Andrew Chapman Poetry

hobo

I want to share a poem my sister wrote. She’s the woman who inspired my poem Mother of Squalor. With all its bizarre grammar and madness it is the truest thing thing I’ve read in awhile, with her in mind, and her permission, hobo –

hobo

hobo

im a hobo a hobo and im doing it solo

ive got boxes and boxes and holes in my shoes

im homeless but that dont mean im gonna lose

im here alive this isnt a life that you just chose

 

my den is my haven its under a bridge

u dont need money to feel this rich

im happy and peacful full of dreams

i just wish i had a can of beans

 

ive got rats there multiplying

and i cant take no more

there chewing holes in my carboard home

oh i wish they would leave me alone

 

my carboard den is unreal such a frill

the joys of building a mobile home

its so much fun an i have no bills

its small and cold and i love being alone

 

at nightime i sit in the window of shops

begging and begging for a pound in my box

but these little bastards always bring me something hot

but all i want is a tenner to bye some pot

 

i love getting high smoking pot

it chills me out and helps me sleep

helps the pain when the rats chew my feet

theyve had two toes already they think im a piece of meat

 

ive set up traps with my boxes

but them little rats are smart

i even tryed to get them eaten by foxes

but the fox didnt wanna take part

 

if only the people who look down at me

would give me a pound so i can buy rat killer

to kill these pests so i can rest happily

but fuck it thats life such a shame i dont have a knife

 

im a hobo im a hobo and im happy this way

it sounds like hell but its all i need

im gonna go busking now see if i can get someone to pay

to get some pot and brighten my day

 

 

Andrew Chapman An Authors Life

Applied Daydreaming. The Madness of the Wordsmith.

Shoe

There is a problem. Daydreaming has become a habit. It has overtaken all things. It has got to the point where these mad divergences into the imagination have spilled out of the fingers and become real. All reality is at risk. Nonsense has overridden sanity. Imaginary friends have been re-labelled as characters. The lunacy has become accepted by the ones we expect to be most rational; the literary folk.

Farewell normality. Welcome to the world of the author.

Every tendon from my shoulder to my finger tips are crying out to turn this into fiction. I want to write about the beginning of all this writing, “You there. At the back. Stop daydreaming!” said the retarded fucking teacher.

And so it would continue. But I must resist. We all know how that goes. The supressed creative mistook for an idiot. Whose fault is it that something the teacher said sent your mind into a spiral of questions and possibilities? And why is that such a bad thing? Daydreaming is less often born from boredom, and more from inspiration.

Writing is a cherished folly. Writing is applied daydreaming. That is all. For now. Soon I will come back to this blog and write something worthwhile. The beast must be fed.

I don’t know why I put a picture of a shoe at the beginning of this.

Andrew Chapman The Other Stuff, Writers on Video

My Insolent Future Self

It was Saturday and my insolent future self was giving me lip. What has the world come to? We finally have the technology to make phone calls to the future and all I want to do is be sarcastic to me. What happened? And why do I appear to be a hologram? Did I die? If so, how? Unfortunately I had had enough of me and ended the call before I had a chance to find out. I just hope the death was a quick one. I’m going to learn from this. One thing I have learned is to never buy a robot named Silver that has emotions. It is clear from his voice that he’s on the edge of madness. A violent robotic killing spree is just around the corner, and the contempt for future me is unmistakable in the robots hysterical laughter. I’m sure robots are quite cable of dispatching a hologram.

Have a go yourself at https://futureself.orange.com/