ACT I

DAD: in his late 50's.
TRISTAN: around ten or eleven-years old GLADWIN: in her early 40's.

TRISTAN Dad?

Scene 1
Interior of a cheesy, unkempt motel room. DAD
channel-surfs the cable television, the remote in
his right hand, a cigarette in his left. He's
sitting on the edge of the bed. TRISTAN is on the
bed behind him, crying.

DAD
Yeah bud?

TRISTAN
     Is Mom gonna **** herself?

DAD
     Well, I hope so.

TRISTAN Dad!

DAD
     (Chuckles). What?

TRISTAN
     Stop! I'm scared. What if she does?

DAD
     Why are you worried? I'm not that lucky.

TRISTAN
     (Screaming). C'mon, Dad!

DAD
     What? (Chuckles again, longer this time). I'm not.

TRISTAN
     Dad, stop. What if she really does?

DAD
     Trist, don't be stupid. No one who's really going to
     **** themselves tells you like that. They don't sing it
     out loud. She's whistling Dixie.

TRISTAN
     (Sobbing at this point). Dad, I love Mom.

DAD
     (Pause). I know, and I-
               (DAD'S cellphone rings. He answers
               immediately)
     Hold on, Trist. It's your fat mother.
     Hello? Yeah. Yeah, you have this kid scared to death.
     Would you just tell him you're--What? Alright, Glad.
     Well enough's enough. (Pause). Okay. (Reacting loudly).
     Oh, quit screaming in my ear! Trist, (extends the phone
     to TRISTAN) here.

          spotlight comes up on GLADWIN, who is stageleft,
          lying in bed and on the phone.

GLADWIN
      Trist! Trist? Say goodbye to Mama. I'm going away.

TRISTAN
     Wait! Don't do anything bad, please.

GLADWIN
     I'm gonna swallow my pills, Trist. I'm gonna take them
     all and I won't be around anymore, honey...

TRISTAN
     No! Mom, don't!

GLADWIN
     ...so just say goodbye to Mama and don't ever...

TRISTAN
     Mom! Stop. Please, stop, just don't!

GLADWIN
     ...forget that I love you.

           Spotlight goes out on GLADWIN.

TRISTAN
     No! (Looks at DAD). Dad, she can't!
               (He drops the cellphone)

     Oh my God!
               (Leaping off the bed and fumbling with
               the phone in his hands, he hurries it to
               his ear)

Hello? Mom? Mom?
               (He closes the phone and quickly reopens
               it. He dials GLADWIN'S cellphone)
DAD
     Trist, take it easy. She's fine. Stop calling and go to
     bed.

TRISTAN
     She won't answer! (Breaking down). She won't answer.
     (Lets out a piercing cry). Dad!

               (DAD lights another cigarette and pulls
               TRISTAN onto the bed and under his right
               arm)
DAD
     (Rubbing TRISTAN'S back gently). Go to sleep, babe.
     She'll be there tomorrow morning.

TRISTAN
     But--

DAD
     Ah, ah! What did I just say? Everything will be okay.

TRISTAN
     (Calming, but still anxious). You promise?

DAD
     Promise, kiddo.

