..Irish Poet & Percepts

Post Crosshairs

2011-12-31T14:39:00.000Z

being a dictator
is like being a rock star
short sharp bursts of success
feted by world leader groupies
all chasing after the spotlight
then it turns to just guns
you lie there post crosshairs
they exude the same satisfaction
whether you are living or dead
truth reality honour
irrelevant to the political scum

Poem - The Cello

2011-08-06T23:38:00.004+01:00

I did my best to play it at my chin

the big fiddle they gave me

I really did

and then some idiot said

hey asshole, it is a cello

you play it on the ground

In true irish fashion he got a slap in the mouth

Not for what he said

but the way that he said it, with no manners

But inside I was gutted

to have tried to play the thing on my shoulder for so long

banging my head against the wall and all the world laughing

not that I give a fuck about them

but inside there is just this little tiny spark of self esteem left

things I know I can do

if I could only ever get a chance

with music or words

or a woman

if only

if only mf

but all the time it gets more simple

and more complicated...

Poem - The Incessant Bell

2011-08-03T14:10:00.004+01:00

the bell was ringing incessantly

what could it mean

a bomb – surely no, Gerry is here

but shit, the conspiracy theorists

a fire,

I smell no smoke

home time – couldn’t be already

tea time – that must be it

I might go down to the canteen, sorry,
the Members dining area

and get a cup of tea and a kit kat

I wonder when there will be a vote

about something

these boyos don’t do much here

ah well €8,234.28

not bad for a month
.
..
_____________________________________
Background: extract from a story yesterday relating to TD voting patterns...
Kerry South Tom Fleming, a new TD, only voted on six of the 20 occasions he was signed in.

But last night he said it took him a few days to understand that the bells that ring around Leinster House before votes were for calling TDs to the chamber..

A Poem - The Hour Of The Creative

2011-06-26T23:18:00.004+01:00

The hour of the creative

somewhere between dark and light

all the worker drones gone to bed

to dream of their transient security and boring lives

the ghoulish creatives soar

on cheap wine or homegrown drug

wrestling poems or their own poison from the Muse

parading their mad maker gene on a global stage

intellectual fucking with creative brothers or social sisters

all to the beat of Mussorgsky’s Golitsïn's Exile

each calling to their own particular diaspora
help me - buy me - sell me - steal me

the alternating current

of creative poverty

I’m rich - I’m poor - I’m rich..

meanwhile back @ the homegrown drug factory...

Land of the Thief ..Home of the Killer

2011-06-13T21:32:00.009+01:00

are you an American female
playing with your goldfish

or your manicured dog

or neurotic pussy

meanwhile they jail the student poet.. Ayat al-Gormezi*

in Bahrain, for speaking her mind

of course the 5th Fleet is there

don't make waves, don't mention it

it is our little dirty dictatorship

yet the goldfish need fed

a major distraction away from global ‘affaires’

except I don't really care anyway

I'm an american

and a professional ignorer of truth
perhaps married or dating

an indiscriminate killer and thief (overseas)
where the most lucrative killing and stealing is

I might even qualify as a moran...
that's moran not mormon

except moran is an Irish name, close but no cigar

moron it is.. I'll say it slow.. m o r o n....

they're embargoed anyway.. cigars...

for ideological reasons

thought police, yeah right, it's only the 21st Century

land of the thief

home of the killer

but go delude yourselves

in your 1.6 suburban home

and 2.4 snotty fatty children

(the point 4 is the fat factor

A Poem - Dripping Goodbye

2011-06-12T14:58:00.002+01:00

I left the house like aliens took me

what a mess, papers, notes,

half eaten poems

dirty dishes, wine bottles..

and an unmade bed

the shape of her there still

the peaks and troughs of passion

clear to me in the disarray

echoes of her cries pasted on my wall

the warmth of her body hanging there
in the ice of my mind..

dripping goodbye

A Poem - yankee americans

2011-04-17T16:17:00.000+01:00

emulating the hordes of Genghis Khan

yankee americans leaving nothing

only a plague of ideas behind

brute strength and a stupid jesus

following along like a half wit

picking in the craters

for bits of people to save

buy, steal, waste, consume..

21st century locusts

welcome to their hell

. inevitably we will all walk in their hell..

Under the NATO Mat

2011-04-17T13:31:00.000+01:00

like an old john wayne film
dictator roulette
now divided into
the good dictator and the bad dictator
based on america's strategic interest or money
or what israel wants
and is prepared to pay decent bribes for
or throw a tantrum, whatever works best
the not so chosen on the floor of the world
their jackboots kicking inadvertently at the little Palestinians
the brutality and inhuman treatment hidden in the rising dust
uncle america saying.. they'll grow out of it
they're still a young country
collaterally it is relatively acceptable
focus on the money friends
hide it under the Nato mat

The Retired Dragon

2011-01-03T20:14:00.005Z

The retired dragon looked longingly at his toes
and the retracted webbing
never to fly again

in the swirls and twirls of love’s chase
the red eye covered with the patch of alone
the spark of his flame now quickly extinguished

bound on this moribund ground

trudging towards his final mountain cave

and the bones
of Her…

there…

Image Courtesy of Mark Behm..
http://www.markbehm.com/blogger/

___________________________________________________________________________

Oh god ;-) Another Multiverse Morning

2010-12-27T00:28:00.000Z

Oh god ;-) another multiverse morning

I was all over the place
have to stop the drink
running around in concentric circles
colliding with every idiot bubble on the street

Better to live alone

invite around a bunch of vacua friends from time to time

have some almost spontaneous fun

the last three of these Events we found ourselves

all over the place as usual
rising up to the looping old nightmare
booked, bailed and berated
sick of being imprinted

every year inflated fines
no concrete prediction of release
an expanding problem, we could all see

so back to the vacua hacienda
lock the fucking doors stay in our own little universal multiverse

ignore the inhomogeneities and the rising temperatures
and polarization on the street
phenomenologically that might be contradictory
and contain some little Swiss cheese sized discontinuities
ah jesus, there’s the Gaussian bell, it’s probably late
rambling now through the wild theoretical field
succinctness never resonating high enough to hear it

like a hole in the bog, a void full of primordial waterness
it looks flat enough to walk on
I wish, in another multiverse...

_______________________________

Background: I read an article, via Yun Wang on fb... Observing the Multiverse
and so the lines of this poem occurred to me... it is meant to be frivolous.. before the physicists attack.. :-)

The Dead Scarecrows

2010-12-26T23:19:00.001Z

scarecrows are a dying breed

the genuine hand made scarecrow
flapping enthusiastically and humming in the wind
stumbling home you hear their keen...
and shiver
nightmare lurking in the long shadow
you see it in your mind
and then...
the moon hides the horror
you glance behind in that last ½ mile
waiting for the grip of boney fingers on your soul
all the Shadows are dead heroes

not finished fighting and killing
any meager meal of blood
a feast in their famine

Shark Fin Bags

2010-08-22T14:15:00.007+01:00

little bags
carried on their backs
like shark fins
their owners cruising for victims
in the upmarket bars
gold Armani blood attracting the pack
the universal currency of cruelty
the poor petty poet
invisible in inadequacy
repelling the rapacious timidly
though the smell of fame attracts
royalties registering relentlessly
kudos collated carelessly
another head for the shark-set wall
delicately dripping blood words
in defiance of the pervasive posturing

Medjugorje & Mary

2010-08-09T12:36:00.009+01:00

I went to Medjugorje on business
next thing there was Mary
at my elbow – oh jesus
all I need is to be popular

with the catholics

I had to ask her
Mary, is it true you are a virgin ?
I knew the minute she blushed

the bible / catholic version was a little... fabricated,
Ok ok next question,
Why all this sneaking about ?
call CNN and go global
people in Gaza need some help

you dudes are in an LA type of heaven
sipping a nice wine and saying WTF about earth

fuck them, this is heaven what do we care.

let the weak weaken and the strong strengthen

as for the meek, they don’t matter, do they Mary… ?

yeah.. blood is still red in Gaza...

