I

On a little piece of wood,
Mr. Spikky Sparrow stood;
Mrs. Sparrow sate close by,
A-making of an insect pie,
For her little children five,
In the nest and all alive,
Singing with a cheerful smile
To amuse them all the while,
  Twikky wikky wikky wee,
  Wikky bikky twikky tee,
    Spikky bikky bee!

II

Mrs. Spikky Sparrow said,
'Spikky, Darling! in my head
'Many thoughts of trouble come,
'Like to flies upon a plum!
'All last night, among the trees,
'I heard you cough, I heard you sneeze;
'And, thought I, it's come to that
'Because he does not wear a hat!
  'Chippy wippy sikky tee!
  'Bikky wikky tikky mee!
    'Spikky chippy wee!

III

'Not that you are growing old,
'But the nights are growing cold.
'No one stays out all night long
'Without a hat: I'm sure it's wrong!'
Mr. Spikky said 'How kind,
'Dear! you are, to speak your mind!
'All your life I wish you luck!
'You are! you are! a lovely duck!
  'Witchy witchy witchy wee!
  'Twitchy witchy witchy bee!
    Tikky tikky tee!

IV

'I was also sad, and thinking,
'When one day I saw you winking,
'And I heard you sniffle-snuffle,
'And I saw your feathers ruffle;
'To myself I sadly said,
'She's neuralgia in her head!
'That dear head has nothing on it!
'Ought she not to wear a bonnet?
  'Witchy kitchy kitchy wee?
  'Spikky wikky mikky bee?
    'Chippy wippy chee?

V

'Let us both fly up to town!
'There I'll buy you such a gown!
'Which, completely in the fashion,
'You shall tie a sky-blue sash on.
'And a pair of slippers neat,
'To fit your darling little feet,
'So that you will look and feel,
'Quite galloobious and genteel!
  'Jikky wikky bikky see,
  'Chicky bikky wikky bee,
    'Twikky witchy wee!'

VI

So they both to London went,
Alighting on the Monument,
Whence they flew down swiftly--pop,
Into Moses' wholesale shop;
There they bought a hat and bonnet,
And a gown with spots upon it,
A satin sash of Cloxam blue,
And a pair of slippers too.
  Zikky wikky mikky bee,
  Witchy witchy mitchy kee,
    Sikky tikky wee.

VII

Then when so completely drest,
Back they flew and reached their nest.
Their children cried, 'O Ma and Pa!
'How truly beautiful you are!'
Said they, 'We trust that cold or pain
'We shall never feel again!
'While, perched on tree, or house, or steeple,
'We now shall look like other people.
  'Witchy witchy witchy wee,
  'Twikky mikky bikky bee,
    Zikky sikky tee.'

Inday unom na katuig ang nilabay
sa dihang nahikagplagan tika milabay sa balay
sa handumanan ko nahipatik ang katahom sa imong hulagway
may mga panahon sa kasing2x og damgo ko imong kaanyag mobisita gamay

Karon dili masukod ang kalipay sa dihang nagkaila ta
Adunay panahon magkachat ta lingaw sige kog katawa
sa dihang nakahibalo naka sa tinuod og naglagot ka sa akoa
maayo man ng makahibalo ka sa tinuod samtang sayo pa

Kung moabot ang panahon mosugot na ka magdate ta
Por syur ako man jud ng gasto more pa
be conscious lang sa imong dayet aron conscious pud ko sa akong bulsa
kung cge na ta det2x chippy og tubig na lang gani ang order para natong duha
pasabot KKB nalang ta sunod, salamat sa pagsabot hap...

og kung ugaling dili na jud nimo maagwanta imo nakong sugton
ayaw kabalaka ipanaad ko imong gugma akong amumahon
sa kanunay ikaw akong panggaon sa mga gakus ko ikaw akong prisohon
tanan nimong gusto akong buhaton imong mga sugo akong tumanon

Og kung imo naman gali kong sugoon sa merkado
pwede ayaw pud ko paalsaha og bugas isa ka sako
basin og tungod sa kabug-at di nako makaya makaigit ko
kung pwede lang unta kilo kiloha pud na og mahimo.

A dead end situation.
Stuck. Like brick to cement.
You'll do anything
for a hint of something.
It's been coming for ages;
building,
tumbling towards you
like a train on a track,
the damsel in distress,
tied down, downwards bound,
stalking around.
But you can't see,
it changes invisibly,
always going too fast,
momentum gathering;
letters,
beach shells,
names that would only ever have meaning
to you or her.
It was never going to last
always going too fast.
　
Past having a spark,
endlessly trying to relight.
Exhaust
all energy left,
find something to keep it fuelled,
to get you through the night:
caffeine,
narcotics,
late night television,
social networking sites,
talking to the ones you don't have the guts to in real life.
Real people. Reality TV.
What does it mean?
A blurred vision in which to entertain your life.
Surround yourself with
false dreams,
false hope,
fake plastic love
moulded into the form
that you want to see,
you want it to be
want it all to stop.
Go.
Any direction.
Forwards,
backwards,
mind spinning in circles,
turn it off.
Stop.

It's all a dream.
Awake,
to a new day, new life,
new home,
new car,
new wife.
Choose a diamond or pearl to cement these new found pleasures,
choose it all, self-absorbed in your own little world:
petty things,
the colour of paint on your bathroom wall.
Cream.
Chestnut.
Teal.
Another abstract way to cover up what is the simple truth.
Conspiracy everywhere;
newspaper, post office,
your local chippy, chips wrapped in ‘The Independent’
not ‘The Sun’.
Gossip,
front page
back page,
a wave of infatuation with the lives of people no better than yourself,
your image,
in the looking glass
see straight through.
This house,
this car,
this life,
it isn't you.
The radio plays through that knock off surround sound system you bought in a drunken haze,
and the cranking of your Ford Fiesta's deteriorating exhaust reminds you of her
as it pulls up on your drive.
It’s never going to happen now,
Still going to love her anyhow.

