G. I. N.

Hello. I have written a thing which I would like to share with you. I think it's fairly self-explanatory. It's called "G. I. N." and goes thusly:

G. I. N.

Gin is nice. Gin is nearly godlike in nature. Gin is not guzzled in negligence. Gleefully it nestles, golden, in naive gullets.
Imbibe now, guys. Ingest nonchalantly, girls. If nominal gender is nuanced, gladly intake numerous glasses.
It's not grotesque. It's naughty, granted - it necessitates guidance. I now get it: novices, genuine ingenues need graduated instructors nearby. Generally, innocent newbies gain insight.
Needing grounding, I neck goblets; it nurtures generosity inside normally guarded individuals.
Gods! I'm navel-gazing - it's nervousness, gang, innit?
Native garrulousness is napping. Grinning, I nod.
Goodbye is now.


One hopes you're well,
yrs,
ADWoodward

All Things Considered

Hello. Recently I went to a lovely little gig in which each of the poets were paired up with a member of the audience who gave us a stimulus from which we had to scribble something in the twenty or so minutes made available to us. I was asked to write on 'not being so hard on yourself', which I did, and having remembered that I'd kept a copy for myself, thought I'd share it with you. it's called "All Things Considered" and goes thusly:

All Things Considered

You are a poorly-evolved ape,

Barely descended from the trees.

You are, at best, a work in progress.

Half-scrubbed out mistakes festoon your DNA,

Relics from your ignoble ancestry.

You're not made for this world,

and, though it was made for and by other apes,

It is a botched job as well.

What I'm saying is that you're not perfect,

And you're lost in a society which is fraying at the seams.

So you're going to make mistakes,

Often and spectacularly.

There will be cock-ups galore.

The universe will crap on you from a colossal height,

And then laugh at you

In the voice of a half-drunk Alan Rickman.

In short, shit's gonna go wrong.

Don't worry about it.

You're doing bloody well,

Fucking miraculous, all things considered.

So don't be so hard on yourself,

You'll get the hang of it soon.

And that shirt looks great on you, by the way.

One hopes you're well,

yrs,

ADWoodward

Budget 2015

Hello. So, I'm under no illusions that my little blog has a small audience, and that most of the people reading it probably know me personally. That said, the internet is a wonderfully interconnected thing, even for no-name scribblers like me, so I feel this post needs some context for what I like to think of as my international audience. I am both British and living in England, and on Wednesday the Chancellor of the Exchequer (chap who runs the money in our parliament) released his budget, detailing various spending plans and cuts to be enacted. On Wednesday I wrote a little poem in response to that which I'd like to share with you. For the piece to work you need to know a) that the budget has just been released, and b) that the Chancellor's name is George Osborne. The piece is untitled and goes thusly:

Fuck George Osborne.

Fuck him negligently and with no real concern for his orgasm.

Fuck him while making enough noise to seriously strain his relationship with his upstairs neighbour, who has to get up early for work and already struggles to get enough sleep because they have a newborn.

Fuck him with the stereo playing music which does not really create a fuck-appropriate ambience - Chopin's Nocturnes, or didgeridoo music, or something.

Fuck him in such a way that accidentally break several small ornaments of great emotional worth.

Fuck him whilst wearing a cologne which aggravates his hay-fever.

Fuck him and give him a hickey which is clearly visible above the collar on his work shirts.

Fuck him directly after eating a kebab so you get chilli sauce on his favourite pillow case.

Fuck him with the door left open so the cat can come in and stare at him.

Fuck him after agreeing on a safe-word which you know will set off a speech impediment which, while not all that noticeable, he still gets embarrassed about.

Fuck him and, at the point of climax, whisper into his ear the name of his least favourite geography teacher.

Fuck him and afterwards, when he asks if it was good for you too, leave a very slight pause before answering.

Fuck him and then, later when he's just about to fall asleep, sneeze so violently that you bash the back of your head into his nose. Then when you roll over to see if he's alright, wipe it on his shoulder.

Fuck George Osborne in all the above ways, then over the course of a week leave him one hundred and thirty seven voicemail messages tearfully asking why he doesn't want a second date.

