A Poem for you Lovely People

I was banned from writing what my lecturer calls ‘minor-key poems’ after I submitted one about a massive disaster. Basically, I’m not allowed to write about small things anymore. It sucks, because writing about disasters and big concepts is hard.

This is kind of a corner-turning moment for me as a poet. Less self-obsession and whatnot. Less Lazzara and more Rickly, if you speak reference.

Also, I wrote this poem right here, which is the one thing I’ve written to date that I’m actually proud of, but I'm not allowed to hand it in. On the bright side, I get to share it with you guys as the first Whoa Whoa Woe-exclusive piece of writing. Yay.

Going on Eighteen

It was the last the summer that was really a summer.
Before everything felt too hot, or we felt too old.
We wanted to be like the kids on TV
who had their own cars and freedom.
Shoplifting was getting old, and our parents wouldn’t
lend us money since they knew we drank.
So we got part-time jobs; chained ourselves to
sinks in stifling hot pub kitchens,
or braved the chilly darkness of supermarket storerooms.

Showering off after a shift; drinking
or skating on the half-pipe by the river in the
last of the daylight at around eight-thirty.
Listening to bands that only we listened
to; your phone as a jukebox.
Rolling smokos well past midnight,
staring up at the stars and talking about the future,
the government and how come
everyone except us was falling in love?

We were the self-labelled coolest kids,
desperate to get out of town,
but never really having a plan,
because we were so sure
that some day,
some way,
everything was going be fine.

aaaannnnddd poem.

If I were a poet, I'd write better poems that this,
Nick

More self-indulgence.

I've just been looking through my writing to-do list, and noticed a trend towards bleak titles. There's my embryonic novel, Forget Who I Am (more of a mission statement than a title), a poem titled Catwalking the Plank, another named Red Lie Disctrict, and a story named Tourist Trap (some context is needed to appreciate this one, it's about a sentient pile of clothes that preys on tourists staying at a relaxing lakesde cottage), and obviously the title of this blog (more shitty puns, yeah?). And that's just a sample.

Also, this is my new favourite song. It's fucking ace. I learned to play it, and now I can four-fret-stretch without any trouble. I guess that's how you get better at guitar, by playing songs you really love. In an ideal world (or at least one where everyone loves this music like I do) this would be my go-to campfire song. Man, it's been ages since I set stuff on fire.

So, yeah, I've been trying to be productive, but all of today's been spent learning to play Wishlist, so I've taken a break from writing anything. Tomorrow, I'm gonna do some more work. Maybe post poetry on here, or write some kind of review of something. I've been following Frankie Boyle's new show, I might give that a review.

Laters,
Nick