Very rough first draft of last minute tour piece request

8 Sep

And they’re fighting with all of the radical feminists
who are fighting with all the sex positive feminists
and please don’t for get the intersectional feminists

atomic, moronic
atomic, moronic
manifesto-o-o

lets disco! disco disco
lets disco – manifesto disco
(repeat)

And if you’re fighting with all of the
other people all around
about if falling trees
really do make a sound
wearing your badge and
flashing it all about

atomic, moronic
atomic, moronic
manisfesto-o-o

lets disco! disco disco
lets disco – manifesto disco

Tour Poem: ‘Ducks’

8 Sep

This is the poem ‘Ducks’, as it was for Say Sum Thin 7. For the SST7, we required a fun ditty to break up an intense show. As the tour will be very different I would ideally like to add more depth to it and edit it somewhat extensively. Any ideas are welcome.

‘DUCKS’
Male duck waddles on stage playing jaunty guitar. Verbal tone is plain.

MALE DUCK
I’m a duck swimming in the water
I’m a duck I like lakes not seas
All my friends try to tell me to fly south for the winter
But I don’t care cuz I’m all right with the lake I got here

I’m a duck my friends say I’m stubborn
But I’m just a happy little mallard
Where I am in Nottingham

Female duck prances on stage, stopping alongside male duck. Verbal tone is flirtatiously singing

FEMALE DUCK
I’m a duck, I fly south for the winter
So fly with me if you want to keep warm
Fly south with me, fly south for the winter
Think this year we’re headed to the Mississippi river

Male duck isn’t much impressed, female duck becomes frustrated – flaps herself into male duck’s way. Verbal tone becomes irate.

FEMALE DUCK
It’s actually, pretty fun and wicked
We soar over coastlines and mountains
And navigate with help from the stars

Mirror ball creates star effect. Male duck is more impressed but not entirely convinced

MALE DUCK
You’re a duck..?

FEMALE DUCK
I’m a duck!

Male duck looks female duck up and down. She shakes her tail feather.

MALE DUCK
And you’re pretty fit…
So I might

BOTH (singing)
Fly south for a bit!

Guitar stops. Both ducks waddle off together

Georgina Wilding & Joshua Judson – (title to be decided) MOUTHY TOUR POEM

8 Sep

ROUGH DRAFT:

 

Our aim with this poem is to create a really performative piece that goes some way towards combining the two separate objectives we had. (George – Will(and losing it), Josh – optimism)
With regard to performance, it’s gonna be character-driven, with George’s sections personifying ‘will’ (aligned left) being delivered in a sarcastic fashion, and Josh’s (aligned right), in a wide eyed, almost delusional, sense of optimism. Almost in a good cop/bad cop way.

We want to really play with the language and make it a lot of fun. We’re also looking into playing with the idea of ‘looking for the will’ in a kind of Where’s Wally way. 
Any further ideas on the concept of the poem, or about another layer that could be added to performance are greatly appreciated as it is early days and we’re still figuring it out :).

Here’s what we have so far:

 

‘Will.’ He must be the kind of boy 
with blue eyes.

I’ve got two eyes and one goal.
And another one.

Blue like the ocean in the
perfume adverts,

‘Destiny’ by ME.

that laps up against the hot white 


sand of his cheeks,


the cliff side contours of his face.


Sea breeze, the batting lashes


of all the girls bestowed upon him.

If you ever describe that good feeling by saying
‘I feel like a demigod’
shame on you.
You’re a pessimist, God.

I reckon he’s a blonde,
or at least fair. Golden shards of
Mediterranean sun like a halo over
his tall horizon. Like the gates of heaven,
like Hercules’ glow.

You windsinger,
You who can make mountains of molehills
whilst claiming miracles to be impossible.


A real catch, of course. 
Catch being the operative word,
he’s passed around the place like
hot potato, and e v e r y b o d y e v e r
is always always losing him.
‘oooh, I’ve lost the will, I’ve lost the will.’
Get.A.Grip. 


Laura Dedicoat – Tour Draft – 0.1%

8 Sep

This is my first draft. Needs a lot of editing and cutting down but had so much material generated from research etc that I really enjoyed the process.

0.1%

(School bell sound)

4:15
The second bell
A starting pistol
Switches off light
Turns keys in engines
As 99.9% of teaching staff begin journeys home

Yet this classroom’s door
Remains pinned wide open.
A novelty “Best Teacher” mug
Still cradles half it’s hot coffee content
Net yet ready to grow cold

As it is this time
That some students are not willing to go home
Or don’t know home

Or realise that this school

Is the closest to safe and home

That they’re lives have ever known

This particular room is unlike any other
It’s carpets have caught and cushioned
More tears and unsure footsteps than most
It’s walls have played host to so many displaced rages
That the plaster has begun to crack
But it will always be there to take it

The desk’s middle draw
a mismatched tale
Hot chocolate sachets lie parallel with chewed HB pencils
Tissues rest on top of blank non school regulation notebooks
Waiting to be given and tattooed in search of answers
All fairly normal
But there is something uniquely important
About a draw that also holds
Travel size toothpaste and brush sets
Stolen from hotel supply cupboards
For those who didn’t quite make it home last night
Who – for whatever reason
Will be grateful for the abundance of cereal bars that also occupy the draw

