Saturday, 1 February 2014

The Subjective Nature of News

first pub. by Poetry24- 31/01/14
in relation to news story Grandfathers-fury-drives-Jeep-house-daughters-noisy-neighbours

That’s how you bang on a wall
I thought,
To a familiar smell

It’s news if it’s on

Or The BBC


What’s news to me
my three sprogs
one with a cold
two in the bogs

My eight websites

and my lost phone number
-          my eight websites
and my lost phone number
of poetry and prose
my made-up word
that nobody knows
the can and the Carlsberg
the thousandth rung
the thousandth rung
up  the mountain of dung

That’s how you bang on a wall

I thought
That should make them
Pause for thought

Wednesday, 22 January 2014

The Great Sensei

 Many great things have happened in this world, but above all, you are the greatest, for you are life, you are experience, you are energy, you are love and compassion. I say this to you with the knowledge that everything worthwhile in the world has its parallel and costs us a commensurate amount in the currency of pain. - Craig Guthrie, The Mushroom Papers.


Exegesis Hermeneutic.

She stopped going to bed at night,
She stopped listening to music,
She concentrated on her cat,
Exegesis Hermeneutic.

She sat in front of infoscreens,
But nothing therapeutic,
Nothing could come close to
Exegesis Hermeneutic.

She washed less frequently,
She lost weight, she lost Jesus,
But never lost her cat,
Fat old Exegesis.

Exegesis Hermeneutic,
Exegesis Hermeneutic,
Kept alive by Lunatic,
Exegesis Hermeneutic.

It all happened so suddenly,
Her patience crumbled with her reason,
Both fell to many pieces
When she strangled all the air from her,
Poor old Exegesis.

Exegesis Hermeneutic,
Exegesis Hermeneutic,
Murdered by her Solipsist,
Exegesis Hermeneutic.

She stopped going to bed at night,
Sat static in her faeces,
To concentrate on ragged rug,
Where once sat Exegesis,
Poor old Exegesis,
Poor old Exegesis,
And poor old Mrs Solipsist,
Who sat rotting in her faeces.

Tuesday, 21 January 2014

Married Over Black Pudding and Carlsberg (Cauld Black Andy/Media Drawn Horse)

Drawn in, drawn in
By pencil and sin
A horse-drawn carriage
And a wheelie bin

Kimmy and Keston
chang charlatang
queens english
here they come
makkin coapetition
schooled aggin unschooled
class aggin class
fury aggin damp
pathy pathy pathy
versus passion
me aggin you
@ made it that way
Quarter-ounce me
hashtag green

his skin was sucked in
all over his skull
more than eh thocht
it wid be

throw your iphone
on my fire
of wood
o’ wooden men
o’ wood an’ men
an suck me dry
before I die

pitchang charlatang
i was black beauty
freckles nn aa
all holes and protrusions
making all those
unmentionable intrusions
but we baith saw
the rigid
the wet
the throbbin
the drippin
the nothing on this side
like that on the other
the nothing on the left
like that on the right
(thir tellt no tae look
but thir ehs defeh sight)

he looked drawn
in the coffin
on his back
wi eez beak
nirly tuchin eez chin
but clean
but drawn
his cheeks sucked in
what he used to be
but not

cupped hands “PWOE” splotive
you rimmed rochester
violated pope
300 year ago
BANG! (oan tabble)
an spoilt them
for me
spoilt bang spoilt bang
... and now you’re driftin awa
…wango tango intae the ocean
...terminus Eldorado
…wie nae suntan lotion
keston wehr are yi
eh hope
yir no deid
like ah the ithers
but still
shittin in the bin
wi yir elbows bent
an flappin
an shittin
in the wheelie bin
an trehin
no tae laugh
but then…
thir's the rest o ye
thir’s ah y rest
o, y, yih
youse lot
yir still ah here
no jist him
coz he's abodynoeveryman
and that no
stands for a knot
stauns for a shot
tae describe you
infamous crowd
ma freens ma freens
Eh’m greetin now
for ma absent freens
eh mop meh furrowed brow

pitchang charlatang
am boarn masell
borin masell
wi nae shock value
nae value
‘cept the skull
an sucked in
an ah the skin
an ah the life absent