One hopes you're well,

Yrs,

ADWoodward

The Best of Men

Hello. So, sex is rather jolly. I'm a big fan. I look forward to trying it again someday. I have written something sort of about that, which I would like to share with you. It grew out of two little writing exercises; one to practice my rhyming, one to on trying to see if I can be earnest. I think the result has turned out well. I'm calling it The Best of Men. It goes thusly:

The Best of Men

It's late. My mates have gone ... somewhere. I don't really care that they're not near me. I'm not feeling bereft because I am left here with you. It's a few hours past sunset and as we walk we talk of nothing - excitedly and slightly out of breath, almost as though we were the ones to invent the mathematical concept of zero. Each step of our trek as we wend round bends is another second spent feeling unabashedly content.
We pause as we reach your porch, and I find that my thoughts are both happy and really rather nervous. See, I've got a sudden purpose forged from slowly grown desire. The heat is hurtling higher, but I've always been lots of smoke and very little fire. Each time I try the high wire I always fall. My act's a sham. I'm in the exam hall, but I've not studied for this test. I can't attempt a question lest the correct answer be a firmly underlined rejection. But before I can quiet the anxiety inside of me, you slide your sights to me to meet my greenish eyes and opine to me, "It's been a fine night." And you invite me in.
We close in with twin, gin-thin, thick-with-sin grins and begin the skin to sweat-slick skin contact. We've formed a compact of consent, neither one objects so let's just relish in the subjectivity of the activity. We're playing a very ancient game. One which is almost always entertaining, but no two time are exactly the same. Not quite.
For instance, tonight it's like no one ever thought to write Homer's words on pages, and his verse never made it through the ages. It's like Achilles never even went to Troy. He and his bully boys just stayed at home and never drove Aeneas to sow the seeds of Rome. Which means the stage is clear for me to declare myself ho aristos ton achaion. "The very best of men."
That's how I feel. Here. At 4am. In your bed, with your breath on my chest, and your head at rest in this nest formed by the bend between my humerus and my radius and ulna. Wondrous, and luxuriantly vulnerable.

One hopes you're well,
yrs,
ADWoodward

Poorly-Referenced Economic Theory

Hello. A few days ago I took part in an 'Election Special' poetry slam (I came second and had a wonderful time, thanks for asking). I wrote the following specially for it. It reads a little differently to me after Thursday, and I'm still making my mind up about it. But fuck it: I wrote it so it goes on the blog - them's the rules.If you disagree with the politics of it, hopefully you can get some joy from the way it flows. I can't think of a title I particularly like for it, so for now I'm calling it "Poorly-Referenced Economic Theory" because exhaustively citing one's sources can throw off a piece's rhythm. It goes thusly:

Poorly-Reference Economic Theory

Right. Brace yourselves, It's time to strap in. 'cos Aristotle and I, we've been chatting, and the chap in the chiton has sparked a thought in the mind of the one who holds court dressed in a stylish jacket. Don't worry: I'll pack it in a way which won't confuse you or lose your attention. The ancient boke's contention is this: what we'd call the state, and he termed "he polis" is at its heart a group striving to do more goo  together than they could ever do apart. Here's where my thoughts started to start running.

You see, doing good requires money, quite a bit of cash, but there are brash pricks in powder pink and pinstripes who think "Cripes! Quick! Hide my stash offshore where the interest will earn me more and the taxman won't be stealing it for silly little projects like healing bone cancer in children!"

It's bewildering that some people can't see that the health of general populace helps the whole gods-damned lot of us, but our well-being and your bank balance both increase in times of peace so let's talk about the Police. Flawed as they are, it is only threat of their Sting that guards every breath you take and every move you make. Remember: we're watching you, and, as much as it might be a duty, they will not work for free.

More important to me is the realm of the mind, so if you'd be so kind: It coes twenty-two-and-a-half thousand pounds to educate one child, according to that wild, socialist rag, The Telegraph. How can we begin to staff the nation, to do what needs to be done, without a system of taxation to fairly acquire these funds? Tell me, Mr Big-Spender, how it suits your agenda if your workforce has not been taught to do those myriad tasks whose aggregation has helped your wealth grow so very vast? Nevermind that it's this learning which helped them start earning and so be able to support themselves in some semblance of dignity.

Your anointed Highnesses, while we're on everyday people's finances, might I make a point whilst I have the temerity? Raising median prosperity is a fine end in and of itself, but it's when people spend - to put some circulation on those notes - that our economic health really shoots upwards like a rocket-powered mountain goat.

I'm shorter on time than I am examples on my list, but I think you've got the gist. It's not a tricky concept, I should have to say it more than once. It's both selfish and self destructive to hoard such wealth.

Got it? Good. Cheers. Thanks a bunch.


