Crack **********

Read. Turn. Finish. Sigh. Think.

Chop, fry, splash, simmer, serve.

Eat.

Watch. Laugh. Nudge. Rewind. Snort. Snigger. Gasp. Consider.

Run. Scrub. Sweat. Stand. Dry. Slump. Retire.Type.

No, this is not a piece of painfully modern verse, but my attempt to bring down the capitalist system with a description of my most recent goings on. (I have goings ons rather than activities as activities are far too, well, active.)

According to  Crack Capitalism (John Holloway: Pluto £17.99),  nouns (car, wall, food) hide the activity that created them. Therefore all 'anti-capitalist literature should abandon nouns and just use verbs'.

Verbs.

My little protest (above) made the Dow Jones Index plunge by 0.000000000003 of a cent.

I wonder if abstract nouns count as anti-capitalist? They cannot be seen, touched, smelled or tasted, have no monetary value - and very little literary value, come to think of it ...

Still, it's a bit rum to charge £17.99 for a book on how to be an anti-capitalist, don't you think?

I studied Sociology at night school when I was sixteen (so I could avoid further Latin) and until then had thought capitalism was WRITING LIKE THIS. Within a week, I was fired up by a whacking big set text - the infamous Haralambos - and subscribed to New Society (as it was then) which resulted in my father thinking we were on one of MI5's lists.

There was a row every Wednesday as my left-wing periodical landed on the doormat. (Making strange noises on the upstairs' phone whilst Pa was talking on the downstairs' phone probably didn't help the situation.) I told him that his morning delivery of The Daily Telegraph would cancel out any suspicions raised by my 'pink rag' but he wasn't reassured.

Capitalism clearly isn't working. The earth will run out of resources if we carry on consuming so greedily. Let's bring down the ********** to its ***** by only using ***** when we write. (Ooh, I believe that last sentence brought about a wobble in the Hostess/Twinkie empire.)

The posters for our protest marches - there'll be several, don't worry - are going to be tricky.

STOP THE ***!

BAN THE ****!

LEGALISE ************!

If you can offer a noun-less solution, I'll be forever in your debt.

Never Kiss a Man in a Canoe

Is a sensible piece of advice. You'll only get wet.

On the subject of advice, I've been given more - only slightly solicited. I was bemoaning (like moaning but posher) the fact that I hadn't written any good poems for ages.

'Write some bad ones then,' said The Man With the Beard.

He went on to explain the logic of this suggestion: if you are writing bad poems, at least you are still writing, and eventually you will go on to write good poems again, or at least fair-to-middling poems. But if you're not writing, you won't be producing good or bad (or even fair-to-middling) poems.

Just write.

So I took The Man With the Beard's advice, arrived two hours early at a poetic event, armed with my pen (it is, after all, mightier than the sword) and second-best notebook, all ready to write a poem before The Acts - sorry, poets - rolled in.

Writing a poem is not easy when every man and his dog - not to mention The Acts - had arrived two hours early, too, and wanted to chat.

Still, I wrote something; not quite a poem, not quite prose and - do you know? - I feel all the better for having written it.

If one (i.e. me)  knows one ought to be writing and doesn't, each time one even thinks about writing, one is consumed with feelings of guilt and worthlessness.

Well, guilt mainly.

All potential joy is leached out of the act of writing - which is a highly unsatisfactory state of affairs.

Reader, if you are also experiencing feelings of guilt and/or worthlessness for not doing good, erm, things, then my considered advice is to do some bad things first. The badder the better. It'll make you feel marvellous. Promise.

The eyes of fire, the nostrils of air, the mouth of war, the beard of earth.

The Banned List # 5

An occasional list of things that should be banned in writing

1. The word 'then'. I was chatting about this with my Wicked Friend the other day. He had sharpened up his latest manuscript by deleting every then. He said it had made all the difference. Then is a lazy word. Writers use it because they can't work out how to travel through a scene.

"Then the mysterious jewel thief climbed down the cathedral. Then he passed some stained glass windows of Jesus and then he was was struck by romantic thoughts."* (Jesus does that to me too.)

2. Attributing lack of sound and motion to dumb, motionless objects.

"Notre Dame stood silent and still in the moonlight."*

Did it really? You mean it wasn't engaged in a Breton folk dance whilst singing La Marseillaise as is its usual wont when the moon is bright?

