This is a record of the human experience. In purely bureaucratic terms this is nothing more than a written report. It will be handed in upon the completion of several reviews intended for the correction and betterment of grammar, spelling, and meter. Some in the company regard the adorning of such documents with flowery language as a purely feminine pursuit, the taking-up of which is to be advised against amongst our more ambitious reporters. Conversely, there exists an argument that our typical macho newsman finds an outlet for his womanly impulses through the construction of unnecessarily convoluted passages, with further philosophising between meek intellectuals concluding that the scale of their grand towering works reflect proportionately the individual’s need to convince his cohorts of the impossible magnitude of his ahem, todger, or…man-piece.

After all is said and done, in the opinion of this humble clerk, it is perhaps the deadline-chasing roustabout, hard at work in some nearby tavern, who, in spite of himself, and unbelied by his allotted modicum of common genius; it is only his composition that could find its character amongst the drinkers and dafties, and therefore it is he who manages to strike upon the golden phrase most often. Being well aware of the chancer’s reputation, the board members reward him duly with a further measure of lenience.

So, here we are. Another report nears completion: stats, figures and faff. They, all of them, meet a necessary level of competence and quality where the content is concerned, otherwise their authors would be found lagging in a lesser office, wouldn’t they? Of course, every man has his superior, both in office and ability. Tis only the nature of workplace and life matters, pertaining to pecking order, the basic arrangement of levels, responsibilities shouldered, social cues, what have you. Of course this isn’t worth dwelling upon for too long, we have an instinct for such matters. The primary cerebral cortex is to be occupied with the dreaming up of interesting sobriquet’s and clever conundrums, in the traditional half-assed manner, of course. Got to leave the other man a gap or two, would be rude not to.

—————————————————

I could tell by
His particular movement
Bouncing off the wall
In the golden moment

You can always tell
Him barking away
Very clever guy
And it didn’t matter 

Any longer to me
That he was backed by
A pre-made recording
His energy was insistent

That you look up
Catch him full on
Recognise the spectacle
His potency in motion

That last chorus
Flashing red and white
Strobe madness
Bursting with something

Without warning
A glim popped
Our great performer
Had fled the stage

——————————————-

Getting older I suppose. Signalled by an increased interest in quaint little games and quizzes. Sharing opinions and favourites with fellow enthusiasts. Renewed perspective through memories weighed with the gardener’s familiarity, trowel and soil, turn it over, sense all relations. The mother becomes the daughter, the sister and the friend. A father’s history under investigation, benign this time, for the better benefit of the beneficiary. To remember, no, to feel, what it meant to be a brother to two, then three; the scrapes you’d brave without hesitation. Some friends pass and this too is good, it is good for them and yet you’ll see it is best for you also. Valuing now the craic with pals once reviled, sure, what is brotherhood? Our antecedents, never heard the end of it coming up, ‘that’s where you got the music from, such and such and so.’ Up you get and see it so clear. It is important to love one’s family, to have pride; a blessed patience to see past those searing flaws. Of course, away they all are on journeys of their own. You can’t make a life of forgiving and loving every sorry sinner who comes along asking. But, do love your family, fiercely and fully. Give your psyche a nice cleanse and mend, enjoy the resultant buzz and glow, God knows, you’ll maybe even end up enhancing yourself somehow; a cool, clean aura is said to sell more neck braces in the possessor’s locale. Please don’t ask me why that is. Ok, piety-time is over, I need a cigarette, and some coffee…

