Scene One



...some time in time... bare stage except for a square neon sign on left that reads: “Aged Care Home”...on right is a rectangular neon message display with full title of the play...Urgo and Burgo bring Raj Arumugam out on wheelchair...
*



Urgo: I am attendant 1. Often known as Urgo.



Burgo: I am attendant 2. Always known as Burgo.



Urgo:  You see this creature seated here
            in the wheelchair? 
Can you believe it?

            This creature once wrote poems
            
and its poems still inhabit cyberspace.


Burgo: Oh, this creature did that?


Urgo: Yes, this.


Burgo: I think I’ve read some.

             Not that I can remember any.
             
Not a word, not a title.
 But must have been pretty good, ha?
             
To write all those words, in verse...


Urgo: I don’t know about that.
           
It’s the girls who write. And sissies.
           
And for all that, you know
           
there’s just one word this creature can say.


Burgo: Really? Just one word?


Urgo: Yes.
All right, watch this.
           Come on, Raj-i.

           Hey baby...Burgo here wants to hear you.
           
Just one poem in your one word.
           
Come on, baby - or no soup for you tonight.



Raj: Baa, baa, baa

        Baa, baa, baa

        Baa, baa, baa

       Baa, baa, baa



(Burgo and Urgo clap)



Urgo: Baan-derful, Raj...
Now Burgo,
           let’s wheel the creature back in

           and dump him in
           his corner.



(Urgo and Burgo go out, Urgo pushing wheelchair with Raj in it)





Scene Two



...some time in time... bare stage except for a square neon sign on left that reads: “Aged Care Home”...on right is a rectangular neon message display with full title of the play...Urgo and Burgo bring Raj Arumugam out on wheelchair...






Urgo: Today, Burgo, is Exercise Your Vocal Chords Day.



Burgo: No problem - Ahhhhhhhhrrrrgggggooooaaaaa.....



Urgo: Not your vocal cords, Burgo.
           
It is Exercise Your vocal Cords Day
            
for our distinguished guest currently
            
on this wheelchair.



Burgo: Ahhh...I see...



Urgo: All right, Raj-i baby...
Exercise your vocal chords 

            and entertain us with your delightful voice...



Raj: Baa, baa, baa
        
Baa, baa, baa

        Baa, baa, baa
        
Baa, baa, baa



(Burgo claps)*



Urgo: OK - that’s enough exercise for the day!
           Let’s go






(Urgo and Burgo go out, Urgo pushing wheelchair with Raj in it)






Scene Three

...some time in time... bare stage except for a square neon sign on left that reads: “Aged Care Home”...on right is a rectangular neon message display with full title of the play...Urgo and Burgo bring Raj Arumugam out on wheelchair...


Urgo: Burgo!

Burgo: Sire!

Urgo: Sire? Where in the world
           did you get such a word?

Burgo: Sorry - I thought I was in a *****
             Shakespeare play.

Urgo: Have your head examined, Burgo.
            We’ll never make it there.
            All we have is this 3rd-rate one-act play.

Burgo: I understand. I’m just a little ambitious.

Urgo: Be realistic. Don’t be ambitious.

Burgo: That’s wise, Sire - I mean, Urgo.

Urgo: Well, this creature in the wheelchair,
            for example...It was ambitious...
            and it had a great fall...
            it never knew how to be realistic...
            But more of that, later - first, what Day is it today?

Burgo: It is We Tickle Your Foot Day, today.

Urgo: You learn fast, Burgo.

Burgo: Thank you, Urgo.

(Silence)

Urgo: Well?

Burgo: I’m very well, thank you.

Urgo: You idiot! I mean if you know it is
           We Tickle Your Foot Day, today -
           then what should you do next, you knave!?

Burgo: Oh. Ok.

(Burgo kneels before Raj, takes off Raj’s shoes and with a feather tickles Raj’s feet.)

Raj (laughing): Baa, baa, baa
                              Baa, baa, baa
                              Baa, baa, baa
                             Baa, baa, baa


(Burgo puts Raj’s shoes on again, and his feather back in his pocket and stands up.)



Burgo: You mentioned ambition
              and this creature that sits on the wheelchair.

Urgo: Yes, it is time to exercise my vocal chords.
           This creature forgot, like all creatures,
           we come alone, and we go alone.

Burgo: Ah, at last! - hints of a Shakespearean play
             albeit we’ll never make it into one.
            With ambition, loneliness and all the Lear madness.
            Will we have the lewd parts too
            and rich imagery of body parts?

Urgo: Perhaps...perhaps...but let us stick to the ordinary ...
           This creature was born in 1derLand
           but was washed ashore to foreign shores.


Burgo: Good, good...like Paris, son of Priam and Hecuba?
             O Paris, washed ashore to Sparta
             O so well-loved and nursed by Helen.

Urgo: Yes, except this creature is more akin to the Wanderer
            like Oedipus, or just the indistinct Mendicant,
            the Samurai with no master, a ronin,
             all cursed to wander the face of the earth...

Burgo: Oh - are we in Shakespeare yet?

Urgo: We are in deep ****! That’s where we are!
           We all are.
           Burgo - let us stick to the banal like hamburgers.
          This creature forgot that
          and dreamt of things like poetry, ideals -
          and therein is the moral of the story for you:
          we come alone
          and alone we go
          one at a time we come
          and each we own, and each faculty
          one at a time they go.

