Now, the truth

Luke & Leia is this love
Thank God not the wrong kind
Siblings apart since birth
Together till the end of time

Darth vader concious
Dark, evil, twisted
Luring Luke innocent
No Luke! Don't do it!

Doesn't matter he's your Dad
Doesn't matter how sad
He doesn't give a hoot
Who on earth he shoots

Stormtrooper beware
Puppet of your master
You will be beaten big time
By a gorgeous little Ewok

Chewy & Han
You are the man
Milenium shoots them all
You saved the day
Kept Darth vader at bay
You saved our heros
Wicked

Poor Han solid
In some ungodly squalor
Not the nicest end
Certainly not Han Solo's plan

Geez George ... really ...

Tin & metal
R2, See threepio
Nitter natter chatter
Lots of friendly banter
Cuter than buttons
You just wanna hug em

Jedi Knight Yoda
Played his part of course
Strong in force
He helped the cause
Although he has passed over

Goodness wins in the end
Good force takes the flag
Mighty, Epic, Timeless
And gloriously mad

I want to be a princess,
that's all I ever ask,
When I meet someone I only hope,
their promises will last.

But things always go the same way,
like a flower plucked when ripe,
Relationships they dwindle,
flop,
and lose all hope of life!

So, is it really worth it?
I find i'm questioning me!
A partnership's not destined,
it's the single life for me!

All I know is I wanna feel,
like someones number one,
The first thing that they think of,
and the last when the day is done.
I want to be their Princess,
it's the little things
that matter,
like phone calls right out of the blue,
for a cosy, loving natter!

I don't think that what I'm asking for,
is too much, to be true.
Cos, it's the little things that really count,
when someone declares they love you.

1720, work’s all done.
Listen boss, I got to dash.
Stopped at florist.
Bought red roses for his lover.
Ran down the street clutching his bunch.
Glanced at his watch.
Sees that he’s late.
To meet the wife.
Anniversary date.
Puts his hand in jacket pocket.
Aims to find his mobile.
Silly sod forgot it.

Got to the phone box on the corner of the street.
Waited a minute or two.
Until in desperation, to give apologetic explanation.
Tap, tap tap, he rapped.
Bashes on the phone box door.
A silly old dear with hair rinsed in blue.
Spins round with venomous tongue.
Shouts out loud.
“Be patient son”.
“Can’t you see I’m having a chat!”
Chatter chatter.
Natter natter.
On and on she went.
Dude outside was going mental.

Mrs Ancient left the cubicle.
Throwing ***** looks around.
Huffing a puffing, like the dragon she is.
The flower man flies in the box.
Receiver picked up.
Dials lady lover’s number.
Typically the number’s engaged.
So, spitting fire the fella’s enraged.
Tired of trying to explain.
Knowing his next train is due in a while.
Runs from the kiosk not wearing a smile.
In his ire he chucked the roses.
Landed in the ******* bin.
At the terminus of train at last.
The flower seller grinned at him.
She could see his stress shine through.
Sold him a bunch of lilies of peace.
Before on to the train he swept.

Key in the front door.
Inside he ventured.
Smelling cremated dinner burn.
“Oops darling I’m so sorry.
You’d never believe the day I had.
See darling.
I didn’t forget our anniversary!”
(C) Livvi 2014

The President is writing in ALL CAPS today
And that’s all right because caps are okay:
They keep his head warm in the winter’s cold
He has ‘em in colors: red, white, and gold

And an old one in green from Viet-Nam
Where he was a-serving 1 of his Uncle Sam
Only he didn’t, but that doesn’t matter
He’ll dodge the issue with bluster and natter

Be grateful he sports his red MAGA cap
To cover his head, ‘cause it’s full of
                                                      

        ­                                                                h­air




1 allusion to Kipling's "Gunga Din"

She came up to me one day in the office seeking help
She'd heard me talking about my nightmares
She was a lovely looking thing, she was big into dieting and health food and healthy eating
Some of the other girls used to consult her about such matters
Thinking her to be quite an authority on the subject
I think she might have had a sideline too selling some Health products
She was a...a gorgeous looking creature, she had lovely blonde hair which framed her beautiful oval face like a heavenly aura,
Maintaining always a resolutely bright and cheerful disposition
She radiated positivity and optimism wherever she went
(I suspected secretly that when she got home she probably kicked her cat around)
I'd be all agog just looking at her
I suppose yes! I probably had a little crush on her
Unfortunately I was a good deal older than she
So I could only see myself as a secret admirer, a dark lover from afar...

She'd been acting a little peculiarly of late since returning from her Easter holidays
I wasn't the only one to remark about it
Gone was her usual self assured poise and grace
Gone too her lovely bright positive glow
It was like some sudden terrible tragedy had befallen her
Like some big dark ominous cloud had suddenly appeared on her horizon
Now she seemed rushed and frazzled, strangely distracted, unsure of herself, hesitant
Clumsy, apologetic, not at all like her usual confident self.