The rain beat the pavement as the man ran to a nearby bus shelter holding a newspaper over his ragged hair. The rain hitting the glass was nearly deafening, but there was comfort in the sound. A public transit bus comes and goes, recognizing the bleak figure immediately. This was, after all, his commonplace - the closest thing he had to a home in the past two years.
"Get a job", people would say, as if it were ever really that easy.
He had been diagnosed with depression after his wife’s passing nearly four years ago and suffered alone as he mourned and pushed through what most people see as a normal life. On the outside, it was unapparent how miserable he had become, unable to share the world with another as he had now for so many years. He came to his cubical on time each day, he worked until the late afternoon had came and went, and he left without a word. He was the unnoticed face in a crowd.
All at once, he lost his drive to live his life. He stopped showing up to work, he did not pay his bills, he didn’t answer the door or the phone. The clear print reading “EVICTION NOTICE” had meant nothing to him. He took only the essential things with him as he left behind an empty house behind. The last thing he put into his bag was a copy of the Odyssey, worn now after so many years of attentive reading.
The tattered copy sat open on his crossed legs, the moment passing by. The walls of the shelter sheild him from the wind and welcome him into their embrace. the adequecy of lighting was questionable as the sun descends and the world loses its colour. A streetlamp flickers to life and casts an ominous glow onto the street beneath it. He continues to read about the long journey of a man trying to find his way home, not unlike himself. What’s happening on the page is disconnected from thepart of the world that he is trapped on; he watches his secret world become a vivid painting beneath his hands and turns the page.
"Hello," said a man waiting for another bus to take him to a far off place.
He didn’t respond.
"I take it you like the book, judging by the condition…" The man tried again to grasp his attention. His dark figure loomed on the other side of the glass.
"I do", he said.
"What’s your name, son?"
He paused, turning to fully look at the man. “Its Tristan,” he said, contemplating the man as he stepped into the light. The man shuffled into the shelther gingerly, leaving behind the loud clack of his cane. His clothes chaffed against the skin on his legs, and he carried his fedora in his hand. He creased his face in pain as he sat beside Tristen.
"My name is Connor Wright", he breathed heavily, struggling to continue. "I have a spare copy of that book myself, laying around at home. No use to myself. Would you want to have it? I can bring it to you the same time next week"
"How do you know I will return it?"
"Perhaps I don’t want it back"
The silence stretched. “I would like that very much, sir” replied Tristan.
A dark blue bus pulled up to the stop without warning and stirred the stillness in the air. The headlights shone in their eyes and caught the edge of the mans thick-framed glasses. “I will see you next week then”
Each week came and passed as Mr. Wright began to bring Tristan books frequently, exchanging each new book for the last. “Why do you treat me with such kindness when I have nothing to give?” Tristan would ask him each week, never recieving an answer.
A year passed by in the presence of the silent agreement. Mr. Wright would often bring Tristan a warm container filled with soup, or a sandwhich left over from lunch to accompany his reading for the night.
On a cold night in april, Tristan waited at the bus stop for the greying man. He spotted him across the street as he waved to him. Tristan, flashing his increasingly more common smile, returned his vivid wave in the direction of Mr. Wright.
"Hello Tristan", he began as always with a bright smile. His distinct aroma filled the hollow bus shelter - a mix of burnt wood, but also new paper and musk, and apparent paradox. After a brief conversation, Tristan took the book out of Mr. Wright’s frail hands.
The bus arrived shortly thereafter and Mr. Wright borded the exhausted vehical, taking his time going up the short stoop of stairs.
This book was rather unlike the other books that Mr. Wright had given him in the past months. His books had usually been full of journeys abundant with creatures, or filled to the brim with a quaint scenery, embodying an allegory in a far off place. The book he held in his hands was called “Darkness Visible”. It was a self-help book for those in the winter of their lives, much as Tristan was, though he hated to admit it.
He opened the page of the book and the spine cracked as the smell of fresh ink and paper filled his senses. This book was new.
He read with curiousity at first, which later turned to deep interest, and later still, turned into inspiration. The following week, Tristan returned this book to Mr. Wright as he told him that he would not be returning to the bus stop with any more new books. “I wish to see you again in the future”, he said, handing Tristan a slip of paper with his name and phone number on it.
Many years passed by and the two men kept regular contact, discussing the endevours of Tristan and his success in his new life.
"Doctor Spense, you have a visitor" his secretary informed him in her usual airy tone.
"Send them in, please"
A man with strong lines creased into his face turned the door handle and entered his office at Kingston University. Commonalities were exchanged and the man fought back a solemn look as he took a seat across from Tristan. The armchair engulphed him.
"Doctor Spense, I’m sorry to inform you that Mr. Connor Wright passed away this morning as he succumed to his long fight against cancer", he spoke as though he had said these words in practise. "I am here because you were included in his will and we need to speak about legalities".
Mr. Wright had left him his entire collection of books, including that first copy of the Odyssey that Tristan had cherised so many years earlier when he had had nothing else. As he opened the familliar book, an envelope fell to the ground.
He stooped to the ground to pick up the white sheet and put it in the pile of other loose pages when he saw in handwriting, “To Dr. Tristan Spense”.
He read the words and tears filled his eyes, prickling at the corners and pooling in the clear canvas of skin before his jaw.

"The greatest disease in the West today is not TB or leprosy; it is being unwanted, unloved, and uncared for. We can cure physical diseases with medicine, but the only cure for loneliness, despair, and hopelessness is love. There are many in the world who are dying for a piece of bread but there are many more dying for a little love. The poverty in the West is a different kind of poverty…" - Mother Teresa
I treated you kindly holding the knowledge that you would have nothing to give in return because I saw something I once saw within myself during the darker days of my time. I helped you because I knew your soul would rot and perish in a sickly way should you go unnoticed. I helped you because I hate faith in you and knew you had the kind of illness that could be taken away with the love of a friend. I hope that I have been able to give you the medicide loneliness, desparity and hopelessness and that your cabinets are stocked full. Remember where you have come from, and remember that it is always darkest before dawn.
Your friend always,
Connor Wright

Once upon a time there was a special girl called Sonya Randall. She was on the way to see her Dad Tristan Godfrey, when she decided to take a short cut through Hyde Park.

It wasn't long before Sonya got lost. She looked around, but all she could see were trees. Nervously, she felt into her bag for her favourite toy, Laura, but Laura was nowhere to be found! Sonya began to panic. She felt sure she had packed Laura. To make matters worse, she was starting to feel hungry.

Unexpectedly, she saw a naughty Uni-pug dressed in a blue dungarees disappearing into the trees.

"How odd!" thought Sonya.

For the want of anything better to do, she decided to follow the peculiarly dressed Uni-pug. Perhaps it could tell him the way out of the forest.

Eventually, Sonya reached a clearing. In the clearing were two houses, one made from peas and one made from cakes.

Sonya could feel her tummy rumbling. Looking at the houses did nothing to ease her hunger.

"Hello!" she called. "Is anybody there?"

Nobody replied.

Sonya looked at the roof on the closest house and wondered if it would be rude to eat somebody else's chimney. Obviously it would be impolite to eat a whole house, but perhaps it would be considered acceptable to nibble the odd fixture or lick the odd fitting, in a time of need.

A cackle broke through the air, giving Sonya a fright. A witch jumped into the space in front of the houses. She was carrying a cage. In that cage was Laura!

"Laura!" shouted Sonya. She turned to the witch. "That's my toy!"

The witch just shrugged.

"Give Laura back!" cried Sonya.

"Not on your nelly!" said the witch.

"At least let Laura out of that cage!"

Before she could reply, the naughty Uni-pug in the blue dungarees rushed in from a footpath on the other side of the cleaning.

"Hello Big Uni-pug," said the witch.

"Good morning." The Uni-pug noticed Laura. "Who is this?"

"That's Laura," explained the witch.

