A Great Start to 2019

From Left: Jamie Thrasivoulou (AKA: Moody Me), Jonah Corren, Chloe Bettles, Hannah Ledlie, & Memory Bhunu- AKA Team BRUM: UNISLAM 2019 Winners

Ayup mi ducks and happy new year to thee!

I’m thrilled to report that the year has started in style as my ace University slam poetry team-mates and I, managed to finish FIRST PLACE in the 2019 UNISLAM finals. We saw off another 24 universities in what was a completely enjoyable and gruelling experience in equal measure. The standard of poetry was second-to-none and I firstly want to give a huge shoutout to our fellow finalists: Strathclyde, Durham, and Leeds Universities who finished 2nd, 3rd, and 4th respectively. Also a massive shoutout to all the other teams involved with particular mentions to: Leeds Becket, UEA, Derby (of course), Leicester DMU, Loughborough, Bath Spa and Sheffield, whom we all particularly bonded with over the weekend. Massive hats off to Toby Campion and his team of willing volunteers, judges, and hosts who truly made it a great event. The picture above is taken from the Grand Finals at the Old Rep Theatre in Birmingham, prior to our victory; hence my moody expression. Look out for us as we’ll be back performing at the Old Rep Theatre on Saturday 16th Feb, as well as the Hammer & Tongues final @ The Royal Albert Hall next year!

In other news I’ve been back at work at HMP Foston Hall and I’m happy to say we have some new group members who’ve been a pleasure to work with. Their poetry never ceases to amaze me and I look forward to more slick bars being presented. I’m also happy to announce that my next book and show Our Man is still on course for a July release via the wonderful people at Burning Eye Books I’m very proud of this one, expect a plethora of live dates around its release (more about this in due course). For now though I’m happy to confirm dates at The Chesterfields Labour Club on March 2nd and also cracking the seal on The Cheltenham Poetry Festival on April 25th! (see live page for details). There’s also some videos from my Pride Park performance back in December, which are linked underneath the picture below! I’ll also add them to the videos section! There’ll be a new studio version of We Are Derby along shortly with a stinking new video. I’ve not forgotten you Rams fans. Expect to hear my gob on Radio Derby’s Sportscene in the not-so-distant future as well! There’s also a nice review of my 2017 debut poetry collection The Best Of A Bad Situation from Write Out Loud head over to the review section to see that.

Link to WE ARE DERBY video below:

https://youtu.be/cq2dptV9Jso


Author: Jamie Thrasivoulou

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I don’t know but he does

 

Originally Published in CITY-ZINE: Issue 10, November, 2010

 

I don’t know but he does

Stewart was pacing about, looking anxious. He was waltzing around his living-room in a furious kind of dance. There was no music on. No television either, what was he doing? Was he repeating tribal rhythms in his head? Was his mind simply in another, far-out, more rhythmic kind of place?

I don’t know, but he did, sort of.

-Ware tha fuck avva putit?

I gesture at the cat for some kind of answer…

The first sign of madness is…talking to animals, asking them for answers to questions…Just tell that to the dog whisperer.

-What the fuckin’ el avva dun wivvit? I adit a minit-ago.

I’m just walking around like a complete and utter twat; looking for it. For what you ask, my marbles?

NO

Not quite, I never had them to lose, none of us did. Its water, that’s what I’m looking for. A bottle of; fresh from the fridge, I took it out but five minutes ago. But I can’t think where it is. Where have I put it? The thing with me is; there’s a talking me, and there’s a thinking me. But we’re both different. We aren’t at all the same, in any way shape or form, we are opposite. But we are one; we will always be one, but the water man the fucking water. Why the fuck are you looking in the fruit-bowl? Does it resemble ones thoughts? My thoughts, they aren’t yours no more sunny Jim, you’re a few apples, Sh-short of an orchard my boy, better call FRANK.

-FUCK FRANK, FUCK- HIM, FUCK- HIM, FUCK-HIM AND EVERY FUCKING BODY YOU BASTARD WHERE HAVE YOU PUT MY WATER? WHY DO YOU ALWAYS FUCKING DO THIS TO ME?

I’m, well him; he’s beating the wall…ha-ha, chuckle-chuckle, giggidy-giggidy.

What the fuck am I, I mean he, what the fuck is he doing?

I assure you that these are not my actions; I would never plan such a vile and stereo-typically repulsive act of self-vandalism. The whole thing is bloody preposterous.

And still no fucking water, I need water as well Stewart you buffoon. Where is it Stewart oh where is it sonny? Oh where is it Stewy boy? Where is it lad? Where is it kid? What are you crying for child? Are your hands cut? Do they hurt? Pour some vinegar in my friend, maybe some salt as well, and then tear at your own flesh, with your own teeth. It will taste good, it might hurt at first but escape the pain, let me take over. Mind over matter, you are as good as vegetable matter. A pointless existence leadeth you. Yoda is summoning the darkness, the dark-side of the force. Legislative manslaughter. Cries and whispers and murmurs. God this is fun, man, you’re real fun Stewart!

BUT NOW I’M THIRSTY…

LOOK BEHIND THE DOOR STEWY. LOOK BEHIND THE DOOR.

I’m back, hands hurting, broken but I’m all right, I didn’t eat my flesh if that’s what you’re thinking; Although I may do later, if he keeps on asking me. I don’t like to upset him; I don’t like to upset anyone.

So now I’m gonna look behind the door, whatever he, I, we, mean by that.

-FUCK IT’S FUCKING THERE, ITS THERE, ITS HERE, HOW DID YOU KNOW IT WAS HERE, YOU BASTARD DAMN YOU, DAMN YOU, I HEAD-BUTT GLASS TO FUCK YOU MOTHER-BITCH

He’s gone and head-butted the bloody glass-panel in the kitchen door now. What’s he like eh? Mad as fuck and still no water. He’s out cold instantly; the glass has severed one of the main arteries in his neck. He’s drowning in his own fluid. Blood, Puddles of blood galore, the cat looks on. His eyes remain open, his hand reaching for his own neck, trying to strangle his way to freedom, out of this life and onto another. He doesn’t want to die like this, not bleeding, not on the floor with the cat watching. Not like this.

Then the oxygen and blood, it stops. Gone forever, replaced for piss and shit in an hour or so. And then the stench, the smell of death, it will come to us all one day. But I live on watching him, laughing all the way to his afterlife.

 

Copyright © J. Thrasivoulou 2012, steal it and bear the ramifications of your actions.

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