North WeezyRead More
The coffee beans fall into the spinning grinder, they give a small scream as they’re ground into powder. I use this blunt instrument to flatten it as hard as I can. Put it into the coffee machine.
Two men enter, one with a cap covering his face, the other with a face that could've done with a cap covering his face. I Stop making the latte. They put their backs to the counter, start whispering to each other, shoulders touching the space below, filled with the passing of notes. Money.
The larger of the two asks for a pie and mash. “What kind of Pie?” “A meat one.” “There are ten types of pie that have meat in them” “And a beer”
I turn my back to pour the pint. The shorter of the two asks me, in an irish accent, how much I make in a year. I turn back. “I don't know. It's my first day. Haven't even seen the contract yet”
Eye contact. Eye contact.
Taller hands me a twenty, takes the place and goes to his table. Irish asks for a pie.
“No wait. I want a. No wait. I want a. I want a drink” We walk along the counter to a row of ciders. “What's good?” “They had this one at the first Glastonbury festival” “It is good?”
“It's, four pounds”
He sticks his hand across the counter, palm open. I hand him the cider. His teeth lock, bubbles rise, cap falls to the floor. Necks it. Nods. “Yeah. I'll have that” “Pie with everything plus the cider, thirteen pounds please” He puts his elbows on the counter, takes out a wad of fifties and shuffles through them, deliberates- hands me the one he doesn't mind parting with. I hold it delicately, look at how red it is, stroke-
“I've never held a fifty pound note before”
Irish leans back, as his heels touches the ground he smiles. “So you're telling me, the first person to ever give you a fifty pound note is an Irishman?”
“Well, I'm not Irish, but my name's Irish. Sean Mahoney The only time people have ever thought I was Irish was when I was boxing.” His heels leave the ground. Eyebrows raise. “Boxing?” He takes a swig of the cider- starts pacing up and down the counter- and begins an inquisition.
“Did you ever fight?” “How many fights?” “How many did you win?” “Any competitions?”
He nods to every answer, walking up and down; yeah, yeah. yeah.
He swivels on the ball of his left foot, facing me and points to a scar the stretches from his temple to forehead. “See this?” Taller shouts from his table- his pie is nearly finished. “See this?
“I got hit in the head. I got hit in the head with a pipe. That's why I can't box anymore”
“Yeah. I used to box. Can't anymore. Cos I got hit in the head. With a pipe. I was doing building work. And I got hit in the head, with a pipe. So I can't box anymore”
He slowly lowers the finger from his head like people do in films when they're talked into lowering their gun. It’s not enough. He carries on. “You still box?” “No” “Why?”
Never in my life have I wanted a scar more than I do now. I tell him my dad kind of got me into it, that for a while it was more his thing than mine. But I did get into it and. I really loved it. More than anything.
“Did your dad used to be a boxer then?” “No. He's a, Writer”
He looks at me like I’ve stolen his cider, trying to figure out if I’m a liar. And I suddenly feel closer to the Latte side of the counter than I do the pies- I turn to the till. Fifty in hand. There are three buttons that have notes on the screen. A fiver, a tenner, and a twenty. My fingers hover over which one.
“There an issue here?” My manager pops up, takes the note from me, grabs a yellow pen, scribbles on it, puts it back on the counter, points. “This note's a fake”
Manager points at the yellow scribble and says- “it’s a fake”
Irish points at the yellow scribble and says the ink is still there, so it isn't a fake
manager says because it is there- it is fake. This goes back and forth till the manager says
they don't take fifties anyway.
Irish digs into pockets, bottoms of pockets bottom pockets and bottoms of bottom pockets to put on the counter four pounds fifty in shrapnel. Short by eight pounds fifty. Irish rolls his shoulders back and the anger leaves his face as he gears himself up for another form of expression.
His mate at the back is smiling, pie finished, with arms crossed.
manager looks at Irish as if he doesn't know what the scar is for.
“The gravy is already on the pie, just eat it now and we'll deal with it later”
The vacant stare is turned on me. A stare that doesn't try to gain advantage by intimidation but by assessing weight and shape. Eye contact. Eye contact. I hand him the plate and he sits next to his mate, who’s laughing.
Manager says I should really watch out and that we don't take fifties when they're fifties from people who don't look like they should be having fifties. Plus there's an estate down the road so, you know. Use your judgement.
I keep my eye on Irish while I'm being talked to. I ask the if the fifty is fake. Manager says “yes” followed by, “probably”
Manager leaves .I try again on the latte. Froth then repeat. Froth then repeat Froth then repeat.Turn the steam knob off. Take the metal jug and bang, swivel, bang, swivel. make the milk look like silk and pour pour pour and it's shit. pour it down the sink.
