fo sho.

I know a girl called Beverly
she writes amazing poetry
about tears falling in slow motion
and fatherless homes, finding, in, sadness
beauty.
and i like to think she does the crying for me
but sometimes i think she doesn't enough
because I'm collapsing nowadays
a twitching eye, I'm bursting at the seams
and no one can tell, because I'm, I'm,
I'm not the type. All right?
I write sad but smile afterwards
but theres a rage within
that is starved, lonely and unheard
i want to scream but too scared my voice will squeak
don't want to expose myself in case I come across weak
but I'm not, I'm at a stage in my life where people believe in me
and I want to, so desperately, not love me,
I'm a born let-down. It's what I do. I'm self-centered
so weird when no one in your small circle doesn't really know you
because, Sean. Me. I. Don't know who i am
or where I'm going, all i know is I'm moving too fast and it feels wrong

Because I'm arguing with my sister for no reason
then going to eat pasta and breaking down in the kitchen
and still, the tears don't fall, I stop them, though i want them to
I wont even allow my emotions to show, can't let go of my fucked up self
and i don't know why because he's never been a help.
I'm finally in the position i want to be in, and I doubt whether there's a man who can deal with the pressure, somewhere deep down within.
and the pressure isn't even real, i put it there, like i turn good work to hardships like i asked for this. Like i like this.
fuck this. this poetry is the lyrical equivalent to cutting wrists
i could never do it, i always thought it was stupid, besides i could self harm from deciding to take fists.

and i think i've just gone a little too far rightnow.

early morning bitterness.

Why would I even want the world you offer?
When i saw you last you even said it was a small one
I put work into making the most of my time.
It's crazy how a couple of rhymes
can make your self-worth rise.
Thought the world stopped
when i lost the shoulder
i was so well-accustomed to crying on.
At the end of that night i learnt
nothing stops a rising son.

welcome

My whole life I've gone with the flow
now it's time to come up with my own
and honestly it's a daunting position
easy to shout when being ignored
now i have to pick words wisely
because i know I'm being watched
by peers, mentors and old lovers,
depending on the outcome
i may be receiving once craved propositions
Though it's a temptation i only got to where i am
by not giving a fuck about what anyone thinks
now the dreams i gave up on are dangled in front of me
can i grab a quick save? I don't know what game to play
an ending, or is there something bigger out there for me
weird when a motivation gets relegated to a distraction
In my darkest moments She becomes my salvation
but I always wind up feeling awkward when i should be content
too cautious with every step i take, wanting my life to be perfect
Then Tempest quoted Blake who once said:
"you never know what enough is unless
you know what is more than enough"
a harsh truth when you realise how long you lived on assumptions
judgements on whoever stands and is brave enough to be them
while you sit alone with everyone, too scared to be you
I've been down and laughed with those still on that route
Sometimes lives are picked out for you and it's hard to realise
that you get to choose the life you want to live.
I was good at fitting in, even from myself i was hid
so hidden i didn't even notice how far away from myself i had drifted
When words came it wasn't something i planned on escaping with
to be perfectly honest i really didn't think anyone had noticed
but they did. and I'm here. hello mum, and everyone.
the life i live now wasn't so much a realisation, that "this is who i am"
it was always me, I didn't choose, there was no epiphany, no complication
i went with a flow i didn't question. now I'm asked to come up with something
and need to bottle who i am to a select few tracks, i need the definition of myself
and my goal is to always grow, and i hate the fact I'm giving people an product unfinished
but i guess that's what standing out is, we'll never be wholly unblemished
and when we have received the answers to all out questions wont our lives be finished?
my spectacle is my untimely growth, and i hope it's a fantastic show
ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Sean Cody Mahoney flow.
It's all i knew, even when i didn't know.

sorry, i had to do it!

if for the rest of my life,
i spent every night,
drinking with you,
i'd be the worlds happiest
alcoholic.

Nyla had me.

Some run towards

and run their whole life

so blind they barely survive

some think you'll get struck

and live life going by luck

some forever plan

and think too hard

some run away

but are never fast enough

some will have it all

and still want more

i don't know for sure

but i do believe 

the thunderbolts in us all

open yourself to the storm

and the world is yours

what else are you searching for?

Nyla had me weak at the knees

i would stare at her door for weeks

ready with a fist but afraid to knock

she had afro hair and denim shorts

white porcelain skin we smoked a lot

was the most talented artist i ever saw

a world in itself she must love to draw.
when she left i knew it was all my fault
at the door of my ymca i saw only her note
"sean i had a great time but I'm going back home"
understand i didn't properly let her in
too scared to befriend someone i honestly loved.

Aimee called me lightfoot

she liked to keep me at bay

always a lover but with friends

it was something she couldn't say

last time i tried to impress a snob

gave too much love and now

i again regret the times I lost
She's the prettiest soul i ever knew
and every kiss she gave made me feel brand new
But i tried too hard, gave too much
and she liked the want, but was in too deep
it ended with both of us in place we didn't want to be
a storm can't be forced in, i learnt that tough.

Some throw theirs to strike fear
giving warning to those yet to see the unknown

Some use their gifts towards financial growth
some silence theirs because they have no self-worth
Some are nervous what the have isn't enough
and get tough hurting others who are unafraid of love
it's the look, in they eye he gave,
that wondered at what point you never felt the waves
because a lot of men in london live for moments gone
we where so scared of the angry, gangsters of kilburn
the soldiers of cricklewood the warriors of harlseden
but as times moved on they're in the same small circle
they grew up too quick, and peaked too soon
but no matter how hard one tries
you can't live the same moment twice
you need to open up to the storm that's life
in order to get your mind right

a thunderbolt hit you once

and you did nothing about it

need i remind you you're the cause of your own justice

no government can help you

no mother can protect you

no father can teach you

no partner can love you

anymore than you already do

if you're willing to 

open yourself up to the storm, 

then the world is yours.

