In our neverending mission to bring you the newest and bestest in prose talent, Cultured Vultures have this week launched our newest series: Spoken Word Soapbox.
Each week we will be bringing three spoken word efforts from the talent that you simply need to listen to. Whether they’re raw or established acts, these are the names in the field of spoken word you need to acquaint yourself with, starting with Alex McInnes.
WET CAKE
Being around you made me feel like drinking hot chocolate in the Autumn but now the mention of you makes my fists ball and my whisky breath shorten.
Walking over wet leaves, listening to The Smiths with my finger hovering above the call button. I held you in such high regard but now I realise you were just mutton.
Calling you at 2 in the morning from a scratchcard and piss strewn phone box. I read to you some words by Salinger because I am the harbinger of angst.
Standing at the bus stop and I see a girl who looks like you drive on by in a red Mini Cooper and it just reminds me of what we had, what we were. Just for an instant I though you were her.
Hanging out in the same coffee shop day after day waiting to hear the ring of the bell above the door as you approach me with that little curled up smile on your face. Embracing.
Sleeping in the t shirt you gave me on my 23rd birthday because I can still smell your scent in the fibres. Please pass me the cider.
Cowering when you eventually called because I didn’t know what to say to you, I had too much left to say to you and I crumbled like wet cake.
Sitting at my kitchen table with milk on my top lip, I decide this is the day to get over you, and I’ll see this through but the irony is that you now want to make a go of this. Are you taking the piss?
I slowly walked to your door and as you opened it your lips greeted mine and I instantly turned to butter in your hands. This was a moment I wanted to capture, thought it was time to slow the shutter but eventually I stuttered words that left you gutted.
I awoke from this nightmare one year later covered in sweat, all twisted up in my sodden sheets, constricted like Harry Houdini.
The realisation finally hits me like a lorry whose driver has fallen asleep at the wheel and I reel. I don’t need you. I need me .
All off a sudden life feels like a breezy spring morning, winter has passed and although you stole my teenage heart and never gave it back I seem to have a spawned a new one and now I just want you to do one.
Redemption.
MUSLAMIC RAY GUNS
Ban the burka, ban the burka!
England’s woes attributed to the foreign worker.
Read the red tops with pride for it is ‘they’ who hide in their letterbox head gear.
You know the score, it’s that ‘Sharia Law’ that’s dragged Great Britain to the floor.
The Sun, The Mirror, The Daily Mail, it is all of you who fear to venture behind that veil because from foreign shores they sail.
Britain for the British!
That’s all I seem to hear these days. Is it all just some kind of fucked up craze or are these people really just dazed by the failings of their own predominantly white British governments?
A huge fuck you to the Mafia of Eton and a bigger fuck you to Asians being beaten.
Fuck Poles being branded as lazy drunk soles and fuck ideals subterranean that spit on peoples Romanian and class them all as rapists and thieves for it is they that roll up their sleeves and clear up your fucking mess.
Ban the Burka, ban the Burka!
We dare not blame the British shirker.
RYDE
Ryde, you wondrous bitch!
You both disgust and arouse and you’re quite far from Cowes but there’s still plenty of cunts on deck shoes.
Union Street smells like anal sex and feet yet we all venture forth from our Jägerbomb nightmares.
Onto Charcoal Grill, the holy grail, your botchelism is yet to fail.
Wetherspoons, you’re just full of goons all dressed in their Topman duds.
And onto Blacksheep, you’re really not cheap yet your bogs still reek and are bleak.
The Moroccan entice yet pervy old men outnumber pretty young things twice if not thrice. Kasbah, you are now a has-bar.
Coburgs you may be but still you are the Squaddie. What’s that on the floor? Oh it’s just a substance shoddy.
In to the throws of the bar they call Joe’s, treading on pretty girl’s toes, trying hard not to bloody you’re own nose right before the doors close.
Ah, The King Lud, full of semen and blood yet Old Rosie is the most reliable woman in my life.
Stanley’s…well, you’re just a fucking Sainsbury’s.
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