So she came up to me when I was alone one day and asked "You know something about nightmares, don't you"
She proceeded to tell me this story
She used to drive to work but because of the unusually mild and clement sunny Spring weather coming up to Easter
She had decided to leave her car at home and walk to work
Probably thinking it to be healthier I suppose
The route she took meant she had to pass by a certain newsagents *** confectionery /sweet shop
Now coming up to Easter as it was
The owner of the shop had strategically placed in the front window of his shop a big Easter egg
Wrapped in pretty ribbons and bows and encased in a very colourful, most alluring box
Every day she had to pass this shop with its lovely chocolate egg prominently displayed
You probably know where this is going,
Yea! A secret longing began to grow in her
Passing that shop every day and seeing that big chocolate egg started to rekindle in her memories of the days when as a child she used visit her local Sweet shop
When the only ambition she had was to get enough money so she could buy the newest chocolate or sweet
She began to remember fondly thoughts of all the old chocolate bars and sweets she used to eat
Anyway this longing, this desire of hers... each day it grew stronger and stronger until finally, like a river bursting a dam
Yea, like a huge monster, it finally overwhelmed her
Yes! She... she SUCCUMBED!

One evening she drove her car to the shop and parked on the opposite side of the street
There she waited till the street was deserted, with no one around
When the coast was clear, she got out of the car carrying a big shopping bag
Wearing a big hat and dark sunglasses just like a movie star
She went into the shop and told the shop girl she wanted the big Easter egg in the front window
She lied telling her it was for her little nephew
She hastily paid for the Egg, then quickly bundled it into her shopping bag carefully covering it up with other items so no one would see
Then hurriedly she left the shop, crossed the street with her head bowed, got into her car and quickly sped off
Over the next two days, in an **** of orgiastic chocolate eating, she secretly gorged upon, devoured all by herself the entire Easter egg
When she had finished, she sat there, a sullen lump among the ruins of her feast
Bits of ribbons and bows and torn box strewn all around her
Almost immediately she began to suffer pangs of guilt, berating herself repeatedly and bitterly for her lack of will power and mental strength, for her perceived weakness of character
This went on for the next few days, she just couldn't bring herself to forgive her behaviour
And she couldn't fathom how she had let this desire overcome her
...Then curiously, she began to experience a strange recurring dream at night,
She'd dream that she went one evening to another part of town where she wasn't known again to buy her Easter egg
There was no one around at that hour
She'd buy her Easter egg, tell her little lie about her nephew, then bundle the Egg into her bag and cover it just like before,
Then she'd leave the shop and head down some backstreets not wanting to be seen by anyone she knew
At that time of evening the shadows had begun to lengthen, the backstreets were very quiet and deserted, had a very lonesome forlorn air
As she walked along, she suddenly began to hear what she thought were the sound of footsteps behind her, the tread of feet behind her...Big feet, Bom-bom-bom!
She'd turn around but couldn't see anything, not a soul and not a sound only silence
She'd continue walking and the sound of the Big feet would start up again
Naturally this began to unnerve her, she turned and called back at the shadows
"Is there anybody there?"
But no answer was forthcoming
She'd walk on and again the sound of the Big feet would come Bom-bom-bom!
By this time she had become so unnerved, so completely flummoxed that in a state of utter panic
She suddenly took off at a frantic girly gallop down the narrow backstreets
Behind her she could hear the sound of the Big feet quickening, coming after her
In a quick change of plan she decided to climb some steps that would take her back to the Main Street again
She hoped there'd be other people there who might be able to protect her
She was very disappointed then when she found not a soul upon the whole street
Well she ran and she ran, she tore down her own street and with key in hand she quickly opened her front door, then slammed it shut fastening all the locks and bolts as she did
With this done she heaved a huge sigh of relief, a huge 'Phew!" and wiped the beads of sweat from her brow
She backed slowly away from the door almost as if she was expecting at any moment, there'd be a mad pounding on it, as if some strange belligerent entity would be trying to gain entry.
She kept backing up, the suspense almost too hard to bear
Suddenly she bumped into something behind her, something big and soft... and furry
Soft and furry ???
She turned and well, her mouth, it dropped wide open in utter shock and disbelief
Her eyes, they nearly popped out of her head
For there standing before her was... THE CREATURE
"It was hideous !" she said tearfully
"What was hideous?" I replied quite intrigued at this stage
"It was a Big Rabbit !"
"A big...a Big Bunny 🐰 ?" I said
She went on explaining, standing before her was a giant seven foot Easter Bunny
"A seven footer eh!" I said as if I was knowledgeable about these things, which I wasn't
She continued with her story, the rabbit he had big floppy ears, big buck teeth, a twitchy nose and whiskers 🐰
And on his face he wore this pretty gormless vacant expression🤡
He was wearing a waistcoat which had all these Easter egg 🥚🥚 designs on it
And on his front paws were these two big red boxing gloves 🥊🥊
She looked around desperately for some means of escape but Alas!
For her THERE WAS NO ESCAPE, she swallowed hard
Suddenly the giant Rabbit's teeth began to
natter
As if he was considering some imminent action
Then totally without warning one of his boxing gloves
It suddenly shot out and punched her right on the nose knocking her clean out on the floor
As she sprawled there dazed and utterly confused, the Big Bunny, he looked down at her with his big eyes 👀
And then, with a sudden leap which surprised even her
He jumped right up onto her chest where he proceeded to bounce up and down on top of her
Of course, here she'd awaken from the dream drenched in sweat and screaming for the Giant Bunny 🐰 to get off her.
When she had finished her story she buried her head in her hands and sobbed quietly for a few moments before regaining her composure
She seemed very relieved to have gotten it all off her chest, the story that is not the Bunny
Well I suppose she was glad to get him off as well
She went on to say how stressed she felt during the day, how she found it hard to focus on anything as she was too busy thinking about the night to come and the arrival of her unwelcome guest
She looked at me pleadingly "He'll be there again, I know it, with those big eyes of his" she blubbed half in tears
It seemed obvious to me what'd happened, mentally she'd been beating herself up
And now her Subconscious was merely reciprocating by creating this giant Bunny to chastise her
It was just a manifestation of the guilt she felt for eating the Easter egg
For a moment I felt like I was Sigmund Freud.
I told her what I thought and said she shouldn't beat herself up, I told her we all had our temptations and that at times, few of us were strong enough to withstand their advances
I told her of the importance of forgiving herself
But nothing seemed to placate her
She still seemed overly concerned about the coming night and the prospect of the giant Bunny's re-appearance
She catastrophized and saw only dark things ahead
I knew I had to say something authoritive
Suddenly I had an idea, I put my arm around her shoulders as if to console her
"Look my child", I said really beginning to warm to my Father Confessor role
"The Beast! Do you really want rid of this Beast ?"
"Yes! I do! I do!", she replied emphatically
"Really! You really want to get rid of him!" I said as if to question her resolve
"Yes! Yes! I'd do anything" she replied
I felt we had to send a strong message to her Subconscious mind -
I told her "This is what you must do. After work go down to the same Sweet shop and there buy the most expensive ornate Box of Chocolates you can find 🎁
But this time instead of bringing them home with you, bring them instead to my house...
To the above advice I added a few more instructions
"And that's all I have to do" she said sounding surprised and hopeful once again
"That's all you have to do", I assured her, "you'll have no more trouble from IT ever again".

