ryan havers

Well kids, 18 years of compulsory education are over.
18 years of being told to sit down and shut up.
18 years of being told to speak when you’re spoken to.

18 years of being intellectually measured and placing your value and self-worth on a series of arbitrary and meaningless tests.

18 years of government ideologies being implemented through textbooks and subliminal curriculum changes; I bet you can tell me how many apples Kumar Rajesh The Third bought, but I bet
you can’t tell me who Mary Seacole was. Without Googling her.

18 years of conformity, take off the suit or the shit school jumper
or the blouse or the knee-length skirt, ain’t no pervy teacher
gonna get all offended; even though it’s their lack of self-control
and inability to control their sexual desires and the bullshit belief
that the victims are the ones responsible for all sex crimes performed on them. (Here’s something they don’t teach you at school: there are no excuses for raping someone. None. Zero. Nada. Don’t fucking do it. No means no means no means no means no.)

18 years of useless bullshit, goodbye Golgi Apparatus, hello money!
Time for loans and jobs and bills and I bet they never taught you
about exchange rates and how to get the most out of changing
your money. At least you can work out a Triangle’s hypotenuse…

18 years, trying to get you to behave, get you in a nice little line
so you’ll be a dutiful employee, a simpleton, normal, the same,
a cardboard cut-out of everyone else, a follower of the status quo.

Well kids, after all of that, all 18 years, I hope you’re still you.
I hope you’ve found joy in your own company and the company of others. I hope you have a dream, a vision, a belief, something to stand for. I hope you’re happy; well, happy enough after being mentally tortured for 18 years by the most flawed institution ever created.

I also hope you know just how goddamn beautiful you are, and I fucking mean it. I hope you realize there’s more to life than fly-by-night popularity and that crushes are little more than dust in the wind and that you are not defined by any of the tests that you take.

18 years now, wipe the slate. Start over. This is not the end, failure is not fatal and success is not final. This is only the beginning. It’s a big beautiful world out there. Trust me, I didn’t believe in it either.

Well kids, that’s the bell; your 18 years of hell are now finally over. Breathe in. Relax. And remember; this is only Chapter 1…

— 

You Are Not Defined By Exam Results (Spoken Word)

By Ryan Havers

(If you want to read this and record it and post it, do. And also please send it to me or direct me to it!)

I heard you found a new religion
where the angels make false promises
to false Gods in flash cars.

Morality is like salty water.

I hear her preaching from the pulpit
the necessity of modesty and fidelity.
How to be loving is to be faithful.

And my shoulders rumble with suppressed laughter.

Too many hypocrites and needless prophets,
too many doing good to mask their profits;
too many who have seen it all before.

I look at the stars but see only the void.

— 

Conjugal

By Ryan Havers

So we’ve slept together, now what?
A simple friendship is now a complicated mess.
I guess I found your soft spot
When you lifted up your dress.
It’s all so vague
That drunken haze
Of dubious morality,
Is your boyfriend in a frenzy?
Does he want to fight me?
For years I prayed for a woman like you,
A one night film that’s blue.
I shouldn’t have done that,
Shit, here he comes with a snapback
And a baseball bat.
I’m sorry, although I never meant to do what I did,
I meant what I said, every word was true.
He may be imprisoned for murder, but he’s lucky to have you.
— 

One Night Stand

By Ryan Havers

I’m not going to think about you anymore.
Is one of the many lies I tell myself.
As soon as an ounce of alcohol flows
Under my nose and through my jaw,
My mind will fall victim to your ghost
That encircles me like an insular shelf.
But I am not an island, that I know,
As you no longer walk along my shore.

I’m not going to think about you anymore.
It’s true, I’m no longer a toy on your shelf
That played with you whenever you said so.
If I didn’t have a mind I wouldn’t think, like a man of straw.
But you already have a scarecrow in your field, fending off the crows.
Look at him there, standing alone, all by himself,
Is he aware? Does he care? Or does he not know?
You know what I think of him, you deserve more.

I’m not going to think about you anymore
Is one of the many lies I tell myself.
Just take a look at what these words show,
They’re all about you, this poem is yours.
It’s like you’re a parasite that made me your host
And ruined my health.
I can’t sleep and I can’t let you go.
Why can’t we go back to how it was before?

