Writing 3
See INDEX for categories
———————————–
SENTIENCE
It’s strange being old
in numbers at least
as the view doesn’t change
in one way at least.
But the world?
there my eyes weep.
the same cycles
the over and over
never learning
never changing
just rinse and repeat
over and over
the mistakes of the past.
Humanity climbs over the corpses
of wars left behind,
reaches green fields,
and paints them in blood
for the daylight is just too bright.
Who are we without death?
not natural death
but man made death.
We can’t have a life
without corpses to flog
and live ones to flog
into corpses.
The future’s as dark
as it ever was
and it never gets any brighter.
What will the future bring?
well certainly no more Hippies
and witches.
Maybe a caveman
trying to make fire
is where we always end up.
Every cycle
try try again
always ends up
with a caveman trying to make fire.
Humans
are not ready
for sentience.
———————————-
HOW MAY WE FLY
Who do you scream to
in the middle of the night
when your claws come out
but they don’t know who to fight?
laceration
blood rending savagery
blood beast terror
the hounds have to be let out
now and again
with the demons on their tail.
the beast,
must be unleashed
and express his rage
in order to be comfortable
in his cage.
The demons need their freedom
else
how other may we fly?
———————————–
IN OR OUT
There are times when you hear the tapping
the rapping
the rattling of the cage door.
“Let me in,”
the darkness asks
all friendly but
insistent.
“No,”
one replies,
“it isn’t your time.”
“Yes it is,”
he says,
“please let me out.”
Wait,
are you in or out
am I out or in?
He chuckles in the darkness,
“I don’t need you to let me in
if I’m already out.”
I scream in confusion.
———————————-
We signed ourselves up
in 1939
The army were happy to take
any old Tom, Dick or Harry
at the time.
Even lefty
with his two left legs
who never could
stay in step.
And the young Jewish lad
who went A.W.O.L.
on day three
and sent his uniform back
with a note that said
“The army’s not for me.”
Until two Red Caps
marched him back
and from what I heard later
he died in his first attack.
After six weeks of training
(the less said the better)
we boarded the Duchess of Devonshire
or, ‘Drunken Duchess’
as we called her.
After six weeks of rolling sea
galley food
vomiting
close confines
other people’s sweat
we made it to the Middle East
and landed in Egypt
not as we thought,
Tibet.
We joined the 3rd Tank Regiment
and became Desert Rats
but they put us in the relief crew
so we never did get
a go in a tank.
And that was that.
We were move to Athens
(without any tanks)
but then forwarded to Crete
where the German Paratroopers attacked
so we took to our feet.
We high tailed it
and made a beeline for the church
where we thought we be better off.
Somebody shouted
“Shut the bloody doors,”
when a terrific blast
blew the buggers off.
We were then stationed at the airport
and given rifles
us odds & sods.
And told that when
the paratroopers came down
we were there to take pot shots.
But then the island was abandoned
and we were taken off
by the Royal Navy
and once again,
found ourselves at sea.
Later
we’d not long been in Tobruk
when the town was surrendered to Rommell
by the ranking commander,
and we all became
prisoners of war.
There was an Italian ship
the, ‘Pierre Luigi’
before the cattle trucks
to Stalag 8B.
We were a sorry lot
on the eight day journey
with only two loaves of bread
between eight of us
and we all had dysentery.
One draws a veil
ove the arrival at Stalag
delousing
medical checks
intimate searches
all manner of indignity.
After an unpleasant time there
an Aussie born in Scotland,
Ralph ‘Dodger’ Green
and me
joined a work party
and were sent to Poland
to cut down trees.
Our lodgings were a one story shack.
But later, they extended it
by jacking up the roof,
building another floor
and the lowering the roof back down.
We had three guards
too old to fight
so they looked after us
for over a year
and made sure we didn’t take flight.
We’d do a day in the forrest,
rain or shine
then march to the convent
and with other prisoners
wait in line.
The nuns served us potato soup
which we heartily put away.
Then marched back
uphill
with a dustbin sized container
full of gruel for the next day.
Our digs only had
a wood burning stove
which we kept constantly on the go.
it meant living in a permanently
smoky atmosphere
but at least it was warm
when it started to snow.
After a year of this
we left Weißwasser
because Russian prisoners took over
and we were moved elsewhere.
We then worked in sandpits
making sandbags for air raid protection.
With an excitable fifty year old
Factory Master
who proper swung the lead
and of course we nicknamed him, ‘Eggy’
because of the shape of his head.
And he always complained
we were lousy workers
‘A bunch of British shirkers.’
Then one day in early ’45
we were ordered to pack up and go.
So we made sledges
loaded up our gear
and began to drag them through the snow.
It was so cold at the time
we wore everything we owned
and lined our bodies with newspaper,
which was a skill many soldiers honed.
The next six weeks were a nightmare;
constantly fleeing the Russian army advance
often in the confusion
going in circles
in a merry old frozen dance.
We soon ran out of food,
stolen chickens became a thing
with the guards too hungry to stop us
so long as they could tuck in.
Turnips and potatoes pulled from the ground
the whole lot eaten raw.
Never was a thing enjoyed so much
not now and never more.
Then one day in spring
we woke to find the guards gone.
It was the first time in many a year
we were being ordered around by
no one.
We walked for days
I have no idea how far
until we found a working train station
and discovered we were in Czechoslovakia
Hundreds of P.O.W.s
all trying to get home that night
and we found ourselves a spot on the roof
and held on bloody tight.
A Canadian shouted out jokes
and kept us all in stitches,
and we’d duck every now and again
when someone shouted
“Look out, bridges.”
We changed trains a lot
during the next days and nights
with constant stops for Russian troops
to board and search for Nazis in disguise.
Eventually we made it to American lines
de-loused and uniforms cleaned
and for the first time
in over three years
we had an actual meal.
From there it was trucks
to the British lines
driven at alarming speeds
which totally took away our breath,
by black American, gum chewing servicemen
who seemed to have no fear of death.
Then another three days
sat on the hot tarmac
waiting for a plane
to come and take us back.