I look up, Irish and his friend have gone. Pies eaten, half a pint of the cider still on the table. It's dark blue outside. the time between after sunset and lampposts turning on, the time of night I'd be on my way to boxing. Throwing punches now feels alien.
I have to shadow box in my room just to remind myself I used to do it. That I did it. Every day. But on the days I make shitty Latte’s those days can feel so far away.
Manager enters, looks at the plates.Nods. Looks at me. And then (raises his arms) with a “typical” face. and then his face changes.
Irish stands at the entrance. Walks towards the manager. Manager is frozen. Irish takes the bottle, swigs it in front of him, walks to the counter. Puts his right hand in his jacket pocket takes out a twenty pound note, raises it in the air. Puts it on the counter, looks at me. Gives me a wink, and leaves.
In July 2015 I perform an hour long monologue at the battersea arts centre. It’s about my time as an amateur boxer and how the gym was a sort-of sanctuary when my parents divorced, one of those stories I know I had to tell if ever given the opportunity to write something long.
I needed six weeks off work, three for rehearsing (and redrafting) and three for the run. My first paycheck gets me through rehearsals, on the first week of the show I was emptying my coin jar and using Mcdonalds Metro vouchers for dinner.
Unaware she's arrived on opening night, my ex sits in the front row. I fluff my timing in three scenes and the weight of expectation fucks up any sort of celebration. A decade of youth theatre. This isn’t youth theatre. After the show she hands me a card, congratulating me on getting here, on finishing this story.
I get four star reviews, that means they're not five star reviews.
In September 2016 we’re in San Diego and you’re driving us to the beach in your mum’s car, there are bare mountains in the distance, I've never seen anything like it.
I ask if you want your birthday present early, it's a mixtape I’ve been working on for the last two months. I learned how to use garageband to mix the horns of SpottieottieDopalicious with KissUpAndRubUpAndFeelUp and Convert youtube videos to mp3
- Homeboy sandman singing happy birthday in Spanish,
- The sky is the limit instrumental that I talk over, reading out our first ever texts, leading into Kanye Wests' Only One.
- K-Pop Medley.
- Lil Boosie's "Miss Kissin on You"
We get out the car, and you lead me to this beautiful garden that has exotic fish tiny ponds, scattered everywhere. There are hidden paths, and being so close to the sea we're able to sit on a bench that frames the sunset. Our birthdays are six days apart, you tell me that this park is my present. I try to digest the thought, to give what can't be claimed.
I look back at that fish, and try to make eye contact.
your fingernails turn my head into a zen garden,
raking back every thought till my mind is clear.
My thumb travels from your temple to your cheekbone
if the shower wasn’t running I’d swear time had slowed.
repositioning arms gives space between us occasional gasps.
A spaceship manoeuvres round our moving mountains of skin
aiming for the light, before my stomach falls onto you back
“You’ll never make it!” a crewman screams. “Just… keep.. on!”
the captain barks.
that’s all the drama a Sunday can hold.
Best ways to crack a back?
a quick jolt from the bottom
of my palms till i hear the click
Your method is different to mine
it involves feet
on my spine.
I get nervous
close my eyes.
in a smaller, wider, bed
check my phone for your texts
scratch my head hard as I can
trying to find the feeling you'd give.
but I’m impatient. Want results quick.
go outside, feel climate change.
swallowed by the weight of the day
The space between us is now too large
to take. Heavy like
Large fries and a soy milkshake.
heavy like the drums on one in million
You can fill hundreds
between our hands.
and an Ocean.
hand me a towel I’m dirty dancing.
by myself, going for naps
in my jaacket.
(You’re passing up two opportunities
when you pass up one cos
you’re missing the potential stuff
that could’ve come.
Two Edinburghs skipped
but what’s the point of writing
if I’m not writing about this?)
Mate I’m a tectonic plate with legs
Got my arrow of hopes aimed to the west
When I come back
you come through my hair
and ask why I have all these
scabs on my head.
The red cheeks spread out across his pale face
Like a drop of red wine onto white tablecloth.
The frantic mouth is sane in music’s context
Otherwise it’s the high street preachers good word.
Matted black hair an imitation of thorns
Mexican-wave across his scalp with every bop.
Sweat leaping off his brow like a post-pond dog.
Shoulder to shoulder in a packed out night club.
One hand holds an Asahi like it's an Ace of spades
The other bounces like a heart attack on an EKG
The top of his t-shirt in red capital letters reads FREE
Below is the mugshot of a teenager
Whose face is the recipient of a recent beating.
One eye almost closed from the weight of swelling.
The flesh of the other bandaged open wide as peeled lychee.
A closed mouth with large lips accentuated by taut cheeks
Not one feature on his face gives away an inch of fear.
Under the mugshot reads MEEK MILL-
A t-shirt made in Philadelphia to support an incarcerated black boy
repurposed at the Moth club in East London for the sake of irony.
