Like rancid butter on mouldy bread
Like a cheap whore’s legs on a cheap hotel bed
Like AIDS
Like a plague that strikes then rages till everyone’s dead
Like holes in old clothes that you don’t dispose of
You just wear till they hang by a thread

Like the stains from the cut in my foot that bled
And turned my landlord’s carpet red

_______________________
Niven Ganner

Pecking around at the station of trains
A pigeon from eating some vomit refrains
A dignity shred is in its bent claw gripped
As it beaks its way under some newspaper ripped

And finds nothing. It gives a small coo forlorn
It’s like me; it feels as if it’s apart torn
We are freezing and sickly like poison Stream Soda
And twisted and backward like poem lines Yoda

_________________
Niven Ganner

We’ve been a bit quiet over the summer pursuing various solo projects and generally having some time out after our hectic Spring tour, but now Autumn is upon us we have some new dates to announce.

Next week we’ll be performing an extract of A Night On The Tiles at decibel performing arts showcase in Manchester. I won’t say much about it as it’s not open to the public, but it could lead to new opportunities to tour the show so we’ll post any news when we have it.

Meanwhile, we have new dates for the show coming up in November, in Redbridge, Birmingham and Harrow, and also our first European booking in Amsterdam next January, which we’re all very excited about!

Also, in October we will be performing our street theatre spin-off of the piece, imaginatively titled A Day On The Tiles, at the Birmingham Hippodrome for three days as part of Six Summers Festival. All dates below.

Plans are also afoot to take something up to Edinburgh next year (if not A Night On The Tiles then a simpler spoken-word/hip hop set similar to our ‘An Evening With Pen-ultimate’ event at Contact earlier this year), and also new workshops and live events in Manchester, watch this space (or the space just above this one actually).
Hope to see you in a theatre (or other performance space) near you soon…

DECIBEL:

TUES 13 SEPT
1PM
01:00 PM Pen-ultimate A Night on the Tiles Tour Ready Theatre and Drama Contact Theatre – Space 1
CONTACT THEATRE, SPACE 1
OXFORD ROAD, MANCHESTER, M15 6JA

0845 300 6200
www.decibelpas.com

A DAY ON THE TILES AT SIX SUMMERS FESTIVAL

13, 14 AND 15 OCT
BIRMINGHAM HIPPODROME THEATRE
HURST STREET, SOUTHSIDE
BIRMINGHAM, B5 4TB

0844 338 5000
www.birminghamhippodrome.com

AUTUMN/WINTER TOUR DATES:

THU 17 NOV
8PM
£9/5.50
REDBRIDGE DRAMA CENTRE, CHURCHFIELDS,
SOUTH WOODFORD, LONDON, E18 2RB

020 8504 5451
WWW.REDBRIDGEDRAMACENTRE.CO.UK

FRI 18 NOV
8PM
£10/7
MAC BIRMINGHAM
CANNON HILL PARK, BIRMINGHAM, B12 9QH

0121 446 3232
WWW.MACARTS.CO.UK

THU 24 NOVEMBER, 2011
8PM
£5
HARROW ARTS CENTRE, 171 UXBRIDGE ROAD,
HATCH END, MIDDLESEX, HA5 4EA

020 8416 8989
WWW.HARROWARTS.COM

FRI 27 JANUARY, 2012
9PM
€14 | PRESALE €12
PODIUM MOZAIEK, BOS EN LOMMERWEG 191,
1055 DT AMSTERDAM, NETHERLANDS

(0031) 020 5800 381
WWW.PODIUMMOZAIEK.NL

I can boil your smack or stir your tea
I can be played on a drunk Cockney’s knee
I can make you look upside down  – it’s like free LSD
Uri Geller bends me

I can be made of posh silver or the commonest steel
You can use one end to take a tyre from a wheel
I’ll put Quorn on your pasta or sauce on your veal
I don’t care, I don’t feel

If only that were real

I’m addicted to heroin and I scald and scream in tea
Uri fucking Geller should try my physiotherapy
And veal?  Come on, seriously?
You want my assistance with THAT little travesty?
You want me to put gravy on a cow baby?

I think I’d rather stir your tea and suffer the burns
Because I look at your plate and my spoon-stomach churns

___________
Niven Ganner

This was originally meant to be part of our set of poems about lighters, paper and plastic bottles but it somehow turned into an anti-veal rant. I don’t even have any objection to veal.

What is the point, when the point is always missed?