What are you being you for?

It's classrooms filled with kids filled with hate

teachers wishing they could be somewhere else

all the dumb kids, all of us where in the same class

Told there's no limit to what we can do

but all we did was limit our views

villanised by elders, victimised by newspapers
before they even do, we assume the will
so what's the point if that's what's expected of you?

after school i treaded boards with actors

in a world of creativity i saw so much strategy

i was in a place my whole life i wanted to be

and for some reason i just couldn't be me

there was a distinct fear i remember feeling

of not wanting to lift my head up in the knowledge

that all i'll see is another disappointment

Most move on

and poets cling on

to moments gone
and no matter whats wrong
boxers find time to run
the damaged deny exception
the loved ones can't take rejection
Bad comedians do what's been done
and good comedians laugh with misfortune
many fight for the party
because there's nothing else to fight for
trying to get another storm in you
many survive the frost from a dog eared cloth
many don't know what they've got until it's lost
We never seem to recognise the cost.

In time I hope to open others up to what I've seen

show all where i've been, maybe see where i want to go

I don't know what I'm trying to do. But at least I'm doing

People may not like where I'm going, but at least I'm moving.
I'm not fighting for respect but I'll take whatever is left
because I'm reaching for the stars with a Dhalsim stretch.

I have a thunderbolt just waiting to break loose
grateful for living a life where i get to choose
being wise enough to know you don't bite the hand that buys the booze
I'll take the help, so one day i can help you.
And before i ramble on any more, like i usually do.
I'll say goodbye and wish you luck in being you.
Because it's always harder than everyone says.

all of me

"How much do you have to give before you get some back?"
if that's your attitude you shouldn't give in the first place.
I'm no longer the beautiful boy, thinner frame, bags under eyes, it's a face tired
since removing a mask.
A facade can't last when you can't get past your past
meaning your present is filled with resentment towards those born with blessings
keep the rage-in when they're complaining, wanting to tell them they don't know what pain is.
But what about me? have I? Do i?
I've lived on the heads and the tails
depending what days i'd see either parents
I only saw the beauty in what was
after the old world crumbled
Now i hug a little too hard
hanging on to moments a little too long
but when trying to revive what's gone
you may also lose the pot of gold you're on
i can't not let you know how it is
not that "if tomorrow i don't live"
more like i don't want to get too comfortable
in the status quo, i merely exist if i don't grow
I don't know how much your smile is worth
but no matter how broke i can afford to let mine show
been hurt in the past, but what man hasn't?
it knocked me down for a little too long
and my poetry became a little self indulgent
and then got a little tired of my little mindedness
now i love to run stages and train like it's a sport
who would have thought- actually, looking back,
a lot. Despite a confession of being self-conscious,
i never noticed i was the one to watch and when i thought
my voice was lost it was then more than ever
i was in others ear-shot
now there's love at my back and i can't stop
in fear that i'll be enveloped, some wish me to trip-up
good luck, I may fall for it
but rest assured, i always fall forward
too committed to forfeit
too effortless to force it
fuck the porches
to my destiny i moonwalked
i'd rather die in my cockpit
than arrive safely in a passenger seat
It took me a while but I'm finally in charge of my destiny
and if i die without ever making a penny
at least i know i lived the way i wanted to
giving myself to all of you.
Or whoever has the time to listen.

Thanks Robert

World in my palm

and i can't get a grip

i turn the tap and

all i get is a drip

a universe to fit my imagination

a pissed-off city on my back

a legacy moving my legs

an oscar winner running 

through my eyes

a desert 

in my pockets

a million pounds

in my notebooks

a facade

in my opinion
a promise of nothing
whispered in my ears
all my problems
are said to only exist in my head

while every element
of my very being

is urging me to make a fist

the worlds in my palm

I can't afford to let it slip

mediocre? never! (again)

why is it so hard when you get on and can't be great
you hit the stage hold the mic and your hand shakes

stage right.

The stage is my home
and i could never be there enough
traded hits for the prose
so fought to steal shows
knife crime profiteers
the subject matter is deeper
never would the day come
when i'd meet a poet afraid of introspection
scream a problem, end with a familiar question
and it's not my day
not my time, but though i wait
i don't do it in line
find another, please.
Every time i make a breakthrough
i just break into another room with a view
of a new room i have to break into.

it's the growth

I've outgrown my grief
I try to wear it with pride
although i know it doesn't fit
what am I without pain?
always a man alive nevertheless
sadness haunts the question remains
if all around you has changed
is it truly wise to remain the same?
sadness haunts only because happiness dawns
like an old friend gone I'm yet to say goodbye
the love of my life who lives the life i love
lives right around the corner
and i have to realise there is no wall in my way
before my burden made everything harder
thought i was going backwards
turns our i was pulling back on a catapult
hurdling me towards mountain tops
now i ask what am to do without what put me here?
Never will i don the mantle of daredevil
never can i be a man without fear
but what am i without the old pain?
Mahoney, all the same.

Comedy.

Her to leave immediately
she does so
in a grumpy manner
less-in moments
than i should be
lesson learnt:
never try to be another

You could call it a dance
black and white classic. Slide.
told it. Right. Took a chance.
and it paid off. The crowd roars
with laughter, no claps, no 'ooh's
and, i get to step back, enjoy it too.

The covers are suffocating
but my skin is too cold.
My breathing is tripled.
Then doubled-tenfold
will be sick but can't acknowledge it
i know i will vomit
hate more so that i can't control it

"in my fathers suit"
floppy sleeves go long past my knees
while the mic chord gets lost in-tangling-
my jokes- i can watch myself from the audience
getting angry. From here, i don't like me.
One dude figures out he has the power to boo.
And becomes everyones inspiration.

