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Yenson Aug 2019
simple wiggins from hanky panky
lucre snatchers, con artists and hatchet jobbers
conjoiners fleecers and dastard pirates and blighty racists
all in the mix waiting for a fix to put the licks on an unexpected brick

simple wiggins twisting and turning
crooks from nooks and dopes with hapless hopes
takes on a softwood that turns out an oak that's no joke
now they're all in a tizzy frizzing and frazzling in dazzling dizzy

simple wiggins confused and nonplussed
flinging pans, pots an kitchen sinks cause they're ****** finks
plans astray and lies exposing they're decomposing pansies in panic
shamed, belittles in prattles, rattling as dumb cows in stinging nestles

simple wiggins oafs without loaves
liars and shysters wanting unearned pearls and oysters
foul bullies in foul follies ganging a set-up con for purloining lollies
using all fooled cannon-fodders as watchers, informers an performers

simple wiggins thieves and chalk scums
go dig your rig and rind your grid for your putrid grimy tosh
undermined criminals in urinals politicking garbage to your trash
most now see your game for you're lame in your shameless lanes
Jim Kirk Jan 2020
Born my son of youth,
My pride shadowed you,
Our long talks sitting outside,
Your wisdom and learning astounded,

You followed my career to fly,
Your letters stroked my ego,
Returning in uniform,
So healthy and strong.

Life is random and chaos,
Tomorrow is a dice tossed against a wall,
Struggling up my drive,
Grasping a wounded leg,

You was a ghost decimated by ****,
My heart bled, my love insane,
You were weak, sick, you were meths *****,
To the VA and rehab I hoped,

But rules by elderly, tired, bored women closed the doors,
You detoxed, and cleaned up in your high school room,
Daily classes, and screening followed soon,

A wife,  two girls, rounded your life,
But **** called her *****,
And she had exclusivity of your soul,
Of your girls gone, likely a loss for evermore,

We opened our hearts and all we had,
To you, wife, and little daughters,
Once, twice, three times many more,
Our pain ebbed, but our love was true,

Lastly, my wife and I had highest of hopes,
Everything fell in place this time,
I prayed, cried, it’s been awhile,
Life is Random and Chaos,

We all fell this time, no energy anymore,
No hope, no faith, battered love I taste,
The emptiness I feel is to great, I put it in a box,
My son of youth, I can no longer shadow you,

Yet Chaos and Randomness is a two edged sword....

By James Kirk-Wiggins (c) January 2020, All rights reserved
The destruction to our essence is no greater than when we observe a child of our youth choosing an insurmountable path toward destruction and eventually......
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2022
title: at <H. 20>
body:
troop movement
w.
ammo shortage:
abandon
   <H. 20> position.   502 bad gateway bypasses have become more fun than looking for google-whacks


