disciple with strong knees.
How to best move through the air
to get to where you want to be.
You have your Way,
I’ve my coffee (and cigarettes
zipped in my bag) it’s
all I have,
plus this green pen,
to fly through life
with the skills and brain
and body, we have
to get that ball
to hit your bike
parked in the corner of the world.
Poise, bend, analyse
Trace the process step by step. That’s technique! Joyce ‘Donato said
to the young soprano, Mix and mix inside the stomach. Open! The snake of air whose trajectory
must not, by unnecessary
bits in your mouth
and mind and body, be
Legato, le-gaaaaah-toe! Legato vowels, then go go go
and follow through be Ursula the
villain who is you on the stage,
for there is only true
and only false,
and everyone can see when you are true,
and everyone can see when you’re not you,
says, Tap-Tap-Tap the racket and the ground
going ’round the ball to contain it in two
worlds, but the ball just giggles
away, pulls her tongue out and says,
Hey! Hey! Imma listen to the man, so let me roll and let me play!
Come ON, yells the samurai
when he fails to shape the sky he wants. Gotta listen to the man, says the ball, You see, ‘cos he wants his stripe of movement to fall.
he performs for me now? says she.
Stabs her dagger in the bench,
Smells her own blood’s stench.
Written to be read aloud. Inspired by a man practising tennis in Cartwright Gardens called Tom, and Joyce DiDonato YouTube videos.
I’ve just submitted a law essay which I believe has redirected me onto the path to Enlightenment, and I need to stop everything that I’m doing in order to write down what’s in my head. Brace yourselves…
And then he said to me, ‘Isn’t it funny we’re all just people walking around trying to put on appearances. . .’
‘I’m gonna grow a moustache and start smoking. It’s just another way to meet new people.’
A friend challenged me to write my next blog post
In (Shakespeare’s) sonnet form. Bed-ridden, I force
Coughs, heaving breaths to pass hours and boast
Weak English skills to speak my mind’s discourse.
The sick waits in my chest. Bombs burst black fire
From lungs, pierce heart, grip throat. Within the walls
Of music’s madhouse, quavers cut the air
Mocking the girl who dreams for concert halls,
The gratitude of crowds and a red dress
For her amusement. But I see a sky
Whose plaster grey brings not hope, but distress,
A cup of acid, hassled hair and sighs.
As I’m pushed back down, silenced, far away
The mighty world flies through another day.