MY BLOG WAY, DONT TELL ME WHAT TO DO ITS MY GRAMMER MY WAY

CURRENT-

SEA WAVE

 

He gripped the rubber coolant band

And sipped fom his well staired coffee

cupThe wounds on his back/bottom were

Roaring red like a severe sunstroke but

this was below the skin he sat upright

behind his blacked-out curtains.

 

Allergic to the sun, his bedsores 

began To calm with the coolant crème 

put on By the care givers who called 

four times a day, he felt his wounds 

were leathered tethered he thought in 

Art-music-poetry

Like Icarus who flew to close to the sun

He flew to close Event horizon darkness

      Within dark the Tao- true pathway

 So he thought but he wasn’t going to

shove his view down your throat.

Like the hide of pigskin, he wrote

In a collection called ‘Kill House'.

He lived for his image poeartry as

He called it. Although his bedsores -

Were bedsore his filthy real poems

Gave him hope in a hopeless world.

Man-shell.

 

A massive stroke left him this way

Paralyzed- flat on my back like a gang

of four Paralyzed-damaged goods at

Least I’m not a silly TRIVIAL pop song

He thought, I would hate that.

 

I-car-us poetry made me whole

                 

Black-hole.

 

THE DREAM OF BEING ALIVE



Over the past ten years or so


with the help of great writers like

Ray Carver, Fernando Pessoa

And the later works of Kavanagh

Keats and Lowell, I have learned

to accept my aloneness.



I have learned to struggle with life

and death and stare death straight

in the eye deal with suicidal tendencies.

A BLOG OF POEMS: THE WRITE HEMISPHERE

a fox looking at a fox by a fox

REARVIEW

 

What a way to start your day

With Lou Read looking out

For you, ‘I’ll be your mirror’.

 

Fly away on his dirty Blvd.

You don’t need a busload

Of faith to get by. I’ll keep

 

Your graveside clean Lou.

LINGUEST( HONOUR)

Kayto came from Japan to fix

The fault, electronics engineer.

We sat around a long table. Him

At the top me at the bottom,

Kayto and I got on like a fire

We didn’t need language.

The English ass hole said it was

My fault, Kayto stood up like

A Basho figure said foxy no go

And sacked the English asshole.

Took me to the tabletop and we

Sorted Iit out. It’s been thirty years

Since I remembered this, here’s

To you Basho a solder splash.

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CURRENT-SEA WAVE OF POETRY

 

 

He gripped the rubber coolant band

And sipped from his well-stained coffee

cupThe wounds on his back/bottom were

Roaring red like a severe sunstroke but

this was below the skin he sat upright

behind his blacked-out curtains.

 

Allergic to the sun, his bedsores 

began to calm with the coolant crème 

put on by the caregivers who called 

four times a day, he felt his wounds 

were leathered.tethered he thought in 

Art-music-poetry.

Like Icarus who flew to close to the sun

He flew to close Event horizon darkness

Within dark the Tao- true pathway

 So he thought but he wasn’t going to

shove his view down your throat.

Like the hide of pigskin, he wrote

In a collection called ‘KILL HOUSE’.

He lived for his image poe-artry as

He called it. Although his bedsores -

Were bedsore his filthy real poems

Gave him hope in a hopeless world.

 

                  Man-shell.

 

A massive stroke left him this way

Paralyzed- flat on my back like a gang

of four Paralyzed-damaged goods at

At least I’m not a silly trivial pop song

He thought I would hate that.

 

I-car-us poetry made him whole

                 

                    Black-hole.

 

 ri

ART

 

My pomes don’t have an agenda

I’m the only person in the world

You can trust.

 

My mind is blank of

Love and hate

Right-wrong

Good and evil.

 

Words are like

Petal flower

Creating blooms

Without emotion.

 

Drink, piss

Eat, shit.

Use energy

Sleep.

 

Art comes from in-

Side, out.

AUGUST1994

A SONG

 

The gardener awoke after years of depression

And looked to the clear blue sky above him.

Slipped into his cold black wellington boots

With the butt of his spade he dug up the roots.

 

The nettle that stings he tore from the ground

The thistle that thorns he dragged from the mound.

My god, what a nightmare where have I been

Pain shot through his heart recalling the hatred.

 

He threw it to compost, saying the garden is sacred

His scythe he took up and cut through the grass like

A high wind tearing flags from half-mast, as he

Reached near the soil, the grass was lush

He sat down remembering his mother’s touch.

DEATH IS MY LIFE BEFORE APHANTASIA

 

 

I have been living this morbid hell for ten years now

Trying to find some meaning in this dark matter.

I can’t comprehend why I am still here, why didn’t

They just let me die, you have to have something

To give something to life and these words are all I’ve got

And they are meaningless, I’ve writ them over and over

And over again.  Looking at them from every angle but

I still come up with the same conclusion, why.

