Tommy Taplow

Many Emo’s remind me of Catherine Morland in Jane Austen’s ‘Northanger Abbey’, in that a lot of them live in their own little dream world. Don’t get me wrong I’m not judging Emo’s or preaching hate onto them, but I do think a lot of them need to grow up. The whole ‘Scene’ scene, I really find it quite repulsive. This is why I believe Emo’s are an embarassment to my generation in that they are the first sub-culture to conform to the marriage of commercialism and consumerism, and it’s easy to understand why people judge or even hate Emo’s. It isn’t envy or jealousy, it’s total intolerance of the Emo culture, and it’s fair enough because all this talk of suicide, self-harm, rejection etc. for the SAKE of being Emo or ‘fitting in’ to that stereotype, is really quite laughable, and in many cases, extremely false and egocentric. Like when a child has a tantrum for the sake of attention. If something substantially troubling has befell you, then that’s acceptable, but to consider suicide for the sake of what essentially is a genre of music, fashion and mentality, it’s pathetic.

Emo’s need to pick themselves up after a setback, i.e. relationship failure, parental divorce, bereavement, and realise that they’re not alone. EVERYONE goes through this, Emo’s just have to be strong and move on with life. Not sit around letting themselves become psychologically warped for the sake of their aesthetic lifestyle. If your great-grandparents could see you now, they’d be disappointed, and/or ashamed.

“Seeing an Emo over the age of 21 is rare, because it’s the peak age of adult maturity”

If you come to Camden, you won’t be accepted. We like Goths, Indie-kids, Punks, whatever. But Emo’s are different. Call it snobbery, call it a corrupted form of racism, but it will always be true.

Many Emo’s remind me of Catherine Morland in Jane Austen’s ‘Northanger Abbey’, in that a lot of them live in their own little dream world. Don’t get me wrong I’m not judging Emo’s or preaching hate onto them, but I do think a lot of them need to grow up. The whole ‘Scene’ scene, I really find it quite repulsive. This is why I believe Emo’s are an embarassment to my generation in that they are the first sub-culture to conform to the marriage of commercialism and consumerism, and it’s easy to understand why people judge or even hate Emo’s. It isn’t envy or jealousy, it’s total intolerance of the Emo culture, and it’s fair enough because all this talk of suicide, self-harm, rejection etc. for the SAKE of being Emo or ‘fitting in’ to that stereotype, is really quite laughable, and in many cases, extremely false and egocentric. Like when a child has a tantrum for the sake of attention. If something substantially troubling has befell you, then that’s acceptable, but to consider suicide for the sake of what essentially is a genre of music, fashion and mentality, it’s pathetic.

Emo’s need to pick themselves up after a setback, i.e. relationship failure, parental divorce, bereavement, and realise that they’re not alone. EVERYONE goes through this, Emo’s just have to be strong and move on with life. Not sit around letting themselves become psychologically warped for the sake of their aesthetic lifestyle. If your great-grandparents could see you now, they’d be disappointed, and/or ashamed.

“Seeing an Emo over the age of 21 is rare, because it’s the peak age of adult maturity”

If you come to Camden, you won’t be accepted. We like Goths, Indie-kids, Punks, whatever. But Emo’s are different. Call it snobbery, call it a corrupted form of racism, but it will always be true.

Once upon an afternoon, I came to look about the room,
Nothing saw I but a great gold haze,
And while I pondered, softly sighing, suddenly there came a gentle crying,
As of someone who’s slowly dying, dying in their youthful days,
‘Please don’t cry,’ is what I offered, ‘needn’t worry, it’s only a phase –
Only this, and just a craze.’

Dark was the room on a sunny day,
And near to where each body lay,
Was the outline of a white horse,
Eager was I to get up and leave; – leave alone without remorse,
But ill I felt, with a voice so hoarse –
Hoarse of course because of the brown,
A fix and a shot oh so strong,
A fix to take away the frown,
A fix to take me away to drown.

The terrible torturing untouched air,
Stifled me – rifled me with deep disgust,
I began to clamour myself upright, with all and everything, but bereft of might,
‘My friend I need aid!’ Came a voice like rust –
‘Come boy, come help; give faith. Your trust!’
‘Give aid I shall, and help I must,’

Hereby my strength grew stronger and clamouring then no longer,
‘Hello,’ said I, ‘help abound, guide me through this haze;
As I was softly sighing I heard upon your gentle crying
Appalling you sounded, as if you were dying
Dying in your youthful days

nb poem unfinished

Once upon an afternoon, I came to look about the room,
Nothing saw I but a great gold haze,
And while I pondered, softly sighing, suddenly there came a gentle crying,
As of someone who’s slowly dying, dying in their youthful days,
‘Please don’t cry,’ is what I offered, ‘needn’t worry, it’s only a phase –
Only this, and just a craze.’

Dark was the room on a sunny day,
And near to where each body lay,
Was the outline of a white horse,
Eager was I to get up and leave; – leave alone without remorse,
But ill I felt, with a voice so hoarse –
Hoarse of course because of the brown,
A fix and a shot oh so strong,
A fix to take away the frown,
A fix to take me away to drown.