Burgo: So let us stick with the banal
             eat our burgers
             and pick our teeth after.
             Do they supply toothpicks at takeaways
             in your country, Urgo?

Urgo: No, we recycle them, Burgo.
           We just pick up discarded ones from the ground.
           Like some nations pick up cigarette butts
           from the bins.
           Waste not; want not.


Burgo: Oh, if this scene goes on any longer
             it might become Shakespearean, Urgo.

Urgo: Ergo - we must go.
          But let us allow Raj to have the last word,
           since this play is entitled
          “ Raj Arumugam, (a one-act tragicomedy)”.
          Idiot of a son! What kind of fool-writer will have a play
          with his own name as the title of his play?!

Burgo: So, Raj-i, you egocentric ******:
             You have the last word in this scene...
             You really put words into my mouth, you ****!

Raj: Baa, baa, ba
        Baa, baa, baa
       Baa, baa, baa
       Baa, baa, baa


Urgo: All right, Let’s go, Burgo.
           Bring him in -
           Let’s drop him in bed
           and may he drop dead!



(Urgo and Burgo go out, Urgo pushing wheelchair with Raj in it)




Scene Four



...some time in time... bare stage except for a square neon sign on left that reads: “Aged Care Home”...on right is a rectangular neon message display with full title of the play...Urgo and Burgo bring Raj Arumugam out on wheelchair...



*


Urgo: Burgo!


Burgo: Urgo!


Urgo: How long has it been since
           you started work here?


Burgo: 3 months, Urgo. Why?


Urgo: Well, show me a game...I’m bored...a new game...


Burgo: Well, have you played wheelie bin?


Urgo: No.
But Oh I love to delve into world culture.

           Show me.


Burgo: Well, let me show you.

             A wheelie bin is a bin with wheels
             and you put ******* in it
             
and you leave it outside on the kerb
             
and the garbage guy in his truck collects your *******.
             
So this is the game.



(Burgo pushes wheelchair round the stage and sings.)



          This is the way we 
wheel out our wheelie bins
           
this is the way we 
wheel out our bins
           
early every Thursday morning


           This is the way we 
leave our bins,
            our wheelie bins

            this is the way we leave our bins
            
out on the sunny kerb

            every Thursday morning



(leaves wheelchair on kerb)



           This is the way we empty our bins

           this is the way we empty our bins
           this is the way empty our bins
           every Thursday morning



(empties the wheelchair; Raj Arumugam  drops onstage)




Urgo(joining in):
 This is the way we 
pick up our *******

                                  pick up our *******
                                  
this is the way we do it

                                  this is the way 
always we do it

                                  early Thursday morning!



(Urgo picks up Raj Arumugam and drops him in the wheelchair)



(Urgo and Burgo clap, applauding each other.)



Burgo:
And now, Urgo - for the ritual
             of 
Raj Arumugam’s final words in the scene...
Is that right?



(Urgo nods...)



Burgo:
  Sing, you Sir in the Wheelchair.



Raj: Baa, baa, baa
       
Baa, baa, baa

       Baa, baa, baa

       Baa, baa, baa




Burgo: Oh, you spoil the fun! Let’s go.






(Urgo and Burgo go out, Urgo pushing wheelchair with Raj in it)




Scene Five

...some time in time... bare stage except for a square neon sign on left that reads: “Aged Care Home”...on right is a rectangular neon message display with full title of the play...Urgo and Burgo bring Raj Arumugam out on wheelchair...


Urgo:
          Let's leave him here tonight;
         some fresh air might do him good

(Urgo and Burgo leave, leaving Raj on his wheelchair.)

(Long silence.)


Raj: Baa, baa, baa
       Baa, baa, baa
       Baa, baa, baa
      Baa, baa, baa



(Raj has a thought. His thought is broadcast as a message on the rectangular neon light display: “Hey guys, come back...Another word is coming back to me.”)

(Long silence)


Raj:
**** **** ****
**** **** ****
**** **** ****

(Raj has another thought. His thought is broadcast as a message on the rectangular neon light display: “Another one’s coming back...maybe my mind is coming back.”)


Raj:
**** **** ****
**** **** ****
**** **** ****

(Long silence. Lights fade. Darkness. Curtain...)

Reassured by your passion forget all the strife.
Pick up your board and skate away life.

I appreciate now, I'm getting old
It's not just me, I have been told,
It isn't discovering your first grey ****,
Buying wrinkle cream or using ****,
A simple thought came to me, its true,
My back goes out more, than I now do!
Even my wheelie bins, I think,
Go out each and every week,
I used to party night and day,
But now by 10, I've hit the hay,
The hardest thing, makes my skin crawl,
I no longer fall over, I ' have a fall '

party zone with johnny brown

pictures on brian allan's Facebook page profile tapestry

johnny’   hi dudes and welcome to party zone at the royal canberra show

and we have just been entertained by the team d max and boy were they

exciting and the two wheel wheelies were pretty cool as well

and now we have people with some jingles about the show

here is the first from young peter

peter’  i like the show ever so much from the side show to the

fun in the arena, i really like the cars, yo it’s fun and the whip cracking is the the coolest around

