I sleep somedays

I’m awake some nights

When it’s cold it’s summer

When it’s hot it’s winter


I think I tried

I tried i failed

What lofty skies

What grimy spades


Simple life

Sinful death

Nary a mire

Death on a spit fire


Hope from hope fields

Lies from pulpits

Blood from white robes

Night as light grows




Slaving away in my life

Failing to strive


Walking on water was fine
Stepping on the moon was good
But there’s none to stay in line
There’s none to give food

The lofty is easier than the simple man
To project is not to empathise
You can save that man yes you can
But does it look good in the camera’s eyes

Warring factions in my new old land
Perilous stories that never end
My forefathers went through the rapids bend
To put their feet on cooler sand

Their struggle is not mine
Their suffering a foreign language
I read about it in a book online
It was interesting like a Facebook adage

No is better than soon

I don’t want this to be timely
I can’t hope it will be important
If my words make you smile wryly
I hope you don’t get combatant

Hello fictional female I may never meet
I think I heard about you in a discourse
I appreciated what I heard and I’d like a few answers on your feet
If you don’t mind a few minutes lost

Will you understand that I can cry sometimes
Will you think less of me
Do you know that I may start to laugh sometimes
At a joke making fun of me

Will you look in my eyes when you get scared
Or will you tell me off
Will you not tell your friends about my beard
Or other things about me you find off

Will you hear me when I’m speaking
That I’m not talking in code
Will you scold me when I’m patronising
Or would you rather be cold

I can’t read your mind to know what perplexed you
Will you tell me
I can’t see till tears when something angers you
Will you come near me

It doesn’t have to be great but I don’t like failing
I’ve never retaken a test
It doesn’t have to be love but I don’t like flailing
It doesn’t have to be the best

If you’re afraid to try until the sky starts falling
Will the debris care for you
If you’re afraid to try while I am calling
A no is better than soon

Dark Rainbow

I once was painting a rainbow on this vast canvass
With red and yellow and a smile
I looked closer with a magnifying glass
And all I did was stare for a while

One of my brush strokes in this three month period
Had been unfavourable in the scheme
It was a smudge that looked like a being
Here I was a painter and a God

I took out my 2h pencil and sketched the features
Here was a woman of middle age
That fate had dealt with in rage
She had been good person who excelled in chores

What smile she had was worn by the wiles of living
She had marks that had been lesions
Her back a sick tapestry of the other end of giving
When men touched her skin she’d go blank into a vision

She’d erred on the side of kindness
But failed to be evil
She’d had her bouts of madness
But bore in mind her people

Was virtue hers in essence
Or was she a victim of herself
Was life a tyrant seeking obedience
Or was she just a book on a shelf

I left my glass of magnifying and almost burned my rainbow
But if I did she’d be dead with no chance to know
If things could be better, if this was a bend
So I hung up a dark rainbow right above my bed


Hail falls as it does in weird Africa
I hear a few tribes men call me
Their clicking tongue says see
That star looks like America

I’d left the city for the real experience
Like accents were not my lot
I notice in the people a real resilience
The kind that stops you getting shot

They were not progressive because they had no hope
Politics was about access roads
They were not liberal because they had no scope
For protecting from poisonous toads

The spears were not innocent one says
Don’t blame the imperialists
We can’t predict by eliminating the past ways
Because of them we have artists

I sleep looking up because the ancestors look down
I have learned nothing
I can’t save them I said as a young one’s look turned a frown
I hope you all can make something

Critique: An essay

I wonder sometimes what the relation between criticism and the genre of critique should be.
Critics v Creators
The esteemed British critic Mark Kermode in one of his uncut videos brought up an issue I’d always struggled with. I had been a critic of systems in the past like examination and testing systems and i’d always get the response ‘well that’s just because you failed!!!’ and that may have been true on occassion but it was not always true. There was in fact a day when it was markedly untrue, we had to participate in propangadizing the legacy of the person my university was named after and I had some issue with this. There was a course based on his life story and his hardship and the lesson to be drawn from that was in discussing topics like discipleship and valour. It was interesting his life story in the way that a Mad men episode or a museum is but the manner in which we assessed our progress was not to relate years and facts but to fill in the blanks in a textbook. Kermode made a similar distinction when he stated that he has not ever agreed that critics make better content or productions. He mentions one example of a Japanese critic who decided to make a movie that was not well received and in the resulting accusation had to delineate between the two identities he possessed.


A critic may not necessarily be a creator in waiting (director, producer, writer) but is an important gate keeper or even hand maiden in any given field. To serve the creators by showing them where they have failed or preventing bad products from being seen by those who are impressionable


Critics as High court judges
High court judges in the UK cannot hold political office or express political opinion during their tenure. This is a feature of separation of powers such that they can take cases individually or apply court precedents where necessary. In some newer creative fields such as comic books and video games there exists a lack of delineation complete or partial between enthusiasts and critics. In some of these industries, there exists an incentive to give positive reviews or praise to a work of art not on the basis of cohesion, symmetry, structure, appearance or value but on the off chance that they may break into the industry of their dreams.
There exists also a sort of perpetual childhood described by smarter people than me such that those who did not put away their long boxes have come back with a vengeance to critique work and to suggest ways to better an industry in decline like all print media. It seems ironic that the explosive popularity of spandex and flag wearing heroes has not seen a rise in overall sales and engagement in comics. The duty of the critic like a judge would be to decide the value of something based on evidence and arguments for and against and the creator should be able to separate the language or choice commentary from the empirical criticism.


Critics as Experts

There also seems to be an extent to which critics have to love or care about the products involved. An affinity or a fondness of the medium or material. While it is in common parlance to discredit someone by stating that they weren’t good enough to break into the industry, it is also important to use expert information to describe critical points. Someone who knows about story structure can critique a faulty story, an amateurish studied artist can describe things as they would be better and analyse artistic failures in poor anatomy work. This is an idea that seems to be lost, as though everyone never has control over emotions. If for example a person is categorised as hateful, is it impossible for them to make any agreeable points? The robotic nature of text should allow one to pars the simplest interpretations of critiques. Apply hanlon’s razor or legal rules of interpretation if confused. If your only response to a critique is that it is hateful you need to examine your counter critique. As much as it is pertinent to say that something is hateful it is also an unbelievably complicated concept that muddied the waters in discourse.

Tl;dr: Critics are important. Maybe critique and artistry are not always linked and should be separate. Insight into subject matter helps with reasoned critique

No Jacket

Starlet backdrop looking dark and onerous
People in the foreground making jokes
Witnessing a helicopter flying over us
A man and a woman both wielding spokes

A lovely sweater he has on, it’s knitted because he’s slender
Her hair is jet black and she wears an evening dress
His feet are in oxfords and his socks help with finesse
Her eyes blue, shot and searching like she woke from a bender

There’s clouds but its cold and she’s without a sweater
He’s without a jacket or a hat to tip milady
She rubs her hands up and down her shoulders reacting to the weather
He takes off his knitted sweater and covers the lady

The helicopter leaves apologising for profiling
The lady thanks him and goes to her pool party
The man speaks in icy breaths, teeth grinding
No uber in London so he has to be hearty