Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Jack-Pascoe-Poet/175904582432986 Nice to meet ya! My names Jack. A poet currently living in Cardiff. I first started this poetry lark in October 2009 when the esteemed John Tripp spoken poetry contest rolled through the welsh valleys. I got wind of this and thought i'd give it a go (try everything once and all that). I wrote down a couple of bad poems and was scared to death when i went on. You could see the paper shake, literally. After this i attended 'Poetry on Tap' a spoken word event where i did the open mic, and was approached by Mab Jones (award winning poet). She gave me her business card and since then i've been gigging. Every open mic i could get to, late night parties, slams(placing 2nd at Farrago's 2010 slam), paid gigs at bars, festivals, protests, theatre foyers, art galleries, village churches and anywhere that'll have me. I've supported hugely succesful acts like Mark Niel, Monkey Poet as well as Mab Jones. Now i'm a hit on the poetry scene with an uncompromised truthful style and bucketloads of energy to boot. I also recieved the title of 'Lyrical Design Slam Champion' by Cardiff design festival. I've got a book 'In Your Face' on sale too, if you want a copy just ask. I write jocular rhymes to pass the times, and a good old story in all its glory. I write about crime, city life, rude boys, drunkards, sex, drugs and a bit of rock n roll for good measure. "A poet who'll set your nerve-endings alight - excitingly edgy, refreshingly energetic, and furiously fast-paced - a new name worth noting, before he makes it big" - Mab Jones "10 out of 10" - Andy Princz
Where have all the rock stars gone?: Where have all the rock stars gone? The ones who used to write great songs Why are they taking so damn long? Oh where have all the rock stars gone? Pete Doherty could do us no harm If he just took that needle out of his arm I bet Jimi Hendrix could mash up the place If he picked himself up, got the sick off his face Was John Lennon anywhere to be found When the bombs in Iraq made a horrible sound? We’ve still got Ringo and his Liverpool tune But he lives in Barbados the silly buffoon It’s looking grim upon the basis The talented one has left Oasis Don’t give me Pink Floyd that’s a definite no no You don’t need 2 hours for a guitar solo It ain’t been the same since Strummer fell dead Or John Rotten’s praise went straight to his head Or when Townsend smashed up his hard rocking Fender Or when Keith Richards just had to surrender To all the drugs and groupie fun And who gave Kurt Cobain that gun? He was clearly unstable and dosed up on smack Of course he would end up dead on his back But I suppose if Courtney was a wife to you You’d wanna do yourself in too But I don’t know, I never will But I know Shaun Ryder doesn’t need another pill And Dee Dee Ramone is needed right now To distribute a slap to that horrible cow That two dollar stripper in Gucci and Prada Who goes by the name of Lady Gaga Ozzy was good before that mistake Of drinking too much and then starting to shake And having a manager who’s also his spouse Who won’t even let him open his mouth Is a simple rock star really too much to ask? Is too many drugs an impossible task? Good old Bon Scott he could take them and smile And we haven’t seen anything like that in a while So calling on Joplin, and Jim Morrison On loony Keith Moon and George Harrison Where are you all? It’s been too long Oh where have all the rock stars gone Highway Man: I left home when I was eighteen Looking for bright lights I got cheating mistreating women And a lot of bar room fights So I go down to the station And get the first train out of town I’m sure out there there’s a place somewhere Where I’d like to be around So I’m gonna buy a bottle of beer And live without no fear And I’ll do what I can as a rambling highway man I got broke along that dirt road Got robbed on highway six I got one way out of here Using my dirty highway tricks I hitch hike down to Jackson And then to Mississippi I stole my gold and got the girl’s Down south they sure are pretty So I buy a bottle of Whiskey And get my wood all frisky And I do what I can as a rambling highway man Got a pocket full of fire And a head full of regret ‘Have you got 5 dollars Mr? And can I bum a cigarette?’ I’m always on the move Never standing still From fair Monmarte in Paris To a cell in Pentonville And then I’ll buy a bottle of vodka Then I’ll get my knife and cut ya And I do what I can as a rambling highway man Now I’ve had my share of chemicals And had my pick of the dames Sergeant says I’m wanted for murder At least that’s what he claims There’s mud upon my boots And the stars are in my eyes And I’m gone again with the highway men Letting off them rebel cries And I’m gonna buy a bottle of rum Gonna make my baby cum And I do what I can as a rambling highway man Yes I’m gonna buy a bottle of beer Tip my hat to another year ‘cause I am what I am, I’m a rambling highway man Bank Holiday Brighton: The tickets are booked we’re on our way Off to Brighton for the day For sun and sea and piles of rocks And bearded men in sandles and socks Strolling down the boulevard With sunburnt moaners packed with lard And children beg their mum for sweets In dodgy rollercoaster seats Staff bulls slobbering down the road Humping some legs and then shooting they’re load Bikinis, trunks, towels and tans Flip flops, lotion, pocket fans Punctured lyloes, buckets and spades And toy guns with joke hand grenades A bag of chips or maybe two Which the seagulls will have when the day is through Mum she’s joined the mini golf club While dad has snuck off to the pub I’m left by the sea, my nan and me I swim with all my energy I’d rather do that than sit there idol And hear the same story in a vicious cycle ‘Oh when I was young bread was only 5p’ Soon as I hear that I run for the sea But morally it must be wrong To let kids swim where the sewage has gone With all the drunken fathers piss Flowing by the sand where lovers kiss And donkeys trundle up and down And insisting balloon twisting clowns And roasting cockneys in the heat With red hot rocks beneath their feet Sun sets on the edge of the pier The arcade noises in my ear It was all so fast I don’t know how We’re back on the train to London now Back to the jungle to my school The teacher asks what did we do? Why does she ask? All the kids do the same We all go to Brighton to escape the rain. Roll up roll up, step this way Off to Brighton for the day
All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.
My Anarchist Son (12/04/2012)
Benefit Scrounger (Working Class Hero) (06/04/2012)
A Lifetime in Tesco (20/03/2012)
FONY 2012 (11/03/2012)
Skins is Getting Cancelled!!! (07/03/2012)
Johnny Was A Rudeboy (06/03/2012)
Here in Devon (05/03/2012)
Don't Take Yourself So Serious (01/03/2012)
Match Day (21/02/2012)
Don't Fuck with Dickens (15/02/2012)
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