Poetry : Tommy's Asylum

How proud I felt, sat there, gazing in my

mirror, as purple gel swept through my scalp,

braking the silk feel as I massaged my

hair in circular motion into hard spikes.

I drew my face into equinous shapes

as I applied moisturiser with heavy

hands, gouging my skin into a youthful

face. Donning my violet shirt, I ventured out.

With the rain flashing in puddles like snakes,

sky-blue, writhing in a pit, the fifteen

minute walk, was drenched out of my lazy mind.

I took out my phone and called for a taxi.

"Fifteen minutes" they said. Ironic, but

I would be warm and dry. Twenty minutes

later a car pulled into my street, with

Goat's Taxis emblazoned on the door side.

I arrived at the Asylum, standing

among the hordes, pushing and jostling

as we entered the shadowed hall - the light

attracted us to the bar like moths.

"Five squashed frogs" was the generic order.

Sickly yellow shots, burning like hot oil,

as one by one we pushed them down our throats,

while our greedy eyes gurned and searched for more.

An as the poisoned-drink, hit our bellies

an then our eyes, I saw you there, a cow

on the dance floor. In an bluey dress, pushing

up your tits, right inyuh face, you looked nice.

My insides was fiery with brimstone as

I lustfully watched and sumat twiched down

there, yuh-no. I leaned to my mate an said

"She definitely wants one from Tommy!"

"Not if that cunt has ought tahdo wid it!"

He sez, as some lad who thinking that hes

tha dogs bollocks, starts getting off with you

an slips one of is finguhs inyuh bra.

"Youse lookin green pal" ma mate sezta me

"Go furah chunda!" Threw the toilet daws

ah spilled ontuh duh sink where ah splashed

some icey water inmeh fuggin face

"Looks like you've had one too many!" I ears

I lugs upinduh fayse of duh cunt who

was pullin you (slag) "Fugof" ah shouts an

swing fuh him, but the fugin cunt doghis

Es got me in a bear-hug an smashes

me onduh mirra. i sees vuh red stuffs

triglundun mafayse as he threttens tuh

brake alohme lugs and alohmeams

I get he schort ted owt of Aslyum

Sos ontuh Primea tuh get sum Ratmeet

ina pitta layed owt in one ofvem

litul oringch bockses an ex ter ra cheeps

Fuggin hav a bur gur too justabe

shaw wasa cunt itsgundunmehshurt Fuc

Sit on vis parkbench an wipe it aroff

ah vink parcbencheese are undahrighted

Tom Peel

Feedback appreciated

Poetry : My first Hai-kiss

The girl that is sexy,

Is the one that with a glance

Turns her back to me

Tom Peel

Feedback appreciated

Poetry : An Idiots Guide to the Death of Human Beings by a Literate Fly on a Variety of Walls

A human "being" is a curious name for

a species who spend half of their lives

lying in the dark competing with each other,

to see who can silently imitate their deaths.

Yet, when they have mastered this art

they are tested in the purest buildings

to see how many blips are left in a

machine connected to their soul.

The victor receives a glorious ceremony,

where it rains (without clouds) on the faces of the herd.

The human "resting" is then either, stored away

in the basement, gravely marked for later use,

or digested by grabbing orange spear-heads

until they are baked in a ceramic pot filled to the

brim with colourless sand and taken to

a cliff, trig point or mantle piece

to be disposed of, as the herd huddles

together against the wind and the weather

Tom Peel

Feedback appreciated

Poetry :The Overdressed Whore

Among the strobes and the beer-stuck floor,

You will find my protagonist, the overdressed whore,

Wearing loose clothes, which she left at the bar,

Unless she came out wearing just knickers and bra.

She spins like a whirligig, twirling her head,

Whilst the lads, for a bet, will take her to bed.

She's the last resort, the three am vice,

If you've had a barren night, she will suffice.

You can see her every morning, walking back at eight,

A degraded reflection of an amorous night,

Panda-run eyes, stilettos in hand,

A false number on her arm, blurred and signed

"I should find out the name of the overdressed whore,"

I think, as she slips shyly out of my door

Tom Peel

Feedback appreciated

Poetry : Walking Home

Out of the street, swarmed a hive of hoods

Stalking me with their gauze-like faces

Shoving and skulking, snarling they said,

"How lonely does it feel to be you?"

And as I meandered I met a

Beautician, with make up three men used

Who, muzzled and marked, mumbled and moaned

"How lonely does it feel to be you?"

Covering my tracks, I was caught by a

Camper, carrying his kerbside crap.