— 

I’m Not Going To Think About You Anymore

By Ryan Havers

What do you mean I’m weird?
Have you ever taken one second out of your fucking insignificant life to step back and take a look at yourself? I mean, look at you. You’re fucking weird, spending your whole life trying to be fucking normal.

Trying to fit in and follow everybody else. You and me both know you don’t wear those jeans because you like them. No. You wear them because you think other people will like them. And it pisses me off. Fashionable I think they call it. Bullshit is a much better word. Why don’t you wear the clothes you want to fucking wear? Or why don’t you take a leaf out of Lady Godiva’s book and just wear nothing at all; I don’t know, but it seems to me like she doesn’t have as many insecurities as you do.

And while I’m at it, what do you actually do because you want to?
What do you do that you actually enjoy doing? I bet you’re probably one of those fucking idiots who went to law school; I mean, everybody knows nobody goes to law school because they want to. They go to please their parents, impress their friends; and to have a thoroughly miserable time. Name me one thing you do that you want to do and you’re proud of, or not embarrassed by. Go on! Out with it!

I’ve seen you put milk in your tea before the water. That’s fucking weird. But you don’t hear me criticizing you now do you? Huh? Pot calling the kettle black maybe? Or don’t you understand that normality is a subjective (that’s the sciency word for bullshit) and ultimately flawed concept?

Now you’re telling me society thinks I’m weird. Well hello society, here’s my middle finger! Society isn’t real either. Society is just a word you use when you want to pretend your ignorant opinions are also held by other people. How would you even begin to measure the random and idiotic opinions of millions of people? You can’t, so who in the fuck knows what society thinks? And more importantly, who cares? Are you really going to take me around each and every person in the population, old or young, well or sick, and ask them if they think I’m weird?

I am not fucking weird, you are. And you should be proud of it. I don’t give a shit that I’m weird. I’m me. I’m fucking happy; well, happy enough given that I have to deal with morons like you.

Honestly, I just hope one day you’ll see sense and let your silly little opinions and prejudices go. Open your mind a little will you? Don’t be afraid to be you; you know you’re only going to get one shot at being yourself, right? and even if you fail and fall flat on your face, and society jumps on you like the hounds of hell, you’re going to have led one hell of a life! So go on, be you; you weirdo.

— 

I Am Not Weird, You Are (Spoken Word)

By Ryan Havers

(If you want to read this aloud and post it, do. Please also send me the link, I’d love to hear it!)

And I’m tired of thinking about you,
tearing out chunks of my already
depleted soul, night after night

after night; see that moon there?
That’s the same moon we made love
under. The same one I was over after.

Alcohol is the devil on my shoulder
whispering sweet nothings to a bitter man:
take a deep breath,

and calm down. Throw away the self-help
books and listen: drain your glass and sleep,
wake up tomorrow and celebrate,

celebrate being alive, and remember:
life will go on no matter what heartbreak or pain…
So focus on the sunshine, not the rain.

— 

An Ode To Miss Booze

By Ryan Havers

And you can drink until your eyes feel like they’re underwater,
Drink away the sadness, until the conveyor belt of memories
Is halted; yesterday is no more and never will return,
So drink on, drink on, until your troubled past is gone.

And you can stay out all night if you makes you feel less alone,
You can stay away from this house that’s not a home
And never will be; this temporary collection of beds and chairs.
But still this humble house will be here for you, if you ever return.

And you can get away from it all if you want with drugs or alcohol,
Go on, get away, get as far away as you can from this hollow town
And all of these people, these bastards who dragged you down,
And kicked and spat on you. Go on drink. I won’t judge you.

— 

Drink On, Drink On

By Ryan Havers

The year is 2024
God is dead, (finally)
but religion lives.
Welcome to the
Church of Beyoncé.
No hymns, no halos, the vicar-Z
puts on a CD, first song today
is Love On Top.
All the congregation pray,
and the CD tells us the word:
(that vicar-Z’s preachy)
girls run the world.
Another blow to the Patriarchy.
Welcome to the
Church of The Latter Day Lady Gaga
statues of the virgin mother Madonna
tear-stricken, no wine just American lager
whiskey mouths confess: not a good monster,
no peace be with you, thank you father,
put your paws up; don’t read between the lines.
We all need something to believe in
at electric chapels, shaking hands.
How long until
they bring back the red armbands?
— 

Church Of Beyoncé

By Ryan Havers

Get over it.