‘Fishing in a pishmer’s puddle,’ as she put it. Something in the expression rankled with me old man bones and I was forced to eject an undigested walnut from the depths of my oesophagus. Immediately the base level idiot mind spewed forth some recollection of my having explained to a concerned drunkard, when asked why I persisted in slip-sliding perilously on a patch of black ice, that I was simply glancing in the puddles so that I could look upon the stars. Her face drooped and triggered recognition that I’d committed some conversational faux pas. You would think that with a few decades of social conditioning behind you, you might outgrow such childish oversights; anyway, perhaps the childishness was on her part, it’s hard to say, really. Looking back, I’d have to say I preferred the taxi driver conversations. A comfortable bitching session with a blonde darts enthusiast, followed by a crazed tirade from some no-bullshit war-specialist. I was made welcome by each in their own way. The genocide guy seemed to be on the receiving end of some very select intelligence, certainly he had plenty of his own. Though I hadn’t the knowledge to break a lance with him, I could appreciate his ability to dismantle systems of power and divine their true intent. For a moment I thought he might’ve crashed the car had I insisted on steering the conversation in the direction of the recent crossover, mega millions, game changing, mind warping heavyweight boxing bout. The lovely lady who’d regaled me with wondrous tales of backlit pub contests was much more the warmer of the two, I’ll cherish our encounter as my own and not sully it with publicised glamour, open to ridicule and God knows what else. Anyway, we’d best be getting along with the poetry. You know, I don’t write these myself? No, not at all. What I do is I sellotape the empty casing of an expensive looking camera to my shoulder and go hassling the least likely looking individuals to come out with some nuanced witticism. They get paracetamol in return and some feeling of gratification I’d imagine. Sounds like nonsense, I know, but that’s what I do. It helps to deflect the flack.

———————————————————————————————————-

Dancing in a drying puddle
Piddle in the woke few’s dream
Rapier’s ingest, fly fisherman

A stale Nice biscuit
With the mannerisms
Of yer da

Flea ridden jacket boy
Is no match for my
Cat pish house

——————————————————————————————————————-

I am in the queue
Nobody suspects a thing

The world of men
Wakes anxiety
In the soul
Of the socially ill-equipped

Lipstick chatter
Assails the social numskull
Like hail on a helmet
He blunders to the bar

The dictates of
Our social construct
Pins the introvert
Into black damp corners

Sickle tongued sycophants
Hammer the mechanism
Triggering vital response
Ancestral fed accuracy

Long after their memory
A suffering perpetuated
The utterance vital endures
Each generation’s fresh dig

---

Jealousy is a habit
That contorts our
Perception, making
Bad actors

Of us who swore
On high. We are
The worst of
Humankind in

These instances.
It is then that
We prostitute our
Frailing imaginations,

Malignancy having
Seized the channels
Already. When a person
Exhibits cool ease with

Our keenest hurts ,
Black Impulse will placate
The exploding toddler
With sick sweet salves.

—————————————————————————————————————

The coffee guy
Pontificated with passion
His priestly demeanour
Typified the attitude

In the lookout overhead
Our fellas offered
The prospect of
Handing him a rifle

Another travesty
Will soon replace
This, as fashions
Pass the gaudy;

To be caught
Out of step
Denotes daring
When honest grace

Finds fresh footing;
Suffering framed,
The lens pays
Dividends.
——————————————————————————————————————-
Lou Reed’s blood runs blue. I shined his shoes in a neighbour’s dream unbeknownst to the neighbourhood watch.  Actually I was going out of my way not to ingratiate myself overly with him, seeing as he’s got a pretty blown up idea of himself to begin with. A gossiping nun improvised a prayer, spilling the beans on all his little preferences. I read him rating himself along with Bob Dylan. I thought it was pretty distasteful for him to be blowing himself so publicly, but kind of funny too. He came off badly lit, but I think I caught him smirking. Lou Reed enjoying a private joke, to be transmitted telegraphically later, to an irritated Dylan. At any rate, I respect him still for exposing a generation with that stooges line. Blessed be the veiny wraith that spares a soul the sight of his crucifixion. Just gets on with it, produces albums of varying quality. Had a go at John Lennon too, our Lou. And always so cryptic. That said, it was no secret that Andy Warhol was a big fan of pro wrestling. Always something lost in translation when we cross the pond…

You know those crazy days when you wake all bedridden? The two piece telephone is ringing through a smashed glass panel in the proprietor’s front door. Of course you’re dying at this point in time, in the colloquial sense that one can endure without succumbing to the latest deadly common bug that pre-mass programming we used to shake off like an unwanted hand upon the shoulder. Yeah I mean generally what you want to do is just answer the phone. Pick up.