Clutching and crutching, he coughed a clause,

"How lonely does it feel to be you?"

With my wife wrapped in my arms, I thought,

"How lonely does it feel to be you?"

Tom Peel

Feedback appreciated

Poetry : Who knew that hair could weigh so much?

It shows a picture, hung in a hollow home,

Without windows or lights, but countless mirrors

Reflecting the cruelty, but hiding its form

As you try to catch it with a broken net

I don't know who I waste my time on more,

Me or you, you or me, me or me?

I get lost in my hungover mind,

And plan the ways in which you plot to hurt me.

Your distant noise means nothing

To me, I mean nothing to me

Tom Peel

Feedback appreciated...

Opinion : Glass Ceilings

I hate the term glass ceiling, it is pointless, ambiguous, more outdated than a beige floral motif and makes an irritable insatiable tapping noise when hit by rain. My 6th form centre (Yes, we had a whole centre, because I am one of those statistics who went to private school, even though it was in inner city Bradford - which has a lovely reputation for schools) thought itself useful to install an actual glass ceiling - reinforcing the thought in our compressed minds that although we were paying for our education, it, being from Bradford wouldn't give us too much of an advantage in the real world.

Oh and by the way, before we properly start, the subject which has led me to opening this blog by talking about glass ceilings, is of course the latest scare-mongering report on social mobility or lack there-off, written by those who mistakenly believe we are living now, under the same three class tier system as we were in the '70's

The problem with these reports is that they spout percentages and statistics in as much abundance as the Niagara Falls spouts water of the top of its chilly edge. These are then picked up by the media and taken out of context, go un-compared and get so twisted that they resemble the original statistic as much as Jacko resembles his original face. For those who are forgetful or ignorant, here is a statistic from myself:

"Jobs in the service industries have increased by 45 percent, from 14.8 million in 1978 to 21.5 million in 2005, while those in manufacturing have fallen 54 percent from 6.9 million to 3.2 million over the same period"

Just for clarification, service sector jobs are typically those ones which employ the middle class, i.e: media, education, health care, real estate, legal practice etc. While manufacturing are obviously jobs which involve manual labour commonly associated with the working class.

Now it doesn't take much to see that today the manufacturing sector is employing approximately 5% of UK's population, showing a reduction if not eradication of the standard class system. Famously, on the topic an unnamed union leader declared "No longer can I call on my comrades, who now have a mortgage, two cars and an annual holiday, to march for better conditions". It appears that the middle class and working class have merged - typical working class jobs such as plumbers earn more than teachers who were of course the stalwart of middle class sensibility:

"John Major in 1996 argued that “we are all middle class now” – in other words working class living standards have risen to such a degree that the difference with middle class people have become blurred."

This merge has given rise to a new three-tier class system, in turn introducing a new social class - the underclass. The underclass is easily personified in chav form - apparently they live on the dole, take drugs, procreate another baby in tandem with every cigarette they smoke on their 30-a-day habit and generally mug/vandalise/burgle and occasionally rape 83 year old women and lock their kids under the bed of their local, convicted child-sex-offender weirdo of a relative. Basically the kind you find on Jeremy Kyle

Moving on, it is not surprising then, what with the rise in affluence of the working class and the emergence of the disastrously degenerate under-class who are infinitely more poor than the old working class, that there has been a rise in the number of families with an above average income. This then shows why there has been a rise in the amount of people coming from above-average incomes in industries such as media and accountancy. The fact that there is a larger number of more-affluent families shows that social mobility is happening, take my families example for instance:

My paternal grandparents hail from a mill-town called Low Moor and lived in a small terraced house without indoor toilets - a typical working class family of the time. My father was born in the '60s hitting the job market in the '80s. Having not gone to college or anything like that, he decided to become a salesman, and after a variety of jobs settled in selling computers. He worked his way up as the industry boomed and now is living in a detached house in the more middle-class area of Baildon and drives an Audi TT. Similarly, after having their second child my grand-parents realised they needed a larger house, so my grandmother decided to get a job as a typist and they both worked until they could afford to buy a nice semi-detached house in the middle-class suburb of Baildon. This goes to prove that social mobility is extremely accesses able - if you put in the work.

To finish, as I am getting horribley bored by such a dull subject, where I might just be talking a load of shit, here is another quote concerning John Major:

"We have a country in which a former circus manager's son, John Major, became prime minister - don't talk about glass ceilings."

And a concluding sentance on statistics - just remember you probably have an above average number of legs!

Reading:

www.bbc.co.uk/news

http://www.isj.org.uk/?id=293