these are the thoughts
of Clive,
the neighborhood curmudgeon...

how do i know this,
i am the imp that put them here....
in the garden, you folks
call a brain......


take this, sodding life
and it's meaningless struggle.
i set my face to this wall
and brick myself self in
to this useless stall.

the old man, Clive,
grumbled with a,
set and sour grin.

you...you're all pathetic,
thinking you can win.
death's the only victor...
over us, one
and sodding all.

and you can take,
your sodding...
flowers and cards
and sodding, casseroles too!!

there was,
one ray of sunshine
in my life
and now she is gone.

and she is not,
sodding around in another room,
or waiting for me up there.
she is not, in greener pastures
cause she was never..
an effin cow.

she is,
six footdown,
underground,
in a cheap wooden box,
making fodder,
for worms and beetles.
slowly, they are,
breakin her down.

and it will not be,
sodding fine
and time will not heal...
a heart smashed to smithereens.
a life torn asunder
**** me it's time,
for you pathetic
do-gooders...
to get ****** real....

no i am not,
a happy man,
and yes i am,
greiving the greatest loss.
and a ******, sausage
and bean casserole,
is not going to be,
making me believe,
that the world,
is a fair and just place...

don't you, worry about me.
i reckon i'll soon be,
leaving, my home
and my goods and chattels
and be recieving last rites,
farewells and a deep,dirt bed.

and that will be,
fine and dandy,
as long as it is,
close and handy,
to my beloved, Mandy.

what?
you're worried...
about my,
state of mind...

will ya, just *******,
haven't i
made myself clear,
i am way, too busy dying,
to pay you any attention...

this garden just going gangbuster
hey¡¡yah huzzah!!!

When I was a little lassie my Grandad and I
were very fond of each other indeed
(although not sexually I must add
before you suspicious buggers start complaining).

Over the hills and fields we used to wander just like, er,
...let me think of a nice metaphor here...
er, like a man and his granddaughter or
like a couple of not so lonely clouds.

Oh how joyfully we would seek out rare birds’ nests
so as to smash the eggs to bits in a frenzy of joy,
which we both enjoyed a lot as it was, er, reet good fun
and a statement of individual choice we both appreciated.

Sometimes we would noisily take a steaming **** together
(although ABSOLUTELY NO ****** contact ever took place
I really must reiterate that for all you ***-abuse-obsessives,
but he had a stupendously big ***** for an old codger).

When we got home in the evening dear old Grandad
would usually make us a nice *** of builders' tea
and some ****** great doorstop sandwiches, but
even at that tender age I would have opted for a good stiff whisky.

Or, come to think of it, a large glass of chilled Chardonnay,
and a plateful of smoked salmon or some oysters,
but the old ******* was teetotal (at least in public) -
either that or just plain ******* mean as Hell.

Darling wizened Granny would make us some toast
out of leftover stale Mother’s Pride white bread,
but, being half blind, the silly fat old cow usually managed
to burn it to a sodding inedible cinder.

On Sundays they would get the gramophone out
and put on some tango 78 records
as they loved Latin American dancing and a good old *****
of each other's flaccid, age-withered buttocks.

How happily I remember the old couple tangoing away
just like a couple of wrinkled whirling ****** dervishes
to 'La Cumparsita' recorded by Mantovani & His Tipica Orchestra
on 20th June 1940 and issued on the Decca label.

They also taught me how to do the rumba
(oompah, oompah, stick it up your jumpah)
and I became quite an expert at the Cuban samba
(which my beloved Grandad wittily called the *****).

How joy-filled were those faraway times of my golden childhood.
but one day I went round only to find an ambulance outside
and the paramedics told me the old pair had been found dead in bed,
their boudoir resembling an abattoir at closing time.

Grandad had bashed the old *****’s brains out
with a red-hot poker during some depraved *** session
and then shoved it eighteen inches up his own *******
which must surely have stung his piles quite a bit.

But what a creative way to go - I bet he danced a bit
as the steaming poker seared his poor back passage.
And thus my grandparents ascended up into the sky -
may they stay forever young in the company of the angels.

Let me again emphasis our friendship was purely platonic
because this was in the rare old times of yesteryear
when widespread paedophilia was not yet a gleam in the eye
of some trash newspaper editor eager to engage with the plebs.

This is a beautiful "Barry Hodges" poem.*

Ah, sweet memories of that night in Blarney
In the stout-soaked suburbs of ould Cork City.
How clearly through the mist of alcoholic memory
I recall how we all piled out of Johnny's bar at closing time
****** as a load of proverbial ******* newts;
'Where to now me boys, which bar's still open?'
Shrieked spiflicated Sean O'Shannon
(that's notorious sixteen pints an hour Sean,
the man who won Strictly Come Boozing twice)
As he tottered over to his Pa's new BMW convertible,
Lucky ****** that he is to be son to a Fianna Fáil MEP,
And one not adverse to trousering a Euro or two.

'Sean, me oul' potato, de ye think ye should be driving
With that record-breakin' skinful o' stout
I just seen you put away down your greasy gullet,
Not to mention the quadruple whiskey chaser?'
Enquired loopy Liam O'Lephrechaun as he leaned over
And puked up another gallon of warmish Guinness
Over yours truly as I rolled helplessly in the Ballygrohan road
To the amusement of the gawping bystanders,
Bearing in mind there were a good dozen gobbets
Of half-digested pork scratchings in the froth
Which was causing havoc with my apparel.

