Core, Mantle and Crust.

Face of the Earth; blemished because.

All these spots and scars, and tears upon the crust.

With us all amounting to little more than makeup.

I’m a freckle for the summer, a sore from the winter,

A scratch down the skin and the scar from a splinter,

and the seasons bear down as I turn,

360 degrees a year,

into the person I thought, the person I think I can be.

We don’t pity a canyon for what pulled it apart, but single it out a wonder.

Sending bikes flying over,

as plates are moving under

Just to prove we’re stronger, I guess. 

The Human Race:

The masters of this place,

The features of this face. 

And continental drift a rift between families of stone,

stern Romeo and Juliet, 

Fragments of broken homes. 

and stagnant waves look past us

as we dig these sea for oil,

reap the ground of soil, 

Creating cosmetics with the ash we leave behind.

All hoping not to be blown away without leaving a mark.

So scar this face, these wrists bleeding water,

hold oursleves up, as bones stuck with mortar,

we’ll all go the same, the Son and the Daughter,

We’ll go away as we lived.

And we can’t pull these canyons back together,

But the Earth can take the weight,

The weight upon your shoulders as you set it down,

in place.

A blemish, or a smile, 

set upon the face.

Sandwiches and Torture

A cheese and pickle sandwich at 8pm is truly the sign of a hopeless man.
I’m not suggesting that the sandwich itself is a problem, but more the fact that I made it as a form of procrastination. I’ve heard of art for art’s sake, and am the occasional spokesman of food for food’s sake, but the insertion of curdled milk and preserved pickle between two bits of bread should not be treated as an event, nor a reprieve, from anything. Although I’m sure it is welcome as a way to “fill” five minutes for victims of prolonged torture.

Sadly, I cannot pity myself so much as to believe that claiming my essay as being torturous would hold up in court. Still, productivity is a weird thing, as I often finds that it takes the mental equivalent of being water-boarded for information to make me get off my arse and actually address my course load. This week for example, I did all the background research and interviews necessary to write two news stories for my portfolio, as well as creating a presentation, all for a deadline yesterday. This being in the context that I’ve had these assignments in my head since January time and yet felt no need to make life easier for my future self by being nice enough to notice them. When the pressure ducked my head under for another round of forceful conversation, I spilled the beans over a space of two days. Now, I have until this Thursday to write an essay before my exams start good and proper.

What is strangest about this is that, on the face of it, I don’t actually have that much to do; my weekly contact hours wouldn’t stress out an elderly person with anxiety issues and an optimistic grasp of their remaining brain functions, and I think my work last year was considerably more difficult. Ultimately what’s different this year is that a lot of the work is so flexible and down to my own initiative and determination, as oppose to working towards a set question or goal. I have so little to do, so much of the time, that I think I’ve forgotten what it’s like to feel the urgency of a deadline. Also, I chose this course, and University in general, so I feel that I can’t complain.

All I can say is, thank god for pressure. When it entered the room with the towel and the bucket, laying out other tools like enticing after-dinner mints, I became a sheep being pushed as part of a particular herd again: the herd working towards a definite deadline of definite consequence, that I could just about see through the sodden material. Of course, I’ve barely looked at the revision for my exams in and amongst my attempts to draw news stories out of an area so devoid of life that I’m half expecting a kind of Monty Python-esque plague and cart scene. But that’s something I’ll deal with when my captor moves the other tools and reveals the pliers and the nail gun. Or at the very least, a copy of anything on my reading list…

When the bed bugs bite

Fuck this beating heart

With its power over me; 

both the reason I live and the reason I bleed.

Yet I can never choose which one.

And fuck my brain for never listening, as it hid between my ears;

Accumulating lines from songs and films I haven’t seen in years, yet unwilling to bear a thought or a care for the world that became my own.

And fuck my lips for ever forming anything other than a joke; these words of ineffect connect as well as a fighter against the ropes, 

with about as much chance of hitting their target.

Because when the final bell rings out, I don’t want to be on back foot, pushing against ground as I fail to mark it,

Instead, let it mark me in a way that means that you can hit the ground running.

Because mistakes will make me human, but a person goes beyond.

I guess I’ve found a human right can still be personally wrong.

And my heart it has an impulse,

And my brain has seen it work.

My lips can tell the story once I fall back down to earth.

So fuck the pieces of me seperate,

Snapped off bits of clay.

But if I put them all together….

Morning Gory

Today, I’m hungover.

