Creation Fail

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His god made him simultaneously strong and weak, I was told

Odd, wrong, meek, the surviving spouse at a funeral

Humourless as the miscellaneous bereaved

Stealing joy with an assortment of self-imposed rivalry.

Back in the day, he would frequent the library: determined, bold

Where, with dread, he would flick through the science he never bought

And as stars aligned

He continued to vacuum happiness

Buying only into the inexplicable biblical things

reserved for his kind.

I observed as I was ought:

Pretending not to read him

Pretending not to need him

Keeping quiet

In case of argument or riot

And because light was at a premium

His eager, bohemian child learned what to cherish

And as he perished, he knew he’d been had.

My father was the dullest dying star at the funeral for his universe

And with me as his nurse

There was no god to see that he was bad.

Tellin’ it to Ella

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I’d have the worst schoolday ever
But I’d come home —and it wasn’t as now, where I will cry into a poem, but then, back then, I’d tell it to Ella.
I’d be eternally battered and beaten, my fists filled with fight, bullied blood frightened out of me, a parent who shouted and screamed and paternally doubted me and drew words from the air whenever he could—and he’d cast them and throw them as he yanked out my hair—there’d be tears; there’d be blood—
Then I’d tell it to Ella.

And she’d listen, y’know? No matter which way I’d go, how far I’d take it, and to where—
She’d sing coz she cared.
For her voice became ears
And endowed me with crowns and sceptres and swords
And I collected my thoughts
So that I might face fear with rhyme and rhythm
And allow my own words a reason for living.

This is how it’s been since.
Since that first day
I pressed play
When everything changed:
When my thoughts rearranged, ceaselessly.
Self-hatred is overrated, after all, no matter how hard I fall.
And I did—I fell. Frequently.
But Ella was always there to tell.

Through listening, she saw it all.
But no—it’s more:
She still does.
We make a right pair, the two of us.
One on a tape, on a disc, or a chip
The other a chick with a history, brief, quick
It’s a lie that she died—an existence persisting via song can’t be wrong.

She proves it to me
All the time, every day
Especially during those moments
When I have to press play.

HOUNDS

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And so begins another cold day

Filled with mishaps —everything’s

Going wrong, as always

How can a person be so clumsy

And stupid? I broke a

Nail, smashed my damn

I-phone screen,

Spilled coffee all down my front

Then the cat threw up

And the car wouldn’t start—

Never does, when it’s cold.

Photo: Republic Of Korea Air Force/EPA

Seeing Red – by CM Franklyn

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‘It’s Dad,’ says Freddie.

Bobby’s going to take some convincing, being far from the sharpest knife in the drawer ’n’ all. Hell—he’s not even in the drawer (neither is the knife, but we’ll get to that). ‘But… all them prezzies we got last year—how would Dad have managed that on his own?’

‘Duh. Mum helps. And it’s “Those prezzies.”’

‘I posit that you included an explanatory-yet-altogether-humourless faux-correction lest the reader considers my clumsy vernacular a reflection upon the self-indulgent author’s grasp of grammar.’ Bobby’s only six, but talks like a fifty-year-old woman. Funny, that. ‘And if it is him, why does he dress up? We’re not supposed to see him.’

‘Maybe coz if he catches us watching, he can just go “Ho-ho-ho!” or whatever. Didn’t ya notice the cushions missing off the sofa? They’re under his costume.’ (Why is the dude always on the porky side? Why not have Slender-Claus for a change? –Ed.)

There’s rustling, next. And crinkling: the paper-wrapped packages are being de-sacked and placed by the fire. Even though they don’t have a fire. And if they did, it wouldn’t be advisable to put the presents anywhere near it, what with it being a BIG BURNY DEATHFLAME HAZARD ’n’ shit. Under the tree would make more sense. Doombrain. (Me, not you. Although…*)

*Depends who’s reading.

Twigging on to the shuffling boy-feet upstairs, Dad plonks the presents by the fire under the tree, shushes himself like a gilded pisshead, and scurries behind the living room door.

