as a usual Saturday, a sniff of whiskey left
from the previous night -
that'll do - it's not much, but it steadies
the nerves and handshakes with ghosts
of dead writers and poets -
but then the paranoia kicks in -
this isn't the same utensil as a fork, or a typewriter -
this keyboard is attached to a matrix -
it extends far and wide,
i don't know... you can get paranoid
after writing at the height of your drinking
the previous day and wake up the next day
and consider it as nothing more
than diluted prose - which it is, a snapshot
of Joycean ergonomics - but you then
by accident hit the F5 button, yep, the one just
above the 5% button: are there poets
out there, still writing as if they are holding
quills and their fingers have ink stains
and they're airing their frustrations at a blank page?
seriously? i freaked out for a minute having
pressed the F5 button, panic! sheer panic!
panic is worse than fear, i thought for a splinter
second that the government was trying to
censor me... that i was somehow in deep ****,
writing propaganda for some obscure government
that allows 12 year old children perform public
executions by shooting culprits in the back of the head...
what does the F5 button do?
it freezes / blocks / denies the laptop mouse -
a rectangle mat and two buttons incorporated into
the actual laptop - for those few seconds
i felt monitored - standard paranoia of the 21st
poet / writer / whoever, but not quiet enough
for a spy novel... just bog standard feelings... which
are very much linked to printed book materials...
e.g. **** deus: a brief history of tomorrow by
yuval harari - about how we're getting dumber
because someone smarter programmed something
and we weren't given the manual...
funny... they started selling computers like they
were selling hammers... they said: easy, easiest
thing to operate... i'm well chuffed (i guess i use
that word to replace being surprised - local
ingredient - how they bang on about organic
locally grown potatoes and beef, same thing,
only with local vocab) - but they don't sell computers
with instruction manuals - so obviously
the smartest kids these days get on the app. rather than
the mortgage ladder - but **** me! you
could have at least included a little booklet that tells you
what F5 does... i never use it! i'm one of the few
lucky ones, i have some literacy in this department,
but i'm not a techno-philiac as such -
i'm one of those people that says: well, so much
for the building, but you have to put something
meaningful and human in it for the building
to be worth something... not what it is, but:
what it's about - i once learned to use Excel...
****! gone, not coming back. i once learned to
code and build a website... ****! gone, not coming
back, goldfish syndrome due to excess drinking...
but what bothers me is finding something
interesting in that book review... the invention of
humanism as a religion in the 17th century (
funny how Nietzsche criticised Christianity when
as an academic he would have known about
humanism, but dumbly persisted to criticise
what was already being replaced... unless...
he was anticipating American Evangelism,
which might be true) - so i'm trying to look for humanism,
and i come across Copernicus and Galileo -
because, apparently, (as already mentioned)
'Christianity was gradually dislodged by a belief
in the scared status of every individual's feelings
and judgement; we became the centre of the universe,
placing our trust in an unease alliance between
science and moral instinct.'
so there me thinking: so this goes back
to what we're experiencing now, heliocentric humanism
and geocentric humanism -
like i already mentioned, what's west for
nautical calculations past the moon and where's up
or north? it's still flat, the earth, if you're
trying to get from A (Lisbon) to Rio (B) -
so it's happening now, the great schism in humanism,
one side demeaning, angry, frustrated,
the other optimistic - heliocentric humanism
suggest that humans have all the great answers,
that we're all little Louis XIVs, about to dream big
about sorting hunger with spaghetti with a chance of
meatballs machines lodged in our head...
cure for cancer, etc. but then the geocentric humanism
movement is also strong: carbon footprints being
more important than carbon dating, global warming,
you know, typical ****.
still, the F5 paranoia was great,
writing this with an unlit roll-up cigarette was even
better, puckering that luxury before
the last word, and Houston: we have lift-off.

I met this geezer down the frog
Who said mate you gotta have a butchers
So we went into the rub a dub
And I couldn't Adam and Eve it

There before me mince pies
Stood a treacle all sugar and spice
She was a bleeding treat
For this London boy with sore plates

For I had been walking for quite a while
But now I was beginning to smile
Watching her with a pigs ear in me mitts
Boy I was chuffed to bits

The missus wanted to go out;
I wanted to stay in.
So I did the washing-up
And emptied out the bin.
But still she wasn’t too impressed;
She was determined, I could see.
I needed to improve my odds
And it occurred to me;
Perhaps I should just toss a coin
To have an even chance;
So I suggested it to her
And she gave me such a glance!
She said, “You are so tight;
Have you a ‘double-headed coin’?”
I asked, “Would I do that to you?”
She said, No!  Use one of mine!”
Then she handed me a ten-pence piece;
I tossed it in the air.
It hit my thumb as it came down
And bounced to who knows where?
Deciding it had found a crack
Right beside me in the flooring;
I went and fetched my tool-box out
And soon began on sawing.
“Leave it!  It is just ten-pence!”
That’s what the missus said;
But I said that we didn’t know
Whether it was tail or head?
Seeing how determined I’d become
She left me on my own;
Went off in a strop
And soon began to moan!
I heard her say, “He’ll wreck the house
Just for a silly coin!”
She came to offer me another
But still, I did decline.
I smashed the tongue and groove
And slowly lifted up the floor
But when I looked into the space;
I took fright at what I saw.
There was a cavity right below;
Between the house-brick void
Because the coin was not around,
Well it must have fell inside.
So off I scurried down the stair
As fast as I could go
And with my lump-hammer and chisel
I gave such a mighty-blow!
About an hour later on
I’d smashed out half a brick;
The missus was annoyed with me
And said, ‘I made her sick!’
I pushed my hand inside the gap;
Then I ferreted about,
Got my hand stuck sideways
And could not get it out!
The missus grabbed me by the belt
Then she pulled with all her might;
She could not move me anyway
So she disappeared from sight.
She returned with Fairy-liquid
And squirted it on my wrist;
Pulling-it and pushing-it
I soon regained a fist.
But, there still appeared no coin;
My hand was black and blue!
The missus asked me to give-up;
There was nothing else to do.
She said it was too late now;
Even if we wanted to go out.
We might even have enjoyed ourselves
If I hadn’t mucked-about!
It seemed to me, she’d took the ****;
I disliked her attitude
And after all the work I’d done
I found it very rude!
I said, “It won’t take long
To put it back together.”
She said, ‘she didn’t give one,
She’d reached the end of a long-tether!’
Off she went to bed
Without wishing me goodnight!
I followed her just after,
‘Cause I sensed things wasn’t right.
She was lying there in bed
With a face ‘as dark as sin’;
Said she had a throbbing-head
And that she didn’t want me in!
Off I went into the spare-room
Feeling like a condemned-man;
All I’d done was for the best,
If it hadn’t gone to plan!
At times like this, when I feel down,
I fancy something hot
So off I trotted down the stairs
And boiled-up the ***.
Back inside the bedroom
With hot-chocolate in my cup;
I threw my trousers on the bed
And something fell from my turn-up.
Would you believe; it was the coin?
It really made me smile
After all the fuss I’d made
It had been there all the while!
I dashed right in to tell the wife
Thinking she’d be ‘chuffed!’
I said, “We’ll have to toss again!”
But she just yelled, “GET STUFFED!”