It was a Lancaster Bomber
that came to take us back
and because it was packed to the gills
we travelled in the windswept
empty bomb rack.
I was eventually de-mobbed in March 1946,
almost seven years since I first joined up.
I wonder if we’ll ever
get sick of wars
or have we had them for so long
that they seem normal?
World 1 was a gentleman’s war
World War 2 was justified
Vietnam had the best soundtrack
wars you’ve never heard of
wars running for so long
no one know why they started.
Civil wars (oxymoron?)
wars of independance
wars of succession
wars of aggression (are there any other kind?)
Ethnic wars
religious wars
colonial wars
bloodless wars
forgotten wars
total war
limited war…
How many words
do we need for murder?
But what would we do
if we had no more wars?
Live the unbearable horror
of
friendly neighbours?
They stormed our trenches
we mowed them down
machine guns
mortars
bodies flying in the air
screams of the dying
screech of the shells
brave war cries
frightend tears
and still we mowed them down.
They crossed no man’s land
hundreds dead behind
reached our trenches
poured in like a wave of death.
Out came the pistols
knives
bayonets
We layed into each other
like nothing on Earth.
Stab
shoot
punch
kick
Kill kill kill
A stab to the neck
a kick to the knee
a gush of blood
a snap of bone
Violence
anger
adrenaline
death
death everywhere
so much death.
The stench of the blood
bile
corpses
The agony of the dying
our own screams
as we
killed killed killed.
We were not men that day
I took far too many mother’s sons
as did we all.
We landed at Normandy
charged ashore,
Billy took a bullet to the brain
before he even reached the beach,
Danny drowned,
Nobby got shot in the knees,
Larry lost his leg,
‘Arry an arm,
The seargent shit his britches
when a bullet tore through his bowels,
the Lieutenant stood on a landmine,
Michael and Mark
mauled by the same mortar,
a sniper took out Stephen,
machine guns massacared many,
the sea turned red
with the blood of the dead,
corpses floating
like flotsam and jetsom,
body parts, seperated from their owners
lying, almost cartoonishly
here and there,
it was a charnel house
of heroic death.
I made it through it all though
survived to the end,
Victory
was ultimately ours.
But the price
was unimaginable
horror.
At this very moment
eighty years ago
a man sat in a trench
covered in blood, sweat and dirt
surrounded by strangers,
all his friends
dead on a beach.
Behind him lay death
ahead of him lay death
he prayed to the God of his choosing
wrote letters to loved ones they’d hopefully receive
then picked up his gun
and pressed ever onward
into the embrace of death,
so that you and I
may smell the taste of freedom today.
Seven thousand Germans
also lost their lives that day,
they may have been the enemy
but they were men like you and me.
Far from home
frightened,
and with their fears,
alone.
Fighting for a mad man
for reasons they never understood.
And just like us
in those trenches
they had their own brotherhood.
Fight for the man
next to you
just as he does for thee,
and try and make it out alive
so another day we both can see.
…Their casualties are sometimes forgotten
in our cries of victory,
but even though the enemy,
they were men just like you and me.
As a thing we call,
victory
and the ending to a war,
there are causalities
we never mention,
the dead bodies
everyone who was there saw.
The innocent French civvies
trying to go about their lives
whilst being occupied by the enemy
and bombs dropping from the skies.
Twenty two thousand civilians
became deceased
because of D-Day
and I’m afraid it’s wasn’t the Germans
that killed them
I’m sad to say.
It was justified
it had to be
but
collateral damage
is just a phrase to you and me.
a butcher
a baker
an innocent child
even the old lady that liked to dance
all lying dead
in a river of blood
to stop the Nazi advance.
Soldiers dying
even in such great numbers
is a thing we expect in a war
but twenty two thousand civilians
is a number
that’s a bit too raw.
it was justified
it had to be
but
collateral damage
is just a phrase to you and me.
D-Day
was the beginning
of the end
of
the war to end all wars
even though
we’d already had
the war to end all wars
and what do we have now
eighty years later?
Wars.
How many more
do we need to have
before we finally have
the war to end all wars?
Those who start wars
never fight in them.
Never take another human life
or watch the life
fade out of a comrade
as they bleed to death
in agonising agony.
Human lives
are numbers to them.
A thousand dead
seven thousand
twenty thousand
a million
seven million,
the numbers become
INSANE.
But still we have wars.
it is insanity,
instigated by those who never see the corpses
or breathe the stench of death.
One single baby
three months old
blown up in a hospital
limbs severed
and screaming like only an innocent child can
should be enough to end all wars.
But
we still have wars.
D-Day
lest we forget
always remember
but
why don’t we learn the lessons they teach us?
And there we stood
on the silent battlefield
surrounded by corpses
of the humans we’d killed
and we called it
victory
I hope no one ever weeps
as much for themselves
as I did that day.
My Dad brung me up
he brung me up proper
he helped teach me
wrong from right.
And this was back in the ’60s
when things weren’t easy
and we had an outside bog
with no light.
Go to work
earn your pay
and
spend it all on your kids.
toys,
holidays,
sweets and treats.
Spend it all
on your kids.
It’s not always easy
being a dad
it can be a pain in the butt,
but you do it anyway
you do your best
and hopefully help them grow up.
My Dad did good
for my childhood
before I became a man
and he’s a big part of the reason
I’m the person you like
cos he helped me be who I am.
Dad’s are ace
yours and mine
and about or own
we can brag
but mine beats yours
cos yours never had,
a George Best
E-type Jag
1963 – 2024 R.I.P
Don’t mourn for me
little sparrow.
My wings may be clipped
but I can still fly free.
We had our good times,
you and me
even if our directions
went in different ways.
We had our childhood,
our glory days
plenty of scrapes
and knees grazed.
At least we were together
in our innocent days
just you and me
before the others arrived
protected by our parents
and all we had to do
was play.
Your life took you on your own path
which soon diverted from mine
and even though so distant
I hope you enjoyed your time.
You were the first friend
I ever had
back when it was just you and me
and Mum
and Dad.
