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Represented performer for Illumini Event 20102................................................................. BACK ... NEXT PROFILE
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Category: Performance/ Poet
Location: London
Contact: Email


The Illegible Bachelor is a poet who seeks to catch the running commentary of life as it passes. He has an abiding interest in voices and performance, not so much as a standard stand-up or slam poet, more as a dramatic giving back of the sound and nature of things. This performance is based around a series of dramatic poems written from the perspective of characters who could have inhabited The Clerkenwell House of Detention, The Necropolis Railway and a few other locations. The aim is to give speech to lost voices inspired by these historic places and create a dynamic atmosphere suitable for these environments. He has a Masters in Poetry from UEA and has published a chapbook of 22 poems.



The drippin noise

Can you 'ear that? That noise, that drippin noise
just drippin awake. Can't they tell 'em boys
upstairs not to leave 'em taps runnin,
it's like no one cares.
Can't get a wink in with that drip drip drip drop
it's like that bloody clock, its tick tick tick tock
till it stopped. I thought it 'ad gone wrong,
couldn't understand why they was all cryin
I said: could just get another one, eh?
Took no notice, mind.
All weepin and wailin, just ignorin me.
I thought, it's only a clock for crissake
and still no ones bothered to fix it
it still reads a quarter to 3.


Then some new fellah moved in.
t hat was the last straw.
E sits down on me bedsheets
all white and freshly starched
and stares straight into me face.
It's so cold in 'ere e says
got any firewood for the fireplace e shouts
so I says, look 'ere son, this aint your room
you better leave before you fall down that staircase.
e was out the door before you could say mum
they still aint found no one to replace 'im.
I think that's why the missus's been avoidin me.
You don't wanna get on 'er bad side
she don't 'alf hold a grudge.


And when I do manage to get a bit of kip
those bloody drips keep drippin, drippin
drippin into this dream I 'ave every night:
There's this great big stone at me head
and the drips drip down and trickle
into theses letters that read R.I.P.:
and under me initals JEB it says
Born 1896, Jerry Eric Boycott fell asleep on...
but I can't see the year, I can't see the year
and then my little Lizzy in a white nightie
comes to the stone, she kneels at me grave
an starts loopin her little finger round the 8
in 1896. Liz, Lizzy, Little Liz
what's the other number Lizzy, when do I go?
She don't hear me though, she just loops
her finger round and round that 8, loopin
faster and faster, till her nail breaks,
an a drip lands on me eye and I wake.


Above poem is copyright of James Buwton 2009-2010