Ididn'tgo.

Don't call them truth tellers
when they sell lies to the wide-eyed.

All i want to do is tell the world who i am
and everyday situations change who i am.

The timid and the proud got together
creating a man who's walking on the wrong side of a fine line.



Still,
they have me walking all the same-
charging through mistakes like a freight train.

lit-dim

we're pretty
when lit-dim
and I'm no more me
as they are them
every man in the room
bending heavy
and dignity is overrated
two rooms away
the floors light-up
but we see the light bulbs
and the colours
are from the seventies
in the films it was such a good idea
here it's figuring out the magic trick
when i was the kid i was the only one who noticed it
and now things have changed,
but mainly the shirts and drinks
he she he she he he he he she he
got together, and decided to create
i wasn't invited, and i came anyway
and decided to call them all fake.
Truth is I'm no more me
as they, dude,
we're just a few
shots from the blues
trying hard to impress the chosen few
who are no more them
as you are you.
but that's the idea, right?
since fifteen you've stalked me
like a boo i look over and think
i didn't see you now look like
you didn't look at me seeing you
or, i don't know, it always leaves me confused
how the most simple make my head spin.
the explanation is never that easy, you see,
I haven't always been me
and i assume you haven't always
been what I now see.
I'm still the same
I just changed with the times.
And if i want to keep up
and begin to enjoy myself
it looks like I'll have to do it again.
Because believe it or not,
sometimes dancing is more fun alone.

Lions den.

When overselling good jokes
more laughs come off-from your cuff.
Every week it's the same stuff
It's always too soon for sweet steve
a "first time", "new stuff"
It always changes, and is always the same,
like time, depending on the performer
five minutes can last forever
a lot of jokes about madeline mccain
a lot of legends names have been spoken
in vein, rape, racism- it's all fair game
to stand out in a quest for fame

"check my profile pic- I held a microphone
because otherwise the people at the back
wouldn't of been able to hear what i say,
see, i talked with wit and they listened AND laughed"
For many this proof in a profile picture is enough.

I pay the four pounds
in the hope that one day
I'll be worth a lot more:
In this room right now
there are a few superstars
restlessly, reluctantly
waiting in line for others stars to align

When we'll look with anxious hope
that our name comes out a golden envelope
instead of a worn-out jesters hat
coming in late, because you just came from another gig
going on. killing it, then leaving right after you finish.
(oooooh that's smooth)
When your heroes have heard of you
and misguided comics try to be you
feel like telling them what they should know:
Humour comes from uncovering honesty
it always inspires me
when i see a comedian
who's more themselves than i am me

When I've trained to the point it's like i never trained at all
and i move too quick for stubborn women to act cool
doing the same thing, but not seeing any weak acts
and doing longer sets, being paid, and feeling dishonest
when doing old jokes about not having enough sex
"hey, remember when we paid to do five minutes"
in five years we'll be in every glossy-mags top ten best list
maybe when i reach that point i'll consider taking a rest
until then, you can find me at the lions den.

humour helps.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JEv4SslAo-w

lightbolted thunderfeet.

she only comes in your life once

has a tendency to leave jaws on floors

and swing open your mind like saloon doors

got that, thing about her, that after meeting

you can't stop thinking about her

she carried figure eights in whatever she wore

and all the dudes kept a score, knew it too

hard to get but you couldn't complain

when she replied to the stares with a smile

in countless notebooks and blog-posts i tell her

If i could take a while,

and become the tide that strokes your legs

the wet sand nestled in between your toes

enter your mind like the finest prose

or talk on the other side of your phone

i'd be the happiest soul you could know

I'll maybe figure out how she got me alone

then she says "I, liked what you wrote

but forget what you thought,

you think too big, for now lets just talk"

so we smoke and we drink

and we talk and we think

and we laugh on the brink

when we touch we go deep

and it keeps us from sleep

and did so for weeks

and weeks turned to months

and the love didn't last

but i am thankful for what was

because I met a once in a lifetime girl

and though now cold, i know the difference

between a thunderbolt and a street-light

I wont accept any relationship less,

i live for the storm, it's why i run in the night.

my thunderbolt will come

my thunderbolt will come

light-footed i run

light-footed i run

if the light i never see

at least the dark saw the best of me

at least the darkness saw the best of me

the money is all, the love is a plus

the food is great, and attention is a must

i don't work when tired, i've tried

but i've never been tired of the work

if anything it awakens my inner voice

and adds weight to my inner worth

you're not alive until you find your purpose

and you could end this right there

there's not much else i could say

you've got to seize the day, every day

perfect your craft until your work is considered art

it's what makes my heart beat strong

my palms warm, my mind sharp

and my skin kevlar-hard

if you've seen it all before you've seen too much

it turns out you're using your habitat as a crutch

you've got to be willing to take a couple of blows

if you want to be touched

because life gets tough after love leaves you soft
If you want to be ready for the looming thunderbolt

learn to make winter coat from your dog-eared cloth

and you'll be warm enough come next years frost

my thunderbolt will come

my thunder bolt will come

Light-footed I run

Light-footed I run

if that light i never see

at least the dark saw the best of me

the darkness got the best of me

Whether a girl or a career

i often feel lost in the dark

and when most vulnerable

i can be lured by the pass of a blunt

or to mimic someone else's spark

or put my effort into providing a girls wants

but honestly i know my thunderbolt will come

it will shake me, enlighten me

and i guarantee i'll become the sight to see

and god forbid, if it doesn't, honestly

there's nothing else i'd rather be doing

i don't know what to tell her

it's not so much the thunderbolt i live for

but the better me i know i can be,

and will keep up the chase till my legs give way.

never will, fingers crossed.