——————————————/——————

I’d to silence the sinning speaker
As I’d no need now, I am fit to sin alone
Several devils had served me in smiles
That only bolstered in me upright intent

I drip fed the foaming wash 
A tear for every tooth revealed
One for every hill sped atop the filly
Belly flat to her spine, press of head 

Against her fine long neck. I’d to
Own up to any indiscretion , which
Were all of them, to ensure the next
Man drank off his thirst from a clean glass

——————————————————-

Young stubborn nature
Expressed in coarse 
Waxen spiked leaves

Their exoticism lasts
Not so long. Year round,
No accoutrements.

Some old oak, though
It’s form dips and peaks
Is wiser for the experience

Aging thriving long standing
Like mother and father
Willing to die tiny deaths
The canopy allows another sun

———————————————-

Native American warriors
Paint their faces and
Wear blazing trails 
Of fine feathers 

Riding into battle
One must be suitably
Tailored if one’s appearance 
Is to have the desired effect

Enemy’s wives’ heads turn
We do not slaughter the women
Later we will have a smoke and
The medicine man will regale us

————————————————

Government man insisted
And so the basket was set
NBA standards some ventured
A prompt idealist, always some idea

I’d never any great ability
The heavy ball refused to yield
Young lads wrought of athletic build
Mastered the technique 

Shed the gawky unsure step
Grew into my frame
Acquired a rapport with the ball
And put myself about

Invited to a 5 a side with league players
The gulf in skill apparent and accepted
My persistence in defence appreciated
Even got a goal

A clap on the back and some love
It wasn’t the finest score
My workmate backed me all the same
As later I would in music

Camaraderie and encouragement
Carrot and stick
A treatment unique
To every man

————————————————

A friend of mine went out to the cliffs
To praise the sea and marvel
As the rock face endured
A furious storm unyielding

Automatic writing was more
Than some gimmick, not that
He was beyond celebrating
A great’s folly

In madness drooling with thumping lust
Pursued the daughter with reams rhymed reeling
An eye to the fields and Heaney’s clan
Who’d no grand circle to run in

Dark arts dabbled in with mastery
Molesting minds yet unweathered
A broken jockey at his side, pouring
Poison for to wake their countrymen

The old stone lighthouse
Blinked at him still
Barbershop chat
Would follow the meal

And a savage thirst
For the blood of every knowing
Would sit a’ peace
In the contemporary’s cove 

That man burst a pimple. He turned away to look at the sky I thought. He was picking his face. Whilst the rest of us carried on in the accepted manner of gentlemen drinkers, he collected the warm yellow paste from a crater now visible, as a distraction from the worrying expression he wore, without regard for the general public, or any other who would deign to cast a glance upon his sickening visage. He’d excavated it well, the fucker, and now he was rolling the putrid gunk

Into a stone obelisk type thing, a figurine. One of the fellas was in the middle of giving us all a laugh with a likely tale, when who but skin-picker himself decided he’d disrupt the flow, the man would make you wonder. So in he comes, with some mumbled inanity, probably that he thought was quite witty and all, and left our boy, the teller, stupefied. A few seconds passed then we all went back to ignoring him. I think he had in a roundabout way inquired after the meaning of a certain word or whatever it was, though any plain and honest man could see that he was only trying to take the teller down a peg or two, nasty little thing. God, he was horrendous. Well it almost appeared that the man of the moment was vested in a way of looking at it, maybe he’d let it slide, petty as the slight was; but just as the general thinking lent credence to the notion, didn’t our boy put a twist in the tale? In fact, he spun the whole thing as a great allegory, in which the acne-ridden interloper was sent up in fine style. By God it was impressive. And there he sat, simpering away. Smirking. And that great puss-hole bleeding away, for the whole world to see and abhor.

There’s some chaps you only bother with when you’re at a loss. It’s nice when the craic runs easy between two fellas and neither having to exert themselves overly to pace it. The best soccer teams ease a nice run of play, less anxiety on the ball, because you can trust your pal. If the bollocks they subbed on playing at right back were to somehow find his way into your comfort zone, for want of a more appropriately athletic term, it’d disrupt the whole process altogether. You know he’s going to fluff his lines should you show him a pass, but his total lack of tactical awareness has left him the only option, and so you set him up with a lot of space and try your best to engender a show of encouragement.

