LATE FOR WORK
Late For Work (On the day I die people will remember a terrible betrayal).
4.30am - Ukranian Sovereignty
A hole does not matter,
This much I’ve had to figure out by myself,
A hole is the matter,
Totality for one man isn’t total for everybody else.
Am I a fucking visionary?
Or just a Saros Series Missionary?
At work in a darkened room,
Full circling a ritual I need to do,
And choking on my own infatuation.
We know that I’m a “special case”,
But no-one blames the Turkanan race,
Or the occulting of a dying star?
The distance linking Roman Gods.
It would take a more prominent prominence than you,
To paper over my infatuations,
Even in a solar eclipse,
All I want,
Is frozen time,
To make sure I take my precious time.
A hole does not matter,
This much I’ve had to figure out by myself,
A hole is the matter,
Totality for one man isn’t total for everybody else.
Because it would take a more prominent prominence than you,
To paper over my infatuations,
Even in a solar eclipse,
All I want,
Is frozen time,
To make sure I take my precious time.
A hole does not matter,
This much I’ve had to figure out by myself,
A hole is the matter,
Totality for one man isn’t total for everybody else.
I’ve foretold the Moon drenched in blood,
The portents of the last tetrad,
I can handle a hair out of place,
But not the slow destruction of a hole in a page.
6.32am - The Bhuddist’s Dilemma
I’ve got a sticky feeling,
That something’s wrong today,
I’ve got such a cute feeling,
That’s so acute these days,
I’ve got a shakey finger,
And there’ll be hell to pay,
I’m going to show my insides,
And tear them all away.
Don’t dare you tell me how much you care for me,
Don’t dare you tell me how it’s always there for me
I-D-O-N-T- B-E-L-I-E-V-E-T-H-E-R-E-S-A-S-T-R-A-I-G-H-T-L-I-N-E-A-T-A-L-L
(I don’t believe it)
I-D-O-N-T- B-E-L-I-E-V-E-T-H-E-R-E-S-A-S-T-R-A-I-G-H-T-L-I-N-E-A-T-A-L-L
(I don’t believe it)
I’ve got a slanted outlook,
Which never seems to change,
I’ve got a frightening feeling,
I’ll “work from home" today.
Don’t dare you tell me how much you care for me,
Don’t dare you tell me how it’s always there for me
I-D-O-N-T- B-E-L-I-E-V-E-T-H-E-R-E-S-A-S-T-R-A-I-G-H-T-L-I-N-E-A-T-A-L-L
(I don’t believe it)
I-D-O-N-T- B-E-L-I-E-V-E-T-H-E-R-E-S-A-S-T-R-A-I-G-H-T-L-I-N-E-A-T-A-L-L
(I don’t believe it)
Everything’s pointing to what I need to do,
Everything’s pointing one way,
Pointing one way,
Pointing one way.
I-D-O-N-T- B-E-L-I-E-V-E-T-H-E-R-E-S-A-S-T-R-A-I-G-H-T-L-I-N-E-A-T-A-L-L
(I don’t believe it)
I-D-O-N-T- B-E-L-I-E-V-E-T-H-E-R-E-S-A-S-T-R-A-I-G-H-T-L-I-N-E-A-T-A-L-L
(I don’t believe it)
8:04am – Face Down on the Kitchen Floor
Face down on the kitchen floor,
I think I’ll work from home once more,
And I,
I should try,
But time recording’s harder when you want to die,
Brother’s texting on the phone,
Promise him I’m not alone,
And I,
Don’t know why,
Sleeping takes much longer when you want to die,
My name is Elliot,
People say I’m quite shy.
9.45am – Your Funeral
The last time that we spoke,
It was at your funeral,
So I came down on the down,
Craving injection.
Your funeral really got me thinking,
Counting greys, shaving, sinking,
That it must be hard to die alone,
And I know I’m getting old.
How will my ghost be judged?
Judged for these lonely deeds?
When the curtain comes down my Love,
When the sun sets on the sea.
Your funeral really got me thinking,
Counting greys, shaving, sinking,
That it must be hard to die alone,
And I know I’m getting old.
10.08am - Office Dictator
Cold beer silences my detractors
Cold beer loosens me up so I show them how I do aggression
And I use this aggression just like a weapon
And it’s aimed at you and anyone who tries to get too close
Office dictate office dictate office dictate office dictator
Playback
Office dictate office dictate office dictate office dictator
Playback
Death trip train trip Monday morning guilt trips
I could scare them shitless with my tinned peach cocaine Absinthe breakfasts
Count yourselves as boring-fortunate
You don’t have to wake to my disgusting undigested second thoughts
Office dictate office dictate office dictate office dictator
Playback
Office dictate office dictate office dictate office dictator
Playback
Hail to the King of the Billable Hour,
To the chorus of organised prisoner power,
I’m the Lord of the word played once then forgotten,
But nothing lasts forever or had you - ?
