TMA 01 This was my first effort (71%)

The Coin

How have I found myself standing here staring blankly at the coin in my left hand? I’m nailed to the spot, struck by the sudden realisation of its uselessness!

I’m in Liverpool for the Party Conference, staying at The Marriott. Could’ve booked somewhere cheaper but why should I? Even in the current climate you can still claim it back on expenses, if you’re clever enough.

 I’ve grown to despise Conference. It’s always the same idiots droning their interminable speeches. Are they really that deluded to think that what they say affects what the leadership decides? Today was particularly tedious and, in between Tweeting, I did some ‘research’ on my iPhone.  I've got a Blackberry as well but that's for work.  It’s amazing the things you can find out on Google, I just tapped in ‘red light district’ and up popped Netherfield Road North. You see I’d decided I needed some… well, let’s call it R’n’R. What can I say? I’m not particularly proud of it, but my wife’s a few hundred miles away with the kids, and what the eye doesn’t see….I’ve never been one to ‘indulge’ with researchers or secretaries, that can get messy. Look at that old fool John Prescott! No, I prefer ‘discreet and anonymous’ and it’s surprising just how anonymous a backbench MP can be. Just try showing some of my constituents my photo and see how many recognise me.

I left the hall early and headed back to my room. There I adopted the ‘disguise’ I’ve developed over the past few years, jacket over hoodie, baggy jeans and grubby, scuffed trainers. I rarely get recognised in a suit so I’m pretty unidentifiable in this get-up. Still, walking through the lobby dressed this way would only draw unwelcome attention, so I slipped out the side entrance and walked to the nearest bus stop. I’d checked the timetable and route earlier and downloaded it just in case.

Public transport is appalling; someone really should do something about it! It took about fifty minutes to complete a journey that would have been a ten minute taxi ride. Still, within minutes of arriving at my destination I’d made my choice. She reminded me of Britney Spears in that video. Long hair in plaited and tied with ribbons, tight white blouse tied together below her tits, very short grey skirt, long grey socks stretched above her knees and matching Converse on her feet. ‘Alright luv, how much for a blow-job?’

‘Twenty’, she replied in thick scouse. I showed her the note and she nodded towards the alleyway behind her. I followed her down there for about a hundred yards, then she turned and asked, ‘Here?’ I looked around and nodded. She came over and undid my jeans, pulling them and my boxers down together. As she grabbed my dick, I leaned back against the wall and closed my eyes, breathless with anticipation. It was then I felt the knife point pressing into my exposed and vulnerable flesh!

Breathless with fear I opened my eyes again. ‘What’ve you got in your pockets?’ she hissed. ‘Whatever you’ve got put it in my bag!’ For the first time I noticed the small bag slung across her chest.  I carefully reached inside my jacket for my iPhone and wallet, opening it to show her my cards and money. She smiled and nodded as I placed them in her bag. Then the cheeky bitch kissed me! She winked, whispered ’Thanks babe’ and released her grip. Before I could react she turned on her heels and sprinted off down the alleyway. Damn! That’s why she was wearing trainers! With my jeans and boxers halfway down my legs I couldn’t even chase her. I pulled my jeans back up and felt in the pockets. Thankfully there was some small change in there. I decided to find a phone box and call for help.

It took twenty minutes to find this payphone. Not one of the old red boxes of my youth but an Americanised affair hooded and open to the elements. I lifted the hand piece and was relieved to hear a dialling tone. Not vandalised then!  Who to phone though? Not the Police, just too much chance of it getting out and causing a scandal. After all, how could I explain my behaviour?  I racked my brain. Who could I ring? Who'd be able to help me out of this shit? That’s when the realisation hit me! I don’t know any bloody phone numbers! I mean, who bothers to remember them when your phone provides them at the touch of a button? That’s why I’m standing here, staring blankly at this bloody coin!

Here's my rubbish poems that got 66%

The Boneyard

The hillside is alive. Flames race

through dark night. Amber fingers

spread wide through tinder-dry

skeletons of bracken that crackles

and recoils at their touch. Embers fly

as beaters smash groundward, giant hands

patting down the blaze. We watch

with smoke-filled nostrils and matches

in mischievous hands, as the Spring rite

of bored youth plays out.

By dawn, the brown boneyard is gone,

just an ebony carpet of charred earth

remains. Soon rain will fall, moisture

on carbon-rich residue, feeding

the life beneath. The carpet will stud

electric green with curled heads

of fledgling ferns that grow tall

in summer’s short burst to create

a jungle canopy that conceals

and covers, before they die, fall,

desiccate and snap. The boneyard

will return. It will burn again.

Some Scars Never Fade

Jumbled up towns set in steep valleys,

built on black diamonds , blood and bone.

Land ripped apart for deep-lying treasure,

once spent, ‘King Coal’ was dethroned.

Old industries gone, chapels emptied. They’re

converted to flats or knocked-down.

Shuttered-up shops and pubs facing closure

‘cos there’s no spare cash, no jobs around.

Land grows green as the old scars fade but

the scars on its people are still pronounced.

Prosperity’s fled, no hopeful future,

bleak prospect beckons this jumble of towns.

(This is a reworking of the following poem that I was a lot happier with but I posted a version of it in the Student Café and so couldn't use it. It's about Abertillery, the town where I live.)

A jumble of houses in three small towns,
built upon industry now long gone.
A population grown used to letdowns
and a price demanded of blood and bone.
Built on black diamonds for profit's want,
beneath the shoulder of Coity it stands.
Rose Heyworth, Penrhiw, Six Bells, Pen-y-Bont,
once proud old town built for profit’s demand.
The land grows green as the old scars fade
but the town is jaded, broken, careworn.
A faded jewel hung on the hillside,
its glories are past, its future forlorn.

Craftmanship is Mastery

Silver, green and white cylinder,

that chills and moistens my hand,

and gasps as I crack it open

to free golden, hop-filled liquid

that soothes and washes away

my cares, and the strains of the day.

Vakmanschap is meesterschap - Craftsmanship is mastery. Motto of Royal Grolsch NV, brewery