The Creative Sea

2010-06-06T08:37:00.001+01:00

I sat up on the hill at Cullamor
surrounded by a handful of cattle
watching the rain being made
I could see a rainbow 30 miles away
and the skift of a shower
over beyont Tedavnet
now and then Monaghan Cathedral
reared its ugly head from disgrace
I could hear the wind in the Freestate forest
tickling, teasing, tantalizing my mind
lulling me, lolling me out on the creative sea

Pirate Banks

2010-06-06T08:14:00.002+01:00

i got a bank statement today
with a skull and crossbones on it
i did not even check it
since i know they would be robbing me
...fuckers
resigning myself to financial dyslexia
i vowed to feck off to a poor country and be poor
among the poor,
since... money is an evil thing
better for us not to count
forment a small revolution
little by little re-introduce the 47
rob the odd unprotected bank,
silently, carefully, without fanfare...

and so more of the same.... :-(

2010-01-01T00:00:00.002Z

I am struggling with the militarism, fascism and conservatism of this century and the allied death and suffering in the context of 1st world technological abundance... Quo Vadis in this... The Year of the Refusnik?

On the Boulevard du Montparnasse

2009-12-31T23:59:00.003Z

On the Boulevard du Montparnasse

in Café Richard

like a busy wake
the hubbub of conversation

rising to the height of the evening

such a perfect place for a poet
the words of a symphony

enjoyed uninterrupted

thoughts spilling out across the street

the biker girl, the pet rat on her neck
her ‘petite amie’ unhappy at something imagined

only I alone, all around the families, the couples

racing to speak the notes carrying me aloft

echoes of the wandering soul, living for life

At the rooftops the lights of eternal Paris

illuminate my mind and I am now alive…

A Dying Society

2009-12-31T23:58:00.006Z

alone on a plane

of a couple of hundred

I feel no empathy in their fear of turbulence

or remorse for if/when we crash

the noise of their pathetic little screams

shrill in their minds

clamouring for more material things

trampling the poor in their rush to buy

picking over the wreckage of their lives

odd bits recycled

from the bones and flesh

of a dying society

My Silence

2009-12-28T17:37:00.010Z

I need my silence
to chase after words
in their mind
like a greasy shadow in a doorway
half glimpsed
half grappled
half grabbed
light disrupts
the shadow obscured
in that moment of loss,
anger...
no relief..
only a death...

The Days Run Away... after Bukowski

2009-12-27T13:06:00.001Z

.

"the days run away like wild horses over the hill" Bukowski

you look up and you're 30 and married
40 and you're divorced
50 and alone
this is good, you start to count lines
hoard the days
focus on the art, the wind,
the way a bird turns its head to look
you find yourself doing that
looking at it
with the one good poet's eye
part of it makes sense
the madness of the world
as you pass observing, recording, distilling
an objective subjective perspective

@ the Crossroads

2009-11-30T23:59:00.007Z

endless streams of ant people
out of a Jonas womb
the bedraggled poets recording
the creative, the talented, the ugly
the cruel, the devils, the angels
angels are the worst
you get distracted for a minute
or a month, seasons kaleidoscope
fast forward life to the usual ending
"I'll love you with all my heart"
at least until Tuesday...

The Artists

2009-11-30T23:59:00.005Z

the artists there on the landscape
planted like drunken vines
some painting
some wandering
some sobbing
but out on the fringe of civilization
the wild ones
their mad colour mirage wavering
chasing their dream

Ice Broken

2009-11-24T16:18:00.001Z

Pamela, Rachel,
funny fundamental mistake,
she thought about it,
not being Pamela for a moment,
then maybe,
then not,
we laughed..
ice broken,
I fell in
.
.

Heart Jingle

2009-11-24T16:15:00.003Z

girls love poetry
it’s great place to put your heart
girls like to look at a heart
from different angles
see does it tick
see does it bleed
see does it jingle
no jingle
they lose interest
.
.

The Barrett Light 50

2009-10-31T22:23:00.007Z

The Barrett Light 50
has an effective range of about a mile
a mile is a real good distance for a head start
and reasonably dispassionate...
why is it called fifty ?
when you're hit you explode into fifty pieces
well maybe if you happen to have a penchant for a little Raufoss
no, it's simply a 50mm bullet, you know like a .45 or a .38
or if you want to be picky about the imperial ...a 9mm
the 50 makes a mess of bystanders clothes
trainee medical personnel are not fond of it
the result is pin-up material in the morgue, unofficially...

Obviously amateur rioters know nothing about 50's
take for example Burma, Tibet
or all the little statelets propped up by a corrupt America
even Teheran, here it's a theatrical production
teeshirted they throw bottles and stones, pretend they're angry
go home, watch tv, surf the net, twitter a little go to bed
but if they were serious about change
then a half a dozen history changers, about 50k US, ironically...
well maybe not, on the black nearer 100...
every country should have some
.
..
_____________________________________________

on this the Day of the Dead... it is appropriate for political contrariness to talk, maybe even celebrate death. What is it but just another approach to life. It comes to us in many guises, some expected some not.. Death by shooting, once a popular pastime, here in North Ireland, (and probably again) is normally fairly instant.

a convoluted solution to political problems is the M82, aka The Barrett Light 50.

mañana o el día de hoy

2009-10-12T23:35:00.004+01:00

on the tropical breeze
my ocean raft floats in the bay
the blue blue moon on her skin
a paradise of sorts
the waterfall of emotions
long held by grey days alone
cascades in my mind
I am a lily floating on a foaming sea
far from the land of mediocrity
carpe diem quam minimum credula postero*

________________________________________
*from the Odes by Quintus Horatius Flaccus, (Venusia, December 8, 65 BC – Rome, November 27, 8 BC... aka Horace.
approximately... Seize the day, trusting as little as possible in the future

j'regrette....tout

2009-08-16T03:15:00.001+01:00

once upon a regret
it was all poison
straight up on the rocks
just a drop in every day...

for the ..Chicas..

2009-06-20T02:03:00.005+01:00

holy jumping jesus
sister sitting smoking smoldering
blowing me messages maybe
the red of her habit haunting me
at the cross of her crossroads I stand
with my nails
chasing all of her, names in the dreams,
the holy ghosts stalking them
the Rosarians, the Sister-hoods,
not praying, not staying
not teasing just weaving
stories in pictures
faith the message
the Sisterhood Supreme....

An Empty Puppet

2009-05-18T00:38:00.004+01:00

I hold the supple skin of your middle,
firm..
as you dance your firedance,
I lose myself in your circle
and we become as one.
The weaving of my bones to the night,
I wait on the whim of your star
standing in my lone heart shoes.
The colours of your aura
imprinted on my mind.
I dance the steps of the possessed
and I fall down
down.
An empty puppet
loves lost strings tangled and torn

__________________________
once upon a time there was this girl and she learned to firedance in Cambodia... and well that's that...

The Anchor... after Nesrin Eruysal

2009-05-04T01:15:00.007+01:00

and the anchor called...
follow me
tempted I moved to the edge......
familiar territory...
a dark sea foreboding
a calm blue water inviting
the ongoing dichotomy
the Y of my life, my death
floating there, beckoning
I descend, down, into a new realm
above the vague shapes of a past life,
fragments, fading,
in this chosen death I am slave and master
face to face with a past and a beginning..
the easy way out, to jump again...
into the swirling blue of tomorrow,
tomorrow....

____________________

..on Facebook, meandering among the 200 million Nesrin Eruysal told me;- The name Ankara (the capital city of Galatians) comes from the word 'Ancyra', which means 'anchor.' ... hey much thanks Nesrin.... freed from the chains for a little while...