With several hundred thousand words to go, I have already been acquainted with motionless armchairs, tables, wardrobes, cottages, rocks, mountains and teapots. None of them are singing, whispering, shouting, chortling or burping. Their unnatural silence is unnerving.

3. Characters who behave out of character. For example, a 'well-respected psychiatrist' who says (at the first appointment) to the disturbed patient who is having 'visions':

"It's probably your guardian angel. Have you tried speaking to her?"*

These days, medics only have to suggest that you can catch chlamydia from an unwashed turnip to be struck off. Surely Guardian Angels are also beyond the pale?

4. Spell check. I hate spellcheck. It has turned far too many brains to mush.

"He [The mysterious jewel thief] was hair to the thrown. Then he gained access to the Presidential Sweets in the Paris Ritz Hotel."*

But then, as my Wicked Friend suggested: "Perhaps, after all the romantic thoughts - thank you Jesus! - the jewel thief was actually sucking Sarkozy's bonbons?"

* I am not making this stuff up.

The Truth, The Whole Truth and Nothing But ...

Oi! Poets! This post is for your benefit. Dedicate your next book to me, chuck a percentage of the royalties my way (cash only), place laurels on my brow, scatter rose petals where'er I walk - the usual poetic shenanigans. You'll be begging to do all this and more in an attempt to convey your deepest, most sincere gratitude.

Why? Because I've found out where you've all been going wrong.

There is simply no point in sending off poems to competitions, sealing the envelopes with a hopeful kiss, and waiting for your genius to be discovered. Or submitting poems to magazines, pestering editors with manuscripts, trawling round the literary festivals or (shudder) networking.

Only a dunderhead plays that game.

The real Poetic Genius invents competitions and poetic crowns, then awards them to himself. He claims to have appeared on the same platform as the Big Name Poets. (He was moving the furniture but that's by the by). He says he has been given the keys to New York and the padlock to Birkenhead. He has taught poetry to the brightest of young minds.

And it's all true ... because he says so.

With this in mind, I should like to draw your attention to my ALL NEW! Poetic CV.

(CLEARS THROAT)

Moptop is a well-regarded poet who has gigged extensively throughout the known universe.

And Wirral.

She was poet-in-residence at the Sydney Opera House where she became a personal favourite of Dame Kiri Te Kanawa. She has been given the Freedom of Bootle, Walton Vale Shopping Centre, several engraved pens and umpteen blessings by The Pope. She is well known down The Docks.

Seamus Heaney is a meany unless Moptop opens for him.

Carol Ann Duffy gets huffy when Moptop's name is mentioned.
(Moptop turned down the job of Poet Laureate).

Kanye West and Eminemineminem have both said (separately), "She taught me how to rhyme, bro, ya dig?"

Roger McGough and Brian Patten say (in well-practised unison), "There's only one Liverpool poet: Moptop. We've been living a lie all these years."

Moptop has taught poetry at all of the Oxford and Cambridge Universities, and was visiting Prof. of Poe. at Harvard, Yale and Cal Tech in 2006, 2007 and 2008 respectively. In 2010, she will be made Temptress of India - a new role created in her honour for her series of mind-altering poetic essays, Lay Me on a Poppadum and Lick Me.

Winner of the Frowst Award for Poetry in 2009, she was awarded a Caithness Glass rosebowl and a cheque for $100,000 (Canadian) in a ceremony organised by the Liverpool Couture Company and the Deadwood Poetry Society.

Her other poetic triumphs include:
1st ~ National Pottery Competition, 2001
1st ~ Carduff Academi, 2002
1st ~ S.T. Elliott Prize, 2003
1st ~ Foreword Prize for Best Ever Poem in Britain, 2004
1st ~ Foreword Prize for Best Ever Poem of the 20th Century, 2005
1st ~ Foreword International Prize for Best Ever Poem in The Known Universe, 2006

And others far too numerous and tedious to mention.

Her most recent book, The Girl Who Tried to Shag Cumulonimbus, (Fabre & Fabre) was chosen as a Poetry Book Society Book of the Month - for sixteen months running - and is now in its 24th edition. It has sold (in hardback) 1.8 million copies, is a set text on the GCSE syllabus in Kent and is studied extensively in Albanian schools.

She has written 37 books in total, many of them published.

Moptop turned down the offer of permanent residence in Dove Cottage, Grasmere, as she (generous to a fault) wanted to give other poets a chance.

