Every 'Ception a New Direction

I’d give til I’d nothingAnd I’d kiss til I...

Wed, 25 Jan 2012 00:06:06 +0000

To the revolutionary among us...

Who can draw snakes like no-one else.

I’d give til I’d nothing
And I’d kiss til I choke
I love you and I only hope
You’ll wait til I’m no longer broke.

Tom

"Last Christmas, I slept in a park; And the very next day I was carried away. This year, to save..."

Mon, 09 Jan 2012 10:00:05 +0000

“Last Christmas, I slept in a park;
And the very next day I was carried away.
This year, to save Cameron’s cheer
I’ve paid to be put down.”

- Cuts

by Tom Markham

"So here it is, merry Christmas But I’m stranded for the night. The whole thing seems like one big..."

Sat, 07 Jan 2012 10:00:06 +0000

“So here it is, merry Christmas
But I’m stranded for the night.
The whole thing seems like one big scam
For the Tube to go on strike.”

- Stuck for the Night at Marylebone

by Tom Markham

"Sing für mich Sing für dich Sing doch endlich hat’s geklappt obwohl war‘s knapp Jetzt seh mich wie..."

Thu, 05 Jan 2012 12:35:22 +0000

“Sing für mich
Sing für dich
Sing doch
endlich
hat’s geklappt obwohl war‘s knapp
Jetzt seh mich
wie ich
zieh dich
hinein
So steig ein
hau rein
sag nein auf keinen
falls
die Gelegenheit wird gestorbene Vergangenheit
und all deine Macht wird sinnlose
prachtvoll
sehr toll
wie doll
du strebst zum bitteren
Ende
des Tages als jeder sich gesagt hat
hols hier
hols näher
hols mir
fürs Haben, Schaden, und nochmal Begraben
ins Loch
sing doch
dass wir uns alles erreichen lassen
und, dass wir werden auf uns aufpassen”

- Sing

by Tom Markham

"“Give us money; give us time.” Don’t make me hold the line. Why complicate the..."

Sat, 01 Oct 2011 00:39:00 +0100

“

“Give us money; give us time.”
Don’t make me hold the line.
Why complicate the deal
That you want me to sign?
You govern like you’re lost
But say you know the way.
You say you need my trust
But I gave it all away -
Drew an X on some paper
On a similar day.
I was told that I could ask
Whenever I wanted help,
Yet the waiting time’s a farce.
And how’s a machine to tell
That what I need is urgent?
No I cannot visit
Your online troubleshoot -
Your network’s non-existent
Ergo I’m ringing you.
Hi, I’d like to live
In a home that’s let by you;
Here’s the money and- I’m sorry,
How many checks to do?!

I’m naive to all the hassle;
To think of bliss without the battle.
And particularly dim
If I give a shit.

”

- Growing Up

by Tom Markham

"This poem remains unwritten. The words it contains unsaid. Its meaning explicitly hidden. Its life:..."

Mon, 26 Sep 2011 18:10:04 +0100

“This poem remains unwritten.
The words it contains unsaid.
Its meaning explicitly hidden.
Its life: unlived, not dead.”

- Tom Markham

Yep, that’s the river, Moo-Moo! Uh huh - it is big and...

Fri, 23 Sep 2011 11:05:05 +0100

Yep, that’s the river, Moo-Moo! Uh huh - it is big and wide. Not much colour in it, though. Looks a bit…grey, I s’pose. Oh well.

But underneath is the Greenwich Foot Tunnel that runs under the Thames; a spooky, dank, echoing pipeline connecting Greenwich to the cursed Isle of Dogs. And, incidentally, one of two hundred and fourteen bridges, twenty (mostly in London and more to come, too) tunnels, six public ferries, and one ford that cross the river along its course.

Knowledge.

My tiny cow is lowing to a handsome construction worker. ...

Thu, 22 Sep 2011 11:05:06 +0100

My tiny cow is lowing to a handsome construction worker. He’s wearing a big and green hi-vis vest. She thinks he’s beautiful. I think his hat is silly.

Look: the Cutty Sark! Named after a beautiful witch in the Irish...

Wed, 21 Sep 2011 11:05:00 +0100

Look: the Cutty Sark! Named after a beautiful witch in the Irish folkstory, Tam O’Shanter: A Tale. She’s evil, though, in the story. And big and green, too.

Here she is nibbling on some grass. She’s slightly cross...

