Rooting

They’re rooting for you.
Watching from the shadows
Their intentions a mystery

You know that you know,
But you don’t know who else…

But
Don’t think about what you don’t know

Don’t think
Be

When you are
Busy Beeing

Then
There is

Nothing

To

Say.

Bruce Almighty

Uphold the right to be wrong to be right
Bruce Forsythe was a genuine man

Singed his creeping letters
A photo held too dearly

The spaces between moments
Are there to be filled

Lemonface

Can’t you see I’m inclement?
Got somethin’ stuck deep, it’s not yielding.

Lighten up a little, I lie a lot
Knock up little paintings with words
My script a scruff, never was well presented

Never draw the same letter twice
That’s what they advised, but I can’t help it

Some people just spill
They can’t help it.

‘It’ just happens

And we punish them for it?
Why.

Pissed on The Wind

Thoughts on a page it’s paralyzing
Preferable you’d pursue a surge of light
Blind to the mundane
Pay in pain to see other things

Wonder on the corner
Empty streets at night
Walk along in a trance
And later you can dance

Drunk on the wind
It helps to walk

Mercy, mercy! Mercy, mercy me. What do we have here? A squiddle? A galoomphkaponch? A winkpinkerminkladdadaoodadayo? Yessum. All of the above. I am dry(ish) and so I type some, just a touch. Say little things that might lead to a something. Because God knows I don’t have it in me to sit down and write anything like a short story. Or a whole book of short stories. At least not in this frame of mind. At least not at this point. The mind is vast with many permeations and possibilities, but we’ve framed just this one corner for today. For this one moment. It could all flip quite unexpectedly if we’re not too careful. And so we say the things that come to mind and the mind comes to us with suggestions and we pick the juicy one and run with it because all along the way there are detours, hints and clues aplenty on which to feed and further the whole blessed business.

The fledgling writer dreams. He’s put a few clever sentences together, articulated some ideas, coined a phrase or two, and so he wonders: “Will I one day rise up grandly and write Thee Great Novel? Achieve ‘Success?’ With all of the attendant pleasures coming bundling in behind. Notoriety, fame, wealth, respect.” Or does he just keep putt-putting along with his little tidbits? Pushing ideas about idly like a pea upon his plate, in the hope that some poetry might pop up somewhere along the way…that maybe the damned thing might somehow write itself? Hard to say. Keep it in the day. That’s what they say. “I don’t know, man, I’m like a leaf in the wind. Don’t wanna think too much about nothin’.” Here’s a question: Can one keep it too much in the moment? Remaining ultra-present throughout their waking hours, neglecting to take a single second to reflect and muse upon the day’s doings? Could do yourself an injury. A disservice. A dissipitude. Made that last word up. Just to see.

Somebody once told me I had original ideas. That’s good, I suppose. Got to keep ‘er lit somewise. But there’s something else. Some extra length that one must go to that is so far eluding me. Nobody tells you these things, you see, not in any easy manner at any rate. And what of the rules? Well, they’re there to be bent, aren’t they? Disappear them with a mind-bolt, ZAP! Heard someone say once that you need three things to write: Experience, Imagination and Discipline. Jesus, discipline. Strap yourself to a chair sat at your desk and tear the words screaming from the deepest recesses of your subconscious, howling ghouls; whilst every circular inch of the hole in your soul wails “noooo!” in an booming overtone that causes the hair on your mother’s head to stand straight up. Even if she’s not present at the time, you can be sure that it’s happening. One thousand words every morning on the button, military-style press-ups, lest you be lashed, and banished from the exclusive club to which you’ve just gained entry. And the old guard tolerate you just so long as you’re salivating into a sordid puddle that glimmers occasionally, for their amusement. What are the fees?! Where and how do I pay my ‘dues?’ I’ve studied an awful long time for this promotion, I just don’t have the piece of paper to prove it! Yet.

But.

You know when I go out walking at night: I see things. “We’ll see things they’ll never see. You and I are gonna live foreveeeer!” What’s that supposed to mean? Women see things. Things we’ll never see. Like the scruff of my shoes upsetting an otherwise exemplary ensemble. They see the devilish glint of a greygreen eye, and all of it’s implications. The gleam of a beam of sunset light that lends beauty to the busted lamppost. They see it. Women. I wish I knew more about women. If I did I would go around making them one at a time, carrying on seven salutary relationships, each one blessing me with a separate virtue. “Come hither, my comforter!” “Woman of culture! Be at my side.” “Lady of the land, lend to me your rustic wit and mannerisms.” Yes, if I knew a thing or two about women it would be a different story altogether.  But that’s alright.