‘That’s it!’ says Fred, who’s just this minute shortened his name. ‘What’s it?’ asks Bob, in italics.

‘I’m going downstairs for proof. Stay hidden, but open our door a crack, watch from under the blankets.’

‘What if he gets past you and heads up here? It’s dark! I won’t be able to see!’

‘You’ll at least see a flash of red, even from bed,’ says Fred, coz I do like a triumvirate of shitty rhymes. ‘In which case, pretend to be asleep. Just keep your eyes peeled.’

            Fred takes the stairs three-at-a-time owing to his rather lengthy legs, which I probably should have mentioned earlier, but there’s no sign of Dad, so he heads back up.

            A scream comes next, followed by some unintelligible babbling, which I cannot even begin to spell. Bob’s at the bedroom door, bloodied and eyelidless, along with a telegraphed ending. The peelings are on the floor—somewhere. It’s impossible to make them out amongst all the gooey, fleshy splats coating the discarded blade.

Next comes the Santa Dash as Dad legs it upstairs. Mum’s already on the scene, because she does love a good Police Squad! reference.

           Bob whimpers. ‘Y-you told me to k-keep my eyes p-peeled. But it’s okay, bruh. I believe you, now. I saw the red.’

           ‘It’s a good job I didn’t tell him to keep his ear to the ground!’ says Fred, with a giggle.

‘LOL,’ says Mum, who speaks in lazy, contrived initialisms.

‘Ho-ho-ho!’ laughs Dad.

The Nork Corps (or: not)

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This warning, please heed: if you’re hoping to read a nice poem wot’s sweetness and light

Then please bugger off (*winky-wink, polite cough*) because this one’s all saucy (and shite).

You put up with my rants and my rambles all day and you know my position on celery

And a film I adore (might have said so before—  ‘sgot a cop who’s a tad Peter Wellery)

I could waffle away, go all Joyce, Hemingway—sit reflecting, respecting the muse

But the posts that you buggers engage with the most? Whenever there’s mention of boobs

I’ve been known to immerse in the beauty of verse but I want all DEM LIKEYS, godfuckit

So forget all the beats and the metery treats and the rhymes ’bout the guy from Nantucket

Me, I love the profound but you want big and round—or just perfectly pert in your palmie

Whether perky or droopy, you’re truly boob-groupies—my titular orb-lovin’ army

But I’m sorry to say: I must put them away, coz I bring a new thing to the table

And although it ain’t boobies, it’s still rather rude— full of sauce (well, of course) for appraisal:

It is better, I s’pose, than the complexest prose, or yakkin’ all day ’bout the weather

I should like to discuss why we kick up a fuss about waxing (or not) regions nether.

So what can I say about hairy va-jays—or clean-shaven, if that is your thang?

Come on, let us know: are you raring to go with a baldy or bushy poontang?

Do you like ’em all neat, those wee curtains of meat—or straight out of a seventies porno?

For maybe your ex had the bushiest sex (because shaving would leave her all raw, no?)

(At this point I digress, for I have to confess that I just used my pettiest hate

When I called it a ‘sex’ which is truly pathecks: yucky yoof-misms I do not rate

But when crowbarring rhymes into quest’nable lines, the bar is already quite low

So dear reader, acquit: forgive werds-wot-are-shit; ‘ave a fag, ‘ave a laff, let it go)

Back to flaps: if you’re ginge, do you have a red minge—or d’ya whizz off the hairs as they sprout?

If you have a blonde head but yer pyabs are bright red, you must dye one or t’other, no doubt?

Once de-furred, d’ya partake of a merkin while werkin’ cold rooms in the nude, unattired?

If you grow back the fluff does it warm up yer muff? Do ya suffer hairs on the inside?

There is no way of knowin’ a hair is ingrowin’ until it presents as a spot

Oh, it’s terrible, that, when there’s lumps on yer twat (so I’ve heard – not a problem I’ve got)

But be sure not to blunder your wonder down under, just keep it the way you prefer:

Matching collars and cuffs, fuss your puss till you must; go for satin or covered with fur

Just listen up, girls: many virtues have curls on yer beautiful vertical smiles;

Although bald is good too; you do YOU with yer foo — coz vaginas are always in style.