still, fearless,
never will
never was
fingers crossed
i harvest all
held hearts
hold out for
cheap thrills
still, fearless
never will
never was
because
i always
recognise the cost
but protected with fists
higher than the shoulder
the day I don't fear death
is the day I'll fear life.
probably, then again,
I (humbly) confess,
I've never been fearless.

come on, MOST of them now

tweeting sure is fun when you're alone and have work to do and putting it off and it's friday night watching youtube and TWEETING IS FUN!


http://twitter.com/#!/seanysense

No one knows.

no one knows me quite like you do
no one can piss me off quite like you can
understand my flaws, step on them
and pick me apart just to stop my starts
quite like you can.
No one could tease and lead me on
for as long as you could
no one else sees me rotten
and then feels so good
quite like you could, but
no one broke your heart
quite like i did.

face value.

honestly honesty is barely worth our thoughts
not when the reality isn't what we bought into
dream keeps a kid in place without going insane
the scheme for a better life boils in her brain
knowing once it's in play nothing will be the same
so she lets another day slide, another breath in
before the beginning of the ride. before she turns the tide
-1. 2-
honestly honesty is barely worth the thought
lie to the truth we accidently bought into
whisper sweet nothings into it's ear
that you'll never leave and always be near
while you secretly plot and scheme
quietly leaving work early to work on your dream
hearing friends tell you the same old thing
but it's all good in the hood.
wink and smile and, still look good?
damn straight.

inside whores.... minds

Every week our boy gets a lay

different girl but always at hers

so he never feels obliged to stay

shouldn't hug nor kiss nor say

he'll see her again but he does

it's not a lie at the time, but in time

that promise fades, dies and becomes reborn

birthed from his own lips, cradled in another's eyes

... ("maybe he's not like the other guys"

and he's not but he's got to go)

waiting for the phone to ring and when it does

annoyed that it isn't him, he'd hate that-

if the roles where reversed

so maybe that's why he does it to them first

get running before it ends in hurt.

and before he begins to regret what he's said

he's- too busty chatting up a girl he's just met

bicycles and spaceships

she gives promises of change on a regular basis
a sample, a loop, always the same old soul song
the beat goes on credits due she raps with conviction
the weight in her chest reminds her it's all be said before
but refuses to hop on any ride whether it bike or spaceship
rather walk alone, she can only trust her own feet
too often she's taken too far in the passenger seat
she lives near the sea, it's not where she wants to be
but it'll do for now,a place where she can figure things out
she can learn how the tide turns, by watching the tide turn
we've all been burned but it varies by the degree
because it's rarely what you see, but how you see it
where some see fun she sees time wasted
so drinks till she's wasted because it's hard to face it
and whenever she sobers up she promises change
on a regular basis i smile, she'll grow up in her own time
she wins academy awards in her own mind
at the parties she should be, with those dancing in celebration
not as a masquerade of talent with a front of pretension
no confusion between loving yourself and creative masturbation
honestly, you don't copy the academy, you learn from them
she'll do fine in time, just don't promise change.
Stay the same.

Red

I make the best of what i have
if i had your back,
i could make things better.
Plied with red wine,
it's outlined on your lips.
I wanted to try hard,
but on a night like this
where every conversation
has become awkward-
stepping up small-talk
as the las call looms
Your dress
is the only thing that fits.
I'm on the brink of friendships
and I'm ruining it for this
this red hard pressed to forget
on her lips on my neck in the back
of the bar it's usually three dates
to connect we've only just met
a party of mutual friends
I've known for months
judge.
We'll say we regret this
when they tell us
And we'll talk about how drunk
and stupid it was
the next day.
But right now,
that's hours away.

What i remember, from memory.

Clear lense, squished from car tyre snow,

Grey hat.

Red coat, lumberjack black squares

collar popped.

mid shot(. Angle.) Small face, big eyes

wearing the smirk that births the

smile that shows the,

teeth that look that,

brings me to my knees
but if it is snowing you
wouldn't notice.

Not in this moment, walking forward,

eye contact with a lense. Blue scarf

scaffolding to the left, where untouched

whiteness rests. thick eyebrows, brown eyes:

Wolflike. Eye contact with a smile.

brown eyes, big enough to engulf

turn, you think you know the street

All we really know is she's fashionable, has

a thin frame padded for the cold with cool clothes

walking along a well travelled, worked-on road,

is taking a moment to turn while trudging through snow

and is in love with whoever is taking her photo.

brooklyn's september.

in a world where every player is a boss
and all marriages end in divorce
and you don't really have drive
unless you drive a porsche
of course
it's easy to feel when you stand out
you come up short
so many fights i've fought
so many times i've lost
too proud to ask when it'll stop
too foolish to know what
I'm even giving my all for.
The love of a woman
The respect from a crowd
The acceptance of nay-sayers
my hands are often clasped together
in the hope i'll think of a decent prayer
one day i'll strive to be something better
because all i want is
the acceptance from nay-sayers
the respect of a bunch of clappers
The legs of Jasmine Kara
It's been a year and i still love her
from across new york,
they'd save up money to see her
by day lap-dancer at night soul singer
never a day she didn't have her shit together
small in height, but filled out just right
her beauty came from her love for life
she had nyc tattooed on her neck
we watched friends on her laptop
snuggled together on her single bed
never have i had so much respect for a person i had just met
she sung to let out the pain, it was never about fame
it's been a year now and i don't see things the same
i see every player trying to be a boss
but they never know what to be a boss of,
soul singers singing porcelain songs, hollow with no gospel
i see people dying to drive a porsche with nowhere to drive to
i stop relationships before they start because i've been so tainted
from the knowledge that they all seem to run the same course
it's a world where no one does what they do for love
it's a reality game show for who's the biggest pretender
and every artist wants to shout on how they're "not"
how they're "real" but still secretly hoping their reality
will actually take them to the top.
it's enough to make a talented artist want to stop.

thank god I'm not going to.
these thoughts will be sold
babyface eyes with an old soul
in a search to grow so i'll no longer come up feeling short
one day i'll make enough money to say "next stop, new york."

