Saturday, 28 September 2013

On the bus

The bus is like a public exhibition of modern working class society. For the price of £3.90 you can view the complex and diverse circles of interwoven Birmingham culture all day! Despite the ever changing exhibits on display,  there are always available for viewing pleasure a few select and consistent pieces, for example the modern day young person in tracksuit bottoms low over an unwashed arse, a cigarette tucked conveniently behind an ear and an acne complexion half shadowed by a hood or scumbag hat, this particular exhibit is accompanied by an ensemble of new age music particularly sounds such as "arrrr bitch in ma home, gonna get blown, bitch in the club say wahaaaaat! And me N****** gonna get some, rocking in her trunk trunk, blaaaa blaaaaa" obviously the pleasure of such lyrical genius is shared with the bus at a high volume. 

Then there's the regulars, raisin like and white topped, with tartan and carpet patterned attire. Members of this flock will croon to one another, and take pleasure in running younglings over with their trolleys, a weapon of survival in the OAP community. 

Akin to the above are the 'mothers' varying in ages from 13 to 30 the mothers dominate the bus,they squawk and squabble as an example to their spawn who follow suit and squawk along with them. The pushing and shoving of pram into pram, shopping bag into shopping bag is a prime example of urban survival of the strongest aka the fattest subject generally wins the battle. 

This brings me to report my particular experience today. Not always but definitely on occasion you may while travelling on a bus experience the pleasure of breathing the same air as the older, disgustingly obese and dirty tramp like individual who graces our community. This is the person who for either medical or social reasons is so huge and dirty that they emit a foul stench from their person. Their clothes are often stained and spent 3 months outside of a washing machine, their hair is likewise caked in grease and debris, but it's the smell that draws ones attention, everyone on the bus knows when this person has arrived. God forbid they sit by you. Luckily I was too far back for this to be a possibility however the young man, rather good looking actually with his 'I should have been a member of the script' look and his 'I'm a student aspiring to be something awesome' bag. This poor fellow had the burden of being the chosen one of who must deal with the foul scented grunge. 

A normal person brought up in polite society would have gritted their teeth, sat very still, tried not to touch any part of their body to the fat rolls of this creature, oh who are we kidding, you cannot not touch them, their entire person unfolds itself into the seat they practically drown you in fat flesh, but a normal person doesn't remark, they try and move casually at their earliest convenience to another seat and forget the horrid ordeal. Not this young man, not this guy. 
I listened intently to the following exchange and along with the rest of the bus I tried to bite my tongue and not react to the funny side of such a rude exchange.
The grotesque woman clambered along the platform of the bus and I smelt it from as far back as I was and almost gagged. She heaved herself into the seat next to the young man and as previously mentioned she overflowed the space, the young man visibility tensed, he looked slightly discomforted that he hadn't noticed her approaching and therefore had no chance to escape. At first I thought he was going to settle and be silent as we all are in these circumstances, but then the woman shuffled and said rudely
"You could budge up mate, them seats am for the elderly you should give it up if you 'ad any respect"  (To clarify, this woman was no way past 50, not exactly at her grave) I don't know if this chap had had a bad day but he blew up with words I didn't know anyone would have the nerve to say out loud particularly without planning. 
"Excuse me? You're telling me I should move. You have slumped your rotting carcass into this seat when there are others available, your flab is pushing into me!  clearly you're in no physical condition to even consider leaving your house but the fact that you have I would have thought you might consider washing yourself, what, what is that disgusting smell? You've either pissed yourself and not noticed or it's just a collection of rotten gone off muck that's collected under all that fat, but it's fucking disgusting, you reek! Everyone here is suffering because you reek! And you have the nerve to tell me I'm being disrespectful, you are disrespecting the fucking environment, it's people like you with a stink like that that's burning holes in the ozone." 
With that the young man stood up, forced his way past the stinking shocked faced flab woman and strode to the front of the bus and glared at the woman before sitting down, 
"There, the seats all yours. Bloody say I've got no manners."  
The woman stared at the young man for a good while, not saying anything, I wondered if she'd died in that position from either the shock or whatever it was infecting her with that stench. But finally she blinked a few times and turned to sulk out of the window. I don't think she really took in what he said, or what it meant, and I seriously doubt it changed her lifestyle what so ever. But that young man was frankly a hero of honesty and when he got off 2 stops later I found myself wondering if was an aspiring reporter or something, I wanted to add him on Facebook and see if he did these sorts of outraged speech to strangers regularly or if this particular day caught him roughly. I just watched him stride down the road, shrugging his college bag up on his shoulder and disappeared probably more scarred by the episode with the fat stench than she was. 