There is a cuppa soup waiting
For the one responsible for many of the cracks in the plaster
Fists falling harder than words ever did !
Condemned by most staff as residing in a rage poisoned bubble
They are not willing to enter and learn WHY she is troubled
3warnings will not sort it, neither will detention
She needed this new voice to form and stage an intervention

This care driven method truly works, it’s been proven
By each life changing teacher and too many troubled students
Who enter with detention slips,
But understand they’re not being punished
They know that there is more to this
Some will leave with answers, or questions
Depending on what will help
Some leave with bus fare, a hug, or a new found sense of self

But me… I wait
I haven’t done anything wrong … Not really
DETENTION – The only way she can impose her help
Because she know I’ll never ask, even if I need it
In this winter detention
She can somehow prize pearls of emotion
From a shell that’s been too strong for too long
She hold them for me
Because , well, they scare me a bit
And lying in my own hands I’m not sure what to do with it
She assures me they are precious
And promise to explore them
Turn them into something beautiful
Where they are no longer rocks that chip my interior
Split my knuckles and cause my eyes to water
THEY ARE MINE
Somehow made beautiful and manageable
By the one who goes beyond what her contract states

I see others leave her room wearing their pearls
Some of them still scuffed, not quite clean
But almost- we’ll work on it – a well kept promise

It’s like only we who have peals of our own, can see the same journey in others
At lunch I exchange a nod of understanding
A smile with the year 11 pearls heavy around his broad neck
In maths I sit next to the girl with the pearl earring

And me…
My once split knuckles clink against a best teacher novelty mug
I hope to one day earn my own
But for now it warms my hands
Before it’s rightful owner re-enters the room
Sits beside me
And proves exactly why
She is far more than any mug
Could EVER do justice.

 

Definitely needs editing. I want to know if the change in narrator came across. I will be more apparent in staging and line delivery but I tried to go from narrator that could be mistaken for the teacher talking about the room and it’s importance, to a student, recognising the teachers importance. Feedback much appreciated. Looking forward to the editing and development. Cheers :)  -x-

 

neal pike mouthy tour.wandering metal flesh working title

7 Sep

Chugging up this
One gear hill
In a no gear car
In a town full of
Many geared people
In a one gear town

Like the midday Saturday
Shoppers I remember
Disliking when I was human
Not this red car with
A dodgy second album
In it’s CD player

My engine that used
To be a heart
But is now a bloody coke
Can full of maggots and flies

That squirm like
Drunk penguins
All over my rusted
Twenty seven year old skin shell

Slowing down these
Egg box breaks
To a ceasefire
Between
coke can heart
And that tiny bit of a human
That is the trusty steering wheel

it wants to steer me this way
To the place where car meet
To let there engines ring out like
4 am church bells on walks home
But that thing which is
a coke can
Is on a stage doing a death metal growl

YOU ARE NOT A
CAR
YOU ARE NOT A HUMAM
YOU ARE JUST THAT PIECE
OF BANNANA SKIN I PUT THERE
TO KEEP YOU SLIPPING ON!
YOU BELONG IN THIS FOOTHILL
OF USELESS AND I SHALL KEEP YOU HERE

But
It sounds like
bass lines and
Lovely times
Up there
As
dolphin choruses
Of laughter
filter down that Steep
Hill

driving these
Yo yo wheels
towards this
Place so mythical
It actually exists

I hear rattling noises
Inside the place
That was once rubs lungs and a heart

Yeah they won’t like you up
Here
They eat awkward car frauds
Like you
For lunch smothered in tomato ketchup
The shape of your wheels are slitglhy
Human
They will think you want to take them down
Like a pop up tent

DRIVE YOUR SELF BACK THIS HILL
IN A INSTANT !

breaks release as quick
Like illegal gunshots

Laughed warnings
Blues riff their way to me
All I Hear is yeaahh

To slide down there
Would be the next adventure
But to climb back up
Would be like
Climbing up a mountain
With toothpicks

come and join this gang
They look like
Real cars
but my engines a videotape

it will feel like your a pea
And the whole group is a
Big piece
Of pasta

My engine weaves
through this big place
stopping
then starting again

eyes wearily
Stop at me
as if to say
You’ve gotta swim with this
Tide or you
get eaten Alive man

we skitter about this
Place as weeks turn
Into months
that awkward eye flash
Is now a firm
hug of approval

as hands grip
Flesh that
Is not metal
actual human flesh

my wheels are
Now legs
I’ve fell over again
But not crashed
Into oncoming motorways
just into walls and doors

as we sit and weave our
Laughed and mouthed
revolutions
Into patterns that bobble out into infinity

Cleo Asabre-Holt: Very first draft: Bett’s Ward (Working Title)

7 Sep

Okay, so I have got nowhere near to even coming close to what I intended. For this reason I have copied in my basic poem idea (after this preamble) which is far nearer the direction I want this piece to start moving toward. I have struggled writing this quite a lot since I usually only write when I feel like it. I wasn’t feeling like it. Here are the results of that!