So without another feckin' word being spoken
My dear drinking companions and ***** buddies
Left me prostrate and clambered gaily into the waiting car
And roared off into the enchanted Gaelic night;
Singing and smoking themselves silly simultaneously,
So full of the joys of life and the blessed bottle.
And then some ****** stupid American tourist
(doubtless dressed in hideous checked golfing trousers
with a backwards-facing baseball cap on his ugly head,
not to forget his overweight wifey crammed into the front seat
just like a huge white bloated fat-faced hippo),
Came round the next corner in a clapped out rental car
And the two of them got sent to Kingdom-sodding-Come
With a terrible metallic crash which destroyed them completely.

'Oh begorrah and *******, would ye just look at the mess
The feckin eejit's made of me Daddy's Beemer,
And it's his pride and joy so it is to be sure!'
Cried Sean O'Shannon in an alcoholic rage,
As he contemplated the largest insurance claim
In the County Cork for the past six decades,
(at least the largest legitimate one anyway).
Whilst I was trying to get my hipster pants down
To avoid filling them up with beery diarrhoea
Brought on by my involuntary bursts of joyous mirth,
(bejasus, 'twas the second time in the space of a single week
and my new girlfriend was getting a bit fussy about hygiene
bearing in mind she was thinking of taking the veil).

How fortunate old Father Tucker and Garda Sergeant O'Toole
Could both (when they'd sobered up sufficiently)
Testify later from their secure vantage point
In the rear compartment of a nearby parked hearse,
(where they were having a ******* with Deidre,
the filthiest wee **** in the whole South-Western counties)
That the accident was not dear Sean's fault at all, to be sure,
As the other stupid sober yankee ****** was driving at 75
On the wrong friggin' side of the ******' street
Or probably in the middle, come to think of it.
'Sure but Sean's the best driver this side of the Blarney Stone,
And there's no way himself would ever drive under the influence'*
They agreed sagely before going off for another jar or two
And maybe a double knee-trembler with Deidre's fat sister,
One up each of her gaping hair-rimmed orifices.

I went into the woods today
to feed the little birds
the squirrel in his little  drey
and the roe deer in their herds
went in feeling confident
walked out tired and grey
now I need some counselling
and this is what I'll say!
Those little ******* birdies
had set a trap for me
dug a hole with mickey the mole
they knew I would't see
fell right down
and bashed my head
they laughed so much,
thought I was dead
all they wanted was my seed
No! not my *****!
Oh, please take heed
the rabbits kicked earth into the hole
****** lagomorphs got no soul
except for hares
they are classier
even though
the females are sassier
I climbed back  out
the birds got miffed
"there is no doubt,
he must be biffed!"
so into the fray
they sent their trump
a ****** great stag
to give me a thump
spent ten minutes dodging round
running like a good'un
until I ran into a tree
solid and pretty wooden
"my sodding nose,
that ****** hurt!
I'm bleeding down
into the dirt!"
tough they told me
with their eyes
that tree will cut you
down to size!
I got away at half past six
how was purely luck
I fed the stag some weetabix
and he got hit by a truck
So now we're having venison
and gravy for our tea
and if I go to the woods again
I'll take some friends with me!

The attention-grubbing *****
Will sit out on the floor
Waiting to be ****** by a
Siamese sock puppet duck

Its quirky little smile
Will show only for a while
Toothpaste soda and Hot Gin Sour
It's all up and about in a stour

Poor sodding toothless *****
Goes to playpen and dances around
Empirical     to   the   idea'r    of
the crowd  wanting    a     ****

This is a prose tale about the great superhero, SNOGGO
(as told in the first person by SNOGGO to his amanuensis, Edna)

*'You can't have "Jew",' I said.
'Why not? It's a perfectly good word. Are you anti-semitic or something?'
'Jew has a capital J,' I said.
'Not necessarily. I've used it before.'
'Not with me you haven't. There's the dictionary. Look it up.'

Jumbo grudgingly picked up the Shorter Oxford and looked up "Jew". He sniffed loudly, slammed the dictionary shut and removed the tiles from the board. His replacement word was a sodding disaster.

'That's twenty-four points you've cost me with your nit-picking, you *******,' he said through gritted yellow teeth, his flabby body shaking with rage. 'The J was on a triple letter score.'

I sneered derisively and laughed long and loud, making Jumbo froth at his ugly fat nostrils with anger.

'Watch this and weep, Jumbo,' I said, playing out all seven of my tiles onto the board to create a stunning word: UNZIPPED. 'The Z's on a double letter score and it's all on a triple word score, so that's 90, plus 50 for playing all my tiles, 140 in total and the end of the game,' I declared in triumph. Jumbo was caught with 14 in his hand (remember: he still had the J) and thus I, the great SNOGGO, became Greenwich Scrabble Champion for the 25th year running. Not only that: but 25 consecutive defeats in the final for Jumbo.

Jumbo roared in frustration as he saw his hopes of taking the coveted 24ct gold "Queen Anne" cup away from me, SNOGGO, dashed to the ground yet again. And, by centuries old tradition, 25 consecutive victories meant the priceless cup was now mine to keep for ever. Jumbo's scream of uncontrollable, incandescent rage could have been heard as far away as the Vanbrugh Hill Municipal Waste Disposal Centre.

