Wednesday, 30 July 2014

Joebot 2000

Joebot 2000                                                                           Fully functional poetbot

User Instructions

1:insert one earth pound
2 insert name and or subject. Speak loudly and clearly
3 wait
Joebot 2000 will calculate limerick based on input
4 choose printed or spoken output. Speak loudly and clearly

NOTE that earth pounds go to age concern charity for humans approaching obsolecence

Notes for Joebot:
Equipment required:
1x empty video arcade game cabinet with enough room for Joebot 2000 to sit behind screen. Cabinet to be painted with Joebot2000 font, design, instructions
1x vocoder unit or voice changing software/hardware.
 Joebot to perform original poem live in Joebotic voice.
No Internet sources to be used whatsoever.
No notes to be used whatsoever.
Possible additions: video screen/keyboard/joystick interface in cabinet unit  with information above which reacts to input from user. Joebot still to perform poems live from inside cabinet.

Joebot 2000                                                                           Fully functional poetbot

Match of the Night

The cathedral is empty; the sermons have ended
The choir’s ethereal echoes have faded
No congregation here for seven more days
No tussle, no evil, no home or away

The floodlights are off now, the dank of the night
Re-devours its kingdom, extinguishes light
Which once fired up emotions of thouands of fans
Clad in replica shirts made in far Eastern lands

For a pittance in sweatshops, imported for more
And sold at huge profit in the club’s own store.
In the studio Alan and Ronald and Desmond
Take stock of the game and the goals and the tension.

DES: Alan, you know when that first goal went in
It was one heck of a strike, wasn’t it? What d’you think?
ALAN: Yes Des, he’s had so much time to control it
The defenders should get closer, get a block on it,

It’s a great hit of course but you know when it went in
You have to say that it was shocking defending.
DES: Ron, it was two nil immediately after –
To concede so quickly, is it a disaster?

RON: I know Alan was shouting and screaming
To be honest, I understood how he was feeling
The centre-half’s gone walkies but the this striker’s unique
From that angle to score – he’s got brilliant technique.

He’s opened his legs there, done his lollipop trick,
Give the goalie the eyes there, right on the back stick,
It’s a Hollywood ball to him from Stevie G
And he’s stuck it away, that was something to see.

But as for the lad who was on the back post
Just what he was doing? He should have got close.
The striker’s six foot but the full back is bigger.
In some schools they’d call him a fuDES: Sorry to stop you in full flow big man
But Garth’s got an interview just under the stand.

GARTH: Thanks Des, I’m here with the Ullapool boss
But first I must define ‘winning’ and ‘loss’
From a Cartesian point of view, Paul, what did you think
Or indeed if you do think, if thinking exists
Or does not. Was it Kant who once wrote in grace
That perception relied on inference of space
Albeit that we can’t see it we sense it’s there
Like Xavi did last week against Osasuna?
Or is it, bear with me, the theory you favour,
Like Karl Marx said about control of labour
Would you say, Paul, that football is very much the same,
You control the ball and you control the game or
Conversely in Keynseyan terms is it then, thus,
That demand and production are not linked as such
And on the pitch the ball is the flow of the cash
The goals the demand, the players the banksDES: Sorry to butt in Garth, you’re on a roll
But it’s the end of the programme about our football
To the viewers, thanks for watching, see you next week
Enjoy this new visit to Corrie - The Street.

The theme music plays. It’s a jaunty old tune
Got to number one during World Cup ‘92
The adverts change now; from beer to tea
From new boots to slankies to cruises at sea

Back at the ground the atmosphere is eerie
Too big to be silent, the emptiness really
An absence. From here, the pitch looks so big
Yet diminished. No studs, no flobbing, no sick

As a parrot, no over the moon, no remorse
At the missed open goal that would have changed the course
Of the game. Yet such moments live on in the minds
(Or the Sky Plus) of supporters biding their time

Til next game, where all’s zeroed, it’s 0-0, let’s go,
This time lads, let’s focus, put on a real show,
Perform how you can and we’ll get our deserts
Or next week, son, you’re sub for the fucking reserves.

The congregation’s gone; there’s more places to worship
More lifetimes and lovers and pains and amidst it
Comrades and enemies, two sides of a coin
Different colours outside, but all bleed just the same

From a last minute goal in a 2-1 defeat
An encompassing burning from bruised brain to feet
But despite the despondency, all the folks still know
They’ll be back for the next game to cheer on their heroes

The lights are all off now; the seats yawned and shut,
The gates locked, the ad boards turned off, just about,
A blackbird alights on the pitch for a second,
Looks around, finds nothing, cawks once.




The lads in the studio’ve gone to the bar
To josh and to banter of golf games and cars
Supporters flop on to their couches and chairs
A quick beer, or cuppa, then pad up to beds.