Rest easy
dear brother,
that I’ll never see again.
but at least I now know
you’ll no longer feel any pain.
I still can’t believe
you’ll never see another day,
but I’ll never forget
when it was just you and me,
and all we had to do was play
LINA: THE TIME TRAVELLING BANDIT
The debutants were dancing
dalliances were being done
it was a ball at the Royal Court
and in attendance,
everyone.
Lords and ladies
kings and queens
rich nobles
all there to be seen.
From all over the globe
they came to see
the wedded glee
of this new royalty
In the seventeenth centurey
Amidst there number
dancing
talking
center of attention,
was one who didn’t belong.
But nobody knew.
From conversation
to conversation
dance
to dance
through them all she fluidly flew.
She was all about the
big dress
big bosoms
big eyes
immaculate personified
and she had them all
hypnotised.
Men flirting
ladies fanning
and swooning,
she was the belle of the ball
and out-socialised them all.
And as the clock got closer to midnight
and the lutes and jesters played
she danced herself closer
to the radient new queen.
The first bong struck
she danced with a prince
by 4
she was dancing with the king
as 6 bells rang
she knelt
mid-dance
kissed the queens hand,
and purloined the ring
by 9
she was on the balcony
at 10 the cry,
“STOP THIEF”
dead on 11
she leapt off
the vortex
caught her at twelve.
And as time transfered
this
be whale-bone corseted
pompadour wig wearing
dress with a cage
perfect woman from a long gone age.
back into the now,
she did most daintily step out
of the vortex of time
and say,
————-
“fuckin’ ‘ell”
reaching for her nethers.
“I’ve been wantin’ to scratch me arse
for fuckin’ hours.”
“How did they even
go to the bog
in these things?”
“must a bin a friggin’ nightmare.”
“Quite!”
said her toffee nosed husband
(who she married on a whim)
She gazed at the jewel
she’d purloined
the most beautiful ruby
in the history of forever
glowing in her palm.
She cackled slightly
but covered it up.
Then placed it on its resting place,
in the archive of dreams of
LINA: THE TIME TRAVELLING BANDIT
(cue cheesy intro credits all wobbly and shit)
—————–
Time passed
the itch came again
“I think I’ll snog Elvis this time,”
she did say.
to husband number two
number one having “accidentally” passed away.
Brylcreme
leather jacket
jeans
flick knife
ducks arse.
Our hero don’t do half measures.
The vortex opened
she caught The King on set
in between takes
riding his bike
she was on hers
they raced
energy and sparks
eye to eye contact
sweat
engines
leather
Elvis
he won
she let him win
they shagged
oopps
only meant for a snog.
The vortex opened,
dead on time.
Elvis
was alone again.
Meanwhile,
back in the Bandit Cave
she pipetted and test tubed
and an Elvis sperm
was put into the
Archive of Dreams
and as she fell asleep
that night
she wondered,
“Would I ever clone him?”
————————–
Two weeks later
in 1666 she was burnt as a witch
and as the vortex took her,
before the flames,
she stole a branch
of the most powerful wood:
a witches burning pyre
and beat husband number 4 to death with it
so that his soul would burn forever
“by accident.”
———————-
She became a slave for a month
in the B C days
so that
Cleopatra
would
notice-a
and when she did,
boy
did they engage.
Mark Anthony
was her fancy
————–
We pause by the side of the highway
as Dick Turpin in all but name
rides up along side the carriage
and utters “stop in my name.”
The carriage stops,
she’s all pistols and masks
the gentlemen cower
the ladies fluster
the children admire
the coachman goes for his guns
and goes no more
as a pistol speaks.
Lina pulls down the mask and says
“Stand and deliver”
the men cower further
the women folk protect the kids
while the kids look on
with odd feelings
of admiration.
Then the jewelery
is handed over
pocketed
vortex
vanish
and mystery
is all that is left
behind.
——————
“Who was she?”
they say,
these time scientists
as they try and unweave the webs.
“here she is,” one will cry
“is that JFK?” another will sigh.
Bodecia
boudica
she’s was them both,
we can see ya
witch and witch burner
We need a break
the time scientist say
as they find the weirdest yet,
“check this one guys,
she romanced both
Romeo
AND
Juliette.”
She stole the love of them both.
The scientists go for a break
we dive back into the time streams.
—————–
later on
husband number nine
married on a bet
burried in a shallow grave
cat burglar times were upon us.
Cary Grant dared her
how dare she refuse
Ingrid was an innocent stooge.
Bogart tried to shoot her
but
madam Bacall
taught her how to whistle.
Her nether’s have never sounded the same.
And the Maltese Falcon
now resides in Lina’s cave.
——————–
She’s Lina
the time travelling bandit
As a pirate with leather leggings
all corsets and swords
she could rapier you with
her wit, steel or words.
Then steal your wench
from under your wing
and still have her back
for breakfast,
songing a sing.
they cowered at Blackbeard
but fled at
Lina in leather
and whip
years later,
Tories paid a fortune.
——————–
Oh, Mr Holmes, I beseach thee
tell them not
I am the ripper.
Dr Watson, I implore thee
tell them not
I am the hound
——————-
Jules Verne take me
to the depths
of the wonders
show me the fishes
corals
and bounty
of colours
As I pierce a giant squids eye
with a harpoon
with Kirk Douglas.
whilst James Mason talks velvet.
————-
Doctor Do Little is
Doctor Lina do loads
she even lets stray animals
wear her clothes.
She’s Lina,
the time travelling bandit,
with a heart of gold.
She robs from the rich
to feed the animals
like Dianne Fosse
mixed with Robin Hood
in
Alice’s wonderful
Wonderland.
————-
Ben Hur was
Ben Her
She put the willies up Shelly
just in time for
Frankenstein,
Whilst stealing hearts
and smelling Dracula’s farts
She’s Lina
the time traveling bandit.
—————–
Sandinistas?
SandiLinas.
Mata Hari?
Mata Lina.
Leon
or did Lina clean them all?