"Ooh! Laura would look lovely in my house. Give it to me!" demanded the Uni-pug.

The witch shook her head. "Laura is staying with me."

"Um... Excuse me..." Sonya interrupted. "Laura lives with me! And not in a cage!"

Big Uni-pug ignored her. "Is there nothing you'll trade?" he asked the witch.

The witch thought for a moment, then said, "I do like to be entertained. I'll release him to anybody who can eat a whole front door."

Big Uni-pug looked at the house made from cakes and said, "No problem, I could eat an entire house made from cakes if I wanted to."

"There's no need to show off," said the witch. Just eat one front door and I'll let you have Laura."

Sonya watched, feeling very worried. She didn't want the witch to give Laura to Big Uni-pug. She didn't think Laura would like living with a naughty Uni-pug, away from her house and all her other toys.

Big Uni-pug put on his bib and withdraw a knife and fork from his pocket.

"I'll eat this whole house," said Big Uni-pug. "Just you watch!"

Big Uni-pug pulled off a corner of the front door of the house made from cakes. He gulped it down smiling, and went back for more.

   And more.

      And more.

Eventually, Big Uni-pug started to get bigger - just a little bit bigger at first. But after a few more fork-fulls of cakes, he grew to the size of a large snowball - and he was every bit as round.

"Erm... I don't feel too good," said Big Uni-pug.

Suddenly, he started to roll. He'd grown so round that he could no longer balance!

"Help!" he cried, as he rolled off down a ***** into the forest.

Big Uni-pug never finished eating the front door made from cakes and Laura remained trapped in the witch's cage.

"That's it," said the witch. "I win. I get to keep Laura."

"Not so fast," said Sonya. "There is still one front door to go. The front door of the house made from peas. And I haven't had a turn yet.

"I don't have to give you a turn!" laughed the witch. "My game. My rules."

The woodcutter's voice carried through the forest. "I think you should give her a chance. It's only fair."

"Fine," said the witch. "But you saw what happened to the Uni-pug. She won't last long."

"I'll be right back," said Sonya.

"What?" said the witch. "Where's your sense of impatience? I thought you wanted Laura back."

Sonya ignored the witch and gathered a hefty pile of sticks. She came back to the clearing and started a small camp fire. Carefully, she broke off a piece of the door of the house made from peas and toasted it over the fire. Once it had cooked and cooled just a little, she took a bite. She quickly devoured the whole piece.

Sonya sat down on a nearby log.

"You fail!" cackled the witch. "You were supposed to eat the whole door."

"I haven't finished," explained Sonya. "I am just waiting for my food to go down."

When Sonya's food had digested, she broke off another piece of the door made from peas. Once more, she toasted her food over the fire and waited for it to cool just a little. She ate it at a leisurely pace then waited for it to digest.

Eventually, after several sittings, Sonya was down to the final piece of the door made from peas. Carefully, she toasted it and allowed it to cool just a little. She finished her final course. Sonya had eaten the entire front door of the house made from peas.

The witch stamped her foot angrily. "You must have tricked me!" she said. "I don't reward cheating!"

"I don't think so!" said a voice. It was the woodcutter. He walked back into the clearing, carrying his axe. "This little girl won fair and square. Now hand over Laura or I will chop your broomstick in half."

The witch looked horrified. She grabbed her broomstick and placed it behind her. Then, huffing, she opened the door of the cage.

Sonya hurried over and grabbed Laura, checking that her favourite toy was all right. Fortunately, Laura was unharmed.

Sonya thanked the woodcutter, grabbed a quick souvenir, and hurried on to meet Tristan. It was starting to get dark.

When Sonya got to Tristan's house, her Dad threw his arms around her.

"I was so worried!" cried Tristan. "You are very late."

As Sonya described her day, she could tell that Tristan didn't believe her. So she grabbed a napkin from her pocket.

"What's that?" asked Tristan.

Sonya unwrapped a doorknob made from cakes. "Pudding!" she said.

Tristan almost fell off his chair.

The End

you see it was hard for me when my school mates were just in my voices in my head
and my dad and mum gave me carers, for me to do things with, and i can relate to maggie here, cause i wanted everything, i wanted to go everywhere, but it was the
cost of the ****** petrol, i look at this episode, and i view it from the eyes of maggie
because, i wanted to be cool, and i still wanna be cool, but having carers were good
and some carers were religious freaks, some carers, shown me the dangers about the man i used to like to be, and some carers wanted to show me a good time, or how to be an organised adult and some carers wanted to be on the community together, i like most of the carers i like, but there are a few rich arrogant *******, and also i had to pay money for my carers, ya know petrol, one carer, tristan, who reminded me of my brother
and patrick, took me on a holiday to merimbula, i paid for the petrol and my share
but we had a wonderful time, actually i learnt from tristan, about meditation, which i later
found out it was buddhist meditation and i believe in that, and he was a musician, and
i went to see his band at the *** belly, and i enjoyed that, he told me to eat vegetables
raw, he was a bit of a health freak, but i liked him, because, he inspired me, to love life
and he inspired to help my mate the messiah, in the same way, but, inspiration is a funny thing, i shouldn't try and be like other people, you should be yourself, but tristan was giving me stuff i have never done, a holiday with someone other than mum or dad
and later i took the messiah to merimbula, and i watched the pigs perform, not real
pigs, the music band the pigs, yeah, i felt like tristan in a way, but i really should be myself, as hannah montana, don't let anyone tell you that your not strong enough
just be yourself, and nothing bad will happen, you see one carer, who i will not mention
his name, tried to joke with me, by leaving me at revolve, but he didn't, and i had 2 crazy christians, a Y leader, and many more, this made dad and mum relax a bit, but mum and dad, were worried my past, is coming back to me, but what is wrong with looking young
or trying to look young, now, i have the same people clean my house, for me, i help, by making it easier for them, no i am a lazy person, when it comes to housework, but
i am a great community worker, this episode shows when arthur paid maggie to look after her, and i accepted carers after a few years of arguing with them, and keeping
pats voice in my head, until i behaved, i liked patrician and he was no carer, but he was as
nice as a carer, but tristan was a great carer, and he reminded me of pat's nice natiure
and he reminded me of my brother, in his music tastes, and occasionally his manners
with the adults, there is nothing with having carers, no matter what is your problem