Another boy points at the shirt, laughs, and spuds the wearer.
Both their arms are coddled in baby fat and wobble at the connection.
They laugh after- the boy wearing the t-shirt shouts ONLINE!
Bad handwriting will make
all your poems ugly
I've made the best of ugly
When we thought it was cool
You thought it was funny
By the time you caught up
We thought it funny.
Nostalgia's dead air
letting dust rest
And metal rust.
It's not about making something
It's about whether or not you
Want to make stuff.
There's healing and discovery
In the making.
There's a line I heard that
"A poem is never finished"
It's finished when the making of
The poem stops to serve you (you you you)
Creativity is a temperamental tamagotchi.
Who's the guy that made the statue of David again,
Was it Michelangelo or Donatello?
Either way, some days man worked on
the nose, some days it was the toes.
I'm trying to say, you have to work every
day, but you're always in control of where
the work goes.
Structures are made to build homes.
Some neighbourhoods are filled with
people who've never left their houses.
I can't imagine how suffocating that
Maybe you're meant for the wilderness.
Plant some seeds, start slow
and hope a forest can grow.
Maybe you're meant to make something
different, something bigger.
Maybe they're making Super Mario World
And you're making Chrono Trigger.
Few years ago I thought my only
route was in slams
and back then the only night worth
going to was Bang!
So every week I'd work on a new piece
and when I'd get to the door I'd
see the names of my competitors
and I'd always see the name
of this guy and it would sink
my heart cos he kicked my arse
When I'd score a nine
He'd come through with a nineteen
I'd write sick lines,
My guy was writing rhyme-schemes
Night after night, I was a step behind
So I had to step to the side
a decision that worked out alright
Cos I could be getting better at
slams for the rest of my life-
I still wouldn't be a better slam poet
Than Harry Baker!
Keep on adapting,
don't stop doing.
Bad handwriting makes your
My poems are the ugliest.
I was even put in special classes.
In year six reading books for
year three cos I couldn't hold a pen
Reading books with titles like
"Daniel the Dolphin"
And it'll read like "This is Daniel
He's a Dolphin who lives in the sea!"
I was eleven man- what the hell has
Daniel the dolphin got to do with me?
I was in the playground inventing
wrestling storylines for my friends
Storing tag teams, double crosses
holders of intercontinental and
World Championships in my head.
I never equated that type
of feeling to intelligence.
I was just excited, it was fun.
You've only got one life
and if you're not doing what you want
It's bare long.
Just know you're not out of rhythm
If you're dancing to a different song
and there's no such thing as holding a pen wrong.
I'm with Jade walking home
and fifteen balaclavas get off the C11
can you say you were chased
if you were frozen
if you didn’t even run?
in the spelling
is an echo
but to even look at
the pavement stone
hurts my back
It’s easier now.
(no boot dodging)
It's the past now
(Oh no! That's hilarious)
We talk about heartbreak and
the type of pain that kills you
We steer clear of the pain
that makes you beg for life
a wet dog finally inside
a room with nice lighting
Of darlings and babes.
Since that time I froze
I’ve got better at running away.
There’s a strain of violence
and I thought that purity
A week ago I went back to my old church my old stomping grounds my old home with my old people my old sparring partners my old priests my old choir boys my old friends speaking my old language- throwing hooks into shadows, throwingropes over heads over and over again I was in the middle and it sounded like the marching of a hundred men, sweating, working so hard to be in the same state.
Not me mate.
not me mate. sorry.
There’s no coming back
from when you get hit and you’re scared.
And there’s no going back
once your mind draws that line in the sand.
Nisha finds sadness in Magnets.
The way the plus points can’t touch,
How they can only be attracted to opposites.
I’m like Nisha- they’re magnets.
It’s around nine pm on the Bakerloo line
and this girl is straightening her partners collar.
She untucks it from his jumper and smiles.
I’m like- alright love keep it to yourself.
I’m at Leanne’s house party in Queens park
she invited me, double checking if I’m single
saying it’s a bit of a singles party.
to myself I’m like- so lonely people only.
to her I’m like- what time.
There’s a bit of sadness in my nights out
and I can’t escape the sadness, it’s my own self.
The desperation for companionship
leaking into conversations gaps like a silent fart.
haha! (hold me!)
Leanne introduces me to the room as a beat boxer.
I’ve never beatboxed in my life. (Jesus fucking christ)
Try to put a minus with the plus.
I’d be twenty quid down by now if this was a pub.
I check out the living room’s DVD collection.
“You can’t come in here”
These yours? You’ve got Curb your enthusiasm!
“This isn’t the party space”
I maintain eye contact in a conversation
while reaching for a Captain Morgan
and a jar full of cookies falls off the table,
smashes. Now all of them are inedible
because they’re mixed with glass.
I’m like- I bet one of them’s alright.