Office dictate office dictate office dictate office dictator
Playback
Office dictate office dictate office dictate office dictator
Playback
11.36am - The Ballad of the Lost Goodbye
Sad is the start that never ends,
How she once wished they would wed,
Atop a castle in summer’s bloom he said,
“I’ll pledge you my love if you do the same”,
And then summer hissed,
With last last chances missed,
And it ended
There is a place where two oceans meet,
And freeze like a clock’s lonely last crime,
Where did my Love really go from 5 to 9??
I suppose only Chemical Jesus knows,
And she turned a page,
To start a different age,
With no ending.
12.56pm - If You Really Want To See Her Again
In a high rise tower another crack connection,
Never curing your blessings never counting your sickness,
Come on now brother you know miss her sickly,
Come on now brother nobody said love was easy
Scrub scrub scrub let it wash you out inside,
Let the Cool Water run,
Let the chimney smoke outside,
Hope is a pill that you can’t swallow easy,
Come on now brother nobody said love was easy
Aint it sad,
Aint it sad,
And it sad my brother?
Never counting your blessings never knowing your sickness?
You’ve got to keep your body clean,
Keep on fixing the machine
You’ve got to scrub the body clean,
Keep on buzzing till she’s free.
13.42pm - Settling Down
Ain’t never been afraid of a pin prick,
Ain’t never been afraid of some pain,
The tombstone’s engraved with a mysterious answer,
With only the question to blame,
I don’t know why I just keep flying,
I don’t know why I can’t settle down.
Eyes are apart of the body,
Strange glow is baking the brain,
Watching myself through the keyhole,
Watching myself shake again,
The shotgun is loaded with blank sadness,
With only the target to blame,
I don’t know why I just keep flying,
I don’t know why I can’t settle down.
Blood trails the palm of the left hand,
The left hand loses again,
Blood trails the palm of the left hand,
With only the right hand to blame,
I don’t how I’m going to remind her,
By looking for open veins,
I don’t know why I just keep flying,
I don’t know why I can’t settle down.
I don’t know any other way to stop myself loving,
Without this to numb the pain,
I don’t know why I just keep flying,
I don’t know why I can’t settle down.
14.12pm - My Favourite Dress
Would you lay with me on my bed?
Would you kiss goodbye to tomorrow?
Would you cherish our moments worse spent?
Would you put on my favourite dress?
Would you be ashamed if I looked like I was dying?
Would you believe me when you knew I was lying?
Would you still love me where my body rests?
Would you put on my favourite dress?
15.28pm - Line For Work
Think I should get,
Paid today,
Another month to,
File away,
I closed a door,
So long ago,
Wonder could I,
Have loved her more,
Cut glass tower,
Dulling light,
Nothing home,
But open night.
I sound untrue,
But I’ve never been a fool,
Without you,
The future’s just a job to do,
Trying to pretend that I am not selling my time away.
11:39pm – When Your Last Life Is Up
Did they send for a night doctor?
Did they smell the blood clotting cold?
I’ve been eyeing this earthly border,
For so long it kinda feels like home.
There’s something crawling up my life,
Which always seems to follow,
Make sure you turn down the lights,
Don’t see me flying and hollowed,
Like scissors paper stone.
Nobody needs to tell you that,
There’s no need for you here anymore,
And where is the X?
She’s gone away,
To a different world,
And you’re stuck with this,
The blood tests and,
The excrement,
Yeah, so let’s get this party going.
When the sun has finally touched the ground,
And the moon is meant to follow,
But your pulse is still below the ground,
The day you got coming,
Is hard to swallow,
Like blood clotting cold.
Did they send for a night doctor?
Did they smell the blood clotting cold?
I’ve been eyeing this earthly border,
For so long it kinda feels like home.
4.30am - Unbreakable (There's a level of me that wonders why I wasn't protected - Max Spiers)
Weather worn in mind,
Ancient mission near its end,
Mortal wounds of mine,
Exiled child on Earthbound land
A lone soldier,
Struggling,
To maintain,
The Defence,
A lone soldier,
Struggling,
To remain,
Unfractured,
Alone I stand,
A lone last stand,
A broken man,
But here I am,
Unknown demon star,
Regrow broken bones again,
Shadowed past in mind,
Out of sight but in the plan,
The signal comes,
The programme runs,
A childhood stolen,
Say aloud why I was chosen again,
Regrow broken bones,
The ageing shield is wearing thin,
Was unbreakable,
Now the trauma’s kicking in,
A lone soldier,
Struggling,
To maintain,
The Defence,
A lone soldier,
Struggling,
To remain,
Unfractured,
Alone I stand,
A lone last stand,
A broken man,
But here I am,
Here I am
A lone soldier,
Struggling,
To maintain,
The Defence,
A lone soldier,
Struggling,
To remain,
Unfractured
Ghosting through the clouds, losing home’s long way down, I can't hide in Space, nobody cares whether I live or die, they just want me gone, now, that I have become
Fractured
The fear chokes my voice,
But my choice makes no sound,
Phantom memory lost,
Soldier circuitry off,
Last Act known if unplanned,
But the act must not stop now,
Sinking heart,
Mortal mass,
Greeting Death bearing down.