but the messiah gave me a mate, behind the scenes, cause, he was nice to me
i need carers, only for housework help, and occasional shopping, and the NDIS might
help me with future goals, like helping the homeless at common ground
maggie beare is like me i am afraid to say, but not really, i am creative enough
to rid the stupidness out of my body

briano alliano performs on venus party trap




you see welcome to the trap and i had a great night at the poetry slam

where i met this man who said m6y poem was great, well, he liked it

in fact when i didn’t win it, he wanted to heckle the organisers, well, it was

fun, but i like the organisers too, but this man realiy believed in me, ya know

especially when i told him i am putting art in an exhibition

here is my first song, the poem i read at the poetry slam ,here goes

jingle bells oh buddy jingle bells

it’s christmas in july

the party is on for young and old

and presents to make us happy

jingle bells oh buddy jingle bells

it’s christmas in july

party on till next week, man

yeah, celebrate christmas in july

dashing thru the cold canberra winters day

you see i think my reindeers are in hibernation today

because the air is very cold, and it’s a great day to say

merry christmas my good friends in the month of july

jingle bells oh buddy it’s jingle bells

it’s christmas in july

the party is on for young and old

bring out the warm eggnog

and put up the christmas tree, and have santa on a stick

then you get those lollypops, and give ‘em an almighty lick

and give ‘em an almighty lick, my mate

ya see last night at the poetry slam, this bloke said i really sang the last bit with a lot of guts

and determination, and now as i left last night i saw a fight taking place, and i knew if i don’t stare

everything will be alright, and now here is my next song

i am tired, but i can’t sleep, i need to have a siesta, yeah mate yeah

i need to relax and enjoy my life, and have a soft drink yeah mate yeah

carn the swans carn the raiders carn the packers, like that man last night spoke to me for

yeah mate yeah, and now time for, here is my next song, loving friends and loving family


You see when I was young and I always was trying to be cool
I had a family who tried to stop myself from being cool, and I was
So fristrated with that, I said, no I am cool, but I wssn't cool, I wanted
To laugh at everybody and I laughed so loud that my psrents were telling me
To quiten down and this made me angry, you see I got violent and I started to rant
And rave and it took me over a long time to understand that they were treating me
Like a cool kid, but I was young and stupid and it seems like they were teasing me
And giving me a hard time, and i also said that I wanted to be cool and always go out having a good time and getting ****** as a parrot, you see, my voices were putting those thoughts
Right in my head, giving me a lot of problems, making me very very sick of being in this crazy situation, and I am glad I have this amazing loving family and good friends, to help me through any kind of situation.
You see when I try and muck with my father like a mans kid, my brother would say, don't muck with him, he's not like us, don't much with him, no he is not a young dude. Be like us, and be a young dude and be a little shy boy, you try and be oool every day, and you try and give stay up all night while everybody else is going to bed, so you can go, hey to him, but the thing about it is, that it is the fact that he is living in the past.
So then my loving family and loving friends made me feel better about how much I wanted to
Move on and live life to the fullest, you see he will laugh like a man should and then say, heh heh heh heh , i am a cool boy, I am not a little shy boy, I sit up all night, I don't go to bed, you see I am superior, but my mates call me a complete loser.
Because this man is a total and absolute ******, and it makes me absolutely crazy, and this drives me crazy, you know very crazy, but I always call it a loving family and loving friends, I don't need these friends who only like me because I sit underneath them.



here is my next song, titled mashed potato finger nail at the skate park, here goes

You see Jacki Fred Harold Stone was a very cool young dude
You see instead of going to bed with all the other kids
He wanted to go to the skate park and ride the skateboards
With his best mates down there, and it was a very weird effect
You see his fingers smelt like mashed potato and all his mates went home
And they said he was a little shy boy, and Jacki Fred Harold Stone said
I am not a little shy boy, I am a cool boy, who loves to skate
And when I have a rest the mashed potato finger nails come again
To inspire me to keep being cool here at the skate park
You see I did some very awesome tricks, and I had so much fun
But I still smelt my mashed potato finger nails, it was driving me wild
I told all the people at the skate park and they said, your not shy
In fact your the coolest dude out of your family, and none of us want you to leave
I don't care if you used to get teased by everyone at your school
And I don't care if your family teaeed you as well
You see Jacki, I think your cool, and I will never tease you, not ever
I want to sell you drugs, but you don't have to take them
Because your the boy with the mashed potato finger nails
And we'll never ever tease you, we want to be your friend
And we want nothing more than that
So come on Jacki Fred Harold Stone, show us how to skate
You see my name is Jason Lee, and this is my mate Tristan
And we'll be your only friends you will never tease you
Cause at least you come here and ride your skateboard like a cool dude
And after your finished you stay with us and have a joke around
Despite of the times you tell us, your cool, we still have problems with this deal
You see, you are the kid who has mashed potato finger nails
And I don't care at all, your like us, Jacki, your cool, and your fingers smell like a good
Dose of mashed potato, which means your very cool
here is my next song, titled as much fun as it sounds, here at the trap

