pictures of me

My Beautiful Face, again

I am genuinely honoured to present to you the work of one Jessica ‘Hot Lips’ Kim, done at my mild nagging that she fills her unemployment with my face. She has opted for an 80’s Amiga-game look, if I am not mistaken. This is A) not inaccurate, B) awesome. Thanks, Jess!

THE RELAUNCH

Welcome to the all-new, all-shiny ALEX-SPENCER.CO.UKJust by entering that easy-to-remember don’t-forget-the-dash address into your browser of choice, you’ll end up here, at my wonderful blog. There might be kinks to get out, I’m not sure, it’s been surprisingly easy so far. (I’ve even still got the nicely fitting akadaffs.blogspot.com address as an alias. Clever, huh?) This wasn’t at all a vanity thing, honest guv, just an attempt at respectability.No man who hides under tables could be vain:So, to celebrate my new prime location, I’m going to try and do a week of articles, something every day. Most of it new, some of it written for elsewhere, possibly even a drawing or two; but all-me, all-exciting. I might even do requests if you ask nicely. Get excited.

I AM THE EDITOR.

Spent the last couple of days working on a Creative Writing project for Uni, where I took some poems by First Year Students, that I kinda-liked-but-weren’t-that-great, and tried to make them sing a little better. I was reasonably happy with the results, and I loose them upon you, the unsuspecting public. An Honest ConfessionAn overgrown beardForeign skinA cotton kufiAnd, then yourRucksack. The sudden tension in my musclesIsn’t my fault-Blame The Sun,The Telegraph and The Mail.They taught me(Media Special Ops)Your face, your lookYour colour.Symbols on the red-bannered Flag of Terrorism. I’m sure you’re a decent blokeWe probably have a lot in commonMaybe you’re a Blues fan too.Why are you reaching for your pocket?Those headlines flash through my head:‘Train Terrorist Leaves None Alive’.Should I jump on you? Stop you? How? You pop a Polo into your mouth, then sigh. The SpiderCraning over the cliff-edgeOf a high chair,I stare into the empty sink,Except for the spider in its depths.Climbing up the edge, then slipping. (I don’t get to play, anymore.They hide away in their room,Clutching secrets close.) Run water into the sink,The spider dancesJust to stay still.Trails of legs scribbling-Mum says my writing’s like a spider’s.His legs trickle out across the page. Over the rush of waterI can hear the sounds.Elastic bands snapping,Over sore, red hands.The crackle of Mum’s voice, Daddy shouting-He never shouts at me. (Mum’ll come to the sink soon,With her eyes like shampoo’s been rubbed in andShe’ll dab at the rivers running down her face.) I make the tap a riverOver the stupid spider in the sink.Anyway I think it’s probably betterDown the plughole. (And again, I feel: why don’t I put up any poems that are properly my own, that I’m really proud of? Because, A, I’m not writing any at the moment and, B, I feel like doing that means I can’t submit them to magazines and such. Which I should really get on…)