So in the evening she arrives at my house with a big box of fancy chocolates
I open the door and abruptly ****** the chocolates from off her
I say loudly "These Chocolates are all mine and you can't have any of them
Lovely Chocolates... and their all mine, all mine!!!
And you're not getting any!"
And I let out this evil cackle of a laugh
Then I said rather theatrically to her "**** off!, Get lost! Shoo! Begone! Begone!
And then I slammed the door right in her face
After a few moments I opened the door again
And began to chase her down the path shouting "Begone! Begone! The Chocolates are mine! All mine!"
I even picked up a stick and shook it at her.

The next morning she runs up to me at work with a big smile
"He's gone ! He didn't come last night"
She looked renewed, she positively glowed again
She assured me I'd be her friend for life and that she loved me to bits
For a moment I was beginning to fancy my chances with her
I had visions of the two of us together in some romantic scene
That was until she went on and said that I reminded her of her lovely Uncle Joe
"Her Uncle Joe", I thought, "****!... feckin' Uncle Tom"
Then I thought I should have charged her, yea! charged her just like a hospital consultant
$250 Euros upfront and come back in two weeks for another $250, sorry for a check up I mean.

Well that's it then... that's my Easter story, I've got to go off now and take my afternoon nap
Y'know I've been getting some funny dreams of my own of late,
Yea! I've made a new friend
He's been teaching me how to box.

Faces lost in blank expression

Wait in stasis for their stop,

Shuttled from one potential

To the next like letters

In a mailman’s bag.

The sounds and smells of strangers,

The uncomfortable touches,

The squeezing in spaces,

The jerking rhythm of the ride,

The pram queens who sag

Against the railing

While their kids twist and turn

And scream at the lack of fun

In the faces of blank expression,

While couples tongues quietly wag.

Youthful monsters sit at the back

Playing tunes for the irritation

Of the old school music hacks,

While grandma dozes against the glass,

Shopping drawn up like a wall

To protect her from her past.

Father and daughter

Playing a game,

Sitting next to two lovers

Who are doing the same.  

The tickling natter of friends,

The glare of phones,

The lying dog’s stare.

Life on the buses,

A slice of people

For the cost of a fare.

Hobbling over rock and dust,
The Nameless winces with every weary step.
His soles scorched and torn
By the unaccustomed roughness underfoot
The jagged teeth of a prickly piping earth.

Alone he makes his way
With tiny treads towards the dying dusk.
Fatigue dragging at his limbs
Bowing his neck to leave eyes downcast
And unfocussed; seeing naught but blurs and
The swirling and swaying of the trembling past.

A city:
Grand buildings stretching as one toward the sky;
Great lions waking from their feast and basking
In the brilliance of noonday air.
The bustle of flesh coursing about their purpose
The tight press of bodies all around
And the chatter and the natter and the laughter and the anger.

And then the silence.
The fear and the glares.
The hunger
And a guilty aversion of one’s eyes.

The shattering of glass
The raising with fire and boot.
And the stealing of Names.

And now here he trudges.
With tiny treads and into naked night.

Chatter;
Prattle;
Babble;
Rant;

No, not a word…
a little red ant.

Gossip;
Natter;
Blather;
Chant;

The blatherskite’s fluent
The charming Prant;

Challenge;
Confront;
Tackle;
Dispute;

Fervor not here
… for the old discarded fruit.

