I'm a poet from Blackpool, currently living in the wonderful city of Manchester. I write garish performance pieces about popular culture, politics and my friends. I used to perform under the name James Knight and under that name did work for Apples and Snakes with the fabulous Ann Wilson, including school workshops, as well as compering at the DT3 Youth Theatre in Lancaster. I also performed at various venues and festivals and on one occasion reached the final of 'Superheroes of Slam' after winning the Lancaster heat. I also hosted a night in Lancaster called 'Blue Peter Badge Winners Get in Free,' which welcomed such names as Tim Clare, Byron Vincent, Sally Jenkinson,Dominic Berry, Jackie Hagan and Tony Walsh. I'm currently working on a collection of poems for charity called 'Haters and Escalators' which will be illustrated by legendary Lancastrian musician and artist Kriss Foster.I'm also currently involved in a musical project about Car Boot Sales with producer Chris Holland. I recently won the coveted golden gun at Manchester's Bang Said the Gun. On the 8th September I performed at the Wigan Diggers Festival, sharing a bill with acts as awesome as Attila the Stockbroker and WOL's Laura Taylor. You can 'like' my new FB page at; http://www.facebook.com/pages/Solomon-Scribble/156991291071651#!/ and watch The Wasp King live at I will be performing at; Lead Poets, The Lead Station, Chorlton MCR, 7.30 pm, 8th October Other dates to be announced...Audio now up courtesy of Chris Holland...
The Wasp King Whilst floating in a pool in France I came across, by chance, The curious backstroke of a wasp, Not waving but drowning I watched, curiously frowning From my inflatable crocodile And after a while Plunged my hand And scooped up the wretched creature, I waited for the sting but it didn’t come, I placed her on the poolside Coughing gently in the sun, Glued wings wet translucent, Delicate and dying, But then a twitch of sting Like a soft nose, sniffing the heat, Her pretty pin like limbs, Her pointy robot head Dragging wings like sodden bed sheets, Rubbing visor eyes Every body buzzing Everybody sing Everybody worship The great wasp king She said goodbye began to fly and fluttered on her way, I offered her a drink but she said she couldn’t stay, Then later on that day as the dusk set in the grass, The wasps came in their thousands, A cloud of yellow black, They covered me like armour, Disrupting the BBQ, They nipped me by the ears And flew and flew and flew Until the swimming pool Was nothing but a lonely speck of blue, They took me to a giant nest Sat me on a cowslip throne And did a stripey dance Beneath the silver dome, And with a chalice of gold venom A jewelled bramble crown, I declared myself the grand almighty king of all wasp town Every body buzzing Everybody sing Everybody worship The great wasp king The wasps worked hard as I sat fat And gobbled up their honey, They stole it from the bees And they gave it all to me, They raided hives and houses And they brought me nature’s treasure, Their wings would serenade me Just to bring me pleasure, I ate and ate and ate Until my thorax was a mess, I got so fat there was no room for wasps in the nest, But if they dared to question me I’d crush their crispy heads, I barked my vicious orders with honey scented breath Every body buzzing Everybody sing Everybody worship The great wasp king But gradually I noticed that their work began to slow, I heard the odd hushed whisper As their hate began to grow, One morning as I yawned and woke and rang the breakfast bell, I was greeted with the searing thunder of a rebel yell, They stung me on my royal feet They stung my royal hands They stung me as I tried to run away from wasp land, They took away my crown and they took away my sting, They stung me red all over, said they didn’t want a king, They chased me out the sky, because I’d been so cruel, And sent my lifeless body crashing down into the pool, Every body buzzing Everybody sing The wasps are united Down with the king Eye of the Iron Gasping, sweat streaks down the sleek Physique, trembling tattoos Proudly pronounce your son and you, Pumping, stretching, aching, Lungs shocked into life After decades of LnB , Legs like pistons As you pound the promenade, This was meant to be, The birth of the Iron ball, But warriors are made, not born, Hence a montage of press ups and pent up expressions, Punches and crunches and bad 80’s metal, Two pints a week just to keep the head steady, And within just a month the Iron was ready, Ready for battle, The jeers of the cash thirsty Coke and firm grips, Brutes in suits with girls round their hips, Chanting a violent mantra Iron, Iron, Iron, And I think of playgrounds, Wet tarmac, shirts untucked, And all the fights he won, The cold canteen feeling when he got kicked in the face By an older kid, Rockport laces booting through his chin, He went down in the third round, Feet tied and tired, A brick of a right and out went the iron Slow motion folded backwards, Shake of the head, Ref half held his arm up And everyone said he coulda woulda shoulda won But it just wasn’t his night, At least he had the bottle etcetera, And I really don’t get much pleasure, Out of seeing his bloody nose, But I suppose all we ever had to offer, Me and him, Were punches and poems. In the Boot They’re there before the car stops They’ll have your wipers off Life laid out on a drizzled rug Megadrive without a plug, Sonic two included I could never beat the last boss, Skeletor and shredder Not brutal but broken, Sold for their crimes to a child Who thinks they’re from Harry Potter, A ball from 94 when football was soccer, Next to a trophy that says I survived a slippery season With the North Fylde under 9’s, Spitting on gloves, letting in goals Carrying corner flags, being cold, Karate Suit with the white belt, I didn’t much like being kicked, I don’t have much just buy me and forget about me quick, Presents from abroad like the parrot with the cracked beak A jumbled jungle of hungry hands and soggy feet Ocean Colour Scene CD’s Rollerblades, memories of scabby knees, the day I did a fishbrain On the promenade POGs and Pokemon stickers, cards, Burberry bubble jacket, Thought I was well ard, Freezing fags on parks And snotty snogging in the dark Marilyn Manson hoodie £3 to an old dear who thinks that the colours are lovely, Recall the goth subculture, Long hair, lipstick hunched like vultures, Books and annotations Curled corners and teenage revelations, People thumb through my ides 50p for that love cheers, The suit I wore for that interview, Tenner I’ll throw in the shoes, I didn’t get the job But I wore it out once on the booze They’re there before the car stops They’ll have your wipers off Bloke next to me Is going away, gold ring on every finger, Black teeth selling Hewlett Packard printer, Wonder if he’ll survive the winter, People clearing marriages and garages Wonder round the stalls, Buy some kind of a sword and wonder what I’ll use it for, God knows, It’s like the guitar I’m selling, Ceremonial, just for show People peck like crows At VHS cassettes you know will play like snow, Clocks stopped that don’t tock or tick, A fishtank without a lid, And rusty tools in buckets You wouldn’t dare put your hand in, Left over laminate flooring, Golf clubs people used once then realised it’s boring, Rain becomes unbearable, A thunder of tarpaulin breaks the afternoon In a panic of pot plants and portaloos, Children shrieking, waterproofs leaking, Get my polystyrene tea And give everything away for free, It’s only 1 o clock and people are pissing off Sick of the stench of bacon smoke, manure And the clinging sting of damp velour, Cars leave tracks in the grass, As I stamp on the empty boxes of my past They’re there before the car stops
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