I Can't Sleep

I can’t sleep. I can’t

even begin to close

my eyes and enter

the slumber that I 

am so undue. I am

not asleep as I am 

a sinner. I am not 

asleep as I have 

poisoned my body

with caffeine and 

sex. Drugs and 

endless endless

booze. That’s why 

I can’t sleep. 

I can’t dream. I can’t 

dream because I

can’t sleep. You know

why I can’t sleep. If I

can’t sleep, I can’t

begin to imagine a 

better time, a better

arena for myself. I 

can’t see myself with

a beautiful girl. In a 

beautiful car. I can’t

imagine myself in

anything short of 

mediocracy. 

I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe

because this poem is stifling. 

This room is stifling. It’s not the

heat but the lack of imagination,

swarming like shadows on a sun

dial. Like foxes on children. Like

words on this page. I can’t see

this getting any easier. I can’t see

this page getting much more full. 

I’m choking.

I can’t live. I can’t live because I can’t breathe, and you

know why I can’t breathe. It’s hard hard to imagine 

anything other than this. I can’t imagine anything other

than a white page filling with black words. Like immigrants

to the new world, forced by rebellious, profit hungry 

fingers. I can’t live because this poem can’t live. I can’t

live because I can’t sleep, and dream. If I can’t dream, what

chance do I have of dreaming to be published? 

The City

I dream of the city. The lights,

tall buildings, the glamour. I

don’t dream of being a rich

and successful pioneer but

being able to wake up and

hear her distant cadence. I

dream of screeching brakes

and stop signs. The hum of

neon lights, the dressing-down

of a late busboy. I hear you

leaving a bar. I hear you

thumbing your pockets for a

key and finding nothing but

wrong change. I hear you

vomiting in an alleyway,

swearing at the taxi. I hear

you bark at the moon, through

the rain soaked, blood-drenched

streets of capitalism.

I dream of the city. The fast-

paced, cash-laced patchwork

of train-lines and traffic fines. I

see the gleam of main streets,

without missing their hidden

flaws. I feel the breath of

those above bearing down,

I see Wordsworth’s abbey and

Wollstonecraft’s rocks. They

are in the avenues and side-

walks of the city that I love. I

hear dialect, neglect and

despair in her veins and

thoroughfares. I hear her heart

beat as a distant murmur.

To Be Published

You will publish this poem,

Not because you need to,

Or that as a writer I have

Created a glittering trail of

Glamour and gloria from

My writing desk to the

Literary world.

You will publish this poem,

Not for the thousands of

Extra publications it will

Help to sell. Not for the

Attention that it will

Secure any anthology in

Which it is present.

You will publish this poem,

Not because you like it. It

Doesn’t rhyme, have any

Steady metre or adhere to

Any poetic convention. It

Doesn’t look neat on a

Page or make sense.

You will publish this poem,

Not because you are in any

Way obliged to me, you are

Not. The poem is the ugly

Runt of the meeting of a tired

Mind and a bottle of gin. It

Isn’t a masterpiece.

You will publish this poem,

Not on the merit of it’s overt

Self consciousness or flare

For the dramatic. Not due to

It blushing like a schoolgirl

At the wrong end of an ill

Intended stare.

You will publish this poem,

Not because it is short

And could fill a gap between

Pages four and five, could

Divide free-verse and sonnets.

No. You will publish this poem,

Because it told you to.

The Death of Several Authors

No-one reads this blog, so i'm going to put some of my lyric work up here- in a kind of emperor's-got-no-clothes attempt to not feel so self conscious about it...

The Death of Several Authors

Nobody told me that Salinger

had died. It happened on a

thursday when I was probably

busy doing nothing and making

excuses to do nothing.

I asked someone today if they

knew how it happened. The only

accurate line I could draw was

that he simply ceased to be. I’m

not next of kin but I wish I was told.

As I get older, wiser, I meet more

of these poets. My friends. My

mentors. As I doggy-paddle through

endless endless endless poems

it all seems a little futile.

The cataclysmic nature of

discovering that someone is both

your idol and dead within minutes

shocks. Death is a part of the process.

No more literature from them.

Come to think of it no-one told

me that Hunter Thompson had

died. I know that it was before my

time but if my parents were honest

christian folk I’d have known.

Burroughs, Kerouac, Selby Jr. Even

Ginsberg. Before my eyes, before

I become part of their poetry my

teachers are dead. I’m afraid that if

I read more Hisok. His time will come.

Y fight back

I was born in 1989. Like many of my Y generation peers, I have only recently learnt what that means. I am subject to abuse. As I was born post cold war, I clearly have no idea what solidarity, fear and apprehension mean. Bullshit.

I just about clawed my way through this article today, which let me know that my generation is the first to have no impact on culture. My generation is letting the preceding streams of groundbreaking generations down. Well, let me tell you my perspective (not that I expect anyone to navigate to this page).

This article opens by calling the Y generation one of moaners. My generation suffers the gripe of twenty years of poor economic planning by the government. Despite never seeing a war on British soil, save a spate of terrorist attacks, generation Y has been given a voice by the

The article then attempts to hurdle music:

There really is no debate about the lasting contributions of the music of this era. Although everyone want to distance themselves from Vanilla Ice, which everyone in generation x agrees about.

Agreeing with this slightly, the Y has produced some extremely crass music. However, can I remind you of great artists from previous generations, such as Adam and The Ants? Despite producing an almighty cacophony of ''music'', our generation has had some musical poets shine through the insanity. In fact the point that our generation can be summarised by Fall Out Boy and pop-punk is offensive. Our generation has produced incredible artists such as Arcade Fire, Arctic Monkeys, Biffy Clyro et al - and that's just going through my music library alphabetically.

Next we are blamed for movies. Seriously? Generation Y has produced some of the greatest films of all time. Disregarding box office figures, which would invariably back this case, the incredible writing of some of the latest cinematic releases, twinned with the finest actors of all time have produced masterpieces. Pan's Laberinthe. Walk the Line. Memento. Léon. Requiem for a Dream. American Beauty. Criticizing the Y's films is easy when looking at the rubbish that has been produced by it, however beneath every Finding Nemo is a work of genius.

Reality Television? Has there ever EVER been any form of culture in that? Next...

Hmmm.... That's funny. The blog post stops there. It seems that the most culturally significant item has slipped this talented non Y-er's untainted grey matter. Whatever could it be? Literature? The Y has tried it's arse off to produce some quality reading. There are, as always, a few absolute gems produced by the Y (or at least what we have claimed as our own). Lionel Shriver directed an almost hypnotic piece named We Need To Talk About Kevin. If you don't own/ haven't read this yet, you need to. It is a masterpiece that would quite happily top any preceding epistolary novels. Alice Walker only trumps it due to the race card. Dan Brown has done his bit, producing nice holiday reads. We havn't had the time to really produce a Naked Lunch, but i'm sure, give it time, we'll have a few masterpieces put through the works.

The comments of this article are, therefore, utterly rediculous. Despite this post being based entirely on opinion, the other is also based upon opionion. I'll be the first to admit, the Y hasn't done as much as other generations, yet. We're working on it, give us some time. We're busy fighting foreign wars, sorting out the banking system, fighting off debt. The Y is occupied in saving the planet's cripped environment, fighting terrorism, saving the third world, being faster, stronger and more capable than ever before. The Y is indipendant, romantic, ingenious, sympathetic, yet retrospective. We have been subject to as much tragedy as any other generation, and wear our scars with pride. I'd go as far to say that for the next five or so years, the Y is unbeatable.