Wednesday, 25 September 2013

bored, Thought process on sorting this out lol

I have a stuffy nose. I am not amused. I refuse, absolutely refuse to fall at the hands of the common cold this early in the winter season. My student money has still not been paid into my bank account and I am seriously ready to dunk my head in a bowl of soup just for something different to do. I'm so bored. Sooooooo bored. Maybe I should streak, strip off and streak up and down the road, it would liven life up a bit, and its cold so my tits will look awesome. Nobody wants to streak alone though, that's just weird and creepy. If you have a group of people naked and running round its 'young people' and its 'a phase' 'just fun' when its some individual who's just bored out their brain well then its creepy and not so acceptable.

I need some income, I need to feel a few crisp notes in my hand and know their power. You know what...for the first time in months I feel like getting drunk. Wearing something inappropriate and having four too many ice cold Malibu doubles easy on the coke and fresh in a crystal glass. I'm just fed up and bored and a party would some equally inappropriate and drunk people would be fun. This is when I miss people of that sort, when I'm so bored I cant think of anything better to do than 'the student thing'. Really I'd like to munch a Mllies giant cookie with my sister in law Chrissie while drinking a bottle of rum and dancing for an hour, before jumping on 'what' his face' :-P for a decent screw out of my mind because I always have the worst most disgusting thoughts when I'm drunk. Then in the morning, nursing a sore head and sore whatever else, I'd like to eat twenty chicken nuggets and 3 double cheeseburgers with a peanut butter milkshake, while staying in bed all day watching repeats of Midsomer Murders, now that sounds tremendous!

God I'm bored. Just send me my money student finance! Cant you hear from the sound of my voice on the phone that you have a woman on the edge here? I'm hungry, I'm horny, I want a drink, I want some craft supplies, some new pencils and my uni books arn't going to pay for themselves. I'm so bored I will go insane if it lasts a week longer.

On watching Porn. Poem

Poem: On watching Porn

a window into a tainted room
the sound so low, so no one knows
a few foul words and widening eyes
two strangers, a camera, a sigh.
Already hot, now inflamed
desperate, shameful, counting the days
like deer in season, the male mounts
skin, so much skin, open, spread out
disgusting, not allowed, sirens scream
look away look back, crave what you've seen
forbidden, sinful, all alone
to touch ones self while on ones own.

Tuesday, 24 September 2013

insignificantly significant. Poem

A poem written for me
'a dance upon a wall'
an awkward wave, a shy smile
a few ill disguised glances across the hall
a mix up that first night
but we got there in the end
a silver box, and I started to fall

A thumb running over mine
a quickened heartbeat
a thrill I didn't recognise
an arm around me all the way home
a pointless umbrella, an uncertain pause
a kiss in the rain, under the tree
the moment you and I, turned into us

An innocent night asleep in your arms
I was certain then that you were the one
the words I Love You held back on my tongue
silent I was, so you wouldn't know
one date with your friends for me to love them too
a night with my brother for him to accept you.

A few weeks desperation, me denying you
an embarrassing revelation, but you already knew
a moments hesitation, a breath caught in my chest
another kiss from you, and I whispered yes.
one night you said you loved me
and I finally said it too.

It's the insignificant things that are significantly yours and mine
the insignificance of us that's significant in time.

It took... Poem

It took a winter without warmth
to make me appreciate the sun
a room without a light
to stop me fearing the night.
it took a bully pushing too far
to give me the courage not to run
to turn around and face the threat
to stop being their hateful fun.

It took one double at work
to make me know what hard works like
it took my baby niece one smile at me
for me to know what I want in life
it took one ride on dad's bike
to feel what adrenaline is like
it took a cage around my life
to know what it is to be free

It took a broken heart
to know the truth of pain
it took my own strength one day
to realise I'd been wrong
it took him leaving me
to know I was waiting for you all along
it took the kitchen floor
to make me stand up, be strong.