i once tried to be this dad-rock sort of guy:
a massive fan of the stuff from the 1960s and the 1970s...
but... the more i explore the 1980s...
i'm finding out that... in all honesty?
sure... the 1990s grunge scene etc.:
not to mention TOOL... Fugazi... etc.
   but... hmm... well... there's a war on...
no one knows how far its going to go: or how
it might escalate...
          i'm not going to take sides: or write with
moral overtones regarding what is good
and what is bad...
i've heard the argument that moral judgements
are not right: to mediate this conflict as
a third party... or just as a person...
moral grandstanding: Ukrainian flags on profiles...
pouring Russian ***** into the drain...
just drink whiskey...
                          this stems from the Pariah Principle...
i'm just guessing to giggle a little:
the doping scandals finally got to ol' Vlad...
because it was funny when Mo Farrah pulled out
at some point... as did Bradley Wiggins...
started making income from adverts...
           yeah yeah: no, doping of athletes is not
systemic... all over the world...
   i guess some countries just have better doping
schemes...
   and while Russian was kicked out from
the mighty club of the G7 that was for a while G8...
i guess no one likes being left out...
no mention of China expanding the club into
a G9 or India for that matter... G10...
            plus... if the whole world spins the narrative
that you're evil... Russian subversion of American
politics... you're going to one day wake up and be
like: o.k. - fine... i'll be evil...
             aren't people liable if they slander someone
for no good reason / proof? can't someone be
sued for slander? i always thought the Russians
to be evil geniuses... but that softens the blow:
they're smart - in a malicious way because:
hell... what's there to do in a Russian winter...
you can only **** so much and drink so much *****...
so you get into hacking... for fun...
        but it's not Ukrainian politics was ever pristine...
i remember the days of the Orange Revolution
when Poland was involved in Ukrainian politics
for a while... long ago i said to myself...
it would be useful is Ukraine was allowed to join
the E.U. - just after the "famous five" joined back
in 2004... obviously i have no proof that i said something
along those lines back then... i wasn't writing then...
blah... politics... as ***** as money...
   i rather think about... how i managed to get
a ******* to want to meet me outside of the brothel...
rent a hotel room for the night...
pay for dinner... get a free **** all night... talk...
improve her English... learn some Turkish in return...
and music... i rather think about music...
i was going some ironing in the afternoon...
and i realised... of all these old vinyl records
that i brought back from Poland from my grandparents'
house... the ones my parents collected...
i was stuck on Maanam's Nocny Patrol (1984)
for too long on repeat... let's see what else is there...
oh... the original New Order Low-Life vinyl (1985):
**** me... an object that is older than me by
a year... well i did already know that New Order
emerged from the collapse of Joy Division...
well... the suicide of Ian Curtis... the precursor of
Curt Cobain - post-punk... well what came of that...
i never liked punk... more into psychedelic rock...
prog rock... but like i said... 60s and 70s music...
it grew on me... then... i grew out of it...
the whole boomer schtick of: we had the best music
your music is ****... give me a break...
- and it's not like i could get into Joy Division either...
i tried... it would be much easier to get into
65days-of-static if i were going to be perfectly honest...
or boards of canada...
      i tried... but... you can't let a tragedy go to waste...
so with the emergence of New Order...
and never looked into them... blue monday... faith...
but never looked into entire albums...
gateway album... Low-Life...
   and then it hit me... this is really the proper alternative
to The Cure... the Smiths... Depeche Mode...
i must be having this post-punk phase...
               at one point youtube was spewing out
post-punk suggestions all the time for me...
as if in the good old days of youtube being the best
jukebox on the internet...
plus... on a vinyl that's 36 years old...
oh: with the older vinyl you can hear the imperfections...
"imperfections" or rather the crackling...
newer vinyl doesn't have that crackling...
now i have a few good hours in the bag of going through
the entire New Order discography...
again... this conflict... i'm not even following it...
i've built-up a media burnout after all the repeated
news about Covid... i followed it at the start...
until... people started clapping for the NHS...
i switched off... i' already switched off regarding
this conflict... i'll make that dreaded hippy statement:
make love, not war...
  well... i'm on it... perhaps if i could be a mediator...
i'm not going to use moral language...
i'll just show people what life can be life...
do some ironing... put on a decent vinyl from the 1980s
plan a *** marathon in a hotel room...
with a girl you have no qualms over the "body count"
as some guys look for frigid nun types...
ah... what a mandible beauty...
            elsewhere... yeah... people are fighting...
but people are always fighting elsewhere...
- and it's not like nothing is being done...
over 1 millions refugees fled to Poland...
      i went into a forest and found something symbolic...
a branch of wood in the shape of a Cossack sword,
the shashka...
             i think my extended family might have
been affected by the UPA genocides during the Second
World War... mind you: the Ukrainians cheered
when the Nazis invaded... mind you: such wounds
should run so deep in me... it's ridiculous...
i should, maybe, just maybe: have the English attitude
toward the Norman genocide of Anglo-Saxon nobility