Here’s a couple of rules that might just help you:
1. Always remember that everyone on this planet
is a person equal, not an object; 2. Don’t be a twat.
And if she won’t date you, don’t you dare call her a whore…

It’s her choice, don’t be sore.
Yeah, maybe she shouldn’t have said things like that
but you’ve no real reason to get angry, upset.
(Don’t look at me like this is all brand new.)

Oh come on, you’re not gonna cry,
you know she doesn’t owe you shit,
what? well girls aren’t livestock, for a start…
Don’t pretend that you thought it was fate.

She’s just not interested mate,
sorry to break it to your little heart,
but I suggest you go and beat it,
yeah, fuck off; take care, bye-bye.

Grow up.

— 

I Told Her I Loved Her And She Just Laughed

By Ryan Havers

I want to love you.
I want to wake up in the morning with you in my arms;
I don’t want to think about anything else, just you.
You could be my consciousness all encompassing.
We could talk about everything. Everything under the sun.
Like we already do.
I want to love you in spite of all your flaws,
And what others may think, who cares,
We’d be each others not theirs.
We could take it slow of course, no need to rush.
I’d compliment you just to see you blush.
I can’t just let you go though.
I want to love you,
But do you want to love me? And you can’t say maybe.
I want to love you.
— 

I Want To Love You

By Ryan Havers

I wouldn’t call this love.
Me, looking round to see
If you’re looking at me,
Me, wondering if you’re thinking of me
When you’re probably not.
Me, staring out the window,
Staring at the shower wall,
Staring at the ceiling,
Staring at the ground, strangers, planning,
Mapping out our next meeting
In my mind.
Me, waiting, day after day,
Hopelessly, listlessly, achingly,
Holding on to a couple of drunken memories,
Will theys, won’t theys, do theys, don’t theys.
Me, debating the ifs and buts, the ins and outs,
And it wears me out.
I wouldn’t call this love.
— 

I Wouldn’t Call This Love

By Ryan Havers

I’m going to fight for you like a man,
Whatever he’s giving you I’ll give you double,
Triple, quadruple, whatever,
If he’s driving you ‘round town for six hours a day
I’ll drive you around for twelve.
If he takes you out to dinner once a month
I’ll take you out once a week, twice a week,
Or four times a week if it’s only you eating
And you’re happy for me to sit at the same table.
If he’s going down on you for most of the night
I’ll go down on you for most of the week.
If, for whatever reason, you suddenly lose a kidney
And he’s not willing to give you one of his
You can have both of mine.
Imagine it, you’d have three kidneys,
You’d be invincible.
We’d be invincible.

What’s he giving you that I can’t?
I could cook, I could clean, I could eat my weight in protein,
I could diet, I could shower more often and wash all your cotton
Clothes. By hand. I could work in retail if that’s what you wanted!
I could give diamond rings and other clichéd things,
Just say the word and the world is yours.

…But if it’s not about that…
If, when all is said and done,
He makes you happy
And you know you love him.
Don’t worry about me,
Or my affections;
I understand.

And like the wind,
I am gone.

— 

The World Is Yours

By Ryan Havers

You.
Yeah you.
Are beautiful.
You.
Yeah you.
Doing the things you do.
You getting up in the morning,
You not buckling under the weight of the grey sky,
You working, you fighting, you dreaming.
You’re fucking beautiful.
Listen to me.
You.
You watching T.V.
You in the shower,
You on the toilet,
You eating too much, or too little,
You.
Just being you.
Is beautiful.
You.
Just being you.
Is beautiful.
And if anybody.
Anybody at all,
Tells you you’re not.
Tells you you are worthless.
Tells you you are nothing.
They’re fucking lying.
They’re fucking liars.
You.
Yeah, you. YOU.
YEAH YOU.
You reading this.
You.
You’re the one I’m talking to.
You.
You
Are
Beautiful.
— 

