#PoeticAnswers 57 – Why Am I Sticky?

It could be all matter of obscenities
And extremities
Which could be the source
Of my stickiness.

It could be the beer,
Sweet and sticky
And definitely
The wrong choice for this party.

It could be their breath,
So close it leaves condensation on your eardrums
And so heavy it drowns out the techno.

It could be the sweat,
Dripping, glistening and refracting
Looking like a perverse fancy dress
Where everyone wears glass.

Realistically,
It’s all of the above but
It’s mostly semen.

Question from my favourite li’l pervert, Arzoo.

#PoeticAnswers 56 – Who Am I?

I am the result of two strings of DNA,
I am the sum of everyone I have met,
I am the actions of myself and others,

I am happy,
I am independent,
I am capable of being anything,

I am unhappy,
I am at war with myself,
I am trying to figure out my place in this world,

I am alive,
I am dying,
I am here,

I am free,
I am limited,
I am a human being,

I am unique,
I am different,
I am my own person,

I am just like you.

Question from Lisa T. from Facebook

#PoeticAnswers 55 – How Can I Make Her Love Me Like I Love Her?

You can’t.

Because love isn’t something
That can be made in a shed like
Made to measure jigsaw pieces
Because love isn’t about
Making cuts and changes to make it fit.

Love is natural and organic,
Like the tree that was cut down
And stripped and made bare and
Manipulated and carved into
Something it wasn’t.

Love is something that needs to
Take root and grow
As a result of care and patience
And then let it’s arms
Reach out of their own accord.

It’s not something that should be
Forced and coerced under
Bright lights and routine and glass roofs
Because then it would be
Synthetic and false.

Love has to be authentic,
It can’t grow in a cage because
It won’t grow or blossom into what it should be.
Trying to force, construct or deconstruct it
Will only make it invalid.

It wouldn’t be true to her or you

Question from Colin M. from Facebook

#PoeticAnswers 54 – How’s The Poetry Challenge Going?

It’s like climbing a mountain of paper,
Or more appropriately, a mountain range
Because there’s a whole range of topics
But they all feel the same and I’m
Trudging through these snow drafts and
Getting colder in an uphill struggle because
I’m never peaking or reaching the
Tops of my potential because it’s a
Pinball tabletop plateau. That’s to say,
It’s feels like I’m falling flat on an incline and
Bouncing around ideas but nonetheless
Doing the same things over and over again.
I’m becoming snowblind and I
Can’t see the line between disillusion and mirage
And when it looks like I’m making tracks
I’m not smiling it’s just my face
Beginning to crack from the pressure and
Altitude and magnitude of the situation.
I’m seeing the same metaphors and visions
Dressed in different expositions but I know
They’re the same. It’s just repetition
Of ideas and images because I left
My originality behind twenty days ago
Because it ran out and I couldn’t carry
The excess weight of the emptiness around
And sometimes it feels like
I’m not even on the mountain anymore
Because I feel buried, like I’m underground,
Like I’m in hell like Persephone,
Five months after the kidnap.
Almost giving up on her
Fruitless endeavours and tired of
Repeating herself over and over.
Just waiting out for a
Bright new day and waiting for
The sun to come out and melt
All the misery away and
Finally manage to make and feel something
New.

Today’s question comes from a chat with a flyerer on the Royal Mile who was interested in what I do.

#PoeticAnswers 52 – Where Is This Train Going?

It’s not quite a one-way ticket,
But it’s not quite a return either.
It’s quite possibly
The vaguest journey to ever unfold,
Because this train tends to
Go off the rails
And meander and roll towards
Destinations and conclusions
That aren’t on a map.

And this train isn’t fuelled
By any standard means
Once the electricity ends,
Once it runs out of steam,
It starts running on imagination.
At which point, it’s less about
Point A to Point B and more like
Pointed to pointless
Endless, listless and aimless.

Going through cities and countryside
On a magical mystery ride through
Memories and dreams,
Riding into the future through
Detours of maybes,
Past purple skies and cities that never sleep
And fields of clouds and streams of whiskey,
Freestyling and meandering it’s way to
No where in particular.

Question from Michael Clark from Facebook

#PoeticAnswers 51 – What Happens To Your Heart When You Go To Sleep?

The heart keeps going,
Awake and wired like
A caffeinated child.

The heart rests
Takes a moment away from the race
And takes life at it’s own pace.

We don’t sleep when we sleep
Our brains don’t shut off,
Our heart keeps pumping blood,
Our lungs keep breathing
And maybe that’s why
We’re still tired in the morning.
Because rest is a lie and
Our bodies keep going.
We think we’re dead to the world
But we’ve never been more alive.