One hopes you're well,
yrs,
ADWoodward

The Tale of Joseph Spunkleson

Hello. I've written a little fable which I'd like to share with you. It's called The Tale of Joseph Spunkleson and it goes thusly:

The Tale of Joseph Spunkleston

"Hello, madam," said Joseph Spunkleston. "These are my genitals. Would you like to lick them?"
"No, thank you," she replied, as politely as she could manage.
"Fair enough," he replied. "The offer's still open if you change your mind."
Joseph Spunkleston never really learned the appropriate context for his penis and testicles. This led, later in life, to a rather embarrassing conversation with a lady paramedic after he tried to fuck the toaster

The End


One hopes you're well,
yrs,
ADWoodward

Sophrosyne

Hello. Since I last posted a thing on here, that part of my free time which has not been spent performing old poems to appreciative audiences has instead been spent writing new ones and being unable to finish them. I've finally broken the block, and have finished writing a thing which I'd like to share with you. It's called "Sophrosyne" and goes thusly:

Sophrosyne

The other day I was sat in the pub,
Just sitting and thinking,
Not really drinking my beer,
Which, me being me, and given my location,
Was sat right near.
A drop or two in blessed moderation,
As taught to us in Latin verse,
(The Horation, not the Lucretian)
Can be just the thing to calm taught nerves.
Do, though, try to keep your view even.
For Bacchus can back us or attack us,
He can unpack a map for the fast track to relaxation
Or he can splash us with flak 'til our foundations crack
And we crash from Olympian elevation.
Booze, that gift of the twice-born son of Zeus,
Is best in moderation.
This is the link between what I was thinking and my bar-room location.
The key to life seems to be Sophrosyne,
That is, the middle way,
Not too little, not too much.
You don't need a tower carved from sunlight,
Whose height makes heaven yours to touch,
But a stout floor - something to lift you out of the mud - is a must.
You see, once you're free from the dangers of poverty,
Material goods rapidly lose their novelty.
If you don't enjoy the journey,
How you spend your earnings
Will never summon the sun;
To quote Noel Coward,
'Good work is more fun than fun.'
It's not just me reporting this kernel of truth,
It was also in The Wall Street Journal.
There's a roof to how much happiness you can buy,
And, by-and-by, purchased peace fades.
So, before Death comes and smothers the last of your days,
I'd suggest you spend them helping and engaging with others,
Which is statistically shown to help your well-being improve.
To conclude:
Don't chase that unreachable ceiling,
Chase chairs and the energising chats to be found sat there.



One hopes you're well,
yrs,
ADWoodward

On Friendship & Distance

You may not be surprised, dear reader, to know that in the gap between this and the most recent update to the blog I have been writing. If this is not a surprise to you, you'll certainly neither be surprised to hear that I have been writing, and that finishing a piece is still the hardest part of the process for me. Fortunately, an idea occurred as I was lying down this evening; one of those which I felt I needed to get down before it escaped my grasp. I quite like how it's turned out, but I'll still be compelled to obsess over its minutiae, so don't be surprised if the piece has changed (possibly beyond recognition) between you reading it here and me performing it. Either way I like how it stands enough that I thought it worth sharing:

On Friendship & Distance

People are a great source of my fear.

It's not so much the people on the street,

It's possibly privilege, but I've yet to meet

The confrontation which can't be ended 

By saying "I'm terribly sorry, I didn't know"

Or upping the pace, leaving here, and heading for home.

It's that people matter. Humans are great.

This may be a point that you may've already heard me make,

But either way, it's true.

The people you know can always see through you.

They can cut you if you're not careful.

Beware full disclosure at the first meeting.

First impressions are fleeting,

but friendship takes time to be earned.

So, I worry, "Will this be the time that they learn

That I'm not good enough?"

It's tough to always be on high alert

Against one's perception of one's own inconsistencies.

That's nothing to the mystery of why they've stayed.

We've played with ideas in jest

For too long for this to be anything but the best sort of friendship,

But I worry, at what point would you end this?

Which text would be the one that I miss

Which makes you say,

"Man, fucking fuck this shit".

So I wonder,

Was that it?

Has my fear of cocking up social interaction

Finally come across as a motion to abandon

The game which we both had a nearly winning hand in?

Is this the bit where we go our separate ways?

Is this the end of those days in which I update you

Out of the blue,

And ask, with genuine interest, "What are you up to?"

I don't know where the line is,

but what I'm increasingly finding is 

No matter how much the time is since our last meeting in-or-decreases,

I miss you, man,

And I wish you were here to hear me read this.

One hopes you're well,

yrs,

ADWoodward