When you decide to wash the car, make sure of your stability
Don't lose your footing, or any form of your own credibility
Some driveways are a dangerous place, they can be a liability
Knees get grazed through carelessness, but that's your responsibility

You've slipped down the embankment, you wasn't banking on a stumble
Coming into contact with the concrete, giving you good cause to grumble
Is it possible that your garden, has got loose parts that crumble
Or was it due to clumsiness, that made you fall and tumble

Water splashing on the car, but it wasn't that translucent
You ended up with ****** knees, from your unruly movement
Bucket dropping did not help, with your clean car improvement
I can't say that your actions, didn't cause us some amusement

We had a laugh at your expense, because your knees got scuffed
Spilling water on the path, is when your legs we're stuffed
You didn't look too happy, so I guess you wasn't chuffed
Because you fell, it'll be some time before the car gets buffed

One thing I will mention, we would not have seen you fall
If you didn't have that camera, that you wanted to install
But it has served it's purpose, cos we have seen it all
You was not completely focused, and you wasn't on the ball

Security has now been viewed, splashed water not in stealth
Is it worth the hassle, when you clean the car yourself
You don't want to trip and fall, and damage your leg health
Take it to the car wash, cos it doesn't cost much wealth

Your unfortunate leg scrapping, we hope it was not deep
But we nearly ****** ourselves, when you fell in a heap
We laughed at your misfortune, it almost made us weep
Cleaning cars come at a price, when it's done on the cheep  

Some Ideas are valid, and most of them go far
Set backs are not wanted, make sure that your on par
Be aware of your surroundings, if your washing the car
Trips around the garden could result, in a blooded scar

I had the funniest dream the other night
I was doing something with paintings in the dream
I was picking them up and looking at them
I was in a public place, there was other people around
In the corner of my eye I could make out this girl
She was sitting on a table talking to another girl who was sitting down
She was a Goth girl, a real life Goth girl
She had these big laced boots and the fishnet stockings
She had necklaces and jewellery and the black dress on
She had the black eyeliner and  very pronounced lipstick
And she had her hair done in a funny way that I didn't particularly like
But I can't remember now to describe (maybe it was short or shaven a bit)
Now I wasn't staring at her, I was only regarding her clandestinely out of the corner of my eye
It's like I was saying "Wow! There's a real Goth girl
I'd never met or spoken to a Goth girl before
Suddenly it's like... it's like she notices me for the first time
And she starts watching me... she's looking right at me
Now I'm a bit chuffed by this...flattered
I'm wondering why she'd be interested in an old geezer like me
Anyway just then I decide to glance at her pretending I've only just seen her for the first time
For a moment our eyes they meet
And y'know, she slips me the sweetest smile I've ever seen in my whole life
It's so warm and endearing/welcoming, open and innocent.. so cute
It's like she's saying "Hello there you, I'd love to get to know you"
Me! I don't know what to do, I'm blown away,
Gulp! I'm all at sea and I'm floundering
But I got to do something... so I kinda smile back at her and give her a little wink
Then I quickly look back at my paintings
The next time I dare to look over she's right there, right in front of me, this fabulous creature...in all her wonderful terribleness LoL
It's obvious she wants to make herself known to me
It all proves too much though... I chicken out
I pull out of the dream
I guess... I'm only a Shy Boy really.

I’ve sat on a bare-damp chair.
out on the North deck
where the moss blurs the lines
between itself and algae and lichen
and me.  Me, who wouldn’t know such a line
if it were less blurred...I’m not so sharp as all that.


I set my glasses down on a stone table.
Beside the cold-soon tea.
I watch the wind coming, first through the reeds.
And then shifting the banana leaves.
And soon the birch curtain crowding out my
writing place.  My righting place.

The labyrinth is hosting some flowers.  A dragonfly alights on an altar of crystal
and stone and birch branch.  And offerings.  
The dragonflies seems to (me to) re-write spider lines
or maybe ley lines.  A frog just leaped from a tree past my feet.
I’ve lost my word lines, my throughline.
This frog is now in the leaves by the ivy under the bees.
Looking so green.  Leaf droppings dropping on its head.
It’s green head.  Like an emerald in a mountain’s side.

Now a rustle.  Just beyond.  But not that far.  Like feet away.  But beyond.
Another distance.  Another limit.  Another world.  A bank-robbery escape-mode
Squirrel is making off with what it made off with from the free-to-all and undefended
(and legal, too) pear tree in the far yard.  It leaped upon the birch trunk and then, startled to find me unstartlingly well...just here.  And unstartled.  Paused to set its claws in bark.
It teeth gripping as fifth grip the rind of an unripe pear, its size, if I might compare,
the size of its head without the ears, without the hair.  This unrepentant squirrel leaped                  from
     here
to
     there
all of which was over there but just there so basically here.  (Just not here here, more there.)  It found its place to contemplate me.  To observe.  It made no offer.  But of itself.  Which, really, is all that we can do.  It chuffed a few times but it seemed to me that this was more to do with why-not-give-this-a-try-but-I-don’t-know-why.  It’s belly flush to gray birch bark.  It’s tail extended, and caught by a breeze that the leaves were not informed of.  A deceiving breeze.
Soon - which wasn’t soon, it was minutes - the squirrel scrambled up the birch and branch-to-branched its way to overhead and then out of sight.  I may have smelled of peanuts as I’d just emptied a jar.  I may have been the deceiver.  I may be the lone believer that I might know at all.

The frog hasn’t yet moved.


Something is buzz-whistling.  In the grass?  The trees?  The soil?  The sound rises and the tone
shifts.  The pitch lifts.  I cannot say if it is insect.  I cannot say if it is amphibian.  I cannot say if it is electric and thus man and thus unwelcome.  Cicada?  Frogs?  A hummingbird just fooled me into thinking I knew something about speed.  Something about color.  Something about birds.
Something about Nature.  Something about need.  Something about life.  Something about something about my self.  A partial-second lesson.  The teacher came and went.  The teachings stayed behind in mind.  I have so much work to do.

The far birch, placed in the yard for a long-ago dog
seems to offer up a peach harvest this year.
(At least when my glasses are off.)
The landscaper says that all the birches are yellowing this summer
this year this near to the midsummer and this far from the far flung
and far colder cold slumber of December and November and October.

The blue spruce has a still-for-the-first-time-this-season small flock
of oriole.  Or sunset-breasted, warbler wren throated tipped somethings.
I count seven.  Or six.  No, eight.  Wait.  Nine.  Uh, now eight.
Oh, there’s one!  Oh, no matter.  There’s some.
Too flighty and flittery each blur-glance I’ve had all year.  And I've tried each time
to secure them (sharply) in my lens.

The ducks converse as they arrive at the pond’s far edge.  About to traverse the
turtle-hiding waters, the en-flowered pond’s surface, the distance between heard and seen.
I reach for my glasses.  The birch leaves in yellow have fallen and lied.  Belied to believed.
There are no birds in the tree.  That I can see.  That I care to see.  Autumn come early.

A hawk glides past my edge-of-can’t-quite-see.  It’s loping-like arc its own pleasure...to me.
And, I imagine, it.  The meadow is blushing in purple, ironweed.  The jewelweed, too is a star-field of twinkling orange.  A constellation by day.  A bowl by the winter-blooming something (jasmine?) is concentrically coming awake as drip drip drippings are drop drop dropping.  A yellow-spiked caterpillar treks through the detritus of the unkempt bits of the beside-the-garden which isn’t so much a garden as a place I once planted and once planned.  A spider fast-ropes down to investigate and, as it happens, to pester.  The caterpillar twists and tumbles.  Righting itself, it plods on in its stretch-curl way as the spider ascends to the invisible upper home in its way.  The frog hasn’t moved but I notice and note its **** has two bumps.  Like its bulbous eyes in its front which, as I notice and note is spear-shaped as is its hind.  I wonder at defenses.  It is still.  It still is still.  It’s stillness is still stilling.  Until...I move on.  My fastest is not footed but mindful.  Not mindful but of mind.  I am of a mind to move the mind along.  The caterpillar closes the distance.  What a distance to it it must be.  It’s face is black as an undersea shadow.  It has spikier spikes of black here and there.  Likely in some pattern but my mind has moved and so, here and there it will be.  My story.  My pattern.  My refusal to change.

The mushrooms where the spider met the yellow fellow, though.  Sesame-seeded.  Decorated.  Pimpled.  Bejeweled.  A tawny cup beside a stone behind the frog.  Soft mustard-dotted.  But now!  A new frog where the old new frog had been.  This one a leopard toad.  I think.  (I shouldn’t think.)  Browns upon browns with stripes and blots and dots.  Tans and browns.  At the end of the birch twig is now the first frog.  The green-headed bumpy-butted one.  The leopard in tiger lily patches watches the caterpillar (a different one?) clamber though the unswept unkempt.  

The frog, beside me in ceramic keeps time for the timeless.  The throat bellowing.  As though feeding a fire somewhere where Earth is turned to plow.  We all make our own ends, don’t we?

He had got on the train at New Street,
Found an empty carriage spare,
And settled down with the paper
With not one to disturb him there,
But the train pulled in at Sandwell
And the carriage door slid wide,
And in there walked a pair of heels
With a dimple and hips beside.