Tue, 20 Sep 2011 11:05:05 +0100

Here she is nibbling on some grass. She’s slightly cross at me still for making a joke about the grass being so big and green.

Here, my tiny cow remarks at the majesty of the cannon’s...

Mon, 19 Sep 2011 13:27:58 +0100

Here, my tiny cow remarks at the majesty of the cannon’s construction, while I - ever the foolish one - make a silly joke about it being big and green.

Columbus' Cock and Ball Theory

Sun, 18 Sep 2011 23:11:00 +0100

I was walking, talking (to myself), and as I walked, talking (about me versus wealth), I spotted a cow. Now, cows aren’t - not that they can’t - predisposed to repose upon any of the rows of pretty little (pitiful) fences lining the terraces along which - still not rich - I walk, talking, to me (if only he would heed). This reclining bovine’s fine shape, smiling face, and measured grace, caught the eye that I was using to peruse my cruising; I was searching, reaching, hoping - groping - for something to spice up my thrice-cursed commute and there, hirsute and very cute, sat that cow I’m discussing now. Flushing the rushing from my mission to work I paused, caught, brought to thought - why, and how, here and now, a cow on a fence outside a house? Three inches long from tail to prong and one and a half tall, legs and all. He - she - was destined for me, to join with me on my - suddenly - jaunty, merry, bouncy walk to work.

And that made my day very nice. She and I took some photos on my lunchbreak as we munched some choclit in Greenwich and sang round a cannon. Also, my little cow might have tried to eat Canada One. Bless her. I’ll post those later.

Surely no-one, at any time in our history, has ever believed the world to be flat. I was very young when I saw that the world was as ball-shaped as some other things I was just beginning to discover and fiddle with. It’s clearly spherical - it curves in quite an ostentatious manner, regardless of whether or not you’re looking out at a broad bending sea or just observing a mountain rise up over the horizon as you approach it. You’d have to be stupid to think it flat. Now, I could understand it having an edge (except that the loss of water over the edge would be astronomical (get it?!) and God’s water bill would be mindblowing) because people back then understood that all things end somewhere or sometime, even gods, even the universe. This is why pagans celebrate New Year’s - it’s their way of expressing relief that the world hasn’t ended and they can go on prancing about menhirs and discovering their balls while being conquered by more efficient peoples. So, what claptrap was Columbus trying to dispell? Or was he simply hoping to show that the world joined back up again round the back? Perhaps he too was observing his bollocks at play one day and thought:
“Of course! On the other side there’ll be an inexplicable welder’s line that holds it together! I shall immediately set sail to prove this - Columbus’ Cock and Ball Theory.”

By the way, that line down your todger and testicles is called the penile raphe and exists - like the nipples above it - because we all started out as girls.

>cough<

Ed just fought off a small but violent inbreak of transdimensional demon gypsies (they’re similar to the mundane ones we know but leave larger stools). He had words with them but wasn’t getting anywhere so simply banished them all to oblivion in a big misty sort of glowy kind of half swirly, half wiggly, quarter muggy flash. Then he sighed - he’d gone and banished his biscuits as well. I gave him mine, obviously, but you could see he was still miffed.

Househunting and Testicles

Tue, 13 Sep 2011 18:19:00 +0100

Househunting. Such a common phrase it has now been trunkated to one word. Such a universally feared and loathed term it has been identified as one of the six main causes for Bubonic Plague. Such a necessary evil it is unavoidable when one needs to relocate oneself and possessions. However, really, it’s not so bad if one is looking forward to moving and experiencing something new.

Estate Agents. Such a common affliction in today’s high streets they are now to be found in rows of four or more (shocked face). Such a universally cursed and loathed ague they have been identified as the single cause for househunting being immeasurably more difficult than it should be, in addition to it being four of the six main causes of Bubonic Plague. Such an unnecessary and indulgent bunch of incompetent and brazenly ignorant professionals hindering the rehousing of three young and vibrant gentlemen such as us.

Rent Security Agencies. Utterly and completely crap and unashamedly so.

