TSP


About
Elliot, 22, London poet and writer.


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thesesagepoets




Jul 31, 2014
22 notes

Confession

newbeatnik:

Hey guys. Got a bit of a confession to make - 95% of the content on my side blog, http://thesesagepoets.tumblr.com, isnt my doing. It’s this great guy called nihilarian-atlas who keeps it ticking over, and does this even in the face of my constant failure to help. My life got busy in a really…

Just getting this out there again!

Jul 30, 2014
22 notes

Confession

Hey guys. Got a bit of a confession to make - 95% of the content on my side blog, http://thesesagepoets.tumblr.com, isnt my doing. It’s this great guy called nihilarian-atlas who keeps it ticking over, and does this even in the face of my constant failure to help. My life got busy in a really short space of time and I wasn’t reading anything, let alone scouring the poetry tag for undiscovered works. This gets me thinking - what if there are more great people out there like nh? People far better and more dedicated than I, people who want to give some talented writers with no exposure the chance to be seen. If you think you are one of these people, send me a message including:

Your name
Your age
Your fave poet and why
Links to two poems youve found on the poetry tag which you would feature on TSP

If I like your style i’ll sign you up. The only payment will be the occasional allowance that you pop some of your own stuff up there, and a hand-whittled small wooden replica chihuahua. While stocks last. If that doesn’t sound like your thing, you can help me dearly by following thesesage, or by reblogging this post so it can find someone for whom this is their thing.

Cheers in advance, nb (elliot)

Jul 29, 2014
32 notes

For the next month or so, I live here. Somewhere in chinatown, san fransisco, near the city lights bookstore and north beach. I’m almost self-consciously retracing the footsteps of beatniks of old. So far, I really dig it. No doubt I’ll have new work to show you soon. I’m reading a book on Derrida and deconstruction also, so i sort of consider this literary training, the honing of technique. Hope this finds you all well.

Nb

Jul 25, 2014
30 notes
Obligatory tourist photos. The wonder city!

Obligatory tourist photos. The wonder city!

Jul 24, 2014
16 notes

vox-clamantis-in-deserto said: omg you’re coming to the US??? where in the US??? i hope you have fun!!

I’m coming to….

New York
San Fran 
Roadtripping around Cali
Vegas
Portland
Austin, Dallas, Oklahoma
Chicago

I will certainly have fun but at the moment the idea of it all is making me want to puke with fear.

Jul 23, 2014
23 notes
I leave tomorrow. Another life for three months. Strange. Terrifying.

I leave tomorrow. Another life for three months. Strange. Terrifying.

Jul 23, 2014
26 notes

Jalopies

You can’t pay for them -
and either they float
or don’t;
one holy boat or
a boat boasting holes,
with bursting hulls that
stink of rusted curling old.
Either the tyres are raw
wrought steel,
new burnt rubber 
with pedal to the floor; or
knackered engine,
horsepower ground down
and reduced to glue.
You can’t force them forth;
only press the best ones out
lightly,
slowly twisting the keys,
till the turbine roars at last;
"Almighty!
I wisht I had five hundred jalopies.
This ain’t gonna last.”

Jul 18, 2014
16 notes
fuckingfujo:

newbeatnik
:)

cheero for retrieving that one for me!

fuckingfujo:

newbeatnik

:)

cheero for retrieving that one for me!

Jul 18, 2014
21 notes

It’s raining absolute spades now. Some of it’s coming in through my window onto my bed, but I’m allowing it to because it’s so enjoyable. I think rain might be the one thing I miss in summer - I love summer rain, because it cleans away all the heat and brings in something new. I’m almost afraid of how much it’s raining. I can actually see forked lightning bolts hitting the ground, but the thunder’s gap is still pretty large so it must be far away. What a storm. England is not used to nature battling her like this.

Jul 18, 2014
22 notes

The sky’s violent red, and whenever the lightning flashes I can see every cloud outlined against the sky. When the roar of thunder finishes, all I can hear is the slowly-rotating fan out in the hallway. The air tastes like a mix of my night-sweat and wet stormy air. It might rain, and if it does, then I’ll certainly be able to sleep.

Jul 17, 2014
66 notes

My old ghosts
haunt me 
in a diaspora 
of states of mind;
none quite within grasp.

I know I’m not
feeling it yet,
not feeling it, yet
scarcity’s an illusion
the body’s way of dealing
with hot white fear.

Muddle along little boy
like you always do,
plastering the cracks behind
opening them ahead.

nb

Jul 1, 2014
135 notes
All great deeds and great works have a ridiculous beginning. Great works are often born on a street corner or in a restaurant’s revolving door.
Albert Camus, The Myth Of Sisyphus.
Jun 15, 2014
51 notes

three years lived
s-l-o-w
reduced to a single flash of lightning;
and now the night sky is flat and calm.
I sit and await a terrific roar
so loud and everywhere
the storm can only be overhead.

nb

Jun 6, 2014
53 notes
Holy shit. 3 years of poems. 0 to 5000 followers. Started and finished a degree. Just wow. Thanks guys.

Holy shit. 3 years of poems. 0 to 5000 followers. Started and finished a degree. Just wow. Thanks guys.

Jun 4, 2014
35 notes

Crumpled tunnels, twisting and crumbling for miles. The unescapable beat of the airflow system thumped, but the only air available was gaseous and rancid in the mouth. The men walked three abreast, sometimes through darkness and other in the white of sterile floodlights hung high above their heads, illuminating everything and yet serving only to highlight how little there was to be seen. When the tunnel forked, the walkers would divide; occasionally it was noticeable that those who left wore certain clothing or had specific equipment, like a shovel or cleaning gear. Still on they went, passing through comparably cavernous intersections where yet more men shuffled their way into different lines, guided by habit alone and all carrying stoic expressions. Rarely would men greet each other; for time was pressed, pressed like the men against the crowded tunnel walls, scraping forwards, groping at railings and loudly drawing in the hot air.

(What do you think for an introduction to a novel? Does it make you want to read on? nb)

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