Neal pike stage directions

17 Jul

Neal stage directions

6-10 poets on stage, standing in line, leftwards, some are standing next to each other to portray a bus
neal is in the middle of the bus, neal with handheld mic
Dimmed lights
sylky playing guitar at the outside left of the bus

Poem starts

Line: “The unknown NOTTINGHAM”
Bus changes to queue: extras turning around, facing to the right. Those in second row enter line.
Sylky sits down on floor playing guitar

Line: “the DANCEFLOOR was a beer-soaked space”
Queue changes to dancefloor: extras fill out stage behind neal, dancing. After having found a position, freeze
From now on discolights (different colors changing)

sylky: “you’re way too cool for this place“ ((maybe-try this out))
Sylky: “Sorry mate, this is good stuff“
Sylky slowly going to Neal.

Discolight out to dimmed light after
„It doesn’t agitate like a lagoon
Like it used to”

Line: “my taurine addled brain trots“
Dancefloor changes to bus

Dropouts

After „inky words“ (1person)

After forever awkward (2people)

After „instead of eightteen and awkward“ (2people)

Neal and Sylky standing in the middle at the front of stage
Fade to BLACK

Bridie Final Draft

13 Jul

Square eyed apartheid:
littered with copyright seeds
and snake skin crusts
we feed on to stay alive.

Plumper plants are harvested
when roots detach from
old tribe masters’ ravage of junk
coating pulses in cold plaster.

Yet she swallows
like it were the best meal cooked up,
grazing on her home pasture.
Even if that side glows green,
it don’t feel the right texture.

Sinkhole ruts of jobless drudge
spur her mastication
on branches hacked with axes
shining tired propagation.

Comfort blanket hatred
barks strangling obscenities
at contrasting hands in unity
while black and white, capital chants
grant consciences impunity.

Still, strawberries pop from pockets of her dress
as she coos for moles
on a baby’s head.

Still, we jjig to a magma throb
charging cores
with rhythmic hugs.

Still, that twisted point lands flat
when her last five’s placed
in a poor man’s hat.

Still, tinny click clacks of wilting clocks
are drowned by hums
of a pegged-out wash.

And as long as bees trampoline
from daisy globes
to rose petals and leaves,
the sweetest of honey
will wrap round our teeth.

Kaiti Soultana final draft SS Fingers

13 Jul

SO SORRY ITS LATE please forgive me. I had real trouble writing this. I still think it’s not great but I think it’ll do for the show. X

Fingers

There are times where I want to be a hairbrush.
I think that combing, sleek, sweep,
takes out the snarls and gives a smile.
removes the knots and fluffs an up
do, not
tell me I can’t be a hairbrush.
Example one, boy.

It had been a while and I hadn’t seen him
smile in the ways I felt he deserved to
he was hostile.
He marinated in his own potion of
self-loathing and hatred
and he kept compiling the ways he felt that
life was against him.
Boy, you’re a furnace that’s much too hot for gold
to melt in, you’d burn it,
but you set me ablaze.
Please mind the clichés but
I would run, trip, slip
graze the surface area of my body
to get to you in a hurry

And maybe that won’t make you sink further into me and the world around you
Maybe you’ll keep falling into yourself
but I will keep brushing your hair, scaring those knots away
That cover your head into depression
I’d eat spinach for you. To grow stronger.

But you will brush me off, more often than not
s find there way into headphones in your pocket
deep, drowning in songs.
People want to be moved. But you don’t, more often than not.
You taught me that there was a reason why they called it movement in song
while you lay on my lap as I threaded my fingers through your hair, listening to Bach.
It will all be okay. Okay. Okay.
Example two, girl.
In sixth form back rooms, college offices
brick walls around you and within you
where the councillors also want to be hairbrushes.
Leaking their treatments like teabags in boiling water
Spread. Seep.

It was in maths class, you sat next to me, and I couldn’t put two and two together
I didn’t even know you were pregnant.
And now you weren’t.

Run. You weren’t next to me anymore. But a blur
Rubbing my lenses
Two minutes later,

head popped, red stained, second floor doors
Dripping down your leg
‘Can I speak to you?’ you said.

I didn’t even know you were pregnant because we were barely friends.

You were digging dens with baby’s father
Growing cubs in your tummy
But the miscarriage
it was redder than I expected it to be.
Displaced the scummy water in the toilet bowl
And I could think of nothing to do but cry and brush your hair with my fingers

We were barely friends.
But there we were
Bathroom floor
marinating in your insides
Listening to The Streets.

We didn’t have anybody else. We moved each other instead.
And that was three years ago.
There is goes again, my ears drowning in song

Dry your eyes mate

That voice moved us from the bathroom floor to somewhere I can’t even explain in words.
Those chord progressions made more progress than those school councillors. But maybe less than my fingers through your hair.
Brush brush. Knots will reappear.
That is just the way life works and it works hard.
Let us try to live for each other;
the songs
the fingers
the tangle in your tummy, flutter.

Maybe
Girl
Boy
you might remember I tried my best to move you and to make things better. And you moved me.
And we can start brushing more heads of hair together.
Okay?
Okay.

Joel, Josh, and Jeiran – say sum thin 7 – Final Draft

8 Jul

Below is the final version. To add context at the start we will project a place and a date on the screen at the back which will fade when the objects are lit.

Becoming

Mirror:

These Londoners can’t place me.
These crusading eyes of city streets,
They survey my terrain,
Look for a flag.

