Sonnets.

'Room'

I gaze out of the apartment window, and look down.

That German atmosphere fills the street with remarkable sound -

happiness travels through my veins as my childish excitement

observes those roads constructed of a dark grey cement.

I turn around, and a beastly, familiar stench starts to fill the room:

The old lady who lives at the bottom has started cooking her brothy doom.

It fills me with memories of all the times I have been here; I love it.

To anyone new here it would cause tears. I don’t move a bit.

We’re all ready to go shopping, so we leave the flat

I glance behind me, closing my eyes and embracing this fact.

I already wish to return, but with all the Lego and art supplies I buy

I’ll spend the rest of the day with new toys, on a natural high.

I’ll only be here a weekend but I love it here, when I go I’ll be sad.

But that’s the only disadvantage when you’re reunited with your Dad.

'Sex'

Night falls and two sensual lovers clash,

warmth of hands caresses a heartbeat.

Lingerie is now visible, tightly holding feminine figure;

love is in the air as these bodies meet.

Man in the window, watching their innocence:

hot air invades his head as he watches pure passion.

Bed in vision, heart on sleeve, envy spreads through his mind -

Good riddance, he spares a last thought.

Pillow meets hair inside the house, the man whimpers.

Yeah, he thinks, get ready, do it.

Male and female are interrupted in their slumber –

Experience this, you cruel bitch, he yells;

flesh hits the wall as the gun is fired, passion falls to dust.

Different atmosphere turns to dark from lust.

Arriving at Portsmouth, Pt. 2

So the buses are becoming real drags on my attitude to University life. It still bugs me how I have to travel miles along with other poor sods whilst those lucky people in the city centre leave their rooms five minutes before lectures.

But anyway. I'm still really enjoying the course. The amount of writing I'm doing is copious and I'm enjoying writing every single piece. I have two Assessments due very soon but I'm keeping on top of it and therefore giving myself more time to plan for further Assessments. I have a test soon, gulp.

I'm also cooking good meals now. Being in part catered halls means I have the rare opportunity to cook aside from weekends. So I savour the moment and go all out in effort; i.e. buying the ingredients and enjoying cooking each meal. I've also taken a massive liking to my favourite meat, Gammon. One of the big perks of cooking for yourself - you can eat what you like! Which does honestly mean I've eaten some Pot Noodles on occasions, but not too many.

I've yet to make ANY of the cocktails I've got up on my wall. I bought a humongous poster during the Fresher's Fayre which has pictures of cocktails of all different varieties. I do eventually plan on making one. I'll tell you when I do. It'll probably excite me more than anyone else..

Clubbing is amazing in Portsmouth, especially when you have spontaneous housemates. Before Uni I would never have agreed to go out a day before or rarely even an hour before, but I love it. And Portsmouth has everything. Bars, pubs, clubs and pub-clubs (you know, those pubs that play club music and have a dance floor, and are then there for you the next day holding a bacon sandwich to cure your hangover).

Arriving at Portsmouth, Pt. 1

Living in student accommodation is a strange and exciting experience. You’re living away from home, mostly, and everything is up to you. Suddenly there’s no Mum or Dad or family pet to do your ironing, washing and cooking – it’s all up to you. Personally I’m lucky enough to have parents who built me up as a man who can fend for himself. I don’t crawl across the floor in ragged clothes scraping the floor for traces of pot noodle, whilst crying because I don’t know how to hold an iron. So luckily enough I had the self-confidence and the resulting excitement inside me for when I arrived at my accommodation. I’d already had a set-back, I was placed in the student village, a few miles away from the actual university. This is alright – there’s a free bus service that takes you to the university. But, there are those who live literally 30 metres away from the university buildings – those who were lucky enough to be picked by whatever system the university has to allocate students to their new homes. That’s what annoyed me the most; but oh well – suck it up and move on. Life won’t be happy if all you do is moan – the glass is half full.

