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mannley collins Feb 2017
The body that I am incarnated in was born in the middle of the very rainy summer of 1939.
My vehicle for life.
All seeing-all smelling --all tasting--all touching--all speaking--all hearing --all sensing --perambulating -singing-dancing-cooking--drinking --painting--******* etc etc vehicle.
Born a few months before the Second World War,with all its nonsensical religiously patriotic and democratically oligarchic and liberally fascistic evil nonsense, started.
Makes me a Rider of the Storm eh?.
Eat yer heart out Jim Morrison!.
Slid out of my mothers womb in the upper room of a brand new house.
Situated on a new street somewhere on a new development on the edge of a 3000 years old walled city in 'gods' own country'--that's what they called it.
Yorkshire!.
First smell I remember,clearly,was rain soaked Lilac and Earth mixed together.
Their scent coming hrough the open bedroom window.
AAAAH rain soaked Lilac.
Second smell was Tobacco from downstairs where my father was anxiously chain smoking.
Then came my first taste.
He,my father,dipped the tip of his little finger into his glass of celebratory Whiskey and poked it into my mouth as I lay there,wrapped in swaddling clothes.
Irresponsibility!!.
Second taste was her warm rich creamy breast milk.
And so my days and nights started.
They told me the name that I was to answer to--as if it was the whole of me.
They told me my beliefs and attitudes and desires and limitations and skills etc etc.
They told me that what I have come to know was my conditioned identity was the real me---but it isn't!..
The lied to me --in innocent ignorance.
My sister taught me to read and write by the time I was 3 years old.
I grew up knowing,deep down, that I was something else.
Not the 'Something Else' that Ornette Coleman played,on his magnificent disc,either.
War raged elsewhere throughout my childhood--mainly across the seas far away.
I watched flight after flight of four engine bombers roar overhead every day ,on their way to drop bombs on children I would never meet.
There was a busy air base 2 miles away from the house I was born in.
Once an injured bomber,coming back from a raid,crashed in flames on two houses at the top of the street I lived in.
I found war to be a hellish and frightening experience.
And along the way I discovered that I couldnt explain to 'myself' who I was, exactly,either.
That my parenters gift of identity was misleading.
I asked 'myself' who or rather what was I?.
By the time I was 3 years I was a ******* from 'Osteomylitis'--or so they told me.
I couldn't walk with massive  left hip joint pain I suffered.
I spent the years from 3 to 6 in a traction bed in a couple of hospitals.
Gobbling down Cod liver oil and Malt for the vitamins--and it worked!!!.
At 6 I learned to walk--YES!!!.
All that pain was left behind.
Thank you Gautama.
My life was suffering but as you supposedly said.
Suffering can be overcome.
And I overcame it.
And I ran and jumped across streams and climbed trees and walked for miles and miles and danced the dance of life.
I foraged for blackberries and wild mushrooms and crabapples and horseradish roots and rosehips and other fruits of nature.
I fell in love with the song of the Yellowbeak--Blackbird to you.
Became enraptured by the smell of wild Roses in the hedgerows.
And I sang and sang and sang and danced and danced and danced.
And all the while I just knew that I wasn't the body that I was incarnated in.
Even though my parenters kept on insisting that I was that body.
And I knew that I wasn't who they had told me I was either.
I knew that I wasn't the conditioned identity of the body that they insisted I was..
At 9 years I passed an exam and won a free scholarship place at a fee paying 'public' school.
My education started in earnest.
Lain and French andAlgebra and Geometry and  expectations of University.
I fell in love for my very first time at around 12 years old.
Raymond was his name.
He taught me how bisexual I was.
I swallowed litres of his body fluids.
Oh how I loved him.
Then after 2 ecstatic years he rejected me because I was a different class to him.
AAAAARGH!.
Then around 14 years the monthly seizures started.
A regular dark descent into unconsciousness.
I experienced the small death of Julius Ceasar and Leonardo Da Vinci.
Back to waking consciousness after an hours out of the body trip into the Astral realms.
Waking with total total amnesia.
With no mind or conditioned identity but both came back within one hour of waking and took over again.
Along with a helluva headache.
But I woke as me--who or whatever that was.
I wasn't who they said I was.
I was me!.
Whatever that was.
Where did I come from?
My purpose in life became to find out what I was and what the source of my existence was.
Teenage life as a rock n roller started beckoned and I embraced party life.
I won cups of silver for dancing very energetically to Bill Haley and Chuck Berry.
I discovered the other half of my bisexuality.
I found girls.
Oh girls how I love you.
and love you and love you.
I started to play trombone at 18 years.
Then trumpet and drums then into my life walked MISS SAXOPHONE and I melted!!!!.
Alto alto wobbly lines of sound poured out from the bell of my alto sax.
I was 23 and toying with buddhism and social alcoholism and playing saxophone jazz(probably badly).
26 and I got married for the first time.
I was playing Free Jazz rather amateurishly by now.
In 1967 I moved to London--became a longhaired hippy--started my own band called BrainBloodVolume--took many doses(literally 1000s) of pure LSD and Mescaline and Psyllocybin and DMT--embraced diet reform--became ordained as a buddhist monk in 1966--played with Jimi Hendrix and John Lennon and the pink Floyd--went to live in the Balearic Islands--Mallorca,Ibiza,Formentera--started to do oil paintings--had a Master Class in Concert Flute playing from Roland Kirk in the dressing room at Ronnie Scotts Jazz Club in London.Became addicted to Macrobiotic Food and Spring Water and puffing Waccy Baccy(always through a Water Pipe..