you see we have barbecues and chips and chips on a stick and fish and chips

and mate, there is plenty to drink and later there is more fun in the arena, yeah mate yeah let’s party

dude, yo let’s get down

johnny’  thank you peter for that great jingle and now here is harry with his jingle

harry’   party on yeah party on

the time to have fun is now

with show bags and side show alleys and stuff on the arena too

i saw the cars, ahh so rad and i saw the heritage area too

that is the most exciting thing i have ever done

canberra canberra canberra

show show show

the best show in oz

johnny’  thanks harry and here is josh morgan with his little jingle

josh’  oh come to the canberra show and enjoy the rides and ****

and enjoy the cars doing the dirt burnouts, yeah that sounds so cool

and don’t forget to watch the fashion parade

and we can really enjoy that

you see i won a teddy bear and i will give it to my missus

hoping she will really like it, i think she will

this is the best show on the east of australia

come on and party from start to finish

at the royal canberra show, yo dude

johnny’   hi dudes and now we are around the young farmers for the challenge heats

and they all sing their little jingle, here it goes

young farmers

we are the greatest my friend

we will show who will win it till the end

and we are about to play in our challenge heats

and each one will be pressing to win

and mate we are the young farmers

and we will triumph over all mankind, young farmers

johnny’  this is a great day at the canberra show and here is john with a jingle about the young farmers

john’   you see we throw a boot in the bucket and we do it well

and we plant our own seed and we must know the seed

and we unwrap the swag and then we milk the cow, yeah that is cool

as we grab the potatoes and we hammer the nail

and who does it all first wins the battle wins the battle wins the battle

yeah, now we have done all that

we should party hardy dude

johnny’  thanks john and now we see the presentation and it is a good team who won

Johnny'.     Welcome back to party zone and we just had

The ford v Holden ute challenge and here is Daniel is giving

Us a jingle about what he saw

Daniel' gentlemen start your engines

As the ford is going to splash all the stones on us

The Holden does the same thing on the other side

You see as the burn outs and then trying to get around

The witch's hats without knocking them over, they fail miserably

Then as you are in the crowd trying to enjoy your ice cream soda

Yeah mate yeah the car kicks all the stones all  over you

And now after doing so many laps to please the crowd

They go off and burnout once more past us,

And I will tell you all on party zone, yeah it is the right time for partying oh yeah

Johnny'.  Thank you Daniel and now let's find a decent party somewhere, dude

Johnny'.  Welcome back and we are currently watching the harness racing and these

Horses are fighting fit, as we are waiting for team d max and Showtime fmx and there is

No rain, which is good, and now here us young Toby Mitchell with his jingle

Toby'.  It is getting darker and we are preparing for a great night ahead

You see I am sitting here with my fave food, banana bread

It is not too hot nor is it too cold, and we are never to old to enjoy ourselves on this nice Canberra night

You see we are at the Canberra show soaking up the atmosphere

I am at the start saying Canberra show is the best fun you can have


Johnny'.  Ok and now it's time to go, from party zone

From the Royal Canberra show and the fireworks are lighting

Up the sky and weren't the Utes and motorbikes great, yeah

And here is Fred to do a poem about

Fred'.  You see the motorbikes go up and meet

Each other, and then they go down the other side

And they chuck wheelies and so did the ute

Yeah mate yeah it is so fucken rad

And I really like the ute doing a two wheel wheelie on the side

And I went away to buy fresh lemonade and fries

The side show alley was just as cool

You see I chucked up all over little ole you

You hated it and you gave me a wollop

And I gave you a lemonade with ice cream dollop

Johnny'.  Thanks Fred and now here is another act for you

From ken

Ken'. You shook Canberra all night long

And you partied all fucken day

And that's the truth

Johnny'.  Good bye from party zone catch ya later dudes

The earth is slowly dying
To save it we have to try,
We need a solution to
Deal with polution
But it's too big a problem
We sigh,
So if we all join together
Everyone woman,  child and man
Recycle our tins
In green wheelie bins
And we'll save the world
Yes we can.

It’s the tail end of fashion week in Paris, the busiest week of the year for fashion buyers.

When I meet Clodagh Shorten, owner of Samui, the game-changing boutique that put Cork on the fashion map, she’s already been here four days and is on her tenth buying appointment — there’ll be at least another five before she leaves in a couple of days time.

These appointments, private bookings with designers, allow her to get up close and personal with the clothes that have just been showcased on catwalks.

She’s deciding which pieces will best suit her customers.

Today, we meet at Schumacher, the stunning German label known for its easy chic look.

A beautiful white space, with lush cream velvet sofas, bare walls and white rails (nothing here to distract from the main event — the clothes), this room, prime space in Paris, is rented by the designer year-round just so they have the right venue to sell at Fashion Week.

It gives some indication of the power Fashion Week wields.

Clodagh is here with her right-hand woman, Samui manager Mary-Claire O’Sullivan.

There are two rails — the keepers and the ‘ones that got away’.

They’ve already seen this collection in London.

Today they are here to fine-tune.

This is unusual, Mary-Claire explains — at most appointments, they are seeing the clothes for the very first time.

“This is a big spend,” they tell me, and they’ll stay as long as they need “to get it right”.

Piecing together a collection is something akin to a jigsaw puzzle.