It took that first night in your room
to know what passion could do
it took a few more nights after
for me to give in too soon
it took the broken seal of virtue
to withdraw me from faith
it took one look from you
to make wish you'd stay
it took your eyes to make me feel pretty
it took a man to make a woman of me.

Today's lecture, psychology

Same cold room, seriously would a radiator be too much to ask? Glance round and see some familiar faces, chap from some of my previous classes is a few rows back, I fancied him before back when I was too shy to speak a word to anyone. Casting that pointless thought away I sat away from the window today in a conscious attempt to stay focused. It wasn't as hard as I expected, today's lecturer was worth while listening to, an energetic woman with carrot colour hair she reminded me of a rabbit. Not the cute bunny type but a fully grown British hare. (I don't find animal characteristics in everyone, this morning I compared a man on the bus to a postbox) my lecturer spoke with a sort of lisp but it didn't bother me, she was fast paced, her voice raced out and hardly stopped, that didn't bother me either, being from the Black Country I preferred the ramble of speech it absorbed into my brain. No pauses.

The hare has composed a brilliant list of electronic online resources for the module, my respect has soared up five points. This is what I expect for £3000 a year, a little assistance, a little consideration that the library is shit and students are broke. I'm looking forward to working my way through these texts. Already I'm engrossed in this module, sanity and the lack of, is much more interesting than a fourteen word poem imposter. Edgar Allen Poe with his gothic demeanour and disgusting detail fascinates me, the odd and the mental conjures up more questions in my mind than a rhyming couplet about some random lover. I have definitely found where my priority lies. The hare will need to get accustomed to my hanging around her office with various scraps of paper. This year I will be relentless in my quest for the best that I can do. 

Now I have a headache, and all I want is to snuggle in a warm comfy place and sleep for half an hour.

Yesterday's Lecture

Over indulged pauses, and a slightly confused facial expression, do you remember what you were supposed to be talking about? The flush of interest first inspired this morning had well and truly died after exactly 50 seconds of this inarticulate dribble. The overpaid and over weight pauser at the front of the room reminded me of a mole, I found myself tilting my head and observing him with a dedicated thought process to turn him into a character for a children's book. His eyes squinted so much behind the glasses I couldn't determine the colour, I was certain though that my mole character would have better things to say than a long and slightly off putting pause. At least something came from this lecture.

That settled my eyes drifted off, the view framed by the dingy windows wasn't all that glorious, trapped in a room that was bloody cold! Paying £3000 a year and they cant put the heating on?, stuck in the middle of a dingy disused industrial city where our heritage has practically gone down the drain with the rise of technology, and now what do we have over once green grass? (I know there was a lot of grass because they're are representations of this place in the museum "Birmingham as it used to be" now there's nothing to take in but the grave yard of crumbling factories and whatever else is down there. I started counting the pylons, comparing them to the poem we were supposed to be academically excited about, Spender was right, they were everywhere, I counted eight and imagined from the poets point of view, 1930's and these massive constructions grew like metal trees over night, when there was none of this built up misery, when it was stretched out; a rug of greens and golds, yes I could well emphasize with this poet. If only the Mole was more interested in Spender, no, as all modernist idiots he was more concerned with the piece of scrap that was fourteen lines long. fourteen lines is not a poem, its half a sentence and not a very interesting one at that! It really was bloody cold in this room, the chair and desk all compacted together were the most uncomfortable combination I'd had to endure. I imagined my character Mole, lets call him Duncan, Duncan in a boring shirt, and the collar looks like it's cutting off the artery in his podgy neck, is that why he keeps pausing? Duncan would live in the country that once was, he'll sprout out of the ground one night and squint and squint and look as if he has no eyes at all, just two crinkly holes in his podgy face, sheltered by a reflective pair of glasses, he'll discover these tall ugly pylons erected in replace of trees, and so the story shall proceed.

Fifteen minutes to go...classes for discussion are separated, I shrug my bag on, listen out for the room number...I'm in the moles class. Damn.

Sunday, 22 September 2013

Kicking the door down to my last year.