Of course, I told myself I wasn’t; I have no splitting headache, and my stomach isn’t churning waves of acid and Birdseye burgers. But as with everyone who makes an evening out of pouring chemicals down their neck, there’s always consequences in the morning. Mine just feel more permanent.

So yes, I’m hungover, as all these things hang off my skin, and it just takes one more shot to realise they still haven’t let go. Being drunk is emotion without the logic, and in the morning I realise that I wish my world was still spinning in a way that I could control by simply removing a bottle from my lips. I don’t want to be ready for the day, remembering outgoing messages and lost items that I can easily find under my skin next to the things I lost there 5 years ago, and everyday inbetween. If it was dirt clinging to my body I could wash it off, but this kind of thing re-emerges daily, more like a sweat with a potency that causes me to turn my nose up.

And we all know deodreants are shit.

So maybe it’s called a hangover because of all the things that hangover you, like a permanent cloud with some heavenly paparazzi perched on top of it. I’ll never understand the idea of alcohol as a vice, as it doesn’t release anything but what made you reach for a bottle in the first place. But hey, like I said: emotion without logic. I need logic, and order, which is probably why I’m writing this in the first place.

Today, I’m hungover.

Like many days before.

And every day after.

Because I can, Alright?

I left myself for dead;
Fully realised the gap between the heart and the head,
and the something that surpassed them both.

I wouldn’t call it want,
what I never thought I’d need.
As all they saw was pride
and a stone that refused to bleed.

But perhaps it’s easier to just assume a smile when there is no reason for anything else.

The tales men tell about birds

There’s something about the sky that we can all connect with: people as vast and unique as the weather, whether we asked for the warm or the cold.

I’m the kind of guy who will lift you up and hold you there, letting the air carry you as I let go.

And then you’re flying.

But the thing is up there, there’s sun and there’s snow, and the two cannot exist together.

Can you see where this is going?

They say there’s a calm before the storm, but I’m more likely to seek the storm first, as that’s where all the best stories start. Storms of love, storms of passion, storms of anger; as well as storms that can’t even blow away the footprints you never wish you’d left.

Up in the sky, we all want to be flying, but all it takes is a little turbulance and we begin to fall through clouds that have no desire to catch us.

But as the ground speeds up to meet us, I’d challenge any of you to say that you’d have it any other way.

I’m the kind of guy that will hold you down and kick the grit into your eyes, crunching up gravel and bone with about as much care for either.

We didn’t know we wanted to fly until the ground became unsafe.

That’s why the debris were left there.

Conflicting Interests.

So here I am, sat at my desk, with a Pantera shirt on my back and a Taylor Swift song on a loop in my head. I think that just about sums up the kind of person I am, more defining of me as a human being than my inability to focus on council reports that are really rather important to  my degree.
Oh well, it must be a Thursday.
Not that any of you have much of an interest in what a lazy 18 year old chooses to do (or not do) with his day. This blog has always been more for my own benefit, even if I’m not entirely sure what that benefit is. The whole idea of blogging just brings to mind a phrase that comes up all the time on my course and yet which remains to my mind utterly pointless: Public interest.

There is a general consensus within Journalism that something being in the Public interest is not the same thing as something being “of interest to the public”. Fair enough, you might say. The only problem is, whoever came up with the idea of the public interest was probably a self indulgent gibbon who was attempting to explain why he had just broadcast information about poor old Mrs Jenkins’ secret S&M habits to the Sunday morning congregation. Public interest is one of those terms that is subjective, meaning that people can use it to do pretty much whatever they want, with a more serious real world example being that of the now infamous News of the World in the wake of the phone hacking scandal; a whole newspaper shut down just to make a snide comment about Prince William’s poorly knee.

I feel much the same way about the word empowerment. This word has never been used in any context that hasn’t required the justification of someone being a complete pillok. If you were doing something truly worthwhile everyone would know that it was positive, so just put it away and stop defecating on the flowerbeds.

I guess what I am trying to say is that we just don’t need it as term. No one can define exactly what is in the Public interest, and yet is ever present in the very codes of conduct that newspapers have to follow, and only when someone does something morally questionable does it appear as a defence. Most people really couldn’t care less that a famous person’s daughter was caught canoodling with the entire rugby team, as chances are she probably wasn’t the only one. Maybe if we focused on perfecting practices like basic human decency and respect for privacy we could stop worrying about whether we were being immoral bastards for the right reasons or not.