whole journey took about four and a half hours, and so it wasn’t too bad.

We got to the hotel okay, and once we were in, we unpacked our stuff and settled in, then headed back out. We ended up at Wetherspoons, where we had a quick pint and some nachos, and then we headed off to our first event, the Friargate Anthology Launch Event.

 

Quakers

You got me

quaking

like a bowl of oats

in front of a microphone,

mingling and

bringing singing

to the big ol’

Meeting House,

with some sorta

building site

right outside.

You got me

learning to breathe

like a round

of applause;

you got me

asking awkward questions,

about the first thing

you ever

got published.

You got me

reading

The Friargate

Anthology;

you got me

feeling

easy,

showing songs

to sister

Angela.

You got me

fortunately

lost to history,

like a pulped book

stumbling home

drunk.

You got me

stocking up

on plain brown

envelopes

and second class

stamps.

 

After that, we had an hour or so to kill, so we went for a couple of games of pool and a beer (I lost 2-1). Then we went to York St. John University for the Student Showcase. It was the first time I’d been back to a university since leaving Roehampton, and so it felt kind of weird.

 

A Poem About Jesus Written at York St. John University on St. Patrick’s Day by an Atheist

Come and mingle

with Will Smith

and Dr. Syntax,

fly the freak flag of finance

with the creative accountant,

and I can only hear

children.

Going back to university

for the first time

since you were

a student;

missing out on free wine

because your stripes came out

on the pool table.

Stop staring;

these women ain’t pretty

and they’ve never had

a proper job,

and besides

you’re already

kinda

seeing someone.

Step up

to the

semi-professional

level;

take what you’re owed

and sow oats

globally,

or slow down,

shut up

and listen.

Sometimes

you’ve gotta be quiet

to hear things.

 

After that, we went back to the snooker place and played a couple opf frames, which I won both of – the first game was much closer to the second. And then, we picked up some beers and headed back to the hotel, and then we ordered a pizza to the room. After we ate that, we headed off to sleep!

 

Friday:

Woke up at about 9:30, had a quick cuppa and then headed out. We browsed the Shambles for a bit, and then we went to meet Kaye from Visit York for a quick coffee and a chat, which was cool. Turns out that we’re the pilot test, at the moment – if the blogger visits from the Literature Festival go well then they’ll be able to invite more bloggers for future events.

We had to do a few admin bits at banks and at the hotel, and then we went to a pub called the House of the Trembling Madness, which also sold booze in the shop downstairs. It was a pretty cool place – I drank a strawberry beer, and then we picked up some souvenirs. Then, we went walking and checked out the charity shops before eventually heading back to the room to do a little bit of resting and recording before heading back to York St. John for the Poetry & Migration event.

 

Christopher Nolan

Christopher Nolan

shot Batman,

and I know Irishmen

who sound the same

as other Irishmen,

even when it comes

to poetry.

Christopher Nolan

shut it down

and some student

tried to hide

the wine

from me.

You could be

Christopher Nolan;

the crowd lit up

with Edmond Spencer.

Christopher Nolan

is presumably

one of the Nolans;

didn’t they

have a hit

with some song

sometime?

Anyway

Christopher Nolan

has a hold on you,

and you

HAH!

Well maybe

We’ll see.

 

After that, we went round a bunch of pubs and got a little drunk. We also played some board gamers at one of the pubs, including a music quiz game and chess. Eventually, we ended up back at the hotel room, where we had a couple more beers and eventually just passed out.

 

Saturday:

We woke up just after ten, packed up our stuff, showered, drank a cup of coffee and checked out. From there, we moved on to the House of the Trembling Madness so that Nick could get some wild boar, and then we headed over to the Black Swan to round off our trip with some final events.

 

The Devil

Yeah

he’s watching,

you might think

he’s just a metaphor

or anthropomorphic

personification,

but he’s more like

the sultan of Brunei

or the prime minister

or a small

island nation.

He’s in the details,

sucking on

suckling pig,

too big

to even

begin with.

I thought

you saw

him fall,

like light

from the giant

sky;

I thought

you thought

he caught you.

He’s watching

through closed circuit

television cameras;

you’d better

watch him

back,

love.

 

As it transpired, we only stuck around for the first event, because we needed to leave halfway through the second one and we would’ve got back stupidly late. It was a great event, though – we also bumped into Terry on the way back to the station and posed for one final photo.

After that, we just headed home – it was a long old journey, but it gave us a chance to do some reading and we made it back eventually. Which brings us to the end of my York diary, and to the end of our epic adventure. Viva York, and long live York Literature Festival.

The Future of Spoken Word Night

Hi, folks! Now, as you might know, I recently launched my first collection of poetry, Eyes Like Lighthouses When the Boats Come Home, with a party at the Rose and Crown. It was a lot of fun, and the response from attendees was fantastic, and so I’ve decided to cave into peer pressure and to make it a regular thing.

So here’s a quick update about what I’m working on. First off, I’ve been chatting to Cedric about making it a regular thing – I need to pop in to see him and to check the diary, but it’s looking like we’re going to start running spoken word night on the second Sunday of every month, starting in May.

 

 

Speaking of, I’ve also been asked to get involved with Wycombe Fringe Festival, and so I’m pleased to announce that I’ll be putting on a spoken word night at the Enterprise Centre, on the evening of Saturday 30th May. Be sure to check out the Facebook event page and to come along on the night!

That little lot should keep me busy, but if you’d like to speak to me about putting on an event then don’t hesitate to get in touch. You can also find me on Facebook and Twitter for further updates. I’ll see you soon!

Eyes Like Lighthouses Launch Party: The Wrap-Up

Hi, folks! Well, that’s a wrap for the Eyes Like Lighthouses When the Boats Come Home launch party – we had a great time celebrating spoken word at The Rose and Crown here in High Wycombe, on Thursday 31st March.

Throughout the evening, we saw some awesome performances, ranging from comedy and fiction to poetry, with a total of nine different authors taking to the stage: Clive Whitelock, Dave Ford, Michael-Israel Jarvis, Amar Deshmukh, Neil Denham, Saqib Deshmukh, Ant Lightfoot, Oli Jacobs and, of course, myself.

 

 

We recorded the audio from each of the performances, and I uploaded them to a Soundcloud account that I created especially for recordings of the night. You can check them out in the player above, or follow me on Soundcloud to hear the latest uploads, as and when they’re released.

I’m hoping to put on more spoken word events in the near future, so keep your eyes peeled for updates on that. If that’s not enough, be sure to follow me on Facebook and Twitter for further updates, and I’ll see you soon!

New Demo: Sober

Hi, folks! Just a quick update for you today to let you know about a new song that I wrote, called ‘Sober’. Of course, I wasn’t actually sober when I wrote it, but that’s beside the point.

So far, I’ve only recorded it as a demo, but that’s not going to stop me from sharing it with you. Hopefully, I’ll get it recorded soon and I’ll share that with you, too!

 

 

You can check out the demo for free in the player above, or head over to my Soundcloud and YouTube profiles to check out more music. I also have two albums that are available for free on Spotify!

If that wasn’t enough, you can always follow me on Facebook and Twitter for further updates, or subscribe to my YouTube channel to see new videos as and when they come out. I’ll see you soon!