The Print Dress

2009-05-04T00:53:00.008+01:00

a print dress
in a cottage window
nice colours, patterns reds blacks
but what do I know about dresses
except taking them off
and even then
manys a half off situation
love / life half off
most of nearly everything the same
it becomes a habit
the fun is in the imagining the off
then in a fast lane the dresses coming thick and fast
one day you wonder what did I do to deserve this
like it was bad
the money flowing
the girls wowing
then the dresses fading
their print pattern turns to greys
I struggle to pick the correct image from the line up

Where are you guilty ?
own up, step forward

your bright brand new best cleavage in the spotlight
like an old war movie
we stand transfixed
focused on the cleavage
as if it was the first one we’d seen
maybe it was...
the perfection,
the angle of reveal
the SeXquotient
all adding up to additional sin
so where now god ?
here, have some additional
the cleavage is on the house…

_________________________
It really happened, I was driving along the road and saw this dress hanging in the window of a house on the edge of the road, bright colours like stop lights @ a railroad crossing.... so there I was, drawn to it magpie like... trying to / hoping to dodge the train... *laughs*

talibanesque Fianna Fail

2009-04-29T22:12:00.008+01:00

f**k Dermot Ahern and the god he rode in on... ;-)

(please add Seán Ardagh to that as well...)

believe it or not this idiot is proposing a

Crime of blasphemous libel

http://www.irishtimes.com/newspaper/frontpage/2009/0429/1224245599892.html

at every opportunity I will blaspheme away to my heart's content so yous are wasting your time lads.... after that I'll have to resort to the gun... err that might be a crime to say that...

ROFFL
Drax

Desires after "Desires" by Ainhoa

2009-03-01T23:09:00.010Z

in the sky, the underworld and the sea
the horn of Poseidon calling to her
away to the deep, as Amphitrite...
in coral and gems sparkling
desire in her eyes and the turn of her head
...away
but there in the forgotten
...he
a soul cast off
drifting in the sea of alone
the tear a deluge
...he
drowning in the deep of despair...

______________________________

thanks to Ainhoa for the inspiration and the permission to use this image...
See more of her work here

The Moan of the Pine

2009-02-24T01:21:00.003Z

the almost silent moan of the pine
passed to the excited sycamore
it’s leaves flapping
with news of the wind
and so to the garrulous ash
half dead leaves reanimated
rushing off cackling and cracking
dancing in swirls and twirls
like old ghosts no one fears

____________________________________

at my old place I have these pines and late on a moonlight night the ghosts gather...

Been a while folks...

2009-02-09T00:36:00.003Z

Been a while folks... moved countries, again! now back in good old wet Ireland but next on the list is south by way of Paris, Italy and then...

If..

2009-02-09T00:29:00.002Z

Intro

Valentines Day focuses on the boy or girl that has a boy or girl... the lonely hearts are in the wings, wilting, waiting, wishing....

if I was a bird
you are the colour on my wings
if I was a fish
you are the rainbow on my back
if I was the land
you are the flower growing in me
if I was a star
you are the light shining from me
if I was a song
you are my music
if I was that boy
you are my girl
if
if only
if only

Poem - Freedom Factories !

2008-03-23T05:31:00.012Z

China... build some freedom factories

60 years of persecution in Tibet

All the little statelets afraid,

counting their pieces of silver

How to build truth

Is everybody bought

little shiny trade beads

Dangled worthless, like a dead president

.. hanging, shot, poisoned.. pick one god..

..
________________________________

obviously :-) this referred to Bush... he was a total warmonger... ..Obama talked a good game but alas is heading the same direction... :-(

and so 2008

2008-01-02T02:14:00.002Z

so january one..

I always like a new year as they give one the opportunity to wallow for a few days and imagine all the world as one etc etc.... then you get a letter from your bank or credit card company and you think was I smoking something or did I have a series of days in the pub.... oh, ok, not a bad idea... *laughs*

After having lived in America for a few years I think this is the essential difference between Irish and Americans , we look at it and think what about some R&R or it's too wet let's go to the pub... whereas Americans are always looking or rather standing around waiting for someone to erect a tent so they are not wet,,, this reminds of something by the late great charles bukowski, he said;-

"....Some poeple never go crazy, what truly horrible lives they must lead...."

So there it is for 2008, let's have a little crazy around here (America) folks... you are much too serious....,

one would think you were at war or something barbarian like that...

D

sharp shards of truth

2007-12-13T03:13:00.002Z

I dance the dance of the heretic flaunting the arrows in my back,
I see sunshine on grey days and know that I am a little god.
I see lines of life, of love, of death,
of rebirth, in stones and cloud shapes...
I stop to look and listen and in the moment the world moves.. without me,
in my mind the afterimage burned on my retina
to be sketched from a future memory
sharing the beauty of what the world tells all.
I wait for Her to bring me life capsules
gobbled greedily in many moments of scarce air.
Inside the truth of intonations echo bell like
the Muse tolling, scattering word petals for all....
her mannah sustaining long after passing..
the sharp shards of truth carried on....

Drax

Dead Arab Pie

2007-09-12T03:18:00.000+01:00

I went out for something to eat
on 9/11
they were serving dead Arab pie
the Americans didn't get it

look away

2007-08-31T18:24:00.000+01:00

america rotates at a different speed to the rest of the world, I suppose that's one of the reasons they are so 'confused' about the world and their role....

This is, ironically, a justification for not writing anything here for 5 or 6 months, I just wrote the previous entry, looked away for a moment and now it is the end of August.

I'll probably write a poem called Look Away to mark these months in the calendar of my life

ciao
Drax

Pot of Gold

2007-03-18T02:42:00.000Z

the Orthodox Jewish Leprechaun.
said no….
there is no way I am showing you
where the pot of gold is,
it is against my religion.

I guess
that kinda shatters that myth.

Poem - Sea Spirits ..after Philip Gray

2006-11-01T03:18:00.005Z

the wild sea stirs spirits
and they arise, friends and enemies,
wandering souls - drawn to me,
some perfectly preserved, smiling, in a happy death,
others, anger corrupting, suffering, grasping for life,
the horror of that goodbye - etched and echoed in silent anguish.
my sea captures moments, randomly replaying cries,
part heaven, part hell, a lover of torture,
fragments of lives float on a frothy sea,
I see scenes shown only to me,
I am of the dead - as I look upon souls,
lives lived in a moment of mist on a tall wave,
last emotions, tossed and tumbled in the spray of silent faces,
My sea, my sea, her rhythmic rise and swell calls to me,
join me, join me, be my lover, be as one with me,
let us ride the wild horse of captured souls,
and wander as the wind in seas of storm,

as ever,
I waver.

_______________________
Background:

after Living in the Moment - a Painting by Irish Artist Philip Gray

When I saw this painting by Philip Gray I saw the faces in the waves and they made me think of lost souls, angry at the sea taking them before they were ready. This is contrasted with those willing to die anytime, perhaps not eager, yet content in the sea's embrace.
The other strand is that of the moment, I believe that life is made of moments, each like an oasis. These moments carry you or sustain you on your journey. Standing at the rail of a ship there is always a moment for me when the sea is seriously seductive...

irish poet

america declares war on...

