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Andi Langford-Woods

Updated: Wed, 9 Feb 2011 07:54:28 am

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Andi is a third gender catalyst and has been working in music and performance for forty years as performer, event/tour manager and mother hen. Took control of the Acoustic Night Bristol rudder in 2005 and is a proud group member of the present core group. Andi moans about not getting enough time to write anything but press releases and listings yet manages to document time spent on the road with exotic artistes.


Give cheer, when morbidity lies deep and rank
coating the fragile, potential optimism of our lives…
your reaction – bugged out butterfly
feeding on tension ~
they flip the switch
from glee to apprehension
neutered in the glare of criticism
impotent, searching for a clue
in the conundrum of rhythm and rhyme
eyes water…
just like you’ve been kicked in the nuts
by that pony you thought soooo cute
until at every turn
in all you’ve learned
it’s impossible to take any ‘Hello’
without a bucket full of suspicion
it’s impossible to take any word
at face value
instead analysis and doubt underpin
each conversation
an examination
of the second-hand car salesman patter ~
cluttering the hearing
psychotic moths of promises
blandishments to be sorted through
for genuine sentiments…
not trick events of delusion
eyes water…
like you’ve been cuckolded by your virgin bride
who had fucked the whole cricket team before drinks
while you… were passed out in the bridal suite
after she’d drunk you under the table…
Aye life’s a fucker when you just want to believe…

Poetry cafe , London 15 minute slam
November 2005


Autumn leaves remind me of what has passed
dry and brittle underfoot
s h a t t e r i n g to dust
sighing their last breath
invisible in autumn air.

Words sprouting from the saplings of
the future
who hold, not only
but the metaphysical chlorophyl that courses
thru' their soul
metabolised by experience and environment.

I prefer summer as my roots grow old and
ache for warmth, soft ground to lie upon with
just a whispering rain to refresh me.

Even though, as traditonal expectations of heat
are flouted by fickle climate…
in the random days of +20c
muscles loosen
blood warms
I can almost remember sap rising
I can almost remember youth.

SEPT 2007


She, was used to beds.
He didn’t care whose mattress he inherited
When horizontal environmental aesthetics went
she was svelte, sensuous and smelt of vanilla.

It’s not certain he was aware of this,
carrying with him his own cloud
of polluted body odour.
Not a ripe and fulsome pheromone
but a rank fabric rotting testosterone
aura acquired through weeks of inter-active sloth
unchallenged by hot water and cleansing agents….soap.

The Water Board sent him urgent letters about his
worrying under use of their services
Unilever quivered in their calcified corporate nervousness.
Recovery vehicles, St Johns’ Ambulance
and independent good Samaritans
hovered around anticipating
an epidemic of retching and fainting
and epileptic passers-by
succumbing in his vicini..ty

The Latin paramour disappeared,
her attraction to the rough hewn hulk
and his animal aroma shattered
by exposure to the skid-mark scattered
bachelor landscape behind once proud door
now sadly patched in five separate places
to cover the drunken blows inflicted the nights
keys had been lost or simply overlooked
in the fumble to gain entry.

So, overwhelmed by the basic lack of hygiene
and appreciation of olfactory nuances
(she still had not recovered from his insistence on
shared nocturnal flatulences)
our disillusioned olive-skinned beauty fled
the neighbourhood first taking refuge in a garden shed
then the opulent ambient converted loft
of her English as a foreign language Prof.


Better homeless in Hampstead than Hackney she’d thought
as a well manicured hand round her shoulder had sought
to bury itself between muscle and breast.
The Old Spice was cloying, the hand headed West
now the torso that flexed to a hot Bossa Nova
was twisting away from a greying Casanoa

Her dreams of romance fell apart at the seams
was she doomed to be feted only by Queens?
For the only good dancers were as Gay as you liked
and the best sex she’d had? With a transgendered dyke…

The city made her shiver with its’ cold retentive life
and she dreamed of Buenos Aires
and the rule of gun and knife.
At least the were macho (and clean!)
and had something left to prove,
if you didn’t fight you wore a big hat
and were a Patron of the Groove.

The roasting coffee caught her as she crossed another street
she bundled in, dishevelled, thin
ordered Cappucino, slipped off her shoes, rubbed her feet.
The Gaggia squealed and sputtered as she lit her cigarette
a local eyed her lustfully as he lay another bet
eyes closed she wondered
“How much worse this gonna get?”

“Cappucino” purred the rusty voice
raising hairs upon her belly
she opened her eyes _ saw a goddess in her sky
and her legs quite turned to jelly.

“com’esta amiga? Es tu vida una mierda?
“aieee mondo mucho macho!! Ees your life getting weirder?”

They left the bar much later and strolled off into the night
and in the nightime silence
they make a handsome sight
and now El Fuego burns so fiercely
turning night-time into light.



I’m a Poet… get me out of here!
Out of the cyber-web of on-screen networking
those face-ache tickles, plasma screen pickles
leave the poor PC non-savvy
making tracks to lock the lavvy door
where they can breathe and face no more
the codec coded cookie vortex
full of pop-ups that perplex
and terrify the timid type
who’ve never ever heard of Skype

I’m a Poet… Get me out of here!
Out of the writers’ spaghetti-thought-block
pasta rasta full of dread-locked
mental wrangles, the pen, it dangles
tantalizes scornfully
tabula rasa, flat slab, blanks me
unused printer shuts down mournfully
I’m hanging frozen… a bug in a web
a matrix of matter that all seems immaterial
it’s impossible to correlate the ethereal

I’m a poet… get me out of here!
Out of the this world of political scandals
where trust is crushed by receipts for candles
where hope is denied by rigged elections
satisfaction offered with artificial erections
and old school weed is replaced by the speed
of hybridised chronic that destroys by sections
the brains of the youth with no idea of truth
just a vague perception that they’re ‘havin’ it large’
as psychosis creeps in like a River Thames barge

I’m a Poet… Get me out of here!
Out of the library where there’s just one book
and every day when I take a look
on the shelves for inspirational poetry
it’s always the same and it’s written by me
and it’s blank, it’s empty, it’s what you get
when the title is “Poems I haven’t written yet”

JULY 2009

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.

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