Basic Poem Idea: An observational, narrative-driven poem about a character who is admitted into a psychiatric hospital. Upon arrival this character watches other in-patients and projects assumed ideas and back story onto them, whilst interweaving some of her own history and feelings about her situation/being admitted.
The character walks through a set of up to two in-patients (who are engaged in actions like drinking tea, listening to the radio flooding the ward, sitting with cuddly toys, board games…). Upon reaching them, the narrator voices her first impressions which will ultimately progress into genuine insights, gained from the time spent with them whilst hospitalised.

e.g. Character walks on stage (and onto ward for first time). She addresses the stark décor and mentions the nurses confiscating certain possessions that are deemed “dangerous.” She notices a young female in-patient (Liz) who she feels is “normal.” However, during her stay, the central character notes that Liz is, in fact, more disturbed than she first thought.

I want to push myself in terms of character, tone, pitch and expression. Help with these things and anything would be appreciated.

Bett’s Ward:

It was a Friday and I was on the edge,
Of a seat with my hood over my head;
The crinkled corded border not covering
enough of my face as I’d have liked.
My dad had just left to bring me pyjamas,
A toothbrush, clothes and face-wash.
I walked him to the door, followed by a nurse
Who was there to ensure my restraint.
I am a risk to my own safety they said.

Back on the seat, my chin down
In its’ involuntary slump,
pointed at the parquet floor:
Varnish reflects back
an unidentifiable murky impression of me:
Vague hues of dark green,
blue from my hoodie and jeans.

I remember Coldplay’s “Paradise” playing incongruously
As the same nurse who’d tailed me to the door,
sat adjacent to my right hip,
A pen and notepad occupying her lap.
Her fingers and the bic pen begin noting down the items on my body.
She takes off me what she calls “a jumper”
Then , “Could you please remove your shoes,”
And walks between the cream walls of the hall
Where she disappears into an office, from which she shortly emerges.
My hoody’s cords are gone.
And the laces that were in my trainers are no longer there to tie loops in.
My feet slip in the soles easy, but the tongue,
too loose for support, sags impotent.

Eve tells me, “You’ll see the doctor on Monday. Any of the nurses are here if you need them.”
And Eve retreats to the office.
My fingers clutch my upper arms and cleave into skin.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

I need to introduce the other in-patients at some point. I feel these characters will generate interest so need to make them just so.

Thanks!

Cleo

Bea Udeh – Purple Plane – Mouthy Tour

7 Sep

Next January I will be 8

The same as my brother, Chinua

Actually, by the time I am 8 he will already be 9

It’s his birthday next month

 

I’m not quite sure what present to get him

I’m not quite sure if he’s been a good brother to me all the time

He always gets to choose the biggest slice of mum’s banana and walnut bread.

He gets to stay up 15 minutes later than me at bedtime.

That’s like…forever.

 

He can run faster than me.

I am always a good brother to him. Sometimes.

I let him beat me at chess and play with my Thundercats, Eye of Thundera

 

When I grow up,

I’m going to eat a whole banana cake to myself

When I grow up

I am going to be a

Masterchef

A rock star

The first brown Dr Who.

 

I am going to design a plane that will squiggle through the sky

Leaving purple contrails to draw doodles way up high

My plane will fire water bombs on houses down below

Quenching flames to save multicoloured souls

 

My mum says that life is the bitter Kola nut

shared at family gatherings

Life is sweet In my playground,

Like the orange massacred by pudgy fingers

 

In my playground,

making a paper plane is easy

You really need to focus, fold it very carefully

In the middle, here

Then the wings

here

And here

Then again like this on both sides

Here.

 

My aunty likes songs by a little man

formerly known as Symbol.

He sings about laughing on a Purple Plane

Not meaning to cause no pain.

 

Garden blossoms fall on tissue paper wings

The race breezes fast against my one sibling

Bickering is only a whisper when we both play

Though sometimes I wish Chinua’s plane would not win

 

I saw the grown up news on the telly the other day

There was a man who was sent to prison

For killing his six children in a house fire

That made me sad. Sad. That made me think of Dr Who’s tardis.

 

It happened just down the road

round the corner from our house

Near our gymnastics

That made me wonder

 

‘Not a very good thing to do to your children

My mum likes to throw our unloved toys

in the tip or take them to a charity shop

Making room for new toys our cousins give

At Christmas-time. 

 

Maybe I will get Dr Who’s sonic pen

And use it to make things right again

Maybe that man should have taken his children to a charity shop

So that they could be fostered like my friend Robert at school.

 

I know a boy who has behaviour issues

I think that man has behaviour issues

 

Glued on the side of my paper plane

Are chilli seeds for rocket fuel

Jumbo felts fill broad purple strokes

Disguising pink love hearts my mum stuck on each wing.

 

Soaring through the doodled sky

Down below Derby is a postcard fly-by

I draw 9 square windows,

to fly Mum and Chinua and me

 

Plus the ghosts of those 6 children

to forget about the pain

just to laugh and enjoy my

purple plane.

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