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About
Elliot, 21, London poet and writer.


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thesesagepoets




Apr 18, 2014
81 notes
It’s a strange old life/ this one we lead/ longer than a dog’s/ shorter than a tree’s/ where you don’t get many answers/ but you get everything you need/ oh it’s a strange old life/ a strange old life indeed
newbeatnik
Apr 18, 2014
35 notes

it’s a strange old life

I’m going to be very inactive for another couple of weeks, which sucks because I just reached 5k and I want to write nice things for you. But instead I’m writing my dissertation at the moment so that’s taking all the time till the 1st - then it’s my birthday so that should be nice.

I’ve also had a couple of different novel ideas floating around for a while now which need to be explored, along with the #1 novel which is completely finished in my head but completely not finished on paper. I think it’s going to end up being a novella in length but some of the best books are novella length.

All the while, I’m planning for what I’m going to do after I graduate. I have a guitar to finish building in the background as well, along with an array of projects and half-finished bits. Then I want to self-publish a little mini anthology of some poems which are similar in style as well. 

And so my life carries on, plodding along at a slow pace (which is how I think most lives go, which is why we all get so disappointed that our lives aren’t TV shows which move at a 1000 miles per hour).I still have these crazy fantasies in my head where I make a few videos or release something or something and my fame just exponentially grows and I can fund doing everything I want by writing, but that’s not how it’s ever going to go. Nothing that wasn’t worked for is worth anything, so just carry on working and thinking and writing and building and loving and you’ll end up somewhere all right.

This post was boring, but at least I feel content and happy in myself at the moment and I look back over a few poems I did a few weeks ago and wonder where those feelings went, and it feels weird how my whole outlook can change in such a short space of time. It’s a strange old life/ this one we lead/ longer than a dog’s/ shorter than a tree’s/ where you don’t get many answers/ but you get everything you need/ oh it’s a strange old life/ a strange old life indeed.

nb

Apr 12, 2014
43 notes

I won a race in 1992
and if I had lost, I wouldn’t be here now speaking
and in winning, no doubt
I destroyed millions of possible people -
now that really bums me out.
I’m in a mood that’s kind of mystic
cos it feels like I’m carry their collective weight
it’s enough to make me, the hardened cynic
start wondering about fate.

nb

Apr 7, 2014
75 notes

we’ve all
forgotten how to be alone
"and if you look here at your chart", the doctor said, "it’s terminal.
and spreading,”
down arteries and veins of the fabric
of our stupid lives.
what’s it causing? illusions
of importance - and the myth that everyone has the right to an opinion
"thoughts without content are empty,
intuitions without concepts are blind.” and right now we’re just
as blind as mice,
lacking the inward looking eye
no courage to face ourselves alone
and if we don’t even bare our soul
to the only doctor that can cure us
(and don’t pretend we’re not sick) 
then what chance in hell do we have
for happiness?

nb

Apr 5, 2014
127 notes

Every time I post something new, I have to leave my computer so that I don’t delete it instantly. I don’t know if this is normal creative process or my own insecurity.

Apr 5, 2014
63 notes

traces of kafka,
trying to recapture
some forgotten kairos
in a beaker
with holy bottom
draining my thoughts;
this spectre walks
in brilliant daylight
inside all cogs and gears
crunching, wheeling,
steaming onward
but fears looking down
what if there’s no track below?
with nowhere else to go

then suddenly the sky’s
lit with tracer fire
like flak over bordeaux
like crack of fireworks show,
sits back -
and quietly watches,
the cogs and gears
all grind slow
and then finally halt,
deep in his retina
burns single picture
exhales,
heart beats steady,
paper and pen out,
let it flow.

nb

Apr 3, 2014
86 notes

thorny records
corny, check hordes
of worn-out
banal thoughts
same chords outlawed,
it all sounds 80’s,
heard tracks before,
dad had it on vinyl,
grooves on grooves,
when hearts ran loose
with words like
‘meat is murder’
and ‘god save the queen 
the facist regime’
replaced by identikit
emotions, two-bit
hackneyed notions
of what sells.

nb

Mar 21, 2014
63 notes

so today i finally see 
the appeal in l’appel du vide,
blanket blankness sure as hell beats
rotting sitting here,
think i’m attracted to
pump action over silly fears,
crave the feeling of control
when I’m not fully here,
but to say i want to self-murder?
that’s so short of spears,
take me to touch the void
and maybe I’ll disappear,
take me to the brink of noise
then you can pull my ear,
think of what i’d avoid
yeah I guess the feeling’s queer.