—————
The vault
in the Archive of dreams
was filling fast.
Copies of books you’d die for
Necronomicon 1,2 and 3
Shakespeare’s quill
Joan of Arc’s heart
A Dali
paintbrush or two.
Bedevire’s bed
James Brown’s crown
Hendrix’s first guitar.
She’s purloined them all.
——————
She’s Lina,
the Time Travelling Bandit.
There ain’t much
she ain’t robbed.
Mona Lisa?
[casual voice] …DaVinci’s first draft
David?
…got the chisel
and the left arm.
Noah’s Ark?
…in the back garden.
Einstein’s theorem?
…got his brain in a jar.
No mummies in the pyramids
…think they’re in the back somewhere.
King Tut
King Solomon
Indy and the Ark
Sarah Jane
mary Jane
nancy Drew
follow the clues
steal the treasure
with one more score to go
She’s Lina
the Time Travelling Bandit
——————-
The time scientists
keep searching,
looking for clues
the B.C. days
the A.D. days
the cavemen
and the
dinosaur days
She’s here there and everywhere
swimming the time streams
stealing all there is to steal.
She’s purloined the lot.
what is there left to steal?
is she heading for an end game?
——————-
Meanwhile,
Lina goes on a shopping spree
Marilyn’s dress
the Pope’s hat
Madonna’s undies
Ruby red slippers
Al Capone’s tommy gun
Liz Taylor’s jewelery
The first ever pair of Doc Martens
Tesla’s blueprints
the invisible man’s fingerprints
and
Ed Gein’s red nose
Rosetta stone
Samson’s jackass bone
E.T.s telephone
Graham Bell’s gramophone
She stole them all
and took them home.
…Sometimes,
she robbed in rhyme.
————-
She dallied with the dalliences
held court at court
had the gentlemen quivering
and the ladies all a-quavering.
out spied the spies
out slinked the slinks
out witted
matched
danced
and
manouvered them all.
and here was the final score.
———————–
She looked into the
time vortex
and knew what was next
the ultimate theft,
for long she did grapple
but now she knew;
it was to steal the apple.
Adam and Even
Garden of Eden
even God
would be there
She knew this would be
the ultimate heist
anytime
anywhen
anywhere
——————
She chose an outfit
fig leaves
and that was it
she felt father exposed
and a little bit of a tit
but when in Rome
and when needs must
it’s a fig leaf down below
and a fig leaf on each bust.
then suitably (un) dressed
she jumped into the vortex
and stepped out of the time stream
and its endless night
into the garden
of Earthly delights.
It was exactly what
you’d expect it to be
flowers, trees
and garden things
of exceptional beauty.
It smelt so fine
looked absolutely divine
and really was quite wonderful
to the eyes, ears and mind.
She headed for a clearing
where hopefully the action would be
and there it was
the famous apple
hanging from a tree.
No one was around
not Adam, God or Eve.
this was her chance
to grab the apple and leave.
but then there came some voices
the famous couple appeared
at least god wasn’t with them,
of which she was afeared.
She was about to swipe
the theft of all time
when she looked at Adam
who did look rather divine
All her husbands paled
at this incredible sight
she knew he was the one
and would steal him this very night.
he bedazzled her
beguiled her
he was the one she had to get
and he hadn’t even spoken yet.
then he opened his mouth
honey and velvet poured out
this was the ultimate steal
of that she now had no doubt.
—————————
She employed her wiles
her wits
her wisdom
and wheeled out her, “WOW!” factor.
The progeny pair were puzzled
perplexed
and positively palpitating with purity of passion and purpose.
Lina had a lady boner.
She seductively spoke words
so sly
so subtle
so shady
that soon she had Adam hooked
now to get rid of the lady.
Eve was sent on an errand
a knight errant on a mission from God
or so Lina’s lie lead her believe
And while she was gone
Lina made a move
but Adam with his conscience did grapple,
so she went for the end game,
“Do us a favour luv,
pass me that apple.”
Unthinking Adam plucked it from the tree
and by so doing unleashed,
future history
All bets were off
all innocence gone
he gazed at Lina
his fig leaf grew
and grew
and grew
Lina’s eyes went wide
and wider
and wider.
She grabbed his hand
took the apple in the other
they frollicked and gamboled
until the vortex appeared
then,
amidst much laughter
leapt into their happily ever after.
———————–
The time scientists threw up their arms
“We should have seen it coming,”
they shouted in alarm.
“the space time continuum
is now beyond repair.”
“We’re never going to fix it
here, there or anywhere.”
“That pesky Lina,
the time travelling bandit,”
the Time Scientist did say,
before turning out the lights
locking up the lab
and heading home for the day.
How much do you cost?
how expensive is your life?
how much can you afford?
If I tell you the crimson is flowing
again
for the first time in a life time
do you ponder the cost?
wonder the price?
cough up a few quid?
It’s cheap to me
a million quid to my detriment
would you pay it
at half the price?
I’m not looking backwards
it’s all behind
just a glimpse
in the rear view mirror.
I paused for a moment
on the wrong side of the tracks
stopped to look back.
I saw a reflection
mirrored myself
it was instinct
not on purpose.
My pain anyway
you get no say
on
how much I pay.
and right now
as we clean our
crimson flow,
I’m cheaper
or more expensive
than you or I
can ever afford.
Hence why the crimson
sometimes has to flow.
It’s cheap
at twice the price.
Anyway,
it’s late,
the lamps are off,
the disco lights are still being shit,
there’s only one candle left burning,
I’ve put the laptop away
the speakers are on low
way down low,
the evening is winding down
as the end draws near.
I have some left though
to whom do I give it
‘fore I fall asleep?
for it sure ain’t mine.
Only choice
as the rain pounds down
is my own bedtime story.
and you all won’t ever know,
where you’ve been.
what planets
and times
we’ve traversed.
you’re best Poem,
is the one you’ll never hear.
Sometimes you feel the darkness
scratching at the door.
But you can’t afford to let it in,
no matter how load it might roar.
You once thought it was your friend,
you let it inside.
