Daniel Rayner

my brother made this video. i have no idea why. it's an example of a dictionary attack, which sounds nice, as do some of the passwords.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lX2kEfHzPZM

hannah

rocks that swim to the surface.
trees that steer the wind.
hannah says these things
are not possible, they're facts-

she could find them anyway.
ears that sing,
eyes that pour,
a face that lets you in.

hannah mouths them
into a pocket mirror,
puckering up
and clipping down.

This is about a self-conscious person being put through the ringer of a group interview.

group interview and the yellow fruit

sat on chairs in a circle
pulled so tight our flanks touch,
we form the well-dressed rim of an orifice,
twitching and sweating lightly
as we chew out answers
to home, hobbies and dreams.

i feel under equipped
with my level 1 quirkiness
and counterfeit funny story
(i have never dropped a birthday cake)-
but it gets a few squeaks,
same as everyone else

except Joshua, the 'Flog It!' fan,
with his pectorals
snug in a white t-shirt;
his story 'when i wore my slippers outside'
is a proper monkey-pincher.
but i'm not laughing...Josh.

i'm imagining better worlds of work
in quiet corridors
where the graft is raw
time consumption and pay,
where you never see another soul
to stand against your own...

now we're handed picture cards to rand on,
i get football: teamwork, effort, skill.
and i'm winning as Joshua stares
at a cartoon banana, jabbering
'yellow fruit! yellow fruit!'
i'm thinking yes, yellow yellow fruit.

workings

when the machine runs out of oil,
there is no more machine,
just an ornamental structure.
we could probably get a few more grinds out of it
if we turned it off and on again,
but it wouldn't do the motor any good.

there's a man underneath the railway bridge
with a host of old devices,
all rusted pistons and welded axles;
he's mournfully proud of them.
'run like dreams' he mumbles,
drumming on their hollow metal sides.

I live near a sixth-form college so I have to put up with a lot of shrieking, shouting and general noise that the students make. One morning, feeling a bit tired, I heard laughter coming from outside. Now I was in the bathroom at the back of my house, brushing my teeth, but the laugh came from out front and reached my ears as though it came from my shoulder. It was the most fake, angry, brazen laugh I have ever heard. I was practically shell-shocked. Anyway, I started thinking about the laugh for the subject of a poem and this is what I came up with:

The Laugh

an electric fence
twanging rhythmically
up the hill running
to the sixth-form college:

don't touch-
don't talk to me!

even the rush hour
traffic seems to stutter.