Edward’s first draft – scratch show

22 Jun

Unfortunately I’ve only written about two thirds of this so far – but a full version will be uploaded promptly. What I’e written so far reads at about 2 and a half mins, so I expect the full version to be about 3 and a half mins. The idea has changed from solely focusing on benefits/the monarchy to the Daily Mail’s portrayal of different “problems” to give more scope to the poem. Here goes:

I tripped and fell
down the Daily Mail rabbit hole,
sucked in by its gravity to a land of insanity.
hitting my head on branches of bigot-trees
 – the branches snapping:
“Go back to where you came from!”
“You don’t belong here!”
Snagging and scratching and splintering 
and trying to pull me into them.
Down, down, down, I fell through the dirt
and span round endlessly like a washing machine tripping on ecstasy,
seeing pictures of lost girls before me
wondering where they could be;
whether victims of paedophile celebrities
or just another kid left home at sixteen.
The finally: I hit rock bottom.

Dazed and confused,
battered and bruised,
I regained consciousness to see
a can of Red Stripe wearing a ruddy bow-tie, commanding me to drink its insides
– so, happily, I obliged.
But, with every gulp: ink ran down the walls,
forming warnings of a binge drinking Britain
 – could this poison be our demise?
Are children really puppeteered by cans of beer
spurring them on to fight and fuck
metamorphosing them into thieves and crooks
intent on getting each other  knocked up?
Can a 500ml can really be the cause of the flaws of a hole generation of our nation?
Or is this simply another scapegoat for our own human nature?

As I pondered and wondered and chundered
my belly rumbled and thundered,
so the room started shaking from my stomach’s earthquaking
and a table revealed itself from under the umbra,
proudly holding aloft the most magnificent cake you ever saw!
With all the colours of a kaleidoscopic rainbow,
chocolate, cheese, strawberries
and ‘Eat me’ written in Skittles calligraphy.
Mouthful after mouthful I shovelled it down
 – but it had been laced by some serpentine spite,
as, this time, the ink gushed forth from my eyes,
hissing of “obesity!” and “gluttony!” as it filled every part of me.
Unable to breathe and uncontrollably the ink kept transforming me:
too fat, too thin, too tall, too small, too black, too white – all right!
I lay emaciated on the floor with the remnants of ink dribbling down my chin
and as I asked myself what crazy world this could be;
I received an invitation to the Mad Hatter’s UKIP Party.

[The following stanza will show a chaotic scene with the leaders of each political party, with a hit at a UKIP ran government, and the then the finding the Queen’s council house palace with others wanting off with her head]

Obviously this is’t quite finished yet – but any feedback is greatly welcomed! My main worry is whether this reads as more of a short story than a poem – so in reference to that in particular would be hugely appreciated.


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