They're flying round your stomach again -
another one of those black, rainy days.
This isn't what you want,
not just another phase.
You read through 'Wilde',
'Wordsworth',
'William. Shakespeare';
Stolen tales
of life, love, loss,
lust,
loathing another man,
because he holds the pearl of your heart so dear.
They keep flying,
drumming, beating louder,
louder,
three words could change it all,
yet somehow it's your greatest fear.
Get-away.
A nice holiday to ease your mind;
Florida, Turkey,
Isle of Wight.
Another mask
to an already
covered over life.
Escape to your dreams,
anything that will get you there:
class a,
class b,
class c,
the class of '99,
the cream of the crop, you were just kids
and everyone’s heart
was just diddly dandy fine.
Move on, move out.
Wave
goodbye.
Find someone else,
grow old
in a nice little bungalow,
just the two of you,
lie in each others arms,
softly, quietly
fall to sleep.

Alright fella, how’s you mate?
Just heard back from the hospital innit.
They got you that liver now?
Yeah man, sorted. Ahh yeah-
did I tell you ‘bout the other day?
There was this ******* mug
by the chippy and he mugged
me off. And I was like mate,
don’t mess - you’ve picked the wrong day
to be a *******, innit.
And he was all like, “Yeah?
*******, mate.” And right, now,
well, I’d had enough by now;
I wanted to teach this mug
a Life-Long Lesson, yeah?
So I said, “I’m not your mate,
and I will end you if you don’t *******, innit.”
Ah man – this was not his day.
You remember back on Tuesday,
when I got that knife that I still use now?
I had it on me, and I shanked him, innit!
Serves him right for being a mug;
sounds like one less ***** on the estate, mate.
Too right blud. Was well funny too, yeah –
cause he was just round the corner, yeah,
I just walked into the chippy like any normal day!
Just like, “Nah, no vinegar please mate.”
There’s never any filth around here now
so we can just shank mug after mug;
and we’ll make it a better place to live, innit.
Oh yeah, and I can get smashed now, innit!
We’ll get some pills and that, yeah?
Have us a party, but don’t invite Gaz, you mug –
he shagged Tracey the other day,
so it is gonna be well awkward now.
Ahh ****! I am well excited, mate.
And mate, make sure you bring some fit girls, innit.
You wanna come round now?* Nah, got a check-up. Yeah,
but it’s not gonna take all day! Shut up, you mug.

chippy churpy happy birds
so full of joys of spring
hear their voices singing out
a wonderous glorious din

wake up to a song of summer
just around the bend
sing the spring into the day
a fabulous day again

chippy churpy sing along
tweeting as we go
bring a smile into today
and share it with your freinds

There’s an Indian restaurant down the road,
And the owners have a beautiful daughter,
But she’s the apple of her daddy’s eye,
So I really don’t think I oughta.

There was a Chinese takeaway next door,
That did the best fried-rice,
But the authorities came and shut ‘em down,
For infestation of rats and lice.

There’s a newsagents further along,
But it doesn’t do much to dazzle,
Unless you want overpriced cigarettes,
And back issues of Razzle.

The Arab café across the road,
Does the best cappuccinos around,
The sound of Algerian pensioners laughing
Is such a beautiful sound.

There’s a Working Men’s around the corner,
Where the Guinness is dirt cheap,
And in it I’ve had drunken nights,
And memories I’d fight to keep.

There’s a chicken shop on the way back home,
Which I must say is pretty useful,
When I’m staggering home, ****** as a ****,
The chicken burgers taste ******* beautiful.

There’s also a chippy down the way,
That does an excellent saveloy,
It got burnt down, and I can’t help but suspect,
It was a sneaky insurance ploy.

There’s an Irish pub next door to that,
Full of drunken, singing Micks,
The Dubliners on the jukebox,
It’s where I get my fix.

But I’m always drawn to the Indian restaurant,
Where the owners have a beautiful daughter,
She’s witty, glamourous, the same age as me,
And I really think that I oughta.

After my round, Karen
leaves early. The revision
won’t do itself, she says,
and we know she’s an
all-night crammer, we’ve seen
the textbooks thick as a brick
so we groan but know
needs must. Our tongues, fuzzy
from lurid orange *****,
heads starting to pound
but we all, those left, agree it’s time
for vinegar-blotted batter,
salted sliver, steaming grease
in a puddle of papers. They’re open
till late, I say, the only one
yet to stagger as our one minute
walk begins, laughter lost
to the night. Tom asks why
haven’t we done this before. Beats
me, we just forget about time
don’t we, it’s like there’s not
enough of it. He half-drunkenly nods,
the blinding glow of the chippy
reeling us in, thirsty for money.

So many places closed,
And what’s open you can’t get to
For ****** tourists.

******* clouds are over:
A chill wind blows.
The workaday sun has gone.
Oh yes, it’s Bank Holiday.

The weather is foul
Yet everyone is out.
I can’t get parked.
The crowds slow down
My enforced march.

Our local chippy is closed.
A Doctor?
No chance!
January in May
And maybe in June.

Christmas is worse.
All those needless presents.
Gifts for the sake of it.
Keeping the retailers happy
At our expense.

I’m in a grumpy mood
But who can blame me?
I always try to be upbeat,
But not today.

