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Tramping Artisan

Updated: Thu, 5 May 2016 05:37 pm

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Jim actually founded Tramping Artisan in a previous life; a fact he was unaware of until he underwent past life regression at a car boot sale in Clitheroe. Born into poverty, Jim was set to work at an early age at the local tip, unwrapping dog turds from those little plastic bags. It was a hard life punctuated by cold baths and blue toilet paper. Mum and dad worked all hours in their fridge magnet cleaning business and eventually saved enough money to clothe Jim so he could attend school once a month. Here Jim discovered his love of black pumps and to this day has one of the largest collections of black pumps in the UK. He left school at the age of 9 and was soon put to work as a commodities trader in the City of London. He realised, however, that he could do better with his life. Jim financed himself through a degree in pencil case design by selling knitting patterns door to door and blackmailing the local butcher. Once he’d graduated he turned his back on his newly acquired knowledge after purchasing an old guitar in a pub in Dudley from Ozzy Osboure. Ozzy was in his native Midlands attending a conference on Hamster Trafficking at Aston University. Soon Jim was touring bus stops around Colwyn Bay with his particular brand of entertainment.. Jim now lives in the toilets of Esher Town Hall where he has extended into the loft space. He has become a welcome face around the council offices and is often asked to chair planning meetings. In his spare time Jim crochets cat suits for victims of the Peruvian Nose Flute Disaster. He has a passion for root vegetables and has published a recipe book ‘Five hundred ways to stuff a turnip’. Jim is also the secretary of the Failsworth Raleigh Chopper Bike Club.


I Kick where I come from. I kick where I come from, Despising my false start, Cringing at past amusements Undermining flawed foundations, Shocked at how the years have gone And I kick where I come from. I kick where I come from, Pretend to laugh in fondness At banal folk tales, Embellished fantasy features, The truth is life that’s left undone And I kick where I come from. I kick where I come from, The paradox of love and shame I embrace then feel deflated Knowing this is my blood, From father to son to son to son And I kick where I come from. I kick where I come from, That day that started filled with hope, Then the diet of dull limits, Feeling unworthy of my birth right, Now I see what I’ve become And I kick where I come from. I kick where I come from, So I need to build a peace With all this anger in my soul, Be nourished by the breast of my past, For soon return when flesh is done Back to the ground I gaze upon And I kick where I come from. Maggie She sits alone owning her grace, Her Fenian self destruct button disarmed, The one that numbed that emptiness left By those pratie graves when corn was gold, Her diseased past deceased. Yet it still colours her landscape, Filling the horizon in faded greyness, That was then, when I was there, right back there, She can still see the smoke trace where she stupored When she was part of that unbearable sadness. Now her wide eyed smile placed in the foreground, Vivid, vital and vibrant With sweet Maddie love enveloping her whole being, No longer pulled down into the black earth alongside that weeping tribe And those remains that fed the tumours of her tree. The bloke who isn’t there. You’re looking at someone who doesn’t care, I’m the bloke who isn’t there, One day I stopped asking why And I let the world just passed me by, I let go of family, friends and living, And forced them all to stop their giving By having no more energy to fight, And making their lovely lives shite Through my lack of caring or wanting more, And stopping picking myself up off the floor, I drink a lot and seldom eat, And my family avoid me in the street, I shop at times when others like me Get treated at the checkouts nervously, I’ve just let go and I’m not missed, I philosophise in the park when I’m pissed, I frighten children, scare the cat, I’m told to fuck off and get laughed at, I’ve lost every single ounce of pride When something deep inside me died, And that’s another thing that screws my head, I’ll be like this until I’m dead, But there’ll be no dramatic gesture on the end of a rope, No penultimate suicide note, No sudden goodbye and then I’m gone, I’ll just go on and on and on And on and on till I’m a decrepit old sod, I’ll even outlive that stupid dog That hung around me all those days, Two fucking unwanted angry strays, Then one night I’ll bolt up from my chair and die, Watching repeats of Hi-De-Hi, And a couple of weeks later someone will complain There’s a nasty smell, it’s him again, Then they’ll scrape up what’s left of me, shed a crocodile tear And disinfect me out of here, But my demise will put a smile on my neighbour’s face, A nice young couple can buy the place, Put PVCU windows in and fill it with tat, Build a lovely conservatory on the back, So don’t pretend sorry and patronise, I can see your disgust in the back of your eyes, My skins so thick, life makes me sick, And instead of a heart there’s a swinging brick, I’m the one that got away, Now I just lie in my stinking pit all day Because your looking at someone who doesn’t care, I’m the bloke who isn’t there.

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.

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Darren Lea-grime

Wed 21st Oct 2015 17:10

lovely intro jim, good to see you found your way here...this cyber tramping is easier on the pocket!! daz

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