On the other side of things there’s that whole eh, whatdoyecallit, it’s the thing, the uh, the gammit. The gomboobler. The gawnbeesch! Yes, that’s another thing altogether and it’s very significant because as you know all roads lead back to the impairment of the senses. Except for the sense of smell. I see a man smelling his way around city centre on certain days of the week. No stick, no guide-dog, no nothing. He simply ambles along, nose in the air, arms behind his back, and smiles benevolently on all those who pass before him. He wears a long fur. They call him the mink monk.

G’day

She was young and girlish
He was tall and greased
A spritely thing of seventeen
Him in middle age

And by that I mean his twenties
But the gap was clear as day
The leggings she wore a wear a little cheap
She was stylish in her way

Her hair was spilt in black and white
It hung down past her shoulders
He hung around her like a lingering funk
A generation older

Shaggy, shabby, it seemed familiar
I guessed he must have had his plusses
I got distracted by a car on sale
And the two of them got away

Sometimes I go out shopping
I play it as I please
The music makes me, I just groove
And slip from common sight

I get a little pleasure, I can’t deny
From a well thought-out arrangement
The fruits, the veg, the meats, the treats
I’m a man of wealth and taste

Other folks I glance entranced
It’s all good in the ocean
Wheel away, I sift and sway
Keeping constant motion

When who should appear? My favourite couple.
I swing in neat behind them
But it seems this fine, young gentleman
Has a thumb jerked up his nose

“Gerrof, yar plonker! This here’s my girl.”
I freeze in feigned astonishment
“Oil harlve yor hedd if you don’t fayr kanter,”
“Now pikk ahnuther poignt.”

I give his girlfriend’s hair a tug
And spin off clowning laughing
He stamps his foot and says “Harroomph!”
“Yewll geddit in the neck!”

I flashed a smile, and with great style
Began to lope and loop
And just before turning for the next aisle over
Got a last glimpse at her hoop

I once knew a man who could play the tin whistle through his arse. He was extremely adept at this practice and was well-received at many local talent contests. Judges were wont to remark upon his ‘incredible dexterity’ and ‘impressive range’. He could play a variety of styles on the instrument including classical and jazz.

There was another man I knew. Well, not knew, but I seen him often. But, this man, he was the best dancer ever known to have walked the streets of Belfast. He had a convulsive style that gave the impression that he was taking some kind of an epileptic fit, but these were actually carefully controlled movements that he practiced a reported eight hours a day in order to be able to reproduce upon request. He worked for a while in a factory where he would keep his workmates in stitches by busting out moves at regular intervals, keeping rhythm with the clinks and clanks of the machinery to comedic effect. He was later fired for this practice.

There’s a woman who lives not too far from me with two sets of knees. This peculiar condition lends to her legs a certain articulation which allows her to walk up walls. She went in for an operation to have them fixed, but while she was out cold with the grey old senior surgeon leaning over, her right leg began to kick out at him violently, causing the man considerable distress. The damage incurred would not have been such had she not been wearing clogs at the time.

Late one Christmas Eve, as a young child, I sneaked downstairs to have a peek into the living room to see what was going on. At the bottom of the stairs I put my eye to the gap in the door and who did I see but Santa Claus himself. I was stunned, but quickly snapped out of it lest I should miss the magic of his workings. I looked him over: Santa was looking a bit rough this year, it seemed like his beard was falling out, and his costume was in shite state. I watched as he sniffed at the plate of mincemeat pies then sank the tumbler of brandy in one gulp. He proceeded then to produce his sack from the back pocket in his trousers, with less grandeur than I had hoped for. It was of the black plastic variety, the same kind my mum used for clearing out the bedrooms. After breaking into a cracked, hacking cough, he began putting all of the presents back into the bag. I don’t know, there must have been a mix-up of some kind: his appearance led me to believe that he was a man prone to accident and confusion. Anyway, I’d seen enough, Santy was real all right, all too real. I returned to my bedroom and dreamt of turkeys that talked.

There are one hundred and eight varieties of cornflour for sale around the world. There is an insectoid with seven legs known as the bitch-that-won’t-bite-back, she lives in Bolivia and isn’t very well regarded. There are too many people in the world, a friendly old man will one day come and remedy the problem. The island of Ireland is known to Bolivians as El Gringo’s Modella, for no particular reason. Seven hundred and forty three make-up retailers and I’ll never get to see the inside of one of them. What is the female equivalent of penis enlargement and why isn’t it being marketed more freely? If you had two pence in one hand and somehow managed to balance a sovereign on the underside of your middle toe, what makes a deer say oink? Grizzled grumblings for the mean meat-eating produce only grass please I’ll have four stomachs for my dinner tonight.

To finish, I’d like to make a proposal. I propose a toast to the unfortunate. To the underprivileged. To the suffering many. To little piglets all lost blind in a sty. To the tinkerings of water works unwelded. To the daily grind of a thousand forgers fencing. To the bog-rotten. To the lame. To the lime-filled. To anybody else that wants it really.

So long.