You

By Ryan Havers

You never loved me, did you?
Not one fibre, not one ounce, not one shred,
of you ever loved me. And yes, I’m a fool
for mistaking such a lie, believing it was true;
but I am not the only one caught in your spiders thread-
didn’t you say you’d been together since school?
How cute. How lovely. How romantic.
A love story built on sand, wasn’t it?
You said the world stopped spinning in their arms
or something, you know, equally poetic.
So why do I have to be the one who calls bullshit?
Huh? Tell me, how did you feel when we joined palms?
And are all your mirrors broken?
I find it hard to take that you think it’s my fault,
when you’re the one with the axe and the cleaver;
or maybe you’ve mis-spoken?
Doubt it. Suit yourself then, let hate be the lightning bolt
that strikes the Church of Love and kills the believer.
You never loved me, did you?
Because if you did, it wouldn’t have ended this way:
you’d want me no matter how young or old,
how rich or poor, how black or blue…
You’d never have let this be thrown away
like a cup of tea, suddenly grown cold.
— 

You Never Loved Me

By Ryan Havers

I feel like I am five again,
Threatening to run away.

Mom, I don’t care what you say! I’m going today, okay?

Packing up everything I think I’ll need into a box,
Two teddy’s and a blanket.

Except this time I mean it,
I’ll stand in the porch.
Although I haven’t really thought this through,
As when it gets dark I’ll need a torch.

And maybe soon I’ll need some food.
How long will a box of cereal last me?
How long before they notice that I’m an absentee?

But I don’t want to go to school anymore,
I know all I need to know,
One times one is two, there! see!
Now why do I have to go?

My teddy’s will keep me company,
And my blanket will keep me warm.
Not so silly now, is it Mom?


I guess you’ve guessed I didn’t leave after all,
I stayed for twelve more years, and then once I was tall
And after summer had turned to fall.

I left for good.

This time without the teddy’s or the blanket.

— 

Two Teddy’s And A Blanket

By Ryan Havers

Hi kids! here’s a little message for you,
Why don’t you go shoot up your school?
Steal your daddy’s gun and shoot for fun
At the bullies and teachers. Won’t that be cool?
We are the media, who glorify the killers,
And we need more killers as we need more filler
Material. The why’s; the ways in which we psycho-analyse you
(And torment your parents) for doing what you do.
We need people to tune in, welcome back to columbine revisited
A twenty-four hour special, news recycle, the same stories,
Different scenarios. Different schools. So you’re a loser
And a loner, and also a violent video game owner,
Well here’s a rifle and a couple of magnums.
You’re the prime candidate,
See if you can get that death toll up to eight or so,
You know, we’d love to hate you on our show.
Surely being infamous is way better than being anonymous?
And best of all, no-one will know the blame is really on us.
— 

Glory Killings

By Ryan Havers

Let me sleep next to you.
I want to wrap my arms around your waist,
Place my face against yours and embrace you.
The way you ought to be embraced.
Softly sighing by your side, holding you tight,
Keeping you company throughout the night.
Whispering sweet nothings in your ear
Until your mind is clear of the outside world
And you can drift off into sleep.
I could be your teddy bear,
With limited fur however but just as dependable,
Always here to cuddle and care for you.
Or your bodyguard I can be,
And you can keep the sheets far away from me,
If it keeps you warm.
I’ll still be next to you when you awake,
A cup of coffee I can make or I can listen
To you tell me about last night’s dream.
I mean all this, and I can prove it too,
If you let me sleep next to you.
— 

Let Me Sleep Next To You

By Ryan Havers

I don’t dream, I hallucinate.
Set my alarm for an early start,
sleep through to 11, wake up late;
but for twenty minutes in REM
it seems like hours, as I wait
with white azaleas, some sort of
solipsism symbolism; then I wake,


and never know if you’ve arrived.
Funny how some things, like dreams,
that once served a purpose have survived;
a carry over from an ancestor past:
take these goosebumps that get revived
as soon as I remember your pale milk
complexion; and every time you ever lied.

— 

Dream, Dream, Dream

By Ryan Havers