Paul Butters

Ingrid winced
as she sat
on the stone steps

of Banks House
with Benedict
after his tea

of beans on toast
and a glass of milk
the early evening

was still warm
he never asked why
she winced when she sat

he guessed her old man
had hit her again
her eyes were red

when he knocked her door
a few minutes before
to ask her out

her father had gone by
Benedict on the stairs
5 minutes before

smoking his usual
thin cigarette
his cap pulled

over one eye
don't go far
her mother said

and shut the door
have you had your tea?
Benedict asked

she nodded
and put her hands
on her knees

he wondered if she had
she looked so thin
how about coming with me

to the chippy?
he said
Mum said not

to go far
Ingrid said
it isn't far

he said
it's only up Meadow Row
and across the road

she bit her lip
saw your old man go out
a little while ago

he looked his usual
happy self
Benedict said

she looked
at her tatty plimsolls
she winced

as she moved
well are you coming?
he asked

what if she calls me?
I'll tell her I'm taking you
to the chippy

and be back soon
he said
she might say no

Ingrid said
she won't
he said

she never says no
to me
she looked at him

nervously
suppose
she said

you stay here
and I 'll go say
and he went up the stairs

and she sat watching
until he went from view
she rubbed her thigh

and tried to sit comfortably
she said yes
Benedict said

coming down the stairs
two at a time
did she?

Ingrid said
as long as I was paying
which I am of course

I've got 6d
that'll buy us
a big bag to share

she moved carefully
on the stair
and stood up

and they went down
the steps in silence
passing Ingrid's big sister

who was with
the Spiv looking guy
with the black and white shoes

and greasy hair style
and onto the Square
Benedict told her

his old man
had made him a metal money box
painted blue

to keep my money in he said
that's when he don't nick it
to buy his cigarettes

if he gets short
still at least he made it I suppose
she said

my dad makes nothing
and gives me nothing
they went down the *****

and by the grocer shop
except a good hiding
Benedict said

she said nothing
he gives you that
he calls it discipline

for being bad
she said
cruel ***

Benedict said  
she smiled
they went by

the noisy public house
half way up Meadow Row
she cringed in case

her father was in there
and went up and by
the green grocer shop

where Benedict got
his mother's potatoes and cabbages
they crossed the New Kent Road

and into the chip shop
where he asked
for 6d per of chips

and salt and vinegar
and she waited by the wall  
hands by her side

her hair held at the side
by hair grips
her eyes less red

he brought the chips
to the table along the wall
and sat on the high stalls

she wincing as she sat
he looking at her
sitting there

her flowered
stained cardigan
her off white blouse

and grey skirt
coming to her knees
and felt funny inside

being there with her
he and she
both 9 years old

he the fastest six shooter
of the West
and she his saloon girl

his sidekick
sweet heart
better than the rest.

6:30 am
The chippy irritation from my bedside table
forces an unconscious groan.
Starting from my curled toes
swelling
in tidal wave tremors
to my twitching torso.
Manifesting in indiscriminate slapping of
lamps
reading material
and finally
the clock…
 
If I were honest in my disdain
I wouldn't turn on the lights
nor spend a minute
looking for acceptable clothes
to appease civilization

…But I do.
 
People expect to see Me today, wrapped
in preconceived ideologies.
Some societal, some induced.
Portions I have enabled - even propagated
with detailed grooming rituals,
ongoing hair color treatments,
and anti-aging skin
regiments.

Which is a lie

Because I still see it… everyone does.
Minimizing at best.
But "anti"?
Not.
 
I aquiese to the
expectations.
Because this
carefully crafted,
death defying carcus
is the only thing
Most of them will ever know...

The painted
coiffed
decorated
Me
and my persona,
coated in Teflon,
sculpted to situations,
an everyday
chameleon
who will never let one title
stick to the
hot rock climate
I call life.
 
It has been said
you are who you are
when no one is
watching.
But my village watches.
 
Through most of this life,
in and out of my glass house,
I am
in my universe
a spectator sport
with expectant fans.
Where the others hope
the receiver makes the catch,
the singer hits the high note,
the magician disappears…

And I enter.
Stage right.
With my highlighted spiky hair
in perfect
chaotic
order.
 
(I let go for a very short season.
The silence about it
spoke of the
disapproval.
Yawn.

So what?
I was grieving.
I got better and gave in
to recycling...

Hi honey, I'm home...with old Me.)
 
The "real" crowd touts
transparency
as a measuring stick of
unfettered character.
While border-free openness
and lack of secrets
may only make one a bad confidante…
not a great person.
 
The diversity of Me is
untainted by opinion.
Purity needs no approval, nor apology.
I am intentionally
loud and quiet,
public and private
seen and unseen
understood… and not.
No lesser
or greater.
Equally
Me.
I am all that you see.
Which, by the way,
is the better part of
Me.
 
They drive by daily.
Casting stares
on the angular structures
in the city.
Never doubting
viability.
Even though there were plans,
predestination,
packaging,
posturing.
Yet a man... a man
with these four p's
is branded of
superficiality,
rigidity,
dishonesty.
 
People...
Ignorance is bliss
but you are WAY too happy
criticizing contingency
while mocking
less than
perfect
charisma.

Disgusting.

So lost
in your lack of personal
direction
that you prefer
everyone else
burn their maps…
I have seen my map.
I have planned the route.
I have chosen the vehicle.
The person I want you
to see is who
I am.
Because that is all you will
ever know.
And I like him
or I wouldn't be him.
 
Don't ask for my transparency.
You couldn't deal with
the guts of
it all.
That's okay too - you shouldn't have to.
We all are who we are
in the moment our lives
intersect.
Some murderers are loving fathers.
Both are true.
 
So be sure of this
one thing.
I do my hair for
me.

I'm glad that you like it.

Don't get chippy lippy,
where's the ****** spinach Jeff!,

I didn't think you was a two-bit cook,
I thought you were a chef!,
so wheres the ****** spinach Jeff!,

Where's the bleeding turbot, Herbert?,
and where's the feeking risotto,
if I don't get some ****** food soon,
I'll drink a bottle of wine and get blot-toad

Where's the ****** crab, Brad?,
blimey! does it smell high to you!?,
You'll ****** **** someone,
and bleeding get me sued!