'******* you for all ******* eternity,' he bellowed unsportingly as he waddled out of the cheering hall. In so doing he flouted the gentlemen's convention of always staying to take part in the closing ceremony. He missed seeing me, the great SNOGGO, receive the shining gold cup from the gnarled hands of the Lady Mayoress, the Hon. Mrs Snotte-Wragge, who whispered in my ear 'Fancy a quick **** later, back at the mayoral parlour, SNOGGO dear?' For the fifth year in a row I told her to go and get stuffed as I didn't go for ugly old bats with arses on them like a double-decker bus.

Later that evening, as I sat in the splendid Georgian surroundings of Snoggo Manor, cradling the gold cup and admiring the row of 25 Championship certificates on the walls of my elegant dining room, finishing off my second bottle of Bollinger Grand Cru '89 and stuffing my 18th oyster down my happy throat, I heard a knock on the door. Who could that possibly be at nearly midnight?

It was Jumbo, my fat defeated foe. He looked downcast. 'SNOGGO,' he said, 'I've come to offer my apologies for my inappropriate behaviour earlier. You deserved to win, you are the finest scrabbler in all of Greenwich. I have come to offer you the hand of friendship and to invite you to my humble home for a midnight snack to celebrate your stirring victory.'

'Jumbo,' I replied, 'that's uncommon civil of you, old man. And your timing is excellent, as I've just finished my apéritif and was on the verge of kicking Mrs SNOGGO, my new 17-year old Thai mail order wife, out of her hammock to make my supper. So what's on the menu, squire?'

'Well,' said Jumbo, 'I was thinking of pâte de foie gras - naturally made by Mrs Jumbo using our own force-fed geese, with a bottle of Château d'Yquem '78 to start with. Then perhaps a kilo of blood-red filet mignon avec pommes frites, washed down with a rather good magnum of Brouilly '99. Then there's Mrs Jumbo's famed cheeseboard with a tumbler full of vintage port, followed by a dozen crêpes suzettes, a few petits cafés, a monster Armagnac and a giant Havana each.'

I considered the proposed menu carefully before replying. 'Sounds quite good to me, Jumbo,' I declared, glancing over his shoulder at the Bentley waiting outside. I could just see the peaked chauffeur's cap of the diminutive Mrs Jumbo peering myopically over the leather-covered steering wheel.

And so, having told Mrs Snoggo to tidy up a bit whilst I was out, I went off to dinner with Jumbo. In all our 25 years of Scrabble rivalry I had never once set foot into his house, so I was eager to check out what sort of lifestyle he enjoyed. Once inside Jumbo Villa, I cast my eyes over the luxurious furnishings with an expert eye, evaluating their immense worth and rarity with incredible perspicacity and knowledge.

'Not a bad pad you've got here, Jumbo,' I conceded. 'Not in the same class as Snoggo Manor, of course, but still ****** impressive.' He was visibly flattered by my compliment.

'A glass of sherry while we wait for Mrs Jumbo to serve us?' queried Jumbo jovially. I sniffed at the huge portion of delicious amber nectar appreciatively. 'Lustau Amoroso Bodega Marquès de Mierda '42?' I guessed instinctively. Jumbo nodded. '******* spot on, SNOGGO,' he admitted in stunned amazement.

I took an enormous gulp and felt the alcohol hit me like a slam in the abdomen from Cassius Clay's butcher and more vicious brother. The room spun and I closed my eyes in resigned delight.

When I came to I found myself hanging unclothed in chains on the wall of a dank cellar. My head was pounding and I felt distinctly below par. I looked over my shoulder and beheld Jumbo standing there with a sjambok in his hand. He was stark ******* naked, naked as the day he was born, and I have never seen anything so repulsive in all my life (with the sole exception of that incredible day when, as a child, I caught my paternal grandparents bonking on the Persian rug in the Great Hall at Snoggo Manor on Christmas Eve). Jumbo’s huge pendulous ******* sagged over his bloated fat belly, which itself hung so low his genitals were mercifully hidden from my view. He was a ******* monstrosity.

The tiny Mrs Jumbo stood to the rear of the cellar, also naked, pallid and with her public hair died a shocking pink. She was a skinny freak, a vision of *** Hell. I noticed the tattoo on her belly. It showed a depiction of the crucifixion which I felt was in dubious taste, especially with Jesus sporting an enormous *******.

What I, the wonderful SNOGGO, suffered in the next few hours was truly indescribable, so I will only summarise it. After a seemingly endless whipping from Jumbo (assisted by Mrs Jumbo, but her puny lash strokes were almost pleasurable), accompanied by their combined frenzied cries of demented hatred and loathing, I was forced to suffer the supreme humiliation. Jumbo mounted a set of fine Regency library steps, positioned his Hellish lumpen body behind me and unceremoniously inserted his tiny ***** into my outraged ****. Oh the shame! Oh the shame!

‘O Jesus Christ help me!’ I yelled in rain and pain. And suddenly a voice spoke unto me. 'O great SNOGGO,' it intoned, 'thou needst not suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune so needlessly. Only have faith in me, the great loving Jesus, and I shall give thee strength to deal with thy ******* awful tribulations.'