Damn that’s fun to write. But I vent advice as well as rage:

Never trust an estate/lettings/property/double agent.
There are good quality 3 bedroom properties in London to rent for £800pcm (shocked face).
Part-furnished is not a legally-binding term and means the property could have bugger-all in it beside an ageing and leprotic (or is it alopecic in this case?) bogbrush sitting smoking in the corner and leafing through an old French pornographic magazine.
Beware their ‘reference/registration fees’. These are actually hidden commission fees and are often extortionate. You needn’t pay more than £75 per person for an estate agent to make sure the name you’ve just written and signed for is the same as the one on your passport. Perhaps they charge per page turned. Yet if that’s the case you should insist they start from the back, damn it.
Lots of rents are negotiable. If you like the place or area but think it’s a bit ‘spensive then just offer what you think it’s worth. The landlord needn’t agree with your offer but you can throw in a paintjob to save him the bother or just make another offer he’ll like more. Make him an offer he can’t refuse. Then look for a local stables.
Never trust an estate/lettings/property/double agent.

We’ve simply found that the infrastructure surrounding hunting for houses is riddled with corruption and ineptitude and has far too little regulation. I s’pose regulation can be evil too but stopping these bastards charging £100 to check you out of the property is surely a good thing because that kind of absurd fee is total testicles.

Total testicles. Now that has potential.

What’s next? Oh, there’s Andy’s awesome poem below. Read that and compare it to your own dreams of a portable mother. Not that your mum hasn’t any legs, just that a fold-away mum would be great when you need to have someone tidying up after you while you were on the move. Airlines and the military have come up with brilliant fold-away conveniences, I’m sure they’re already looking into it. Then soldiers could have freshly-ironed battletrousers.

"If some butler being in-keep, buttled away the washing bowl, I would undisturbéd sleep, and rest..."

Sat, 10 Sep 2011 09:22:23 +0100

“If some butler being in-keep,
buttled away the washing bowl,
I would undisturbéd sleep,
and rest my weary soul.
But having not the pounds and pence,
to fill the butler’s pocket,
the bowl remains in full suspense,
a suspect on the docket.
Oh, if I were so inclined,
not to fill my mouth so often,
with scones and tea and sit reclined,
the bready treats a-scoffin.
But I am lacking of the will,
and stuff my face and stomach,
with fruity treats they do distil,
in Shropshire, Kent and Suffolk.
These indulgent ways I fear,
will cause a crashing wracking,
of the crockery chandelier,
created by their stacking.
My dreams this image thusly stalks:
the balance of the cutlery!
My mind is plagued by jammy forks,
and plates that are all buttery.”

- The Bowl

by Andy Balmer

Picasso’s Guernica breathtakingly recreated here in the...

Tue, 06 Sep 2011 01:48:54 +0100

Picasso’s Guernica breathtakingly recreated here in the already-proven medium of wine gums. The colours, the shapes, the impression of chaos - it’s all captured incredibly by these sweeties.

Tangled Up In Ed

Tue, 06 Sep 2011 01:25:03 +0100

The small man sat as if in fear
That someone else would see him here
Among the darkened figures that
Lurked and watched him in his flat;
That smirked and joked if ever he
Dared to even think to leave
And see the world he knew was there
Just out the door and down the stair.
It might be in his cereal,
Prone-to-fire material,
Falling bricks, a haemorrhage,
Killer bees, an exploding fridge,
Riotous youths, STDs,
Death through lack of expertise,
Terrorists or spider bite,
Aneurysm late one night,
Bubonic plague could strike, but when?
It came round once - it could again!

You see he had this awful question
Feasting on his whole attention:
“What if…?”

Ed came home from work not long ago. He drifted through my room to the kitchen (I squat in the lounge like a penguin on a warm rock) and went immediately to his pet car battery, which yapped in excitement at his approach. I was sitting on my bed in my underwear getting quite involved in some Queens of the Stone Age and it was only after a while that I noticed Ed had begun to effervesce.

Now, Ed doesn’t do this very often. Infrequently, I’d say. But there he was, doing it, and with, seemingly, not a care in the world. He gravitated then over to me, having wiped some kryptonite onto a slice of bread (kryptonite toasts bread naturally, rendering toasters a thing of the past for those who like their low-fat spreads to be green), and chatted me about his day. All the while, of course, he was iridescent, a shimmering godfigure perched on my Bart Simpson duvet, a glittering and psychedelic manifestation of what I always imagined Chernobyl’s inhabitants to look like. Before the hair loss, obviously. Ed’s blessed with a lovely head of hair.

Then he simply got up, reached into the fifth dimension, and replaced a pen he’d borrowed from a bureaucratic demi-god. As Ed then hovered - still radiating light like your basic thermonuclear fusion of hydrogen nuclei - up the stairs, I could hear him humming, just gently evoking the clear melody of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony.