You see Jacki Fred Harold Stone was a very cool young dude
You see instead of going to bed with all the other kids
He wanted to go to the skate park and ride the skateboards
With his best mates down there, and it was a very weird effect
You see his fingers smelt like mashed potato and all his mates went home
And they said he was a little shy boy, and Jacki Fred Harold Stone said
I am not a little shy boy, I am a cool boy, who loves to skate
And when I have a rest the mashed potato finger nails come again
To inspire me to keep being cool here at the skate park
You see I did some very awesome tricks, and I had so much fun
But I still smelt my mashed potato finger nails, it was driving me wild
I told all the people at the skate park and they said, your not shy
In fact your the coolest dude out of your family, and none of us want you to leave
I don't care if you used to get teased by everyone at your school
And I don't care if your family teaeed you as well
You see Jacki, I think your cool, and I will never tease you, not ever
I want to sell you drugs, but you don't have to take them
Because your the boy with the mashed potato finger nails
And we'll never ever tease you, we want to be your friend
And we want nothing more than that
So come on Jacki Fred Harold Stone, show us how to skate
You see my name is Jason Lee, and this is my mate Tristan
And we'll be your only friends you will never tease you
Cause at least you come here and ride your skateboard like a cool dude
And after your finished you stay with us and have a joke around
Despite of the times you tell us, your cool, we still have problems with this deal
You see, you are the kid who has mashed potato finger nails
And I don't care at all, your like us, Jacki, your cool, and your fingers smell like a good
Dose of mashed potato, which means your very cool
as much fun as it sounds to heckle, i still remember the american dude, but this man last night was a cool dude, buddy, cool man sam


and have you ever been a cool kid to your dad, and had people laugh at you, i felt that last night when i didn’t join in the heckle, but that man

was nice to me, saying he admires me, but i am not gay, i am bradley simmons

Bradley lived in Cowra with his mum and dad and brother Kenneth, and Kenneth was a real mans kid who plays with his friends in the street and then he goes home to watch Disneyland with his dad, and he mainly liked to watch westerns, while Bradley was certain that there is something going on in the air, and went to church with his mum.
You see this wasn't really tbe best family unit, especially when families go out to fun family events, but Bradley and Kenneth's dad was a director at kids town, which is a Buddhist drop in centre, who looke after the daily needs of under fortunate kids, and Bradley and Kenneth were told to come into these centers, when their dad organised some games to brighten their spirits, one game was spin the Buddha, where you get a spinning buddha statue and the kids get a lolly pop if the Buddha spun towards them, and even though they thought it was lame, well you can see it in their faces, Bradley thought it was cool and then said to his dad how about I plan games for them to play, like soccer out in the paddock, or even cricket, or tennis, and one of the homeless Boyd sadism I am too poor to get into Auskick, so can we play Aussie rules, and if I whip your ***, I know I can play for Richmond, and Kenneth who tried to be the cool kid there said, well if you make Richmond, it won't mean you are good, it means you play for Richmond, and Bradley told Kenneth to be nice to him, he obviously likes Richmond, and Kenneth said to Brad, why don't you shut up you stupid old ******* ****, and Bradley said, I am cool, I can turn these kids away from you.
Then Bradley said ok it's time to play a board game and little Ryan said, well what does board games have to do with helping us get houses, and Bradley said, oh no I ain't that powerful, I am just a kid, I can't give you a home, no,,I am here to make you feel that people actually care for you, because I think it would be tough for you having no home to go to and the kids listened to Bradley like he was one of the adults and being a typical jealous little brother started to get very jealous especially when e tried to make a joke, and they told him to get lost, because your brother is boosting our self esteem.
At the end of the day, Kenneth said to Bradley, you are a stupid ******* old *******, playing board games doesn't make them really feel better, what makes them feel better is taking them for walks around, but you are too stupid for that aren't you Bradley, you are too fucken shy to be like those kids friends, you see they all like me better, they just tolerate you, so go back to your bedroom and go and do some underage *******, no you aren't one of us boys, *******.
Bradley was upset with what Kenneth said and went to his bedroom and cried for hours and since then he didn't have inspiration to go back to his dads work to help the kids there, but his dad said, your brother is just jealous, and you should do this if it makes you feel happy, and his dad said, and if you find that Kenneth is proved right, just ignore them, and you can start off by ignoring Kenneth, because really, I wish every kid could have the inspiration that you bring to kids town, don't let teasing stop you for reaching your full potential, Bradley, Bradley decided his dad was right, and he kept on going to kid's town to make a difference in these children's lives, playing games and talking to one another, this was so cool the kids thought, Bradley thought he was growing up, and Kenneth who decided to come in, because he thought kids need to be kids, yes, his dad was doing a good job, but really Kenneth had what the kids really wanted, like he bought his computer and showed him the virtual world, and Bradley said no kids playing board games are fun, and computer games can wreck your eyesight, but the kids decided that Kenneth needed to be heard too, after all he is the other son of the kid's town leader, so they listened to him for a while and instead of trying to play along, Bradley felt hurt and said, ******* all, and went to his room to cry, and all the tough boys said, 'what a cry baby' and then he said his brother isn't an monster, we still like him, but Kenneth wanted to make Bradley jitter, so he now decided to play around laughing very loudly, like he was like us, man or something and Brad was in his room, crying and their dad decided that Brad needed to share his friends and said that he prefers the way Kenneth did things, Brad got really angry and started to be totally mental, by punching Kenneth like a ******, as well as threatening to **** the father that gave him a perfect life as a kid, of course he didn't **** him, but he was an angry *******, you see he was the board games king, while his brother was a computer **** kid, and Kenneth tried to not hurt Brad's feelings, even though, being a kid, he found it hard to not teaee the ****** and Bradley was put in a special school where he made a few new friends, but they weren't into playing board games or anything else with him, they wanted to teaee him, with teachers joining in, because Bradley needed to learn about how to control is temper, and someone tried to bully him, and Bradley stood up to him, and another guy was determined to tease Bradley also, but as he tried to punch Bradley put his hands on his **** and squeezed his ***** real tight, and since then everyone liked Bradley, but not to his dads liking the little cool kid to his dad was suddenly Kenneth,,and Bradley felt he was trying to tease Kenneth the same way, and see how he likes it, but all his friends like Kenneth better, and Bradley punched Kenneth in the gut and his friends thought Bradley was a **** and left the house and another girl at school was making fun of Brads parents and Brad tried to stand up to her,but she said, they never helped me,**** kids town and ******* early to bed and early to rise baby, and Bradley got really upset and from that moment the only young ones who like him were the rougher ones, who hassled Bradley for money,and Bradey became to shy to say no. Which made him a little young dude with no friends, he had family trying to contact him, but he was determined to make their lives a misery.
Bradley was an idiot, with his drinking and teasing and punching people, yes dude, he needs anger management, and he needs it now, but you must want to go, but Bradley made a pact, that he won't get help till Kenneth found a girl and got married and has kids,,so his thought of being teased all through his adult years, wasn't going to happen, and Kenneth married Bridgett Kingsley and they had Toni and Ros, yes, Bradley's little nieces, and he loved them dearly, and the bonding of Bradley and Kenneth grew fondly, while their parents had the old Brad back, he ain't married but he's happy, and that's what Counts in life.