And when you look back,
it’s a surprise you never died.
Keep your mind sealed
and locked down tight.
’cause you know if you let it in,
you’re in for a giant fight.
A fight against yourself
that you can never win.
So when you hear the darkness,
DON’T LET IT IN.
What price we pay
for saying our own truth?
My pain is worth it,
is yours?
Words
are things
we use
to
say things
or
explain things
or
to make somebody cry
or be happy
or egg them on
or manipulate them
or encourage them
or make them feel wonderful
or
One word can make you cry
one word can make you orgasm
One word can hurt
more than any other
You can stroke somebody with a feather
to a sensual level
by the use of
words
Meeow.
One climbs the steps
to the
highest diving board
one looks down
at the empty
pool
without the water
one knows
one will crack one’s skull
and
splatter one’s brains
one jumps off
anyway
– – –
when the knife
comes a-calling
3 seconds
is all you get
rescue me
or
weep for me
too late
the deed is done
the diving board has been leapt off
One of the things
we say to people
who have
“normal”
heads
is that
eventually
the screaming stops.
It is our biggest lie.
The ants are crawling
all over my skin
not real
just metaphor
as the
fountain pen
glides smoothly
over the
silky
paper
It is beautifully smooth
to write
despite
nothing to write
Just random words
skating onto the page
for no other reason
than
the joy of the
smooth pen
on
smooth paper
is this a poem
or just
an ode
to the joy of putting
pen to paper
and the wonder
of creating smooth words
Question mark
Me silently screams
into the empty
darkness
Not even echoes return.
’tis the price I pay
that
one day
I will pay
in full
Another day off work
another day in bed
another day screaming
inside my own head.
Another day wishing
that I could go away
another day wishing
I wasn’t this way.
Another day of new scars
inside and out
another day of crippling
self doubt.
Another day of self hate
another day lost in the mind
another day of treating
myself so unkind.
Another day of pain
another day I ache
another day of wanting
not to be awake.
Another day of living
in constant fear
of another day of making
myself not be here.
Another day
worse than the last
another day I struggle
to make it not be my last.
Another day of being me
Another day of
mental
agony.
Sometimes
I
SCREAM
so much
that when I
finally
murder myself
the universe will breath a sigh of relief.
Who do you message
when you’re alone.
Not lonely
just
alone.
Who do you give the words to?
do you write them for yourself
or send them to someone else?
where do they go,
these empty words
that never get said
’cause I fell asleep?
Do I dream them?
Do they fade away?
Do they wait for another day?
Do people receive the beauty
my thought words only say?
Hi Martin
this is Martin
is it new year
have you said hello
have you shared words
have you done all you always do
always want to do
always need to do
always do
have you
done?
Yes,
all meek,
sorry.
Where is yours?
well,
erm,
is said
NO
I sent
NO
well, erm
exactly, he said.
That’s not how you win,
I told him.
I know,
he said
but, just
NO. Was me for once
doing grown up.
He gets back in his place,
I get to weep again
for the both of us
without the fear
and the world
turns
the beauty of beauty
is always the giving
and one should
never
dare forget
science
is just human beings
trying to instil order
onto the natural chaos of the universe.
The universe
was born from chaos
it is chaos
and it will die in a glorious display of random
chaotic
beauty.
Trying to place order
on our puny corner of the cosmos
is like trying to build a house of cards
in the middle of a hurricane
All these things we cling to
love
hope
faith
even friendship.
They’re all just ports we use
to try and weather the storm.
But the storm’s always there
even if we don’t see it.
Chaos
is the very nature of existence.
From the smallest quark to the largest
supergiant
orbiting the galactic central core.
A butterfly flaps it’s wings
in Kansas
and the first child born on Mars
dies at birth
The mother walks naked out of an airlock two weeks later.
This is the way of chaos.
There are no patterns
Rules don’t work
Your formulas fall at the first hurdle.
You might as well try lassoing the wind.
Life is chaos.
Chaos is life.
Happiness is an illusion.
Illusions are lies
There is no truth.
Truth is an illusion,
born from the chaos of lies.
Chaos lies in your hearts and minds.
From the scratch at the window
to the howl of the wolf when you’re alone in the forest.
Planets spiral on unknown orbits
careening out of control.
Stars explode at the touch of an atom
hurtling beyond imagination.
Everything you know
Everything you think
Is chaos.
Life itself is just an illusion
told by storytellers to keep the darkness at bay.
All hail Chaos
Sometimes I can’t think so I scream
sometimes I think so I scream
sometimes I scream
to drown out the thinking
sometimes the thinking is the screaming
sometimes the screaming is the thinking
I don’t know if the point
is to separate the two
or join the two
Why do I screameth
inside me own noggin
when I not even be sad?
pray tell
If the screaming is for me
to release the pain
then why doth the screaming
be inside
where no soul hears
but also rears
when Happy be out to play?
What is the screaming
why is the screaming
why is it sometimes
painful screaming
release screaming
beautiful screaming
but always
now and again
screaming inside your own head.
You scream for victory
you scream in defeat
you scream in orgasm
you scream at the death of a child
you scream in fright
you scream in delight
you scream I scream we all
scream inside our own heads, Eileen
to make it rhyme
Screaming isn’t de facto
it isn’t default
it’s maybe defensive
it’s maybe unnecessary
It’s very often quiet
sometimes for weeks
even months
if one gets lucky
but
internally
Lady Screaming
never truly fucks off.
And as the Tory Government
slides the dildo
deeper and deeper
up the nations’ arse,
“Where’s our lube?” the subjects cry.
“Lube yourself,” the leaders reply
And with the help of Farrage,
Hopkins and Co.
we scream at immigrants and different folk
and ease that dildo
up our own arse.
I sometimes have dreams
of Janis Joplin
dripping sweat
fresh off stage
full
of manic energy
and she
she
rides me
she rides me to heights of
frenzy
not normally known
to mortal man
she
uses me
in every way possible
and some that be physically not
and I be a rag doll to her desires
as I’m flung
hither and thither
about her mysterious
erogenous zones
be they body or mind
until she is sated
and casteth out
my empty shell
with a personal dirge
sang farewell
by the goddess herself
Everybody
has deaf ears
when it comes to my own pain.