Produce ;
Partake;
Compost;
Gone;

Leftovers are yours
To nibble on

An army of plastic fellows shelter from the pouring rain.
Hiding under shrubs and trees.
Guarding the garden insidiously.
They're on patrol again.
Sat by the pond, musing.
Nattering in their lingo gnome.
Unheard by ears of men.
They watch nature in balance.
Peeping at the trees.
Guarding their mothers security.
Mother Nature gives them trees, and grass and bumble bees.

Go out for a while, come back and smile.
They carried out with precision all the garden chores.
Come rain or shine, they live out doors.
Those gnomes took control of the garden their home.
They leave you a job, you come out with your mower.
They are a touch to small.
They can however, *** and ****.
When they're in your garden, they are, they sow the seeds.
They natter to each other in their own sweet dulcet tones.
After carrying out security.
They're still just garden gnomes!
(c) Livvi

Stinking Thieves and Degenerates thus proudly declared
We will drive you paranoid, give you ******* brain cancer
We will put hot things in your head, head lice they blared
We will plant dissenting seeds in your mind by our passers
Chatter and natter with toxic germination brain  furrowed

With poisons, fears and doubts we'll polluted your mind
We are the majority and we'll recruit followers in numbers
Build a pyramid of lies and hassles to hound and down grind
One tell ten and onwards, chinese whispers makes you to wonder
Peck like vultures at your life  with harassments that's unkind

In our putrid pond, caves and gutters a Grass is what you are
Goody shiny two shoes who stays aloof thinks he's better than us
Whistle clean, no crime or stains, how pompous, how you dare
Evil and destruction is our wont, purity is anathema go you suss
We'll sling mud, blacken you, weaken you and lay you bare

Go call your Jesus to save you, see if he dares tussle with the pack
The ******* cemetery is full of Saints who we've offered free rides
Showed them the Hell we make for good people before we wack
We'll get in your head and mind and trounce your soul with hide
We are knaves, criminals and reprobates and we have the knack

Yes, we burgled and stole from you, that's our trade, what we do
We are criminals not ******* Mother Teresa saving the poor
You work hard to acquire, we work hard to acquire, isn't it so
Then you chose to grass us up, ruin our trade and shut our doors
see what happens to upright and legit, jobless, lonely and broken too.


Hahaha....hahaha.....hahaha.....next!
Brother watch out, it could be you..............

Chatter;
Prattle;
Babble;
Rant;
.
No, not a word…
a little red ant.
.
Gossip;
Natter;
Blather;
Chant;
.
The blatherskite’s fluent
The charming Prant;
.
Challenge;
Confront;
Tackle;
Dispute;
.
Fervor not here
… for the old discarded fruit.
.
Produce ;
Partake;
Compost;
Gone;
.
Leftovers are yours
To nibble on…

By WILLIAM LOGANJUNE 14, 2014

GAINESVILLE, Fla. — WE live in the age of grace and the age of futility, the age of speed and the age of dullness. The way we live now is not poetic. We live prose, we breathe prose, and we drink, alas, prose. There is prose that does us no great harm, and that may even, in small doses, prove medicinal, the way snake oil cured everything by curing nothing. But to live continually in the natter of ill-written and ill-spoken prose is to become deaf to what language can do.

The ***** secret of poetry is that it is loved by some, loathed by many, and bought by almost no one. (Is this the silent majority? Well, once the “silent majority” meant the dead.) We now have a poetry month, and a poet laureate — the latest, Charles Wright, announced just last week — and poetry plastered in buses and subway cars like advertising placards. If the subway line won’t run it, the poet can always tweet it, so long as it’s only 20 words or so. We have all these ways of throwing poetry at the crowd, but the crowd is not composed of people who particularly want to read poetry — or who, having read a little poetry, are likely to buy the latest edition of “Paradise Lost.”

This is not a disaster. Most people are also unlikely to attend the ballet, or an evening with a chamber-music quartet, or the latest exhibition of Georges de La Tour. Poetry has long been a major art with a minor audience. Poets have always found it hard to make a living — at poetry, that is. The exceptions who discovered that a few sonnets could be turned into a bankroll might have made just as much money betting on the South Sea Bubble.

There are still those odd sorts, no doubt disturbed, and unsocial, and torturers of cats, who love poetry nevertheless. They come in ones or twos to the difficult monologues of Browning, or the shadowy quatrains of Emily Dickinson, or the awful but cheerful poems of Elizabeth Bishop, finding something there not in the novel or the pop song.

Many arts have flourished in one period, then found a smaller niche in which they’ve survived perfectly well. A century ago, poetry did not appear in little magazines devoted to it, but on the pages of newspapers and mass-circulation magazines. The big magazines and even the newspapers began declining about the time they stopped printing poetry. (I know, I know — I’ve put the cause before the horse.) On the other hand, perhaps Congress started to decline when the office of poet laureate was created. The Senate and the House were able to bumble along perfectly well during the near half century when there was only a Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress — an office that, had the Pentagon only been consulted, might have been acronymized as C.I.P.L.O.C. instead of being renamed.

http://www.nytimes.com/2014/06/15/sunday-review/poetry-who-needs-it.html?_r=0

I enter the small town coffee shop
desperate for caffiene
                           and a moment's respite

and I find it is to another era
I have come, hot and flustered

I look at the menu,
scratched in chalk on dusty board.
No artistic rendering  here
just a list of good honest food,
humble, but a smidgen dear

I order coffee, latte,
with cold milk on the side,
to which the large lady server
looks at me her head cocked to askew
and states, in a flat australian drawl,
that brings billabongs and jumbucks to mind...