You might think me disgustin’ but I’m only discussin’ — I loves me some natural pewbs . . .

. . . And believe it or not this all started up top with a thought that I had about bewbs.

Beautiful Fruit

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The ancient trees we once were shown
Have taken root again
New matter grows where hate be sown:
A type of fruit that’s strange

The fruit it has no time to breathe
Enslaved by blue and white
A lynching starts as justice leaves:
Shoot first and then indict

Fruits swing as they have swung before
Their skin a foreign land
And from the branches of the law
The innocent still hang

Now executions breed with hate
In jogging neighborhoods
Where fruit is left to cultivate:
Chased down on roads of blood

The soil is fertilised with white
Fragility the noose
Strange fruit still swings; the death of life
And drips with human juice.

 

If a Book…

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If a book can drive people to build gold-dripping brick palaces in honour of an imperceptible sky-dweller
Or to melt wax and drape hatred over glistening, Christening altars
Then consider the power of fiction.
If a book can create and nurture mass hysteria for thousands of years, then consider the power of fiction.

If a book can drive people to kill or to keep:
To keep and punish and sacrifice
To sacrifice and ostracise and bully and excommunicate
If a book can invent such fantastic characters that even the inconceivable becomes believable
Then consider the power of fiction.

There, saints on pages say women must be silent
There, invented words would have you devote yourself to destruction
where wives and slaves submit to men
—Men who must not love one another—
Here, sacrifice your children unto this scripture:
And they saw that it was blood.

And still, its readers read—feeding hate
And still, they root for its main character
Through an aperture of death
Death masquerading as life
And still, its readers explain away horror as metaphor

And interpret and manipulate evil into excuses:

Free will and mysterious ways.
So today, embrace the power of fiction.
Embrace the power of fiction and keep writing.
Keep writing your own book
And perhaps one day
Writers shall unwrite The Bible.

Thanks, Dad

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B40CC9D0-79A6-4DA7-BEF7-FFD1F8333A7B.jpegAs an impressionable kid, susceptible to the same crippling doubt that would continue to affect me as an unimpressive teen and self-loathing adult, I had to contend with my father as well as myself. He had scattered the confetti of neglect in my direction along with the force-feeding of his malnourishing religion. I was the goose, trapped in a man-made device whose restraints’ primary purpose was to engorge me on godfulness from throat to liver, until I became a honed, conditioned pâté, ripe for the spreading.
But there was a thing, and the thing was this: my wings had never wung. They didn’t know how. Everything I did was wrong; nothing was right. And the few aspects of my existence in which I did take pride, however fleetingly, were —of course— unworthy of his unmatchable achievements. He’d always received higher grades than me, and earned better wages. His spelling was better than mine, as were his enunciation, pronunciation, and inflexion. I knew this because he would tell me so. A hundred times a day.
He’d criticise my accent, despite his responsibility for the geography of my birth, wishing to ensure I knew how to speak properly —lest people thought me dense. That was his worst nightmare: that an unworthy, unclever child might cast her reflection on him. Nobody wanted a stupid child, least of all him —especially when I considered that almost biblical, yet perpetually unspoken chant of his: idiot begets idiot, begets idiot. He didn’t have to say it, but I knew it was there, in the voice behind his sight. I could hear the cogs of his brain whirring and churning the mantra every time he turned his pedantry on me and his blatant displeasure in my direction.
I turned to atheism, comedy, and romance, so that the last laugh —and love— would be mine. And they are. Oh, how they are.

Hear me laughing, Pater.
See me write.

And watch how I love —the right way.

Love begets love, begets love.

You, Myself, and I

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Today, my little grammar muffins (whatever they are), we shall be looking at Me vs I, and when to do the Re-flex-flex-flex-flex. Sort of.

BON

I had this exact ‘do at this exact time. Just so you know.

So, which is it —and me, or —and I?