2006-11-01T03:15:00.000Z

america declares global war
...on dogs
bush says I love dogs but
the sanitation of this great country
is being threatened by dogs defecating
in the street
the security agencies have hard evidence
dogs digging urinating and barking

chezany says
americans can't sleep because of angry dogs barking
this is unacceptable
we will invade the world if necessary ..maybe

the media lapped it up
974,458 instances of the headlines "Dog Day Afternoon"
or "254 dogs die in daytona"
CNN-K9 close up shot of 'foreign looking' little old lady in tears
her dog and pups dragged off by hooded security personnel
probably to an island prison where she can't visit
pending a silent mock trial and noisy execution
meanwhile at the UN China said
dogs are a delicacy - this is diabolical
protest groups struggle still with the last century
protesting poor blacks poor unborns poor gays
poor everything except poor dogs

the NYT refuses to name source for secret dossier
showing plans to build a prison in china
where select dogs will be allowed to escape
and forced to run the chinese barbeque gauntlet

Google yields
...no answers

critics say
this will never work
the vets are not happy

dogs will unite
little old ladies will join the pet food militias
the world will laugh cry

meanwhile.. back at the ranch

the pet food manufacturer’s militia claim responsibility
for dumping dog shit in washington
anonymous tv ads say;-
look around
the smell is dog shit
not rotten politicians

Bloody Fingers

2006-11-01T03:09:00.000Z

Biserka reached for the knife
and we held our collective breath
stories of her temper legend
among the Bric a Brac
visions of filet fingers
this reunion perhaps a char-ade
to lure us to this deserted beach

Livelonger struggled to interpret her intentions
as he backed towards the door
then...
the phone rang
in a flash Biserka was chatting cheerily to a neighbour
the moment passed

but on dark winter nights in an alternative world
the deathly quiet of the cottage is disturbed
the winter waves whisper
Dobar tek! Dobar tek!
and rows of bloody fingers march in formation
on the chopping board
desno lijevo desno lijevo desno lijevo

______________________
Background: Another Hubpages top author, Livelonger published a Hub about a visit to Croatia and mentioned her aunt, Biserka, I hope she will forgive the poetic license..
Hubpages

Poem - Suicide Dogs

2006-11-01T03:08:00.000Z

the wind scream ruffled my hair
stopping me in my tracks
I whined almost incoherently
Overtoun Bridge called to me
I turned
the taste of the warm fire forgotten
a zombie dog I padded down
to the crack in the world
my humans oblivious to the wound
I offer my body to the dyke
though pained at the tag
..nameless suicide dog..

________________________
Background:
I read this story by Jimmythejock, a top author on Hubpages thejockspot suicidal dogs about the dogs jumping off Overtoun Bridge, hence this poem.. thanks Jimmy..
Hubpages

'Poem' - Nam-tor zherka na'nash-veh u'akanik

2006-11-01T03:05:00.000Z

Ish-veh ni komihn
Nash-veh la po. Nash-veh tvai-nam-tor u'ra.
Rubah -- gehnli tor-bosh t'ek'nam
Nam-tor kusut vel t'kashek. Kup-putash-tor kashek.
Pthak svi'zherka -- dan-karik heh dan-khrashik
Kup-fai-tor ri ruhm Vuhlkansular Ri-Fainu
Ma ri ni sanosh-yehat vah aitlu.
Nam-tor ri k'ozhika hi k'ashiv yeht.
Dakh orfikkel aushfamaluhr shaukaush fi'aifa mazhiv
Estuhl terrupik khaf - Suorek
Kling akhlami buhfik
Ozhika -- palik t'kau ri shaht

Dif-tor heh smusma, Suorek

'Poem' - Emotions are alien to me

That-one so human
Why am I here? What was I meant to be?
Change is the essential process of all existence
Pain is a thing of the mind. The mind can be controlled.
Fear amongst emotions: most strong and most violent
Not even Vulcans can know The Unknown
To have, not so pleasurable as to want.
Exists not with logic, but often true.
Our ancestors cast out their animal passions here on these sands
It touches your human blood, Suorek
Not one among us perfect
Logic is the beginning of wisdom not the end
Live long and prosper, Suorek

________________________
Background:

I read a Hub bt Suorek called The Vulcan Within Me I thought of the many things I want(ed) to be and how much solace there is in flights of fancy and in the layers of lives in the imagination. It made me think of Darkover and escape to the wonderful world of Cottman IV.

I thought a Vulcan poem would be appropriate, these lines are direct quotes retrieved from flight recorders..

T'Ish hokni'es kwi'shoret --

This consciousness calling to you from space . . .

Hubpages

Poem - Employease

2006-11-01T03:00:00.000Z

I'm going to work for Employease momma

oh no dear don't be taking your clothes off
..for money

no momma I would never, I said Employease
Employease is a software company
you know like for the internet

oh no thats worse it's all pornography

momma - you're reading too many magazines
they are just jealous and cannot accept their demise
the internet is not all pornography
and software is like rooms in a house
like the kitchen is for one thing
the bathroom is for another
Employease is pretty cool plumbing
imagine I'm going to be treated like a real person
and they're active in the community, helping people
they've won loads of awards
Momma I'm getting some stock and who knows
some big company might buy us
and you and I could retire

I am retired dear...

___________________________
Background:
I read recently ADP Buys Employease and they seem to be a very nice company, hence this poem.

Politicians Are Rotten

2006-11-01T02:57:00.000Z

(this is set post apocalypse)

the big chief grumbled.

I told you to scalp them
beside the redundant metro station,
then dump the bodies down the shaft.
now they're going to stink in a few days,
and, they're blocking the solar panels.

Can we not eat them a young brave asked her..

...silence

have you ever tasted Washington paleface, ?
they are totally rotten inside.

Lets leave them
and move west.
This place has bad spirits still.

Meanwhile back @ The Seminary

2006-09-17T02:11:00.000+01:00

the king of the church
and his prince’s princess in the bulletproof limo
a bit of ambivalence does no harm
only open to men mostly
the king rules unto death
only the princes are picked
they live in luxury and grandeur
each master of his little kingdom
progressive NOT
even the guards are stuck in 16 something
just like their guarded
pomp ceremony and 'dogma' fashion
meanwhile back at the seminary
fornicators in training
priest perverts in paradise

Background to Erotic Teacher

2006-09-02T19:18:00.000+01:00

A while back I was in a bar in Belfast and a woman in her late 30's was there at a crowded bar. She was wearing something that was pretty daring and was obviously a little uncomfortable... this to me was 'An Intonation'

The great Russian poet, Anna Akhmatova, said this about poets;-

....They sit and fish; perhaps once a century they will catch something. They mainly fish for only an intonation; everything else is there. Painters, actors, singers these are all professionals; poets are catchers of intonations. If a poet wrote a poem today he has no idea whether he will write one tomorrow or really ever again."

Erotic Teacher

2006-09-02T19:10:00.000+01:00

Daring enough to be noticed
The teacher temptress
Tall slim sweet sexy
Subtly erotic
The smooth swell of skin
A hint of hidden pleasures
Not on offer but available
The soft whisper of body language
Leading quietly to the sea
Where the rustle of silk
Rises and falls to the waves
Of abandonment
On an island of nakedness
Called desire
Teach me teach me
Teacher temptress
Till dawn sun sparkled sweat
Lies moist on your brow

Psychotic Teachers

2006-09-02T07:23:00.000+01:00

brothers doherty & mcfarland plus peter passmore
Psychotic psychos pretending to be teachers
Teaching fear
Teaching loathing
The sadistic pleasure plain
From the punch in the side of the head
The duster on the skull
Being hoisted by adolescent sideburns
Or them charging down the row at you
The sense of relief from the sacrifice of friends
Thank fuck it’s not me this time
Raging roaring belligerent bullies bastards
One good thing they’re all dead
Many of us have outlived them
Oh the lost opportunity to spit on their graves
Geography, Irish and English
The subjects sodomised
The knowledge of faraway places
The pride of our personal tongue
And the expressiveness of poetry
Buried in a school yard
Dug up now and used on them
like a rusty palette knife
smearing an incongruent colour
on the pristine canvas of their lives
……the poet’s revenge

Background to Psychotic Teachers

2006-09-02T07:21:00.000+01:00

I went to school in Omagh, Co Tyrone, Ireland run by the Christian Brothers, they were poorly named.

Brother Doherty taught Irish and he had a bad habit of throwing a wooden duster (blackboard eraser) ...not a nice experience in your teens.