Darl, I can make it tepid if ya wants,
or I cans put ya cold milk on the side
but I gotta charge ya extra..
for ya mouthful of chilled moo juice
smiling, lips thin and wide

I replied I'll still take the milk on the side
and one of those little peach cakes
if you don't mind.

She gave me a price and I complied,
thinking unto myself,
the moojuice, must originate
up on heaven's side and
cure all ills, ward off chills
and give only ....
joyous thoughts whilst one imbibes.

I sat at some old farm wifes table
worn down and grooved.
Come to town to shine in this caffiene shrine
rubbing my finger agin the edge
awaiting the latte and cold milk...
on the side....

Watching me from the prized corner table
three old dears.....
With stacked mahjong tiles, and swivelling ears

and on the floor crawling with gay abandon
two small children, in tandem,
they wandered amid the tables
on uneven floors the colour of slate,
deep dark wood, tongue  and groove...
that had seen to much walking, to much talking,
the tongues have slipped and the groove all but broken

As I await the cow to moo, the beans to grow
my heart slows a beat..I let go..
and see the joy, of a fella and a good cuppa,
two old friends caught up in a natter.
and the mahjong queens, realease the tiles
old friend and foes, in an a company of smiles

The cake comes, presented with due grace.
Two  pink half moons of light sponge
in a thin jelly and coconut case,
caught in a lover's kiss of delectable cream

and I understand now,
the cow is an angel,
a veritable dream,
to be loved and cosseted,
the moojuice... of moojuices
the mother of creams...

And now for caffiene...
well go figure...they know their beans

Refreshed and renewed I arise and I leave
but not before buying more moojuice
                                                      an­d moocream...

There are a lot of important things needed to be happy in life,
that stop the dark rising and save the mind from strife,
like hilarious acts and moments we find funny
and as much as it pains me to say a bit of money
so we can do other fun things like go on a night out,
singing the hours away with a beam and a shout,
or a sweet song that glistens around the head,
or an engrossing book to read in bed,
ordering a take away and gorging can give a thrill
or back to back box sets on a Netflix and chill,
and just as crucial as having a top mate to phone
is having a place that one can call home.
Having an abode to go to when employment is done
or a domain to grab some water to quell the heat of the sun,
a space to collapse when infused with inebriation,
when getting tired of tracks, a warm safe station,
a place to get ready when revving to go out in the mix,
yeah, you were all of the above dear Flat Six.
Yeah, I’ll hold my hands up, you've been a ace place in which to live,
okay you were full of damp and the bathroom wall flimsy enough to give,
and when the verdant Eden outside was chopped down it made me mad
but you were only a short walk from my Mum and Dads.
You had plenty of perks,
fab tree out back and close to work,
a 24 hour garage a stone's throw away,
that sold the ***** at night and day,
you were near a cracking paper shop that had had 2 bottles of wine for six quid a go,
suffice to say, el vino did flow.
Your living room was massive enough to play big with a cat
"always a good time here" etched on your welcome mat.
Under your roof was awesome, you engendered joy with ease,
effortlessly making great, just like the cleanest breeze.
Now although you as a building yourself is a important component in amaze
other factors also make a simply brilliant phase,
Like when friends came round for fun and revelry
after we had left the club just after three,
we'd all pick up the ingredients for a ***** do
and jump, and groove with soothing coo,
the ether resplendent with "I love you!"
finely balanced between boom and cautious,
chatting committed, gabbing voracious,
sunk into fun under your light,
the wonder of spun on Saturday night.
Now, it wasn't just at the weekend when friends came to say okay,
there were some sweet gatherings on a Wednesday,
no women, no, just a range age of men,
it could only be mid week Breadren,
we could be having a conversation about how New York seems most tourable
when a voice pipes up, "by the way bel ami my cousin has cancer and it's incurable."
There could only be one guy who brings such depressing roars
the harbinger of gloom known as Two Doors.
He'll bleat on about how his niece has no womb and is totally barren
and next to him lives a kingpin drug baron
"they are shifting units at a furious pace
and ski in more in more wizz than ******* Scarface."
He'll change the subject in the blink of an eye
and go from talking about love to who's going to die,
he doesn't like most women, thinks they are a squawking flock,
he loves men though, yeah, he really likes ****.
A mate can come out and say sobbing he doesn't want to be with a lass
while Iain does think, "Ross, let me in your ***."
His friend could weep and cry with a whimpering cough
while all Iain thinks, Ross, **** me off!
Never mind Grinder, get on my fleshy old man log."
The third guy Martin is off shooting up in the bog.
Yeah, lots of people talked in your four walls
but you provided the space for those stupendous *****,
you were brill in December, springing in May,
really awesome in September, probs cos that's when Louise came to stay.
You held our pre festival clutter with happy behest
and often covered in bottles on Monday, a big glassy mess,
oh you had everything, simply one of the best.
As I’ve said, Flat Six you as the area were great
But a paramount importance in that was housemate.
You see some people can bond and connect in the hub of a club
but when sharing an address each other up the wrong way they can rub,
although they can go to a gig and have the most divine of laughs
when they abide in the same abode they go together like low ceilings and giraffes,
arguments start over the heating not being turned off
or who hasn’t took the bins out or who’s had some of the others food to scoff,
they bleat that “you shouldn’t have gone out for that night on the *****
And then made noise when you got in as you knew I was trying to snooze!”
or “why did you have that night on the coke, you see more of Charlie than an oompa loompa
and have World War 3 over a borrowed jumper.
So yeah, it's sweet when you find a shared space dweller
and who you think is swell and you get on really well,
as when after a day at the office and you perhaps want to chill alone
when they rap on your door to discuss the day you're glad their home,
skating through conversations with the p of pace
raucous at pontificating and waiting in the listen space,
bringing the talk with dazzling natter,
singeing the fork with frazzling chatter
to ensure the words cooked go down warm,
go down a treat, go down a storm,
discussing that wowing tomorrow is pay day thrill
and who was to blame for the initial breakup of Ross and Rachel,
top gabbing, it was brill!
Someone who when the elephant in the room is sniff
you both realise it quick and score in a jiff!
And never entertain the waste that is a tiff,
not for us the sign of a rift
simply super, a kind of bliss,
see I love Joe Flat Six, I love him to bits!
Although, like you  and your constant mould
he wasn't perfect (like everyone), if the truth be told,
you see if you follow all the biblical teachings you've been taught
you'd think he would have thought,
"I can help myself to the dental care and washing hygiene, it don't matter that I haven't bought,
I can use what I deem, Si's not the selfish sort,
he'd give me the last drop of his shower gel if he could,
he defiantly would,
so do unto others as they'd do unto me
and as I’ve got this human cleaning fluid for free
I’ll leave him some plentiful dollops on the side so he can bathe in a Lynx Africa infused sea
and I can leave some mouth polish laid in the shape of a cleansing leaf
so he can keep the fillings to zero in his teeth
then I can take the rest as I’ve been true to my sacred beliefs."
Yeah, that's what he could have done.
Instead he grew horns and committed a Luciferian act
and thought "I'm taking all of that!",
Sartini, you Devilish ****.
Nar, I bet you didn't even think that at all,
you were too busy imagining going out and having a ball,
beautifully bouncing off every wall,
riding the waves of Wet Dreams with total aplomb,
spinning tunes while high fiving Tom,
cool as ice cream and hot to trot
country hopping and swigging spirits by the tot,
at least Shannon seems to have diminished, that ****** robot!
she had more wires than C3PO's thighs
and glazed over R2D2 eyes
fair dos you digged her metallic allure
but did you really want to make love with the Terminator?
Ahh but who cares about a bit of shower gel and your cyborg fawning
it was great singing along as the day was dawning
And obvs I know every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end
But it’s only natural to miss living with one of your best friends.
So far be it from me to encourage your narcissistic gaze
but Joe you can add top housemate to your list of fortes!
So dear Flat Six to summarise
I’ll miss sitting out your back in summer rise
looking through your big tree with my eyes
at the Saturday sun azure blue skies,
I’ll miss that whatever there is to unfold
won’t happen over your threshold,
I’ll miss coming in your space with loads of beer
And chill with tunes while mates appear,
I’ll miss the midnight moving across your floor,
miss my key going in your door,
miss that it’s not your clock telling my time
miss that you’re not mine when I say “who wants to go mine?”
But now you’ll always be more than an address and a collection of bricks
I’ll always love you,
dear Flat Six!