Our dynamic seemed to consist in me talking at length, usually relating interesting stories or offering some sage thought or theory, with him either lamely taking his turn and mumbling lowly, I suppose ill at ease with the disparity in our verbal manners; or enjoying success taking pot shots, at admittedly key moments, whilst giving me the floor, allowing me to work myself into a blind furore, or to give too much of myself away. I could usually pull him up on time, though he got by me more than once…

---

Blindside

Enjoyers of freedom,
Write endlessly of love.
Use quaint tricks:
The churl’s cool
Blue drench.

Those whose freedom
Has been withheld
Are unable to access
The romantic dream

Their writings
Consist in cold dark
Abrupt explicit statements
The only language that serves
To address their reality
Effectively


Ballinderry

We did enjoy the beauty
Of the river, as boys.
On stolen floats
Braved treacherous rapids

The nobler of the fellows
Agreed to overlook
Any criminality
That may have served
To enable our adventure

They were great days,
When the scene’s majesty
Suffered no cold enquiry
Or subtle lambast

Two lads were felled
With hogweed stings,
They bore the stigma
For several days
Until the festering
Blistering wound settled
Into a curious seal

Every weekday evening after six, when his da’d been slapped out from the kitchen on the end of his mother’s slipper, he’d lift the wash basin, and stick it up his jumper, the eejit. Strolling past the gated green that working class kids couldn’t enter or exit, save for impaling the groin of either leg, he hit the front street and stood up on his wee soapbox.

‘Nonsense peddlers,’ he called, ‘come all, ye common, the Kip and banal. I’ve got a luverly little story for ya, something all to do with the corrupt wicked head principle, and his second in command, muck-common caretaker, poor Jack Massey. Come now, ye filth ridden peddlers of football stickers and shite. I’ll only hold you a minute, this here coming’s a very important broadcast that whichever way you like it will be seen by all the blacks in Somalia.’

The rickets-stricken children began to gather, hoping to get off a memorable jibe, or even to catch the daft bastard with a stone.

‘Listen. Old Jack Massey, who caught the ill regard of every woman misfortunate enough to suffer the scent of he’s breath as it only turned out was an ex-pug, and an ‘alfway respectable one at that, before the Tb took both his kidneys. He was a club fighter very much renowned for cavorting around, mincing, I should say, in a manner most shame-provokingly. He could well have been the laughing stock of his own division, only for having evened up the odds with a two fisted attack the likes of which any pale-faced European would be befuddled with. A stylist, in the truest sense, with artful grace and nimble mind to match; not to mention the hardest right hand felt since Roberto Duran floored a donkey for kicking in his stall. Not to drivel on but the jockey of course was Sugar Ray Leonard. Hands of Stone walloped the-’

A big pointy jagged fuckin’ bullet of a stone came flying past the sickener’s ear.

Ok, right I will fuck up then. Yeah so long story short, this haggard caretaker, or janitor, if you happen to be a yank, he came in to do substitute teacher one day. And guess what, he wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed. Not only that, he had an embarrassment of a speech impediment, and if that wasn’t enough to scunder the astute rapscallions who presided over their weedy inferiors, he seemed to be making an effort, a pitiful effort to speak clearly, intelligently, with an imaginative grip on the English language. It was kind of endearing to tell you the truth, and not one of the boys had any real hate in their heart for the poor codger, it was just hard to manage it, the stress.

Anyway, in he comes, a pair of dungarees, like a newly-freed art school student, and, to everybody’s shock and surprise, begins to articulate the most lucid and inspiring ream of codswallop. The lads all clapped and broke for P.e.

While the lads are hiding themselves, huffing lynx, I’ll relate to you shortly the jist of this outlandish bastard’s gentle tirade. Right, so basically he was talking about a common condition which befalls just about every cunt with a heartbeat in a variety of like periods or lengths or whatever. Fuck sake. So yeah, basically, it’s when the victim, starts thinking everything is about them. Like his mate might start telling a story about the caretaker sleggin him like fuck and he’ll take in all the pain and believe in short that there’s a temporary yet fully realised conspiracy against him in which everybody else in the world participates and laughs at him basically. Yeah pile of shite, but this was his theory. One of the more gumptious students birthed the he-thought brilliant idea that it was very unlikely for a mad boxin’ cunt like Massey to be comin’ up with his own unique philosophies. Luckily, Massey spat directly in the urchin’s face before he’d the chance to elucidate his point.