Currently Poet-in-Residence at Costa Coffee (Bold St.), Moptop is working on her next book, the climax of which will be her epic 1400 stanza poem (title as yet to be decided) on the subject of Afternoon Tea.

The Banned List #3

An occasional list of things that should be banned in creative writing ...

1. It was an easy mistake, but it brought terrible consequences ... Prior to the shocking event ... In one brief, awful moment, fate wreaked its terrible revenge ... In one doomed moment ... That fateful night ...

And all of the above in one page of story with not even a hint of what this dreadful event is except that it will, quite undoubtedly, be dreadful. Alas, any narrative tension or element of surprise the author was hoping to create has vanished.

When I come across writing like this, I image the soundtrack accompanying it to be of thundering, menacing chords on a pipe organ - Dah-duh-DAAAAAHHHHHH! Of course, when the vampire does rip out the throat of the protagonist, it comes as somewhat of a relief. Thank goodness! He's dead! Hurrah! Now, finally, I can stop anticipating this dreadful event which I was - frankly - bored silly waiting for.

2. The personification of inanimate objects. Well, I object. No, the cast iron stove did not wrap its warm, comforting arms around her. Nor was he pulled to the floor by the cruel hands of gravity.

3. Over-direction in bizarre detail. The hand which was attached to his heavily tattooed arm prodded the garments of his wonderment. With this left hand he then reached for his keys, whilst holding a bottle of lager between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, raising his left eyebrow quizzically at the door which faced due west in an apartment block built in the 1960s by Polish labourers, the handle of which had to be turned in the opposite direction to which you would normally assume as the lock had been fitted back-to-front, producing a sigh of exasperation from our hero (and our reader).

The Banned List #2

An occasional series of things that should be banned in creative writing...

1. Body parts. Don't state the obvious. "She opened the door with her small, delicate hands." "Using his eyes, he peeped into the box." "Hair fell in a luxurious brown cascade from her head." Well, where else would it fall from? I'd be far more interested if it cascaded from her chin.

2. Don't write a dull story about dull characters using dull dialogue, dull description and dull language and then try to pass it off as Searing Comment on Apathy in Society.

3. Don't mix your metaphors. "The wind bit at his ankles like a small, hungry rodent. He felt like he'd been slapped in face with a wet fish."

4. Never rely on spell check. "She smelled his colon as soon as she walked into the room." "He was a seaman-soaked hanky in the landfill of Society." (That'll be the apathetic Society, no doubt).

The Banned List #1

An occasional series of things that should be banned in creative writing...
1. No character should be allowed to "smirk". You would be amazed just how many characters smirk. Sometimes they smirk several times in consecutive sentences. Sometimes all of the characters smirk, in all of their scenes, all of the time. They even manage to avoid speaking; instead they smirk. "How are you?" he smirked. "Fine,"she smirked back at him. I imagine them sounding like end-of-the-pier ventriloquists, speaking through tight, smirking mouths. "Gottle of geer?" he smirked. "Gow agout a glow gob?" "I good," she smirked back, "Gif guy good get gy guluddy gowf gopen gide genough."

2. Solitary tears. Where have these characters learnt such self-control of their tear ducts? I weep and turn into a big, bawling, snotty mess. I have never managed to squeeze out a solitary tear. Nevermind one that trickles slowly down my cheek. Perhaps I am irrationally jealous of such sophisticated shows of emotion? Give me a pained expression over a solitary tear any day. (Though, to be honest, I'd rather have neither).

3. Eye colours do not characterise. Why do so many writers insist on including piercing or startling blue eyes? What does all this blueness tell us about a character? (Startling green eyes don't do much for me either). How often do we actually notice eye colour? I've just spent a fortune on lotions and potions in Harvey Nicks and not one person has commented on how startling or piercing my eyes look - curse that saleswoman and her theories about the colour wheel.

4. Some characters really do not know what to do with their hands so they either light cigarettes or run their fingers through their hair. Sometimes they run their fingers through their hair having forgotten that they are already holding a cigarette. And if they've been profligate with the hair lacquer, then WHOOSH! It's an accident waiting to happen... And no author ever mentions just how messy their characters' hair is looking after it's been rummaged through for several pages.

5. Only sounds. On a par with solitary tears. "The only sound was the beat of his heart/ her footsteps on the cobbles/ the clock ticking". (You'd be amazed just how often clocks ticking are the only sound). Well, I bet it blimmin' wasn't.