When you're a writer, you get invited to strange gigs
sometimes, where usually, the audience is arty farty
or even a bit precious and pretentious.
You know, the blue rinse set.
But I was once invited to recite poetry in a bar,
where I knew my audience might be ******,
or maybe even abusive, and wouldn't give
a **** about writing.
Yeah? Well, I'm a bit of a word warrior, really,
so I didn't back off.
I stepped right in for the fight.

I said straight up that my poem was especially
for people like them who thought that writers are
wishy-washy, woffling, **** weak and luke-warm.
So then I said,
PPPHHHaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrtttttttt.
Very loud.

I told them this was some royal raspberry,
just for people like them,
who thought this was going to be another boring poem.
And then I threw in a few words like, ah, ****, doggy fashion,
finger up the ****, you know, just to liven things up.

I told them what I really thought.
***** You! Especially seeing as how you think poetry’s
some wimpy, bleeding heart, limp **** stuff. Right?
So let's get right down and ***** here.

Which is much more interesting, eh?
And do you know what that says about you?
No?  You bleeding, blinkered, blind-as-bats
broomstick-up-the-arsed, boring, bonehead *******!

So don't call this poet ****-weak any more
or I'll hit you bang between the eyes
and up between your thighs.
I've got some things to say you'd better not ignore.

When it comes to words, I'm a gouger and a biter.
I'm a brawling, hard-as-nails, no-holds-barred street fighter.
I'm a writer.

Yeah, well, no surprise here. That made them quieter.
I'd shut them up. So what did that prove?
I'd just abused and confused them.
It made me think, well, why did I bother?
Poems are for believers and lovers, aren’t they?
They don't need me to fight for them in bars.
Poems just are.
Yes,and some of them might live
as long as the stars.


Mike T Minehan

"Farty Face"
"Burpy ***"
Will never waste
an ounce of love.

Hot snot
and bogey pie
his children are
the apple of his eye.

There's a hole in my bucket
Dear Liza
All that have met
come off much the wiser

Chicken Curry
****** Up
Minced Meat and mash
Come on better hurry
gotta speed up
We don't need lots of cash
to enjoy this michelin starred grub.

Gilded cage so small and tiny
Even singing comes out whiny
Stinking of fake fresh and piney
Tis the season
Leaking water warm and briny
With good reason

Christmas cheer and glasses toast
Loved ones smile and laugh and boast
I sit perched upon my post
A tinsled column
Invisible reluctant host
A heart that's solemn

A longing for a love so distant
The melancholy is persistent
A smile could erase it in an instant
On a face cherubic
For my heart is not resistent
It's theraputic

So that smile that is perfection
Is mirrored in my own reflection
Without a thought about rejection
Hallucinations
About the subtlest inflection
In Salutations

Surrounded by the merrily intense
With drunkard tendencies immense
A bar with all accoutrements
They pound tequila
Drinking away the sacraments
Oh yes, I feel ya

Merry time with old Kris Kringle
Guests all lubed enough to mingle
Mistletoe hangs and sleigh bells jingle
Gifts homemade
Tables adourned and glasses tingle
Gold brocade

Still I sit all caged and flightless
Blind to joy all sad and sightless
Drink could make it hurt a mite less
I'm going backward
Laying here all limp and lifeless
Broke and fractured

Surrounded by the fake and vexing
Artificial and quite perplexing
Reality they are rejecting
The devil may care
Bellies bare and muscles flexing
Lost underwear

So ******* dancing to the jukebox
Lost alone here in the boondocks
There is no snow upon the rooftops
Ahead they forge
Find a room before that thing pops
It's so engorged

Neighbor ***** all dressed in orange
Wearing gold to make the poor cringe
Stripping time to fill her syringe
I'll be her hinderance
Still too drunk from her last binge
Faulty remembrance

Ridding riff raff from the party
People still drunk on Bacardi
Noxious gasses burp and farty
With toilets makeshift
Worn out makeup on the smarty
She needs a facelift

Time to let the people go
Too tired to keep watching the show
Drinking hard and walking slow
Verbose yet listless
Honey I don't want to know
It's not my business

Home

Some people can recognize
A tree or a front yard
and know
they've made it home

The walk from the car door
To the front porch
Becomes habitual
Instead of intentional
They get lost in the
Contentment of familiarity

But what happens when you
find yourself
So adrift, so off-course
That you've worn a path in the circle you find yourself walking in

What if the place you're looking for,
Your home
Was never really home After all

But rather a false sense of security
Wrapped up
In a pretty pink ribbon
On top of the layers
Of gripping manipulation

How many circles can I walk in
Before I give up looking?
How long before I'm lost for good?