******* that look a lot of wind singing this to you at the venus party trap and when i got home i was told to sit there little shy boy and let your school mates play air guitar, i was happy too, because of sam

at the poetry slam, thinking i had guts tom read a poem and not win, who cares, it’s a fun night out dudes

You see, you are still a little shy boy, and we are still teasing you
So, now you are working, man, come, leave us
And let us muck around, we want to smoke our bongs
As well as drink our bourbons, and drink 100 beers
Yeah we all feel cool, and don't wake up little shy boy
We want the adults to not bother us, cause we are having so much
Fun, we don't want to be adults,and don't want you to worry about us either
You see, all the men, are sitting there, trying to muck with them
Saying tease him, if you want to tease, just teaee him
But at the end of the day, man, we aren't really teasing
We are sitting up all night, being bums and young bludgers
And it's because you are such a ******
We might be making it seemed you are getting teased
But, we really want to leave you alone,,if you leave us alone
Cause, we are drug addicts,,and we want you to respect the fact
That we don't want to work, as long as you think that you aren't a young bludger
Everything will be already, but young bludgers go to bed for work
So mate, just enjoy yourself, and smoke your bongs
And have a good time, doing it
You see, I want to enjoy ourselves doing this
You are now leaving us all on our lonesome
See ya dudes

see you soon, venus party trap, and t

“Angelica arguta”,
He shows her his wildflowers
“Angelica Susannah”, he says.
And prodded further by her
His heart.
Lingers briefly with the night;
Her affection has power,
But not enough
To keep him
From marching off to fight.

Tristan, son of One Stab,
Brings wildness from the mountains.
Lovely woman from the East,
Fascinated by her,
His passion.
Revels in her bridal bower,
And stops her
Loving any other.

Alfred, eldest son of his father,
Full of rectitude and romance.
Angelica abandoned,
Adrift between the mountains
Becalmed far from the sea.
He takes advantage,
Snatches her soul with riches,
But never captures
Her longing heart.

Years pass and one son gone,
The other lost and mad.
Year of the red grass and
Happiness found
Is felt too soon.
Tristan loves young Isabel,
But Angelica is his doom.

Yet only he survives
The waves that lash her shore,
“Like water in the ice,
She breaks them.”
And in the Spring,
Is gone once more.

Angelica Susannah is buried
Above the box canyon in the meadow
Among the many dead.
Near Samuel’s heart,
The executed Isabel,
And others who follow soon.
Until only Tristan remains,
Left to hunt his nemesis,
The bear inside him.
And dream of one wife lost,
And a lover left behind:
Angelica Susannah
Beside whom he should lie.

He is slain by the bear in Sixty-three,
After forty years of solitude.
And laid to rest in the plot
Between two women he loved,
Isabel, his ingenuous wife
And Susannah, his tragic love.
Do their spirits meet at last
And wander the golden fields,
Or ride out to bathe in the hot springs,
Under the moon of the falling leaves?

Route 84 would not lend me
the light of a star last night
Radio blazing at 75 mph
nonsense noise to chew gum by
Crackling political commentary
Static of distance and thick clouds
Invisible mountains blocking
Memories seeping through the cracks
coating the music in a film
I rub my eyes
watch myself punch alert buttons
But it’s the angels’ jukebox tonight

Roll down the window
Watch the heat escape

Summer again

I am building a castle of ancient stones
pulverized by relentless tides
Dragged across maps by mastodons
and mammoth glaciers
The scouring hiss
the ocean sighs
Time has lulled these smoothly
rolling them in the softest hands of sand
and gels of life’s comings and goings
tenderly tumbling
in the millionth moonrise—
Time deposits them here
wet and glistening

For the girl with the plaid two-piece to gather
Shoulders sun-burnt barely say
one week only,
one week of the fifty two
“It’s the time of the season…”
and daddies on the beach are watching….

