Geo: Poetry Noise from the Basement

By Darren Hobson

We all have memories some of them make you happy and many of them make you sad, but do you ever wonder how we store all these memories? Imagine by the time you are a pensioner how much space you need to store all these memories, just like a smartphone starts to fail due to memory overload it is obvious that even the smartest human can get overwhelmed with too much in the databanksIn the first GEO poetry book we touched on some memories and how they are made by making connections with people on a daily basis, in this second detailed book of GEO poetry we look into how the memories are stored in everybody’s basement, a huge pile of unsorted trinkets infested with the insects and the dust.This is another deep darker collection of poetry from the poet Darren Hobson who continues to peel back the layers of his mind, memories and fantasies collide here in another display of might from the this upcoming artist, he who dares to ask all the awkward questions, he who dares to reveal some of his secrets, he who dares to show that we are humans with a huge dark weight on our shoulders, can you relate to these pieces of verse? Can you learn from his words? Will you be spring cleaning your basement anytime soon?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookRix
• Release date: May 14, 2020
• ISBN: 9783748740889

Darren Hobson

Darren Hobson was born in Preston,Lancashire in England and moved to Italy in 1998.Currently living near Rome working for a multinational company. In his spare time he loves traveling to historical cities for inspiration him to write more intense poetry. The poet started submitting his work for inclusion in many anthologies between 1990 and 2009, but with the help of social network sites and self publishing sites he started to publish his own books in 2014.

Book preview

Warning

GEO

Poetry noise from the basement.

Darren Hobson

Published by Darren Hobson at Bookrix.

Copyright ©2020 Darren Hobson.

As this book is written by the poet Darren Hobson it is most likely to contain foul language that most adults use in their daily life, but when these fucking words are written down in a cunt of a book only then do these words become offensive. It is obviously not the poets intention to shock without a proper reason but as this poet is actually writing about real life and it’s daily dark dose of cruel reality then foul language will be generously sprinkled like parmesan on your warmed up overcooked dinners.

The Basement

Darkness has never been the brightest friend on the block, yet darkness has always been linked to everyone that has seen the light. Geo linked, hand in hand an equilibrium of dark and light, night and day, some days have more light and some nights never to seem to end.

In the basement that is never well lit, maybe just one ancient light bulb to eliminate one hundred metres square, the spiders roam free in the corners that hardly ever get bathed in the artificial rays of light, the air is damp and stale, fresh air does not breeze through this area, the stench of old books left to rot in the bulging cardboard boxes, the only eyes that rummage through these boxes are the earwigs and other small mites that have happily set up home.

This is the basement and this is the foundations of you and I and the whole of humanity, this is what was and what remains of our memories, here in the endless boxes our most prized possessions are stored from the fluffy teddy bear to the old Etch-A-Sketch , discarded records and squalid love letters, the ink has smudged the words, the telephone number is still readable but thirty years out of date. Unceremoniously dumped into the basement just like the rotting idea of romance.

Nothing belongs in the basement, nothing should be stored in the cellar between the damp walls and the lath and plaster ceiling that is slowing peeling away showing the darkness between the laths what creatures lay beneath spying back at me? The guardians of the bric-a-brac and the warriors of the dust that collects and forms little dunes on the cellar floor.

Every human has its cellar, everybody has a million memories stored in filthy tea chests and old baby plastic bath tubs, other items which were once a collector’s item until the corrosion set in, in the cellar fifty years