 

Can you imagine living without dreams or memory?

The world has nothing to do with you, you are lost

In the void of a moment, the world rotates out there.

There is no God, ghosts or angels, manifestations by

 Imagination there’s no Jesus fairytale or Mickey mouse

Or Santa's imagination is created from dreams.

 

There’s only you lost within the four walls of a dis-

Abled bungalow.  The fabric of life, you're general-

Relativity that bends and curves your space-time.

I live in this real reality, the first time I did this

It was exciting to be alive forming words to form

In a formless mind and truly amazing that I woke

From death but these words are written years on.

 

 

Like living in a suicidal moment, you can’t commit it

Because it’s all you have and you have no right to

Kill nature’s time because it’s locked into you.

It gets so sad and lonely in this world, the world

Outside my time doesn’t seem to understand

It’s like life without the crunchy bits of life like

Love, lust, desire, etc., the uncontrollable urges.

Life without an adrenaline rush, I can’t really explain

This is because it is me.  I had spunk in abundance

Before the stroke that stole my memory.

 

Not the substance of spunk but the attitude, and emotion.

I’m locked in here without memory until the day I die

I live in a negative capability, so if you can think like me

From the only way around.  Suicide is life, darkness with-

In the darkness that we I will accept someday.

Seems you can’t live without a little bit of bullshit

I’ll get there one day or time will kill me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hello It's Me

So What

The Velvet Underground - Im Gonna Move Right In

NUKED NOURISHMENT

 

I sink my breakfast dishes

and nuke my Sunday lunch.

I'm trying to find depth in

my poem's, to bring them

alive and break free of my

syndrome.  I've watched T.V.

browsed social networks

and read books waiting for

inspiration to jump of the page.

 

But as Wallace Stevens said

' the theory of poetry is the

theory of life'.  Tucking in-

to my nuked lunch knowing

that life is in the ordinariness,

and the magic of space

and time isn’t in a spectacular

landscape sweeping down

to a stunning sea.  Time is

in this nuked nourishment

and space is inside me.

 

 DROP JAW-LENSKY

                       GLOWING EDGES

 

Jamal Khashoggi's body parts 

'found in well’ ( Spiritus Mundi )

 

 

Turning and turning in the widening gyre   

The falcon cannot hear the falconer.

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere   

The ceremony of innocence is drowned.

 

They’re all at it, crimes against humanity. Put-in

Bid-en and Bo-Jo and all the O- ant crew anagram

They crawl our skin and turn into one million of them.

In-sects, we live in a world where you can’t trust no-one.

This is the Last resting place of Jamal Khashoggi, well.

 

Barbecued like a cut of meat roasted in the well.

Can you stomach this, all for the few bob in your sky-

Rocket taking you to the outer reaches of humanity.

 

Boys with tea towels on their heads red and white

Mopping up the blood. I watched it and couldn’t believe

a human being could stoop this low. A man who hails religion,

if I atheist was there my head would be chopped off.

 

His last words were ‘I love you Hatise, you are a true

in-tell-ectual journalist. ‘I thought Jamal would do something

good for humanity’, instead he was butchered cleaved up.

Trump said I’m concerned, I don’t like hearing about it, it

Will sort itself out, I do not like it and he walked away.

 

 We are in uncharted territory on the tipping point

Humanity swept under the Persian rug a tapestry of terrible-

Beauty is here. All that’s left is a black stained fingerprint

The killers are tea cozied deep in the tea towel brigade.

 

We are hacked in a hacked world, once Pegasus gets in

To your phone its game over, hasn’t a look in, or has it?

A bag was put over his head bone saw meat, barbeque.

 

Trump, ‘will anyone ever know’, sh-ite dissidents?

Put the tea cozy on, Hatise, broken but proud,

‘the truth always wins’, hope.

                                                              THE RESIDENT 

ISSUE 1.                                                                                                    APRIL 2022

POETRY LIKE SUNSHINE IS FREE

                                            IMAGE BY MARION CLARKE

Nonchalant, no-

Men-clature, uk-rain

Streets have no name.

ROSS WILSON FOTO

SUSAN FARRELL

AMOS GREIG

Hello friends. I had some great news yesterday. My collection QUICKSILVER has been accepted for publication by Lapwing, an independent press in Belfast. I completed the collection two years ago, then shelved it due to faltering confidence and various domestic crises which I won’t go on about here.

I’m hugely delighted by this news, and want to thank Peter Pegnall for reading Quicksilver and supportively putting me in touch with Dennis Greig at Lapwing. Dennis is a courageous publisher who is struggling with cancer. He has been magnificent in his immediate acceptance of the book, as well as the speed with which he has *already* begun work on its publication.

I’ll keep you posted on progress, and post a cover image when that emerges. I love Lapwing’s logo — such a cheery, purposeful, spirited bird.

FOXY WAS ERE