Home for me
Is not the familiar walk
To the front door
Or the yard with overgrown grass
that makes weeds look like bushes

Home is a sea of senses
Blending together in perfect harmony

Home is walking in
And seeing red
Red skillet
Red chair
And my favorite redheads

Home is the smell of
Fancy hand soap
Fresh laundry
Fragrant candles
And farty brussel sprouts

Home is the first sound you hear
A chuckle
A musical
The clearing of a throat
Our favorite tv show

Home
In a nutshell
Is freedom

Freedom to laugh
To cry
Or maybe both at the same time
To yell and to vent
Without the burden of shame
Or regret

So home
You see, is more
Than the tree
Or the porch

Those things could vanish
And leave you stranded

Home is laughter
And friendship
That won't leave you lost

It is safety and belonging
That says
“You are okay”

It is the weight of a burden being Lifted off your shoulders
Home is love

rag tag *** hag grocery bag in drag
maxed credit and bragging about having a stag party
farty party girls in shart coated pantyhose blow wasted kisses
to fisters in trousers bumping mump victims blisters
hitting wristers like the Williams sisters
coyote trickster with a brand new mix tape waits
with his **** taped to his own leg like Ricky Lake
on her fist date
another Cosby **** escape hot-plated shared space
I’m no racist cause my skin is white and pasty
I’m tasty and **** like Britney sans the braces insatiable
and my testicles are reckless needing spectacles
done wrecked the hull Captain Pickard
and a test-tube girl –

Shrouded in black,

Dear heart departs,

As writing soul  flies,

Engraved deep epitaph ,tablets of ancient stone,

Memorial stones morose, sombre in grey with fur of yellow lichen,

Pavements, flagstones,inscribed with memories dear,

Glimpsed in morning, mourning sun, alone,

Words eroded after many years bathing, soaked with maiden angels' tears,



Dried out again with sunshine's kiss,

These words they state,

May we not forget  past soul,



Lyrical words lift a song from sad heart,

Screams emotional rescue at times,



Letters of love filled with devotion,

Causes sweet release of emotions,

Words pasted on pages,

Imagination creation,

Words trap interest at first glance, Love in words,  

At first sight, perchance,

****** them catch them,

Keep them close  in your heart every day,

Fill up life, with words unfurled,

Words in technicolour,

Clouded in blue,

Use of profanity,

Well that's nothing new!

Orated in Shakespeare's play, sung in aria,

Opera adorns ears,

Words used in crosswords or cross words,

Word Play!

Child educated in fine art,

Writing divine,

Such worthy art in need, indeed!

Mouthful of words all arty and farty...bouncy, total joy!

Phraseology,plays intense on a mind, a poet at play,

Livvi Kent 28/04/2013

Born in a bevy of robust, good joy
Raised by irascible those who employed
Dubious methods to coax and convince
A conniving compliance from this little Prince.

He stole what he could as he played a sharp game
And accrued a doubtful reputation of shame,
He cheated at cards and stole from the rich
And called all the tarts on the corner… a *****!

And in ******* in a fat, farty way
He went on to run a fast gauntlet…and say
“I’ve now passed the buck to an honourable sod
Whose specialty lies in allegiance to God”

In thus doing he wagered a bet both ways
To the Devil he sang and to Jesus he prayed.
To his mistress he lied as he bedded her well
Tho his wife hit the road with the milkman from Hell,

His kids all cavorted with *** and with sin….
Then the whole mess contused like a shroud over him.
Morose and confused, whilst simpering in bed
Moans now, quite deservedly,…” Better off dead!”

M.
8 November 2017
In a wet Waikato Spring
NEW ZEALAND

I circle the store at least three times, every time I go.
I can never make up my mind.
Usually Trader Joe will ask me if I'm OK,
Or if he can help me find anything.
Usually I'll lie and say I'm fine,
Squinting intently at the array of fresh greens
But today I asked him..

How can I decide which fruit is the sweetest?
Does it matter where it came from?

Does it matter if an onion is red, or yellow, or "sweet"
If they all will make me cry?

What's the difference between a fig and a date?
How come I can never find either of them?

If swiss chard is so good for you,
Why does it taste so bad going down?