She sat on the seat across from him
And laid her bag on the seat,
Kicked her shoes on the floor, so he
Could see her pretty feet,
He tried to look at his paper but
The print got up and walked,
Up from her ankles to her calfs
And he found it hard to talk.

‘How do you do,’ was banal but
That’s all that came to mind,
She briefly looked from her knitting, and
He thought that her eyes were kind,
But never a word would pass those lips
She had the slightest pout,
And her needles clicked to the railway clack
As his mouth was drying out.

He’d bought some fruit in the Bullring
So he thought he’d have some there,
And at different times he offered her
An apple, peach or a pear,
But she shook her head so slightly and
Politely, in disdain,
As if the thought of a stranger’s fruit
From a man in a suit, might stain.

The train chuffed on through Wolverhampton
While he drank a Coke,
He knew that his time was limited
For she’d get off at Stoke,
He offered to put the window down
But she said it blew her hair,
Then he offered his name as Paul, but she
Was not inclined to share.

She crossed her legs and she hitched her skirt
Just slightly above her knees,
While his eyes looked up to the luggage rack,
Was this some sort of tease?
Her knitting needles were clicking away
Was she knitting some sort of sack?
It seemed like she was racing the train
Ahead of its clickety-clack.

The train went racing to Stafford,
In and out, but it passed so fast,
He said, ‘We’re almost at Stoke, that’s where
We’ll both get out, I guess?
There’s quite a nice little café
Down by the station in the square,
I’d like to buy you a coffee, if you want
I’ll shout you there.’

She stopped, and packed up her knitting
Tucked it carefully in her bag,
And said, ‘You must be Australian,
And coming here, so sad.
I’ve never been ‘shouted’ a drink before
But I think you’re rather nice,
I’ll let you know that you’re past first base
On your way to Paradise!’

David Lewis Paget

Baa Humbug to the world this day
Its stupid time of year
See madness in the peoples eyes
All rushing face the fear

So what its Christmas soon I say
Baa Humbug to you all
Your mad and crazy for the trick
It almost makes me crawl

Yes Santa go and swing ya pants
And stuff ya stupid tree
Pine needles still in June my ***
They hurt my lickl'e feet

A present yeah some socks a pair
Oh thanks I'm really chuffed ..
Sent smelly stuff from who I care
Yes great I smell of farts

I look like I'm all bothered
I really want all this
Cant do with all the hassle
With my cookings crap as hell

Baa Humbug to this time of year
I hate it all the time
When Reli's turn up Christmas cheer
And drink all of me wine
Sod the fact that that's all gone
Won't see them for a year

So Santa sling ya hook again
go find some others pies
Cos mine are staying right in here
..................................
Baa Humbug be the time

•
  
                    You've broken my heart into fragments,

And those pieces,

                               Became the stars that light my pitch-black moments,


It became an ornament of my life,

    
                Little gems that gleams my night,


Their abundance embellish the darkness,

                                    It makes my life marvelous and worth living for!


         'Cause stars are an exceptional beauty in the  dark sky,

                                    Like my brokenness has it's rare beauty,

             Everyone sees it, but few appreciates.


      'Cause only infrequent times,

                                      With individuals having chuffed personality,

              That people makes blissful atmosphere,

Out of wicked situations.


                           © Earl Jane
                             ♥ E.J.C.S.

A month or two ago I read a book.
It wasn’t bad but I’ve read better
stories with more interesting characters in my life.
I sat as I usually did with a cup of tea
but I think my wife forgot the sugar in it
as usual. She always did this.

Halfway through I thought to myself, “This
is getting boring. I’ll put this particular book
back where it belongs, let it
gather dust. I’m sure there is a better
read somewhere on these shelves, littered with tea
stains, stains from my younger self, my younger life.”

And yes, it has been a long life
indeed. Now would you just look at this!
Surrounded by novels, lukewarm tea.
I mean, see my book
over there on my desk? Yes, that could be better
too, but when I had finished writing it

I was so chuffed. Sadly though, it
didn’t make me feel more jovial about life.
Didn’t get much praise at all. My wife said, “Better
go to bed, wake up ready to start again, a new book.
Whatever happens, don’t let this
get to you, like last time when you downed cup after cup of tea

every day.” Yeah, she got it right, down to a T.
Again and again, I always ended up doing it.
Then I’d sit by myself, plan to book
a holiday and think “It’s time my life
took a different path, writing garbage like this
is not going to make things any better.”

I needed to start afresh, anew. I’d thought I’d better
stop with my unhealthy habit of supping tea
and after months of misery put a stop to this
nonsense. The stuff in the past? Just forget about it,
move on, focus on the more exciting projects in life.
Get ready to stun the world with a brilliant new book.

I presume you have read this. What do you think of it?
I turned to poetry. Better than the mush I wrote before when tea
played a part in my life? Who knows? One day, you might read it in that book.

< So how far back can you go then ?
How far down the Rope of Songs can you go ?
You were a Rocker weren't you, you liked Rock n' Roll
In the 80's you had a Walkman, you'd be listening to tapes and songs on the radio
You also wanted to be a drummer once, you loved the power and energy there
But what about the early days though, I'm interested particularly in the early days
How far back can you go I wonder
Yea! How far back and what memories do they bring up ? >

Back in the 70's watching Top of the Pops every Thursday evening on the BBC, essential viewing
With its exciting Whole Lotta Love intro
It was something exciting, thrilling
Waiting to see your favourite Band
And to see the Charts, how they were doing
In the Seventies there was Glam Rock, my eldest brother and me we were always arguing and fighting with one another, sibling rivalry I suppose
If he supported United then I'd have to support City...silly stuff
He liked the band Slade whereas I liked...I supported Marc Bolan and T-Rex
Solid Gold East Action I really liked that song
It was very fast, he rarely did fast songs Marc
Telegram Sam..."you're my main man"
Metal Guru..."is it true"
Twentieth Century Boy..."I wanna be your toy"
The hair on your neck would stand up when he'd come on...
Slade were good though, secretly I liked Slade too, they had great songs
*** on feel the Noise/ Girls grab the boys..
Coz I luv you...Mama we'er all crazy now...
Skweeze me Pleeze me "You know how to squeeze me..."
But there were lots of other good bands and so many great songs
We used to play cards for small money...pennies, a series of different card games, and we'd put on records while we played
We even learned to play Chess and we started a Chess League between us,
We'd always listen to the music as we played.

The Sweet's "Blockbuster" with its intro of police sirens, it spent about 5 weeks at No.1 in the UK Charts...
It reminds me of...of Fish that song...Fish on Fridays, we used to have fish every Friday, I didn't like fish there was bones in it
I wouldn't eat it then Mam would get angry
One time she took a mouthful of my fish trying to prove there were no bones in it
Then suddenly she started to cough and splutter and choke
A Bone had actually got caught in her throat
I thought it was my fault, I thought I'd killed her
She had to go to hospital to get it out
I was going to tell her "I told you the fish was dangerous"
That memory just came back to me when I thought of that song and that time

Yea! I liked Marc Bolan and T-Rex, songs like Metal Guru, Twentieth Century Boy
I remember I didn't like the lyric "Twentieth Century Boy/ I wanna be your toy"
It sounded silly to me that lyric, I suppose I wanted things to make sense
And when he did that song "New York City" with the lyric
"Did you ever see a woman coming out of New York City with a frog in her hand"
I thought then he was maybe losing it a bit
< You...you were a very serious child then weren't you ? >
I suppose I was...like a lot of children are...maybe I just wanted things to make sense.

< I'm interested in the early days, even the very early days and the memories you have
How far back can you go ? What about the funny novelty songs ? >
Chuck Berry had a No. 1 with "My Ding a Ling" playing with his Ding a Ling, we all thought it was very funny
Stayed at No. 1 for several weeks
"Gimme that thing, gimme gimme that thing (or Ding)" was another funny song
"Mouldy Old Dough" by Lieutenant Pigeon a keyboard song with the constant refrain of just "Mouldy Old Dough"
Cat Stevens had a song "I can't keep it in/ I gotta let it out/ gotta show the world..."
Novelty songs were important, they'd interest even your parents
They'd pass a comment "Ha! Ha! That's a funny song"
< And there were sad songs too, weren't there, really sad songs ? >
"Billy don't be a hero don't be a fool with your life" by Paper Lace about a young bride trying to talk her young fiancee out of going off to war, he doesn't listen and never comes back, he gets killed
The Government sends her a letter, she throws it away...
"Seasons in the Sun" by Terry Jacks, 'Goodbye Michelle my little one/
We've known each other since we were nine or ten/ We climbed hills and trees skinned our knees...ABC's / O! Michelle it's hard to die when all the birds are singing in the sky..."
You'd nearly be in tears listening to it.
We used to buy Top of the Pops compilation records with lots of hits on them
Sometimes Mom would like a song, 'Stay with me' by the band Blue Mink
"Stay with me, lay with me/ Love me for longer..."
Always reminds me of my Mom that song
'Killing me softly with your song' Roberta Flack was another
'Tie a yellow ribbon round the old oak tree..."
At school every Friday the teacher would have a spelling test, I used win it a lot, I was good at spelling
The teacher used to give some sweets as a prize, I used bring them home to my Mum.