It was a miracle! SNOGGO could and would be saved! Quickly I mumbled a couple of Ave Marias remembered from my youth as a leading mutual masturbator in the chapel choir, and I silently promised a quick twenty thousand quid to the local faggotty priest ******* fund, and my chains fell to the floor with a blast of heavenly thunder. Halle-*******-luliah!

'Right, Jumbo you fat ****,' I snapped, 'you have ******* had it.'

And with one mighty blow of my right arm I smashed him against the wall. His huge hideous body crumpled as he slid to the floor, blood oozing from his fat gob. I gave him a ****** good kicking in the face and in the heart region and shortly he went to meet his maker, with a sickening grunt and expulsion of *****.

Then I turned to the horrified naked ugly skinny tattooed Mrs Jumbo and said: 'OK, *******, where's my ******* supper?'

She shrugged and headed upstairs to prepare the meal I had been promised by Jumbo earlier, as I was seriously hungry by this stage. Little did she know I would be obliged to put her out of her misery later. Or if she were lucky, I might offer her a position as unpaid toilet cleanser chez moi.

Yes, it was yet another stunning victory for the fabulous SNOGGO, thanks to timely divine intervention for which I am very much obliged.

And don't forget my luscious 17-year old Thai mail bride would be waiting to give me a really good ******* once I got back to Snoggo Manor. Either that or I would give her a good belting and send her back to her grotty poverty-stricken village with a demand for a full refund, chop chop.

Sometimes life is feels a little piece of ****
Make me wants to throw the all the **** away
Yelled to calm ******* ocean or to mountain
Or else to a ******* shapeless cloud.
For a moment I am a non believer.
We can either stay sit,stand,sleep or walk
Many Times including this ******* time I ******* can't
stay up to any of it. I am ******* scared, might my sense of humor will lose sooner or later.
I couldn't laugh my ******* soul out to the Russell Peter
That dumb ****
****, if I say this public, I worry I ll be judged
Whenever I know this I stupidly try sound sophisticated sophomore.
Now I am in q ******* hospital, people this is a Srilankan hospital..more or less like a live hell.
My fqucking heart cries , **** ! it is in so much of ****** pain
Over the past eight years I ******* fall in love and then set a time bomb on my heart., and hilariously then my fuckself giving the trigger to some wonderful soul , my guardian of Angel , to my sweetheart. **** chemical
******* sodding God, well ******* infinite times !!!
You are biggest ***** I ever seen, inventing such a pathetic **** called life,for your ******* amusement.
Tell me why the **** on this ******* earth I should pray
I mean my mother is in hospital, yeah that freaking Sri Lankan hospital, where only you see ******* despair
And my sodding girl friend,the one ****** up all the ******* love in the boundaries of universe where we can see and put it all up on me for few ******* instants
What a man wants is simple , it is only *** and love. Hold your ******* thought , don’t blame me, call your ******* lord , God or whoever the superfuck or the nature who responsible for ingesting desires to human life and ask. While the satisfied you praying to God and showing the gratitude,
‘ Dear God , thank you for make me a women with a *****, I have infinite choices of men out there, who will follow me with an blink of eyes, for the taste of this ‘
This is not a ******* poem, This is the Poem
The poem of despair
The poem of frustration, the poem of resentment
Get the life, guts and nails simple, life is ******* simple if this ******* thing let us to be in single
But they don’t ! they ******* don’t , they messed up whole life and say ,life is complicated
I start writing this when I am in the hospital, while waiting my mother to discharge. The I came home with mother, came in threewheel ( *******, ******* vehicle invented by India)
That stupid thing broke in the middle and we walked rest of the way,

My mother - with a broken arm
Myself - with a broken heart

I called to a suicide prevention center , there ******* vision is ‘ we will listen, non judgmental’ . **** I called them , They simply don’t wanna listen any ******* of mine . ‘ Please go to your doctor, happy lady coming from wealthy background said me like that. I felt rather better to **** myself than try not to ****.

My sweetheart I ******* love you
My sweet life I love you too
I only had a little of my heart
You know how many of them
Pulled that time bomb's trigger

I’m sick and tired of people rabbiting on a load of ****
About their ******* duty and fighting for freedom
For the fat ugly patriotic selfish folks "back home"
And pathetic ****** neo-fascist ******* like that
And gabbling on a load of sentimental horsedung
About giving their all for their ******* useless country
When honestly they’d rather be at home in some ugly provincial hick town
Patting their nasty mongrel dogs and groping their neighbours’ wives' arses
And eating mumsy-wumsy’s over-cooked meat and stodgy apple pie
Whilst ensconced on the sofa watching sodding Celebrity Big Brother.

How can a soldier nowadays say he didn't want to be there?
Are people so ******* thick or blind or moronic not to realise
A person volunteers to be in the armed forces in most countries nowadays?
There’s no ****** press gangs or ****** conscription any more;
People become soldiers because they choose to do so
(exceptions include filthy neo-**** ****-holes like Israel
where the young men queue up to **** Palestinian babies for fun) .

Therefore soldiers DO want to fight, they DO want the chance to ****
And they willingly risk their own ugly unwashed redneck necks.
So they have no right to whine and bellyache when they get asked
To earn their daily state-paid bread and do a spot of killing
Instead of sitting on their overweight arses at MY expense.
Or course, they could show some real guts and resign instead,
But what the ****, why pass up on a chance to do some
Legalised ****** and get paid handsomely at the same time.