All the items are photographed — later they will be analysed back in the apartment they rent during Fashion Week.

The mix has to be right.

So the coats, a sleeveless waistcoat, are moved to the rail on the right.

They won’t make it to Cork.

Coats were already picked up this morning at another appointment.

Like I said, a jigsaw puzzle.

Two models are on hand to try on clothes when requested — I hear ‘can I just see this on one more time’ a lot.

There’s no haggling over prices in these sales negotiations — it’s all too civilised.

The price is set, as is the instore mark-up. These lauded designs must cost the same the world over.

Clodagh and Mary-Claire share a language and a wavelength. They can finish each other’s sentences and, while I don’t so much as sniff a hint of tension, they tell me they can disagree on buys.

“Clodagh doesn’t want a yes woman,” Mary-Claire says simply.

From Schumacher, Clodagh leads the way through the Parisian cobbled streets, phone held aloft, Google Maps to direct her.

Her wheelie bag is constantly behind her — inside there’s the laptop for orders and a camera for instant access to photographs of collections.

Her calculator is another permanent fixture in the showroom.

Today, Clodagh is dressed in an Australian label coming soon to Samui, Ellery. The lush black fabric sways and moves with her body; an outfit like that makes you really appreciate her eye for fashion. It’s sensational.

For this 5.30pm appointment we are heading to see another new label for Samui — Paskal (Clodagh will wear a piece from this line tomorrow).

The Ukrainian designer is looked after by an agency so in this showroom there are pieces by a handful of brands.

Again, the setup is the same — private appointments, models on hand.

Clodagh and Mary-Claire have to be more careful here — this is a new label and it’s more fashion forward so black is prioritised.

Not every client at Samui will wear this line. Every purchase, I realise, is a gamble.

“We’ve made mistakes, of course we have,” says Mary-Claire though you get the feeling that could be a rare event.

Pieces bought by these two women rarely end up in Samui’s sales rack.

They know their customer, plain and simple.

There is so much trust there, some clients are simply sent collections each season, allowing Clodagh to make the call for them.

So much of their day is spent discussing various clients (never by name in my presence) — what they might like, the best size.

It is effectively the ultimate personal shopping experience.

The number of items and sizes are limited, so customers know they are truly getting one-off pieces.

As we leave, kisses over, the agency head tells them, “you’re our favourites” and you just know it’s not empty fashion talk.

People genuinely love Clodagh and Mary-Claire. And they respect what they do.

Samui is open 16 years now. Clodagh mastered her trade at Monica John before stepping out on her own. Mary-Claire joined her eight years ago.

It has been one of the few boutiques in Cork to not just survive the downturn but to positively thrive.

As the economy spluttered around her, Clodagh very masterfully decided to go high end.

First came Moncler — the top people here had to come and view Samui to see if it was the right match for their esteemed label.

It was — and, increasingly, doors began to open.

Carven, Marni, Rick Owens — people really began to sit up and take notice of Samui.

Now labels are often vying for space on the shop floor. Still though, it takes work to secure the big new names.

Clodagh spends a lot of time on planes, networking, meeting the key players. And it’s not as simple as a visit to Fashion Week twice a year either.

These days pre-collections are key too: these pieces will be on the shop floor for longer.

So Clodagh and Mary-Claire travel in January to Paris for pre- collections, Milan in February for Moncler, Paris in March. The same cycle begins again in June for A/W pre-collections, with S/S Fashion Week in September.

Clodagh is always pushing, always striving for new.

She was devastated to say farewell to Transit, the brand with her from the very beginning. It was simply time for a change she tells me.

They love seeking out new labels, nurturing them, sharing them with their customers.

The next morning we meet at 9am for Dries van Noten.

Clodagh stocks around 50 different labels, most exclusive to Cork. This Belgian designer is one of them.

Here again is a very fashion forward line.

There’s a minimum €20,000 spend here, and that’s the amount Clodagh and Mary-Claire can play with.

This is a much busier showroom, a slick operation. Buyers are everywhere, the models weaving between them.

They are assigned a seller and a table, laptop at the ready to secure the sale.

Sophie, today’s seller, walks them through the long rails and talks to them about the collection, the fabrics, the colour, the catwalk, the vision.

Clodagh and Mary-Claire repeat the process a second time alone, a third time again with Sophie.

There are little standing breaks for coffee — refreshments and lunch are provided by the designer.

Clodagh and Mary-Claire know to carry snacks everywhere. The buying process can be a long one; Dries could be an all-day event.

The price point is much higher here so, again, each piece has to be carefully thought out. Checked and checked again.

These A/W deliveries will land in store in July.

Watching them make their Samui edit on that March morning, I just know the Dries selection will be a show-stopper this Autumn.

I leave them to sign on the dotted line, wishing them success for the rest of their gruelling schedule as I head for Charles de Gaulle.

“People don’t realise what goes into this,” says Clodagh. And she’s right.