“SKCHAA” so pray
tae the canpipe
no sae many words
yi wizard
wizard scrote
wha never made a stock float
poke the holes
wi a drawin pin
gie in
gie in
gie in
tae sin

dinnae speak tae me

o the sybill
Bang (on lecturn)
in the jar
bang bang
yir jeelous
and affeerd
oh the bar bar

chang ye charlatang
eh can say it
in less
and slip in
an oot
an oot
an oot
o yir dirty wee hole
an come oot

“WHOA” (affy loud an fearsome)
drunk man
the thistle
an doesnae see
but at least
he’s free
tae look
an FID
no chained in quatrains
jammed doon the grid
Or mibbe he wiz

An Oh
that scared ye.
Coz eh wiz
makkin love ah night
an ridin yir
cauld black arse
sunk in the cleft
ticklin wi ma right
canpipe in ma left
ridin ye intae the ocean bright
ridin ye proper
right oot o sight

kill me now,
strangle me,
tight round the neck,
with a ligature,
while Kim shows off,
Stunning post baby body,
In tight azure

leave me with the blisters,
leave me with the blisters,
Kim K and your awffy sisters

Black puddin man keston
kill me now,
shoot me through the heid,
raise upon me,
one blunt object,
as long as Eh
can eed up deid

someone poor,
hit the moon,
and someone rich,
bent the spoon,
but naebody paid the price
coz naebody thought twice

Kimmy K shat herself,
she shat her designer leggins,
runny right into,
her Jimmy Choo shoes,
some inane,
self-indulgent prawn,
takin up meh time
crudely drawn
in her fashion-sack
when there is,
and was,
The Auld Brass Plaque,
tae consider -
Pulitzer, 83,
up for grabs
tae the lowest bidder

a hoover sucked the air
from his balloon skin
drew it tight over cheekbones
and tight over chin.

Monday, 20 January 2014

Twelve-dimensional Pretence Got Us Sectioned

The voices said within our head,
Sometimes you’re not meant to know,
Sometimes it don’t matter,
You don’t need to understand,
…Ess, em, pee, tee, ee…
The voices seemed to chatter.

all those white spaces
with the need to be stabbed
Murder the Blank
for they are plain and mild
like teddy bear’s heart
without love of a child
an empty jar
without a wasp,
mark it down
today  is The Day
the Sweet Lord takes these chains from our feet,
tomorrow is The Day
our Sweet Lord and we shall meet

they wanted radical
radical we gave
and they sectioned us
the faecally brave
and considered us
morally depraved
or perhaps just a little too
grave where will us go when he comes
the voices asked
the fiend behind the fiend
the fiend behind the -
how will us breathe when it turns
when the wind changes
and the storm blows in
The voices in our head grave

and we were strong
the urge only made us desperate
and long
for what we couldn’t have
or what wasn't there
or what we couldn't get
or what was already lost
what was hopeless
or came
at too high a cost

we made ourselves victims
of habitual cynicisms

I heard from the distance
in the public bar
Jist because Eh’m hung like a doankey
disnae mean Eh hae tae be a porn star

it had been so long,
we'd forgotten how
our kids were hungry
our wife was a cow
forgotten what was inside us
at least that was said by the half-full
well at least there is something
replied the fool
we can never forget
nothing fills us
no substance within
not even dust
no dessert moon
no darting swallow
no daffodils
just hollow

The voices compared us,
To the insatiable bottle,
Which can only be filled
By the wasps at full throttle.

she gave them a pawn shop
in the sky
we gave them the opportunity
to die
ungrateful children
side by side
as they turned to climb
the messy drive
which led
to the droning
communal hive

and all the while their faces gazed
with appropriate disdain
upon our grossness
put there
by sufferable pain

modern-minimalist existence
occupied our list
as it occupied our past
as it will occupy our present
as it will occupy our Last

sat in this wheelchair
with these crutches
staring at concrete
rabbit hutches

our work
it flamed like a succubus
for no-one to see
except us
except us
except me
except me

keep it that way
and we’ll get a proper job
keep our head down
earn a few bob
make the blank stare
the blank stare
and make a few bob
earn our fare
and never be sectioned again
we swear
and never be sectioned again.