It becomes a game.

I play strangers in bars,
Ask where they think
My voice reflects from.

Their answers never land near truth.

The glasses between us must refract,
Because when I say ‘Kazakh’
They hear ‘Borat’.

We laugh,
Agree that he
Is a very funny
English man.

Now the luggage under my eyes
Is English too.
Brought on by English nights,
French fries and
Bottom of bag taxi rides.

I don’t drink. It’s a sin.
But when I do,
I shouldn’t call him.
But I did.

Phone:

Your Father and I miss you.

This wire keeps
Your voice kite like.

I’ve got this end
Coiled around my finger.
I need you familiar.

I know. I
Know.

I know.

There’s too much
Of the London
In your intonation now.

That dirty air,
Your sound is darker.
Your voice.

Do you talk of home?
Do you think of us?

Yes, Yes.
The family thrives,
Best health.

Your brother will be married
By summer.

When will we see you?

I know.

Do you need money?

I know.

Passport:

In Kazakhstan my pages turned to stone by winter
And flickered again like sails in the true winds of home,
Not change, home.
Do you not crave to be back in a country
That can truly hold and move you?
This place has a different meaning
For the word stoned
It is not becoming
And the winds only blow you into
Into problems and loose, wandering people.

Your identity is stone
Who you are is stone
This country is pulling Kashmir …
Softening your accent
Taking taxi rides away from your tongue.
You have to speak in multiples
For even your mother to understand you now
Your hooks are unholy
Your purpose is yesterday
Your purpose is yesterday
Your tickets are unbooked
Your first class, emirates, window seat
Is being thumbed over by some want to be business man from Canada.
Your taxi to the airport is waiting on every busy London street.
It will always be there
There will always be planes
There won’t always be forgiveness
There won’t always be patience.

Phone:

Yes. Yes!
Your brother is now married,
He sends the love.

It’s a shame
You couldn’t be here.

We picked a dress,
Light, and beautiful
As whisper romance.

It hangs
Now, ready
For when you come.

You should have been here.

Passport:

I have your identity tattooed
Across my chest
I reflect you best.
Why are you in Europe still
Your education is finished
And the money lives in Dubai?
Not this draw,
I know.

I always have your face at the back of my mind,
Don’t shy away from that picture.
For it is as clear
As photobooths.
Everything was clear in Kazakhstan.
I know you best,
Who else but family and god
Would stick with you for ten years at a time?
Who else will travel with you
To places we don’t belong
And stay here in the dark even when the purpose has gone?

You can’t even buy horse meat here
Pah… The animals…
Don’t keep me in this top draw next to…
The Bible of all things.
This infidel has nothing to say that I want to hear.
Your landlord has some explaining to do,
Subletting Muslim space to Christian texts.

I don’t belong in an English draw
When you have no explanations.
For Allah’s sake!
Type my numbers into
The Emirates
And fly away from this nation
Of shopkeepers and drug dealers.
Don’t act like I don’t know.

Mirror:

I still wear Kazakh colours,
Only now I buy them
From Topshop.

It becomes me.

New shoes have me
Tilt to tip toe,
But there are still some
Words I cannot reach.

I’ve been on the roof again,
Burning paper to lips.

My hands want to read
The Qur’an the western way,
Turning pages from right to left.

Now walk in the park
Is muscle memory,
Takeaway
Is second nature.
I feel safe here.

The last time I asked someone,
Where they thought I was from,
They said Streatham.

I’m the worst Muslim I know.

Imogen Final Draft – Squeeze

8 Jul

He kisses me into black holes
My soul sucked into tongue
No matter how many times his lips meet mine
I want to say ‘bless you’

Instead I swallow my own mouth
Begin to hate my ex for never
Kissing me like he wanted
in not out

Fingertips kiss hips
With a balanced dig and squeeze
I’m breathless as a chain-smoker

my chest rises as his falls.
And there we are.
Lips brushing, tasting
Tantalisingly separate but not

And we will lie
like trespassing burglars
Full of shushing and swaying
Until your bed rots

Reach for the moon and settle for the stars
They say
Fuck that
Give me a supernova.

A black hole.
Destroy me
And I’ll know.
Hell, I’ll know it was worth it.

Take away my out breath.
Kill me with kisses.
Take every single part of my soul
If I’m with you I’m whole.

I bleed your name.
Feel my heart quicken as you tear it from my chest
yes
I’m full of sins.

But burning is purging
Blood to black
bones to ash
Kiss for eternity and rue

The day I said no to you
So get out of your car.
Sit on the grass with me
hands and legs intertwined

Your heart bleeding at the same rate as mine.
Until, we both get sucked in.
We do not fit
Disjointed harmony

It kills me
Arms constricting
Throat twitching
Hands restricting my breath

Stealing what you couldn’t get
Squeezes I used to covet
Turn to fire in your eyes
The smoke will not rise

Silence is too loud
Preventing words
From escaping
Sometimes you get what you wish for.

Mouthy Family Fest…

8 Jul

SST7 Family Festival copy

Mouthy Are ‘Stars!’ say’s Nottingham Post

7 Jul

Great to see @mouthypoets finally get into @nottinghampost through it’s amazing work via #spokenword #educators @ioneyiscreative aka Ioney Smallhorne, Hayley green, Jim Hall, Stephen Ashburn and Kai Müller! have been doing in local schools.
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