Josha Eiffel.

Categorised as ART., LITERATURE.

Josha Eiffel is a twentysomething from Cambridge who recently moved down to south east London and the charms that this area of the world provides – of my (bad) experiences; muggings in skate-parks, shotgun drive-bys on push bikes and the queue outside ‘The Venue’ in New Cross on a Friday night. Before I start to sound way too much like the Daily Mail though, south east London is also fucking awesome and has quietly been producing a whole load of young talent in all the things that we like – Josha’s poetry being one of them, as well as impromptu art exhibitions, loads of new bands, poetry workshops and film-makers. All without the horrible superficiality of East London.

Josha recently broke his toe skateboarding. Luckily for us that means he’ll have plenty more time to sit inside getting bored so he can write some more poetry like the stuff we’ve been eye-feasting on recently.

Ode to the penis

It doesn’t matter how weak you are,
when you take off the heavy burden
of a shirt and coat, and stretch out until,
the ribs burst towards the air,
and you wipe your self with water,
starting with the chest, and then below
the eyes. Two swipes like war paint,
as the city growls, you can hear the sound,
the sound of noise. You’re never alone. Some
big animal, with a thousand eyes, screeches
like a stolen child, think you’re scary, lean
out the window and scream back at it.
Make a rope, and climb down from the frame.
You land on firm naked feet and all the excess,
disappears. Rustle your self, Lie on a roof top.
And jack off.

Salad Day Envy

Dank murky bastard,
Bleached eyelids stripped in white,
And lazily lifting in the sun,
I’ll show him.

They burn halos into greats like him,
Scarred with brilliance.
He might be in the spotlight,
But I control the shadows.

Horse Limbo

Like a plane emerging from the sea, this daylight shouldn’t be happening,
it’s what all the passengers want, they’ll wake up and take up some fine routine,
about gardening and exercise dreams. I stand sideways, while you all fall past my
window and the curtain whips me from the right. Some people have got clean track records,
a lot of people, actually. I don’t know whether it’s them or me, but somebody out there is blind, dumb and ignorant or whatever it may be. I know because eliajah had it once, he offered me a road forwards. Well of course, what other direction should I take. Well some people stopped and looked to the swallowing red deserts around the highway, or the white and black mountains with their name on it. But I seem to be digging out a trench around this road. What use is it to me, I can’t even drive. I can’t sleep or move to eat. That’s a beautiful colour lipstick your wearing darling. Hows so and so, and who’s he?

Palpitating so gentle, he’s that guy who sits in the corner with his dark hair while some words which can’t escape him, escape him.

I found some others down here, they think this is a home. Well they’ve got tall palaces upstairs and they know it. I can see my mother running down the escalator the wrong way just so she could teach me to lie still and follow it up when I was born. God damn, you ungrateful bastards. Why do you dig down here? I found some real friends, wish I could save them. I can tell you about them but I can’t punctuate them to you. You look around and they were never born.

She’s a real flower. I can’t tell you anything else. But somehow she floated down beneath the cracks, and maybe, somehow, i’ll grow a garden. It’ll rain, but after all that, I will lie down in slumber and appreciate it wholly, completely, fully, and finally, absolutely.

Keep posted for more of Josha’s work.

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