First day of my last year at university approaches as tonight's hours trudge past. I've spent the last two hours studying tomorrows texts and materials, researching and note taking, scribbling definitions and opinions both my own and that of academics, even some random bloggers in a somewhat desperate attempt to absorb everything. This last year is so important to me I can feel the course content already wrapping itself around my lungs giving a subtle squeeze to remind me that there is no room for error, not now. I feel close to the end, even though I know I still have a while to go I can almost smell the fresh blossom that spring will introduce when this last year comes to an end, I can taste the crisp relief and feel the satisfaction.

Almost there. Just a little further to go. My brain isn't as quick as I've always wished it to be, but it had better be ready for this year, as I am going to put it through the paces and there's no second chances from now on. I've been told by numerous people that have flickered in and out of my life that I was capable of this, it's only ever been me that's doubted my own abilities. Now more than ever I want that confidence in myself, I want to believe that they knew me better than I thought I knew myself. This is it, I am steps away from the door to my future, now Siviter, lace up your boots and kick that door down.

Friday, 20 September 2013

Your Name. Poem

That word, it sounds like scraping nails
breaking glass, screeching rails
a train crash inside my soul
an ache where my heart was, but now there's a hole.
Why? I ask, do they torture me so?
its hurts even now, it hurts don't they know
that word is vicious, it's pain in a jar
its rings in my ears and asks for my heart
that word it burns every time its near,
why cant they forget it, why can't I not fear
that word, it's devastation, the memory of pain
the sorrow of friendship lost; the sound of your name.
that word is devastation, the memory of pain
every time I cringe when I hear your name.

Feeling lost.

When you get used to experiencing new things and soaring through an area of new found life it becomes hard to adjust back into a semi average routine. Obviously money would remedy this rather well to an extent for being poor and stuck down a bloody dark well is worse than if I had a little money to toss around. I'm so bored. I know they say that only fools wait for things to happen, real adventurers go out and make things happen, but right now I am unable to do that. I'm bored out of my brain. I need to have fun. I got too used to being out, too used to filling my calendar with every day and night events. I embellished my schedule with new things all at once and it was thrilling. Uni, fitness class, shopping, coffee, rock climbing, date night, club night. Every night was full and flowed into a full morning. Freedom is an odd sort of feeling, when you're able to fly and find yourself released from a cage the last thing you're going to do is stay on the ground. I flew, but now I've settled back down. Someone knocked me out of the sky as sure as a hunter with a bullet, I've fallen so very hard and very far. You can't fly forever, and you can't have roots and wings. I understand that.

Maybe life's gotten a little out of my hands, because I'm feeling a tad suffocated, just a tiny bit lost.
Where are you Siviter? Where are you and when are you coming back?

Wednesday, 18 September 2013

a soggy jigsaw piece

I'm a spare screw in a machine that works without me, I roll around pretending to be significant but that's all it is: pretending. A room full of people but I'm alone inside, forever withdrawn, always behind. I don't fit, like a jigsaw piece that got soggy in tipped over juice, it will never fit and look right now no matter how you push, but it should have fit, that's the tragedy!

Does it all stem from a physiological depth? I was born to a family where everyone was ten years my senior, I was forced into an early independence when I turned twelve and what I knew as childhood ended. Maybe I was just caught in the wrong time as I've often thought, maybe I really am just a boring and weird old person in a twenty year old body. I grew up too fast.

Several times I've wondered if I ever didn't pretend when I was with the Keyholder, did a day pass when I was really truly myself? I remember moments I began to come out of this shell but retracted so quickly, a snail faced with a million threats from everyday life. I was a liar, in every sense of the word, I lied to myself everyday. I've met someone who has seen almost every corner of my true self, the only person I have come across who understands me, and doesn't try to change anything. It's too bizarre for me to understand the way our paths crossed when they did, I've been waiting for this since I first knew what friendship was, and I knew then that the friendship I had wasn't the right kind. I was about six when I had my first friend and they didn't suit me, no one ever has until now.

It really puts me on edge, because this is too precious to be careless with, like a weak and lonely seedling it needs to be handled so carefully. I don't want to be without this friend, I've only felt this undeniable ache today, this moment. Before I was fine, I was strong and detached just enough but now I've hit the bottom of that well. I don't think I can be without you, I'd rather lock myself back in a cage then imagine letting go of this beautiful wonderful connection I've stumbled upon and grown to the stage its at now. I can't be without this, you're the other half I thought I'd never find.