The Eurovision Song contest (all the European countries would put forward a song), I remember being let stay up to watch Abba win in 1972 with 'Waterloo'
In their fabulous outfits...they looked like Stars, Giants to us, Norse legends from Sweden.  They were amazing!
And what about our own Dana, the young Irish girl from Derry who won the Eurovision for Ireland for the first time with 'All kinds of everything...remind me of you"
I was too young to be allowed to stay up to watch that one
But you could probably hear the adults shouting for Joy from the room below
Happy Nay amazed to see one of our own having done so well, being recognised, flying the flag for Ireland
And then there was seeing Thin Lizzy playing 'Whiskey in the Jar' on Top of the Pops, the first Irish Rock band ever to appear on the show
It was so exciting watching them on our old Black and white TV...an Irish Band one of your very own up there on the World stage
And what about Gilbert O'Sullivan from Waterford I think reaching No. 1 in the Charts with his lovely song 'Clair'
We thought it was a love song but at the end it was revealed it was in fact about a little girl he used babysit for...so sweet.
We used to get comics and magazines secondhand, bought at jumble sales (remember jumble sales)
There was a music magazine for young kids, mainly for girls I think
It was called 'Jackie', there'd be a few in our bundle
They'd have big pictures of all the current hearthrobs
Donny Osmond, David Cassidy, the Bay City Rollers
The young fans would go crazy for their idols
I remember Donny Osmond singing Puppy Love and his version of The Twelfth of Never...
"I'll love you till the bluebells forget to bloom
I'll love you till the clover has lost its perfume
I'll love you till the poets run out of rhyme
Until the Twelfth of Never/ And that's a long long time"...
They were beautiful words about loving, a forever love
And Baby I love you by The Ronettes "Baby I love you/ I love everything about you...
All singing about this wonderful mysterious thing called...called Love.

<Can you go back further than that?>
When we'd go up the village where the amusement arcade was
There'd be songs playing, there were dreamy songs
Albatross by Fleetwood Mac, A whiter shade of Pale by Procol Harum
There was an instrumental I remember called "Sylvia" by the Dutch band Focus
There was a lovely leggy blonde girl named Sylvia in my class at school
And yes! I think she was actually from Holland
(We had a few foreign girls in our class)
Y'know I think she fancied me...did Sylvia
She used to smile at me a lot.
I have a memory of being at the fairground in the Summer with its swing boats and bumper cars
It's roundabouts with the horses and swings, the shooting gallery, the stall for throwing rings over things and taking a prize home
I remember candy floss and ice cream cones
I remember playing the penny slot machines in the amusement arcade, all the different machines
I remember a song "California Man" by The Move... wonderful Summer days.

In the Sixties an Elvis or a Beatles film was a big deal
I remember A Hard Days Night in brilliant black and white
And then "Help" in wonderful colour
Trying to get a fabulous Ring off Ringo the drummer's finger... great songs
Watching The Banana Splits "One Banana Two Banana Three Banana Four/All Bananas going right through the door...
Remember The Monkees"Hey!Hey! We're The Monkees/You never know where we'll be found... We're the young generation and we got something to say"
Last Train to Clarksville, I'm a Believer... great songs too
Remember The Age of Aquarius "This is the age of Aquarius..."
The Sixties yeah!

<Did your Mom and Dad have a Singles collection, the old 45's. Do you remember?>
On our old Dansette record player Roy Orbison singing In Dreams and its B side Sharadoba a magical Egyptian sounding song
And also It's Over about a love affair breaking up
And its wonderful B side Indian Wedding, that was my favorite song among the 45's
It told the story of Yellow Hand and White Feather two Indians getting married
But then going off into the swirling snow never to return
Gone to the Land of the Rising Sun...
You'd listen to them over and over again those songs and that wonderful haunting voice.
<And what were you thinking about, what would be running through your mind when you'd be listening to those songs?>
I remember I wanted to be special that I'd have some special powers and be able to do great things
Something that would make me stand out and that people would be amazed
Maybe some of the girls too, would be very impressed.
My Dad he liked Jim Reeves, he had a lovely velvety smooth voice
He sang Billy Bayou 'Billy Billy Bayou watch where you go/ You're walking on quicksand/ Walk slow/ Billy Billy Bayou watch what you say/ A pretty girl is gonna get you one of these days...
He sang a lot of slow love songs "Put your sweet lips a little closer to the phone and let believe that we're together all alone...
Anna Marie... Anna Marie
Four Walls to know me...

<Tell me about Christmas, the Christmas songs?>
Christmas was a magical time in our house, we'd have the Christmas tree with all the decorations and coloured lights on it
We'd have long concertina like decorations going from wall to wall, so colourful
And lots of glittery things
The songs... Slade singing 'Happy Christmas Everybody', Wizard singing 'I wish it could be Christmas everyday', Mud singing 'It'll be lonely this Christmas (without you to hold)' sounded like Elvis
Johnny Mathis singing 'When a child is born',
'Little Drummer Boy'...
In those days because of school and family you had a strong sense of belonging, having friends, attending birthdays and sports and community events and church
I remember the Christmas party in Primary school (Kindergarten), you had to bring your own treats
I'd only have some biscuits and diluted orange juice
Most people were relatively poor in those days
I was a bit embarrassed having so little
There was one boy and all he had was a bottle of milk to bring
Some used make fun of him, kids could be cruel sometimes.

I remember the teacher brought in a tape recorder once and taped every boy and girl's voice and then he'd play them back
I used dread when my voice would come up
'Cos suddenly the whole class would erupt in laughter
For some reason my voice sounded funny when taped
Even the teacher used smile
I felt so humiliated nay destroyed with them all laughing at me...
I remember... I remember singing the Christmas Carol 'Angels we have heard on high' with its chorus
"Glo..ooria, Gloria in Excelsis Deo"
It was Latin I think but I didn't know this
I thought we were singing "Gloria in a Chelsea stable"
I thought to myself "Jesus must be a supporter of Chelsea football/soccer club" heh!
We had Perry Como's Christmas album with the story of 'Frosty the Snowman' and 'The Christmas Song' ...
"chestnuts roasting on an open fire/ Jack Frost nipping at your nose/ Yuletide carols being sung by a choir/ And folks dressed up like Eskimos..."
And Bing Crosby of course, singing White Christmas
I think we all dreamed of a White Christmas
At school we'd sing 'Away in a Manger' and 'The First Nowell'
Y'know if I sing those songs even now to myself, I can... I can almost remember...