Anyway it was lunch time now, and the three smart-alecs who found some refuge in making jokes went on out to see what this Massey was made of . Him with the long John’s on, shadow boxing, barking orders at Peevis Morton, the wimp in residence, who got walloped extra hard for taking occasion to chance a fruity one liner. Anyway these three likely lads, between them feeing pretty confident in having sussed it, started doin’ handstands, and doin’ aerobics on the crossbar of the rugby things. It was ridiculous like ballet or something and Massey was rippin’. Anyway, he boxes the head off wee Peevis for half an hour, it was a good exhibition to be fair, and the nerdlinger held his own in spots, especially when he landed that uppercut to the balls. Anyway, they were takin’ him away to hospital and next thing over walks the headmaster, Dr Pimplebutt. Says, ‘see you three, go and do cross country till I finish this crossword.’ So they went drinkin’ the stupid talent wastin’ cowardly handsome drunken whatever like. Anyway that was the end of first year.

Summer holidays the mayor closed the town, Jack Massey was fighting for the world title against Heron Wheat. Heron was like a wiley bigger version of Willie Pep’s granda, but he also had the kneecaps belonging to Rocky Macaroni’s butler. So he was a bit of an unknown quantity, but oul Massey didn’t give a fuck. There was a promotional push cause post war austerity meant that they needed more money for the NHS, so in rural areas the myth that Jack himself built each Massey Ferguson tractor was sold as truth, usually by wife-shaggin’ insurance salesmen types. It came off a trick and Churchill was laughing. He stuck a hundred pound note in a trust fund for Tony Blair and all was seeded. Come the day of the fight, who should turn up, but Roberto Duran. Says to Massey, ‘You have my respect, for teaching the peasant children, and working menial jobs like all us Latinos in the new world.’ Anyway, into the ring and Massey was pretty gentlemanly about it to be fair, he let that Pep wannabe go a few rounds then turns round and says, ‘50-0? Fuck you, ye pasta bastard.’ Knocked him clean out. Churchill was lovin’ it. Alfred Hitchcock filmin’ an all. So wouldn’t ye know, stinkin’ Massey gets the ride that night. Fair play.

They sold more tractors that year since the Industrial Revolution, motorway was packed. Massey was laughing, wanted for nothin’, but here, didn’t that fuckin’ wicked headmaster only still have him in a contract? Worked him till his dyin’ day, then he was off for the rest of his life. Happy enough.

————————————————————————————————————

With Bud Powell bashing away at the keys I observed the chunk of quietude with palsied rancour. I realise every now and then that to play jazz ye hafta not try. That is fuckin’ execute the manoeuvre, ye dafty, but don’t sit around dithering or setting your hand to it like some old master, just go limp and pretend you’re a ghost. That’s when you’ll do your best playin’, I mean, having not undergone the required training it’s kind of hit and hope. Let’s write a poem.

Jonah had lunch while the whale wept away
Wee fire in his belly now you’re not here to stay
Lance the oul crawfish with harpoon well sharpened
And ween out a few mermaids for after hours craic

Next thing along comes Noah
In his big fancy boat
Says come you on here we’re having a whale of a time
But Jonah was a weird cunt who didn’t like pandas
Or the fact there was no mermaids
Only Noah and his big knobbly stick

Next thing Moses split the whole lot of them
Firin’ out the tablets like fuck
Noah says where’s John Baptist the mad cunt
Tell him the salt is fuckin’ up our wine
And you’re the next best thing to Jesus

Noah didn’t like him cause he fucked off the whole lot
When they were playing pudgy gum bang bang
An ancient board game
Something like Jumanji
Only you were already there
John Baptiste flew up to the crows nest
And started bawlin’ his eyes out

Next thing Moby Dick harpooned a big carry out
Jonah says fuck this I’m jumping ship
And they all got busted
Mermaids and all

—————————————————————————————————–

Sewerage

Strands of doggerel
Tumble in
Before the committee
Then float out
To join the jetsam
The rinsing scum
That perpetuates
In that concrete bend
Defying the cleanse
Of nature’s live wash
Only there for to
Hint to children
What lies beyond
The factory wall