She has chosen yet another stone
And the castle continues—
in oblivion to all but her legend…

     The queen will be safe here
     from the rabble
     The disgraced Tristan will surely seek her
     Among these lofty cliffs
     Between the raging circuit of the tide
     Here winds forbid the vengeful mob
     Here lovers learn
     the debt of love’s bad timing
     “Drink ye all of it!”
     --the potion that assigns our sorrow….
     She will not sleep—
     while I chew this gum--  GUM?

Roll down the window!

Angels escape with the heat
Waking me with the brush of their wings

As that eighteen-wheeler hugs my flank
And leans on the horn
Lights flashing
Rude rumbling under right tires
Tantrum of snow
In the draft of mass and velocity

…and the angels?
They’ve chosen another good one!
They must’ve liked the 80’s
Their wings slapping the windshield madly  
Their hands steady the wheel

It was their first time, their first time ever. Of course neither would admit to it, and neither knew, about the other that is, that they had never done this before. Life had sheltered them, and they had sheltered from life.

Their biographies put them in their sixties. Never mind the Guardian magazine proclaiming sixty to be the new fifty. Albert and Sally were resolutely sixty – ish. To be fair, neither looked their age, but then they had led such sheltered lives, hadn’t they. He had a mother, she had a father, and that pretty much wrapped it up. They had spent respective lives being their parents’ companions, then carers, and now, suddenly this. This intimacy, and it being their first time.

When their contemporaries were befriending and marrying and procreating, and home-making and care-giving and child-minding, and developing their first career, being forced to start a second, overseeing teenagers and suddenly being parents again, but grandparents this time – with evenings and some weekends allowed – Albert and Sally had spent their time writing. They wrote poetry in their respective spaces, at respective tables, in almost solitude, Sally against the onslaught of TV noise as her father became deaf. Albert had the refuge of his childhood bedroom and the table he’d studied at – O levels, A levels, a degree and a further degree, and a little later on that PhD. Poetry had been his friend, his constant companion, rarely fickle, always there when needed. If Albert met a nice-looking woman in the library and lost his heart to her, he would write verse to quench not so much desire of a physical nature, but a desire to meet and to know and to love, and to live the dream of being a published poet.

Oh Sally, such a treasure; a kind heart, a sweet nature, a lovely disposition. Confused at just seventeen when suddenly she seemed to mature, properly, when school friends had been through all that at thirteen. She was passed over, and then suddenly, her body became something she could hardly deal with, and shyness enveloped her because her mother would say such things . . . but, but she had her bookshelf, her grandfather’s, and his books (Keats and Wordsworth saved from the skip) and then her books. Ted Hughes, Dylan Thomas (oh to have been Kaitlin, so wild and free and uninhibited and whose mother didn’t care), Stevie Smith, U.E. Fanthorpe, and then, having taken her OU degree, the lure of the small presses and the feminist canon, the subversive and the down-right weird.

Albert and Sally knew the comfort of settling ageing parents for the night and opening (and firmly closing) the respective doors of their own rooms, in Albert’s case his bedroom, with Sally, a box room in which her mother had once kept her sewing machine. Sally resolutely did not sew, nor did she knit. She wrote, constantly, in notebook after notebook, in old diaries, on discarded paper from the office of the charity she worked for. Always in conversation with herself as she moulded the poem, draft after draft after draft. And then? She went once to writers’ workshop at the local library, but never again. Who were these strange people who wrote only about themselves? Confessional poets. And she? Did she never write about herself? Well, occasionally, out of frustration sometimes, to remind herself she was a woman, who had not married, had not borne children, had only her father’s friends (who tried to force their unmarried sons on her). She did write a long sequence of poems (in bouts-rimés) about the man she imagined she would meet one day and how life might be, and of course would never be. No, Sally, mostly wrote about things, the mystery and beauty and wonder of things you could touch, see or hear, not imagine or feel for. She wrote about poppies in a field, penguins in a painting (Birmingham Art Gallery), the seashore (one glorious week in North Norfolk twenty years ago – and she could still close her eyes and be there on Holkham beach).  Publication? Her first collection went the rounds and was returned, or not, as is the wont of publishers. There was one comment: keep writing. She had kept writing.

Tide Marks

The sea had given its all to the land
and retreated to a far distant curve.
I stand where the waves once broke.

Only the marks remain of its coming,
its going. The underlying sand at my feet
is a desert of dunes seen from the air.

Beyond the wet strand lies, a vast mirror
to a sky laundered full of haze, full of blue,
rinsed distances and shining clouds.


When Albert entered his bedroom he drew the curtains, even on a summer’s evening when still light. He turned on his CD player choosing Mozart, or Bach, sometimes Debussy. Those three masters of the piano were his favoured companions in the act of writing. He would and did listen to other music, but he had to listen with attention, not have music ‘on’ as a background. That Mozart Rondo in A minor K511, usually the first piece he would listen to, was a recording of Andras Schiff from a concert at the Edinburgh Festival. You could hear the atmosphere of a capacity audience, such a quietness that the music seemed to feed and enter and then surround and become wondrous.