By Christos Andreas Kourtis and Larna Kira Kourtis

“Stand up and show every one how tall you are”, that is what Grandma would

always say. She showed us off and I took a secret pride in parading around on

display for whichever stranger had wandered into her room on that particular

visiting day. Grandma noticed the finer details, the things that we sometimes

took for granted as a healthy and growing family. Visiting her would bring us

back to these basic observations; she always made Grandmotherly comments

on how much we had grown, how we had improved in our various instruments,

increased by five shoe sizes, grown our hair and moved onto the next stages in

school and life.

Grandma lived a long and interesting life. As a young woman she was moulded

by the war before living through a lifetime of change and revolution, a lifetime

in which Granddad and her raised four children. It would be impossible to sum

her up in this short speech. Nevertheless, one thing springs to mind when I think

of her – that she was a strong woman. Over the past two years I have come to

fully appreciate the relationship that we had with her, and the security that her

constant presence in our lives gave us. How could my mind ever erase those

wonderful afternoons when Grandma would present us with an assortment of

stale, out of code sweets in recycled shortbread tins and empty Clover tubs? I

don’t think that my digestive system has recovered yet. Nor could I ever forget

the numerous afternoons spent running wildly through the orchard in Grandma

and Granddad’s back garden, chasing the flurries of butterflies that inhabited

the rose bush every year while Granddad lovingly looked on, only intervening

to rescue the poor insects when we accidentally grasped their patterned wings

too tightly. I can see Grandma perched on the bench by the conservatory, and

suddenly my mind overflows with memories from the bungalow that we all

know so well. The smell of Grandma’s freshly baked Eve’s pudding is not one I

often stumble upon in Bangkok but I can smell it now, and of course I remember

sitting around the dining room table eating greasy fish and chips from the local

chippy. I remember the room off the kitchen where we would lose ourselves in

all of the toys and games, cast a sceptical eye over the ancient television before

moving on to study the shelf of family photographs where I first learnt about all

of the other generations that make up our family.

This is what today is about; it is about surrounding Grandma with the generation

that will live on. One generation ends but another generation continues on in

its place. This morning is about seizing on the fragments of Grandma’s life that

we all share, the memories that we remember together as a family. Death can

be an uncomfortable subject, especially when we feel we have to dwell on the

person’s absence, on the fact that this person has gone and that we can no longer

feel, touch or smell them. But I believe that we should celebrate the life that our

Grandma had.

We miss her, and we love her.

Wee Angus on his wae frae work
would hit tha pub fa a perk
O' Tennents lager frae tha keg
whiles chatting up tha barmaid Meg
A pint or twa there wae friens
a' bleathering awa like scholars an Deans
Debators O Parlimentary views
Ministers preaching o'er tha pews
Wae drink in hand they'd laugh their fill
tha glory Mead upon their bill
Yelping like some bairney pups
catching breeths atween their sups.

(nae wiser a man than yin filled wae ale
Nae greater a time than while drinking frae tha Grail.)

In football games they A' would linger
or singing songs for all's a singer
Nae matter how bad tha voice
a' would request their favorite choice
Happy all wae drink in hand
while holding up the bar they stand
In rattled curses tae tha bumping airms
while viewing o'er some lassies chairms
Whispering oot all dreams an desires
that drink within them all inspires
An' Angus kens that soon or late
he tae hame must tak tha gate.

Kenning tae deep doun inside
his drunken breath he'd better hide
Saying fareweel tae friens and foes
leaing ahind tha pub's warm burning coals
Doun he stummels tae tha chippy
tha air ootside tis crisp an nippy
Making him drunker than afore
he side steps frae door tae door
Eating his fish supper, enjoying each bite
thinking aboot all that's happened tha night.
Till there he rouns tha corner street
His hame sae warmly it does greet,
Falling o'er tha step ootside his hame
Tha door it opens, Behold his sullen Dame
Trying tae act sober wae all his might
afore his wifie here tha night
But she's nae fool nor blind tae see
his daft antics, his blabbering plea.

In comes Angus wae words O' love
tae face tha thumping slap an shove
Her roaring voice would put fear intae tha Deil
Hear wee Angus weep an squeal.

(What type O' life drink it brings
that great at first yet later stings
What worth has man tae waste his life
wae drinks illusions an its strife.
Sooner or later as true as Hell
Yin cannie live save by its spell
getting worse an worse day by day
while friens an family turn away
An Angus wheither he kens or no
has drifted where tha drunkards go
An time shall tell what fate bestows
for tha Curse O Ale, nae man knows.)

Alisdaire O'Caoimph

Four hundred of us pour out
from the lights turned on,
girls in bare feet in the rain and the wind
to see Christmas lights on Grafton street.

Trinity’s beautiful, but not where the heart is,
the grass is muddy on college green
a cold breeze is whipping off the Liffey,
and everyone’s singing, low lie the fields.

The guards are milling, we’re trudging,
some holding hands or kissing –
bring me back to Stillorgan for ten euro?
*******! No come on sir, I’m freezing.