He still hadn’t washed up, though.

"Came the soldiers, burly men, All armour, bang, and bustle them. With office armed, held high..."

Mon, 05 Sep 2011 23:24:03 +0100

“

Came the soldiers, burly men,
All armour, bang, and bustle them.
With office armed, held high afore,
They came a-marching through my door.
Halting, casting frowns about,
The foremost eyed me up in doubt,
And enquired of me, in husky tones,
Whether there were a master home.
Now set your minds, listeners do,
And conjure up that dastard crew;
Grizzled and fierce in numbered dozen,
That only lords of men could govern.
And give no haste to call me coward,
When I tell you that I cowered,
And answered timid, damning lines -
“My master on his couch reclines.”
And though I knew it was explicit,
“What’s the purpose of your visit?”
Came tumbling off my trembling tongue.
Oh, what a fool I had become!

Their sergeant then, with gnashing teeth,
Gazed a brimstone glare at me.
He said, “We come to make arrest,
Of a man defaulting on his debts.”
Sighed I aloud, “My master’s vice!
He is enamoured of the dice!
If only he were any good,
I’m sure you would not be here stood.”
“Hush now, boy, my patience seeps,
Take us to the one we seek.”
Spoke firm the leader, nostrils flared,
Oh, how I squirmed to ‘scape his stare!
I turned about and walked ahead,
My chest a-heaving, full of dread.
Curse this hateful, horrid day!
What would my master of me say?
“Judas!” he’d cry, and pointing condemn,
His servant complicit with these men.
In shame I stumped toward his door;
My eyes - cast down - dragged o’er the floor.
In lifting my hand to the brassen knob,
I felt the vessels in my temples throb.
Then a noise within the room I heard…
Could it be my master stirred?

Conscious of these bladed men,
Comes he out to speak with them?
Ill conceived and doomed to fail,
Is such a plan with him so frail.
Yet came he on - I heard him ‘proach,
His mediation scheme to broach.
The men, impatient, called to him,
“Thou opst this door ‘fore we break in!
Our employer makes no empty threats;
Thou shalt now pay on all thy debts.”
Yet silence reigned and loud its rule,
Our anticipation its precious fuel -
These men, so used to threat and effect,
Now hesitated to reflect…

And that was all my master needed -
Their pause left him now unimpeded.
The door flew open, out he leapt,
And shot the first thug in the neck;
Slashed the second; and a third;
Through the fourth and fifth he blurred.
The sixth he cut from groin to chin;
The seventh suffered a severed limb,
While eight and nine were hacked apart,
And number ten stabbed through the heart.
The remaining pair, faces white,
Were spared the dirvish (victor’s right),
And told to give their master word,
His request for payment had been heard,
And although a blow to the collector,
He’d not be paid by this old debtor.
Not ever.

* * *

A price of them would be demanded,
for returning empty handed.
Thus they took the long route mulling,
all the while behind them pulling
the heavy weight of trepidation:
quartering and then castration.
Above, the sky a crimson red,
a warning to the nearly dead:
one more step to no return;
one foot closer to the urn.
But rather than their path assuage,
the sky did calm them into rage.
A quiet mind of burning venom,
now the time to see what’s in ‘em:
why must they pay the bounty due,
when theirs was blood that served the blue?
But having seen their colleagues cut,
and leak together gut with gut,
both their minds did this evince:
square the debtor, slay the Prince.
Ideas thus above their station
to cut his throat and rule the nation!
The pair bowed to the golden throne,
and feigning they their sins atone,
did introduce his neck to steel,
his own tongue made his final meal.
But having they the Prince dispensed,
wouldst not the King some recompense?
Wouldst not the monarch thusly seek
out their skulls and vengeance eke?
And so the two, discarding boots,
tiptoed the stairs and in cahoots,
did creep inside the old man’s chamber,
to wake him from his sickened slumber,
and then would take the knives and slip,
a gash from hip to royal hip.
But pulling back the stately sheet,
found only cotton over wheat.