i write poetry
from the collective,
that resides within my mind

they gather often,
at the water cooler
or for coffee, tea
and a bit of a natter..

all my idio's and syncranicities
my ego,
and my shy shuffling humble-bumbler
the flambouyant quirke,
the little girl memories

all get the memo and out they come.

earth mother, surfer chick,  
daughter of despair,
moderator, instigator,
wanna-be litigator
acerberic premenstrual ditzbitch,
all represented there.


so in the end,
what you get to see;
are the minutes from the meetings,
or the gossip from the gatherings
the intimate murmurings...
from the musings.
of the legion, that ...
collectively
call themsevles
me.

sensations under a primary sun spread through generations
wax drips like sweat on to sweat dripping like rain that clings to our canvas shield
the daybreak smiles as it dries the dewed tarps
at fuzzy minds that refuse to yield
immersed in every moment the field can offer
ears catching natter spewed as clatter builds
the happy daze that sweeps reality away,
anxieties at bay
primary sun rises above another day
to be blurred into every colour created and yet to exist
sigh to witness the mornings mist
hung to frame this picture of bliss
I try to resist
I grasp to the sounds and movements of the night
Knowing sleep will separate me
Till they are pickled pages of a story I'll half tell
amongst the days of this week seeping together
let my emotions howl as my feelings digest
a jumble of potions and poisons
and unfinished sentences
I need to rest
but now it is the present
reality is tearing at the seams
dance myself to bed
as the day begins