Just in case you think I forgot, I am totally and fully aware
That 'he' includes 'she' in this context now that women
Have an equal chance to have their military buns blown off pointlessly.
So don't whinge or expect sympathy when your body parts come home in a bag.
Personally, I am of the belief that the only good soldier is a dead soldier,
And the more the merrier. RIP military thugs and up yours.

You know as well as I do
that internet dating can have its ups
and downs
and thus, after so many futile meetings
and tragic misadventures
in a domestic UK situation,
I decided to spread my wings
and so I logged on to an Australian website
for lonely kangaroo lovers
yes it was www.blackstump-legover.com.au
where no holes were barred.

And I soon struck up a promising friendship
with someone who sounded like
a real goer, a total slapper,
with no morals whatsover
judging from the photo she posted
taken with a mobile phone
up her skirt
which showed her muffin *****
as well as what she had eaten
for breakfast yesterday,
poking its head out.

We finally agreed to meet
behind the old dunny
in the park where the abos go
to exchange their social security vouchers
for crack *******
or a bottle of Castlemain XXXX
or a quick one up each others' bots
in spite of the pong
on a sunny arvo.

You can imagine how effing disappointed
I was when she arrived
on a trailer attached to her grandson's ute
strapped to a battered gurney
(and almost insensate)
but still ready for a bit of backdoor action
but not from me, no sirree,
thank you very much mate:
I might be desperate, but
I would have had to have
clipped my nose shut with a clothes peg
to get anywhere near her
and my gag reflex simply couldn't cope.

So I bravely dragged the gurney
over to the convenient gap
in the fence overlooking the mighty ravine
and with a gentle shove
I sent her to that sweet place
where peace can be found
and I can still hear her scream
as she bounced off the rocks
accusing me of being illegitimate
before silence reigned
and I smiled in joy.

It only goes to show, O my friends,
that there are female dogs
of the most hideous kind
on every sodding continent
on this dear planet of ours;
and I may as well stick to
a handful of Nivea cream
and a Kleenex, at least the odour
is wholesome.

Animals of the arcade, Farthing Wood we ain’t
Admissions must be made, not one of us is a saint

A motley crew are we, I suppose it takes allsorts
We share coffee, we share tea and we always share our thoughts

Such different species we all are yet side by side we stand
For even when we’re below par, we are a merry band

The chicken in her chilly room, she feels she’s lost her way
But we all know sunshine or gloom, she delivers every day

The pony keeps us all amused, trotting through the mob
But actually we are quite confused, what exactly is her job?

The wise owl often reads a book to pass the endless hours
She sits and shivers in her nook despite her selling powers

The elegantly pretty deer makes everything seem easy
No matter how she feels when here, she’s always bright and breezy

The deer has an assistant, a sleepy little mouse
Who can be quite persistent as she sells things for the house


And then there is the blackbird feeding everybody’s chicks
Variation is her key word as a future spouse she picks

Last and certainly not the most, the weasley little man
Who acts like he’s the perfect host but cons you if he can

And so each day we all display this animal behaviour
Six happy souls and one convinced he’s our sodding saviour!

Who would believe it
Just as I had finished the hard work
Of , earnestly sharpening
My nearly ready guillotine
Also washing my scruffy neck
For a really clean cut
Suzybloodywordmuse
Praises my sodding work
Well ! I ask the whole wide world
What on earth do I do now
First I'll have to blunten it
You know , just in ****** case
I'll catch a rolling stone
And sing to it lovingly
After that I'll write some more.

We all piled out of the pub
****** as a load of newts;
'Where to now boys?'
Bellowed naughty Niall O 'Neill
(that's notorious nineteen pints a night Niall)
As he tottered over to his Pa's Rolls Royce.

'Do ye think ye should be driving
With that record-breakin' skinful
I just seen you put away?'
Enquired serious Sean slurringly
From his slightly inconvenient
Viewpoint in the beery gutter.

So we all clambered gaily into the car
And roared off into the enchanted night
And then this ****** stupid clodhopper
Who didn't even have his driving licence yet
Came round the next corner in his Ford
And got sent to Kingdom-sodding-Come.

'Oh ****, would ye just look at the mess
The oul' fella's made of me Daddy's car,
And it's his pride and joy so it is!'
Cried Niall O'Neill in incandescent rage,
As he surveyed the largest insurance claim
In the County Wicklow for twenty years.

How fortunate Father Tucker and Garda Sergeant O'Toole
Could both testify from their vantage point
In the front seat of the devastated Roller,
The accident was not Niall's fault at all, at all,
As the other stupid sober ****** was on
The wrong side of the ****** street.

Gluttonous gapes and jibes jape and gibe
at a fine summer drinking wine
in solemn derisive disposition.
For 'tis summer!
and no wine tastes sweeter
than a glass of mockery, fear and dread
helped with honey-sweet spices and lead
'til the bitter wait
past the flooding litres and the sodding litter
into a halting cringing demeanour:
hatred incarnate, deathly pale and slaver wet:
the season's ending hangover get!

Yay, it's another lovely Barry Hodges "Memories" poem.*

How happily I recall the excitement of my visits to Lewisham's hospital
For my regular "haemorrhoid adjustment/re-alignment" sessions,
During which time I made the acquaintance of a nursing sister
With possibly the fiercest libido in south-east London.
And one night, whilst we were "on the job" in her comfy cubicle,
I glanced over her fat shoulder through the cracked observation window.