The other was Brother McFarlane, he was worse, he taught English and his favourite trick was to physically lift you by the hair or else walk casually down the row and then punch you in the side of head when you were least expecting it. I wrote at this time but lost any spark of love of literature that was in me.

Passmore was a lay teacher, he taught geography, he was just a psycho.

Puffy Eyed People

2006-08-31T04:55:00.000+01:00

I 'heard' about The Poetry Bus via Google Alerts and when posting a comment saw this one;-

"..we’re rescheduling and relocating our family reunion. we’ll be the puffy people in bermuda shorts. bearing big tubs of potato salad.." from Clay Banes
__________________________
the lines of this poem occurred to me;-

puffy eyed people in potato salads
carrying a tub of bermuda shorts
rescheduling relocating reonions

meanwhile

..no officer it's incense
it keeps me calm when I drive
ok I will, thanks officer
..fuck that was close

where was I

poetry onions, the kind that make you cry
especially as the bus drives off
somewhere you're not
a portable poetry Woodstock
words on wheels
in your town tomorrow
drop everything
well.. not the Bermudas, they're breakable

god cheesecake

2006-08-31T04:46:00.000+01:00

mad cowboy disease ingredients
take one large piece of apathy
add a generous helping of vote stealing
mix gently bare faced and innocent
place in oven with lawyer liars and refuseniks
for 60 seconds
remove
spread on some god cheese
(careful scrape off the mould sonny)
bus in the illiterate
the 90% without passports
the gun toting sperm factory workers
and their anti stem cell pro-abortion union reps
transfer all to a medium sized washington bowl
stir with fawning civil servant spoons
take three times a day with anti truth vitamins
wash down with some stolen foreign oil
and a large helping of global domination pie
tastes gross
ah fuck
the god cheese was off
I suppose

No Barbers on the Moon (after John Boston)

2006-08-26T07:49:00.000+01:00

Nasa apparently 'lost' the original footage from the moon landing. John Boston wrote a hilarious article about it. This prompted me to write a little poem. I suggest you read his article first and then come back and read the poem, it'll make more sense then, maybe :-)

_______________________________

I didn't have time to go to the moon
I was busy getting my hair cut that day
anyway there was no room in apollo
they just about got Neil's head in
don't mention the word lobotomy
and the way the inside was all mirrored
people could get the wrong idea
I was stuck in an elevator with drywall once
I'll never forgive her

on the moon there's a smell of cow shit
you can't even take your helmet off
imagine waiting that long for a smoke
and not being able to take your helmet off
exit the sponsorship by Bud's Factory Smokers
so no tailored spacesuit for me
walk out on the tarmac looking like a fucking astronaut, no way
never mind posing with the softwarewolves on the moon
thankfully I'm not subject to national secrecy laws
am I, (nervously checking under the klingon christmas card)

so at long last
i can tell you the other steps were for mr johnston
when neil was a kid he was out eaves dropping one day
(the next door neighbours were newly married
and they 'talked' about 'interesting' things)
he heard mrs johnston say...
"oral sex, oral sex
you'll get oral sex when the boy next door walks on the moon"
he never forgot mr johnston
he sent him some film
just to prove the point

10 Ways To Make a Living as a Poet

2006-08-25T05:54:00.000+01:00

1. write poems for mega successful web sites

2. write zingy 'poems' for advertising

3. write poems for manufacturers

4. write custom poems for people sell to them via the web

5. collaborate with a songwriter, band, music publisher

6. hire an editor & publish your own book using POD technology

7. syndicate your poems with lots of small newspapers

8. get the base degree, the Masters, the phd & get a job teaching creative writing

9. after doing ALL of number 8 get the book published via your contacts

10. podcast and blog your poetry for free & depend on the collateral revenue

Elaboration
#1 write poems for mega successful web sites

As internet penetration increases and the web overtakes print media it is reasonable to postulate that major web sites will have their own poet laureates, i.e. a poet that writes exclusively for them. The poet will weave human and esoteric elements into the fabric of the site and chronicle its impact on users lives thus providing a historical snapshot.

#2. write zingy 'poems' for advertising

good advertising copy falls under the category of poetry, think of all those memorable lines you remember. Like Haiku if you can condense product attributes and benefits into a few words then start sending it to agencies.

#3. write poems for manufacturers

similar to writing for Ad Agencies except that you go direct to the manufacturer. Poetic form is loose, can you write something that exerts emotional appeal, that reads well, that flows, that holds attention and resonates long afterwards.

#4. write custom poems for people sell to them via the web

people need poems, poems capture an emotion floating on the surface and render it into something others can appreciate. Organic growth will bring revenue over time if what you write is popular with your customers (and competitively priced). Somewhere out there is someone who needs to say...

...I love you Mary, even when your legs are hairy....

#5. collaborate with a songwriter, band, music publisher

two routes here

A. work with what you perceive as an upcoming band who are able to use the communications technology. Look at song writing techniques and how a poem needs to be moulded to work as a song. In my opinion there is a fine line between great song lyrics and poems.

B. hook up with someone known for their ability to write music and jointly produce songs, submit these to established bands and publishers.

# 6. hire an editor & publish your own book using POD technology

Why do I need an editor you say ? well poems are always good, bad and ugly and someone other than the poet needs to 'select' those poems that have maximum appeal and that are more finished than the rest.

#7. syndicate your poems with lots of small newspapers

there is still a role for the small newspaper since it remains a buying habit or may well be a local institution, especially among the older population. Not all subjects are suitable for syndication i.e. you write a poem and it is carried by a number of papers each of whom pay you a small sum.

#8. get the base degree, the Masters, the phd & get a job teaching creative writing

the traditional route, not only do you get to 'learn' about all kinds of writing if you are lucky you get paid to tell other people about it. Ok so there is a lot of BS&T from one end to the other, same old story, writing is a job, it is a profession no matter how you approach it.

#9. after doing ALL of number 8 get the book published via your contacts

get all your degrees and a nice position and then leverage your contacts to get a book deal or handle all the publishing on your own. This will take years and also assumes that you have some talent in the first place. you could of course start this activity concurrent with the degree, saves years !!

#10. podcast and blog your poetry for free & depend on the collateral revenue

given the state of play in blogsphere and social space you could be famous in a matter of weeks, months (don't forget me if you are). Do you have the determination it takes to get up every day in face of rejection and ridicule and keep doing it until you make a success of it, or at least until you achieve your own personal goals. Take the occasional reality / humility tablet and Remember the old cliche;-

...when the horse is dead you have to get off it...

A Little bit Extra

thats what it takes, a little bit extra,

can you see yourself spending the money you made last week, month, year from writing ?
can you see yourself holding the book with the your name on it ?
do you feel more alive working with poetry ?
can you plan and execute a strategy ?
can you trudge along in the downtimes or does a passing car take your attention ?

you could mark yourself out of 100, 20 for each point and then think about the results, are you in the good, bad or ugly category. good is great, ugly has potential.. bad is just bad.

Spring

2006-06-01T05:18:00.000+01:00

green flavoured rain
falls in the somnambulant spring,
dead trees surprise me.
their skin grows over winter’s wounds,
yellow bombs of color explode,
their shrapnel joy enfolds me.
I stand among the plant skeletons.
winter's hurts I bid goodbye,
the harsh honk of geese grates,
the stream’s short story saves me,
I jump to a leaf shared with a chrysalis,
racing, racing, reaching, rewarding.
we meet and metamorphosise,
our saviour spring..