I sit alone, in a circle
on the soft green carpet of the world
i feel safe
my eyes so dry i shield them
sun fast fading in the sky
my nose crusted rusted shut from the inside
i cry
the wet salt fills my barren pupils
sadness an oasis for my sight to swim through
my breath raspy and raw
throat sharded with sniffs full of backdrip
lungs swollen from heavy tokes on spliff
its tugging me back to reality
i feel defeated and completed
still i want more
and endless sesh of happiness
a party of all of those i adore
my head hits the floor
tomorrow my ceiling will not be the sky
i will not have drugs to help me fly
the hardest part is always goodbye

i hope your shade of small world blues is a nice shade
the clouds always seems grey
when summer slips away
the world beneath mirrors it
confidence depleted
hearts defeated
it all feels synthetic
no one sympathetic
my serotonin trapped in
flashbacks of myself, energetic
surrounded by the swish of everyone dazzled up swimming through the same rhythm
primary sun holds us all as children
bodies of movement glittered with sweat
feathered with freedom
shedding regrets
we form circles shapes
and sparkled squiggles
we feel eternal
suppressed only by giggles
we colour skies
we paint our skin
we dance on highs
with solidified grins
im only 9 months away
i cannot give in

you’re a snuggler
a tangler
a logistical link of limbs
that end up intertwining with mine

you kick me over some of the duvet
in the gentlest of gestures
and fester in the filth of your little sister’s linen
as the full moon sheds shame on our backsides.

but as the sun scowls through the window
that frames the four post
you wrap yourself in the sheets
like a sushi roll of biscuited bitterness

you natter to the bedbugs
the only ones who’ll listen to your curses
whilst me?
I’m basking in the warmth of a Sunday scandal.

starend naar een grijze muur
behalve leegte, alleen maar leegte

starend naar de regen
niets natter dan mijn ogen

starend naar de lege fles
niemand ooit zo nuchter

starend naar de muur
zoveel leegte
zoveel hoop

Sheltered promises
fitting male into female,
and I hold out in this hotel room
standing up for nothing.
There is a time to pay the price
and just get on the ride.

The local folk, they don't smile much.
So I hunt my alone time down,
only to set it free when caught.
Get a whiff of that!
It smells like someone died in here,
their spirit choking on crumbs of thought.

Metal bars and a chainlink fence,
chewed torn sleep when it comes.
Some only sleep,
maybe they are free until their lids separate.
The toll being too high for me to cross beyond.
Unsweetened, sweaty dreams chide and natter,
becoming bitter yearnings
off in the distance,
only markings made by memories.

not got poetry within me...

have searched and sought,
found only dry bones
and hollow whispers

mirages to a soul that sighs.
mirages to a soul that cries...

bones that clack and clatter,
whispered words that natter
and scatter and dissipate
....at an alarming rate

my ear aches, my heart aches
and those bones, do break...
and shatter

mirages drift, mirages drift...

as i sift and seive a tired mind,

yet no poetry do i find....

black clouds of solitude,mid celebrating crowds,people oblivious,of his lonely cloud.knee caps exposed,holes in his socks,temporary soles,from a cardboard box.homeless, sad, lonely,tortured by fumes,christmas dinner,families in tune.laceless shoes, fleeing,agony of hunger,lost wasted chances,when ignorant youngster.tattered feet hasten,evading the din,to comfort of home....two rats, and a bin.shiver and sharing,leftover platter,green mouldy french fries,black soggy batter.cooking fumes blending,seasonal natter,his dreamland beckons,cold teeth chatter.

Erenn  2 days ago


She always wondered what would it be like
To have that kind of love you see in the movies
Those moments where the guy stood in the rain
Singing in a coffee shop and the spotlight's on her
Screaming 'I LOVE YOU' at the top of the Eiffel Tower
Just someone who's willing to go the distance
Means the world to her

She didn't realized 'Fate' was already near

On a Saturday 27th of June is where everything changed
She's on the streets of Dublin with her friends
Listening to their favorite band playing
Their eyes met as he was packing his stuff
Her friends saw this & planned ahead
She was diffident at first, reluctant to progress
He made the first move & the magic begins
They were both drowned in conversations
Eyes locked on each other
Hoping this natter never ends

They met again on a Sunday to watch him play
But this time little sister is there to speculate
It was hard making moves
Both eager to land a kiss
Both didn't want to leave

He had to leave the next day
Back to Australia where his dreams underway
He made a promise to meet her again
But fate has its twist and they had to wait
She had to go to Portugal on a holiday
Where he's back in Dublin again to play

He's willing to go the distance for her
He'll be back in September
To fulfill that promise
Endeared in notions of affection
Waiting for that fateful day
Two days was all it take
For a love like this

I feel like I am on a retrace
Slowly being replaced
By a small little low face
In a big world where he got no place
It's like crusin down a freeway
But still losin on the big race
Try being a disgrace
To yourself like its all plié
Still walking on a slow pace
More lone than NASA in space

Where nothing really matters
And my mind is in some scatters
Get all your sadness in a platter
Eat it up while you're getting flatter
Lyrics everywhere like I just had a splatter
Spittin on a mic they call me grand master
Yet my emotions are unorganized some would call it natter
Like if they were in a ball and my mind was a batter
Throw it by chance land low then make it a clatter
May land and ******* up but it don't matter
Well it landed on me so now my body shatters

May be so sad with all my lows
But now I'm some kid that nobody knows.
1:04 am and I am expectin a lil show
Or am I too late? did I miss my flow?
Did anyone bring the drinks for the party I was about to throw?

To forget about our lives hittin up like drive by's
Got everybody leavin they say bye bye
Used to be that kid that would just cry all night
But got used to it now I act alright.
Getting used to every punch like it was cake right?
Take a lil piece and say it was easy right?
Where life is not a game but I got played by life
****** up so hard lost myself out on sight.
Don't be me and do alright.
Maybe you won't be like me being blue all night.
I hope everyone that left is doing alright.
I hope this dont last any longer cold like a frost bite
Hope I can get it back. My might for the fight
I hope I can get it back, my little shining light.