Intro

Anyone write?
that includes emails
anyone read?
that includes texts. good.
I'm by no means an seasoned writer
and at best an amateur poet,
and that may explain why
within my brief time in this game
i have only come across three
types of performer:
those who write for sport
those who do it to relinquish thought
and then, honestly, you have the best.
where you want to be
is right where they have you
and you don't yearn for whatever word comes next
as the one they have you on already feels so blessed.
it's the one we tell are without an equal
and after a while, when told by enough people
sometimes they can go and believe it too.
so perfection is all they expect,
and they wont accept anything less
from anyone else,
even if that's another side of themselves
so their defeats fall to their wayside
hidden under their shadow
(the hardest place for anyone to grow)
so whether it was an inspiration, or burden
we're here all the same, to remember, and let go.
Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome
to the funeral of the greatest poet who ever lived.

Parents evening.

hello Ms Mahoney, Thank you for coming.

Well, I don't know what to say. Sean is doing well for sean. His attendance and punctuality, good. Good. For Sean. I mean he doesn't put his hand up never speaks in class never handed in homework through the term that's passed.

I mean, It's a bit obvious he's not going to be a rocket scientist. I mean, it's not rocket science. heh.

Mrs Mahoney. Please sit down.
uhhhhhhh- wow. Talkative isn't he?
There's a tendency to spout off on these long-winded rants at any opportunity. He's nice but in that class he can honestly at-times-be unruly. I just don't seem him ever having any interest in poetry.

Hello Ms Mahoney.
Your son is... Sean. oh yeah. him. well where do i begin. no complaints. He fits in, does what is given. what else. sorry i really don't know what to tell you- i think he pays attention..?

Ms? Mahoney. Mahoney, mahoney, ma---honey. Sean. where do i start. you know what, in his defence the other day he said something interesting in class. he said 'sir i'd love to do the work i just don't have the heart. My mind moves too fast' i think he said it to get a laugh. i mean if you look at his grades it evidently isn't the case. His performance has slipped since he's got that eczma on his face.

Ms Mahoney! Before you leave, i just wanted to talk to you. you see, i don't think, Sean, i don't think he's very focused and i don't know how well he's going to do on the gcse's and- well i think i might put him on a course as a mechanic. what you think?

I've never done a hundred press-ups in one go. But I've never done a press-up wrong. So don't tell me I'm out of rhythm when I'm dancing to a different song.

Cat power great

not your average girl from yo viiideo

A political poem

The last time i made a stand it was

against the rise in price of the mini chicken fillet at KFC

for some it takes a lot to stand up for their rights

for me, it was twenty pence.

it's funny, the things that fill us with rage

especially when usually we're woken from 

a midday sun gently nudging our face

reminding us we've once again woken up late

or, is, is that just me?

I'm never filled with hate, never needing- anything

we, as people, have it all, more than ever before

and live life like there is nothing left to fight for

yet our country is at war

and have travel (and chicken) prices hiked further to hurt the poor

and constantly receive news alerts of danger right at our door

and we choose to not see, 

in the hope that whatever is happening

has as little to do with us as possible,

because we just want to keep on.

or, is, is that just me?

not wanting to get in the way, 

I begrudgingly dance to whatever rhythm they play

the dudes who run our lives, in suits who run the nation

i only see them in newspapers,

assuring us they're getting us out of whatever situation they put us in

i don't see myself as one of them,

not the to-be-helped or the to-be-helpers

because, we, as people, as young people, honestly,

have never been so removed from society

despite our connection to social networks

we're a generation focused on singularity

video game playing, music video watching,

celebrity-gossip-focused, zombies

In the grand scheme of things: powerless

and in our self-made universe, kings and queens

with our own routines and manageable things we can control

until the bigger plans of others bursts our protective bubble

"what do you mean twenty p? the mini fillet is a pound.

a pound! why are you doing this to me!? you know what,

no, I'll never ever ever have a chicken mini fillet again.

colonel meal please."

the knowledge that we're helpless to another's set of rules 

can brood in the back our heads until our refusal to admit 

this impotence leads to an anger, resulting in hurt children,

loved ones, friends, co-workers and choice of chicken

we will never rise up, but will have our fingers crossed

that the decisions of higher-ups don't affect us too much

and it never occurs that we, could speak up. Right?

or is, is that just me, again.

I did vote because it's the right thing to do.

I voted labour because mum and dad hated thatcher

who's a tory and no one likes David Cameron.

although, i guess some people must have voted for him

and now i'll sit under his order quietly complaining

and i'd be right to because he didn't get my vote.

so, I spoke.

i read the greeks have it right

i heard they stand up and fight

i, would want to, but for what?

it feels like we've already lost

street cameras on all corners

shit television hypnotises our arses to stay on sofas

with shit celebrities used to inspire us

selling cheap food that's killing us

reading shit magazines that miseducate us

and teach how to build up and then distrust
go on dating sites choosing convenience over love
flying military helicopters with xbox 360 controllers
so we can kill without heart

how long a fight is this, where do we start?

it's all shit, but it's all for us, and it's all for free

so who are we to complain?
I mean, is anyone here going to war over
the rise in price of oyster cards? of course not
because our rebellion has been conquered in baby steps

Unless, anyone willing to take a stand over twenty pence?

psh, women!