None of us can possibly grasp what it must have taken for one woman to put Cork on the fashion radar.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses

my landlord he dont care his houses are disgrace
the one he rents to me has damp in every place
he wont do repairs tho he says he will
he his full of promise repairs need doing still

then he sends his cowboys who turn up on a horse
he just takes the rent showing no remorse
they make the problem worse than they were before
collects rent every month counts it at the door

all the roofs are leaking gutters not fixed right
wont get the problems fixed he his far to tight
dosent care at all the money coming in
rather live outside in a wheelie bin

got the landlord blues he just dosent care
gonna paint the wheelie moving into there
where there is no damp and its landlord free
in my plastic house home sweet home to me

(use this as chorus)

no more cowboy builders who havent got a clue
how to do repairs dont know what to do
no more monthly rent from a landlord thats
from hell in my wheelie bin from now on i will dwell

Stained asphalt
flickering sodium lights
pavement art
ambulance chasing
motorway drone
crushed cans and ripped pizza boxes
kebab debris
scared cats
gum scarred concrete
burnt out ******* bins congealed plastic
dripping
overflowing bottle banks
used condoms hung on a line
fox ****
streetscene collapse
bottles arranged along a wall one two three
one lone shoe
in the road
sealed up letter boxes one with a message
written in black felt pen on brown parcel tape
‘If you are bothering to read this
you a *******’
kicked in door
steel shuttered shops
burnt out wheelie bin one lump of plastic
very impressive
smoking employees behind the Co-op
one knows Barb thumbs up
I return the thumb
walking
a woman shouting at a priest: ‘But all he wants to be is
a woman’
torn pages from a ***** mag ****** up arses
***** in mouths
piles of brochures newspapers flyers dumped in a doorway
a few quid scammed can’t get the delivery help
these days
someone parking a Audi nice and shiny
looks up and down the street
wary
kids slumped smoking skunk outside the library
a derelict sat on a wall grinning *** in mouth
tells me I have a happy face and offers his bottle to me
I take it and have a slug
trudging
dog crapping in middle of wide clean pavement
someone walking past muttering
‘never in Peru’
I stand opposite my flat and think of bombs
and a cacophony of alternative universes
and small candles shaped like eggs
a bald headed postman drives up to the letter box
techno blasting from his little red van
Molly Upstairs shouts something unintelligible
before throwing a small package down
the postie watches it descend from the sky
and catches it
without a smile
these are the days of unwholesome atmospheres
but it’s all I have so I don’t mind
it’s better than being kept in a box
with the lid
sealed tight.

they always seem to ascribe the stone age
with inventing the circle,
dinosaurs and the loathing of
x-ray via Archaeology -
ᛟ, or an ancient egyptian manuscript...
got the ******* wheelie on that *****... boo yah!
this is even weirder than Wittgenstein's observation
of late Copernicus... ᛟ-ray... huh?
you've been a peasant and you're still
curating a chance sharpening edit?
where's the ******* wheel with romans after
ancient egyptians and the babylonians
and for ****'s sake Hindustan!
O... where's O in Sanskrit? so who got the cartwheels?
the romans? huh?! a.d. b.c. buttered-up ****
if this makes sense... forget the universe,
alien civilisations... my own makes as much sense
as a gram of pepper and salt sneezed with.
hey flamingo! here's a signature in sepia!
banging on the bathroom floor - with Disney - passed
in those days: Lion Kong or King...
oompa loompa ooh ooh gorilla tyrant said so too.
they invented the wheel but forgot to phonetically
encode it with something similar...
runes, right, Scandinavian... ᛟ... i.e. O...
but i'd like to see ᛟ in a roller-coaster... just for gorging
on a regurgitation of jokes - and so i can
slang and slapper quick a blah in Jamaican slang
and say... yah mon' poo daddy do a diddy eff a flex
wit bling bling, cursor vector to noon
and da dwarfin of a shadow.
**** man, they invented the wheel but waited for the
romans to write the O... and it was music by then...
suddenly! huh?! the **** is this? whiskey straight up.
no wonder.

Stroke me until I purr.
The heady wine has killed my inhibition.
Wrap my legs around your steel,
And ride freely down the strip.
I feel your power vibrate through my being.
Two wheels, two brakes and multiple gears.
Pop the clutch and feel me rise up off the ground.
Pop a wheelie and then crash back into you.
Steadily cruise through the valley of lust,
The rumble of our pleasures roaring through the night air.
Black marks on the pavement are all that remain.
We were here once, before the rain rolled in.

12/27/2015

Glass is everywhere.
The empty road; between shrubs
And upturned wheelie bins.
It's in your hair, like dust
That sparkles slightly amidst the auburn highlights
And the blood from a **** above your
Left ear.

You can't hear so well,
All is ringing, squealing, high
And resonant above the sirens
And screams, the shop-keepers
Cursing the Gods, the
Church bells from another world
Calling out for dawn.

Oh! Take us away.
From these rivers of black,
These haggard drapes of
Bright lights and broken
Panes. This carpet
Made from discarded electrical goods,
Shoe boxes, wine bottles, and
Ash.

Who are they to do this?
To lay claim to all we have,
To lay waste to that
Which came before?
No fury from foreign lands, nor
Raging strife by nature's hands,
Has ever done what has been done.

The rain doesn't come;
Our summer is finally here,
And the skies are clear.
No clouds in sight, save for
Rolling colossi of acrid smoke. Flames
Pointing accusing fingers at an uncaring sky,
As England burns.

At the crack of dawn the rusted screen door hinges squealed;
he placed his hands on the push handles,
and shifted his weight forward.

Front wheels, up!

