email: cwjbyrne at aol (dot) com managed to delete old profile. doh! had 5k views... I've been interested in hip hop / rap & poetry since I was young. Once won I a small prize in a local poetry competition whilst at secondary school. Thanks to my English teacher Mrs Carol Rogers (her married name at the time). She kept me on my toes in my English studies (the resting on my laurel started early) and suggested a persona that covers a multitude of sins (among other things) & might come in handy in later life ... Poetry published here and there inc. the Journal of Nietzsche Studies. Still learning about music, beauty, poetry and song. Influenced by Nietzsche, myth, religion, astrology, Yeats, Graves, Betjeman, Brel (prententious? Moi?), Coward, Rilke, Joseph Campbell, Melle Mel, Ice T, KRS 1, Lupe Fiasco, Chuck D, Run DMC etc etc. A brief, hard-hitting review of the author of these poems: “… a spoiled little mama's boy from Southern England.” - Jim Anderson, achristmaspast.blogspot.com . sounds inc poems put to music: https://soundcloud.com/postconcussionsyndrome/sets/mixtape work: http://www.linkedin.com/in/emarketinguk
Summertime (and the leaving is easy) aka PTSDVSNPD The air is grey with barbecue fuel, choking the drivers on the roads Kerosene chicken drummer surprise Cruel summer Bacardi breezes People running from the North The overworked air conditioning on the shopping centre sounds like an air raid siren No-one heeds the warning CCTV cameras turn the other way And don't cross the road 92 degrees fahrenheit at the death of an errant night in town Ice cold blooded demon rising from the melting tarmac, walking on boiling fire water Drinking the lightning and the beck's fear; hot under the shirt and burning slow. Soon lit tempers flare as time flutters by You shall surely see shell shock waves from a fist on these streets Skipping blind drunk on cool summer rain sucker punch from 'the scum of the earth' Thundering in by the 'abominable desert heath' We're all looking for an oasis tribute band While Freyja and the valkyries sit on a nearby hill Too sensible to venture into this town on this night A byrnie wasn't drenched in blood Just bells ringing in his ears Soles maybe made with rubber from Songkhla connected to the earth A handy RBC railing - some Judo knows how to stand And much head banging in my younger years Maybe prevent some stamp collecting in the bloody way By the black gunpowder tree shot People who should live in glass houses throwing fists so Miffed, you bolt towards the darker edgelands A hero isn't supposed to try and save a distressed dragon Picking up the paper 4 years later Under the clocktower Former soldier dies in taxi rank brawl in Rugby Did karma show itself again? Place De L'Eglise I will leave you worn down Like a sculpture just finished off Like a ruin standing in a sandstorm Like a persistent and hacking cough I will leave you shining Like diamonds in a jeweller’s shop Like a nice and healthy suntan Like a new metal spinning top I will leave you broken Like a chick’s egg that's just hatched Like a window smashed by a vandal Like a chain that’s become unattached I will leave you laughing Like a person who chooses to laugh Like a hyena that’s got the giggles Like a baby enjoying a bath I will leave you dancing Like a new born lamb in Spring Like a prisoner on his release Like Ali in the boxing ring I will leave you gasping Like a pepper spray attack Like a fish that’s out of water Like a panic attack on crack I will leave you in silence Like the last mourner at a grave Like the desert in the midday sun Like a distant goodbye wave Dream Coat of Arms As I cycle up these rough hills in the shower of death Seeing a devil, games of war and ravens "Virtus Sola Nobilitas" was not for Chickens of Mars Skalding cold black water Heralding a time flowing back into the Blackwaters Hunting for an important ancestor This time along Dad's line Armed only with an ego A bag of rubbish And a fly in the nose of Arthur Wellesley The rain drops on the canvas outside Sounding like the machine guns over the common "Hoarsemen" dancing to their own "apolkaloops" All too common as old Miss spelling out the Curses of Rathlin and elsewhere Or just bad luck of the Anglo-Irish His trees hidden and his land Ghosts of a Norn iron Gest Eggy, bred under Norman yolks? Soldiers, 'holy men', writers and politicians Sir names, Northmen and nurses Bearded ladies and faeries All is full of love and war Froyled again on Friday Lil' Lord 'Bad' Macbreth Just trying to live like a Rake of Mallow Was the (Protestant) "man from the big house who had a relationship with a servant, then was cast out of his family" anything more than a story? No Sancho, no Rozinante No nights of the bath or garter to speak of recently No evidence for anarchaic ignoble heritage Examined with a large post-concussed free lance forehead Conducting genetic research Gazing hungover into a switched off computer screen Another possible clue staring me in the face While an army helicopter roars above Family, stories, myths and misreadings of the Nothing that is known of her story before marriage Gets a bit Irish misty c.1820 But a lot of history is learnt Whiteboys and imperial standards Armada with a Drake then the cold meat train home Guesswork and onomastics A peasant visitor sitting in my folly on open day in Sussex Falling through a corrugated iron roof onto a shrine to my ancestors Total reikall? Barking; and up the wrong branch of the family tree? Or just a Shire Berk's peer into the past ages? Orphic Mystery "... poets lie too much ..." - Friedrich Nietzsche 'Thus Spoke Zarathustra'. Little read blood spilling Salty pipe cleaner soup Like a myth Can't get my story straight Or my act together Not even a reliable witness In my own accounts Says the taxman That's too fine* Spelled out somewhere In the incomprehensible prose of his collected letters Losing a gain Dances and dunces Holding a candle Creating and burning at the same time What seems like (to me), at least many Millions of tiny diamonds every second As I get on your wick Trying to become a man Playing out to flow away Into the shade Of the private woodlands of Dampwaste Place Blows and glances Chopped down again Bringing death to life And life to death Losing my voice The hoarse has bolted Losing a loan Dying to live Turning again To the careless girl in the water meadow Tried to grab her arse and got knocked out Cold Hit my head on the forbidden fruit machine on my way down To the underworld A door you A trap door on the world's stage For my solo Teleportation transportation Stuck yet spinning Going to work on a lost loft Locked out Locked in to your freak Wincey Whether Poseideon fork arsed Or jacking a bean Stalk your harbour Oil the door posts of heaven's garden gate with wolf or boar fat Turn from white to crimson Wondering along, breathing and Growing in the dark Lying out of reach for secure wards Lost myself backwords Onwards and upwards in the backwoods Not for giving nor getting Words are stillbroken (no typo) Trying to make magical flutes from the head And a shield for next time As I float along the river with a song Wind whistling with me through the treetops Every story seems to be about me Tallesin told it well You sent me a text on Skype To let me know your status will always be a way In your photos you are small and far away On the phone you are far away and almost nearby In person you are life-size, near and far away No-one to blame but myself so Every sad song's about you I'm singing songs too for you in ancient capitals But you're sticking to the lyrics of The Script's new single The truth remains Whatever the facts of our matter may be *My £200 fine from the taxman was later reduced to zero
All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.
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Blog link: https://www.writeoutloud.net/blogs/cbyrne
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