—————————————————————————————————————-

Fore

Fly agaric
The worms that ye hid
Were boggin’

Far from the
Ritualistic atavistic
God-dream that ye promised

Even after patient
Oven treatment and
Further de-worming

The bucket drowning them
Till I near boked
Persistence

Smoked
Your skin
To no avail

The preparation
Not widely practiced
And only a few of ye

Illuminating golf course
Groves, hiding
Yet more bugs

This timid liberty cap
Will more than suffice
The Druid’s intake

On the steps of Saint Kerouac I chased bop into a basement bar. Maintaining integrity coercing the various rhythms of performer and punter into some buzzing hum, loosening my neck to the suggested groove that went unnoticed by the average layman perhaps and gave my best.

Now, that might sound like a pile of stupid nonsense, but you put enough drink in a man with a pen in his hand, this is the sort of thing he’ll generally put down.

The moon saw me home through Roman Catholic ghettos that housed poverty line Romanians also now, the peaceful outcome of some open doorway drift.

The surety of my own step faltered as I approached the place in the east, a near subconscious gesture of deference, and respect.

The neighbourhood that had seen me halfway retained old phone boxes. Chances are the Romany gypsies were plugging the otherwise defunct lines with shrapnel, though some reserved the right to the beliebe that the ‘powers that be’ had left the depressing units as a reminder to all ghetto inhabitants that not much had changed, a reminder of their place, should their everyday existence fail to inspire dumb resignation in the first place.

I sat with an older fella who called me by name regularly, as if encouraging me to return the favour. The truth is I didn’t know his name. I’d always noticed him in my younger days, now the craic was running easy. I would’ve taken the chance to explain to him the peculiarities in circumstance that led to my inability to remember almost anybody’s name, saving relatives and such, but as it turned out, he wasn’t in the least bit interested in any variety of long-winded explanation. I adapted, and we had the craic then.

A typical exchange would go as follows:

-******, did you know there was a fifth Beatle?

-Aye I heard about that. It was…

-Naw, look but what I’m saying is, he ended up in a plaster cast, and-

-Oh, is that right?

-Him trying to drink away!

*goodnatured laughter*

The outcome of every wee chat led to him motioning somehow for me to face the stage, only to find one or more buxom ladies obstructing my view. With the upstanding citizen head on I endeavoured to enjoy the show without leering at any of the beauteous femmes in view.

At any rate, I managed to steal a generous glance at what I had to whilst maintaining a respectful mantle. Now it was just as I was turning to initiate a hopeful exchange with my pal when a barrage of Cubans entered my mind’s eye. Accepting their presence as an appreciator of their craft and lineage in the noble art, I was surprised when the gang parted to make way for a prime Dizzy Gillespie, setting the world to rights with his unfathomable familiarity with the outer reaches of musical possibility.

Now look, none of this would mean a thing if it weren’t for the entrance of a visibly discomfited boyfriend. It just so happened that I had been throwing a boxer’s nuance into my rhythmic head-sways, and the good fellow did not appear to be enamoured with this arrogant display.

At that very moment a blocked father in the front row began to rock back and forth in alarming fashion. The young man turned to look and I took the chance to adjust, pulling my chair back to give him room at the bar, dialling down any outward expressions of confidence that I might have been leaking.

This was an act, but the longer I played it the closer I got to letting go my show of confidence and revealing just a trace of having been a wee bollocks.

Later the bass player took a solo and hit some ‘edge of one’s abilities’ run of phrases. It was a relief, and pleasing to see him smile with the applause, speaking as a musician, here and always, unless I’m being taught not to, which earlier I was, and again later, but…

—————————————————————

The rumbling bastards of Cushendall, whose Turkish homes are fill’t. Every curmudgeon who skips through littered alleys. The many lottery winners who persist in makeshift homes. Blind swearers of dubious oaths still spinning. Glass half-smashed hut dwellers, poking sticks at the roadside carcass. The honourable numpties dismissing their representation in favour of courtroom farce. All of them boys, aye.