He’d had a history teacher in his VI form years who allowed him the run of his LP collection. It had been revelation after revelation, and that had been when the poetry began. They had listened to Tristan & Isolde into the early hours. It was late June, A levels over, a small celebration with Wagner, a bottle of champagne and a bowl of cherries. As the final disc ended they had sat in silence for – he could not remember how long, only from his deeply comfortable chair he had watched the sky turn and turn lighter over the tall pine trees outside. And then, his dear teacher, his one true friend, a young man only a few years out of Cambridge, rose and went to his record collection and chose The Third Symphony by Vaughan-Williams, his Pastoral Symphony, his farewell to those fallen in the Great War  – so many friends and music-makers. As the second movement began Albert wept, and left abruptly, without the thanks his teacher deserved. He went home, to the fury of his father who imagined Albert had been propositioned and assaulted by his kind teacher – and would personally see to it that he would never teach again. Albert was so shocked at this declaration he barely ever spoke to his father again. By eight o’clock that June morning he was a poet.

For Ralph

A sea voyage in the arms of Iseult
and now the bowl of cherries
is empty and the Perrier Jouet
just a stain on the glass.

Dawn is a mottled sky
resting above the dark pines.
Late June and roses glimmer
in a deep sea of green.

In the still near darkness,
and with the volume low,
we listen to an afterword:
a Pastoral Symphony for the fallen.

From its opening I know I belong
to this music and it belongs to me.
Wholly. It whelms me over
and my face is wet with tears.


There is so much to a name, Sally thought, Albert, a name from the Victorian era. In the 1950s whoever named their first born Albert? Now Sally, that was very fifties, comfortably post-war. It was a bright and breezy, summer holiday kind of name. Saying it made you smile (try it). But Light-foot (with a hyphen) she could do without, and had hoped to be without it one day. She was not light-footed despite being slim and well proportioned. Her feet were too big and she did not move gracefully. Clothes had always been such a nuisance; an indicator of uncertainty, of indecision. Clothes said who you were, and she was? a tallish woman who hid her still firm shape and good legs in loose tops and not quite right linen trousers (from M & S). Hair? Still a colour, not yet grey, she was a shale blond with grey eyes. She had felt Albert’s ‘look’ when they met in The Barton, when they had been gathered together like show dogs by the wonderful, bubbly (I know exactly what to wear – and say) Annabel. They had arrived at Totnes by the same train and had not given each other a second glance on the platform. Too apprehensive, scared really, of what was to come. But now, like show dogs, they looked each other over.

‘This is an experiment for us,’ said the festival director, ‘New voices, but from a generation so seldom represented here as ‘emerging’, don’t you think?’

You mean, thought Albert, it’s all a bit quaint this being published and winning prizes for the first time – in your sixties. Sally was somewhere else altogether, wondering if she really could bring off the vocal character of a Palestinian woman she was to give voice to in her poem about Ramallah.

Incredibly, Albert or Sally had never read their poems to an audience, and here they were, about to enter Dartington’s Great Hall, with its banners and vast fireplace, to read their work to ‘a capacity audience’ (according to Annabel – all the tickets went weeks ago). What were Carcanet thinking about asking them to be ‘visible’ at this seriously serious event? Annabel parroted on and on about who’d stood on this stage before them in previous years, and there was such interest in their work, both winning prizes The Forward and The Eliot. Yet these fledgling authors had remained stoically silent as approaches from literary journalists took them almost daily by surprise. Wanting to know their backstory. Why so long a wait for recognition? Neither had sought it. Neither had wanted it. Or rather they’d stopped hoping for it until . . . well that was a story all of its own, and not to be told here.

Curiosity had beckoned both of them to read each other’s work. Sally remembered Taking Heart arriving in its Amazon envelope. She brought it to her writing desk and carefully opened it.  On the back cover it said Albert Loosestrife is a lecturer in History at the University of Northumberland. Inside, there was a life, and Sally had learnt to read between the lines. Albert had seen Sally’s slim volume Surface and Depth in Blackwell’s. It seemed so slight, the poems so short, but when he got on the Metro to Whitesands Bay and opened the bag he read and became mesmerised.  Instead of going home he had walked down to the front, to his favourite bench with the lighthouse on his left and read it through, twice.

Standing in the dark hallway ready to be summoned to read Albert took out his running order from his jacket pocket, flawlessly typed on his Elite portable typewriter (a 21st birthday present from his mother). He saw the titles and wondered if his voice could give voice to these intensely personal poems: the horror of his mother’s illness and demise, his loneliness, his fear of being gay, the nastiness and bullying experienced in his minor university post, his observations of acquaintances and complete strangers, train rides to distant cities to ‘gather’ material, visit to galleries and museums, homages to authors, artists and composers he loved. His voice echoed in his head. Could he manage the microphone? Would the after-reading discussion be bearable? He looked at Sally thinking for a moment he could not be in better company. Her very name cheered him. Somehow names could do that. He imagined her walking on a beach with him, in conversation. Yes, he’d like that, and right now. He reckoned they might have much to share with each other, after they’d discussed poetry of course. He felt a warm glow and smiled his best smile as she in astonishing synchronicity smiled at him. The door opened and applause beckoned.

I’m looking at this picture of Tristan
And I don’t know who he is yet
And I’m looking at the front of the book
And he’s got this twinkle in his eye
And this smirk that says
“I know something you don’t know”
in a singsong voice.

and it says on the back cover
that he died when he was 34
but why did that happen?
It doesn’t say;
they almost pretend he is alive even though
He has been dead for years.
So I looked it up on wikipedia and it sounded like
A dream.

"And then when he was 34 he put the shotgun in his mouth
And his daughter wasn’t even
Talking yet"