It's frustrating when women find only the aesthetics pleasing
only the shallow women like the pretty men
and shallow women are only skin deep
meaning they keep their skin pristine so i get drawn to them
though I'm not like them, they like other men, an indie scene
devoid of individuals tattooing the same symbols and partake
in repetitive rituals. This leaves the originals to be overlooked
which is natural i suppose, we live in a culture that's acceptable
of the sensitive men that in a sense has become sensitive-less
when they pick and choose what emotions they let in.
It's harder than ever to be yourself now when whatever state
you look from already has a million set-templates for you to
choose from. But this all begs a much simpler question:

If the pursuit of these women leads to frustration, why bother chasing them?
....
honestly.
I get fooled. Easily.
No. Honestly. It's vanity
Shallow women only like men who are pretty
and if a pretty woman walked down the street
holding my arm proudly maybe
i wouldn't feel so ugly.
In constant need of a confidence fix.
thinking some more flings will fill me.
Trying as hard as i can to not take my situation not too seriously
after all, it's only ----------------- something silly.

dream to wake.

i dream of doing what i can't do in real life
i have a recurring dream of turning you down every night
i then wake up angry, because i try so hard to not think of you
and as soon as my head hits the pillow my walls fall and here we

are

in a cafe, pub, bar, park, greggs, home. And you're sitting down
smiling at me- unafraid(/vulnerable), then my gargoyle-cold face turns away to what someone else is saying- but the camera of my sleep still focuses on you and you're pain, it's interesting, it reveals a more, honest side
watching the eyebrows raise in suprise, not wanting to believe in what I'm doing  a cautiously slow, unsure hand reaches out for mine,

and

no.

it's not happening, you clock, looking left and right in the hope no one saw that rejection while trying to comprehend this situation, how, a man, who you where so sure was in the palm of you hand has turned you down. Damn, i bet that hurts. and, now the regrets start running through your head, wondering at what point the string had me on snapped.
when i sleep you cry for me to hold you again, tell me you regret the games and the other men and if i just come back things will be just like they where again,

and

no.

you can't, you made your bed and now sleep, with him, with them, those men aren't me and now you see how happy you where and how much happier you still could have been and i hate to you, be mean, i have, to be strong here because this dream is the only place i can do this

and

I can't do that in the real world, when i wake up i'll day-dream about you being my girl, answer all your calls, let you stroke my arm, hug and hook my arm and pretend we didn't actually do it for real and i'll play along because a part of me will try to convince my self it still is and i will hate myself for it, so for now let me profit from this make-believe pain of yours.

and hope that in time I'll close these doors.

(letting in a fucking draft)

hay hay haaay

It's not hard being me.
But it's been a challenge becoming myself
I've said yes to a lot of things i shouldn't
denied a lot of opportunities i wish i didn't
I don't think I'll ever truly know everything about me-
I hope to always grow.Be turned on, inspired, (turned on)
offended and entertained (and turned on) in new ways.
Get shook up over the next marked pop sensation
and snub my nose at the one after that.
I want to let waves of childlike emotions in,
participate with the living.
For a long time i thought i was weird.
watching what i did and questioning why i did it
and not enjoying the life i lived it became hard to
keep that feeling hid, i broke down, it got awkward
So for everyone else's sake i decided to step out the race
took some time to analyze my mistakes- played loads of videogames
wrote, read, stepped-up got-lost in my thoughts then got straight
and became someone i wasn't ashamed to embrace

and

it turns out the real problem was i just couldn't relate to fakes
because now my best friends and ladies
are the prettiest and most safe around-
Hey young world, I'm back now and move at a quicker pace
with a pretty face I'm not afraid to lose.
Because i've been ugly, been removed from society
and in darkness found myself and in that, serenity
there is nothing your judgment can do to me.

Someone has to be donatello

Is not, never was, never will be, a Werewolf.
But that's okay, I still kick arse, in my own way.

My entrance. Venus.

No one gets it immediately as the jet pack is dropped but as i float my way to the bar i leave behind silences, in awe.

Unable to remove their jaws from the floor.

My clothes.

They're black and shiny. You could reach inside that darkness, place your keys there, lose them, and while pulling arm out get stars stuck on your hand. A slight heel (to improve posture), and my laces don't look all- mickey mousey-big eared. In fact there are no laces (unless you're looking)
simple, yet effective. Plus, practical.

My suit- designed by Max Fiumara. Think nineteen fourties- constantly 2D (the only way you could see me) Dark blue shades to whatever shoulder is raised ridiculously higher. Every detail is out of place and changes with every blink. It lets me stride through floor boards and people with ease.
Going up with a jet pack (because there's a jet pack on my back. Big and bulky- shiny with mork and mindy late-nineteen seventies possibilities)

My hands are tightly wrapped in kevlar bandages marinated in regret, shame and rage. Hermes wings on my ankles, just to brush the dust off my shoes. My watch, like the laces, is hidden-until you notice it. When you notice it you wonder how you didn't before.

got bad to do

Phone calls and hang-ups and step toe and son re-runs.
rustling sheets lovely sandwiches and jackets as presents.

ripped-tights, made-teas, passive-aggressive arguments.

jokes. everywhere, museums new-books, cuddle, television

show-her-off parties shrugs roll-off the tongue insults

lots of drink being sick pale people warm-up breakfasts

eggs, bacon, mushrooms loving looks between menus
promises from eye contact that have one rush to the flat
stroked arms, resting heads denim daisy dukes removed
stretched stomachs in flips, smiles no longer reserved

old streets walked on spent in awe- but one's too fast

press-ups towards late-night runs to more aspirations

cold-shoulders no eye contact new looks no respect given

moonlit bodies slide with anger, train seats stare into space

inspiring work inspired from smiles laughing at them

all men that try to be something they're not, what we'll never be

no answers too scared to ask questions too proud for pain

far away looking back at yesterday try to find out what it meant

replay every event wanting another body that's heaven sent

golden green olive kisses mismatched lovers circumstances 

deal the blows take the pain, we eventually stand all the same

and if i had the choice yes i'd do it all again.

pointless but sounds nice.

