A #MeToo poem based on a true story

Here’s a slam poem I wrote last summer, very much based on a real encounter and reflects a few others in this futile showbiz industry. Feels great to get it off my chest after sitting, nodding and smiling a lot.  A humongous thank you to all involved.


Live performance of ‘Actress Collector’ (Previously called ‘Mr. Bogus Director’)

Last Summer (2017), I wrote this piece after a particularly cliché encounter with an American director in Paris, although I am certainly referring to several similar encounters over the last 5 years of castings in the film and theatre industry.  Turns out to be rather in line with the current topics on Harvey Weinstein and the #MeToo movement, so I felt the urge to share.  Hope you enjoy it!

Actress Collector

So you see yourself as a director, an eccentric film maker, a suave social faker, credit yourself the actress you’ll make her. You’ll talk of politics and philosophy, the art of film and cinematography. You’ll schmooze with your rehearsed knowledge, judge her on her university or college, act overly unique and defined, arrange to meet somewhere eclectically designed. You’ll take your shoes off under the table, tell an old fable and pretend this stupid game works. Maybe sometimes there are perks, the odd girl naive enough, unweathered to the obvious bluff, inexperienced with this director stuff and your contrived remakes ‘off the cuff’.
   I can’t help but picture this twisted mixture – you convince yourself of it, but I think it’s a load of shit. Maybe I’ve seen too much, met too many like you to fall into your clutch, your insincere intentions, your terrible conversation interventions.
  I’m so sick of the type of person you are, greedy and false, taking things too far. Opinionated and arrogant, no sense of embarrassment, always right and the actress wrong, her the eager and week, You, the knowing and strong. A puppet you can pull the strings of, with all the bullshit that you sing of.
   Is it the combination of testosterone in your pants and the desire to control a romance that makes you think this is normal? Well, more arty and informal? I mean, does this shit actually work? Are there girls out there who don’t think you’re a jerk? Or perhaps there’s just the odd one, who’ll put up with your cum, your dirty dick and smelly breath, in order to play that role and act that death, to update her showreel, I mean, her career won’t feel the impact of your below average creation, the onscreen duration of plagiarised content, a perception so warped and bent, but you’ve just enjoyed the process. In fact, I doubt you’ll finish this mess, your type rarely do. I really think I can see straight through you.
   So no, I think I’ll pass on the call back this time. Being told I’m a good candidate is fine, ‘not ideal but workable’ was your phrase, after no audition, just listening to you talk about yourself for 3 hours… what a blaze. Squeezing me in to your busy schedule to discuss further my potential, oh but wait, you think I’m fish to your bate, perhaps you can’t tell, but I can sniff out your smell and frankly it stinks, despite the offered dinner and drinks. I’ll leave you to your sad facade and hope one day you’ll drop the act. Because in fact, I know you have all the time in the world, enough for your illusions to be unfurled.
   I wish you all the best mister bogus director, ye faithful actress collector. And my advice would be, to try tinder instead of a casting directory, to force your next romance, you might stand a better chance. Farewell my new friend! Go suck on a dick you seedy, untalented bellend!

Spoken Word Competition – Sum up the year in one minute

A year in one minute. A whole year in one minute when my life has changed within it. How can words possibly break down, break my frown, keep my feet on the ground, when all around, people aren’t living any more.
   When my body’s been sore more than before, reminding me how tangible this life is, how lucky I am to be able to cry this. We mark each year with the biggest event and nothing can prevent us from ignoring this now. How, without our smart phones we’re all just decorated bones, unable to look into the eyes of our closest allies without feeling the need to check our screens to disturb our dreams with online schemes or the latest blackhead removing creams.
   But in this year that really did fly by in one minute, I’ve learnt something truly valuable within it. My friend died before turning 25, he’s still so alive in my mind and I struggle to find, peace with this existence my generation and the next seem to accept. To live for the post. I don’t mean the letters you open whilst eating your toast. I mean the brag and the boast. An ugly host to our ever less sincere experiences. Losing all sense of what an experience is. A year in one minute, as documented by my phone but now watch me bin it.


When autumn’s crisp breeze finds its way
through the window, tickling your skin, a gentle
grin, the distant buzz of mewing, the scent
thats sewing, it’s way through the day, to your
nostrils to say hey, remember that time,
when those small hands were mine, collecting twigs,
building dens and picking figs, running
as though you’ll never tire, bare feet on the stones
like fire, the sun’s warm kiss, so much to miss.
Nostalgia to me is like the sea, textured,
wild, rough and free, soft but powerful,
surprising and salty. Like biting into a pear,
forgetting where, as time has swapped, reversed
and stopped, for a precious second, a memory reckoned,
as clear as day, after all each day, is a day,
 a continuous loop, but taller you stoop, older
your skin wears, your bones grow and your clothes tear.
Is it our youth, that brings life to truth?
A sound, a smell, how loud they can yell,
how strongly they can remind, of the moments
hidden within our mind. Isn’t it incredible?
How something so simple or edible, can change time
as we know it, flicker through decades and show it,
to be as if yesterday in the summer of ’97
is now today. It’s a little like watching a plane
fly across the sky, a curiosity extending
that high, to be the one looking down,
at your past self lying on the ground,
gazing up in wonder, oblivious before the thunder.
Is it time or life that takes so much from us,
or gives us all that we have? Which is
the thief, or more a belief? Our infinite energy,
what will never be, but don’t you see?
It runs through you, through me. Like a film edited
and cut, moved about and mixed up,
how our minds choose the parts, of our life’s
moments and story starts. A puzzle of
delights, some darker plights, those seconds
of joy, when you’re a young girl or boy,
numb feet in the stream living your daydream.
Eternally grateful, for a childhood so present,
like the nuts i fed to our pheasant, who visited
every morning, whilst the wood pigeons
were dawning, a childhood so fresh and adventurous,
the games in the forest of trials so treacherous.
Bring me back to that richness, of running
free and fearless. As time stands still, if it
can stand at all, after all, our own
free will, is often what makes it fall.