Script

[Two men sit in a living room; one is tampering with his computer as a means to repair it, the other sits on a sofa reading a magazine]

1: Stupid, infernal - [electrical fizz, indicating that something has indeed gone wrong]...this really isn’t going well.

2: Who’s Ed?

1: [Looks up from what he is doing] Ed?

2: Why do some magazines randomly have ‘Ed’ next to certain phrases? I mean, is there a guy named “Ed” who goes around printing houses, adding in his own quips as a sort of commentary to the article?

1: [Resigns back to his broken computer] Your stupidity really has broken new boundaries. It means ‘Editor’. It’s so the Editor can add his own thoughts or insight when, y’know, editing the magazine.

2: [Genuinely surprised] Oh yeah! That never crossed my mind really.

1: Just stick the TV on or something - I imagine if I hear your inane babbling for much longer I’ll probably start regressing.

2: [Beats his chest jokingly, accompanied by random grunts. Turns TV on.] Where’s the remote? It’s stuck on some channel showing a Sean Connery movie. I can’t stand Sean Connery.

1: Why? [in mock Scottish accent] He’s not that bad.

2: He’s another prime example of an actor who doesn’t act. How he ever fit the requirements of the job description, I’ll never know. I mean, you could put him in an adaptation of “Tarzan”, a man devoid of any human contact for his entire lifespan, and he’d still talk in that embarrassing Scottish accent.

1: Alright, alright, you’ve made your point. I don’t know where the remote is. Get up and change it manually.

2: Can’t be bothered. What are we doing today, haven’t you fixed that computer yet?

1: Funnily enough the insides of a computer aren’t composed of 3 simple wires. It’s a delicately constructed system, intricate in almost all of its aspects. A true cornerstone of engineering. I’m sure these things might come as a shock to you, Mr. Neil Anderthal.

2: Will you please stop with the Caveman digs? If you don’t fix it soon I may just have to abandon you and find something magical to keep me occupied.

1: Then go. You’re probably the reason I can’t fix this thing.

2:[Stands up, heads out the door] I’ll ring you later or something. My mind isn’t feeling too great to tell you the truth.

1: What happened to the magical exploits?

2: Well um...I don’t know. I’m hungover, the loud noise of a pub or the jostling of a busy street would be the end of me. See you tonight, I’m sure.

1: Ah yes, I still need to conduct my brain experiments.

2: Hilarious. [Exits]

1: [Gives up repairing the computer and desperately tries to find the helpline in the manual] Customer services...helpline...ah, here it is. [Dials the number]

3: [An employee of the computer firm answers in a thick Scottish accent] How can I help?

1: [Laughs at the thought of Sean Connery sat down at a companies customer service desk] Tarzan?

[a word from our sponsors]

well, i'm not a 'sponsor' of this blog anywhere near as much as i am a self-indulgent "people's poet", but i do realise that i haven't posted anything on here for quite some time. like the great miles davis, i am diverging onto so many different tangents that i've basically lost the plot of what it is i wanted to write in the first place (not that i'm implying miles "lost the plot"). poems, scripts, stories - i guess the phrase that seems most relevant to me right now is "a finger in every pie". the only problem, however, is that these pies are very much still baking. in fact i've only just put them in the oven. actually, to regress even further, i don't think i've quite got the right ingredients. bad metaphor? i thought so. enough self-deprecation, i intend to have some fresh words on here imminently and i'm hoping it will be something of interest to all who are concerned with this blog.

until next time.

Poem #3

The familiar smell of stale rain,
A reunion with the overcast,
These happenings from the sky,
Slowly remind me of the past.


The weather
makes me stand and remember
of days gone by, days of the past.

Goodbye

Hugh woke up one day and realised he was worrying about something. Whatever required so much of his negative attention this time had completely eluded him, but he could feel it was serious; as if it were eating away at the deepest recesses of his soul. If he was to describe this feeling to someone he knew - a family member or a friend, say - they would no doubt snort with laughter and claim he was being his usual melodramatic self. How could someone worry about something when they didn't even know what that 'something' was? "Pathetic" they'd say, wrapped around phrases such as "absurd" and "ridiculous".


Hugh didn't feel any of those words were relevant to how he felt, quite the opposite - surely worrying about one's own personal well-being is far from "pathetic" and to ignore this issue would be the genuine "absurdity" of such a situation. He found himself becoming intensely angry with the people surrounding him, realising that if they ever came to him with some sort of personal issue he would undoubtedly try his hardest to help them in any way he could. Unfortunately, his situation was a source of amusement for these people.

When he finished writing his note, he paused for a moment and then proceeded to scratch a simple rhyming couplet at the end of the piece of paper; "I tried and failed, my sadness prevailed. Goodbye."

Weather

Sun

Sun beats down
On this gritty industrial estate,
Our lips entwined,
I feel my soul elate.

Rain

Tears fall from the sky
As if it were fate,
Walking off into the distance,
I wish she would wait.

Believe me when I say
I pray for the sun's glow,
But this crying slate of grey
Is now all I know.