Friendly debate part 2

Questions from a UKIP supporter.

The more I offer replies to disputes put forward, the more it feels like I'm reaching out to some intangible ideal - but what is politics if it's not about aspiration?

"Immigration will always be detrimental in my view," he says. "Either you have to give them a job (if there are any available) so they can support themselves, which means taking a job off a British citizen, or cause more strain on the housing market to give them somewhere to live. Australia is the best place to live; based on a points system and without benefits."

Friendly debate

How do you debate with a UKIP supporter who says Corbyn is an extremist? 

"You can't give what you don't have." It's the same old excuse. I'm sure if we wanted another war we could find the funds for that. Enough with the breaks to the rich already!

"Labour left us with a country that was bankrupt." That one. Not directly Labour's fault, as previously mentioned in my earlier blog.

The Man Who Fell From Earth by Walter Tevis, Book Review

Part of the charm of The Man Who Fell to Earth, written by Walter Tevis, is the time in which it was written. Like many genre novels, and sci-fi in particular, during the 50s, 60s, 70s and 80s; it was written during a period of scientific revelation and excitement. Hints existed of potential future technologies, so while writers of this time had a head-start in formulating ideas for stories set in the future, it was a period of great experimentation and creativity. Like watching the original Star Trek, there is so much enjoyment to be had in reveling in the ideas that these writers had; squeezing far-flung technological inventions that defy reality, from existing ‘analogue’ machinery (someone please point me to early, realistic descriptions of what we would call digital), such as Thomas Jerome Newton’s World Enterprises photographic film (a self-developing roll of film).

What makes The Last of Us so good?

Okay, so if you’re reading this, please beware that there will be spoilers ahead. I won’t intentionally try to spoil anything, but I do want to try to get into the nitty-gritty of what makes Naughty Dog’s The Last of Us so good.

I’ve completed it four times (only four? you may say) well, I’m a family man and there are actually other games out there. The first completion was a decent enough 17 hours on normal mode, and the moment I completed it I remember thinking then, “That was the greatest game I’ll ever play.” And I immediately wanted to play it again from the start.

Jeremy Corbyn: renewed interest and media weirdness

I'm a 32-year-old male, and for my entire adult life I have wanted to feel engaged with politics. We grow, we get decent jobs, we start families - this is the norm and I am no exception. Throughout, I have wanted to want to vote. I have wanted to make a mark on the ballot with conviction, but whenever I have voted, and it's not as often as it should have been, I've barely been impressed by anyone, or any party. I have never felt as though a single individual, much less a party, has reflected any of my political values. Some have come close, I think. I look back at pre-coalition Nick Clegg and remember that he seemed to stand for something, and I think I've always leaned towards Lib Dem anyway. But it became clear there was no real voice there; the coalition was just a lighter shade of blue than the government today.

Status Quo

In wild and stormy, harshland blocks,

wet pillars stoney-faced and eyelid

thin, the cots within of hungry cries,

wide-mouthed to take the driving rain,

and chase away the milk of grey

from state to State to empty plate;

parents without parents in poverty;

breadcrumbs floating on a silver lake,

a spoon removed from gloopy mess

by Blue-encrusted sticky fingers,

laid bare the many needs for more,

the young grow old without growth.

The Little Girl Who Lives Down the Lane by Laird Koenig - Book review

The Little Girl Who Lives Down the Lane by Laird Koenig
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Simple story really well told, with a strong middle section that bounces along. The writing I would describe as clean - the kind of writing that would lead me to read more of his work - nothing extraneous. What stands out is that the characters are believable, each clearly defined and each acting as you may expect. Nothing felt contrived, and Rynn's desperation in the final act was really well described, as well as the atmosphere of the lane and house. Recommended.


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77 Shadow Street by Dean Koontz - Book Review

77 Shadow Street by Dean Koontz
My rating: 1 of 5 stars

Dean 'as if' Koontz has fallen to the lowest of lows, almost as if his publishing company has created a Koontzrobot that spits out a novel if you insert certain keywords, such as SUV or dog or Koontz-character-archetype; as if loyal readers are so willfully dull they'll continue to be trolled again and again as the editors fill their pockets, as if, as if, as if. As if it's a game to see how many times he can get away with saying as if on one bloody page!

As if I even managed to get half way. It's over.


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Incense

I was Wordsworth's cloud;
     essence of Sandalwood, some Pine,
     resin of Aloe, condensed drop-
lets; some rising and rising
     embers in cooling blue sailing
up in windless Frankincense, parading
     o'er hills and vales, mankind.

From the ash below me you glowed,
     my Makko in the valley
     of the Tabu-No-Ki trees,
and as I grounded into your Dragon's
Blood we boiled, distilled, oxidised
     more Myrrh, Mastic, the Juniper
of the Cocoa Grasslands, then breathed.