How loud do you shout
How much do you drown me out
How much screaming
how much pain
how much
internal
aaaaaaaaggggghhghhgahgahhg
can one bear?
One thinks one is clean
cleansed from the
dark
and the
screaming
but then
a thing happens
and one is back in the
dark
one is back in the
pain
one is back
screaming inside.
It’s
half a lifetime
to escape from
but
a moment of lapse
to fall back into.
One pays a hefty price
per relapse
Thou
thou intrigueth me.
Thou doth
ease my mind
my pain
my inside.
You
thou
thou art
the most least scary human on the planet.
I fear nothing from thee.
If death be at another’s hand,
let it be thine.
Once within
your aura of you
we are the same
no fear no worry
just wonder no shame
Like two spaceships docking
in the depths of space,
umbilical extended
CLICK
TURN
oxygen shared
internal cargo shared
all astronauts breath each other’s air.
A shit analogy
I don’t care.
I don’t need you all the time
too often
would be too much
just a top up
now and again
of the wonder
and safety
of being in thy presence
Lets say some words
lets make a poem
lets put thought to fingers
to key presses
to letters in the write order
to make a word
a line
a sentence
a whole stanza
if thou pleases
…whatever one of them is.
Just chuck words on a page
pen to paper
put them in the roughly correct order
they make sense
they fit
they flow
they have meaning
they say something
anything
they don’t need stories
they just need to
exist.
…The power of a word begins with the fact that it exists.
I sometimes forget
what nouns are
are they the
‘doing words’
or is that verbs?
so then,
what are adverbs?
do they go in reverse?
how does punctuation work?
comma
colon
semi
apostrophe
IS IT A FULL STOP A COMMA OR A SEMI FUCKING COLON FOR FUCKS SAKE?
all these rules you learn about a follows b
and c rhymes with double you
I learnt them all
then forgot them all
then tried to remember them again
and then just flaunted them.
The beauty of language is its fluidity
here are the rules,
now go forth and abuse them,
manipulate them
twist them
turn them
make them dance
with
…
just, please don’t use this loaded gun for nefarious reasons.
CRYING FOR HELP OR WRITING A POEM?
When is a poem
a poem
and when is it a
cry for help?
Am I just saying this
am I just saying that
am I quoting someone else
remembering a memory
or
am I writing a script
screaming from the crypt
tell my story
bring me alive
keep me alive
Maybe,
I just like making words rhyme
The empty pen
scratches over the paper
no ink flows
no words flow
just empty skeleton hands
autonomous in death
scratching empty quill
over dried up parchment.
How do you know
when you’re out of control?
when the brake pedal fails
when you crash into a wall?
when you’re careening
and colliding
all over the place?
when the bus won’t stop
at your stop
and the train keeps on a rollin’?
When the sun explodes
when life kills you
or you
murder your self
Maybe?
when you
“Grow Up”
it all stops?
If you’re out of control
can you ever really know your out of control
especially
in the midst of being out of control?
what is control anyway
do we have the same controls
are they like rules
or buttons on a spaceship?
whose control am I out of?
assuming I were
which I’m not,
just asking for a friend.
I do sometimes scratch an itch
more than I should
so hard
it draws blood.
By then it’s too late
you can scratch it again
it’s not about the blood
it’s relieving the pain
or is it?
Am I adding up
or taking away?
The more I scratch
the less it hurts
but part of me reminds me
the more I scratch
the more it hurts
your skin is peeling off
for Crickey’s sake
but,
they are different pain,
surely?
When the Melancholy hits
and the Sad
enters your soul.
It doesn’t go away
the very next day
as if you’ve been cleansed
as if you are whole.
it lingers
it loiters
in various memories
thoughts
moments.
it lurks
waiting to pounce
at your most unexpected
uninvited
unprepared
moments.
Two days after an Episode
you think you’re in the clear
then
BLAMMO!
you’re completely fucking Sad
for no fucking reason.
The danger doesn’t pass
when the Incident is done.
it just goes back into hiding
like Cato in a closet
waiting for you
to feel safe again
and lower your guard.
These days of darkness
moments of Mental madness
attacks from within
these things
these brief glimpses
that others get to see
are the merest
whiff
of the tip of the iceberg
The Mental mind
loves these things.
It nurtures them
in the back of the brain
in the darkness
where it knows
one dare not look.
And they always rear their head
the second
we let our guard down.
Self Beauty
is ludicrously expensive,
unless you’re an
arsehole
ego
wanker
then
it’s as cheap as chips.
SCREAMING
into the void
echo back
echo
echo
echo
who is listening
is anyone replying
or are the echoes
just echoes?
Let’s ask the silence
how loud are the screams
when the echoes aren’t there
and nobody hears
then we die
in
unheard silence
Here are some words
they don’t mean anything
no hidden context
no subtext
no
secret code
just some words
in a poem
no cry for help
just some words
in a poem
no secret screams
no looking for the exit
no wandering in the dark
no beautiful fields
of flowers
in the darkness
of existence
no secrets
or
macrocosms
or
microcosms
just some words
in a poem
nothing to see
move along
I think about Bukowski
alone
in a room
no pants
whisky
cigar
radio playing
classics
roaches
noisy neighbours having sex
gunshots down the street
behind on the rent
ex wives knocking on the door
hating the world
But always with a saviour,
a
TYPEWRITER
a device invented for as much as to relieve pain as opium.
–
for such a brute of a man
he fares well
as a good example
of Art done well
I wonder how many secrets
are hidden in words?
What is behind
such and such
a line
analysing a suicide note
transcribing a holy script
from one language
to another
speaking
instead of listening
Rickrolling
what does my favourite song
really mean
did Da Vinci have any word secrets or are we just looking for pirate treasure?
how much screaming
is behind the quiet bits,
not the obvious bits?