• I met a fella, so I did.
• – is that right, did ye meet a wee fella aye?
• – I did. And would you believe what this fella says across to me-
• – aw would well believe it, go on ahead and tell us then.
• -He says to me, now listen- he says, mister, would you believe it, but, half of the country, is succumbing- now wait for it- is succumbing- wait now- to consumption!

———————————————————-

*on the edge of profundity*-Music…

-*background chatter*-Nah he’s talking about his fancies…

*definitively*-Music…is shite.

————————————————-

The Hedge

A nettle sting; wasn’t just
As bad, as a beesting,
More commonplace, with a fabled cure
Rub that docken leaf all down ye

Something in the telling sold it

You learned in time to stand the nettle down
Pick your step and take care.
The docken growing always close
Encouraged trust in this accepted wisdom

Soapbar

The bar of soap 
Was a mainstay
Of our granny’s
Upstairs bathroom fixture

There was no sentiment
Attached to the waxen handful
It was simply a relic
Belonging to that era 

You were to scrub
The raw opening beneath
Freshly scissored fingernails
With a set of bristles
That would ruin
Your best school shoes 

Granny tapped ash
Into her crazy palm
And pulled her fake
Teeth out, triggering screams
Of laughter and delight
All the while telling stories
‘And says I, and says I,’

She could spin a good
Yarn, and still can,
Despite the horrors
That old age inflicts.
Granda he was busted 
Too much whiskey
According to granny 
Eileen

But in his day
As I was reliably
Informed, he was the
Best plasterer in the town
’A fine plasterer, Deck,’
Some further probing
Turned up accounts
Of his running cases of
Whiskey, to the fellas
That he worked along 
With, like a Christmas 
Boon, for all the lads.

He must’ve been a good
Craic in his day, but
Old age got to him early,
Come looking all the
Good times he’d overspent.
Full head of hair when he passed 
And most agreed, that there wasn’t 
A trace of grey to be seen.

Liquid soap nowadays
And it’s not so painful
When you’ve to scrub them
Raw bits beneath the nail
I just do it every now
And then, force of habit
I suppose, like the insertion
Of a cotton bud deep enough
To tickle your wee brain.
Good habits, bad habits
Routines and rituals,
Something to that.

Bought and Sold

The noble art
The squared circle
Promised immunity
From such connivance

But a good fighter
Let the favoured star away
Though the trained eye
Of every boxing man
And eager enthusiast
Saw exactly the transaction

To accept such things
In silent judgement
Must be the making
Of a man.

He was passed over
Many would never believe
Because they hadn’t yet
Trained their eyes or
Had their cynicism sharpened

There is a ghost that grips my balls. Whenever I perform, an etheric palm reaches between my legs, and locks my bollocks in a tight hold. I confess this only now as the visitations have ceased, and with their absence, so it seems, whatever charisma I may have had is also gone. How to seduce a spirit? With endless experiments in black chicanery. Teaching witless peasants how to spell using the ouja board. Nightly seances entertaining long-gone moguls and extinguished unheralded would-be stars. I massaged the grotty toes of Orson Welles just last week to no avail. Sent ghouls in search of a 20 stone Marlon Brando only to be greeted by an Apache squaw. But look, regardless of my success, or lack thereof, it is of the utmost importance that young pretenders become aware of the spiritual milkings that assist in squeezing out you finest produce. Get no grand ideas of your own inner power, acknowledge the groping ghouls, salute them as you see off the thousands of well-wishers that come to witness you purge. Holy Ghost.

—————————————————————————————————————-

– Filled ‘er up with glue.

– Is that right, aye? Saucy boy.

– Naw, he actually filled her. Filled her up, with PVA.

– Jesus Christ. Both holes?

– Polyfiller for the arse.

—————————————————————————————————–

– Out of touch? We’re talking about a man who though Youtube Shorts was a line of swimwear.

– Look, he’s the man of the moment. He…embodies the zeitgeist. There is something essential in his every utterance. As for his foibles? Why they simply fufill the caveat that every man most be fallible. If he were to be too perfect, it just wouldn’t work. Look sharp, here he comes…

– Fellas. We enjoying this heatwave? I near popped an umbrella this morning until I remembered we’re living in a country of closed-minded bastards. Huh?

– Excellent, sir. I’m sure nobody would have batted an eyelid.