after Hastings from a purely historical point of view...
but then again... i knew a woman: my great-grandmother
who had to give opiates to her new-born daughter
(my grandmother) so she wouldn't cry when
they were running and hiding on the front...
  or how my grandfather remembers his uncle lying dead
in the back garden after being shot by the Nazis...
or how he would run up to two SS-men in their infamous
Hugo Boss black and shout: herr! bite bon bon!
and they would give him sweets so sweet that
his hands would be stuck together... etc.
           there is a lineage... memory... it's almost like
one person having many hosts... you can't exactly cut it
off... but... how ridiculous western democracies look
now, for their former criticism of Poland not taking in
enough refugees... really?
just like Turkey didn't take in enough authentic
Syrian refugees? oh... the type of refugees that drove
the trucks of peace in Nice... or performed
the Bataclan attacks? the Cologne *** party?
no Ukrainians on rubber-inflatables crossing the Channel
from Calais? i get it... the wrong sort of hue...
well... i guess old grievances can rest for a while...
you must really try your hardest not to be called
racist... but then one day you'll wake up
   like a Russian... after being called evil, foreign affairs
meddler... Olympic cheat and be like...
**** it... i'll own that slander... i'll just act upon it...
hmm... Dinosaur Jr. - but that's more grunge
than post-punk... no no... post-punk is something
very beautiful... it gets mixed up with the term Indie...
like... the Smiths are probably considered Indie
rather than post-punk... but i think they're post-punk...
god... i hate punk... probably as much as rap...
- and it's sort of a crying shame...
Russian, back in 2007... was such a welcoming place...
obviously my then Russian girlfriend
timed trying to get impregnated without my knowledge...
how does it work with women?
the highest chance of getting pregnant is just after
a woman's period: i'm not a woman, i don't know...
she was supposed to be on the pill...
hey, unprotected ***... well... she was rich enough
to not need my money, just my genes...
but the people were so welcoming...
i'd put the Russians on par with the Scots...
oh hell: her father was a timber oligarch out
in Siberia... she had multiple flats scattered around
St. Petersburg and even Moscow...
i look at it as follows: being a ***** donor doesn't
really cut it... what, just reading a man's profile:
window-shopping for *****?
obviously she wanted the relationship
to get to know the character of the man...
rather than some objective rubric: education X,
employment Y... but character? in person?
in practice? well... that's Z(ed)...
               well... if i'm not going to the type to
shoot bullets from a machine gun...
i might as well be shooting something else
somewhere else...
                              is that the conclusion you come to
when she calls you... tearful... in a happy way
and says: 'i think i'm pregnant!' - i think therefore i doubt...
i don't think that applies to how women
use language...
years later when i visited her... hmm... toys scattered
all over the apartment... hush-hush atmosphere...
she invited a lot of people round...
i think she was still with her newly wedded
neuroscientist: would be dumped months later...
married some poor Scotch schmuck...
well... at least she's keeping a tally...
    she might get to no. 5 and finally be like:
                     well... that was a good enough party...
no ***, just watch t.v. with me...
   oh hell no... i was exposed to Marquis de Sade
"too early" in life to somehow ******* without
a proper hard-on...
              well... first shot with the Turkish girl...
second one might hit the mark...
who knows... but this one photograph she sent me...
there's this young pretty thing sitting
in the background... a nice looking bump...
hmm... the last time i was there....
and shot a load into a ******... must have been...
oh... 4 months? 5 months?
what happened to that ****** with the payload?
women are such subtle creatures...
i might just be living in La-La-Land...
             but your mind sometimes goes out to lunch
in a non-demented way...
   it's not like people are transparent with each
other... it's not like we don't have our secrets...
secret avenues that other people never hear about...
it's not like that doesn't happen...
maybe the less i know and the more i speculate...
the happier i am... whether it's true or not...
i like to think that women like for a full beard
a hairy chest and a hair stomach, a 6ft2 100kg posture
is something that's worth salvaging...
freely given, on a whim: because... eh...
   i'm not a fat 4ft9 stinking Mongol who left a lot
of people in Pakistan with a surname: Khan...
and he done that by ****...
                                 spectacular... life...
and as long as i'm in a working environment and
i treat the... less lucky guys with candour:
with a camaraderie... what could possibly go wrong?
obviously everything...
                     but if they don't know jack ****...
and i keep them at a mutual-respect length...
ah... no open flirting with female coworkers...
at work... i feel so fake at work sometimes...
   at least in the schoolyard there was open banter...
at work i have to force myself: all the time...
            i just want to be left alone... do the shift...
*******... go back into seclusion and scribble down
thoughts to remind myself: i would never say as much
with my mouth as i "say" with the use of my
itchy-finger-tips... it's staggering how rhetoricians find
talking so easy... what's the old suggestion?
they enjoy the sound of their voice?
must be... i drift... mmm hmm... 1980s post-punk...
feels good... now that New Order discography to sift through.
Joe Aug 2017
It's a con man
With a small c
Armed with a masterplan
There's no such thing as society