Ah yes, dear reader, it was the relatively cleanish Ward G
(the terminal one where the near-dead await merciful release,
wittily nicknamed "the happy dreamers' room" by the matron,
an evil predatory old **** with a 40-inch waist and wild halitosis);
I watched a spectacularly ugly nurse peering o'er the screen
Around poor old ******* Bertie "Big *****" Bloggs.

His wasted, crippled, whitened pyjamed form
Lay twitching on the none-too-clean patched sheets;
He opened his unseeing, ancient eyes and gave voice:
"Give us a gobble" the old ****** croaked pathetically,
"You know you want to, you fat smelly *****".
And then he croaked.  Unsucked and unloved,

O my beloved lector, compassionate creature that thou art,
Surely thy pleasure will be utterly intensified to learn that
The NHS bedsheets were indelibly and spectacularly stained
As his bowels opened spontaneously with Death's kindly appearance.
"Gor ******* blimey, what a ******* horrid pong," came a groan:
('twas Sammy "No Legs" Smith in mid-**** on a nearby trolley).

These events in the ward led to an inevitable result for me:
You have divined it correctly, O treasured fan of mine,
Yea verily, the happenings I espied made me blow my ***
Most prematurely and my love-partner, the sylphlike Sister Sally,
Was so sodding annoyed she crushed my tender haemorrhoids
Quite brutally in her surgical spirit-hardened left hand.

Bomber command all set for a mission.
Reconnaissance and rendezvous, somewhere around half past two.
The sun beats down at half past twelve.
Fuelled up, all set to fly.
First command flew earlier.
All back safe and well.

Yesterday they lost a chap.
Jasper got nobbled by an English fella with a smoking gun.
A right good shot he got.
Got him from the blind side.
Crashed straight into a passing car.
Should've seen the wreckage.
Car crashed into another.

Sodding seagulls, real pests.
Tried to grab a  poor boys pasty.
Things got really really nasty!
English seagulls by the coast.
The father of the son, made the pasty stealing seagull another wholly ghost!
(C) LIVVI

you were born
becase
you’re ******* important to someone

so don’t you dare let anyone tell you different.

do you hear me?!?

you are ******* important to someone.

and i promise you,
they’re out there
right now

and they’re scouring
this entire sodding earth
trying to find you.

because i promise,

they ******* care about you.

At once you feel it, stop, perform an about turn
Something behind you, into your back its eyes burn
You shiver and shake, rub the hairs on your arms
No-one there, but the goose bumps, the sweat on your palms

Carry on walking, swift, humming out loud
Desperate now to find yourself deep in a crowd
You are sure you can hear it, a breath, a refrain
Who is, who follows you home once again

It has happened before, in fact quite a few nights
A shadow appears in the glow of streetlights
It is gone by the time you shuffle up, when you dare
Where’d it go, did I see it, was it even really there

Put it down to exhaustion, a trick of your mind
The tiredness, the *****, the crap daily grind
The work, family, stress it is driving you mad
Makes you see things not there, you’re so ****** sad

We all have our demons, horrors, creatures run wild
Dreamed up monsters we’ve nurtured since we were a child
But monsters don’t exist here, bold, out in real life
They are fantasies, just stories, imaginations run rife

Silly idiot, you’re stupid, get a sodding grip
And you laugh at your crazy as you feel yourself trip
Something was there, it got you, hear a grunt or a bark
It drags you kicking and screaming deep into the dark

May your Christmas be jolly & frivolous & free,
May your puddin’ be sweeter than grapes on a tree.
May your lips pout n’ pucker, n’ beam when they smile
To advance your good nature by a looong country mile.
May you laugh & be merry & be generous to they
Who exhibit odd traits in the course of their day,
Who display the odd tendency, viscious and wild,
To abuse the odd neighbor and flay the odd child.
Be generous to they with a kink in their neck
And a fooking loud bark & a flame in their fleck.

Spread the hail and be hearty, caste it forth & be free
And in your own good time, have a whiskey on me.
For you, here’s some cuddles & hugs for the day…..
And some great Christmas love to keep the ******* @ bey.

                                       Merry Xmas          
                                                  ­         Marshalg
                                                        ­   Taranaki NZ

I suppose what I was looking to achieve at first was to end my pain. It really is as simple as that. Just a rather ****** "**** it! I give up!" sort of feeling. I didn't like myself anymore but neither did I dislike myself either. It's a hard feeling to convey if you've never felt it, although i've never been comfortable with people suggesting I was "numb". "Numb" is how the doctors got me to convey such feelings and no doubt in the confusion of the multiple changes of doctors, nurses and support workers (It was an average of a different doctor every 9-10 days for the first two months), coupled with the no doubt hastily scribbled notes and vast amount of paperwork on me being handed around, it was probably taken literally on a number of occassions (and perhaps, in the official records, still is). It is not, I feel, a good word to describe how I felt.