<What about the other songs you learned at school, funny songs, sad songs and the memories they bring up? >
There was a song 'Those were the days (my friend we thought they'd never end)' it was in the Charts
I think the teacher taught us it
The people in the song would be having a great time laughing and drinking and dancing in the taverns
But as they'd grow older their lives would change and they'd get lonelier and sadder...
'Puff the Magic Dragon' I remember there was a very sad bit in this song
Puff and his childhood friend would have so many great adventures together
But then one day, his friend he came no more (he'd found other toys to play with)
Poor Puff was left bereft, he slowly slunk back into his cave... this used to make me sad...
We did patriotic songs 'Roddy McCorley' (goes to die on the Bridge of Toom today)
We had a songbook at school, I still have it
It had lots of old folk songs
Oh! Susanna, Skip to my Lou, The Camptown Races
"Michael Finnegan beginagin/ He had hairs on his chinagin/ Poor old Michael Finnegan"
We used laugh at that song
"What are we going to do with the drunken sailor... early in the morning "
'Marching through Georgia' "Hurra! Hurra! We bring the Jubilee/ Hurra! Hurra! The flag that sets us free...a rousing song
The teacher would play a musical instrument, a melodica I think it was called
She'd blow into it and it had keys on top that'd she'd finger to create the notes
She divided the class into those who could sing and the others, the Crows she called us who couldn't
I was among the Crows
It made me feel bad being called a Crow.
In Primary school we used to play soccer during the breaks
It was usually the Boys from the Housing Estate versus the rest of us from the Village
There was never any tactics, the whole team en masse would just run after the ball LoL
I remember I used to get angry sometimes probably because of something someone had said to me
When I was angry I'd become like The Incredible Hulk
I'd go through the whole lot of them, beat them all
I was Unstoppable
I was the first boy in my class to ever score a goal using my head
The school would also have soccer leagues and we'd get put onto teams
But we were so small compared to the bigger older boys we'd hardly ever get a touch of the ball
But I... I managed to get a goal once which was unheard of from someone in our year
I was so happy.... delighted! My teacher even announced it to the whole class
That I'd scored... I was so chuffed
When I went home and told my parents though they didn't seem to think it was anything special....
My Dad he liked accordion music, he liked The Alexander Brothers from Scotland
They had a song 'Nobody's Child'
"I'm Nobody's Child, no one to love me/ No mother's kisses no mother's smiles/ I'm like a flower just growing wild..."

I used to sleep alone in my room
You'd be afraid there in the Dark on your own
There'd be a nightlight on the wall all lit up
A religious picture, the ****** Mary holding the child Jesus
I'd get Mom to leave the door open so I could faintly hear the voices downstairs
Sometimes I couldn't hear anything and I'd be afraid everybody had gone and left me
So I'd get up and sit on the landing listening
There was a few times when I'd actually go down the stairs
I'd be so relieved to see them all still there
I used sing songs in the dark to keep the fear away, songs we learned at school
"We're going to the Zoo Zoo Zoo/ How about You You You/ You can come too too too..."
Old MacDonald had a farm E-I-E-I O! and on that farm he had some...
"10 green bottles standing on a wall/ And if one green bottle should accidentally fall/ There'd be nine green bottles standing on the wall...
Sometimes I used recite poems we'd learned
"Two little blackbirds singing in the sun/ One flew away and then there was one... One little brick wall lonely in the sun/ Waiting for the blackbirds to come and sing again "
I also remember trying to recite to myself the multiplication tables...

<There were funny rhymes and nursery rhymes wasn't there? >
Christmas is coming/ The Goose is getting fat/ Please put a penny in the old Man's hat/ If you haven't got a penny a halfpenny will do/ If you haven't got a halfpenny God bless you...
Hickory Dickery dock/ The mouse ran up the clock...
They could be strangely violent sounding
Jack and Jill went up the hill/To fetch a pail of water/ Jack fell down and broke his crown/ And Jill came tumbling after...
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall/ Humpty Dumpty had a great fall...
Three blind mice/ See how they run/ They all run after the farmer's wife/ She cuts off their tails with a carving knife...
Girls are made of all things nice... sugar and spice/What are little boys made of/ Frogs and snails and puppy dogs tails...
Adam and Eve went up my sleeve and never came down till Christmas Eve...
I remember the early games we played, Snakes and Ladders, Ludo, Tiddlywinks trying to flick little plastic counters into a tiny plastic bucket, also playing draughts and marbles...

<Can you go back any further ? >
My Mom singing in the kitchen doing her daily chores singing some song off the radio
Dickie Rock an Irish showband singer singing
"Come back to stay/ And promise me you'll never stray/ I promise that I'll be true...
Sean Dunphy another Irish singer singing "If I could choose" (came second in the Eurovision Song contest)
Tom Jones 'The Green green grass of Home '
There was a lot of easy listening type songs on the radio Burt Bacharach type songs
Andy Williams, Englebert Huberdinck (Please release me let me go/ I don't love you anymore), Doris Day maybe
There's a lot I can't remember now
Val Doonican another Irish singer who'd made it big in the UK
(Had his own TV program for many years on the BBC)
He had a big hit with the song "Walk Tall"
"Walk tall and look the world right in the eye/That's what my mother told me when I was about knee high...
I remember one magical Christmas we got a present of a plastic projector
It came with several slides, they had wonderfully colourful cartoony pictures on them that told a story
We'd turn off all the lights and project it onto the wall
I remember it was like magic, the colours they were so vivid, they were like the colors off stained Glass windows...
The colour of things was very important when you were a kid, they'd almost create feelings inside of you
Colours came first... before words ever did
We often didn't understand the grown ups with their big words...
I remember getting collections of different kinds of toy soldiers and then staging battles
I remember collecting little toy Dinky cars they were called, that was their brand
And Matchbox cars (another brand) ... even today when I see certain colours of cars I am reminded of those old toy cars I used to play with... strange

<What are your earliest memories then? >
There was a question I always wanted to ask the adults but I never did, I thought it kind of funny and didn't want them to laugh at me
The question was "Why does Life always show me ?" An existentialist question even then.

We lived by the sea so you'd be lulled to sleep every night by the flowing up and flowing back of the sea... the tide... its gentle swaying back and forth motion
We had a black cloth picture/painting on the wall, a night scene with swans on a lake and an exotic house in the background with the Moon shining
It was so quiet and peaceful to look at...
My bedroom wallpaper had lovely red or pinkish roses
There was a colourful flower design sewn onto my pillowcase
It used to be lovely getting into bed with fresh linen...
I remember I used to get funny dreams even then, sometimes scary dreams
But I remember you were always safe 'cos in the dream you had a special ring you could put on and then the scary dream would go away (I've often wondered after was that maybe where Tolkien got his inspiration for The Lord of the Rings and Wagner the music composer for his music opera "The Ring")

<Can you go back...any further ? >
Going back further, you're almost falling off the edge of the world there
To a time... to a time when there were no words
When a child comes into the world they have no words
There's only... only The Silence... The Great Silence,
Silence is a strange thing, you can hear Silence
The fact that you can hear it means it must be changing from moment to moment
It too is just like a music, it's probably the first music
Without it there could be no other
The Music of the Spheres someone once called it
It just stays there in the background... glistening... your constant companion
Probably the first sound you ever heard, and probably the last you'll ever hear
It can grow very loud
It wasn't threatening, there were no monsters in it
Not until you went to school and learned words and heard scary stories
Did the monsters come
Words they can cast shadows... sometimes very long shadows...
There was a cot with wooden bars, I remember having a blanket with lovely warm colors on it, soft light blues and yellows, wooly sheep, Bo Peep or Bears or something
We had a golden coloured curtain with lots of designs on it in the bedroom
I remember if you looked hard enough you'd start to see faces in the curtain
Sometimes they would frighten me, they'd look very sharp and angry looking or maybe very sad unhappy looking...
I suppose today I still see faces, in my mind, in the great curtain of all my memories, all those I ever met and knew...

I remember looking at my Mom's face and not knowing what she was
Babies their a complete clean slate, have no words, they know nothing of this world
Gradually they warm to their Mom's affections and come to trust her and bond with her.
Because you had no words when very young there'd be huge gaps in your consciousness
When your consciousness would be completely clear and still
The silence and stillness would envelop you
... and there was something else... something else there... something deep in the silence
Out of it would come something very strange and quite wonderful
It'd come upon you suddenly...it was like your consciousness was changing, opening up
It was like you were descending into some great... some great complex
Your eyes would be closed but still you could see it and feel it... you were part of it
And it was so natural and so familiar...it was where you came from...it was Home
There was a first part that would lead into another part... and then another, all different
Yea, it had several stages and you'd pass through each stage from the outside going inward right to the very last stage... the very Source of Life itself
And you'd be completely at ease with yourself, you'd be completely at Home there
It'd come every night... that Special thing.,. that Special Place
Y'know sometimes when I see a little baby asleep in its pram, I know... I know where they are
Their away now, away in that Special Place
Far faraway from this world of care, so peaceful and so quiet there
Guarded by unknowingness and the Great Silence
With no fear or confusion there to bedevil it
Knowing only a relaxation so deep and a great Stillness within...