I'm too young for the schedules shoved between trains and busses fitting in structures my scriptures are never finished and the way perfection moves me is relentless, we all go through it, my messy haired-self has bruises from guilt, I'm never where i want to be always going back to where i was too soon. busy but naturally lazy, it's like I'm reluctantly happy. And now my free time is spent on what many look at as a hobby- but it's a way of life, like power, like responsibility, like spider-man, in a way.
If you think about it.

tv lights.

My fingers type away at a breakneck pace, the sound fills the room followed by a little laughter. a giggle. if you will.

i didn't anticipate this. you. here. but i did dream of it. what was most magical is that the moments we shared where never the ones i wrote. or what i thought what romance was. not pizza express but greggs, though there was a smile on your face the whole time. consequently that put a smile on mine. We're watching the wild bunch. your head is on a pillow that is on my lap. we haven't kissed yet. or confessed our need to connect. and your head is on a pillow. which is on my lap. You're beginning to fall asleep and I'm almost freaked out by how effortless this all is.

I walk you to your room and tuck you in, i could have made a move, maybe you would have welcomed it, but i didn't and weirdly enough I'm thankful for it because, I've never known courtship and evidently, despite my years watching disney,

I didn't know romance.

Another walk home now. I've lived on these streets for so long, yet, never felt admitted to the club of street-dwellers. trapped in bypass, constantly walking through and past, but truly my journey is living, but my journey is spent living the same thing. Tonight these streets see me walk slow, look up and take in the view with a new perspective, My mood is reflective, almost glad for my lonesome nights, in such a crowded space not enough hold out- just cash in but it's not worth it, if another could appreciate what her hand in mine meant, they'd understand why i walk with this slow-motion-skip in my step.

The body moves too fast for the mind to comprehend the situation, under covers our energy combined pumps an adrenaline so strong the bitten necks and pulled hair is painless and- enthusiastic legs wrapped round squeeze out hidden tears that fall on the skin you've longed for-for years. I close my eyes and when they open i lose my best friend forever, and i make a silent promise to make sure i don't fuck this up. Because i don't know much. but this is a lifestyle i could get used to, and it turns out i like to be touched.

Sean Mahoney 102

I'm a new man when i grab the pen i become bigger then i've ever been putting words in orders many haven't seen as too many in london try live the american dream if only the solemnly cowards see the city sights go further than bright lights- to get away is like hauling a truck trying to buck west end trends send more friends but i say once again im a new man when i grab the pen bigger than before almost too big to fit through the door when you have a habit for stealing the show the supposed show stoppers don't wanna know 'no we're good thanks anyway' these plastic pretentious people will rue the day when i rule the day. say what's good what's been done if you say you're both then you're times up now run, I'm developing my very own enigma- the north london persona a life more over the top than a soap opera now

I'm a new man when i bleed from the pen recess what's been the best place to confess my sins there's never been any science to my expression i just tell you my mistakes and hope you get the lesson, less of a man more of a monster i think of the cheetah hauling a truck of friends stealing shows and bucking west end trends you know when the death toll gets to a hundred audiences will provide bigger wheels to roll with though it's still my mind still taking my time the only thing to me worth any value, but too much of my time goes to people that don't want any of mine, those same cool girls from school still impressed with the same old lines, show me yours and i'll show you a beautiful mind though it's hard to shine in a city covered in grime but music makes me better, and laughter pushes me to the stage never to be less than five minutes of brilliance and when my time comes millions will be in attendence so please pay attention before you're stuck with admittance I'm past my very own present so broke to the point i resent my very own self for my imaginary self has so much going for im but my body doesn't put the work in in the future i'll be working hard. going hard. and i've taken a few scars just to get to the point i can be brighter than all the stars
because there are now stars in london, look to the sky and tell me if you see one, it's never where you come from.

there are no stars in london, look to a night sky and tell me if you see one.
there are no stars in london, look at me and tell me if i can be one.

the young man is in constant evolution

so. this guy comes up to me ans is all like, oi you st

I'm, losing sight of what i thought i was.
too many lines have been written in the hope it will fill the hole
that's still reserved for the man i may one day become.

I'm losing sight of my goal,
either it's further away than i thought
or for years i've been taking part in the wrong sport,
losing my cool losing all but what i wanted to lose- the hole
finding out that what i thought would, still didn't make me whole
(committed to a potential heartbeat in frost- It's only cold)
so the focus is disfigured and now needs to be rearranged
as i take a  too-long look at how much time got stole,
to all my friends that I know i've lost, understand that i recognise the cost
I'm better than what you see, harder than what i used to be
but my history with that dream has taken it's toll
and when things get better and my schedule gets clearer
you'll come down and we'll laugh like it never happened,
as if my disfigured self didn't resemble a troll crossed with a lost soul that left a happier self go
running at a blistering speed towards a future unnecassary

walking home alone

The city Lights up
haunts are glowing
central london
left of the centre
down the corridor
so close
it just makes the dark darker)
physical closeness but loneliness)
but the doors open
shows about to begin
everyone looking at me
do i belong-

and i step on, the floorboards creek

now i move in toe but it feels too slow.

Colin Wilson's Protege

Mocked for the lack of education
but man,
you can't fault the dedication
Knocks out bad blood
and the guilt with his perspiration
to every other dude it's recreation
but to him it's the dream vacation
waits. cold sweat. train station in
december
street lights of ember illuminate a face
that doesn't want to remember
Between punches on pads
the same thought lingers:
can you live this life to september?
It makes the punches harder
and in buckets of sweat
you can let out a few tears
and if you always laugh
no one will know you sleep
with so many fears.
the arms are spaghetti
legs are jelly, gloves heavy
and it's always too early
The alarm rings at five thirty
and- don't think.

