blackmail press 22
Robert Grant
Berlin, Germany

I’m a writer, living and working in Berlin for a little under a year now and have just completed my first novel entitled Much more than Mexico. After university in Southampton (England) I was published in a number of small independent magazines including Love Words and Beat, which introduced me to the emerging poetry scene. My poetry was first published by Searle of Norwich in 2005, in the form of a solo spoken word poetry album, entitled ‘The Rambling Man’. This lead to performances on numerous stages, events and festivals all across the world. 

  Since moving to Berlin I have quickly established a strong reputation as a writer and poet. With articles about me published in The ExBerliner and the Berliner Morgenpost. These articles are due to an English poetry event that I founded and run called Beatstreet. My event is not a slam! It is just great poets doing what they do best and has drawn famous poets from all across the world. It  is now the most recognisable English poetry event in Berlin, maintaining strong 100 plus audiences.

Accused with no return to sanity,
Never knowing why, nor the need to be known.
You ask the questions, I smile innocently
Heart broken, misunderstood emotions
Leaving a taste, not known before this day
Why is all the want?
to think of me in this way.

Have I wronged?

Tarnished by your misconception
Bruising with hurt
Ripening from deepest pain
Projected emptiness, sending my soul spinning
Questioning self, like never before

Innocence, replacing confidence,
as I reason with my mind
For you don’t know me, you never will
To even think I could be so ill.

Once thought feelings of love
Changing to misconstrued emotional hatred
For you have damaged me more,
than I ever thought to do to you
This now ending friendship
Controlled by your betrayal of one like me

You’ll never feel my warmth, never feel my sex
Never see my eyes on a flower morning
For now has gone, never to return

Another will feel my hug
Feel my eyes wrapping the pain of this spinning orb
Humanity confused by television
You confused by me

So why did this have to happen?
After all the drinks and laughing sunny days.
If this is what you needed to get by,
well at least I’ve been able to do something wondrous.

My needful arms, now wrapped around another.
The past only smiling, secretive smiles
Future opening forward, days switch to nights
Sparkling tears to my ambition
Leaving the dust on you
Blowing up the future of me

You now stand behind my eyes forever,
to look upon this world and say
We were so close,


The art of being homeless

Why do artists, of any description
Feel the need to abuse themselves so much.

Whether it be with booze or weed
Or both
Whether it gets stronger than that

You see,
Artists are like the homeless.
There’s always something else on their mind.
Traipsing through a rainy day
With memories trapped in those plastic bags by their side,
Only relevant ambition being
to find somewhere called home.

Both finding crowds confining, better off alone!
For when by themselves,
Both segments the same
No party to crash, no one to blame.
This is when they feel most comfortable!

There is a homeless guy
Who lives in a doorway,
Down by my street

Always same tired expression,
That same constant frown.
No sentence to say
Just sparse random sound,
of a life spent dreaming.

I would take pity on him,
Throw down a coin for coffee or beer

If I wasn’t so fucking scared
That I’ll be down there this time next year!

Something else

It’s all coming back to me now
In this wall gated community,
in the heart of this painted city
Quickly seeping back from heart to mind

I’ve been away from this place
This familiar face
This reality of space and time

Wandering on far away shores, through tatter paint chipped doors
Leading nowhere, from no time, back to this.
In some strange way
In some orgmented delay
I’m feeling the truth, coming in hard from beyond

Writing words because the page is white, no more
Acting strangely for unwanted attention, no more
Hoping and not doing, no more.

For I have seen
a vaguely familiar thing called the truth,
starring back at me from within

If you’re willing to do it, full hearted, no pity
if you’re willing to commit 100%, to something so unseen
If you’re willing to give of it all that you can,
then of course, stick the plan
you can achieve all your eye has to hold

so when you're broken, ramshackled and old
you can at least stand and say
that you tried it just once on that coldest rainy day

For all those who hide,
tell familiar lies,
You fools who wonder if it's financially worthy,
I wish you a sweet death,
and hope your time was not bereft
Of this order of memories, known as life.

George is coming to dinner

It’s beginning to creep
As if unseen, like a dirty tramp's nappy
Single taped to your shoe as you walk,
But then, who knew that west was coming so quickly.

Thoughts and wishes
The power generation
Slowing chessing their hand into place

Drink my coffee
Eat my donut
Wear my shoe and in them trust

My smiling lies, look deep into eyes,
You need this you fat ugly sow
You rancorous old cow,
for this will make you popular and pretty!

I sit back in this bastion of plenty
In this democracy, build on east philosophy
Wondering why the hell, you’re all buying it.

“You cant live like that”
they scream
tearing up miles and lands and dreams.
With their rock and roll shoes,
And they sun gleaming high five parties.
When I was a boy
With very childish eyes
Looking at Saturday morning reruns and cartoons adverts
For product I so needed
Not seeing the only one being lied to was me.

Then to teenage eyes
And bow down to behold
Those funny little adverts, have become multi national corporations,
World powerful organisations, world greed, domination!
Just beginning to control what I eat
What I put on my feet
What’s funny and definitely what’s not.
I tried to move away from it,
Run away, stay away from it
But the nappy stench seams to following me, which ever path I seem to seek

Now with adult eyes
Searching for an answer
To a question well laid, drunk and drugged
Jacked, or smoked,
Turn to simile or heart wrenching joke
All is see is the world becoming to small.

first addictions come to light
But as they’ve already told us, don’t stand up,
Don’t put up a fight,
Just become ingested, with what this generations suggesting
That being coffee, borrowed money and Bob Dylans Death

Monday morning

Monday morning swings round again
Construction starts once more with revitalised vigour

The Sunday chill returned to a very high shelf
On a mantel, adorning the rational.
Joggers Jog, writers write
People hustle, money makers fight

With a cigarette and a pave side for my day
And trying simply to explain why the hell I feel this way.
To all passers by I’m a tramp
Bundled on a super market's pick up ramp
Scribbling nonsense in an old tattered book

And look, fag in his left hand, life in his right
He just so overwhelmed with no passionate fight.

But it’s me.
I sit here
Trying to understand why I’ve landed in this place
Why the boardwalk is so ripped, so arse about face

“Bleed the city” they cry, letting out a degenerate sigh
as their smacks down axe head and laugh

“Bleed the city” they shout, letting pent up aggression out
onto the faces of people passing by

But it’s me
I sit here
A writer, a needer, an excuse for more education
Crumpled in this alien national
Wondering just what the hell is going on.
Why my eyes are so heavy, bubbled under by steel bags of pity.

“Bleed the city” they cry, which makes me wonder why
I even try to say something different.

I’m the non matching hippy
Resident of this city
Mind searching Hatcher
Walking disaster
Farthest sweet dream catcher
Just wanting to have my say

And then
On break of day
Monday morning swings round once more
And all this shit starts again.