Tuesday, 17 September 2013

Creativity or madness

This room has not one element of someone else, it is all me and all mine. The artwork on the walls is made up of children's illustrations, I'm sat here with a paper mache alien and a scrubby Indian giraffe named Jerome. There's definitely remains of the inner child scattered about this cage and I wonder if it proves I'm slightly mad or very creative in truth I favour the madness. If there is no madness then how can one distinguish a sane thought process from the bizarre and its always the bizarre that I write about. It's stopped raining, that's a sane thought, why it matters is bizarre but it always fascinates me when it rains.

The cold has crept in

The cold has crept in too early, me and Jerome are huddling together and this tea is doing a poor job of warming my insides. The little white heater beside my bed is silent and turned away in defiance, for now there is no money, and no money means not enough electricity on the metre, the radiators are equally dead and pointless, they installed them in the house when I went to highschool, I still wonder why they bothered, they're never on, and on the rare occasion I do feel a glow from mine it is quickly diminished, heat does not keep in a poor house especially with windows so old and thin as these. They would have done better sorting out the windows instead of the radiators, at least then we could have generated heat by use of wood in the hole of a fireplace. No point going on about it outside of this passage, nothing changes what this house is.
  It's just bloody cold, and sitting here grinds against my teeth, it shatters my nerve, no amount of country music or art work on the walls will change that this is not my home and never will be, it's just a house I was born in, and one I shall leave behind like the dirty dishrag that it is.

Wednesday, 11 September 2013

suicidal pain. poem

I hold my wrist, it's bleeding out
onto the bed sheets, once fresh laundered cotton
the crimson will stain, this mark wont wash away
they'll find my lifeless corpse later today
how long will it take, my face has gone white
I dip a finger in the blood it's an awful sight
a puddle of red in the palm of my hand
running down my arm into the bed
I thought I'd do both, but now the scissors are on the floor
jagged and scarlet where I let them fall
my arm is too weak to do the deed again
it hurt more than I thought, suicidal pain.

(note: This is a fictional piece and does not refer to anybody particular, only a serious issue)

I remembered why I went to uni.

I remembered why I went to university today,
because it was a door that opened onto a path of escape, the only door in fact. I am worth more than the life I was born to, and I'll be damned if I don't rise above this lifestyle. I'd rather be dead than be this forever.Everything about this house is like a dark rain cloud, it's inhabitants, the smell, it's appearance, the atmosphere...I was never meant to be here. I don't suit this place and it wants to spit me out as soon as I walk through the door. When I signed up to go to university it was with the intention of improving my circumstances, working towards a better future with a job that meant I'd be comfortable and a doorway out of this street that I've endured for 20 years. I just have to keep reminding myself that I'm almost there. Almost there. 

noise. poem

I hate your noise, it thunders against my skull

You wonder why I hate it here,

Why I hate the prison of these four walls

Shut up, just shut up

You’re hurting my head

If I have to stay living in this house

Well I’d rather be dead.

You drive out the little life that may be left here

You ruin the light in my mind

Shut up, shut up I can still hear your noise

The out of date music doesn't quite hide the sound

of the two of you shouting, as you drive me to the ground

I hate it here, I hate this house

I have overwhelming freedom every time I'm out



It's raining now. Poem

It's raining now,
and I need a cup of tea
there's not much left, of the view I can see
through my window it's as grey as grey can be
the dishwater sky is like my eyes
lustre lost and ready to cry
what's the point now?
why should I leave?
when it's raining now
and I need a cup of tea.

It's cold in my cell, warmth is just out of reach
so cold I tremble a little,
what's the point in today?
what's the point of all this?
It's raining outside, and I'm shivering within
It's raining, and I need a cup of tea
all alone with a damp view
a cold cup of tea and me.

I have not forgotten

I touch your shoulder as you cry
making my presence known
yes it's me, I am still here
I have not forgotten you, sitting at home
I shall not wake you and leave at random one day
neither will I cage you, and force you to stay
where you are not happy
where you are not free.