But me! I was the youngest in my house, I was always fighting with my brothers
And I was a terrible worrier just like my Mother
I'd be worried about school and the teachers, and trying to understand my (school) lessons
And there'd always be problems, arguments, confusions... humiliations and cruel harsh words spoken
At night I remember I used shake my head vigorously as if trying to rid my mind
Of words that had been spoken, words that hurt or stung...or confused me
I used bump my head gently against the wall
But no! I couldn't escape them... my peace it was broken now...it was gone
And that Special Place just like in the song Puff the Magic Dragon
It came no more...it was lost to me.

I suppose this is all I can remember, all I can recall
I guess this is where I must have come in
I suppose I must have reached the end... the End of my Rope here.

The man in the Moon said,
"Will you be my friend?"
And I said, "Why not?"
That time, I didn't give it much thought.

Since I only had a peso in my pocket
I hitch-hiked a ride on Tycho's rocket.
Tycho happened to be an old playmate
We talked and talked, but it didn't seem like Fate

"Where have you been all my life?"
he asked, face filled with strife
"I don't know," I laughed.
He chuffed me, "You've always been so daft."

I slipped inside the module
And we landed on the Moon, every molecule
Tycho slipped me his calling card
As we cleared my passport with the watch guard.

The guard looked highly philosophical.
She asked, "What are you looking for, pal?"
I smiled, replied, "The man in the Moon."
She pondered, "Being a watch guard can be a boon."

"There are only five men in the Sea of Tranquility.
Damian helps in the recreational facility;
Sam is a family man, with his wife and three kids;
Tamjid herds sheep; Michel hunting for quids.

"Quintin is someone who lives far, far away
He weeps every hour, easily swayed.
But he sits on top of his car,
Singing to himself, counting stars."

"Quintin might be the man!" I say with much clamour.
The watch guard cheers my endeavour,
Giving me a hug and a packet of chips.
I look back to her and the Earth is in eclipse.

They said that he lived in the tunnel
That burrowed right into the hill,
That once saw a belching funnel
Of sulphur and black clouds spill,
The train on the iron railway
That chuffed its way into the past,
To just leave the eerie tunnel,
Smoke blackened and silent at last.

In closing the barbed wire entrance
To keep all the children at bay,
They’d come to the end, in repentance,
The end of the steam railway,
It lived in the lost generations
In memories lost to the young,
In dreams and in steam in the stations
The old locomotives lived on.

But something lived deep in the tunnel
That hadn’t been there long before,
A product of sulphur and brimstone,
A thing with a terrible roar,
It wandered at night in the meadows,
It tore the throats out of the sheep,
And left pools of blood by the hedgerows,
Returned to the tunnel, to sleep.

The town held a council of elders
The ones who remembered the train,
‘We have to get rid of the monster,
It comes out again and again,’
‘I think that the monster is lonely,’
Said one of them, in a remark,
‘He needs to be soothed to be healthy,
We’ll lure him out into the Park.’

They thought of the spinster called Mary,
A woman not gifted with looks,
In truth she was ugly and hairy,
She buried her head in her books,
‘She’d do very well for a monster,’
They all of them seemed to agree,
And rolled her in lashings of sulphur
And brimstone for her pedigree.

They tied her just outside the entrance
Attached to barbed wire in the fence,
The tunnel grew dark as an ulcer,
Both she and the townsfolk were tense,
The monster came out and he saw her
And made sniffing sounds in the dark,
And Mary had gone in the morning,
Back into the tunnel, not Park.

And now, when the roar of the monster
Is heard, there’s no gutting of sheep,
But merely a purr like a hamster,
That says he is going to sleep,
As a man needs the love of his woman
So a monster has needs to be quelled,
And it seems ugly Mary is happy
To be with the monster from Hell.

David Lewis Paget

There’s 2 regular Trump apologists
out in the chattering classes these dark
depressing days Paris Dennard & the lighter
skinned & white-quiffed Jeffrey Lord, both are
utterly intolerable to spend too much time with
both accepting no, quite literally no wrong-doing,
on the part of their sweet master Trump,

Paris has his gig I guess as the black guy
brought on to be the black Republican who
will defend Trump so the folks back home
can say: “See” …
& he is a smartly dressed dude, plays it well
I guess but jeez your boss isn’t infallible Paris,

& Jeffrey lord, oh god Jeffrey Lord …
where to start, well he’s usually bringing in
comparisons & history points from early
20th century speeches & such, while
actually ignoring the real issue & so he’s
good at what he does I’ll give him that,

I heard that he wrote a column praising Trump
early in the election & Trump called him to wax
magnificent & boy was Jeffrey chuffed & all
& thus has been so dedicated & loyal,

& since then he’s pretzeled himself so far
over to kiss his own heels & ends up the
lone Trump voice in every single discussion,
& nothing, absolutely nothing is questioned
or fault acknowledged.

Its a tough job but someone’s got to do it I
guess, but god these folks disgust.

The Compliment
At the Pharmacy I met Hans, an old friend I didn't recognise
him at first he wore glasses and had a Nordic face I thought
it was me ten years ago; he has a sheep farm, the Germans,
are an industrial people.
At the green-grocer, I met an Irish woman she recognised me
from one of my books she has some of them and I was chuffed.
When I meet someone who has read my books, it is not often,
I take a step back in fear they might be critical of my spelling-  
mistakes I have no self- confidence therefore to meet one
who likes what I have written and does not tell me how to write
I grow a little and decorously blush and go home tell my wife
all about it then we have lunch and I have to clean the dishes.

GOING LOCO

the train screamed
impatient to be off
we watch the station pull away

the train huffed & puffed
placing cinders in girls' hair
belching soot on boys' faces

train throwing
a scarf of smoke
over its chugging carriages

cows running by
so fast
the world a blur of green

the train chuffed
to be chasing the landscape
crossing that bridge when

it came to it
destination achieved
downloading passengers to the station

Once the sun came up it was game on
Quickly he chuffed across the hardwood floor
So quiet so soft you can barely hear his little steps
Like a mouse causing cheese
The only thing on his mind was making it to the door

The door opened
Now it was a race
For him being inside was like being trapped in a jail cell
Every second was wasted if it wasn't outside
Now was his time it's on

With one move he slipped out
Finally he was outside
The sun was shining and the wind was blowing
Birds were chirping and kids were laughing
This was his element he was the protector

Yet there was something lurching
It wasn't welcome
Dark and mysterious this creature was
So much bigger then him
His territory was invaded

He was needed he was the hunter and this was his prey
The fight was underway
He would jump at one flinch
For such a little guy he could go three feet off the ground
For a protector he could be easily scared

The invasion was taking over
With only three strikes he was out
And sadly that’s the rule of the game
His nine lives were out
A hero has fallen

Hopefully one day I will find his body
Although he is gone I always feel his presence
Sometimes I think I hear him walking downstairs
The protector did his part
Long live the hero


*Based on a true story

-MMM

We hadn’t been in the house for long,
We’d moved in overnight,
I hadn’t explored the neighborhood,
As a kid, that wasn’t right,
But the only time I had to see
After the daily chores,
Was after dark when my bike and me
Were free to roam outdoors.

I’d had to go to a brand new school
And I met this creepy kid,
He seemed to be breaking every rule
With the crazy things he did,
But I was the only friend he had
So he’d meet me after dark,
And we would ride through the neighborhood
And down through the Chestnut Park.

He said that he’d lived there all his life
Did I really want a thrill?
He’d take and show me where Noah’s Ark
Was buried under the hill,
Or maybe I’d like to see the train
That they called the Ten-0-One,
Whose boiler blew in the evening dew
And dismembered everyone.

The night was right for a ghostly tale
There was neither Star nor Moon,
In truth the sky had been overcast
Since the early afternoon,
We rode our bikes to the railway track
On the far side of the park,
I couldn’t see either path or tree
As we rode there in the dark.

At almost ten we could hear the train
As it laboured up the hill,
And then the sparks from its stack were seen
In the smoke it chuffed out still,
It loomed up black, and covered in soot
And I looked to see my friend,
Who stood on top of the tender coal
As it passed me on the bend.

I called out, ‘How did you get up there?’
As he danced, while looking scared,
A crazy look in his eyes up where
The glow from the fire box flared,
‘Come up,’ he screamed, ‘or you’ll miss the fun,’
But the train ran down the hill,
And left me stood by the bike he left
While I felt a sudden chill.