Thicker than Wordsworth's cloud,
     our Elemi soared into the stratus
     o'er the Himalayan Cedar, the Atlantic,
the Lebanon; densing o'er Norwegian Spruce;
     sour Earth-ashes of before
fell from our budding field of lavender,
as we swelled the vales of our atmosphere.

I Miss

I miss writing without pretention;
summer holidays window-gazing from indoors,
my room yellow from radiation,
air a suit of sweat-stained gauze

from which I wrung my nubile poetry.
I miss cricket on the beach, all mobile
parents; Dad running, bowling, free
as the wind that whipped the balls for miles;

Mum free-walking, joining or laying a spread
for us five to eat; yesterday yet never,
yet today inside my heart and everyday
in memory, sand between toes forever.

I will miss that active, alive childhood
throughout the generations I survive through;
my own young or others; I have stood
in places and stand there still anew,

ghosts in my eyes of flicker-book things
all converging, building, stinging;
Dad's bare brown back in summer heat
or lawn green bowls rolling

from his bent-knee frame, then quick,
he's driving to work for Electrolux
towing a gleaming goliath trailer equipped
with cleaning machines; this as mum cooks

her speciality roast, or passes gifts
from the base of the christmas tree
in the early-hour thrill, kissed
thank-yous shy and tentative.

I miss standing in the old places,
filling my old spaces with my size;
will miss the passing faces
and wear each one at times.

Crave

It's too much, yet not enough
to sate my burning
eye-lust for you.
~~~~~~
Above an ankle sock
a flash of pink,
curves of skin unpeeling
to calves and knee-pit g-spots,
the range of thighs and butt
like a bronze sea
undulating its
wavy candleflame-
flesh, firm but giving
in my grasp, releasing pearls with my tongue
until I capsize, no air
beneath you.
From toe to head I drown.

From head to toe I drown
beneath you,
until I capsize, no air
in my grasp. Releasing pearls with my tongue-
flesh, firm but giving
-wavy candleflame
undulating- it's
like a bronze sea;
the range of thighs and butt
to calves and knee-pit g-spots,
curves of skin unpeeling
a flash of pink
above an ankle sock.
~~~~~
Eye lust for you
to sate my burning.
It's too much, yet not enough.

Pause

It's easy to start with something substantive,
for it's you;
you place your head on my chest
where your tears are laid to rest;

you smell of work
and bus stops, the premature night
in your conditioned hair, crescent
of frustrated grief.

I wish I could fast it forward,
I wish I could pause it all,
(30, 40, 50, 60,
when is old? A death expected?)

- here in our private darkness,
practicing the at-once universal
and inalienable personal
truth of truths; a fist smacks down

so I hold your shaking close,
closer, closest I've ever held;
and for a while I feel the tears meld
the seconds into hours,

our beats unify and slow,
slower, slowest I've ever felt;
and for a while our latticed fingers melt
the hours into years;

this could be now,
this could be then,
this could be it.

I See The Dead

Watching old films,
I see the dead;
Kissing on the screen,
White lips, grey eyes,

Hair of ash
And worms and earth,
Their essence breathed
Into breezes that connect

With one another,
Generations chained
By celluloid, burned
To dead pixels

Painting a future
With a past,
A past with a future,
An endless reel.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

I see the dead
Staring back at me,
There will be fire
In my pale blue eyes,

In my pale blue eyes
There will be no fire;
There will be a fire
Melting my pale blue eyes;

A fire, gas-blue,
Boxes of my image
And images of me
On paper, in light,

A digital fingerprint
Too, boxed, driven
Hard into memory
Like coffin nails -

Not too much heat, please,
And do not shake
Or drop me, I am
Susceptible to deletion.

New muse!!

Watch "Muse - Madness (Lyric Video)" on YouTube

Heathrow

Sitting by a window at Terminal 4,

I can feel the fuel at my feet

flow up through the legs of the seat

as it fills Delta’s snub-nosed belly.

Everywhere, everything rolls with this;

everything replacing something

like tides of internal pumping

in an external clockwork orange –

yes, I was reading but now I am writing;

of the strrrr-dump strrr-dump of wheels

riding tiled floors on prams and trollies

and undropped baggage to be crammed

as crammed as us into sections of gut;

we are molecules – we depart and die

in Heathrow’s exhaled sighs,

churning screams of turbine lungs.

-------------------------------------------------

Then of the majestic grounded, stately

berthing with wheeling gates;

through the glass its size awaits,

an uncanny monster at rest.

Others roaming, roaring, rearing their heads

soon soaring into the distant clouds,

even as new alphas are inhaled,

to rumble and strip clean their bowels.