– the secrets,
behind the
TYPEWRITER
Sometimes
you can scream
in your poems,
you can rape the world
scream at the whirlwind
murder yourself
over and over
and
over and over
again
until you murder yourself
into the dirt
with your own words.
and everyone is like,
“oh what a lovely poem.”
——————-
once again
I’m screaming in pain
inside
Is it because I have too much to give?
have I not given enough?
have I given too much?
etc
in thinking
of giving.
Was the
pain
always like this?
I seem to remember
it used to hurt
differently.
Back then
I had too much
Sad
to get rid of
Now
it’s the same but,
how do you explain your mental head when it goes all bullshit reverse but sill the same just full of different bullshit to get rid of,
this time it’s nice shit
Popped into the escape place
the Godfather page
emotions to get rid of
pop in here
put them in the form of
poetry
maybe even make it rhyme.
No one will know you are screaming
just words on a page
to be analysed
or not
long after you’re dead
Scream into the darkness
disguise it as a poem
wrap it up in words
bundle it up
present it to the world
…
by the time
you’ve created,
an analysing poem
while analysing along the way
the pain is gone.
the poem is shit
but the pain is gone.
Art
doesn’t have to be good
I don’t have a poem in me
I have no verse to say
but the words,
the feelings,
the
Poetry
is screaming for release.
I have nothing to tell
anyone
about how beautiful they are
except myself.
No rhythm
no rhyme
no reason
just
words that aren’t even there,
unsaid.
That isn’t enough for the Poet.
He always wants to give more.
this is not a poem
this is me screaming
and screaming
and screaming
into the void
into the dark
I don’t want anyone to hear
listen
reply
I’m just emptying
the dustbin
of my mind
before bed.
can’t sleep with that shit inside me.
A thing about the thing
about seeing yourself
is that you have to see yourself
from the outside
but we can’t.
We can’t.
A comedian can never laugh at the joke they tell
the way we do.
Dave Gilmour once said
I will never understand the beauty
of
Pink Floyd
because,
I’m Dave Gilmour.
The creator can never see the beauty of their creation
the way we do.
I would never want to be
say
Chuck Berry
but
I sure as sugar would like to be there
the first time
he played a new song
to
twelve people.
The beauty of
Art
is creating it
but it’s true beauty
is being there,
when they first do it
or show it
or present it
and
hope
and hope
and
hope
that someone
digs this weird shit they have created.
And then one dances like an absolute lunatic
for forty five minutes
and after
the band are like
dude
thanks for dancing like a lunatic for forty five minutes
that’s
what our set was meant for.
An Artist
has no idea
how their art will be received,
until it is received.
I like being the receiver.
When we go to sleep
off our tits
and we sleep so easy
and so quick.
do we
help ourselves
are we
obliterating our pain
for an exchange of a peaceful night’s sleep?
or is it bad
to get fucked off your tits
for a brief moment of silence?
I can’t always go to gigs,
how else do I calm the savage breast?
I think of Bukowski
sat in the chair
bottle of booze
Classics on the radio
hot as hell
window open
neighbours screaming
cat on his lap
cigar in his mouth
typewriter
and a
blank
piece
of
paper.
Heavenly dreams
are
Hell for others
you may be gone
but your spirit lives on.
I hoist a Red Stripe
(pause typing to do said thing)
and will always tip thee the nod,
good sir.
I don’t know
if I scream inside my head anymore.
I know I still do
obvs to be honest
but I hear it less
when I do it.
I once screamed so much
inside my own head
the only escape
was dead.
I’m a thousand
lesson learnt
years since yonder
but the screaming?
the banshee never stops screaming,
no matter how many distance yonder
and quieter in the depths.
It hurts
that the screaming
doesn’t hurt like it used to
but it’s nice,
that the banshee
is distantly banished.
AM I CONNECTED TO THE REST OF THE WORLD?
You look
for a connection
you write some words
reply to a comment
send someone
a poem
It’s what you give
what you are
and sometimes,
a reply would be nice.
an unsolicited message
a ‘thank you’
anything
to make one feel connected
to the rest of the
threads of life
–
the pen flows smoothly
over the silken paper
as one scratches out
the pain of one’s heart.
It’s easy
to pen a painful poem
when the ink and paper
are being so smooth
But the scratching
and clawing
and the reason for the words
are never smooth.
–
these things aren’t done
for anyone else
they are
smoothly
painfully
expunged from our insides
to placate ourselves
It’s an overwhelming need
not a want:
we have no choice
But,
a simple acknowledgement
would be nice.
———————–
I don’t even know
what I’m screaming for any more
I don’t know what I need
what I want
who I am.
I just
do stuff
and keep going forwards
How loud
would you have to scream
before someone else heard?
even how much
before oneself heard?
what volume?
what decibels?
do we need to turn it up to eleven?
Am I screaming too loud?
are we all screaming?
am I the only one screaming?
are some of us screaming in harmony?
Why are we even screaming?
It can’t be a
default
defacto
destination
surely?
999
“what is your emergency, sir?”
“Yeah, I have too much happy and am about to explode.”
“No worries, sir, I’ve looked up your profile and we have a gentleman on our books full of depression dark sad but he saw Zep in ’75 and met Hendrix.
He will be there in ten minutes, feel free to give him both barrels of beauty.”
A fuck
of the shit
is that a
thousand poems
on beauty
pain
whatever
honest truth topic words
don’t even compare
to the tiniest slice of the knife.
Why isn’t the Happy
as easy to fix
as the Sad?
——————
I miss
the blood
I miss
the pain
I miss
how easy it used to be
to
satiate me.
I’m not allowed
to hurt myself anymore
I’m down with that
I’m groovy with that
but
hey
wait,
HOW DO I GET RID OF THIS SHIT?
I need an opposite
I can’t always write poems
I can’t always give beauty
I
I
I
How do I give all that pain
I used to give myself
to someone else
anyone else?
How much opposite can I give?
How much giving can compensate for the
AAAGHGHGHGHGH
truth be told?
NONE.