Run.
You where never the fastest one
but that never stopped you.
no matter what was in your path you kept on
if you weren't the best you at least got better
and always got back up when stepped on
even when taking the hurt for a life that wasn't yours
gliding hooks colliding with sliding jaws
"always keep your knees bent Sean
it's said tall boxers are susceptible to uppercuts
but not if you forever duck. See,
you don't have to have a weakness"

Trained on the weekends.
stretch in the train station in march
ashamed he has to make his legs arch
to make his fingers and toes touch
bed-ridden no-sleep just lays, mornings-
face full in a bowl of cereal
hearing voices he doesn't want to hear at all
faster punches thrown on kite hill
but now the school work is piling up
he looks at questions and loses his heart
hardly hard, what's there to hit?
he barely believes it, but, it's enough.

This wasn't the plan. There never was one i suppose
We make the most of what we've got, and given
but as the fights come and he brings in the wins
he still asks the question: Can you live this life to september?
and of course his birthday comes and he's still delivering hits
and only colin wilson notices it, my quickness has slipped
my focus has dipped, not that much, but, it's enough
"how you Sean, with yourself?"

zip-zap-boing. He hears it every morning
BTEC performing arts, flopped his gcses so he's wound up acting
to his classmates he acts like it's boring, like he'd rather be boxing
he can't admit it, it's so fucking, billy elliot, then the mind drifts
in the most dangerous of all places, the four cornered ring.
The concussion that then came kept him out the gym for a week
and with his nights now free. He couldn't avoid it anymore.
He had to think. it was him and his thoughts and he fought
harder than he did in his favourite sport.
as many individual thoughts as london street lights
blocked in and wrapped up over time,
he grabs a pen and paper and free's his mind
they're not confessions, or poems it's just free write
and when he looks at what he's done
he doesn't understand why he'd kept it all inside

street lights of ember illuminate a face
that writes lines i know you'll remember
he's a writer now but writes like a boxer
and owes a lot of his dedication
to a well educated trainer.

London story part two

London is in a lot of places a lot of the time

a lot of creatives want london in their rhymes

and in order to do that they need to put london in their mind

though one city can never fit in one head,

and London never gives us what we expect

especially when certain pieces don't seem to join together

leaving a lot to overload and rest on their shoulders

get to sharing the same view as london elders

who now have london stuck in their joints 

so they can't move their positions or points

believe they where promised a promise land

but said promises slipped through their hands

and now tell their children there's no love in london

don't put it in your heart, end up with concrete feet 

stuck on the street unable to make a start

pavement will have you swallowed whole 

left hollow so helpless the excuse is she can't help it nor manage

just arrived and barely knows the language

so she lives in a flat with an open front door:

poster on the wall announcing 'spanish on the second floor'

come up to feel mannish, tells them she's nineteen but is really twenty four

gets a lot of punters, becomes popular and after a couple of months 

builds up a list of regulars, i guess there's something about her, 

a certain je ne sai quoi that doesn't come from the others, 

who knows, maybe it's because she treats the customers like lovers- 

and you never get that from where her flat stems

because the west end lights are only bright 

as behind them they hide a soho gone rotten

it's the place you go to become forgotten, 

resulting in a decadence of dead ends

times passed and she's settled in
her existence a definition of her residence
a place you go to, not come from, take from, not give to
time spent watching bones thin, in one year she's aged ten
and that glimmer of what you thought was her
you'd think no longer resides from within
never to be awakened again.
Until a man from her old life walks in.

her welcoming smile is killed by his shocked stare

through his view she sees her

and can't believe she's there.
when you've spent a lot of time in repetition
and you're represented with a new situation
the words you want can often go missing
going through the prices she silences and faces

the wall to stop herself from breaking down altogether

the image of them together is sharper than 
a bucket of ice cold water

they came to london on a bus ride from dover

his name is jetmir, from albania, a boxer

they both came to london on a coach ride from dover

couldn't have said more than five words to each other

but she always felt his eye on her, a sort of protecter

who had a stone face she was determined to break

in the lunchtimes of language classes they took together

she'd invite him to join in from the corner

teasing him because all he ever ate was the pasta

a strict diet for a man determined to be a great boxer

but looking at him now he's missing a finger
what immigrant here hasn't been put through the ringer?

She keeps quiet, maybe he heard about her, here

and he came to see her, she'd

have her very own knight in shinning armour, but

all that comes out of his mouth is nervous laughter

and on that laugh she can smell that he's drunk

foolish to think anything other- just london dumb luck

a familiar face in a space of a hundred faceless men,

then he moves close- gives her a hug and doesn't let go.

she draws a sharp breath feeling the rain from his coat

he leaves not before rambling words in a language she doesn't know
followed by "i never stopped loving you"

but the affect had her froze in

the situation she's awoken

another customer knocks on the door but she wont let it open

she needs to get out she needs to be alone

sometimes it's not about being able to climb

but find the ropes, and in that night, a cycle broke.

Jetmir walks out. And she's still still. Still.

A weird morality takes over,

not even the addiction can hold her

-still took a bag from her draw-

too-thin leather coat over the shoulder

and walked. Out of a night-time soho

when she first came to the west end she was filled with such hope

past oxford circus past the west end.

Can't sleep, too high, still needs a rest.

she lays her head on the tottenham court road station steps.

not knowing, but no longer afraid to ask,

"what next?" 

being a londoner

I hope it'll be the last thing she expects.
Because this city rests on a countless amount of broken necks
so no matter how hard
i will pay my respects
and put london in my heart
because although our protagonist isn't there anymore
it doesn't mean they didn't put another spanish up on that second floor.