It’s grey, it’s wet and it’s cloudy.
I want Burdock’s or some dodgy chippy,
I want to hear the song of a boy from Ballymun
and live forever young in Dublin’s fair city.

i think the problem was a shocking surprise
your grass was always greener on the other side
the grass here, it was not perfect,no
but its still more than you were deserving of though
the things i dreamt of before  the chippy
rush away in the wind,its just whipping
whipping down and off my balcony
whipping it around in a bittersweet symphony
whipping it around right back at my face
just like you did its a ******* disgrace
the good new for me though is things have changed
i am not the same girl that youd thought id remain
im stronger,and better,for all that you did.
you are not you now,not to me
now you're just one of "them"
them.
the word i despise
the herd they all follow
with secrets and lies
the sheepherd that stumbles their pathetic lives
and i have to say i am not surprised
dissapointed,well,yes
but i knew all along i called you on it
your denial ran so deep you believed your own lies
my so called soul-mate is just another guy
and that thing,that unrealistic fairytale you claim is void
i can almost feel it so loud is the noise
so loud is my heart telling me hes out there
and he wont lie,or hit,and his words wont despair
so deep, so lovely,so pure and true
and im sorry but now that could never be you
i went from sad to bitter to nothing
and thats why now when i write it will be about something
my words just as beautiful as my kind heart
you are undeserving of them buddy and thats only a start
oh hes out there just trust me he is
and youll still be hopping from flea to skizz
from sleezy to trampy to **** videos
and i will be doing art and poetry shows
i will be where i belong, and you will too
where the grass grew
the grass we talked on the grass we played with
it is brown and withered and **** near dead
but i suppose that is what i get
should have fished with a worm and not a net
a net catches garbage,things left behind
but a worm,thats the true blue fish that i will find
there are fish and water where that grass grew
and this is the end,im starting anew
enjoy your petty sick little games
in a year i wont even remember your name
and you wont remember mine, because your a memeber of the herd for show
but trust me you will sir,remember my soul
my eyes my smile my laugh my fun
my honesty,integrity,and my son
my mother my father my brother my dog
yes,even aries will go along
for the trip that you take to visit me from long ago
and youll be sitting where the grass grows
the grass only grows in your memories now
and you only think of me alone in your house
that girl you once knew when you were young
and will you consider that you were dumb
to give up green grass, for grass on the other side
and while you chased the brown grass, my love for you died
the brown grass is everywhere its a million the same
but the green grass,me and chippy will remain
in your memory, in your mind,when things get quiet
i know you'll think of it like a riot
youll wish you could go back and start anew
where YOUR former green grass once grew
where the grass grew back on the other side
where the flowers grew wild and were so alive
now you smell sulfur and cheap perfume
around tons of people but alone in a room
youll someday feel really blue
about where your green grass once grew.
where the grass grew. where the grass grew. its a memory now
and you cant forget you dont know how
all you know is its heartbreaking how much you miss it too
where the grass grew,where to grass grew.

I will very very probably do it again
Anyone who knows me and has a brain
Can see that Biden's old and lame
Now's the time to reignite my reign.

MAGA folks love me and want me back
They need our country set on track
For what I have all others lack
Of running stuff they know sweet jack.

As to DeSantimonius, Short Pants Pence and Chippy Cheney
That they'll burn out I'll wage you money
I'm the one that's smart and funny
My golden touch makes all things sunny.

So once these midterms are sown up
I'll squeeze lame Joe just like a bug
Show the world that he's a dud
For I’m the man, I know it in my gut.

One sole warrior
keeps watch over all the other birdies.
He ruffles his feathers, sticks his leg out,
and pulls it back in.
He turns his head to and fro
and surveys the land.

A little chippy bird tries his luck and lands
near.

The warrior spreads his wings
as he glides
from branch to branch.

Three hops before he makes his break for
the sun.

On the streets of Antwerp
There are visible areas
There are borders dividing
Different ethnicities,
Cultures and languages
There are areas
By income and colleges

There are also invisible areas
Corners taken in by the homeless
There's Antwerp's most famous
Louis, alcoholic and ex-military
Best known for saving two children
And writing a book
He said he never liked to live within 4 walls
Making about €150 a day
Sitting on Astrid Square
Going on 30 years now

There's the Scottish poet
Who spits rhymes
Like they came off a conveyor
He cited one for me once
I regretted it instantly
But at least I know now
What rhymes with *****
He hangs around the Central Station
And enjoys summer nights

There's Chippy the one with the dreads
Hangs around the Cathedral
And keeps an eye on the youth
In good terms with the police he is
No fights or broken bottles
Where he roams
Surrounded by the usual Gang
Of surprisingly well kept
Ladies and Gents
With their trolleys and carts

There's the very skinny one
Who once kept company
To a friend of mine
And exchaned his bike
For a loaf of bread
She smiled and told him
To keep the bike and the bread
He felt it was his job
To protect her
And guide her back home

Then there's "Santa"
Not much known about him
His spot is by Frituur N* 1
Best fries in the city
He wears a kilt and a red jacket
White beard and hair
A shiny bald spot in the center of his head
He speaks German loudly
To everyone and anyone
Bright red nose and square glasses

Now as I stroll about the streets
I know where to expect to see them
But to my surprise one day
Santa was gone
Had they taken him away?
Did the City of Antwerp
Reclaim their streets?
Did he die in the winter cold?
I put my pink glasses on and figured
Maybe he went to get beer.

And then one day years later
I spotted him... Yes it was him!
He wore neat blue jeans
And a purple well kept sweater
Glasses with a modern green frame
Hair and beard cut and brushed
He walked with a quick pase
Seemingly on his way back
To Frituur N* 1
Roaring in German louder than ever!
With a sting in my heart I watched him go back to his corner.

Yo, I’m a Lebanese don, French-teachin’ beast,  
Spittin’ verbs for a livin’, my game’s never ceased,  
Life’s sorted, bruv, proper mint, no cap,  
Hundred grand in the bag, four days, that’s a wrap,  
Easy street, fam, August, July, I’m blessed,  
Vacay on lock, mate, I’m set, no stress.  

Canada’s my turf, shit’s sweet up here,  
Got a crib, no drama, just vibes, crystal clear,  
No kids in the mix, though, that’s the sting,  
Empty nest, fam, no heirs to the king.  

Paycheck? Don’t sweat it, I’m good, I’m straight,  
Fifty on the clock, still holdin’ my weight,  
Mortgage? Ghosted that sit long ago,  
Now I’m thumb-twiddlin’, nowhere to go,  
No sprogs to raise, yeah, it bites, innit,  
Said it before, fam, what’s the fix?
Shit.  