Receive the look the laptop got when Lemonade dropped
I don't know what look I give back.
Hope it looks like there's no one else I'd rather look at.
Have you ever got drunk from kissing lots
Have you ever been drunk in a bath and kissed a lot
Have you ever kissed a lot
Have you ever felt safe?
Have you ever missed kissing.
Have you missed it every day?
I want to kiss you. Want you to kiss me back
I want to be near you. Want us to hold hands
I’m always away from you.
Every day I
Can’t be with the person I
want to hold on to.
It’s not right, but it’s okay,
I’m gonna leave here N-E-Way
pack my bags, leave my keys
soon you’ll see more of me.
Till then I will pray to the god of wifi:
- That when we look at each other
we wont look like Goldeneye 64 characters
- That message bubbles are always blue
- that messages always come through
- That there’s storage on our phones
-there’s never any storage on my phone,
(I've deleted so many dick pics just so
I can send you so many more
You send me a picture of your face
and it breaks me in half.
I hold my phone up in the street
And tell myself it's not daft.
(Try to remember what Tyra Banks says
'Smize' Smile through the eyes
My Smize looks like a mughsot
of a celebrity
that's been caught drink driving-
Hopeful but vacant)
I smile wide, it closes my eyes.
I don't think it looks good
Don't think it looks nice
You tell me I'm beautiful
and when you say it
I think that you’re right
balance feet, twist hips, position arm,
Hours in the mirror.
When you throw a left hook just right,
The ground births the force.
after lining up the stance
I’d make eye contact with myself
and give a lil nod.
Access my second source of strength.
Being possessive is a character flaw.
rolling knuckles kiss jaw.
Where’s the trigger warning
for men’s hands on your skin.
He didn’t see the landmine,
He did jump the fence
He can lay with the skins I’ve shed
I’m a case you make to your friends
"His school only had one stabbing
What other baggage is he carrying?"
"Straight rights aside,
has he learnt anything?"
The train jerks, throws
your body towards me
your head to my chest
My arm wraps
my feet spread
my knees bend.
My past, drip fed.
you kiss my neck to kiss my neck
my cheek’s blush, skin stretched.
I get the hard that hurts
The only hard you deserve.
My back your Japanese rock garden
Fingers tease webs from the caverns
Here’s to all the sparkles we hold.
To all the sweet patches we make.
Whenever there's a chance
We'll mix our blood.
suck fingers after paper cuts.
Tenderness hits hard
when you have a violent past.
I see my face in the chicken shop mirror and smile.
Onion rings and Fries, everything takes a while
I liked being in your room.
It was very messy but, the mess was a space filled with clothes that you've looked sexy in. A collage of buttons we undid, of zips we unzipped.
"There's a lighter in the kitchen"
I look at your noticeboard,
a testament to lyrical intelligence
and growing up on Tetris,
Friendships and show tickets-
DOOM, Scroob, Badu, D'Angelo, Tempest.
All your friends are smiling by themselves
They smile smiles parents love,
smiles parents put on cards.
I stare into their eyes for answers.
If the blank ink for pupils could
hold another darkness.
They all went the same way, you all met in the same place.
In the bottom corner there's a holiday pic of you and your sister.
She's since got taller, you've stopped getting thinner
I look at your smile and it resembles the others
so much I sit away from the board till you return.
I think about the dagger. I think about the waltz.
Delicate fingers delicately fold the rizla
with all the care a mother rocks her newborn.
The grinder a life raft in the ocean that’s your thigh.
You look so good now
You’re doing so good now.
Yeah. You say yeah.
Inhale and hold.
Let go and exhale.
Ashes in the bed.
We escape the crematorium
just to take the mates who aren't with us,
I talk to you about the phone call,
how I tried to keep him on the line.
I talk to you about missed calls,
how I said I’d call back after my shift.
I talk to you about the funeral,
how he had Sonic on his casket.
I talk about the picture they had of us when we were younger
How I looked into his eyes but only saw black ink.
Only saw a good kid.
It's not fair that all that weight was his.
It's my fault for not being there for him.
Your hand touches mine, moving it from my face.
you hold my palm with the intimacy and tenderness
our bodies were always too scared to give
and you offer me
the next best thing after a Tyson left hook.
It makes you lighter. It's good
Jerking rumbles, emails, phone calls, direct messages, knocking doors (Fucking Bailiffs)
The stress of living with a heart nudging it's owner a self employed invoice.
All my most used words exposed as gluttonous; Bunch of Hlebs, flashy in space but when the moment comes, they break, losing the ball.
My stronghold is cool. To every eloquent sentence you give me all I have in return is- cool-cool-cool.
It's abysmal, Gary.
And then there's this supposed Heavyweight Champ dick. For years, swaggering into rooms like Sonny Liston.
Then again, who can say they saw Ali coming until they were staring up in disbelief?