Had the King heard some commotion?
How now ensure their swift promotion?
If word was true the King was dying,
the Prince had ruled as his retiring
frame lay upon the royal bed.
The Prince the body, the King the head.
For thirty years or more this truth,
had governed in his absence proof
positive that the King was living,
the Prince a puppet of his bidding.
But there was rumour at the palace,
that the Prince with spite and malice,
had sent the old man out to wane,
and took the profits of the reign,
indulging pleasure of the basest,
lost the crown hand over fist,
and thus had sought to then collect,
the final coin of the true Prefect.

And thinking now about this tale,
the soldier’s faces drained to pale,
for looking to the bedroom side,
a portrait hanged in place of pride,
the king’s face set in perfect view,
did look down fiercely at the two.
Their fate thus sealed they took a breath,
and drawing swords each welcomed death.

* * *

“They killed the king!”
“They what the whom?”
“They did for him
In his own room!”
“Who did this thing?”
“The remaining two!”
“Then the prince is king.”
“But he’s dead too!
What a mess we’re in
Because of you!”

“How dare you say
That I’m at fault?!
I refused to pay;
And I’m no dolt –
They’d take what lay
Inside my vault,
And then they’d say,
‘He’s in default.
We’re owed this wage
In more than salt’”

“Now go you man;
Fetch my lawyer.
First down this dram
And go the swifter.
Into his hand
Put this paper;
Tell him the plan
I’ll see him later.”

With their remains
Must I be done.
Buried as slain –
One by one?
Or heaped in shame?
A mercy for some
Of those who came;
Their sympathies numb.
Their only gain
From this old one,
Beside the fame,
Was twisted fun
From him in pain.

Clandestine though
My history,
Many know
To leave me be.
A dozen rogues
For one like me?
I look quite old,
Near seventy,
But alluring gold
Calls hungrily.
Twelve killer blows
Should do for me.

Yet it did not.

”

- Old Debtor by Tom Markham
and its sequel
The Remaining Two by Andy Balmer
and the sequel to that
Fetch My Lawyer by Tom Markham

Now, we’re surely missing characters; there are plotholes, damn it; and, of course, we need some more jokes so we invite you to write your own sequel/spin-off and send it in to tmarkham@ceptiontheatre.co.uk and we’ll post your addition.

Hell, if you co-operate and start collaborating I might just devote a new blog especially. Then you’ll be famous and your Google rankings will soar!

Ed's Kinesics and my Potatoes

Fri, 02 Sep 2011 19:12:29 +0100

Ed’s stopped dreaming about Kevin Spacey and is now experimenting with teleportation. He recently managed to coalesce in the kitchen at the exact moment that I was jabbing a finger at society and telling it that it was the reason my baked potato was undercooked. This foray into futuristic matter transferral - in this case, Ed and his preferred homo sapien form, his corpus Edi - led to Ed’s eye appearing right in the flight path of my furious finger, which in turn resulted in a rather full-on poke-in-the-eye that no amount of frozen baked potato pressed against the swollen area would allay.

Needless to say, Ed is restricting his short-to-medium range instantaneous atomic re-assembly to the bathroom when he knows there’s no-one there and from the kitchen back to his bedroom (which is, according to his own research, where I do the least amount of paralinguistic expression and, indeed, potato baking).

Down below is another bit of the storypoem. This is the conversation between the servant and mysterious master after they hear about the deeds done by the Remaining Two. The style has changed and I again exhort all who might feel a sudden pang of creativity to send their idea to tmarkham@ceptiontheatre.co.uk and make me happy. Who is the old man, really? You decide!

"“They killed the king!” “They what the whom?” “They did for him In his..."

Fri, 02 Sep 2011 19:02:00 +0100

“

“Now go you man;
Fetch my lawyer.
First down this dram
And go the swifter.
Into his hand
Put this paper;
Tell him the plan
I’ll see him later.”

Clandestine though
My history,
Many know
To leave me be.
A dozen rogues
For one like me?
I look quite old,
Near seventy,
But alluring gold
Calls hungrily.
Twelve killer blows
Should do for me.

Yet it did not.

”

- Fetch My Lawyer

by Tom Markham

You can join in this storypoem by sending in your own piece - expand on this story and the pieces below that began it; anything you like that fits and in any style you wish - to tmarkham@ceptiontheatre.co.uk and I’ll post it here to continue this epic tale of cowardly servants, traitorous mercenaries, and who knows what next?!

The Last Supper presented in the malleable, versatile, and tasty...

Fri, 02 Sep 2011 18:52:38 +0100

The Last Supper presented in the malleable, versatile, and tasty medium of wine gums.