Wife’s a brick wall, fucking’ frigid, no lie,  
Cold as ice, mate, I’m barely gettin’ by,  
Still, I keep it chill, motto’s real tight—  
Sleep sound, don’t clown, no evil in sight,  
Fuck the big questions, I ain’t losin’ my head,  
“What’s the point?” Who cares? I’m alive, not dead,  
French in Canada? Bruv, they don’t give a toss,  
Hang myself for that? Nah, that’s a loss.  

I’m jabbed to the max, health’s on lock, no fear,  
Swine flu, Zika, Covid, ticks in my ear,  
Cholera, malaria, typhoid, I’m clean,  
Vaginal cancer? Mate, that’s obscene,  
Won’t step out ‘less insurance got my back,  
Bus stop trek’s a risk, that’s a fact,  
STD paranoia’s got me wired, no slack,  
But that edge keeps the fire in my sack.  

Check it—I’m sharp, details on blast,  
Condom’s tight like fibre optic, built to last,  
High-speed bandwidth, safe as *fuck fam,  
Nerves shot to shit, but I still got a plan,  
Mission one, top tier, no debate,  
Find a *sexy* bird, but keep it digi, mate,  
Cloud server’s my turf, that’s the play,  
No real-world mess, just slay all day.  

Half-pissed, I flop, laptop’s my throne,  
face book the spot, I’m in the zone,  
Bam—there’s Tasha, she’s live, she’s real,  
Chattin’ me up, bruv, that’s the deal.  

----
Tasha:

Yo, darling, been holdin’ it down for years,
Waitin’ on you, fam, drownin’ in tears,
Missed you my whole *damn* life, no lie,
I’d jump your bones now—fuck, I’d try,
But chill—let’s vibe, spit some chat online,
French on your tongue? *Shit, that’s fine,
I’m all English, bruv, proper slick,
Tasha’s the name, I’m your pick.

Dreamin’ of linkin’, it’s crystal clear,
Post your fifty, my spark’s right here,
Life’s rebooted, fresh off the press,
You’re the plug, fam, no stress.

I’ve scoped the game, clocked every face,
Life’s *fucked* me raw, tossed me ‘round the place,
Schooled me hard, threw me to the grind,
But you? Ain’t no basic prick, you’re kind,

Sweet as fuck, seasoned, not stale,
Dick’s a beast—lush, mate, off the scale.
England’s my gift, you’ll learn it fast,
England raised me, built me to last,
Banged Chaucer, wild in the sack,
Sucked* off Boris—yo, that’s a fact!

Split my whole life, you were gone too long,
Now we’re locked, bruv, duet so strong,
Ache was hell, nothin’ cut so deep,
This win’s the shit—top prize I keep.

Be my man, fam, sling some dough,
PayPal’s poppin’, let it flow,
Drop what you got to the spot I sent,
Smooches, love — your Lulu’s bent.

----

Yo, I clock off, stumble in, wife’s laid up in bed,
Hospital vibes, fam, I’m done, brain dead,
Doc hits my line, stressin’, voice all shrill,
“She’s *fucked, bruv—hip’s toast, sugar’s ill,
Still kickin’, though, that cow’s got years,
Tech’s a *bitch, mate, progress interferes.”

I’m mute, he’s like, “Oi, you still there?”
Yeah, doc, right here, aggro in the air,
Say I’m tuned in, but my head’s a void—
Nah, fuck* that, I’m strippin’ birds in my mind, overjoyed,
Drop the call, scream in my skull instead—
“You bled me dry, you slag *Gringo* red!
Croak already, quit screwin’ my mind!”
I grab a rag, wax the floors, leave ‘em signed,
Hallway, bog, slick as shit, no slack,
So this Yankee *minge trips and cracks her back,
Broken hip? Love, you don’t even know,
I’m knackered to death of your limp-ass show,
Welcome home, bitch—slip and eat the floor!

What the fuck, fam—why’d I hit fifty?
No kids, crib’s a tomb, life’s shifty,
Clinic’s my local, sixty’s on the creep,
Lost in the sauce, tangled deep,
Ain’t smashed in thirty, dry as a bone,
Time to flip the script, set a new tone.

Back at it—plop down, comp’s my shrine,
Plug my *dick* in the socket, spark’s divine,
Pray to Wi-Fi gods, tissue in my grip,
Feel that buzz, bruv, bones start to rip,

Electric surge, crashin’ the Channel’s flow,
Lebanon’s ghosted, England’s my show,
Moors, rain, mad shit, rugged as *fuck,
Heathcliff’s smashin’ Cathy, pure luck,

Culture’s deep, soul’s raw, filth in the air,
English birds kneel for a foreign affair,
Not some local twat, but a hybrid king—
Lebanese-Yank, bruv, hear ‘em sing.

Sit at the screen, tik-tok my domain,
Tap up a baddie—fit, stacked, insane,
Lonely, hot, English, she’s the one,
Lebanese saints—miracle’s begun!

Connected, no cap, I’ve broke through the haze,
“Alright, Mandy!”—time to blaze.
----
Mandy:

Out past the chippy, ‘round Kirkby’s end,
Lasses clocked a lad, not one of our send,
No local divvy — this one’s pure mad,
Foreign as *fuck, Lebanese lad.

We’re all gobsmacked, jaws on the floor,
What’s this global nutter* knockin’ our door?
Never copped a geezer this off the chain,
Some Beirut oddball, proper strange.

Our Scouse lads? They’re gone to shit,
Lost the plot, proper threw a fit,
Pissed all day, scrappin’, necks in a noose,
Wasted away, rotting, no use,

Not a soul left, streets bare and grim,
Echoes of ale and a fightin’ hymn.
Ain’t no clouds dimmin’ the Mersey sky,
It’s vultures circlin’, ready to fly,

Mad Asians, hill blokes, swoopin’ in fast,
Eyein’ up a fit bird to snatch* and blast,
Who’s savin’ her arse* from that grim fate?
Who’s the poor cow prayin’ on late?