Keep your nose clean
Keep your eyes peeled
Slip out of the streets
Into the fields of wheat

Roy Melville Wiggins
Takes his seat
A place reserved
Before his birth

No need to question
Just repeat
The well deserved
Assumed self worth

On Terry's strong and stable
Dinghy all at sea

Hearts turn hard
Heads gone soft
Lets sail away at any cost

On Terry's strong and stable
Dinghy all at sea

Who brought the map?
Oh Roy shut yer trap

On Terry's strong and stable
Dinghy all at sea
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2017
and this is what they say, honestly, this is what
they say:
mają burdel w gębie,
               a tu im fiołek zorem: jakby mowa
o pałacu Wersal!
              
     what's that translated as?
              you have to try harder, cutting out my mother
tongue will be as hard as your concept of
revising me writing with my right hand,
forcing me to write with my left hand...

they have a brothel in their gobs,
   lo! they are deluded that their tongues are violets:
as if they were talking about the palace of Versailles.

    europe is europe...

tym całusem swą matke?
    with such a kiss your own mother?
              
                                nic mnie już nie dziwi
                    (nothing bewilders me right now)
serio
        (seriously).

              starałem i starałem mieć cierpliwość
z angolem... ale po dwu-dziestu lat:
                straciłem, czy też zapomniałem
                   tą niby cierpliwość?
     bo mnie kurwa wkurwił po szczyt gdzie moja
krew zaczeła wrzeć!
             ohyda! pfu! jakby we mnie mongoł!

ubierz swój zór w coś podobnego do u'ropy -
          eh?
                     tyś nagi jakby proto mit adam'ah;
ale tyś nie on: bo sam gawędzisz: nie istniał...
                  no, prawie - jak ty.
                              
i shudder to think what the next defence of capitalism
will reveal itself as:
                why haven't they noticed cultural darwinism
just after they identified cultural marxism?
                 no one is even keen to acknowledge
cultural darwinism... the whole concept has left
the realm of science... a long time ago...
             it's a cultural motif...
                                                but it's not acknowledged
as such... why?
                                   why is no one i'm listening
to throwing the term about: cultural darwinism,
cultural darwinism... cultural darwinism...
                     oh believe me: we have the infrastructure,
we can open auschwitz the moment you say: go!
            so what happened? some cut your ***** / tongue
                                                          ­                 off?
the west is effectively talking into its own *** -
              the russian doping scandal?
did you follow up on the bradley wiggins scandal that
was hushed to the point where they all turned
seagull and tried hushing that scandal with
                   mer... mer (finding nemo... marp)?
             eh? hear that one?
                                the west is nothing but a
claustrophobic globalisation agenda... and some weird
**** about a transgender movement that
                  tried to **** around with the laws of grammar
so that when i speak this western language:
   i'm speaking siamese, while trying to run a marathon.
anthony Brady Mar 2018
I entered school at Blaisdon Hall,
when everybody seemed so tall:
but when I finished being taught,
all my chums in height were short.

The invention of a former cook,
fed the progress of my build and look,
along with spuds - best of Stud Farm crop,
and regular pudding known as "FLOP"

Wilfred Higginbotham was his name:
t'was from Manchester that he came.
Before him the chef was Mr. Higgins:
toupee-topped, nicknamed “Wiggins.”

Very wobbly on a pushbike:
Wilfred was (as they say today) "like"
sort of fat.  Yet, tha' knows
very light upon his toes.