In accordance with fings-they-lerned-me-at-school and that one electrocution elocution lesson I attended back in the summer of 1986 (the idea of which, if you know me AT ALL, is fucking hilarious), you and I sounds posh. It just does. And if you arbitrarily chuck it in all over the show, no matter the context, it gives the impression that you have a bit of dosh to throw about. THAT’S WHAT THEY TOLD ME.

They were wrong. To prove my point, here’s a pair of toffs off the telly, who’ve volunteered* to help us out with a little exercise. I’m paying them in booze.

*Not strictly true. Pic nicked wholesale from Google.

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A pair of toffs off the telly.

Now, Mr. Toff might be inclined to caption the pic thus: “Fuckface and I.” (They’re pictured here at Balmoral’s annual squirrel-tickling festival, FYI.) But he’d be wrong. It’s “Fuckface and me.” Why? Well, you wouldn’t say, “Here’s a photo of I,” would you?

I mean, just listen to how utterly SILLY this is: “Here’s I at the Mountbattens’ monthly frog-rogering contest.” See?

It is, of course, fine to use I in the grammatically correct manner:

“Edgar and I are planning a spiffing party. Would you like to join us?”

Or:

“My husband and I shall be going dogging in New Brighton this evening, if you’re out and about.”

If you bump Edgar off, and do away with the husband, you’re left with: “I am having a dinner party and then I shall be going dogging.” See? Perfect sense.

Disclaimer: the above example is in no way autobiographical. Ahem.

Them-wot-write-songs have a lot to answer for, too; Geri Halliwell’s dreadful Lift me Up springs to mind:

Watch the first light kiss the New World
It’s a wonder, baby; like you and I
All the colours of the rainbow
Going somewhere, baby; like you and I

AAAARRRRRGH! *Shouts “You and ME” at the car radio twenty years ago.*

How to remember the thing about the thing: cover up the “you and” bit. If the sentence still makes sense, you’re good. Using the same vintage spice example as above: “It’s a wonder, baby, like I” sounds shite, whereas “It’s a wonder, baby, like me” still sounds shite. But at least it’s correct.

More food for thinky thoughtstuff: is the title Withnail and I correct? Well, it depends what’s implicit, and what floats your own particular proverbial. If it’s “[Here’s a bunch of shit] Withnail and I [got up to…]” then it makes complete sense. But if it’s “[The story of] Withnail and I,” then it’s incorrect, and should be Withnail and Me. You could argue a case for either, really, if you had enough time and/or the inclination. Which I don’t. But here’s some brain-grub:

Withnail and I went on holiday by mistake.

or:

Withnail and me went on holiday by mistake.

withnail-and-i-robot

Yeah. It’s I. DO NOT MESS WITH THE ‘NAIL.

Speaking of dinner parties, someone once asked me, by text, “Would you like to come to Steve and I’s on Saturday?” I couldn’t answer, what with the BLEEDING EYES ’n’ all. True story.

Now, allow me to introduce… myself.

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Myself/yourself/himself/herself/themselves… yada yada… are all reflexive pronouns; i.e. a pronoun [me/you/him/her/them] that reflects right back at… itself. Like a reflection, really. But not really.

If you’re looking for a swanky explanation, WIKI says: “In general linguistics, a reflexive pronoun, sometimes simply called a reflexive, is an anaphoric pronoun that must be coreferential with another nominal (its antecedent) within the same clause.” Ain’t nobody got time for that (at this point, you might want to refer to the ‘double negatives’ blog I haven’t written yet).

“I don’t like myself” or “I’m going to reward myself for finally finishing that 120,000 word novel after seventeen years” are fine.

Using “Gordon Ramsey and myself are going to cook you a meal” is bollocks. Gordon wouldn’t allow anyone else in his kitchen. Unless, of course, they were conveniently placed just so he could swear at them. But why ELSE is it bollocks?

You wouldn’t say “Myself are going to cook you a meal”, would you? You’d say “I am…” Same as before, folks —same as before. Cover up the first bit and see if it still makes sense.

Office-speak has a lot to answer for, with its “We wrote to yourselves on…” nonsense. You don’t have to use reflexives when referring to a company just because someone tells you that you have to use reflexives when referring to a company.