The Waitress

2006-06-01T05:08:00.000+01:00

the Hungarian camp waitress
wooed us mercilessly with a Soviet era smile,
no English, no English, the universal excuse,
except someone said she was there last year,
next door, slave wedding music
whipping the speakers into submission

13.May.06

_____________________________________
NOTES

I attended a dinner for Donegal football club in Astoria NYC, a reintroduction to the human race... nothing has changed.

more downtime

2006-06-01T04:58:00.000+01:00

It was somewhat appropriate that the last poem was on the Day of the Dead since I moved house a few times, moved country once and since that provoked an almost allergic reaction I never found time to get back here.... ok some poetry soon

Poem - El Día de los Muertos

2005-10-30T00:09:00.001+01:00

.
the Day of the Dead crawls closer, closer,
candles lean towards dark
as I linger on the threshold my mind sees eyes,
masked spirits smile in lipless faces,
pointed teeth, chewing the flesh of the hanged,
cloaked ghouls climb the black clouds
chanting at the stars,
dead language spells echo in the wind,
the mist of power rises with the moon
and it becomes as ghost.
I am wizard in that hour
join me on my altar,,.be my bride, ..of dark, ..of death.
.

Pseudo Haiku #1 #2

2005-10-29T23:38:00.000+01:00

.
#05/1
.
little fat girl
out scythe walking
she has a long way to go
pity her

.
#05/2
.
jet black crows
on the autumn road
a few dozen of them
picking at the leavings of summer
.

Poem - Between Stops

2005-10-29T23:28:00.000+01:00

.
a norah brown soft background
reasonable ambience ..food ..service
but I hate to eat alone
small things / big things are missing
a few red candles
a tall pretty sophisticated looking blond
some nice smiles
some soft conversation
alas she sits alone at the next table
maybe I’m a coward to just write about her
instead of just saying ..I’d love if you’d join me
I’m a poet and it’s bad for us to eat alone
I won’t give any bother
I move through lives like a train
or strangers wedding dance met
smile ..hold hands ...part without sorrow
only in your heart from this stop to the next

_______________________________________
NOTES

I was on my way to listen to Ronnie Kasrils speak the other day and stopped to eat, I was only in the chair 30 seconds when this girl walked in and I thought for a minute ...she is going to walk down here and ask if she can join me... nah only in New York.. so I wrote this poem and gave it to her before I left..

Poem - Sabotage Me

2005-10-20T01:16:00.000+01:00

.
sabotage me she said
licking her lips and curling her 's'
i ran my nail along a particular flower in her pattern
and we were drawn to the car magnet like
love edged moonlight shone on us
close together almost touching at the door
out the road she flaunted the famous thigh pose
and I thought autograph autograph
I ascended to the higher plane on autopilot
in my mind I could hear the french accented rhythmic call
sabotage me sabotage me sabotage me
.
..for jr.. x

Poem - Raptor Girl

2005-10-19T23:30:00.000+01:00

.
there was this raptor girl
she pierced my armor
I bled a little and stood transfixed
afraid to look down
her dog liked me loved me
the dog and I talked a lot.. about her
she was a redhead... yeah.. temper, headstrong etc etc
but then she was really alive
and...
she was white inside clean inside
and better than me at so much stuff
a little smelling salts humility there
I knew I'd miss her before I met her
the dog suggested I try run after cars barking therapy.
I said I'd like to try that, it sounds fun...
.

fairy downtime...

2005-10-19T23:04:00.000+01:00

.
now and then life intrudes and stuff like finance and the comin winter take precedence... now there is always the temptation to sell all buy a van and hit the road... the poetry seems to flow in either extreme... to be totally introspective and to create from inside ones own mind or by what is observed within a very small space..

alternatively to be on the sidelines of an outside world where the words are coming thick and fast and there is never enought time to transcribe the ideas and bring them to boil as poems....

I've just lost a week or so for no good reason... ah well :-0 blame the fairies

Poem - Living in Silence

2005-10-12T23:33:00.000+01:00

people assume since I live alone
that I live in silence
they don't know about the poem voices
every minute of every day
words lines fragments
scratching at the coffin lid of my mind
begging begging
.

Poem - The Real Doll #1

2005-10-12T01:30:00.000+01:00

.
the real doll and I sat in silence
almost morose
I wanted to leave her
but the investment hurt
$6499 for 100 pounds of real silicon
baby becomes silbaby
almost endless vacuum forming orifice configurations
Berate Me the sign around her neck said
I searched earnestly for the one that said fuck me
and hung it around my neck hoping in protest
the neck sign thing a game we played when I felt alone
my fingers raced through an old copy of the Kamasutra
trying to find the position that challenged me in my youth
then I thought of her holding the gun in her limp wrist
and how easy it would be to disarm her.. no not literally
I wondered would a 9mm ruin the silicon
then I wrecked my head trying to figure out
the real doll equivalent of a flesh wound
in between all this
we swapped signs...

_____________
NOTES

for the record I don't own a real doll (yet) ...maybe when I grow up I'll be able to handle one...
for those of you that are living sheltered lives and are trying to pretend that the world has retained some semblance of normality think again... Real Doll

Poem - Poem Slop Bucket

2005-10-12T01:03:00.000+01:00

.
i march up and down the blog ramparts
and run around the parapet
looking out for friend or foe
both equally welcome
..to begin with at least
I am protected by distance
even the human race seems remote
as i hack in and out of my own jungle
an endless cycle of planting and cutting
my conveyor belt lego life
try to pick the bits that fit best
always bits left over
and then I am forced to stand around
trying to look cool with redundant bits
stuffed into shroud like pockets
time to empty the poem slop bucket
the daily ritual compelling me mercilessly

Poem - The Stone

2005-10-10T23:30:00.000+01:00

...STOP you need to be holding a stone to read this poem...

I feel the stone
and through the stone the earth
and my past
and my future
as I am grounded in my present
in the ridges and hollows
are the rise and fall of my heart
as I live out my destiny
to tell of the stone
to tell of the earth
to tell of the journey
my journey on the surface of the stone
I am but a dust mote
pitched from place to place
on the whim of the wind
I scatter some seeds of poems
to be carried on the beaks of birds
to be mixed in the whispers of the wind
for the one who will hear my message
and come to me bearing treasure
the treasure of truth
in that one line
of love

__________________
NOTES

Really you need to have your hand on a stone of some sort when you read this poem, take a moment let your mind mesh with the stone and its memories....

I have this stone which is with me always and is there with strong silent support when I need it most, is there a stone in your life ?... this poem is to the stone, the stone... long live the stone....hail to the stone.

Patrick Kavanagh

2005-10-10T20:35:00.002+01:00

has anybody out there ever tried to find Inniskeen, jesus they'll never find Cullamore. I submitted some poems today to the Patrick Kavanagh competition

I didn't realise the centre was housed in an old church... hmmm.. they may not like the one about santa and the virgin or the letter to jesus. Here's a sneak preview for my loyal readers, hello loyal readers are you there, are you there.... nobody ..bloody typical...

These were available here for a few days, but email me and I might send them to you....

You know that in Irish there are about 35 different words for seaweed, (have a poem about that already) apparently the Eskimos have dozens and dozens of words for snow. Maybe I'll write a poem about rain, today the rain was straight down rain and it was really wet, see people might be surprised to know that we have rain that's not really wet... today there was no mistake. Just minutiae...

Misha Gordin

2005-10-09T21:44:00.000+01:00

sometimes you stumble across something that makes you stop and think... Misha Gordin will make you stop and think friend...

D

Misha Gordin

Poem - My Reality Wavers

2005-10-08T03:48:00.000+01:00

.
my life started to fray a little today
I noticed the rendering boxy at the edges
especially from the left eye
I wondered was I really a robot
a little discarded god toy
a dash of red on top of my head
denoting fuck with this one
somebody somewhere loves me
even if I'm fictional
this makes me feel more real
I can almost see my substance in the mirror
but then the robot mantra implant intrudes

I must not love since ending would harm my human
I must learn to listen except where it leads me to love
I must continue to exist only in the isolation of alone

and my reality wavers
...as before

___________________
Notes

I am indebted to JR for telling me about this line from "The Purple Rose of Cairo"

Cecelia said
"..I met a wonderful new man. He's fictional, but you can't have everything.. "

This got me thinking, maybe this a blog upside or downside, thinking whilst online....
I generally write down a word or a phrase or sometimes more rarely a complete poem, but almost always in long hand - then I transfer it to the computer and mod it as I go along, then I print it out and it lies around for a few days/weeks/months and I might mod it again... see people think it's fun.. but what you get here is raw perhaps more real than if one was working to editors dictums / rectums. Here it's more immediate, you think - you write - its shite.. :-)

...anyway JR's nudge (thanks JR xxx) got me thinking and this poem came tumbling out...

