I’m back again, but with a different approach. My life’s more packed these days than in 2010 when I first set out to focus on writing every day. Now I’ve got a dissertation of poems to polish up for my masters degree; castings to go to for modelling purposes; shoots to attend for money and projects to apply for with the Arts Council. So here are some rules, I’m to abide by, in simple bullet form:

• I have to upload something every weekday. The weekend is a grey-area. Most of the time there won’t be posts then.
• ‘something’ includes videos, images and the like. For the most part it will be poetry.
• Most of the work that I upload will be in draft-form. They aren’t final.
• And, well, that’s it. Simples.

It’s the Olympics. The stadium is behind our flat, quite a while a way. The other night we were woken up with what sounded like artillery fire. 

Thanks again, Tumblr.

Max

Weeks of bubbles’n’babble
people gobbed’n’gabbled.
Spit-spooled remains in pint glasses
on bars. Piss stained carpets
smudged mascara, greased
and bare.

Hugs, held in
till they burst.
Heads touched and leant
Siamese twins born again.

Hands jigsawed in pyjamas
recounting children-book experiences
all grim and dark and unchildy.

Five-hundred stubbed cigarettes
holding half-said
sighs.

Secrets blurted
at the speed of a hummingbird’s
wing with brackets open
tangents never closed
branching, open and full.

Weak tongued whispers
strengthened by glut and grit
bosom-buddied-strong
march overcast,
withdrawn
hungover and done.

Stormy.

Wild.

And scared.

History isn’t just for books
but the gaps between teeth
jagged nooks
the lines on a palm
crossed and
cross
and furrowed brows.
The shape of bruises
scars and
the rhythm
in uncomfortable tales.

It’s …

it’s …

brash, brazen and big!
And dancing.
And drunk.
And full.

I’m home, here.

I remember
shuffled goose-step
slap slap slapping along.

Skin,
white as salt and freckled
from March to September.

Legs: forests.
Arms, branches.
Willowing and wide.

This is my 200th post since starting the website on Valentines Day 2010.  Woo.

maxwallisvideos:

I went to Word Soup last night in Preston, it was their 1st birthday! All grown up.  Anyway I heard a lot of good poetry and it was a lovely venue.  I was on the open mic and did For Dicks and Linguistic Approaches to Love.  Here’s the latter, you’ve all heard For Dicks enough by now I’m sure.  Video recorded by Norman Hadley.

Linguistic Approaches to Love

I could reminisce about the sibilance in your uncertain sounds
the fricatives of your fucks, the vowels in your moans.
Could dot-to-dot the consonants that construct your 
harsh-angry-hate and make of them a petal, bloomed.
Could take the condemnations, the indignations
dissolve them into sheer potential of hope.
I could reword your sentences, edit your paragraphs 
recast you as a whole different character to the world.
Could take your adjectives away until you’re forgiven
for all the words you played with.
Could crush all the verbs into letters with no meaning
till we’re left with no substance - too.
Just people trapped in the present with no action
gaining no traction, just stagnant and blue.
It’s the beauty of love, 

that we’d do anything for you.

Others hated Troll’s hangout spots
underbridges, tunnelsides
in abandoned houses, estates
a modern troll—.
Didn’t like the water, sorry trolleys
pet plastic bags, following him.
How he’d smoke and guffaw
and drink too much
brazen, blazing with life
climb up the scaffolding
on construction sites
shouting my name.
Troll could make constellations
out of bottle caps,
unwrap Quality Streets with his toes,
remake the world his own.
Unravelled before his time
lost.  Grown up
he uncrooked his teeth,
flattened his hair
smoothed his face to satin flesh
grabbed his briefcase
and snuffed his spark.

Shadow sits behind you.
Watches, licking his lips.
Witches writhe in his hands
dancing cloudsong storms
covering daybright.

They bellyjangle rain into hail,
then let it fade till it’s just you and him
and a broken smile.