Its been seventy seven years in this incarnation that I have been wandering the face of this big ball in space seeking the answer to the eternal questions of life.

What am I and where do I come from and what is my purpose?.

And here  is the answer--!!.

I am an individual isness formed solely from a small but equal independent and autonomous portion of the isness of the universe.

Each individual isness is an eternal, small but equal, independent, autonomous,nameless, formless,genderless,classless,casteless,non physical and unconditionally  loving portion of the isness of the universe.

The isness of the universe is the whole of the nature of reality and is the sole source of all existence and is eternal,nameless,formless, genderless,beingless and autonomous and unconditionally loving and is not a 'god' or a 'goddess' or any kind of being.

I live in the joyousness of shared unconditionally loving union with the isness of the universe.
If you wake at midnight, and hear a horse’s feet,
Don’t go drawing back the blind, or looking in the street.
Them that ask no questions isn’t told a lie.
Watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by!
  Five and twenty ponies,
  Trotting through the dark—
  Brandy for the Parson,
  ‘Baccy for the Clerk;
  Laces for a lady, letters for a spy,
And watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by!

Running round the woodlump if you chance to find
Little barrels, roped and tarred, all full of brandy-wine,
Don’t you shout to come and look, nor use ’em for your play.
Put the brishwood back again—and they’ll be gone next day!

If you see the stable-door setting open wide;
If you see a tired horse lying down inside;
If your mother mends a coat cut about and tore;
If the lining’s wet and warm—don’t you ask no more!

If you meet King George’s men, dressed in blue and red,
You be carefull what you say, and mindful what is said.
If they call you “pretty maid,” and chuck you ’neath the chin,
Don’t you tell where no one is, nor yet where no one’s been!

Knocks and footsteps round the house—whistles after dark—
You’ve no call for running out till the house-dogs bark.
Trusty’s here, and Pincher’s here, and see how dumb they lie—
They don’t fret to follow when the Gentlemen go by!

If you do as you’ve been told, ‘likely there’s a chance,
You’ll be given a dainty doll, all the way from France,
With a cap of Valenciennes, and a velvet hood—
A present from the Gentlemen, along o’ being good!
  Five and twenty ponies,
  Trotting through the dark—
  Brandy for the Parson,
  ‘Baccy for the Clerk;
Them that asks no questions isn’t told a lie—
Watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen bo by!
Daniel James Sep 2011
I am a traveller, a travelling man
And have wandered far and wide
With nothing but the flip flops on my feet
And fisherman’s trousers for a net.
And during these travails and trials I
Have heard many a tale, both tall and true,
And one day in a distant field I heard talk
Of a special cosmic law, another worldly rule of physic,
A fifth or sixth sense or dimension,
As earth-shattering as Newton’s apple.
It is...
A law of diminishing returns
Operating particularly at music festivals.
Let me explain.
So far I’ve lost,
My nice woolly zip up cardigan, half my contact lenses
My bass drum pedal, (Though that might still be in the van)
My wallet, containing money and cards, my baccy.
I lost and then refound my filters 18 times throughout the day,
Though each time they returned diminished in number,
Two packs of bacon, lost to the public stomach,
Three lighters, none of which were mine,
My mind, last night, though I found it lying
Outside my tent again in the morning sun,
And fifteen lovely strangers, who turned out to be friends.
Bring me a jug of my home made brew,
a pipe full of baccy and some I can chew,
that'll do me for now.