If in the mood and no kerfuffle,
he'd do a lively soft shoe shuffle.
Opera trained - Wilfred was a singer:
for a famous Welsh tenor a dead ringer...

By the serving hatch, his apron gravy stained,
melodious, cheerful, unrestrained
he'd make the pots and kettles ring
as from the repertoire he'd gaily sing..

....selections de La Traviatta, La Boheme,
in his opinion "la crème de la crème"
and other classic arias with aplomb
in the style of Harry Secombe.

Now Wilfred’s "FLOP" a sort of madeira cake:
from the kitchen hatch the server would take
a warmish, deep presenting tray,
where puffed up inviting, there it lay.

Father "Bulldog" Wilson then would cut a slice,
take a bite - declare it “Nice!”
Alas! his knife released the air,
that wily Wilf had mixed in there.

Like a balloon pricked by a pin,
silently within the cooling tin
the cake collapsed. What a ****!
Wilf (t'was said) had used a stirrup pump.

Wilfred - as a baker- didn't cut the mustard,
but he was a dab hand when it came to custard!
A portion of his added magic yellow liquor
made the deflated "Flop!" taste thicker.

What was served up, had a fleeting taste
and was scoffed down in a fitful haste,
thus pleased I am to here relate,
not a trace of "FLOP!" was left upon the plate.

Whatever came of Wilf, I'll never know:
back up North, to ailing mum he had to go.
But still his pudding can invoke
such sensual sentiments all beyond a joke.

Early on in life Marcel Proust's nibbled madelaine,
a lifetime later, when dipped in tea,
and tasted once again, had power to regain
lost time and illuminate his memory.

So it is with me and as I thought
of cher Marcel, an evocative poem was wrought:
"FLOP"!" inspires the 1950s when I recall,
those schoolboy meals in Blaisdon Hall.

TOBIAS
Jim Kirk Dec 2019
A CHRISMAS STORY – Part 1

In a time, past was Christmas eve,
A tense quietness spread throughout the house,
No one wanted attention not to dare even a mouse,
Dad snoring on the couch didn’t see our mother leave,

Dad came home two hours late,
Said, “He was drinking at the club with Casey and his son,
He left early, a little before eight,
What the hell he bellowed, I work hard just a little fun,”

Mother said the boys wanted to open just one present,
Dad starred, “every year the same, “NO”,
“We open them Christmas morning, all Santa had sent,”
Mother also was drinking, and said, “Why the hell no, and NO.”

Dad walked to the tree looking at the presents in disgust,
Mother said why are you always like this,
“Open all of them” he shrieked, “IF YOU MUST!”
Then he kicked and broke every toy, not even one did he miss,

The night before Christmas it was very quiet in our house,
Nothing was stirring, not even a mouse.



A CHRISTMAS STORY – PART 2

The two boys’ clothes were tattered,
Yes, their hair was long, had Nana brought a toy?
Grandma would fuss, but it hadn’t mattered,
Their smiling ***** faces shinned Christmas joy,

Early the boy walked the cold wood floor,
To the living room, lighting the old ceramic heater,
From the one-bedroom, the others poured out the door,
Warming hand and feet at their only heater,

Money was short dad said,
Gas went off at night,
The boys saw only the gifts instead,
And the shining Christmas light,

They played with the few new toys,
Having fun, the two boys,
Dad ask one for some water to drink,
The boy ran quickly to the kitchen sink,

His head swooned, what had this meant,
He gasped at what he eyed,
Back to his brother he went,
Pulling his shirt to show what he spied,

Two beautiful red bikes sat on the floor,
They turned around and dad leaned against the door,
Merry Christmas he said,
I sold my car but will ride the truck instead.

By Jim Kirk-Wiggins (c) 2019, All Rights Reserved
LiberiPress.com
EPILOG:
These two stories have much to teach us beyond the obvious. You see the two boys in both stories were the same boys, just older as was the father. It reveals to us the enormous change possible in who we are and how others, including our families, may perceive us. Often family and friends still view us as our past, a sad indictment on love and evolving life.  This story reflects the resilience in children. Love does cover a multitude of sins, in us all.
Jim Kirk Feb 2020
OrIginally published JANUARY 2017 -
The Leader
February 2020 - He Marches On.