The sky lit up with the brightest light
That I’ve ever seen, I swear,
But even so, there wasn’t a sound
As the train blew up out there,
It left me shivering in the dark
There wasn’t a thought of fun,
I’d caught a glimpse of my watch before
It was just on Ten-0-One.

I rode back down the following day
To dispel the fear I felt,
My creepy friend had gone away
Though his bike lay where I knelt,
The railway line from a distant time
Was rusted and lay undone,
For never a train in eighty years
Had followed that Ten-0-One.

David Lewis Paget

Contemplating marriage,
Among other things.
The thought of having someone beside me
Whose completely, consistently, confidently
By my side for the majority of the day
Is exciting.

Especially one such as myself,
One whose mind is filled with consternation
And an inability to assauge inaction.

Something as simple as holding hands
And introducing her to several of my favourite bands;
Strolling along the sands,
Traveling the world and all its lands.

Boys around me complain at the thought of being cuffed,
But I'd consider myself chuffed --
Seeing a mutual love that wasn't bluffed,
Teasing her with little jokes as she huffed and puffed.

Only having met you for several moments yesterday,
The conversation having begun with something similar to a, "Hey."
Your friend Jude seemed to keep you at bay,
A bashfulness overcoming you, something you couldn't allay.

If I may,
You reminded me so much of Shae.

The birds are flocking together
looking for a mate wherever
looking to build nests
then they can sit and rest
Soon they will have new chicks
then they’ll be chuffed to bits
Soon the chicks will fly away
and will be saying a goodbye to go to stay
It’s the same for us humans, you see
our families grow up and flee

Just because I think it would be a beautiful
idea if Trump & Bannon could be strapped
down in a Rocket aimed for the outer
reaches of the infinite starry galaxies
doesn't mean I wish them gone,

& just because I'd love to see Julian Assange
work the mines in the deepest bowels of
the high Ecuadorian mountains
doesn't mean I wish him ill,

& just because I'd be so satisfied by Mitch McConnell
pimped out on a Detroit street in mid-winter
while his man keeps an eye-out from a
warm & very smooth cadillac nearby
doesn't mean I wish him a tough evening,

& just because I'd be real chuffed to see Paul Ryan
in all his 'What Me Worry' shallow smile
earnest do-gooder front be flown to Calcutta
as shock-therapy & made to clean the wounds
of leprous beggars,
doesn't mean I'm sensing justice,

& just because I really am down with that oh so
sincerely evil David Duke being forced to perform
street cleaning duties in darkest Baltimore
doesn't men I'm feeling righteous,

& just because I'm very, very o.k. with the idea &
then the actual practice of some sort of natural
justice doesn't mean I'm being unrealistic,
a dreamer, or need to relax awhile.

These are my dreams folks.

Thanks all to those that liked and commented on
my poem of the day surprised but chuffed :)

Thanks all for reading my ink this as well as others.
it means a lot that even though I have little time to
write as well as read some do read my ink ;)

The patient is stable,
the anesthesia is working
we don't have all day
let's get to working
I'll require a scalpel
I'll slice him open
inserting plastic here and there
trying to fix what isn't broken
insecurity got to the head
now his features will resemble a raptor that's dead,
why do we try to "fix" what isn't broken?
Its like our lives are defined by make up and Surgeries, what have we as a society been smoking?
standards can get chuffed, because as we get older we shouldn't be bound to the "beauty"industries handcuffs

your hands in mine,
send shivers to my spine.

your sweet smile,
makes butterflies go wild.

the way you make me laugh,
always makes my day chuffed.

the way you talk about the things you love,
sways my heart like you're sent from above.

your lips against mine,
stops the world just in time.

your arms wrap around me,
feels like i found home in thee.

On the TV
at the azure blue
Olympic Hockey Centre
in Deodoro,

our keeper’s
saving everything,
the Dutch careless
when faced with pressure,

the gold medal
swaying the way
of our women.
It’s the first time

I’ve paid much attention
to this stick-wielding sport
but when Webb swerves, turns,
clouts the yellow ball into the net,

I’m chuffed for us
as a cheer detonates
and there’s an ecstatic
bouncing circle of red.

GOING LOCO

the train screamed
impatient to be off
we watch the station pull away

the train huffed & puffed
placing cinders in girls' hair
belching soot on boys' faces

train throwing
a scarf of smoke
over its chugging carriages

cows running by
so fast
the world a blur of green

the train chuffed
to be chasing the landscape
crossing that bridge when

it came to it
destination achieved
downloading passengers to the station

**** it... i'm going to the opera on my borthday!
i'm not working with these ceramic...
herd... erd... whatever the **** they are
with their beautiful hair... wrapped up in napkins:
they should be white!
no! nein! niet! nie!
                           ******* being camel jockeys!
or... like the Bangladeshi... slaves to the Qatari Royal
Family! *******! if you're willing to take it:
take it!

more camel pressure... the **** needs you to investigate
whether it really does... need to take a dump...
******* copper-necks... it actually sounds better
in English than in German... for once! for once!

because of the advent if Islam in Europe,
the northern Crusades are all: hush hush...
   hush: stille mein kind...
not near worth mention!

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

this has truly become a defeating project,
i bit off too much than i could chew...
    even i know this: i've turned into a quasi-novelist:
who will never write any proper dialogue
or for that matter respect the form of a paragraph...

once again, sitting with a whiskey sharpshooter watching
my female Maine **** hunt for little flies
peering into my wardrobe trying to squeeze in...
if it was the male Maine **** he would have had
already jumped into it and coseied himself
on my clothes... while i would curse some other day
that all my clothes have cat fur on them...
i groomed him today... what a sensible little creature...
tail waggling while i cut his nails
   and brushed his coat...

prior to: taking a **** in three turns...
    i don't know: irritable bowel syndrome or something?!
why can't i take one proper **** in a day,
my **** is nagging me...
watching ******* usually helps with
the constipation...
           like today... i've reached that point
in the month where i'm thinking about revisiting Khedra
in the brothel...
look at me... monogomous: even when it comes
to prostitutes... because she really is an amnesia ****:
she made me completely forget Ilona...
i thought i'd never find a **** this good...
     lucky for me... she's even better...

she makes those nymphomaniac sounds when
performing *******: it's a cross between a baby *******
on a *** and someone enjoying a bowl of pasta...
and it really dawned on me... 2nd take on the throne
of thrones i was watching this
video: bootyass girl (201K subscribers) -
the video itself has over 2 millions views... on xvideos.com,
sure... i ****** off... but like i already said:
i'm jerking off without the ******...
                  
   mein gott! what a beached whale!
                visually unappealing... well... up to a point...
3rd take on the throne of thrones and i knew it would
be the last... again: checking the "plumbing"...
but this time: sound on...
    O......                                   oh...
oh... now i get it...
                                she might look like a beached whale...
but turn the sound on... **** me...
men are these supposed visual creatures?!
Beethoven was too, wasn't he?
              no no... if a beached whale of a woman
makes sounds like that during ***...
i.e. she is a polypohny of onomatopoeias
    / an inverted Katakana... i.e. whereas the Samurai
can write MA... they can't write AM... ** but not OH...
  well... that was that... ******* at the thumb shoved
into her mouth while her partner is ******* a leather
couch: by the sound of the "echo" coming from her ****-cheeks...
shhhhhh it... ooze... just managed to squeeze it out...
FINALLY!
    again... no ******... get a hard-on... relax the ****...
don't ask me how i figured this one enigma out...
trial & error... to hell with laxatives...

                      i'm gearing up...

but my day was way more interesting than merely this...
i did wake up at 6am... stayed in bed until 8am
listening to music... because you sometimes have to...
errands...
         sort out a hire for a KANGO...
which is construction industry "slang" for...
    pneumatic drill... jackhammer...
at the hire shop a guy probably younger than me
knew what i was talking about...
     with a glee of approval... his father must have worked
in times when you used to say the word KANGO...
one of those proper ones...
two handed... posted the picture on facebook...
i mean: it's such a neat toy... felt chuffed wheeling it back
home and then on the bus...
   had these two concrete buffs irritation where once
two greenhouses stood... need to get rid of them...
set down drainage... 2 tonnes of soil and grass...
nothing but grass...