Alright, alright —I’ll wrap it up. Off y’go. Be sure to tune in to the next instalment: *THE GAPING MAW OF A PLETHORA OF A MYRIAD OF CREATIVE WRITING CLASSES. WITH TENTACLES.

*I might come up with a better title before then.

Let Loose and Lose the Eyebrows

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Further to part one (here: https://liberatetutemet.com/category/eds-blogs/), this is … erm … part two of How to Avoid Dem Pesky Mistakes  —identifying some of the most common wordie whoopsies.

Loose and Lose are first up today —so, what’s the dealio? Well, the word on the street is that —gasp!—they mean different things!

Loose: something wot’s not tight, innit—’tis pronounced in such a way that it rhymes with moose and hoose (admit it— you’re singing it now).

Lose: To misplace something (or even someone)—’tis pronounced LOOZE, to rhyme with snooze/shoes/I demand to have some booze.

See the source image

See?— ’tis a doddle. Of course, there’s also LOOSED, which throws itself rather splendidly into the mix as the past tense of LOOSE, and means … erm … loosed. Not to be confused with LOST, which means lost. Gottit?

“He loosed his grip around her throat” —indicating a deliberate action: second thoughts, perhaps. Remorse, maybe … Bless him.

Vs:

“He lost his grip” —which might indicate either clumsiness or an inability to retain said grip upon, say, a glass (or reality itself, owing to an exaggerated state of inebriation caused by ill-advised imbibement of lighter fluid).

Speaking of which, a friend of mine once had soooo much of the stuff that upon lighting a cigarette, he ignited his face instead, his eyebrows scattering to the floor in ashy despair. This may or may not be true, but it brings me nicely onto the topic of furry facethings. Because GAWD DAMN IT, people.

Perhaps your creative writing class suggested you employ the furrowing of brows to indicate expression, which is no bad thing, if used sparingly. But, dear LAWD —must EVERY single line of dialogue come with a description of what the character’s face is doing? The same applies to nodding, m’dears.

When you over-egg the prose, it sounds like this to me:

“He raised an eyebrow, browishly. It was the only way he could express his emotions, emotionally. There were other adverbs to be had, adverbially, but he would save those for the next paragraph, in which he would explore the exploratory possibilities of nodding, noddingly. Unsurprisingly, he did, indeed, nod once more, which set his damn eyebrows off again. They looked as though they could do with a wee twitch, arch, or furrow —after all, it had been a while. Right on cue, they did an ugly little jig, like Theresa May at a Tory Party conference.”

I challenge you to search for “brow” in your latest WIP. “Nod,” too. Now, there are no hard and fast browcount rules, of course, but please bear in mind that I recently edited a 60,000 word novel wot came with 1,657 brow references and 2,313 nods of one head or another. Yes, really.

It’s just YUK. Stop it.

The Science Bit (maybe):

Here’s why it doesn’t work (aside from standing out like the proverbial thumb): come with me, if you will, to the makings of an anecdote.

You witness an event. Perhaps a car crash, or maybe even a pastie of chavs havin’ a scrap. How do you tell the missus/hubby/whoever about your day?

DO you say:

a) So there was this gaggle of chavs, right, knocking proppa shit out of each other down the pub today;

or:

b) Let me tell you, Ethel —what a day I’ve had. Trying to relax at lunchtime over a pint of mild and a bag of squirrels, I happened upon a group of strangers having a bit of a to-do. I took a swig, furrowed my brow, and began to watch the unfolding drama. With an eyebrow raised, a young woman approached a rather unkempt young man, and glared right at him. He furrowed his brow, and nodded. Then a third person joined the fray, Ethel. A third person! His eyebrows were set in surprise, they were. Like a stone clock. Ten-past-ten, right there on his face.

Catchie mah driftie? Keep it REAL, folks! Please get out of the habit of describing every.single.thing your characters’ faces do. Be descriptive, not prescriptive.

On that note, I’m off. Unlike my eyebrows, which are very much on (I’m a Scouser —it’s the law).

th1K0RNZBG

Bert was surprised to find he actually preferred version B.