Quare witch got to haunting. Four or five sloshing gulpfulls found me gaping at the front, to the chagrin chafe of some well-placed membrane maintainers. I caught their jist, and restrained animal impulse, limiting myself to one shout-out per verse. I developed a deeper appreciation for their steadying insinuations upon the receipt of some heavy therapy. The quare one balked away at any accusation of advanced understanding or likekind speculation with still heavier torrents of his having-you-pegged, pressured further, and near-sickened set-for-crying assault. But anyone mad enough to endorse this brand of brain-wave experimentalism was bound to suffer in the end. A matter of pride, pig-headedness, and God-sent intent on prevailing.

It’s a branch of treatment peculiar to our borough. You’ve to suffer hard to win your week away. Lost to manys an unanswered beckon, man gets crazy with love in his heart, lacking even that he’d behave himself still, for reasons unknown. We discussed the romantic prowess of some dead-on chef, laughed our respective begs aff and it’s on to the dog-track.

I was trying to tell him how Leadbelly had ably killed a man before being freed because apparently he was a good artist. Then Josh White came in, with the gospel effect, only for Huddie to blow him out the door with a ten-year wail. A pulse in the groove, beat between the beat, and two souls expiring at a rate comparable with a couple Death Row labelmates. Turned out the chef was actually related to Suge Knight, he’d attempted to barbeque that guy that Suge ran over but the cops came and confiscated his corpse.

Somebody started reading the Tarot all of a sudden so I sang ‘Gypsy Woman’ by Muddy Waters. I’d not be laying it down as such if not for his influence, whether a lift or something heavy. For my money, which, admittedly, isn’t loads; he’s right up there.

It was a bit weird, negotiating the psychological content of the material, him up there, doing the thing. Must be the nature of the work. Made to test people. Keep them thinking. Real sound; can’t stop to think, act accordingly. We got a picture together, think his middle finger was up, like he’d caught a culchie Pokémon. I made sure to get my wee victory sign in there. Quare job.

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You can’t rush
Any fair degree
Of quality into
A poem

Regardless if
You’re grounded
In tradition and technique
Or swinging from the ceiling

It’s a distillation
Of the human experience
Breathe it out
Reason will reach you

—————————————————————————————–

Any accomplishment
Or bloodlet promotion
By now you recognise
And settle surely after

An accompaniment
However has more
Meaning in store
A kiss for fists

Awareness of process
Allows cognitive continuity
Analytical functionality
Awaiting ignition

—————————————————————————————

He could spend his day in waves
Some instinct for balance
The details of which
He kept to himself

Industrial age
Polymathematics
Bearing fruits experiential
Sweet strong tincture

————————————————————————————–

Anything I learned
About being a man
I’d to suffer awful for
Intelligent fellas can be stubborn

He taught me hard
And heavy so that
I’d no choice but to
Study the lesson

Still I’d persist
Read his work
And suffer again
Reassuring indignity

It was due anyway
He’s a good friend to me
Because he’ll tell me
Just what and when

—————————————————————————————————–

Whether it’s waves
Or a more linear
Thing that you’re wanting
Take the job in hand

Anything else
Would be dishonest
It’s only a fool
Lies to himself

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You in your confusion and me in mine. With the other being only on the outside fit so to see crop circles, whose legitimacy in coming to be needn’t even be admitted to or acknowledged because a good farmer believes more in the crop, and knows full well the prankish bent that collapses a farmhand’s posture after a week spent swimming in manure.

A couple of fieldhands you’d never suspect ‘cause they hold the leer so as to steer wee ships of happiness next to your bedside lamp. They were each raised two apples and a bunch of celery, to be passed off quite convincingly as new-wave tulips, in no way a comment on the recipient’s diet. There’s no crisps on the farm anyway, you’d be lucky to get a roastie in your christmas stocking.

I named the cow Trifecta, as she’d only three stomachs. A transplant bent in her general direction as a gesture of consolation and solidarity, while I milked ‘er on out.

We hadn’t a police station round for miles, but there was a guy who specialised in monopoly, and used the wee iron to actually iron a mouse’s clothes. Yeah but he’d ended up with a nice party whistle and a few of the more appropriate cards. So he would sort of put people in their place by ordering them to go to jail while he collected their dole. It was really more of a scolding, an excuse to blow that crazy whistle probably.

Supposedly there was a dinosaur living in one of them sheds up the row, but it turned out to be a large frog just. Still and all, the weeins were terrified, and a tadpole died. Locals were convinced that Frogosaurus had actually built the shed quite cleverly really by impersonating a boorish contractor. Most of us farmhands just went about our business and seen to it that this monster contractor was sequestered away in her shack. When the contractor himself turned up one day with a fourth stomach for Trifecta, insisting she be known henchforth as Quadrafenian, the whole thing fainted and he did a runner. He’s living in Munster now where he runs an old-school Freakshow type-thing; but that’s right, ‘News just in, Notorious ringleader perishes in tragic circus stunt. “He’s been eaten whole by thon frog thing.” The epitaph? Moby Lick.’

Like, farmhand and country life is so green and just like you’ve to really use your imagination because nobody can read. So yeah basically it’s crop circles or frog worship, and whatever ya do, keep it to yourself.

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