Everywhere and everything was a source of feeling. I was just sort of balancing it all out in the middle. I'd still have the majority of the days emotions ticking along normally (well, i SAY normal. At the time it was pretty much rage, hatred and severe depression but at least I have words for these!).  I still have no way of accurately conveying what i mean in words but i think the closest way i can get to describing it is to say it is like a sort of emotional version of simutaneously trying not to think of pink elephants whilst trying to turn yourself into a pink elephant and the feeling you get in between not being asleep and waking up. I realise that that's still wholly unaccurate but hopefully it describes things in a way that's at least understandable, although probably still not relatable.

Those feelings changed somewhat after what was my fourth attempt to take my life. Fourth attempt - fourth method of hastily induced death. I had chosen that particular night a large cocktail of drugs consisting of (if memory serves me right) about 20-30 Quietiapine (200mg) (an anti-psychotic i was being trialled on at the time that also induced sleep), roughly 50-60 hydroxzine (25mg) (an anti-anxiety drug which also doubles as an anti-histimine which reduces the nausea experienced by overdosing) and probably in the region of 150 or so co-cadomol (500mg) (a rather strong painkiller).

It seemed I had all I needed to end my life. I walked down to the park at night, sat in the gazebo and started to take the pills with some lucozade. It wasn't exactly a sombre moment but it wasn't like I had anything exactly to be happy about either. It took about half an hour to take all the pills and that was taking them 5-6 at a time. It was like a sodding pill-popping marathon that i couldn't give up untill they were all gone. Then they were all gone and there was nothing left to do but wait.

Only as I was waiting, it happened. The only genuinely life-changing moment I ever had. It was like I could feel myself slipping away and a thought came to me. Words that, for the months preceding that moment, would've caused me to fly into a blind rage, to scream and cry and shout. Words that I had tried rationialising against for what felt like an eternity whenever they were directed at me. Words that from the mouths of doctors filled me with hate, and from friends filled me with tears now came to my mind both as old companions but now, strangely, also as new friends;

                                                              There's nothing more you can achieve...    

                                                               You've done all you can...

                                                               Move on...    

It's not a case of "I don't think i've ever been as happy...". I know i'd never been as happy. So much relief, so much tension in one fell swoop just vanished in the time it took to think a thought. I've experienced crying with happiness before but i sobbed that night. Big wails of happiness that got stuck in my chest if i tried to hold it, tears streaming like a tsunami down my cheeks and just so much happiness that i couldn't contain myself. I wanted to sing and since there was no reason not to i did, songs of freedom, songs that meant the world to me, songs i'd sang as a child, songs i'd made up, songs i was still making up. Imagine every problem with everything just dissapearing instantly. Every thing you've ever been even slightly worried about gone. That's were i was. I was IN THAT WORLD. It didn't matter if it was just in my head. It was real. It was final. It was mine.

He stated unequivocally,that they won't build a bomb,no one believed a word he said, though he stated it with some aplomb.
I've got it in my head that they'll build and drop the ****** bomb and then we'll all be dead.
However,he says that will never happen on his watch,it may be he understands, that the killing of the world at large won't wash off from his hands.

One day the pulse will come and all the information, held fast and in some vast hard drive without which the country seemingly could not survive at all,will simply not be there,it will dissipate and fade into the magnetics of polluted air.
One day the bomb they build which filled us with such nightmares when we were little girls and boys will be deployed
and everyone we knew or loved will be totally destroyed.

This thought stops me eating cornflakes and it's giving me the shakes,I wish the madmen of this world would apply the sodding brakes.

September now,
and the year outpaces me
I race it but can't catch my breath
and coming up,fast from behind,riding a bicycle though he's blind is death,with fingers cold as ice,
and you thought sweating wasn't nice,let me sweat,
let me get a bit more time to end this race.
Death, please turn and face the other way beat me to the finish line another day
and death just nods,
two sodding dogs which lag some where in the rear,bark to let me know the end is near,
I howl they growl, a sound that no one should ever hear.

September now,
and how I've loved the months before,been up and down and loved them even more.
September Autumn song,
so long I won't hear you again
won't see leaves fall or feel the rain for I am chained to destiny,her and me, a fait accompli,the ally,she cracks the whip and I comply.

September now,how I wish it wasn't so.

An apostle named Paul said that the love of money is the root of all evil
The playwright George Bernard Shaw said that the lack of money is the root of all evil

I think they're both right, but personally i couldn't bring myself to put any money on it.

If money is evil, it seems like war that it is a necessary one
But that doesn't mean we should spend all of our time training with knives and guns
And like Mobb Deep said a shook one
Would dare to use their natural talents to earn funds

But what about doing something for the love of doing it?
What about artistic integrity and  personal pride?
Well, I'll put it to you like this.
Every artist thats had a hit has also had to miss

And if you can make money doing what you love for the rest of your years
Bless you, creative soul for culturing our sodding ears

At once you feel it! Stop! Perform an about turn
Something behind you! Into your back its eyes burn
You shiver and shake; rub the hairs on your arms
No-one there but the goose bumps; the sweat on your palms

Carry on walking. Swift; humming out loud
Desperate now to find yourself deep in a crowd
You are sure you can hear it. A breath. A refrain
Who is it? Who follows you home once again

It has happened before. In fact quite a few nights
A shadow appears in the glow of streetlights
It is gone by the time you shuffle up; when you dare
Where’d it go? Did I see it? Was it ever even there?