Know and think of us:
how we turned night-time into dawn 
just by … chatting
till the birds and bin men came 
and sang.

maxwallisvideos:

I’m in the process of streamlining the different sides to the site so that performances will be in a repository of their own. So, welcome to the video section! wahey!  Anyway, I met up with the lovely Jo Bell - Glastonbury Festival website Poet in Residence and Director of National Poetry Day here in the UK the other day.  Dominic Berry joined us and we had a good chinwag.   Speaking of which, her new project Bugged wants UK writers to eavesdrop on July 1st and write novel poetry/ fiction/ etc based on snippets that they overhear. They have a Facebook page and a Twitter so go contacting if you’re up for it!  Less of a tangent Max … Jo had brought her Flip video camera with her so we took a few videos of us performing poems in an alleyway-type-thing near Manchester Central Library - here’s one of mine!

Wake up get coffee go school go form sit down say yes sit alone say yes. Bell.
Walk lesson sit down in lesson sit learn. Sit up you’re slouching.
Sit down you’re standing. Sit up. Sit down. Sit up. Sit down.
Ask to take your blazer off! Can I take my blazer off?
No. Summer. Boiling. Teachers command heating.
Wasp hits window pane wind plays hair. Bell. Shuffleshuffleshuffle.
Eat dinner alone. Burn pasta in Food Tech. Go to library when you see a fist
around hallway corner wrapped in brickhousesportsplayer skin.
Know deep down just insecure. Still insecure. Sit read, read and sit, watch clock tick.
Waiting. Tick.
Waiting. Tock.
W-a-i-t-i-n-g
stop! Bell. Ding. P.E. get changed watching guys watching you watching them.
Wonder why legs so hairy. Listen people talk shaving foam, girls and cum.
Scary showers.
Think in computer games, books, all the work you have to do. Hit. Slap. Punch ribs.
Don’t hang about with losers—kick—your brother was popular.
Go out play games never play again.
Watch crotches bounce in shorts. Sweat, salivate, hardon.
Wonder why your legs look so thin.
Wonder if you’ll grow into the socks or if they’re meant to be that big.
When armpit hair will grow.
Boiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing.
Willies run around fields with humans attached to them.
Pretend you have asthma, pretend you have bone problems,
pretend you have a sore throat because you need that to do press ups …
wonder why all the guys get groin strain and you don’t.
Drink water. Play hide and seek with shadows.
Nice P.E. teacher has funny moustache, teaches geography.
Try to play with girls but you’re not allowed.
Don’t feel like a girl but don’t feel like boyboys either. Zoom. Undressed, tie knotted, blazer on,
out.
Sore leg is bruise. Go French talk French, know French for Fuck and people laugh with you.
Plucky chicken. Play chicken. Voice high, you’ll be gay, boys say.
Guy threatens you in electronics with knife. That’s life.
Try to never wake up, take pills but stick to doughnuts. Last and only attempt. Laugh about it now.
Puberty hits cum comes, slippity slip, new friend play games with. Wakes up with you!
Doesn’t answer back!
Watch porn all day till your hand hurts.
Mum and dad find internet search.
Blame it on guinea pig.
Wake up wank off get coffee go school go form sit down say yes sit alone say hi—hi, hello.
Girl says yo.
Talk weird talk fun get drunk go numb, make friends have parties smoke pot in bush fourteen
laughing. Man in moon in leaf, dig boot out of river, twirl around fall over.
Celebrate. Drink. Smoke up trees scare people.
Go college get forgotten, get friends get popular.
Snakeskin shrivelled off loner into new man, new hair, nice shoes.
Have sex, doesn’t last.
People talk like they didn’t hate you.
Get grades, have friends
go surfing get cool, fall for boy, have sex, have noisy sex parents heard
get broken
get healed
go clubbing get drunk no boys just drunk, let world swirl
get healed.
Do good, go uni, lose boy, drop out, lose another, break down, clamber up
still same best friend now grown up smiling says yo,
hello.
Drink more, laugh more, eat more, smoke more, hug more.
Think back, hazed, grey-phased: past.
Grin. Walk on. Going somewhere son.

Indie lads are a problematic temptation
when seeking that cure to frustration:
impossible to know
which ones’ll say ‘no!’
and which ones really want you to fuck ‘em.