Why do beans make you farty?
How is that a "magic fruit?"

Why is everyone blind to the lie
That carrots make your eyesight better?

Is it toe-may-toe or toe-mat-toe?
Poe-tay-toe or poe-tat-toe?
Does it matter?
Does any of this matter?

He replied, "Ma'am, my name isn't Joe. I don't know. I just work here.. and they definitely don't pay me enough for this."

So I left with an empty bag, and a heavy mind.

suddenly it appears
in my peripheral periphery
i look like a rabbit
that's just had an epiphany
and stopped and thought, wait!
i could do so much better
i'm right here with you
i should never have let her
say such shackulous things
that flitter and flatter
and cast so much doubt
oh! i wanted to tell her
to not make a shout
he's such a nice fella
he runs and he rides
with the seas and the tides
and takes her to places
he's hidden inside
and inside those places
a crowning awaits
that criminally crawlingly
counterfeit space!

years later, when i think
that i've gathered my garb
and drenched the poor dude
in what most think is arb
and try to reclaim
what i thought i had lost
i didn't consider
what could it have cost?
it couldn't be much
i'm not worth alot
i'm not that much more
than you'd find in the lot
and daringly, raring with
all of my pride
i suddenly showed
what i'd hidden inside

and all in an instant
it all disappeared
those things that i wanted
and totally feared
were vanished along
with my prickly beard
begone! it said with
with a huffulous gruff
you won't find us here
we just don't give a fluff!
we don't want your type
or your arty-farty ways
there's nobody here who
invited you anyways
but that was a while ago
and if your intent
was to drive me away
then i shouldn't have sent
my lawyer to see you
yeah, he knows what's best
what's best for the rest
should be put to the test!

but time has moved on
and i'll never remember
what you had in mind
that fateful september
when you stole my heart
with a bit of panache
and a twist of the wrist
and a crudulous crash
and made me see clearly
how foolish i'd been
to not see the wood
nor the trees inbetween
for this i am grateful
it could have been worse
it could have been me
in the back of the hearse
but the thing that you are
and the kindness you show
takes nothing from those
that are wanting to grow
and that is why you
amongst all of the many
are worth diamonds and gold
and don't cost a penny

Would you tell me something, please don't keep me in suspense
I don't mean any upset, or make anyone feel tense
Usually I'm not bothered, I'll stay sitting on the fence
But for once, I just thought, I'd offer my two cents

I'm curious if you're aware, we're driven up the wall
Every time that you decide, to slow down to a crawl
Your almost paralytic, and you're never on the ball
We've seen slow moving objects, but you easily beat them all

Perhaps you are not conscious, and you aren't even awake?
Have you run out of petrol, have your pads seized on the brake?
There's nothing left in Staniforths, you've taken too much cake
Don't even get me started, on that stupid noise you make

I thought it was the Bisto Kids, who's come to join the party
The gravy's done, but just hold on, you need to be a smarty
We all know you will be first, because you're arty-farty
Your goal is a supper bowl, that's usually quite hearty

Let me tell you something, and I'll try to be precise
It's just a little peice of mind, a small piece of advice
Never hold your horses, if your sinking through thin ice
You'd only come a cropper, when it's us you sacrifice

You have this annoying habit, of just getting in the way
It's not even on occasion, because it happens every day
Do you have two broken ankles, are your feet stuck in set clay?
What exactly is the problem, what is causing the delay?

I suspect you may have parkinsons, or you're riddled with senility
Or are you attempting feebly, to Insult my sensibility?
Jesus Christ you've come too far, with inactive inability
The result of which is certainly, an impending liability

Why are you pacing back and forth, it's a cross contamination.
The last supper comes to mind, cos there is no explanation
If you scrutinise, I feel betrayed, with your food examination
You're like a giant tortoise, on a lazy stay vacation

We can't get to the cupboards, we can't open any door
The sideboard is a waste of time, your blocking every drawer
Sandwichs are on the move, crumbs fall down on the floor
Place your bread on porcelain, that's what the plates are for

Do I have to grow carbuncles, while I stand about and wait?
We don't need a running commentary, of what's on the buffet plate
It takes the **** at ten o'clock, when you stared out at eight
A Standing Charge should be enforced, set at the highest rate

Six eggs in a basket, what's in the cooking ***?
Tomatoes on a flat bread, thats a lovely fresh shallot
Potatoes with warm butter on, we're hoping they stay hot
I think I better call the Doc, and he will say Great Scott