The bare rear-wheel rims scarred the mahogany threshold,
and the seat cushion squeaked a little louder
under her almost-dead weight.

Cusco! *******!

Like every other morning for the last thirteen years
the old retriever gave him a blank stare,
its glass eye bleedin’ blue.

Hold on, Edna.

They made a quick one-eighty ‘round the dog’s empty food bowl,
avoided one of the craters in the floorboards,
and came to a halt on the landing.

We’re almost there, dear.

Edna did her morning wheelie down the porch steps.
The liver spots on her hands seemed larger
in the early morning rays.

Here we go, Edna!

The wheels sank away and whispered over the lawn;
the birds stopped chirping as if they listened,
and the river birch waved good mornin’.

Almost there, now.

They passed the birch and pulled up under the apricot tree;
the blossoms’ shadows danced her to sleep,
and her oxygen tank hissed blue ******.

*There, there, darling.

He promised me an everlasting love,
And a life full of dreams and wishes,
Instead I've got a load of washing,
And a sink full of ***** dishes,

He promised me a romantic dinner,
New dress and my hair in wisps,
Instead I've got me jarmie's on,
With a can and cheese and onion crisps,

He promised me a dozen roses,
And choccie's in a box,
Instead it's a bunch of daffodils,
And a pair of Simpsons socks,

He promised me a lovely house,
With sweeping gardens serene,
Instead I've got a council flat,
But my wheelie bins are green,

He promised me a spa weekend,
His time in me invested,
We ended up in the local pub,
At the end of the night, arrested,

But after all is said and done,
Were stuck together like glue,
We haven't got material things,
But the love we have is true.

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Everything is an echo through the alleyway street in mid-afternoon
Children scream from some far away park
Dishes clatter and smash in a house, of which I do not see
Dogs bark, gravel pit succumbs
Bass raptures that rupture the ear drums of the passenger
Tyre skid, rows of flower pots damaged
Growling, forever growling the beasts on bikes
Clatter the gates, what matters these days?
ssffffFFFFAAARRRRUMPH!
Triumph race the boys in pretty cars
Coughing kids and the coffee drop pits
rup rup rowww rupp!
Tip tapping of heels on paving slabs
Most are broken and make a click clack noise
Children running, dud dud dud dud duddudududud
Careless rain lost in the crest of a cliff face
"AH O DA DOOOR!"
"NAHHH EE DID DOE"
And spluttering engines revving on tarmac-
"MUMMMEH MUMMEH MUUUUUU-"
The revving begins again, the noise never ceases
Low rumble of the wheelie bin on crooked slabs
Smell the rain as it sets and laundry as its removed from lonely lines
Hissing cars in the ******* rain
Hear music, its life's music, every word a jumble in a proletariat (e)state

In a brief moment of silence there's an ethereal chill as a shrill cry from miles away resonates to me and my tapping on the keys are deadened by the accumulative sound of reactionary ghosts.

Stack the ***** with cream and a cherry
plop it out to the nearest plate
Santa's late and he'd better be merry
is that him swinging on the garden gate?

He had dropped his sack on the path
and he had carrots stuck in his beard
He's been sick as a dog and needed a bath
and that sight will be very weird.

He was as drunk as can be and singing loud
Rudolph didn't seem that impressed.
Well his washing antics worried the crowd
but it was funny watching him get dressed.

He wore a pink nightie which Rudolph found
He could hear a stifled giggle behind his back
Then he had put his belt on the wrong way round
and was hunting for his boots in his sack.

The bells chimed twelve times, he was in panic mode
Steadily he climbed aboard the sleigh
Fumbling about he typed in his magic code
which sent the reindeer zooming on their way.

His stomach, well that was doing somersaults freely
The air was passing through him like a bullet
He appeared to be doing a never-ending wheelie
which was playing havoc with his gullet.

Up came his lunch splattering all over Dancer
The back lash of that was they came to a halt
By which time the mess was on Prancer
And they all knew it was Santa's fault.

Ding ****, ding ****, was heard in Santa's head
It was if he was cursed with magic spells
His head was spinning as the reindeer sped
Merrily on high true, he was cursed by bells.

Let me try again
Try to explain
Just how I feel for you
In sickness and in pain
In wellness and in health
With fat or with a belt
Being sound, an able mind
or just too crazy to unwind
But, this thing happens every time
I look at you and hear this chime
  
It's like a carnival with all the rides
And cotton candy stacked so high
The colored lights and happy faces
When your presence gives me graces
Cartwheels and somersaults
And big pink bunnies that you win
It's like a wheelie over wheelbarrows
That I never want to end
A tumble-set 'til summer sets
Then somersets again

shattering walls with great
say it from your chest waves
of vocal vibrations
vibrating down the handle
of aluminum baseball bats
which bounce uselessly off the brick wall
walled in the school building
building up little Timmy's confidence
confident that he will do what they want
wanting to see what's over the hill
hills which rocks only make half way up
downtown a young girl does a wheelie on a bicycle
riding around in circles
"Mommy You're not watching"
so mommy's not watching
the box cutters
and matches
and we make one **** of a mess
messed up on the couch
holding barely to consciousness
conscious of the fact
that it's the combination
of **** and alcohol
that's making the room spin like this
swallow a cup of fire
fire the demons from out the mouth
for each stream of *****
forgotten about
and we'll be happy
when you're happy
to let us be
something but happy

little freddie fox he came out at night
roaming round the city looking for a bite
a tasty little snack from a wheelie bin
any where at all he would just climb in

climbing over walls gave him such delight
roaming in the shadows hidden out of sight
digging under fences to other side
through an open window he would gently slide

always on the prowl looking for a bite
a little urban bandit this creature of the night

did you lose even a single night of sleep, the days i was tucked safely back at home with my mother?
was i anything more than an after-thought once you stopped seeing me?
a problem to be dealt with only once you were faced with it once again
did you ever miss me? or if not me, then the freedom to lay hands without repercussions?