Our brain dreams,
Processing thoughts and actions
Like a machine,
Like a computer with the screen turned off,
Creating images and flickering lights,
Playing tricks on our minds and retinas like
A limited edition, one-of-a-kind movie
In a cinema screening that no one saw,
Except for a projectionist in a dark room.

And our heart is the soundtrack,
Heart strings and pulsing drum beats,
Slow and steady
But swelling to crescendo,
Racing to action
A veritable ventricle
drum and bass underscore,
Returning to legato then coming to rest.

And, like any true heart,
The protagonist in the story,
Arriving on dampened horseback,
Head- and heartstrong,
The knight in shining armour
Chasing nightmares and negative thoughts away,
Then riding into the sunset,
Reminding you to love yourself

Question from Amanda P. from Facebook

#PoeticAnswers 50 – Is There An Art To Being A Stage Technician?

Yes.

Allow me to shed some light,
Hear me out on this matter,
There is as much artistry backstage
As there is on the stage.

Sonic, scenic and visual artists
Set the scene and the score
And illuminate the microcosms
Of stage and screen while
Remaining unseen and unheard
While building walls of sound and
Tapestries of light and
Entirely illusory worlds.

Because it’s a big-top circus
And we’re the juggler, and trapeze, and the balancing act
Performing behind the scenes.
Getting everything ready before
The clowns enter the stage.
Playing God,
Controlling the light they walk in,
Adding the music and sound to the mundanity,
Cueing them into life.

We are valid true artists.
Hiding in shadows,
Lighting the way
Making the music,
But staying out of the spotlight.
Forever alone in black space,
Making every day our magnum opus
While no one pays attention
To the man behind the curtain.

Question from ‘A Curious Follower’ from WordPress!

#PoeticAnswers 49 – Why Aren’t You Listening to Smash Mouth’s “All Star” Right Now?

Somebody once told me
That this song was the
Greatest Song in The World.
I believed them,
At the time, I wasn’t exactly
The sharpest tool in the shed.

I now realise I was wrong,
And the only people who believed it
Might as well have had their
Finger and their thumb in
Their ears, blocking out
All other opinions and
Never experienced real music.

YouTube is suffocating,
The parodies start coming
And they don’t stop coming,
With more samples than
Costco on a Saturday
And more covers than
The bedding section of IKEA

It’s spreading like a virus,
It’s spreading like an STD,
Infecting ears and brains
Like stereo herpes
Like cold sores on my inner ear,
An uncomfortable nuisance
Causing rage and discomfort
Proving that all that glitters
is not golden.

It needs to stop
I need to get away from this place
Things need to change.
We could all use a little change.
I’ll change the DVD to Shrek 2
And hope for the best.

Question from Michael Clark, and now I’ve got this song stuck in my head.

#PoeticAnswers 48 – Why Don’t You Have Any Pictures On Your Phone?

If memories were as easy to
Delete as the photographs on my phone,
I probably wouldn’t be happy.
Losing the past becomes as
Horrifically easy as
Just an uncoordinated finger.

New Age amnesia
Has become my downfall
Dyspraxia and tremors
Leave me shaking with anger
As precious memories
Of concerts, friends and my dog
Disappear into the digital aether.

Technology is supposed to make things easier,
An extension of ourselves
Keeping the memories that overflow
In a safe space.
But time and time again, my phone has
Proved it is just as fucked up and broken as me.

Or on the rare occasion that
An android update has not annihilated my fragile memory,
I have only myself and Google to blame.
The delete icon next to the upload icon
Without an option to cancel
Feels like a challenge for my broken hands.

I can feel your criticism already,
Why didn’t you back them up,
Why didn’t you set it up automatically?
It was, but because my phone is me,
It was too much and caused frequent crashes.
Now, my phone has as much memories as I do.
And the moral of the story is
Fuck Android.

This question and poem come are based on an early draft of a poem called “Digital Amnesia”

#PoeticAnswers 47 – Will You Leave The Door Open?

Will you leave the door open
After all I’ve done?
Will you forget and forgive,
Or does a single moment
Hold more power than
A lifetime of happiness?

Will you lock the door?
Will you define me
By my indescretions?
Will you confine yourself
To our bedroom and
Leave me out in the cold?

Will you put the chain on the door
And wrap it around your heart?
Will you feel like you need to
Protect yourself from me?
Once you’re safe,
Will you let me defend myself?

Will you leave the door open
After all is said and done?
Will you leave the door open
And let me redecorate our bedroom with apologies?
Will you leave the door open?
Will you still be there?

Today’s question was overheard on the streets of Edinburgh. Thank you, stranger.