Hoofbeats from a strange land,
As cascading Thunder roared,
upon the horse of prosperity,
     he rode purposely,

Many embraced him as disciples,
  Others laughed and jeered,
     A fool has come today,
   But his garments are fine,

Not a son of god nor prophet,
  But rain in a drought,
    For the thirsty,
Who had tasted sand,

  A destroyer for others,
ancient dams would fall,
Thunder, blessings, cursing’s,
For The Leader had come,


  A Time of fear for her,
  A Time of hope for him,
They danced in bitterness,
Why this volatile disunion,

The Leader on his day,
Shouted visions for disciples,
unbelievers swam in confusion,
Many cried and screamed,
              Alas,

James Kirk-Wiggins (c) 2017
Presidential election 2017
Jim Kirk Feb 2020
Is Poetry a Language of it’s own ?

Someone ask why I write poetry, Another poetry board I frequent had a contest, my first impression was they were lame. But each to his own.
When I’m inspired to write, it becomes a need to purge something deep within, in my subconscious or inner thoughts.
I always believe poetry is very personal to the poet. Poetry is not English or other national language. Poetry is its own Language, it allows you to express emotions, feelings, what We normally struggle with. Our heart, soul, subconscious, maybe a Quantum flash, write our real poems, and often you and others must search for what is being conveyed,  But always worth it.
May you be inspired and excited.
Jim Kirk-Wiggins (C) all rights reserved.
LiberiPress.com
[i would be interested in your thoughts on what I said, pro and con] ?
Not poems. Marta  narrative about why poets write verse.
Jim Kirk Dec 2019
THE ILLUSION

When we are small, small
We always fall, always fall
A small scar it may leave,
But insignificant we believe, we believe

When we are teens, tweens,
We always fall, fall, fall,
A small, small scar it may leave,
Our very self, self it smothers we believe,

Crazy, crazy, crazy, life sings, sings,
A monster every shadow brings, brings,
Our knowledge is at its peak we speak, we speak,
The monster, destroying, dying, dying we squeak,

Emptiness we feel, loss, hopelessness, hopelessness,
Leading foolishly, I myself can confess, yes I confess,
If we can grasp, squeeze with all our might, fight, we will find,
No monster, no shadow, no fear, only our mind, only mind.

By Jim Kirk-Wiggins  ©
Jim Kirk Feb 2020
IT CHANGED EVERYTHING
IT CHANGED EVERYTHING

Random, primal, and perilous is life,
I a spring leaf falling with the breeze,
Day of Chaos, then adrenalin slashing strife,
Intense hidden desires, No, NO, no, I wheeze,

Impossible, shame, self-destruction, I lose,
Chains, despair, tears abound, run, run, run
Love and desire, too much I choose,
****** skin seeping, while weeping in the sun,

Desiring life, longing for love and honor,
Was a sudden insane flash, and the loss of one,
befell the other,
no longer, ever, am I my father’s son,

This foggy frozen life, cannot I endure,
My soul in chains, hand with knife,
a foolish endeavor, as the devil’s lure,
Yes dead, zombie, goodbye sinful life,

Copyright © Jim Wiggins | Year Posted 2017
Written originally many years ago, in a very rough draft
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2018
o.k, let's begin with
                   bragging,
and end with it; that's also called
the youth not
having a fetish
with hooded men?!
try my luck at jerking off
at getting off women
at women doing
the practicioner
      basics...
         well,
   if one ******* is allowed
to brag...
what  makes the "other"
                  perverse?!
                 jaws or some jeeze?
the thought of killer sharks
is suddenly killer-caurosel
     you, *******,
                    gimmick-punchers?!
hard-on no via hooded attire
but a fake via a
                     :  wigging it?!
                 ******* gagging
wiggins...
                you dope him...
one, more ******* time...
           see what rus is actually
impure...
   probably a ratio
               of zero - nil...
                 bleeding eyes...
                    it breeds rather than
confiscates the advert...
                         hark, the summon,
debating teams: fox contra hyena.

— The End —