     KANGO: i didn't even know it before i checked it out...
the etymology: literally Chinese language...
カンゴ
                   but otherwise in the construction industry
a jackhammer, a pneumatic jackhammer...
what a lovely beast... the best *** i've seen in a while...
made me think of that quote from Full Metal Jacket:
anything by Gunnery Sgt. Hartman -
or that Combichrist song: this is my rifle...
seriously... i don't care what they say:
the Vietnam War had the best soundtrack...
   no other war in the history of man had such a goo...
******* amazing soundtrack...

who wouldn't be happy working a pneumatic drill hammer...
two handed... lifting rock... concrete...
i'm happy... i've already mentioned it:
work ennobles (physical work)...
    a lesson learned when it was taught by the Nazis
to the Polacks in Auschwitz...
what was once arbeit macht frei
has become... arbeit adelt!
                                  simple, no? to learn from once
former conquerors... and to redefine that... "silly"
ol' joke that's particular to German sensibilities...
moving bags of rock from point X to point Y
and then from point Y to point X...
       like they couldn't have turned concentration camps
into something useful... but... them being concentration camps...
seriously... they were lazy at mass ******...
if they were so ******* efficient in other areas of
warfare... they weren't particularly good at their
initial plans...

oh right: that's the ****** sense of humour...
laughing about the Nazis... i almost forget where i'm placed
in this world... all that need for theatre...
to ensure panic was kept under a lid...
     the Mongols were more effective at mass ******...
genocide... hell i bet the Ugandans had a better track
record...

finally! i'm coming the end of my note taking...
it only took me four days and five nights
to get enough drink in my to spew this crap out...

but i'm getting there...
   i don't fear Islam...
             i'm  huge fan of Rumi:
what remains after nothing?
    love is the flame which, when it blazes
consumes everything other than the Beloved.
the lover wields the sword of nothingness,
in order to dispatch all but God:
consider what remains after Nothing;
there remains but God: ll the rest is gone.
Praise to you, O mighty Love,
destroyer of all other "gods"...

    la illaha il Allah... there are not gods but God
(qu'ran 3:62)...
   i wrote that into the back of the book
by Bukowski when i first came across him in Glasgow...
all those years ago...
la illaha il Allah...
    funny side-story... the term God in Maltese?
it's actually Allah...
   i tend to write something akin to: all?! ah!
i'm not Islamophohic... but... i can understand where
arachnophobia comes from:
but Islam isn't a spider...
             i just don't understand the inverted logic
of Muslims bewildered that there is an Islamophobia...
why be surprised?
i'm pretty ******* sure that Russophobia existed
long before Islamophobia...

   but unlike all the other phobias on the list....
these two phobias are... calculated...
they're not irrational...
why? why aren't they irrational?
does a spider think? i'm pretty ******* sure
a Muslim or a Russian is capable of thought...
but does a spider think?
does an elevator think? a constrained space...
that claustrophobia... does a spider think?!
what's the problem?
arachnophobia is a reflexive-phobia...
Islamophobia is a reflective-phobia...
                          
but what's the difference between fearing Russians
and fearing Muslims?
the Russians already know they're the evil genuises
of this world...
it's nothing new...
         Muslims... the ones i'm working with?
are they seriously planning a takeover...
what... with these cabbage-heads?!
   these retards?! these, retards?!
                 yeah... good luck...
you might get a chance to wind the clocks back one
hour come the winter months...
but that's about it...
            half of which never read a verse of Rumi
or Omar Khayyam...
                      
the women look so petilent... dark clad...
you could at least attire them in linen and make the linen
grey... or white...
there was a time when Islam was superiror to Christianity...
those days are long gone... gone with the camel jockeys...
inbreeding is the currency and the joke...
i'll respect the Iranians...
  because... they were Persians prior to the camel jockey
invasion from Arabia...
and the Turks... because... we're sort of related...
Caucasian... or Mongol-esque...
ancient Turks had their runes... and Turks have very edible food...
while Turkish prostitutes **** like there's no
tomorrow...
i need a second Islamic schism: spearheaded by
the Turks...
leave these Arabs with their Pakistani pawns
to play into that caliphate Sunni game...
Islam needs to splinter... there needs to be a second schism...
spearheaded by the Turks...
the Turks teaed as far up as Vienna from what i know...
leave the Saudi princes and their fetishes alone:

god will judge them...
        princes of the pink ponies and blonde ******...
down the Spartan route...
i'm not Islamophobic... i'm like a tapeworm when it comes
to Islam... ooh... this fasting idea... i could use that...
not for religious reasons... like i once explained...
you know what fasting does for me?
increases my concentration...
                               i like fasting...
i like thinking about food... because?! personally?!
thinking about anything beside food is sort
of boring... i like to be closest to the wild animal...
and what does the wild animal ever "think" about
if not food?! or biting off its limps if
it were to be caught in a beaar trap?!

right... right? what about...
a Germpophil?
                        
heil dir im siegerkranz:
what a little unkept "secret"....

strange body: overgrowth of muscle having
muscle removed from the shoulder blade,
Armilius,
                           i miight as well have a crow
perched...
                 muscle movement from that lacking
in the shouder-blade... just above the collr  one...
once i stress its existence.

whiske! whiskey! more whiskey!
the sun illuminating the governance of spring
can't ever overshadow the moon,
come the same season

genügend ist genügend!
     das ist alles!
                    nachweisen-in-dem-pudding.

And I feel sad or lost or hurt,
I tried to capture it like it's a painting,
then I wonder why it never works,
because it is impossible to ever make it work.

In order to make something,
you have to grab supplies from anywhere,
but I am chuffed and I am choked,
the strings they keep me bound here in my heart.

No matter what I do it will be dismissed,
no matter what I say it will be ignored,
unless it's too late and they have to listen,
so until they have to listen - I may as well be quiet.

The amount of objectification, sexism and racism,
it's all like a merry-go-round, a carousel,
it's never-ending, it's never-ending,
and it ***** that it's never-ending.

Because, it doesn't need to be never-ending.

It hurts to hear it though,
the amount of people who just assume so.
I guess they would with the way I display,
you'd think I wasn't one, anyway.

But I'm not, and I know that,
I think I've always known that,
in my heart something didn't feel right,
and yet here I am treating my body like a canvas.

But I'm more like a notebook.

I hope I can empty the notebook.

I feel like a machine, and yet I'm not immortalised,
a machine might stay the same forever,
maybe my files will corrupt,
maybe my memory will be wiped.

But there are some that don't,
but there are some that last.

I won't immortalise anything, will I?

I always had a hope, a sense of relief,
a moment of comfort and content by simply being me,
but I've been led to believe, that I am not good enough,
but if I lead to believe, maybe one day I would've been enough.

We shouldn't find the irrational a dismissive thing,
we should find it inspiring to think in a delusional state,
while everyone is stuck and believing what is real is static,
how can we move on when everything stays the same?

Time changes whether we like it or not, and yet,
here I become quiet and timid because I know deep down,
I too, can not say,
a single thing.

I am frustrated that I am the same as everyone else,
in how I act, but I bet deep down, there is this little voice,
tugging away at every single one of them,
whether good, or bad - or maybe in-between.

There are some that exist, who believe in good - are bad,
it costs too much, to watch the collapse of the world,
I had wished, dreamed, prayed and weep, dread and begged,
that one day someone else will hear my words and tell me...

That I was wrong in the best of ways.

in the days when people leave pint glasses in the streets? seriously?! i guess only in essex... and that's not exactly england.

you, never, ever, drink beer from
a can, larger than
those lil' pretty things that
heineken provides,
           330ml shaped like a keg...
you open a can of beer,
and pour it into a glass...
   lucky me...
   lucky?
           i find the oddest things
on these streets,
    last time i went to buy my ***,
i found a pint glass...
            a brand pint glass...
  i thought... n'ah... i can't be this lucky,
so i toyed with the glass with
my foot, rolled it over and
there it was, the "holy" emblem:
bud-wei-ser...
      chuffed i started humming:
say ooh, la la, say soom
say ooh, la la, say ooh, la la,
say soom*...
    now i'm drinking the recommended
brew,
   that brew celebrated (gods' ****)
by plato, from a pint glass,
                   looking, well: smug;
likewise? you never pour
beer stored in bottles into a glass...
unless its an irish cider,
  and the glass is filled with ice.