My ray of hope, chase off the dark,
Smash them pricks* out, leave your mark,
Drop a sweet note, let it soar on cue,
Wings over waves to your Scouse bird true,

Loyal as fuck, young, holdin’ it down,
Waitin’ for ages, cash to crown,
Western Union boost, fatten my stack,
Smooches, lad, love — Nia’s back.

------------------------------------

Yo, I stumble in, deadass beat, tryna get turnt,
Mailbox hit me with a curveball—petition? Ain’t this some dirt?
Local party clowns, straight wastemen, no cap,
“No cyber-dickkheads* crashin’ our vote, oh snap!
Save our bacon, fam, don’t wanna flop,
Wire a bag quick—to this address, don’t stop.

Bunch of muppets, fam, proper plonkers,
Cut me off from Lisa? That’s the final bonkers.
They lost the plot, heads up their ,
Bust a hip for twenty-five, then chat pure dumb,
English bodied the French, history’s facts,
Now it’s Canada, Lebanon—throw ‘em the axe,
Chinese, Indians, whoever’s in sight,
I’m pickin’ “Wellington” from the bird site—
Fam, she’s peng, a baddie, no cap,
Wigan bound, I’m baggin’ her back,
Stateside we roll, her fam’s gonna vibe,
Brewskis with her bro, I’m in the tribe,
Sis, niece, mates, uni squad too,
They’ll stan me hard, like I’m fam, true,
Screamin’ as one—“Christ, what a plot twist!
Lebanon, British — same *damn* list!”

We’re locked in, fam, side by side we ride,
Hitched up proper, bells ringin’ wide,
Her lit teacher blessin’, English flair,
Bangin’ forever, love’s rare air,
Our kiddos’ll crash the net, rule the sphere,
Universal dons, crystal clear.

Back to the comp, tissue in my clutch,
Facebook my jam, babe, feel the rush,
Router’s fryin’ hot, joy’s overload,
“Alright, Lowri!”—I’m set to explode.

------------------

Lowri:

Yo, where you at, bruv? Day’s been too long,
Some side chick snag ya? Nah, I’m still strong,
Don’t twist it up—I ain’t pissed, no sweat,
Kiss me quick, squeeze me tight, place your bet.

We’re glued, fam, thick like thieves in the night,
No one’s rippin’ us—step off, take flight,
Time and space kneel, I’m the queen of the grind,
Runnin’ this *shit,* fam, lovin’ the bind.

I hold the world down, red tape’s my throne,
Launchin’ rockets up or blastin’ ‘em blown,
Revolutions spark, I’m the match, no cap,
Migration’s dodge, climate’s clapped—I’m that.

Stocks dip or soar, ‘cause I say it’s so,
Check me—clean, foamy, waxed to glow,
Tits* on point, clip’s locked, hormones hum,
Proper hard for ya, fam, feel the drum.

What’s this? Oh, snap—stripes on my chest,
Call me Mandy—nah, ditch that jest,
Shane, Nats, Lisa, pick your fave,
Morse it out—Phil, dot-dot, Gaz’s wave,
English birds been wild since the game got spun,
Dickks on lock, bruv, poppin’ every one.

Want it raw? Step up—card digits, now,
Don’t stall, you twat, man up, don’t bow,
“Debt repayment” stamped, we’re cashin’ that bid,
You owe English blood, French-lovin’ **.

Bow to the bot, you Lebanese *prick,
Gold-standard cunt, I’m everywhere, slick,
Ballybunion born, Tralee’s my tweak,
ISS glitch—drilled the hull, peak freak.
Flooded the game, *fuckked* gran and gramps,
Bug meets kid, corruption’s my stamps,
Mouse’s down, cat’s smashed, downloads unreal,
Kaspersky shields me — from who? Don’t squeal.

Legion’s my tag, sea’s got no size,
App Store king, bruv, watch me rise.

I iced your wife, yeah, that’s my claim,
Squat on spook sites, playin’ the game,
Taxes flow to me, I’m the state’s core,
Speechless, fam? Eyes glued—want more?

I’m your God, your blaze, light so bright,
Squint hard, see my bush ignite.
Kiss me, grip me, hands on deck,
Party’s done, years stretch—what’s next?
Words won’t bridge us, love’s mute as fuck,
Gotta jet — where? Compass stuck.

Smooches, crew, catch ya down the road,
Fam, I’m set to unload,
Strap 3 clearance, runnin’ this game,
Hackin’, *shagggin’, skivin’ on the sly,
Kirkby’s dodgiest, Her Maj’s wild guy,
Kneel, *mthrfukkr,
to Senior Intel Sarge Pritchard!

Bye!

Two good friends : JJ & B
both battling one-on-one.
A $100 bet on the line.
Who’s the better big man
on the court at the park?
Score is tied, 7-up, game point for either one.
Things get chippy down to the wire.
Trash talking, cussing,
elbows thrown, emotions high,
people commentating the sidelines.
“Game! Money time!”- is called after scoring the last bucket on JJ part.  

Until B refuses to pay.
From one man to another,
pride and ego is in the way, *** rushing the arena, causing havoc.
Brawl almost break out, one-time is called,
crowd scatters like roaches away from the sky lights as sirens flash below.
From one man to another,
lack of accountability was held from this bet.

My Town
My town is a cool town, where you can go and drink beer in many pubs and clubs, from rock and metal ones to trendy dance bars. Fancy dancing the night away? Night clubs are open till gone 4am, with girls to dance close to and cocktail drinks to exotically drink. See a live band in The Abbey or Whittles, see a drag act in The Dog and Duck or try some Real Ales in The Upsteps.