The terrible torturing untouched air,
Stifled me – rifled me with deep disgust,
I began to clamour myself upright, with all and everything, but bereft of might,
‘My friend I need aid!’ Came a voice like rust –
‘Come boy, come help; give faith. Your trust!’
‘Give aid I shall, and help I must,’

Hereby my strength grew stronger and clamouring then no longer,
‘Hello,’ said I, ‘help abound, guide me through this haze;
As I was softly sighing I heard upon your gentle crying
Appalling you sounded, as if you were dying
Dying in your youthful days

NB poem is unfinished

I once had dreams of a foreign nature,
Awakening in London in the time of Jack,
Of East End alleyways and harlot haunts,
Of Artful Dodgers and dens for smack.

I’d creep my way along a line,
Many a sight would befall my eyes,
Tearful laments, mothers with babes,
Addicts of opium, ghouls in the shades.

But look above. Hark, the light!
The lights of lanterns, but none of stars,
A comfort it was to say the least,
In this bleak, black and fearful dark.

Upon entering a den,
The mood was changed,
Smoked were my senses,
Ached was my heart,
Depressing it was to see these men,
Beds of brimstone on which they lie,
Succumbed to temptation,
Ushered below,
A black hand beckons them to die.

All is grim,
Dickensian ‘gentleman’,
Samaritans in soul?
Trotting past dens, heads held high,
Indifference ahoy, aid runs thin,
Shrieks and screams, tears and a sigh.

I once had dreams of a foreign nature,
Awakening in London in the time of Jack,
Of East End alleyways and harlot haunts,
Of Artful Dodgers and dens for smack.

My least favourite poem out of the two I’ve written! x

I once had dreams of a foreign nature,
Awakening in London in the time of Jack,
Of East End alleyways and harlot haunts,
Of Artful Dodgers and dens for smack.

I’d creep my way along a line,
Many a sight would befall my eyes,
Tearful laments, mothers with babes,
Addicts of opium, ghouls in the shades.

But look above. Hark, the light!
The lights of lanterns, but none of stars,
A comfort it was to say the least,
In this bleak, black and fearful dark.

Upon entering a den,
The mood was changed,
Smoked were my senses,
Ached was my heart,
Depressing it was to see these men,
Beds of brimstone on which they lie,
Succumbed to temptation,
Ushered below,
A black hand beckons them to die.

All is grim,
Dickensian ‘gentleman’,
Samaritans in soul?
Trotting past dens, heads held high,
Indifference ahoy, aid runs thin,
Shrieks and screams, tears and a sigh.

I once had dreams of a foreign nature,
Awakening in London in the time of Jack,
Of East End alleyways and harlot haunts,
Of Artful Dodgers and dens for smack.

My least favourite poem out of the two I have written! x

Once upon an afternoon, I came to look about the room,
Nothing saw I but a great gold haze,
And while I pondered, softly sighing, suddenly there came a gentle crying,
As of someone who’s slowly dying, dying in their youthful days,
‘Please don’t cry,’ is what I offered, ‘needn’t worry, it’s only a phase –
Only this, and just a craze.’

Dark was the room on a sunny day,
And near to where each body lay,
Was the outline of a white horse,
Eager was I to get up and leave; – leave alone without remorse,
But ill I felt, with a voice so hoarse –
Hoarse of course because of the brown,
A fix and a shot oh so strong,
A fix to take away the frown,
A fix to take me away to drown.

The terrible torturing untouched air,
Stifled me – rifled me with deep disgust,
I began to clamour myself upright, with all and everything, but bereft of might,
‘My friend I need aid!’ Came a voice like rust –
‘Come boy, come help; give faith. Your trust!’
‘Give aid I shall, and help I must,’

Hereby my strength grew stronger and clamouring then no longer,
‘Hello,’ said I, ‘help abound, guide me through this haze;
As I was softly sighing I heard upon your gentle crying
Appalling you sounded, as if you were dying
Dying in your youthful days,’

NB POEM IS UNFINISHED

Once upon an afternoon, I came to look about the room,
Nothing saw I but a great gold haze,
And while I pondered, softly sighing, suddenly there came a gentle crying,
As of someone who’s slowly dying, dying in their youthful days,
‘Please don’t cry,’ is what I offered, ‘needn’t worry, it’s only a phase –
Only this, and just a craze.’

Dark was the room on a sunny day,
And near to where each body lay,
Was the outline of a white horse,
Eager was I to get up and leave; – leave alone without remorse,
But ill I felt, with a voice so hoarse –
Hoarse of course because of the brown,
A fix and a shot oh so strong,
A fix to take away the frown,
A fix to take me away to drown.

The terrible torturing untouched air,
Stifled me – rifled me with deep disgust,
I began to clamour myself upright, with all and everything, but bereft of might,
‘My friend I need aid!’ Came a voice like rust –
‘Come boy, come help; give faith. Your trust!’
‘Give aid I shall, and help I must,’

Hereby my strength grew stronger and clamouring then no longer,
‘Hello,’ said I, ‘help abound, guide me through this haze;
As I was softly sighing I heard upon your gentle crying
Appalling you sounded, as if you were dying
Dying in your youthful days,’

NB POEM IS UNFINISHED

So there me and my gorgeous girlfriend were on the plane back to Gatwick Airport. We were coming back from Edinburgh after having just spent a week at her parents’ house. I can’t be bothered to go into details cos I’m too tired, not from this I hasten to add! Just use your imagination…but it was definitely worth every second. Although it was quite embarrassing later as I think people suspected that we had been up to something.

Anyone know a good place to achieve this goal?

Deeper personality than New York and Paris combined, it may not be as pretty but it is sure as hell fun!