Shamed by the crowd,
With a tonne of first stones,
Last Act known if unplanned,
But the act must not stop now,
Mortal mass,
Greeting Death bearing down.
Ghosting through the clouds,
Losing home’s long way down
Last Act known if unplanned,
But the act can not stop now,
Mortal mass,
Greeting Death bearing down.
Notes on Late For Work
Such is the lot of the writer.
People say things like “You have not written anything for so long” and you wonder for a few seconds about what they might in fact mean. I have been writing almost every single day of my life from the age of around 6.
It is just that only about 5% of what I write is completed. Only 0.5% of that stuff will make it online. That 0.5% represents throwaway ideas which perhaps would be thrown away if only I could rid myself of them.
The actual writing I am happy with and think stands the test of time has never been read by anyone. At the time of my writing now, that consists of one could have been published book, two incomplete plays and one uncompleted short story.
Let that sink in.
Although I have been writing for almost 30 years, I would only consider my book, two plays in progress and one uncompleted short story to be worthy of proper publication. That said, I do think those items represent the best of my work.
Late For Work is instead a collection of poems. The very strict caveat which must prefigure anything I say about the poems I write is that I do not consider myself to be a second rate poet. I consider myself to be a fifth rate one.
I am a writer of prose. The poems which I write serve a different purpose altogether. Quite often I like to write poems just to keep myself going (and I do not mean that figuratively).
Late For Work in fact did begin with a fairly ambitious scope. I first started work on it around 2 years ago. Unfortunately, as so often is the case with me, it proved to be a very short lived project.
It was never completed and given how I work it is now unlikely to ever be.
I wanted it to achieve a sort of heaviness and to really feel like the weight that sat on my shoulders - something which sits uneasily with the concept of passing time.
I think I may have managed this.
Yet in quite typical fashion, most of the best ideas I had remain incompletely formed. The best material I had (and believe me, there was a lot of material) was never finished. It remains somewhere - haunting the furthest recesses of my mind and the space on my computer like an undiscovered mummified foetus.
There are many reasons why I was never able to complete Late For Work.
The hard part occurred over the past 12 months – a period of time in my life which from now on will be referred to as The Dark Season.
The Dark Season was full of surprise and mystery to the extent that I am still trying to process what it could all mean.
It was a time punctuated by death, out of body experiences, the split with my ex girlfriend and creative rebirth.
The Dark Season was the time during which I first conceived of my new play, The Spinner, which is currently being written in first draft in my mind (so far as my sanity allows it to be).
Late For Work was conceived and aborted during a time in which I was indeed often late for work.
The biggest block there was to its proper development was the fact that the poems were simply becoming too dark and dreary. The initial burst of excitement that I felt at the start of the project was quickly subsumed by the drain of daily dread. It was all becoming dark. Simply way too dark.
Yet this is not to say that Late For Work is lacking humour (at least in the jet black form that my sense of humour assumes).
Office Dictator makes me smile because of its surgical incisiveness. Uncle’s House is also a disturbing comedy of sorts – which did not quite make the cut.
Late For Work went from being a side project to a document of a period of time in my life which was very tortured.
When I sat back and considered everything I had so far written (and unwritten) around 2 weeks ago, I felt that something was missing.
I needed one more.
I am not quite sure where this impulse came from and why.
However I had watched a BBC documentary about the death of British so called “Conspiracy Theorist” Max Spiers.
There was something about his death which occurred to me as unbearably tragic.
“He had a lot to say, he had a lot of nothing to say, we’ll miss him” (Eulogy by Tool).
This poem was the most difficult to write.
I watched hours and hours of material.
I saw his lecture in Poland. I cringed outside but smiled inside at the moment when he described his daily effort to keep his heart open and strong in order to fulfil his destiny as a so called “Super Soldier”.
Writing the poem challenged me in ways that I was not ready for precisely because there was seemingly such a profound disjunction between reality and myth in the life of Max Spiers.
It seemed to me that in its most basic form, the narrative of the life of Max Spiers was that of a man who told himself what he could to escape the clutches of very real childhood trauma.
How will History remember him? A father of two? A heroin addict?
He was, I think, an honourable man with a fundamentally honourable message.
And yet he was dead and known across the globe as insane.
There is definitely something insane with that. My role as a writer is to tell the story, which I tried to do by imagining what went through his mind in his last days. I wanted to immortalise his memory. I wanted to make him "Unbreakable".
To Max Spiers – I say rest in peace and without judgment.
To those who find themselves being late for work, I say the same.