Maybe you can't help yourself, and this is not your fault
But come on now it don't seem fair, when it causes a revolt
Is there any reason, why you're grinding to a halt?
You need a ******* cattle ****, or a massive lightning bolt

There doesn't seem much point to this, when everything's so slow?
You seem to be oblivious, and you don't even know
Will you collect two hundred pounds, somehow I don't think so
A Monopoly on standing still, cos you never will pass go

An arcade with all the classics, is where you ort to be
Then you could indulgence yourself, in a forgone guarantee
Mommy quick, I just can’t wait, give me a 50p
I know it will be challenging, to a very high degree

First there will be Pac-man, in a geriatric aider
Power pills will be no good, if your a ghostly masquerader
Donkey Kong will wait to long, for the dithering crusader
But your stuck and you've become, the ultimate Space Invader

Around the world in 80 days, there simply is no chance
***** Fog would just say no, without a second glance
You always appear stationary, and you're usually in a trance
If we started off from Dover, we would never get to France

The balloon would just come crashing down, because the airs gone cold
Rheumatism would set in, as Mr fog turned old
Poor Phileas would lose his hair, his head would just be bald
You'd make him wait, you'd seal his fate, his youth would be annulled

You've mastered the pure artform, of the dawdling Dilly-Dally
Good job your not a *******, in a seedy dark back ally!
I wouldn't dare to enter you. . . in our local summer rally
You'd only stop to analyse, the foliage in the valley

Don't hang around indefinitely, because we're all getting thinner
A hot meal would be nice, instead of a cold dinner
Be courteous to others, and we're onto a sure winner
It isn't very popular, when it's you that is the sinner

I sat here waiting patiently, so what's it all about?
Sunday launch took far too long, oh come on you old trout
You cannot reach a bean or pea, or a single brussel spout
**** this **** I'm off to bed, I'll ****** go without

Why are you so meticulous, cos it causes so much friction
To be frank when your a guest, it's not your jurisdiction
Its utterly ridiculous, but I will stand by my conviction
Please vacate the area, and get out my ******* kitchen

Stop hovering around the hob, and by the feeding trough
Your slower than a garden snail, your like a wingless moth
If I wasn't such a gentle soul, I'd tell you to *******
Perhaps your part Banana slug, and the slowest Three-Toed Sloth

Santa's house has many rooms:
One for every Elf.
They have sprays for farty fumes
And dusters for every shelf,
There are bins by every door,
And brand new hoovers for each and every floor!

Now all the Elves know their chores,
They've got them in their heads.
But tidying up is such a bore,
They'd rather go to bed!
Still, every room is clean and neat,
Because everybody knows Santa's always on the beat!

You see, Elves know they're super lucky...
They work each day for Ol' Saint Nick!
But if their rooms are ever mucky,
They'll be in for lots of stick.
For all that Santa asks of an Elf,
Is that their room is good for their health!

So every December night,
Ask yourself a simple question...
Would my room give Santa a fright?
If the answer's "yes" then hear the lesson...

An Elf's room is never messy,
Because they want a great big prezzy!

don't worry, you're not a communist party member,
but hell, what a world of difference it turned
out to be for my grandfather, retired prior to hitting 60,
or thereabouts - seems it would have been quiet
o.k. to have been born in 1939, and having the memory
of herr bittebonbon, an ss man giving me sweets,
so sweet that my hands would stick together;
just saying...