So many forget what they cannot see
so much is lost too easily
but I cling to you and you cling to me
I shall not forget you, my dear sweet thing
Don't believe that I have forgotten
when time passes us both by
I will never forget you
as your heart weeps and your mind has to cry
I am your inspiration and I'm here, inside.

Sunday, 8 September 2013

There's something poem

There's something beautiful about my life with you
there's something special about coming home to you
there's something real with us, that happens to so few
 something strong, something certain, something true

There's something sweet in that last kiss goodnight
something natural, honest, something right
there's something humble in your eyes sometimes
an affection that's reflected brightly in mine

there's something primal when you take me as your own
something raw and carved in stone
we two are meant together, we two make a home
we once were blind but Fate has known,
we two make us, and we are right
you are my shadow, and I am your light.

Friday, 6 September 2013

Judgement poem

I see it written in your eyes
How dare you,
how dare you think you have the right
to look upon me and judge my shame
when if you only knew
the truth is I am not to blame

How dare you stand above me
look how you tower over us all
as we scurry in the gutter
as we rummage through the litter that's falls
we're starving cant you see?
how dare you judge me,
with judgement that I can see

Written in your eyes,
we ruin a moment of your life
as you judge us we slowly die
you don't have the right
us women we are dying
don't we make a gruesome sight
us ladies of the street,
just like rats, us ladies of the night.

No money...No seriously NO Money

How hard is it for people to understand that not everyone was born with new shoes on their feet and spoons of good food in their mouths? When will you understand what I mean when I say I'm broke?
 I was born into a poor household, because my father worked when it suited him and used his wages for his own luxuries while my mother wasted herself away being nothing more than a mother until we all grew up and she faded into the memory of mum. I went to school without the full lunchboxes that my friends stuffed their fat traps with, I wore worn out shoes because it would cost too much money to buy new ones. Days without washing powder, without heating, without toilet roll. Weeks with no living room light because the bulbs had burnt out, weeks watching mum wash clothes in the bath tub because a new washing machine was something we had to beg and force out of my dads money box.

So I learnt fast that if I was to stand up in this world then it would be alone, if I was to make anything of myself and better my circumstances it would be by whatever means I had. As a woman I had two options: To marry well, or to educate myself. As a plain and shy girl when I made this decision (and being born in 1993, not the 1800's) I chose to be independent. I fight my causes, I work hard, I push forwards. When I eat it's with food I've bought myself, when I keep warm its with electricity and gas that I have paid towards having, and when I go to bed each night it's after checking I have enough money to make it through the next day.

I have luxuries when I can, luxuries I've earned, but of course there comes periods of being poor, people in my situation with my sort of family will always hit these times at least until I have finished my education and risen above this life. Money is always precious to me, it's never certain and I am constantly aware of its easy disappearance. When I sometimes hit these weeks or months of living on beans on toast until pay day I don't budge. When I say I have no money to have fun or to waste I'm not being a prude who's being careful with savings, I'm being a poor person who wants to eat for the next few weeks.

I haven't got parents who put the dinner on the table or make sure I can get lunch that day. Any expenditure I have to deal with, is literally dealt by me. If I am driven to borrowing money for weekly food shopping from my dad it's exactly that-borrowing. I must give that back, I am in debt and it's a debt I will be reminded of regularly. I don't have help, I rely on myself and I know and understand the reality of being poor. I know you likely don't understand because I don't know any one other than my own brothers who have lived this life. Everyone I know is looked after much better than I have ever been. A hardship to some of you is being unable to go on that holiday you wanted or not affording the jeans you want, or maybe you need your parents to help you pay your car insurance this time round, but for me, a hardship is wondering if I have enough money for bus fare to work every weekend, counting up how many days you can live off beans or noodles. I am a student, I took this on to better myself, and I have no help. So don't nag me, don't judge or shrug off my situation. In a couple of weeks I'll get my wages and I'll be able to eat something good and substantial, but right now I'm living on air, the little that's left in my purse and my own determination.

Monday, 2 September 2013

Cat at the window poem

I thought I saw a cat at the window
it's a sign I'm sure
I looked twice at just a shadow
but a moment ago there was more
I blink and blink again, a feeling deep inside
there was an omen at my window
and there's nowhere to hide