– here be diveth into the escape of poetry
Sometimes it hurts
not being rich.
How can one be
a Billionaire
and not give untold beauty
upon the world
The joy of being rich
is surely
the joy one can give,
with such wealth
You could make
a thousand people a day
happy
by giving them
some of your greenbacks
that you earn in interest
every hour.
When you are rich,
it is a piece of piss
to make somebody else’s life better.
remind me again
what they do with all that money?
Here’s a poem about screaming,
it’s called
‘Screaming’
it goes like this
scream
scream
scream
inside my own head
I scream
inside my own head
I’m screaming now
as I scream
on the typing
I’m screaming
screaming
can you hear me
I’m screaming
am I scream whispering
or am I shattering universes with my
screaming?
How loud am I screaming
how violent am I screaming
how calm is my screaming
who am I screaming at
why
who
what the fuck?
Oh yeah,
it’s just me
screaming inside my own head,
as usual,
but I just caught him at it
and remembered how much he does it
for the both of us
You have to dig
the part of you
that deals with your pain
by screaming
How I wish
I could murder thee.
slit they gizzard
puncture thy lungs
sever they artery
stab
stab
murder death kill
in brutal
and
violent
angry
savage
primordial soup
anger
neanderthal brutality
Jack the Ripper?
Pussy unto what I wish befall myself upon a moment.
How many
seven levels of hell
have I beaten upon myself
and nary a scratch,
‘cept upon the paint work?
over time
it becomes easy
not wanting to murder oneself
one learns to deal
but the other
the freedom
the relief
the release
the escape
the momentary FOCUS
like no other
that
that
is why I wish
I could murder thee.
One day
the doorbell will ring
it will be the answer
it will be the parcel
it will be the delivery
it will be
you take the box inside
you unwrap
unwrap
unwrap
slice the tape
open the box
excitement beyond dreams
you open
the ultimate present
peer inside the box
trepidation
excitement
what is it?
*BLAM*
The box is empty.
it’s just yourself inside.
Thy beauty
before thou slumbers
must be uttered,
lest thy sleep
less loved
What you could do is
rip out your heart
your lungs
your spleen
your insides
your intestines
rip out all your guts
and
SPLAT
them on the floor
and trample on them
stomp them
crush your own insides
under your own
jackboot
or
you could
erm,
well,
do the same thing
mentally
in reverse
We murder ourselves
no matter the
circumstance
or outcome
our true pain
is our own
eventual
self death
wishes are for fishes
but if i were a fish
i’d wish for another fish
to swim alongside me
upstream
against all the tyrants
all the bigots
all the hatred
all the anger
we’d burst upstream
into the cool
still
waters of a vast lake
surrounded by mountains
alone
together
in the stillness
of that lake
just two little fishes
watching the world go by
and the occasional touch of a scale
here’s a poem
it’s called
how not to murder yourself
step one
you have too many words left
who to give them to
I know
I’ll send such and such
oh no, they haven’t read my last one from three months ago
it’s cool
no worries
I’ll just send
oh wait I can’t,
the emotions I had were for one particular person
but they obviously don’t care
I have no where else
to get rid of these emotions
is it knife time?
oh wait,
I’m a poet,
here be escape words
But sometimes you tell me things
and say things
lovely things
weird things
beautiful things
about me
and I don’t….
Hey,
not my problem.
you’re the one that’s friend’s with a Poet
the screaming never stops,
it just changes its voice
one day,
you won’t be able to do this:
the ritualistic nature of movement
will elude you.
the grace
the elegance
the dance of the words
and the patterns
and the spirals
they will tremble away
as you shake yourself to sleep
alone
peaceful in your bed
for one last journey into the psychedelic of being a fucking human.
I don’t have any inside,
the screaming has
I dunno
gone outside?
got a bus to town
taken a fucking holiday
pissed off down the pub
lurking like Kato in a cupboard
but
it’s nice when one’s inside mind isn’t trying to escape from itself.
it’s kinda nice that.
just the calm of yourself and yourself and
neither fighting
neither arguing
neither even ticking the other one off
and certainly
oh my goodness gracious, sir
oh no
no
absolutely no
SCREAMING
(we gave him his own line
we put him in caps
but those things denote
silence)
We are at one
when nobody is doing the
S
word
– – –
beheaded by punctuation
Love is an angel
love is a demon
love is a stranger
love is in the air
love is all around
Is it?
love is a battlefield.
like yer thinking
Pat
but how
how do you mean that?
I wonder if we differ?
I fear
’tis a sword too sharp for me ever to wield
it will just have to
seep out
when no one is looking
spread amongst
so many
so many
so many
stretch it out enough
scatter it
here
and
there
when even oneself isn’t looking
it’s fine
a bit here
a bit there
none of it is singular
it’s not enough
for any
individual
to think the loaded gun is pointed at them
it is too sharp a weapon
to ever be held aloft
in such a way
by one such as
I
God’s finest gift,
Satan laughs in delight,
is a sword so sharp
even he whispers to himself,
“And they call me the bad guy…”
here’s a poem about
nothing
it has
nothing
in it
nothing
to say
nothing
big
nothing
clever
nothing
even slightly interesting
nothing to do with anything else
no
connections
no
reason
no
rhyme
no
why the fuck did you write that pile of nothing?
why oh why of why
write
nothing?
Why?
dunno anymore.
i started writing words but then got rid of all my reasons for writing words by asking why i’m writing nothing
One should never look
too closely
it’s all
muck and pain and dirt and agony and loneliness and emptiness
and
dirty.
I shouldn’t wallow
in
melancholy sadness
but when the Earth herself
knits you clothes made out of
sadness,
what else would one wear?
I shouldn’t look too close
but I do
for want of the faintest whisp of connection
anything between myself
and
life
Sometimes you wake up
and the battle’s already begun
“I take it were fighting today?”
you wearily ask.
“Damn straight, bitch,”
One’s brain replies.
And the two armies clash
on a battlefield
littered with the corpses
of a lifetime of skirmishes
In a war both sides know
can never be won.
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