Born and raised in Liverpool. Moved to Burnley. Moved back to Liverpool. Moved to Rugby. Turned 30 Oct 09. Mid-life crisis meltdown since I was around 21. 30 sort of compounded it. A few friends but not really on my wavelength. Wish they were or that I was with theirs. The rest are just chaff: mere acquaintances. (9-5) I appear to exist but the jury's still deliberating. Bring in the petri dish and you can cultivate me into a better sort of toad. Always looking at the power of expression and how far it can reach the hearts of others, as well as how ineffective it can be. Teacher. Teach the teacher for he realises the limits of his own minature pearls of wisdom. Plato or Seneca he ain't. A composer of many diatribes. One day he will find peace. Maybe. Likely not.
_____________ 3/11/10 _____________ I remember the blue screen Though it was curdled with cancer, it was exotic The first time for me was Embassy She was thick on the lungs and full-figured The event took place at the stairwell of the nursing home I was not yet sixteen; she was just out of the packet During my sissy period there was Silk Cut And I remember the adverts, before the ASA interfered I remember Russ Abbot and those cigars And I remember how every cigar I’ve ever had, including Cuban has been as foul as the one before On the count of remembering things, I remember there used to be a time When there was no such thing as a ‘friend request’ from somebody a) you barely know b) you barely like c) is a ‘mutual friend’ of somebody you barely know and barely like And I remember a time when the lines on my face weren’t so deep And I remember a time when the lines of my face weren’t on my face And I remember the scene where Sharon Stone crosses her legs And inhales on the little white stick seductively Now please, please don’t bother me with your own nostalgia Because this is a selfish exercise for me; it is my time not yours We may share similar experiences, or you may never have smoked One of us may have cancer (I don't care who) In conclusion: Do not like or dislike these words I have strung together How about ambivalence? There is a blue screen waiting to happen On the counter there is a cigarette Light it, smoke it… And stop worrying about tomorrow Nor care about the past. ___________ Left Overs ___________ There are crumbs on the side of your mouth You never told me your appetite was back I thought you were sick and bedridden Who bought the meal? Not you, I suspect. Oh by the way, did I forget to mention? I was going to take you to Skylon in London Because there was an offer on in the paper; included free champagne Perhaps my cheapness is a novelty Why not rub it into your gums as one does cocaine? I guarantee the thrill will be short-lived. When you’re ‘making love’ to another man Do you finger count the lovers you’ve had... then run out of hands? Before you stick your finger up his arse Now that happened once, but I didn’t like it She was the thirty-four year old pervert Who stole my virginity. When I’m window shopping, sometimes I catch sight of the reflection I refuse to recognise I don’t like him I think he’s out to get me I think he’ll stick the knife in Because he's sure it’s better that I die Than to suffer for my ‘art.’ I drew her carelessly I drew her with thought She was my blue period, my comedown From the high that was too short. Is every poem wrapped up in the scent of a woman? Is every war the cause of man? Never mind, just remove your vicious master plan to overthrow and leave me for dead. And endlessly, more words are said (like these ones you’re reading now) Speaking into the corners of blank spaces Whispering into strangers’ ears Only for those same said strangers to turn away Or to congratulate because they relate to the sorts of words you’re reading now... What good is that? Once more, I doubt it matters Whether there be crumbs or dust Or whether there be l()ve. ___________ The Seedling (beta version) ___________ S/he isn't weathered yet The blood still dashes to her lips; then blushes Neither needs application Like the tarts do before they entangle men; lose a bet of who gets the best looking one. Make do. I need no lipstick collar I shall not utter chat-up line nor holler like the men-slags do before they're entangled by the roving arms of those tarts. S/he is but a seedling S/he is not weathered yet S/he is freshest and s/he is sweetest S/he is adorably naive When the monsters play When they drink and shag their lives away Here sit I, as good as condemning these words to pages which decay As soon as a real life task comes along: Wash up, clear off, or pay. The seedling; s/he is just a thought A vision of something that does not wither S/he shall not bleed For I have instructed it to be so then it shall be. Yes Here is the broken pottery the empty vessels whose carved-out interiors allows them to echo the loudest Here is the vomit of a chat-up line and the seedling planted from a one night stand. Yes And s/he will develop S/he will grow and follow by example. She is as dangerous as Artemis Do not admire her bare beauty He is the flower named Narcissus You think the seedling is his but how could it be? When his sideward glance was caused only by the breeze. He'd fuck you then leave... only if you're lucky. You are the seedling, child You are above thirty but less than that barren age When a woman loses her right Given that men steal most of them anyway You are the seedling, you are but the imagination of this combination of fingers and a semi-prying mind (a subhuman kind) You are the second thought, the youthful one Where the first thought is birth You are planted in the softest earth before your roots are torn and cursed by the breath of the close-up one admiring your dainty spade-like leaves He's been drinking again He will pluck you bare, behold! Seedling, there is no summer to sustain you You are here but you do not grow You are nothing more than a stagnant vision to be dismembered with the rest. You are brown and dotted with disease You are worms or less than these You are the potted plant; the indigent pest and I am your creator. ___________ Continuity ___________ That red apple on the table on the stage has somehow turned green I wonder if they'll notice or care Painted and glazed by a stagehand who offered her services for free Now that's what I call creative integrity But even she did not note the change. Why not? Two poor players fret their hours as the candles burn (metaphorically?) But despite solilquy after soliloquy nothing is gained No understanding No crisis resolution and when one Poor Player forgets his lines and is fed the topic sentence from a voice in the wings the fourth wall loses vigor The apple was green was not red So to the utterances, to the dried flowers by the headstone that will rest above your head there need be no confession or revelation Nor climax for those watching who haven't had the courtesy to notice that that apple was not red Oh, you critics Oh spectators Why must you take it so damn seriously? When essentially, and we know it: Art is weak; is powerless and God is dead. (?) _______ Magick _______ Not with the C but the K And if not, would it matter? So the meaning is: 'to cause a change' Do you think you can deal with that? Has there been magick in your life? Was there magick when you told your first lie? The first syllable was the card trick, si? The middle syllable was the double lift, oui? The last syllable was their gasps... because you successfully fooled them But that was magic with a C not magick with a K We must not confuse the difference Now repeat: Not the C but the K No, what you did was merely lie Like poor Eve did; the victim She deceived and has been paying for it ever since I've heard it's why men beat women I've heard it was the making of Andrea DworCin She wrote ChiCCen Soup for the Soul She suggested the drowning of men in hot soup (with krutons) She suggested it was theraputic Or am I misleading you? Not the C but the K So, you devious one You klever one with your props Make a change Make time stop Go ahead and do it Like the red light or dot, if you will When the fools stop When what they should do is KrAsH For a Krash is preferable to slow demise Plus I prefer the onomatopoeiaK solution Not the C but the K You know, this language we poets use to entice Like the way cats are drawn to mice These linguistic toys with which we play MuChas graCias, s'il vous plait Not the C but the K... I think it's all bullshit Not magick at all And your response, oh enigmatic one? Ah ha, you respond with a riddle! Like so many poets do Just as magicians hide gimmiKKs up their sleeves And there is no change And there is no one who believes And there is no truthful way. Not the C. Not the K. ______ 5-7-5. ______ A mountain hill top Beware: more comparisons Will silence not do? _______
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