did you think yourself an artist, with hands designed to create?
did you think because you made me that i was yours to hate?

when you streaked my canvas black and blue, did your reflection hurt or couldn't you look?
i bet you could, i bet you never had a second thought, i know you never had the capacity to feel or say sorry

your water colours hurt less than your acrylics, let me tell you this
i could wash away your water-blues with time and little white capsules
your acrylics took so much longer to dry, their consistency so much greater
their texture so much thicker, and stickier, and prone to staining
if they touched their fingers to the palettes you tucked away inside my brain, they'd come away covered
with hurt and guilt and shame, all these doubts and questions
purple, red and black and grey

did you dip your brush into that innocent creature's blood? the one you had me chuck
straight into the wheelie bin like you could so easily discard the lives you took?
if i'm shaking as i write this down, it's only because i remember that day with a clarity that scorns
my Achilles' heel is shovels, pellet guns and alcohol
i hope one day your bullets ricochet and when you treat your wounds you drown instead

red wine's no good for healing, anyway
but then i've never tried it, so what would i know? i'm different from you in every blessed way

i call that a zenith... you're cackling at that point,
you're no longer laughing, you've actually reached
a point where your laughter becomes
     transcendent with regards to laughter per se...
you're laughing the following, in brackets
   ha(,) ha(,) ha(,) ha(,) ha(,) ha(,)
                             that comma? it's the pinnacle
of laughter... it's a k...
                      welcome to the family crovidæ.
                             this is an antidote to buddhism,
an antidote to mindfulness...
                                     my head's empty, that's as
mindful as i'll ever be... the point being?
       can i laugh after attaining this? can i cry when
listening to a beautiful song?
           if i can't? well... depression     /        apathy...
depression really becomes a conceptualißation
   of either apathy        or           leθargy (léthārgy) -
                                                               ­               (ar-g-ē).
a bit like whistling, listening to spring,
  the birds mating, and foster the people's
song: pumped up kicks blasting in the background...
           laugh till you choke -
    once more the tetragrammaton...
                               one H for sighs...
like the colour black (yin) - sighs... consonants absorbing
vowels (breaths) -
                              and the other H for laughter...
like the colour white (yang) - laughter... consonants
         spewing vowels (laughing)...
you still need to transcend this comprehension...
till you reach the zenith of the second H of the tetragrammaton,
and, all you seem to be doing... is pronouncing
   the letter K quickly, with no vowels nearby...
    it could be compared to choking... but you're just
laughing...
                   why does western society require its association
with the orientals, akin to buddhism?
               whi-... ha ha ha... whis-... ha ha ha... whist-... ha ha ha
      whistl... ha ha... whistle! ha ha...
             and you do whistle to the song (already mentioned)...
well... the song is half the story...
  the other half?
   an article in the sunday times' style magazine...
             headline?     we're watching you,
           by a, francesca angelini...
        (by the way, i don't own a mobile phone,
      i, myself, am content with my own mobility...
   these people, who own mobile phones,
                     have a wheelchair lodged in their heads:
i'm mobile! i'm mobile! look at me, do a wheelie!
                 i'll put the phone down for five minutes,
  just before i go to bed!) -
                                    that article is what really prompted
the giggles...
                      i was building a six-pack at the same time...
laughter? crunching the stomach...
                 oh, the article? the find my friends app.
                if i wanted that sort of friendly 1984, that sort
of innocence, i'd locate myself, e.g. on a friday, 3 weeks ago,
on the ******* for 3 hours, trying to dangle out a ****
    from a contaminated fish & chips from a take-away...
       follow the perfume...
                               it really is a friendly 1984, isn't it?
god, the days when the internet was stationary...
only accessible via the computer or laptop...
                           i'm still way back in the late 90's of
the 20th century, and the early 00's of the 21st century...
    but at least i don't have a wheelchair lodged in my head
to tell me i'm able to walk a mile, five times, in a circle.
  the voyeurism aspect of the app. doesn't really bother me,
as a reader...            how long does a period last?
     a day or two? well... if i were a woman,
    two days of *******... third day?
   waking from a dream... snap-quasi-hallucinations
   of **** comparisons...     o.k. i'm done... the period ended...
another month of fasting from stroking the *******.

i don't get inspired... i get prompts,
e.g.?

one in particular...
her name? sam leith -
the saturday the times weekend
magazine (july 29th 2017) -
the usual load of *******
from the ***
of west london...

