Chris Watson

Biography

Christian Watson is a writer and performer based in Bradford. He hosted Sunday Veg in Hastings for three years, Slam Sandwich in Tunbridge Wells with Lucas Howard and various one-off events around the country. He is the winner of the 2010 Canterbury Literature Festival Slam, the 2014 Bradford Literature Festival Slam, amongst others. He has been a featured performer at Bang Said the Gun, Hammer and Tongue, Jawdance, Grand Verse Quarto, toured with Captain of the Rant(Paul Case) throughout the South of England and has performed at many festivals around the UK. Christian took a short break from Performing between 2014 and 2019 due to family circumstances. In this time he worked with disadvantaged teenagers teaching English and art. Since returning to performing in 2019, Christian has featured at many spoken word nights around West Yorkshire, including Out Spoken in Leeds, Spoken Worth in Keighley, SWALK in Pudsey, and won the Spoken Weird Slam in Halifax in October. He is currently working with Theatre in the Mill, Bradford to develop SLAM-based workshops and performances. He also hosts Articulate, a spoken word radio show for SableRAdio.com. Christian has a Youtube channel where he has posted various videos (https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCgo0LoyHjbon_EewzU8XfCQ?), a blog where he is currently compiling interviews with West Yorkshire poets(CrackenInk.com), as well as an Instagram and Facebook pages. To contact Christian Watson regarding booking him for performances or workshops then send an email to Chris.P.Watson@hotmail.com.

Stuff I Have Written To Amuse People Before They Die

Dog Thumbs What if dogs had opposable thumbs? Or cows? What would they pick up first? Hammers? Would they wear gloves? Would they start working as artisan bakers, making all sorts of vanilla French fancies and macaroons which look like Christmas decorations rather than anything you’d want to eat, but are delicious? Would they sit around reading newspapers with their legs crossed? Would they have the thumbs on just the forelegs? Or, would it be all four legs? Would they tie fishing lures? Or, would they stay the same, just doing dog stuff and cow stuff without even wondering what they had thumbs for? I reckon they’d enjoy them like I enjoy mine, just different, just not as different as they used to be, more the same, similar, like we don’t want them to be. They’d learn to write, or climb, or wire complicated mechanisms into cobalt casings and then we’d be fucked. *** Everyday Monster Me and the abyss. Or, is it the abyss and I? Either way, we know each other. I wake up, the abyss gives me a hearty good morning and waves a three-finger salute, like the cub scouts, only twisted just so. I nod in recognition and pull myself from bed. In the mirror, tap running, steam clouding my face, the abyss looks over my shoulder and asks about how I slept, did I dream? I stay silent. My eyes hang heavy with bags, years of too much dreaming. The abyss laughs and slaps my back. Friendly like. It is a comfort, of sorts. I wipe the condensation from the mirror, smile with my lips, brush my teeth, spit pink foam into the sink. The abyss reminds me to go to the dentist. The abyss is concerned about gum disease. I am concerned how little I can afford professional help. I dress in the presence of the abyss. I don’t mind being naked with the abyss lazily eyeing me. I meet that gaze with my own. We are both naked in these moments, unblinking. It is a comfort, of sorts. No judgements between us, just space, just time. The abyss doesn’t make jokes when I am vulnerable. The abyss wants me to make it. The abyss cares. I look in the mirror. Bits of me look dried up. Bits of me look melted. Bits of me look like something creeped up on me and took a bite. The abyss soothes me, passes me socks, a pair of pants, a tie. Says , “Chin up.” Gives me a high five as I walk out the door, waving me down the path, to the gate, waiting for my return. A comfort, of sorts. *** The Man Who Took Up Too Much Space The man who took up too much space was exiled to the moon, His massive frame strained with pain strapped to a balloon, Levitated weightless by the greatest zeppelin ever seen to float beyond the sky like a planet’s sleepless dream. What does it mean? All this smoke from steam? All this ash from green? All this torn from seams? The man who took up too much space was smaller than he told, smaller than his voice, his laws, his need to be held above all. Tiny, you might say, insignificant, insufficient, he puffed his chest, his head a swell, two shields to deflect mockery and laughter. Many eyes shone upon him, blinking out questions in morse code, he never spoke, only proclaimed. A woman, old frail, a life lived, skin transparent, her blood thick and dark in her veins, her forehead a map of all that is known, she spoke quietly for us all to hear. “You have enough answers,” she said. “Now is the time to hold yourself with the arms of maybe, let the question mark you, face wrinkled with fissures that measure waking in edges lost, become younger as the day grows longer, remember the lessons you have been beaten by, hope to dream again as you grow weary of this hungry waking, let your question be enough to slake your thirst, your wanting, your needing. Never seek to be sated by gorging on all that is laid out like a tablecloth before you. Never become the man who took up too much space, he who is levitated weightless with tears enough to salt the sea. He is no king, no leader, no lover, no saviour. He is greedy. He is petulant. He is moody. He is lost. He knows nothing about nothing about nothing about nowt. All he knows is to fight the hardest, to drown whispers with shouts, drown troublemakers in their own blood, drown the rebellion in mud. His foot on crowns, his stance triumphant, his belly rumbling. If you think you know, question that knowledge, find doubt thin as spider web, twist that thread and weave a coat, a shirt, a dress, wear doubt, try it on for size, walk around in it, question, there is no shame in saying I don’t know. You are a molecule trying to understand gravity’s pull, a vacuum that thinks it can touch itself, the light of a passing car glinting on smashed glass, the thief beyond looking for the last morsel stolen from her mouth. We become who we aren’t, this is not where we stay, like a ship in yard, we are built to depart. Stay hungry for departure. Keep yourself a child, never dull your curiosity, shine without shadow, leave with thanks.” In the silence that followed we heard an escape of air, something burst. The man who took up too much space, he burped, he farted, he laughed and he snorted, and it was funny, until it wasn’t, and never again could be.

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.