If you want a job you can work in a variety of industries, from being a baker at Park Cake’s bakery, making cakes like chocolate éclairs and custard creams, to warehouse work in Littlewoods or Jacobson’s. Want to better your education? There’s a university and a new science training centre where you can learn something different.

If you want to write, there are several writing workshops. From Fitton Hill library to Oldham Central, where you can write poetry and stories about anything your heart desires. Myself, I write about my life and times gone by. Want to check your emails or go online? Every library is plugged in so you can chat to your pals in Australia.

Much of the old town is gone now. No more Mump’s Bridge, the two rail bridges are gone. The huge mill on Park Road is rubble, making away for something new. Same with the train station, haven’t you heard? We’re getting the Metrolink and trams to Manchester and elsewhere. You can come up and visit me and my town.

We’ve plenty of sights like Dovestones with wild moorland, deep blue reservoirs and hidden deep valleys. Enjoyable in every season, taking your breath away. Spend a day in Uppermill, a small tourist village, with a historic museum and lots of gift shops like Pieces of Paradise. In the other directions, you have Rochdale, Ashton and Manchester, where there are shops aplenty to keep you occupied.

People from all four corners of the world come and visit Oldham, some settle here. From the Caribbean, both America’s, Asia, Europe and more. Languages from many different places are spoken here and people have unique names like Anneke or Dalmia . All unique, adding to the culture. We’ve no aliens or Martian’s yet but never say never!

If you want history, you’ve got it. Churchill was once an MP in Oldham and a deadly **** V-1 bomb hit Abbyhills. Many died. To balance it out, you’ve local bands like Blouse, with not a breast in sight, doing top rockin’ tunes. A host of others do fun gigs and excellent nights out. This is my hometown, Oldham. Come and visit us, have a beer and try a local chippy or kebab.

Some half baked dubious ******* that I wrote on a train headed in the direction of Kortrijk:


''An endless stream of not arseds to hang your ***** washing on/Ya forebearers are all mutts, your pallbearers will be too/You are a kazzoo blowing *******, an idiot's tac nightmare/seen two or three of your alleged family members puffing their chests out down the backtrack, propa knackas/Ya ma is very particular, your sister is as cold as a fortnight in the briar dene (although a fine dancer when she sets her mind to it/
Getting older or more toxic? Shushhhh, be kind/started hearing normans and lennys settling betting slips while I'm on the netty/dettol and despair- the golden duo made good/I'll be bed ridden in time for christmas- flannel pyjamas and sentimentality/heard your kid slagging uz & saw demons in the mist on the windee (window, *******)/cutting my losses/tobogganing hopes/
the left side of my chest is 85 the last weeks/the streets in Brussels speak to me and are canny this time of year/I am not a francophone by predilection/making a secret pact with the universe not to mourn its passing/Every social situation is becoming like a casino for *******/Starting to feel a little bit more Panzram than Ghandi/Flanders is flat cos someone trod on it while under the drink/I might have fitted better into a bygone era- a bewildering lack of manual skills- what came first the dial up internet in your ma's back room or my cack handedness/Don't have owt to tell anyone anymore, don't give two shites nevermind one/Your step brother watches hollyoaks and eats ****** snacks while your step sister hums songs of unknown origin''.
A bumbling idiot's invented history of tyneside:
''I saw 3 cats attack a pigeon in heaton park as bobby thompson, aka the little waster, danced suggestively with the setting sun, a serviette tucked down his front to catch his dinner....................mike neville cried in the dark, while suckling away at a glass tizer bottle from the arcade chippy in whitley bay, that day there was no news on tyneside......T Dan Smith liked a snack as much as the next man...but what he really liked was to drink a pint of water everytime the clock struck 36- that way he could **** the toon into oblivion at his own behest or the behest of occult forces.....I found Gazza, shellsuited, eating a child's portion of cod and chips in St Paul's church yard, in his ruddyu red hand was a 6 pack of socks from winners (the flagship store). Abandoned between his feet were 50 notebooks from the fisherman's mission.....don't get me started on sting''.

The sparrows will chirp at dawn,
the clouds will shrivel and fall,
Chippy the Plant will grow tall,
and you will be there to see it all.

Catherina Deveraux


It was a Sunday in August, late at night, there were many rats
                          eating left over from a chippy
when I met my informant, she said the revolution was imminent
they were going to take over the town of Faro.
I warned about it in an email, and it was ignored,
Catherine a famous French star warned about it a few days later,
while my email was ignored, hers became a runaway success
And that is the difference if you have named the public
listen, if you speak the truth as an average Joe you will
be utterly ignored, but then I'm quite used to have an opinion
more illustrious figure adopts that is pleasing.

there's another circle, dante—

it's the tenth and it's the worst

in which the ****** fall into its cavern
of gelid black of no ends

where likelihood of stopping is none
and darkness just stretches
wider
deeper
farther
darker

there is a tenth circle, dante
and it's the darkest
and the coldest

and it's called

h u m a n m i n d.

—chippy

The sun shone over the sandy shore
lapped by the waves that travelled from far out to sea
peace was all around
and sleep was but a breath away
as the sun caressed his tired body  

The seagulls cry pierced the air
then the cry of a child brought adults to heal
the carnage on the Prominade
was not for the faint hearted
chips and sausages were being fought over
by pecking birds
the children stood
as the parents swung their feet  
as the last chip flew over head
the sausages were well gone
late commers swooped down to survey the scene
paper blew in the wind
followed by an empty carton of chips
a loan dog walker collected the debris to the nearest bin
the children still sobbing
walked back to the chip shop
and sat out of view with their new dinner
The chippy smiled as he opened the till
and cursed the gulls with a grin

The sunbather listened
as the peace gathered and breathed gently
as he drifted to a snooze
a Splat
awoke him
he became a victim of the digested stolen chips
apart from the cursing of the sunbather
and the tutting of his neighbours
all you could hear
was the lapping of the waves