Arriving at my new house (or home – but I like to think that a house and a home are different things. A home being representative of family life and somewhere you’ve been for ages, a house being a building you simply live in) was very odd. After driving a couple of hours from my home in Surrey and having unpacked my case, the departure of my parents was quite sudden, and a big shock. When you first think of university life you conjure up imagery of parties, independent life and things like that. But personally I never realised the comfort I would miss when they left. But since then and in a short while I’ve learnt a lot about myself and how to live successfully on my own. I’ve even started eating salad. 

Chrysalis.

Photo by Owen Brice

Sweet Dreams.

Wrapper on the floor,

Picked it up and unravelled

its tempting secrets.

I bet it tasted of caramel

oozing over the tongue

pushing sugary goodness

through the pores of

their tongue.

I run my finger over the

mountainous terrain,

where the sweet had once

been nestled in a smooth

appealing translucent cover.

It takes me back through time

to that place near where I live

that sold unimaginable amounts

of calories, fat, childlike heaven.

Pick up the paper bag

and carefully fill it with

1p, 2p, 5p, 1p.

With coppery fingers you hand

over the bag which is then

reopened and viciously strewn

across the newsagent’s surface.

Hand over your pocket money,

licking your lips.  

There’s that aforementioned

appeal of the smooth shiny wrapper

and the visible sweet,

tempting you again.

You seemingly unwrap it carefully

but when done with it, screw it

into a ball and throw it on the floor.

That’s what happened to this.

The hope of a life in which a small

child sees you, opens you, takes out

your insides. Throws away the carcass.

Oh to be there again.

in that sweater and polo

uniform, the anticipation of a walk

to school and going to the shops first.

The excitement of that low-down

shelf filled with new things,

jelly beans, chocolate buttons.

I hold that bag over and over again

filling it, filling it, filling it.

Swinging it around a pinched

opening, making a seal of approval.

Only to open it seconds later.

Enjoy that wrapper, peel it delicately. It holds something new, or something old – something you like or haven’t yet tried.

Too soft, too sweet, too crunchy-

you’ve learnt your lesson, it won’t be bought again. 

Shoes.

As a child I never paid much attention to shoes, especially as a boy. Maybe to girls they bare more significance, but for me, they claimed none. I do remember getting my first pair of converses when I was 11, though. It was exciting – they were expensive and popular and came in all these different designs and colours. I for one wanted the black ones with the flames on the heel. They were awesome. But I decided to go with Hi-top Blue ones. They had that new rubbery smell and were really tight to fit into at first. My feet are especially wide so it takes a while for new shoes to mould to the shape of my oddness. I remember wearing them for the first time out after my Mum had said “Don’t get marks on them!” and worrying over-precautiously about scuffing them on the pavement. I did. I rubbed frantically at the mark and it disappeared, thankfully. I took great pride in them, cleaning them with Kitchen cleaner on the rubber soles. I even went a step further on my first trip to Camden by buying some checkered shoelaces. I wanted to put the laces on straight away so I walked down to the loch with my mates and put them on then and there, ditching my old worn out white ones. I still have them and they still sort of fit, but I have cooler shoes nowadays.

Mornin' Dew.

Photo by Owen Brice

http://www.flickr.com/photos/-obi-/

Promises.

A blur of flowers lay by their side,

memorable efforts from a grieving relative.

Sombre and silent and still they sat -

the scene picked me up

and took me through time.

Amongst a heavy fog of grey, the memory stood there;

I slid my hand into the cloud and tore through it.

They were there, and I was too.

A weathered old envelope was in their hands,

it bulged one side, flat on the other.

In my mind I went back to the day, and held the envelope up,

to let the contents fall into my soft, caring palm.

I bowed my head in thought, and knew I would do it.

But before I could, the saintly wind that blew me through time,

and sucked me back again.

I took my place back in the present,

slipping into my mourning clothing; my favourite suit,

Pinstriped, royal blue shirt, and a lighter shaded tie.

For they were me, and I was them,

 and I never fulfilled that promise.

Tissue in hand, hand on nose,

another mourner came to my side, and noticed the shine

of an ageing artefact that lay in my hand.

Bug.

Photo by Owen Brice