sam? why not samuel but
samantha?
  what sort of man cites his
father as the guiding beacon?
me? you?
s(he) - ah, transgender perfect,
armed with a rifle, and a bra
stuffed with scrambled eggs -
she he he she, she she he she,
it dot, tag, you're it! he she
she she he she, she she he, he she,
she she, he he, shish kebab,
samuel beckett's watt:
bonkers, boing boing boing,
apache heli-copter! trampoline!

slap in the face seriousness...
she-******
quotes her father citing
ecclesiastes (oof fra fra in essex,
high-brow y'ah tellin' moi?!
   neece... nice? n'eh ce pa?
tortoise mangetout peckam, n'es pas?)...
dog ****.

         to, every, thing, there, is, a, season,
     and, a, time, to, every, purpose, under,
the, heaven.

and then ******-he goes on to add:

        post-60... never pass an alleyway
for a wee... (not little, down south it's
called the glaswegian pish-soother),
     *******? no, thank you,
   i do mine almost daily while taking a ****...
for some reason an eager **** always
provides the ***** with some mexican
"artist"... milk that cow boy! milk it!
         boy milk it!
                         ah sweet maritza...
hombre in ex hombre... y'allah...
                                                     im'she!
(camel talk, spit and gnarl at toon poond
uh'xtra!)...
                      point no. 3: farts are boring,
unless in a tight space,
where all solipsism disappears...
   there is a proof for solispsism,
but it doesn't come from either head or mouth...
psst... comes from the ***...
    the argument for solipsism comes from
the ***... evidently the theory stands on the proof
that: everyone enjoys their own stink...
  and i believe that's a universally accepted
logic... you can smell your own ****,
but dare not to gag at someone else's,
     there, solipsism, proved via farting.

no man cites his father unless he be a semite.

so this bothered me... she-******-it-he-it-she-ooh
the following (age-limit requirement in brackets):
- not knowing how to cook (30)
- long hair for men (20)
- wheelie pavement transport (35)
- having one-night stands (26)
- posting selfies on instagram (35)
- long hair for women (50)
- jeremy "che" corbyn t-shirts (30)
- going clubbing (37)
- saying you're a d.j. (30)
- tattoos (age limit: never!)                  huh?
    - not being able to drive (20)
- baseball caps (36)
- going to festivals (50)
- wearing shorts (40)
- cleavage (40)
- showing other people your
poetry (16)....
   that's what got me, **** the rest...
what are you?
   spank-the-monkey-tiger-mommy?!
you the whip the ****** latex c.e.o.?!
the **** is this ******* rambling?!
    oh look... what's next...
an article!
   let's see:
           post-cougar, pre-pensioner -
it's a.... "tricky" stage by a 57 year old...
sure, i'd **** a granny... if i were african
working in a care home...
  as the headlines read only two days ago...
no... it's one thing philosophy attacking poetry,
but it's another when journalists do it...
no you ****-****-faced-*******....
you're not going to get away like the so easily...
******* leeches of conversation...
       barren wastelands of introspection!
i know my patron... at least this ****
german appreciated the craft...
   you? you?! you're a pathetic waste of time
trying to replenish a taste for
ancient greece... and all that pederastic education.

poets? masters of listening to
silence,
   within hearing sound

                (vacuus in vox, papilio in turba columba).

my landlord he dont care is houses are disgrace
the one he rents to me as damp in every place
he wont do repairs tho he says he will
he is full of promise repairs  need doing still

then he sends his cowboys who turn up on a horse
he just takes his rent showing no remorse
they make the problems worse than they were before
collects rent four weekly counts at the door.

all the roofs are leaking gutters not fixed right
wont get the problems fixed he is far to tight
dosent care at all the money coming in
rather live  outside in a wheelie bin

On my way back from checking-out the smokers' hang-out  I passed behind the oyster bar near the grunting port, dodged a traffic warden sporting an illuminated hard-on and carrying an ******* of Napier's bones

Clearly an urban fox thought I until he did the wheelie-bin by the church with a one-two, shuffle, feint, one-two and a worthy one-two too,  Who-what?  You what? Done what? By whom and with what? Beside, by, from or to.

Prejudices rearranged? he asked producing a large wasp and a small tuba from his inside hat pocket and blowing ancient Aramaic **** against a bus shelter until 'it'  threatened to rain. Fifty quid, fixed penalty, a producer? *******. OK and he did.

Is it recycling day? Is this the day? Double yellow mate, work it out for yourself. Clamp or tow, clamp or tow. These are the choices of the voices in the head of a fox in the know. Turn out the illuminations, turn up the incantations, no more ruminations - root out the creeping infestation with a Round-Up-Ready (TM) altercation.

Two minutes to Tango, two for a fiver, this tall to ride, slip inside and pitch a Force Ten and wait for the chicken coop and the soft fox lips to meet again in a kaleidoscope shower of cheerleader's tail feathers and scarlet sherbert dips.

Phone home on Napier's dog and bone, watch out for the crock oyster and if you feel like one slipped down despite precautions, get back to the bar and order double portions.

I see behind the wheelie bins
  that they've dropped a little parcel
It's only slightly soggy
  and the label looks still legible
I can see it's not for me
  (they should really be more careful)
So I drop it in the bin
  that's marked only for recycle.

My heart's been busy busy,
Dizzy, fizzy, silly,
Buzz buzz here comes those bees,
Wheelie, feelies, kissies.