But back at the ground, can we see?
In the distance, yes, we must look carefully:
With furrowed brow and too many adjectives to mention
It’s Garth on his own: still not finished his question.

Tuesday, 29 July 2014


It’s 1988.

DANNY ZUKO and SANDY ZUKO/OLSSON are in the middle of a bitter divorce.

DANNY is the owner/manager of a restaurant/club called T-Birds (after his old high school greaser crew.) The club’s well-known for its live music and BBQ food.

Coming up is the 30th anniversary of the school’s graduation, which will be held at the club. DANNY is spending lots of money on recreating the high school dance feel for the occasion.

The movie concentrates on getting the gang back together for the final dance.

DAN ZUKO, their son, is a 21 year old upcoming racing track driver.

His twin sister, LIZZY, is named after the absent BETTY RIZZO, who has gone off-radar and nobody knows where she has been since about 1978.

LIZZY is in a rock band who play at T-Birds and other local venues. They are being trailed by a MANAGER, who promises them all sorts of stuff. DANNY doesn’t trust him and is keeping a close eye on the situation.

DAN and his dad are at each other’s throats: they are too similar and are both hard-headed. SANDY is caught in the middle.

DAN has a crash taking one too many risks in an important race, at which he is being scouted by Formula One as potential talent. He has heard they are looking for test drivers and is pulling all stops out.

He also has JEFF – a bitter rival – who is suspected of sabotage.

DAN is badly injured and taken to hospital. This is another source of tension between DANNY and SANDY: SANDY has always tried to dissuade her son from the racing in favour of furthering his career in finance (his major at college.) And whilst DANNY agrees with his wife, he also is sympathetic with his son’s following his dreams. But he won’t/can’t say it.

LIZZY’s band is maybe on the verge of a tour with POISON but what is the hidden agenda of the MANAGER? She is of course, like DAN, extremely good looking.

In the run up to the reunion DANNY contacts RIZZO and the two become close. 

Do they have an affair?
How does that play out?

Will DANNY and SANDY have the last dance?

Contemporary themes to explore:
First significant talk on global warming/climate change
Reagan signing death penalty bill for drugs traffickers
Iran Contras/Oliver North
Iran-Iraq war
 First World AIDS day
Increase in home computer use

OK now someone give me 80 million to spunk on it and then it will flop to fuck anyway. Sex.

Monday, 21 July 2014

Inner Sense and Expedience

What I wanted to say

All about the things that humans can do

All the cool stuff

Music and art and I suppose love and language and expression
Even the songs I hate are valued by some
(And there’s a few of them)

(A few songs
And a few people)

And I constructed this

A sort of nursery-rhyme rhythm and iambicked-up party
Of rhyme and nods to the slime
And the sublime

There were verses and stanzas and assonances and shit
Lots of that kind of poeting wazzing
And spazzing about.

What I thought to say

Here are some cool things humans do do

Great and groovy stuff

Recipes using local ingredients and exporting those to others
Who try them and refine them, like say
Curry or Chinese spices or sort of Taginey stuff
(I had a tagine once.
I burnt and cracked it)

And I rolled over again

And through my half-braining, 5am splutter and splurge
My grey goobutt carried on making these rhymes
As I climbed down to sleep

Then there were scenes and colours of black blood and gunk
Livers torn in two by hand grenades
Faces melted by radiation

What I saw I could not see

All the shitty things humans can and have done

I mean, real bad stuff

Exploding people’s eyes because they prayed
To  a different imaginary sky magician
(Invading and taking territory
All that shit)

I grunted at a dead

And I struggled to comprehend

All the fucking point of this consciousness

Whether I was culpable,

Who the fuck cares what the fuck one twat writes?

Thinking something without acting

Worse or at least equal to a machete stroke
Or phlegm on the face of a
(insert your own racial epithet
Here, if you want)

Anyway, this poem, such as it

Faded of course as the sun tickled my scalp

It tends to come up

Every day anyway, somewhere. So these bombs
Or songs or achievements in science
(Or art, or mechanics, or anything
Really progressive)

Made me realise

That whilst humans, like me I suppose, are

With finding out How, What, Where
And When

There’s still no progress on this one shard I remember
From this sort of poem I was going to write
(Or an essay, I suppose, or graffiti
Or a T-shirt)

What I wondered about was
The eternal:


Sunday, 20 July 2014

if I'm ever

if I'm ever really dead
then grow tomatoes in my head
plant potatoes in my shoulder
as my body's getting colder

raise some cabbage in my feet
mushrooms in my, um, my seat
cauliflower for my eyes
lotus flowers in my thighs

if my bones return to dust
back to ashes if they must
nobody will remember me
but they might have me for their tea