think action over inaction’s
gotta be humanity’s most desired,
why am i so lethargic?
my brain’s saying that i’m so tired,
I guess standing on the brink like this
you can’t go buy it,
superstore, special offer
coupon more, now I’m so wired,
my trigger finger’s all curled up with arthritis
old enough to decide but never fired
so stop pretending to yourself you’ll drop
you damn liar.

nb

Mar 17, 2014
174 notes

you must do
a shitty job
kid come on, catch a dose
of reality
you want to be a writer?
so does every fuck with a pen
& failed artists are everywhere.

do they know?
the cubicle is my hell
the nine hour shift,
if that’s what’s in my future
i’ll give the future a miss
rather be nothing
than a number on a list,
a waste of a gift -
better off to have lived
really, truly lived.

nb

Mar 15, 2014
70 notes

think about it afterwards

kettle boiled,
pot simmered,
looking in the mirror; thinner
than i remembered.
my sight’s going,
world’s getting dimmer, blurrier
I’m struggling to accept it.
feel so strong sometimes
then weak body neglected,
selected by mood alone, sadly.
when it comes to food,
I’m eating quite badly, chicken kievs
made of god knows what,
god knows got
to be some battery fed chicken,
makes me sickened when I think about it,
better not to think about it; drink?
it goes without saying
intake too high,
permanent demand,
permanent supply,
mind permanently calmed,
mouth permanently dry,
papering over cracks,
best to tell yourself a lie -
"this is now do or die;
finish or be finished,
deliver or be punished”,
now a pain in my chest,
and a pain in my stomach,
but rainy days are over,
that means spring’s out there coming,
birds out there humming,
on the warm desk drumming,
one final push now,
let’s hit the ground running.

nb

Mar 10, 2014
44 notes

So around a few weeks ago I received a message asking for my address. I decided to be trusting and suppress my fear of being murderously stalked and handed it over - the person didn’t look too scary and I thought I might get something interesting through the door. I thought it would maybe be a poem, or some strange item, but instead it was this exquisite hand written letter - all the way from the Philippines, more than half way across the world. Now here’s where I admit something awful - although I know I follow you, I’ve lost your blog name on here Ina, so I can’t find you to thank you. I will send a letter back when I get the chance. My first ever bit of fan mail, even though it was so much more than fan mail. Thank you, seriously, sincerely, everything. I needed something like this so much.

nb (elliot)

Mar 4, 2014
37 notes
This is by my old friend George who admittedly I have not seen in probably years (how stupid). His art is just great, so look at it and feel enjoyment.
http://georgesydney.tumblr.com/

This is by my old friend George who admittedly I have not seen in probably years (how stupid). His art is just great, so look at it and feel enjoyment.

http://georgesydney.tumblr.com/

Mar 3, 2014
104 notes

staring at the ceiling
where car-lamp shadows creep, 
smoking joints at three in the morning
to get my mind to sleep,
feel pregnant with passion
but it’s a passing conceit
cos’ i’ve kissed chlorine and now
the whole thing’s bleached,
the whole fucking thing’s leeched,
and it feels like the shore is
behind every rump of trees
riding a boat over land
and a bike in the sea, 
you pump the pedals because
that’s what you’ve always believed
was how to ride a bike but now
you’ve forgotten how to breathe, 
forgotten how to be,
and everything you had figured out
seems so desperately useless, 
trying to bite back now
but realise you’re toothless, 
putting yourself through those
same old self-abuses you swore,
you swore you weren’t going to do any more,
you godamn swore.

nb

Mar 3, 2014
35 notes

Pencils, knife sharpened.

Mar 1, 2014
29 notes

Sorry about disappearing for a while. I was in the right headspace for this for a couple of weeks, but I’ve lost it for the last couple. I’m also tearing-my-hair out busy with university work. I’ve got this strange feeling inside like I’m moving incredibly quickly and that I can never relax, despite the fact that I do little else than sit on my laptop all day and either procrastinate or do work. I feel like If I could just let it all go for a few hours I’d be fine, but I tried to do that last night and woke up this morning feeling the same. It’s like a mixed bag of stress and avoidance of the only thing that would relieve the stress - actually getting something done. I dunno, just venting. nb

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