Hear the ***** of glasses,
shriek of chairs against wood,
photos streamed across walls
elbowing for attention.
Smell the sawdust simmer from the floor,
knife-carved letters etched
decades before by dead hands,
wishbones strewn around
by lads who never returned.
The stubbly Irish guy pours a McSorley,
watch the marigold glug into the mug
and froth over the top.
A gaggle of women natter at the back,
the flatscreen, out of place, chatting away too.

Speaking in esoteric patter
Allen implores the crowd to hear
His curious, most enchanting natter
Perceptions shake and start to shatter

Initiated in to the mysteries
Allen’s words bring them to life, with a
Voice that transcends time and history
That brings his cosmic joy and bliss to me

Words sear with a frightening power
That startles, overwhelms the crowds
Allen’s visions start to flower
Allen’s visions start to tower

He harbours an inquisitive, roaming soul
Which languishes in mystic climes
Enchanted by creation whole
Allen assumes the bardic role

Sapient and wise as the owl
Attuned to magick of the night
He conjures heaven, fathoms hell
Harnessing the wildernesses’ howl

On Cabbage Mound the birds tweet gold,
So says the porridge eating man,
The spontaneous trek up that grassy reserve
(To see the flocks and frolics of finches conversing)
It’s a matter of season he said,
In joyous spring they produce song of glitter, but
Catch them under the wave of a solemn winter
And you shall only hear a dull twitter.

Often he leaves bowls of porridge upon that place,
Abandoned to absorb the view,
Wilting amoungst the bush and flora,
Like a planted trap for the lurking fauna,
Their ceramic bodies sit unnoticed and unaware,
Soaking in the sunrises and
Mourning the day’s ending
When the sun crawls under the horizon.

Early dawn conversations leak
From the finches’ rookeries,
Where they dwell cooped up
Amoungst feather and trinket,
Their endless nattering awakens the sun,
Coercing it to rise, and
Bleaching the ground in tints of orange.

A breakfast awaits them
Outside their homes
Of woven branches and loose fur;
Berries and scattered delicacies
(From the Sunday morning ramblers),
And perhaps a touch of porridge too.
They bury their beaks into the thick pools
Of weathered oatmeal,
And perpetually pick at plastic wrappings
Until their brandished beaks begin to go blunt and sore,
A monotonous task even for an eager flock,
But they never end their labour without reward.

After breakfast,
The porridge eating man
(With porridge in hand) arrives,
He approaches with a staggered limp,
Perhaps a scar from some late night disagreement,
He approaches holding his lower left limb,
The finches have come to learn his routine.

First he stops (whether to take in the view
Or to rest from the trudge up Cabbage Mound,
The birds have not yet asked),
Second he takes out a package
From his right pocket,
He undresses the wrapping
And produces a small pad of paper,
A pen follows, signifying
The start of settled concentration:
Strings of ink,
Intertwining lines and shapes,
Letters touching letters,
Forming meaning and breeding words,
A sharp coo startles the man,
Breaking his focus, and anchoring
Him back to sobriety,
Finally he disembarks from Cabbage Mound,
Turning his back to feathered insight
And slowly sinking behind the hill,
A bowl of porridge takes his place,
And so, it shall stay
Until the finches start to natter
And their hunger begins to ache.

Though it was not a time of religious musing,
it was an escape from the spirit bruising
of the telescreens and jingles,
the buzz of invisible,
the noise of the motorways.

We could natter in the pub,
on a Pilgrimage, of sorts;
to sort, to find a beginning.
Or at least to open a book up
somewhere near the start.

SOMEWHERE IN YOUR MIND
( for Ruth )

I have wandered
around your mind

(I hope you don't mind)

invited in
by a poem

it smiled:
'Come in...come in! '

And so
here I am

having bread & butter & tea
with your Past

having a laugh
with your Present

listening intensely
to your Future sing

'WHAT EVER WILL BE... WILL BE! '

Picking up each
unique memory

reflecting how it
catches & holds

the light
(the delight in life)

having a good old natter
with your own good self

playing Snap!
with our synapses

tickling the old grey matter
until

a passing thought
& on a tangent I leave

your smile
as you tuck your hair behind your ear

and I find
myself upon

the whiteness
of this page

like Breughel's
HUNTERS RETURNING IN THE SNOW

trekking across
its vastness

leaving a trail
of clumsy footprints

made of words

leaving footsteps
echoing

somewhere in your mind.

Past the time of day ,
when modern things are put away,
when the forest of the night,
swallows whole the waking forests light
with an exulting mass of chorusing wishes
a delicate hush of silent kisses;
Plays gentle on the ears of sin,
and rejoices in the gentle din,
of mother natures flowing wings

If you could only hear
the wistful natter
the softly tread patter
of charming creations, their tiny beams,
that carefully waltz the verge of dreams

you would understand the peaceful throng
of dusky crawlers, their gentle song
their deafening cry, your soothing balm
as nature hold you in her palm

So stand, gentle brother
soft and calm
hold loving near the peace and charm
and wander now
the streets of dark
and let her dreams
engulf your heart.