‘Stuff’ by Randall Stephen Hall


[ Started 2004. Developed 23.1.05 Finished 25.7.07

First performed at Glencree Summer School. Dublin 2007]




We all have stuff.

You have stuff, I have stuff.

We all have  . . . stuff.


Some hide it in their pillow case.

Some in a drawer.

Others, around a corner

Or under a bed.

In their head even.

But, it must be said . . .

That, we all have stuff.


Stuff you’re ashamed of.

The stuff of dreams and schemes.

You know . . . “stuff.”

Stuff, stuffed away back in the shadows.

Stuff, nobody knows about . . .

Except you

And, perhaps a few others.


(“We know you pick your nose. We’ve just uploaded the video clip

onto YOU-TUBE.”)


Will you ever be discovered?

Who can tell.

It’s hell isn’t it . . . ?

Having, stuff, that is.


A bit like an overweight elephant.

That no one else can see.

Stuffed into the same room, space or cupboard as you or me.

“Hello.” it says.

“I’m your stuff.”

“I know.” you say.

“I wish you’d go away. (Go on. . . STUFF OFF!)”


“O.K.” says your big yellow invisible friend.

“I’ll be in the room next door.”

“O.K.” you reply.

“Bye.” It waves.

“Bye, (thank God)” you wave back.

“But where did I get all that stuff?”


(cough) . . .

Stuff . . .


Packed away, but it’s still there.

Today, tomorrow, the next day, until when?

Can you re-cycle it?

No? . . . Oh . . . Oh shit . . . stuff.


Uncomfortable things.

Barbed wire mittens

That record

Where your hands have been

from the year dot.





Loud megaphones that shout

Your hurts, desires, yearnings,

ambitions, hatreds.

In the street . . . out loud . . .

To anyone who will listen!

Men and women

Who walk by.


Who is that guy?”

(Good question. . .)


Stuff . . .



This stuff is scarey,


Humiliating, soiled, shameful.

If only to the elephant.

(And think of the stuff elphants produce . . .

Even the small ones.)



(It’s still there you know.)

“It hasn’t gone away you know.”


No matter what you do

It won’t go away.

Stuck like glue

to you.

All . . . your . . . stuff

Until your dying day.


Hey, look! (he says pointing)

Your soul with only its underpants on

Boxers, Y-fronts, thong, suspenders . . .

(Whatever works for you.)



But hey, what’s wrong? . . .


You’re telling me you don’t have stuff?

Ah, come on.

We all have stuff

Don’t we?


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