now i don't really understand which communist
"party" you adhere to, twitter, facebook,
tumblr, whatever,
   we are the generation of *users - the "pioneers" -
we were the ones stuck to the screen writing
in chat rooms when m.s.n. was still breathing,
just prior to microsoft having to invoke hunts
for pedophiles -
                  just before they closed -
and just before acronyms were pop -
    and less complicated -
      just before english started to mutate,
deform, started to look uglier by the day,
like some drunken irish boxer getting too many
knuckle kisses -
            i've forgotten how to feel...
stupendous? arty farty? what's the word...
   pomp-riddled, popish?
                ****, the world escapes me -
but for people who don't know what chat rooms
were... right at the turn of the century...
   i feel for you...
          then comes the other thought -
always, always, better an unpredictable tornado
of whirling thrills, than that mundane
straight train-track load of thought:
sober, unchanging, and if not in some relativistic
muddle, then clearly in the north-north parallel
magnetic repelling mind-set...
              yawn.
      i didn't say: don't use it -
          as i am always reminded:
alcohol was created by people, for people -
yep, and i feel like a god downing a litre of whiskey
per night...
        mind you, that's better than glorifying
the other way... if a hermit does harm to himself:
he is only doing harm to himself,
   so... you can shove that a.a. ******* 12 steps
up yir **** and trot along...
             i have but one step,
visit your grandparents in your native land
and ensure you: keep up appearances -
  i was always the grand liar when sober,
then go back to england and stare at the trenches,
and the existential blackmail of:
more babies! more babies! more white babies!
besides the point, a woman can write the most
blissful romantic poem, and it has the same fate
as a newspaper, same day it was printed,
it falls into a gutter, or becomes desperado
toilet paper; i never knew why ****-eroticism
was so perfect in this medium:
  honestly? gay guys never seem to shut up
or have a narrow set of interests...
   oops...
        nonetheless it still feels like social media
is communism lite,
                  the corporate media is ballistic -
to no real surprise... don't you just love the term
dittohead? i have to look up the german
(sorry, i have a fetish for the language) -
ah!      ebensokopf, ebensokopfs...
         and then news from the construction site...
those ******* english hogs...
   lazy-*** "professionals" -
                 do nothing all day, expecting that:
oh, just a few slavs, they can do the work for us...
if i were you, i'd get the bangladeshi or
the irish on board... then again, you might like
to consider an arab or a sub-saharan workforce -
  ******* hogs, and bulldogs,
really gets under my collar,
  when people dissolve a respect for honest
and high tier labour... is it me, or has capitalism
completely lost the notion of respecting labour?
at least communism respected labour, work,
    whether it be a plumbing issue,
an electric issue...
           and not some poncy "vintage" antique
dealer's ******* of a mahogany table...
            what is the western world build on these
days these? their native workforce
     who have two left hands -
yep, pointing outwards - unfathomable that
western people fell for the perils of
       software "technicians" on social media -
     they are geared on the software of reality,
which looks kind'ah ******, from what i've seen -
while eastern europe has fun with the hardware
side of things;
   oh, by the way, if you're attempting to buy
a flat in london? don't bother,
  the english have terrible skills on industrial scale
projects...
   i've seen the pictures...
     perhaps elsewhere in england,
   but in london, you'll be lucky to spot a dozen
of english trades people -
managers, sure, obviously...
   but the rest?
           tumbleweed moment;
  at least we know what the irish are famous for
other than river-dancing... laying concrete...
and the scots? roofing; and the poles? ah you know,
roofing & a bunch of other trades -
zdrowie na budowie, zdrowie na budowie,
zdrowie.... na     bu.... do... wie;
and another point, why are people of my
generation afraid of having parents?
    the cohabitants?
             let's turn that one around:
you shall not be embarrassed to have parents...
under whatever circumstance you find
yourself in...
    because it got be thinking:
   we reached that stage of single mothers
         and their ***** donor / i.v.f. *******?
i'm waiting for those ****-offs to hit 20 years!

porcelain goddesses have farted
in supreme orifices
and wafted their odious reign
all over their realms

its time to extract at the sign of the black horse
airey farty an all
non linguistic programming is the new black
time to cosh the buck and we do not mean cash

mind the yobs who hit and run
needs no training
**** Bobby of the militant brigade is free
to impregregnant under-age girls

all the work shy dross at the pubs
needs no training or punishments
the drunks and those absent fathers who do the deed
and then take a hike are fine examples of masculinity

but do hold on, there are more in this hollowed cage
the players who skims from one to the other are just dandy
the ones always round their mates and never home is not clingy
the neglectful wusses who are forever gaming are tops
the useless sops dense as dishwater are the stuff of dreams
the abusive drunks who roll in at closing time to batter the wives
are such wonderful fellows
the cheaters and liars who have our goddesses tearing their silky
hairs out, are perfect gentlemen who deserve gold medals

which leaves our porcelain goddesses all the time in the world
to practise the subtleties of NLP, inflict punishment and training
on the stable, decent, solid, reliable, attentive and confident man
who says it as it is and refuses to be intimidated by narcissists

So our dear porcelain goddesses have farted
from their  supreme orifices and wafting pollution all over
they have a buck to break in and punishment to administer
who wants the decent men when they have their pick of the indecent drosses who populate the worlds of porcelain goddesses