_______________
Acknowledgements

... after Woody Allen's "The Purple Rose of Cairo" and Isaac Asimov's I Robot

The term robotics was introduced by writer Isaac Asimov. In his science fiction book I, Robot, published in 1950, he presented three laws of robotics:
1. A robot may not injure a human being, or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.
2. A robot must obey the orders given it by human beings except where such orders would conflict with the First Law.
3. A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law.

Poem - Away with the Fairies

2005-10-05T23:16:00.000+01:00

monday was fairly moderate
i wrote a mundane poem
had breakfast, dinner and tea in the right order
but then I lost tuesday and wednesday
I was away with the fairies
a black bag over my head
I woke up a slave in a fairy factory
in the wood chopping dept for 48 hours
winter threatens
I told myself this can't be happening
but as usual I wouldn't listen
personally I don't remember a thing
I found a press release in my pocket
looks around nervously
....from the fairies....
it says

we regret any inconvenience
keep taking the tablets

I watched in the mirror
as I searched frantically for the tablets
I saw myself find another bottle
the idea of emigrating to the fairies territory faded
I remembered banging my head on their low doors
and slaving in the wood dept
then celebrated my freedom
repeatedly

______________
NOTES

'away with the fairies' is a phrase in common use here, generally it means the person's sanity is in question, they have lost the plot, their cheese has slid off their cracker, their head is gone.. the list is endless. However like anything here in Ireland there is another level of communication going on, the stuff people don't want to talk about which is always talked about in code or obscure references... just in case someone is listening, the kay jay bay.. any Russian speakers out there ;-)

Poem - Mundane Mondays

2005-10-05T00:23:00.000+01:00

i have a blanket dog
to keep out the draft
he lies there quiet
enjoying surprising people
those last minute or pre-candle
....mind the dog's...
his name is written on his back
'murphy movers nyc'
I just call him dog for short
he is loyal to me
I may mention him in my will

___________________
Notes

This is something mundane

I live in an old cottage with floors that slope towards the front door, kinda interesting after a few glasses of wine.... yeah I know I know I must post some photos on flickr some of these days. Anyway since the floor slopes the doors cannot be a tight fit so the wind blows in underneath, in order to reduce this I use an old padded furniture sheet rolled up, when visitors come the easiest thing to say to stop them from falling over it is ...mind the dog...

talkback... Block #002

2005-10-01T22:54:00.000+01:00

four more little poems, again no grandé poems in this lot, probably, ... Woman Gods, Kill God, The God Wash, God the Failure.

Woman Gods - even talking about these is almost tedious, I find that any time devoted to the archaic notion of a superior being called god who has carte blanche over right and wrong, is a male and will always be a male (as religion is currently structured) is a total waste....

Kill God - children are totally innocent and blameless so how come so many of them are dying and/or suffering, some ballox will go to the bible and come back with a rationale for this but there is none ...so for the person who goes to the bible to explain this to me just fuck off ...ditto god...

The God Wash - this is with an Irish spin, in pockets here we will still pay some heed to the old gods, the old ways of the earth mother, but always very discreet and hidden from the romanites and perverse priests... I'd give this religion another 500 years or so in Ireland then goodbye Rome

God the Failure - what if god is the spoilt child of a bigger god and all he is doing is fucking around with earth just to past the time on wet saturdays... or forgot the sabbath.. ah just jews who cares... joke joke right... or even more bizarre god is a juevenille who smokes too much weed and drinks too much and doesn't get enough sex... fuck we really are in trouble folks... get your parachutes, follow me.....

===============================drax stuff============
Poet.ie a collaboration
Des Donnelly fairly trad site just up to 2002
Drax reaction to net images
Email me!
===============================drax stuff============

Poem - Duck Harvesters

2005-09-29T23:52:00.000+01:00

it was that kind of an evening
like the end of the world
maybe even the ducks felt it as they hunkered down in the rain
4 hooded men got out of a transit van
slight exaggeration here but the ducks were on tiptoes
the men spoke the dogs were silent they knew
I visualised them crossing the field
making their way to the duck pond
counting down waiting for the phone call
you have 30 seconds to lie down fly off
a flurry of shots 6 7 8 or more
no cheers just assassination
blood does'nt mean much to our generation
it's just red
I wondered how long it would take for the ducks to peking
be all stiff and flat
frisbee ducks a dime a dozen their lives cheap

_____________
Notes

so I was having my tea this evening when I heard two car doors closing, this is a throwback to the time of the War, the antenna are always out for sounds that could denote time to GTF.... anyway this combined with the type of evening, ultra grey, almost dusk resulted in the phrase duck harvesters ringing up in my head like an old cash register, sometimes the phrase is the title and then makes it into the poem, others times it's a false trail.

Poem - Woman Gods

2005-09-29T22:21:00.000+01:00

Very few woman gods
Reckon they don’t get good jobs
A woman god would be too sweet
It’s not a job for anyone meek
You have to be a motherfucker
You have to be a vindictive shit
And can’t love life a little bit
But now it’s time for a total change
The god we’ve got his mind’s deranged

Poem - Kill God

2005-09-29T22:19:00.000+01:00

A parent gone
The child lives on
Not much fair about that
Does god care its tit for tat
Kill you kill me
Tweedly dum tweedly dee
Being god is boring you see
A little war there
Another famine here
god’s a pretty cruel dude
Starving people to death of food
Killing millions in a war
Dividing families wide and far
And sure then it’s not him to blame
It’s human nature yet again
Despite being all seeing
All dancing
All knowing
Seems more like hot air he is blowing
A waste of life
this religious strife
The idea of god
belongs in nod

Poem - The god wash

2005-09-29T22:18:00.000+01:00

run me through the god wash
the confessional booth
enter this end
exit only this way
pay here
tokens only
on the outside I am pristine
I am without blame
Without sin in that moment
Without any of
The basic human emotions
That so easily conflict with
A boring elderly male dominated
500 or 600 years out of date religion
inside is the dark side
the reality side
hidden from the men of rome
rome thought to conquer us
hey rome
think again
think again

Poem - God the Failure

2005-09-29T22:08:00.000+01:00

4,285,199,774 lives lost
over drunken gods
religions zealots
and unreliable saviours
jesus give us a break
why did it have to be all cloak and dagger
born into fucking obscurity
no money
no influence
no credibility
doomed to failure friend
another perverse attempt
by this psychotic god
to fuck with the humans
add earth to his long list of failed experiments
acting cat
his universe playbox for dummies version 1

what about U god ..u shy ?

2005-09-28T23:26:00.001+01:00

Yo

I can understand shy, people are shy, they are reluctant to be the first or to be seen to be the first... but like.... has my time run out, am I the last person on the world ...that actually would be quite cool from my perspective...

the impact of having the world to myself is starting to get to me and I'm thinking of all the resources at my command on one hand and on the other so much of it will be impossible to use since I simply cannot learn to do all the things that are necessary... ironically back to where I started...

Henry Thoreau said...
"we make ourselves rich by making our wants few"

I'd probably play emperor for a few days before boredom set in...