Samira Arhin-Acquaah aka Lucid 2011

As I rolled a late-night joint
Tucked paper tight and stuck it down with saliva
I noticed movement within
A small, unwelcome intruder
A grey spider

At great inconvenience to myself and fellow smokers
My decision
Was to pick apart the joint and release this tiny captive
From its prison

After I rolled up again
And dozed in smoky haze
Semi-awake
I got the munchies so I went to the kitchen
And cooked a steak

Niven Ganner

A few song lyrics tonight. Do they stand up as poetry? That’s for you to decide. Thanks to Rick Nice for the hook (aka the chorus).

Hook:
To the ones with the debts & frets & job doubts,
To the kids at the college & uni all loaned out,
To the charvas at the bus stops with the cider inside ‘em,
To all the call centre, bartending rappers out writing,
To all the single mums wishing that they had a career,
To all estranged dads wondering how the hell they got here,
To the dependable, expendable corporation minions
Holding dreams & schemes to voice their profound opinions
This is the sound within ‘em, a common ground within ‘em
We put it down cos the rebound of the styles we’re living
Has got us bound to the contract of the house we’re in
And we all thought we’re better than this sh**ty system

Verse 1:
[Rick]
I see billboards, bus stops, magazines, designer tops
Selling me, telling me, to drink eat, phone, smoke,
F**k, borrow, buy, sin – a well-publicised win,
Will attract public eyes in then get them all to buy in
“Life’s too short so buy the JML Ashtray”
And that way our cash strays as part of a hash blaze
We’re cheering on match days in a beered up, mashed haze,
Flashing our class shades, while the bank overdraft’s late
[Visceral]
But that can wait, I have to have that, cos that’s that
Thing all me mates have and I don’t wanna get laughed at
So that’s err- wait, there must be some mistake, pass that,
200 quid? Are you having a laugh that’s
Ludicrous mate! Did you see me pull up in a Beemer?
I mean I’m not a cheapskate, but you retail geezers
Seem to think we’re all a bunch of gullible suckers, it’s heinous!
Ah you know what, f**k it, just put it on me Visa

Hook

Verse 2:
[Visceral]
To the lad getting bullied for the make of his trainers
To the lass who’s getting acne and wishes she had some make-up
To make looking in the mirror just a little more painless
Their parents are putting food on the table, but foundation
And designer labels stretch a bit beyond what they’re making,
Don’t blame the kids, they were raised in the I-Pod generation
Hopefully they’ll go college and get a qualification
Get a decent job and buy whatever they want when the pay comes
That’s what I wish I did, now I’m stuck in the same hum-
Drum s**t, feeling like a baker the way I make crumbs
That’s why I need some entertainment, some escapism
Just look at my latest credit card statement – wait I
Don’t remember that payment there, an afternoon lap-dance?
An LRG hoodie, a matching cap and a hat stand?
And that posh restaurant I took my girl and had flowers sent through
It’s true, but now I’ve got no dough, and the rent’s due
S**t!

© Martin Visceral & Rick Nice, 2011

The lighter runs away with the remote control
The keys migrate to the fruit bowl
The devil claims our soul

The finger slips into the gap in the closing door
The pocket spits a tenner to the floor
The government starts a war

The clear skin breaks out in clusters of angry spots
The wires tangle themselves up in knots
The earth rots

The motivation goes and leaves unfinished art
The stitches fix the bleeding-heart
We        drift                apart

Niven Ganner

It seems to me that clarity only comes when
everything is anything but clear… typical!

Samira Arhin-Acquaah aka Lucid 2011

It burns, the rage unleashed from its cage,
a trade for my soul to see the forest ablaze.
Strips my flesh from my bone,
the bone from the marrow,
the hole is narrow, but the hate still seeps,
shot with an arrow it only pauses to weep,
ignited by each tear till the air reeks,
like a homing missile seeks,
it found refuge in my breath,
so deep in it’s depth, there’s no light left!
Stuck, twisted round my lungs till i choke it up like mucus,
push it out of my uterus, my rage gives birth,
puking up hate to watch it wriggling in the dirt,
then pick it up and swallow it whole, burp!
From the smell can you tell where i died and fell?
Last ringing of the bell on the boat to hell,
hate and I sharing a cell,
her hands round my throat, so I have no voice to yell,
no room to move, true
stop the fight and the struggle and let it consume,
drench me in the unforgiving force of the monsoon.
I bloom when the hate pours.

Samira Arhin-Acquaah aka Lucid 2011