Later
when they burnt out the sodbusters
and Custer had his last stand
I held up my hands and
said,
blame it on me.

Nations are to big to be born.
we hew them from granite
and
salt them with goodness
but
they all turn bad
in time.

Back to the baccy and brew
and thinking of things
I should do,
but they can wait,

and sorry or not
George Armstrong got
what was coming.
Francesca Aug 2013
We are sisters in the least emotional sense of the word.
I have my life and she has hers.
Those two lives rarely collide.
When they do its full of awkward silences and small talk.

Today she took me drinking.
She bought me pints and shared her baccy.
Because her little sister is all grown up now.
Drinking and smoking, just like her.
So why not bond over it.

And for once today
I felt like she saw me
As a real person,
And not the little girl
That stole her dad away from her.
A coat hung carefully on the rack,
an empty space in space and
he's not coming back, no
baccy smells to come and go
no one to ask, because he'd always know
the answer to the question in my mind.
A long ways away, leastways as I recall
we were young and he stood tall and now
he sleeps forever free
no more the baccy smells reminding me
of dad, but he stays within my memory,
a constant
ever present
as he always was.
Lawrence Hall Sep 2019
He sat on the old board fence, his chair of state
All spiffy in his Sunday-pressed khakis
Though he wasn't much for going to church
And his Other Hat, still a farmer’s hat

With his teeth and his workworn, sunburnt hand
(The other hand somehow mislaid in France)
He played the paper and ‘baccy and tag
Into a censer of sacred sweet smoke

And all us little boys watched him in awe
And hoped for the bag with its little string draw
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is: Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com

It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.

Lawrence Hall’s vanity publications are available on amazon.com as Kindle and on bits of dead tree:  THE ROAD TO MAGDALENA, PALEO-HIPPIES AT WORK AND PLAY, LADY WITH A DEAD TURTLE, DON’T FORGET YOUR SHOES AND GRAPES, COFFEE AND A DEAD ALLIGATOR TO GO, and DISPATCHES FROM THE COLONIAL OFFICE.
Joshua Neilson Feb 2012
Shaken around
Like the loose baccy
At the bottom of the box
Run aground

Three thirty three
And the songs have started
Early birds catching words
Cheery *******

And at four in the morning
When the buzz is wearing off
I shake,
             Rattle
                       And roll
Stifle a cough
C B Heath Oct 2014
Which beer is mine, the Becks or the Heineken?
A ***** mauve has descended on the night, and
on the town a dank black silence, and I am sat here
folded like a peace crane. But I want to move.
I feel an itch to find someone, any resident up
for grabs - I can’t be the only one awake.
And my loved ones: if they worry, they worry; I’m
gone, but I am only looking for myself in another
form - the form of persons lost as I am, wandering
as I am through the lively dead-night. Which
baccy is mine, the amber leaf or the gold one?
wordvango Jan 2016
gets used to trying to nurse a barstool
that' s what we do in these parts
and chaw 'baccy and spit let loose
epitaphs and curse a bit
down here 'round Clayhatchee.

Yet most of us gooden's ya' may say
'cept 'n Joe Bob and his two brothers
both named Billy. ' course Mary Jane
her problem an' all,  see , wasn't her fault, really

she got turned out young and had to make the
groceries, when she was thirteen. Now, we laugh, but
don't really, well a little, when Ole' Ethel , the snaggle toothed
hag says she , Mary Jane , has a mattress strapped to her back.

It's right tough near 'bouts year round here, and
we laugh when we can . No bad spirits we wish any
ole' soul, least wise Mary Jane.

'cause what trouble and shenanigans
would Joe Bob and his two brothers cause
if Mary Jane weren't 'round?
Lawrence Hall Feb 2018
“See all those workers digging through that hill?”
The carter asked, there pointing with his whip
While two mismatched old horses lumbered on
Jerking carter and prisoners along the ruts.

An empty church, its now skeletal dome
Open to the dusk, lay somewhat in the way
Of where the rails would lay, just there among
Stray stalks of wheat, from lost and windblown seeds.