So

goodbye Nasa - goodbye submarine - goodbye cruise ships - goodbye Disneyland - goodbye Holywood ... goodbye most music, goodbye television, goodbye radio, goodbye America, definitely goodbye England, on the other hand I might go across just to burn stuff and generally act the donkey... 1 thing to do in England...

find the Thatcher bitch, dig her up, cut her up, scatter her bones, curse her soul...

hey god... god sorry about that earlier ...I had a few drinks and it got out of hand and somebody dared me to tell you to fuck off ...but anyway seriously see this Drax alone in the world ...it's not going to work... how about if there was 10 people ...5 boys and 5 girls (there ..that tv's bi's gays and other variations blew out ..that's the end game, in the final analysis when god and I are sitting down carving out the world you are in trouble... smirk...

.. god where was I, yeah Des alone in the whole world... right lets scrap that ...it's a waste of time and I don't want to play that game anymore, it's boring....

ok ok you're on the phone, relax man, less of the eyes.. later later Ok ok .... jesus god you need to loosen up a little... I'll send you round some girls I know.... no none of them are called Mary, relax relax, yeah just between you and me.. you owe me god right.. right Drax...

talkback... Block #001

2005-09-26T22:14:00.000+01:00

so here's four little poems, you can tell if they're small, medium or grandé... so no grandé poems in this lot, probably, .... Boyed Up by Armani, Hell Sky Sunset, Individual Words, Snipered

Boyed Up by Armani - did you ever notice how invisible you are if you're not shaved.. men i.e. generally rough, driving a scrap car ... you can become totally invisible, which is cool if you like your privacy, then the last thing you need is some Armani, the down side is that like shit any visible manifestation of wealth will invariably attract flies and there is a smell, although I was too sensitive and cultured to mention it in the poem.. (grin)

Hell Sky Sunset - easy to deconstruct, dramatic sunset = red fading to grey, then god versus Lucifer.. what are Lucifer's colours I wonder or does he have a flag, god is boring boring, god is dead... anybody who supports a patriarchal religion in this day and age is totally smacked.. it's obvious to me that the holy ghost is a woman..

Individual Words - to be able to string a few words together and call it poetry is not a gift it is an affliction, everything and everybody is a poem, the technical evaluation is totally irrelevant, who cares if a poem scores 3 out of 10 on some sort of technical scale, the reality is that poetry is incestuous, the critics are part of the writers who are part of the critics, hey critic #254871 talk to Bukowski, excuse me Charles old chap, the poem "My Groupie" conjures up images that are not politically correct, additionally the poem has a number of fundamental errors.. at this stage Buk may say, please step out to my office in the alley that we might discuss this in more detail.

Snipered - yeah can't dodge this one any longer.. any Steve Earle fans in the audience, it's all over when your time runs out, ok a poem in two halfs, the first half about a girl ..maybe every girl who speakes in klingon or some other exotic language that I dont' ever seem to be able to understand, does any male understand the language that females speak... have females evolved sufficiently to communicate using language.. that was a joke..
The 2nd half may be anti-american ..oh how could you.. and also there is a little of the frustration I feel since I swing in and out on a sanity pendulum and really only have a limited window to deal with this real life shit.

===============================drax stuff============
Poet.ie a collaboration
Des Donnelly fairly trad site just up to 2002
Drax reaction to net images
Email me!
===============================drax stuff============

Poem - Boyed Up By Armani

2005-09-26T02:14:00.000+01:00

at 40 something
you can become invisible
unless boyed up by armani or porche
or similar such trimmings
placed on top of shite to attract flies

Poem - Hell Sky Sunset

2005-09-26T02:11:00.000+01:00

a hell sky sunset
light leaves
the legions of the Dark God
Lucifer
fly in red lines of grey
and the world shudders in the void
equinox draws near
and the god of the moment
plain old god
contemplates his banishment
for crimes against humanity
GTF airlines for god ASAP
and Lucifer the good
awaits in the wings
his rightful throne
earth

GTF = Get to Fuck

Poem - Individual Words

2005-09-26T02:07:00.000+01:00

and then there are times
when the drink is in
and all it is …is fighting in my head
and all it is …is freefall and all I beg for is release
release from the words
fighting trench war in my head
like alex parks mad world
born in circles as I am
I meet the same poem over and over
and I struggle to put it in words
little fragments which are really only intonations
jump up and hide and I say to myself
later later
but later never comes and when I sit down
all I see is the reflection of their scope
miles and miles away as they tease me
shot with individual words that really mean fuck all
there it is
individual words really mean fuck all

Poem - Snipered

2005-09-26T01:02:00.000+01:00

in the clever things she says
is some tenderness
or just contradictions
and words of poems
fall from the trees
snipered

like a subnormal football player (American obviously)
I struggle to remember all the plays
I wreck my head to deliver the perfect counter
but in the end
I fall badly wounded
mostly dead
beside the anger poems

poet posing picture

2005-09-26T00:28:00.000+01:00

how long do I have to keep this pose
...this hat is killin me..

I'm the third from the left or the second from the left if you are standing behind us, you could even say I was in the middle if you just looked at us from the side....

if you're looking at us from satellite and your resolution is up to it then I'm the one with the glove...

The End or The Beginning

2005-09-26T00:20:00.000+01:00

Jerry Jeff Walker said;-

it depends on
where you stand
how you look
and what you want see

so depending on which dimension you're looking from...

it could be The End
or it could be The Beginning
..
...
....
.....
......
.......
........

..Irish Poet & Percepts

Post Crosshairs

Poem - The Cello

Poem - The Incessant Bell

A Poem - The Hour Of The Creative

Land of the Thief ..Home of the Killer

A Poem - Dripping Goodbye

A Poem - yankee americans

Under the NATO Mat

The Retired Dragon

Oh god ;-) Another Multiverse Morning

The Dead Scarecrows

Shark Fin Bags

Medjugorje & Mary

The Creative Sea

Pirate Banks

and so more of the same.... :-(

I am struggling with the militarism, fascism and conservatism of this century and the allied death and suffering in the context of 1st world technological abundance... Quo Vadis in this... The Year of the Refusnik?

On the Boulevard du Montparnasse

A Dying Society

My Silence

The Days Run Away... after Bukowski

@ the Crossroads

The Artists

Ice Broken

Heart Jingle

The Barrett Light 50

mañana o el día de hoy

j'regrette....tout

for the ..Chicas..

An Empty Puppet

The Anchor... after Nesrin Eruysal

The Print Dress

talibanesque Fianna Fail

Crime of blasphemous libel

Desires after "Desires" by Ainhoa

The Moan of the Pine

Been a while folks...

If..

Intro

Valentines Day focuses on the boy or girl that has a boy or girl... the lonely hearts are in the wings, wilting, waiting, wishing....

Poem - Freedom Factories !

China... build some freedom factories

60 years of persecution in Tibet

All the little statelets afraid,

counting their pieces of silver

How to build truth

Is everybody boughtlittle shiny trade beads

Dangled worthless, like a dead president

.. hanging, shot, poisoned.. pick one god..

and so 2008

sharp shards of truth

Dead Arab Pie

look away

Pot of Gold

Poem - Sea Spirits ..after Philip Gray

america declares war on...

Bloody Fingers

Poem - Suicide Dogs

'Poem' - Nam-tor zherka na'nash-veh u'akanik

Poem - Employease

Politicians Are Rotten

Meanwhile back @ The Seminary

Background to Erotic Teacher

Erotic Teacher

Psychotic Teachers

Background to Psychotic Teachers

Puffy Eyed People

god cheesecake

No Barbers on the Moon (after John Boston)

10 Ways To Make a Living as a Poet

Elaboration#1 write poems for mega successful web sites

#2. write zingy 'poems' for advertising

#3. write poems for manufacturers

#4. write custom poems for people sell to them via the web

#5. collaborate with a songwriter, band, music publisher

# 6. hire an editor & publish your own book using POD technology

#7. syndicate your poems with lots of small newspapers

#8. get the base degree, the Masters, the phd & get a job teaching creative writing

#9. after doing ALL of number 8 get the book published via your contacts

Is everybody bought

little shiny trade beads

Elaboration
#1 write poems for mega successful web sites