Put it down to exhaustion. A trick of your mind
The tiredness. The *****. The crap daily grind
The work. Family; stress. It is driving you mad
Makes you see things not there. You’re so ****** sad

We all have our demons. Horrors; creatures run wild
Dreamed up monsters we’ve nurtured since we were a child
But monsters don’t exist here. Bold; out in real life
They are fantasies! Just stories. Imaginations run rife

Silly idiot. You’re stupid; get a sodding grip
And you laugh at your crazy as you feel yourself trip
Something was there! It got you! Hear a grunt or a bark
It drags you kicking and screaming deep into the dark

©pofacedpoetry (Billy Reynard-Bowness 2018 – All rights reserved)

tosed and forgoten
bleeding and sodding
decayed and rotting

i Christened the hole
i stuffed you to furment
was it worth your soul
to wallow in torment

all the the sorrow
You dished at leisure
lones to follow
you like a rapid creature

The mattresses went up and down twice.
Once to be placed on the bed
The old ones removed downstairs
Via the bathroom to make space as the new ones came up

The the new ones went down
as the old ones came up
Via the bathroom to make space

They weren't right
Weren't comfy
Too fakey
I don't know
I don't understand

So we wait for the new mattresses to come
To be brought upstairs
Whilst the old ones get taken downstairs
Via the bathroom to make space

This thing, that not even she will sleep on
Wasn't right
So we will make it right

Her standards are so high
Things have to be right
To make it so perfect
To make it lovely

And she'll be right.
They will be right
They will be perfect

Me?
Idve kept the sodding things
Once the first mattress was in
I couldn't be arsed to do it all over again

But I'll drag em up and down and down and up
via the bathroom to make space and into the spare room
Wherever they need to go
Cos she's right
It'll be nice
it'll be perfect

Her standards for perfection are impeccable
So admirable
Things are nice when they're right

Me?
If it lands mainly flat and not too much in the way,  
Then that's fine by me
I'll step over it for the rest of my life rather than perfect its position

Her standards are so high
That an egg had to be just right
And sausages?
Where do we start on sausages?
Boston.
That's where we start on sausages
And end

Me?
How can someone with such high standards be with me?
For so long?
I'm no Boston sausage.
Hardly the perfect fried egg
I had a mild panic attack losing half the family whilst buying two mattresses, which came up and down twice
Via the bathroom to make space

I knew from that first crazy night
As we kaleidoscoped on a ride
As we talked and never left each others side
And all these years later, two thirds the life of a cat,
I can see her walk along in a hat
And I smile and see that wonderful being whose made me happy
Whose taught me to appreciate it being right.
To love the life we have

This life that we've made together
With two lives we've made together
Wouldn't be anywhere near perfect with just me
She's allowed me to grow, to morph, to be
And she's still the same beautiful person I met on a sofa all those years ago
The same person whose blossomed
And grown



Me?
Idve never bought the mattresses in the first place

Shellac looks real pretty
It’s also tough and gritty
But when it’s chipped and ******
You have to again dive into your kitty
Which is a pity

You can’t just whip it off
For that varnish is ****** tough
It’s made of very strong stuff
And a chisel ain’t enough
Which is rough

It requires professional help
Heavy duty acid to make it melt
Then they scrape it off which is hell
Every chunk when it’s peeled can be felt
Which makes you yelp

So you pay them to put it on
And you wear it a while which is fun
But when you’re finally done
You must pay again to make it gone
Which is a con

So enough of shellac have I had
For the expense is driving me mad
Never again will I succumb to this fad
Unless a lottery win do I have
Which is sad

It’s a waste of tinfoil after all
To have your mitts so adorned
You could almost plug them into a wall
And power the entire street from dusk til dawn
Which could cause a fireball

Then you’d be totally fried
And have no need for shellac which once tried
Is so addictive it bleeds your bank dry
Until you wake up and see the light
Which is right

Traditional nail polish is best
Though the fumes do play hell with your chest
And it don’t last as long as the rest
But at least it’s not much to invest
Which is the test

So I’m sodding the shellac
Giving gels the sack
To basics I’m going back
Using the old laq
Which is cheaper, albeit crap

And that is that.

Let me get this straight, it's 1914.
Arch Duke somebody or other
gets shot in Sarra-******-Yavo…
And Austro-Hungary declares a
war on Serbia? So?
We, within no time…
and in the blink of an eye,
the whole bleedin' world
goes to war!..Why?

I had a great Uncle. He WAS great!
A proud Yorkhireman, by chance,
gets blown to bits in a trench
on Boxing day, in France!
Just a day after watching a sodding
football match... Our lads against
the bleeding Germans
in No Man’s Land… No way!?
Yeh? Yeh! On Christmas effing Day?

Am I going out of my mind?

“But, there’s worse to come…
“the ****** Germans won 2-1…!”

And get this, right… where I live now,
the great and the good
played a hunch…back then.
“I know we’ll give our fighting boys
a send off.  A slap up lunch!!…
So the Mayor, Civic Officers
and Councillors
waited on the squaddies’ tables.
To gee them up.
And so it did!
“Good Luck” bellowed the bulbs
outside the Kursaal Dome…
After the Brown Windsor,
the Mutton and Plum Duff
and, as if the ignominy of the call to arms,
wasn't quite enough...
it wouldn't just get tough
it became obvious; downright plain,
that many of those worthy Worthing men
wouldn’t be coming home again.

That’s the trouble with war… It's a killer!