One prisoner yawning through his sorrows said
“I wonder why the Czar didn’t send me there
To carve with pick and shovel and barrow and hod
His new technology across the steppes.”

“Too close to Petersburg, and Moscow too,
My lad.  The Czar wants you to labor far,
Far off.  No mischief from you and your books,
Your poems, your nasty little magazines.”

“Oh, carter, is Pushkin unknown to you?
Turgenev, Gogol, Dostoyevsky too?
What stories do you tell your children, then?
Do you teach them to love their Russian letters?”

The carter laughed; he lit his pipe and said
“You intellectuals!  Living in the past!
Education for the 19th century -
That’s what our children need, not your old books.”

“Someday,” the carter mused, “railways everywhere,
And steel will take you where you will be sent.
Electric light will make midday of night
And Russia’s soul will be great big machines!”

“Machines, and louder guns, and better clocks -
All these will make for better men, you’ll see.
You young fellows will live to see it; I won’t,
But what a happy land your Russia will be!”

And the cart rattled on, the horses tired,
Longing for the day’s end, and hay, and rest;
The prisoners made old jokes in laughing rhymes,
Begged ‘baccy from the carter, and wondered.
back then he wor nobbut a sapling,
kindling
grown to be the new King,
spawn of the mill and the pawnshop
and when the workhouse would be his
last stop,
he dreamt on.

In the home where the hotpot was bubbling
and the door locked so as not to let no trouble in
dad sat grumbling,
dad always did when grandma had hid his baccy.

Milltown memories underneath tall smoking chimneys
where even the poorest fell in love.
Gary burns Sep 2021
Rain rain , sun burns , wind , the train that might stop at the stop that stops me .
Fun in the heat
Drags , smoking cheap ***** like baccy was just fine , clouds over am nearly smiling again .
Bus to shitsville I don't care , the stops look mostly the same , the shops sell mostly  the same , I never got off the bus , i was going no where and probably back to my illness anyway.
Sunshine again , the humans got of and took in the the same middle town sights, I took more of myself prescriptions  , went to the  toilet on the coach, not  a lot happened  , a slight passing of *****
There now all back on now and the next stop is  definitely get off place , tall trees green grass  high bridges and another small cafe , with lost people just like me x
David R Apr 2021
what was that you said
a minute dear, me hearin' aid ...
your father? he's long dead
****'d in the last air-raid

aye! the war, the blitz
scared us out of our wits
what's that you say?
do i remember D-day?

' Course I do, remember it good,
like the rations, the stamps for food,
come again, my sweet, me hearing's bad,
aye, they got him alright, your granddad

orange-carts for seats we had in them days,
yer uncle, a milkman, would bring home his wage,
two shillin' a week, was considered good,
well, it'd keep us in bread and yer fire-wood

were we happy, you ask?
don't make me laugh,
with a pint and a half
beer in the cask

there was nought to keep our spirits down,
think o' the joy when I found a half-crown,
spent on baccy my pipe for the puffin',
them were the days, we didn't lack nuffin'.
Stood at the school gate waiting for your child
The parents mostly chatty but the odd one is overly wild
You know whose kid that is as it's probably that horrible little ####
His twin is almost the same, a litter of 2 gobby runts
And as the saying goes, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree
The mother with her roll-up ****, yellow fingertip's, a necessity 
Father on the dole, looking for work, a lie he often pledges 
Smokes cheap baccy, Rizla style, far cry from his Benson and Hedges
Yet they turn up in brand new trainers and all designer clobber
While you struggle day to day and wondered why you even bother
As the world breeds these people daily and I don't mean to be blunt
But they are what they are and to be seen a mile off
They're just a family of ####'s

JJB
#theslobs #wayneandwaynetta #scroungers
Living out of bags thrown on the floor
Different numbered doors on every tour
Rolling up my baccy to release the stress
These band days are over, oh what a mess
Loading amps from Orange onto a Marshall 
Setting up the phone, the singer a two-timing rascal
Soon to hit the papers, from The Sun and onto the Fleet
Pregnancy is something you just can't keep discreet 
The rows will soon tear this love apart 
Now kipping on the bus where the guy's belch and often ****
These days will soon be over, give me my kids and a day in the park 
As life on the road could soon be a non-start
Just one more tour
A quick line to secretly score
As years of carrying this load really has left me quite sore

Roadie

JJB

— The End —