– Murphy. Nice return on those last minute trades last week, tell your wife I said hello. McPartland. Shouldn’t you be at home today? I was hoping to avoid you.

– Very good, sir. Would you like to see today’s options?

– Hit me, Patrick. Help me pick a winner. Nice tie. Matching socks? Respect, P.

– *aside* Should we just have him murdered? I know a guy…

– *secretive return* No. Let’s ride this bastard all the way to the finals.

—————————————————————————————-

I drank a can
Of pish
In anticipation of
A wile mad rush

In spite of
Not having had
A solid shite
In weeks.

I used to
Like most men
Enjoy
A bitter lager

Nowadays
I prefer
Some fancy pish
Who’s chemical flavouring

Wins favour
With the traditional
Guttural distortions
That swerve

One from
The belief
That he
Is unaffected

This disease
In it’s various
Permutations
Nevertheless

Narrows you
Down as
Just one
More Anonymous

Victim.

-Ye call that rain?

-What do you call it?

-I call that a refreshing breeze, the likes of which I’d walk through bollock naked. With ease.

-The drains are overflowing. There’s pigeons drowning. It’s called climate change, old timer.

-The only change is in the sufficiencies of a man’s lot and the degradation of young attitudes, due to a few mild seasons of winter, that ye warranted your complaints with, so as now to give excuses and the want for robust natures. I watch the news, son, as closely as I watch the movements of the skies, never mind those of me own weakened bowels, owing of course to the poisoned liquors than yous are passing off as decent drink these days. The news is to be half-watched, cynically, then disregarded with the ordering of the next pint. Now fuck off, ya wee wank.

-Right, Granda. You have another pint sure. I’m away to save the world from modern problems.

-An eye to the past my son. Right ye are.

——————————————————————————————–

I picked the schnotter from out me nose, and ate it shame-free in the comfort of a water closet. Freed now of all familial shackles, my mind buzzed gently with quaint turns of phrase that shone with that familiar trace of promise…

Never take yourself too seriously son, otherwise you’ll think they’re all laughing at you.

-Standin’ up for the common man, aren’t ye, kid?

-None of your business, to be fair.

-Aye, but to be fair you wouldn’t have half of them tramps back to your house.

-Would you?

-Nah, but I don’t spend all my days writing wee stories about them.

-They’re alright from a distance. You should soften your heart towards them.

-The last time I softened my heart towards a tramp like that I lost my wallet.

-Aye well just try and remember they’re human too.

-Animals I’d say. You’ve a lot to learn son. Give it a few years and your own naive heart will be a bit more discerning.

———————————————————————————————-

This fine craft stout, a newly minted classic, has been deliberately flavoured with the distinct delicate stink of a secretary’s shoe. Will men savour this rare craic at the cost of their working class credentials? A surety indeed, if women continue to insist on navigating the rim of crystal glasses, with the kind of intent that leads inevitably to an erotic encounter with the desired ape-like groundsman.

———————————————————————————————–

Eamon fuckin’ McGlone. The biggest eejit that ever walked this town. Able as he was and all with words, office-management skills and folder-filling.

If you ever had the misfortune to meet the man in a pub then God love ye. Shites himself on entry, chats up strangers in an effort to scunder you to oblivion; berates immigrants with some skewed idea of a modern caste system…

The event was heavily petitioned by feminists, but Eamon didn’t give a fuck. He was up in the green room knockin’ one out.

Event organiser, poet of renown. Reviled and reached for, in selfish grasps for some favour or other. A scoundrel. And a wonder as to how he managed it. Blackmail and threats some speculated. Wouldn’t put anything past the artful codger.

———————————————————————————————–

-Did you hear that fella pontificating?

-Aye, was good to get it out of the way.

-A necessity of mcliterary schooling, say whut?

-Mnn. Buuuuuuuh.

-A solid shoulder in the direction of national acceptability.

-Is right.

-He’s fit to scrap though all the same. The pen wielding pugilist.

-The scribe. Writes a wee prophecy then in like Calzaghe.

-Bamboozles the opponent with historical nous then knocks ’em over with a tasty wee combination.

-Ye’ve to give him his dues.

-Aye he did write that Eurovision winner right enough.

//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

The clashing din of midnight loons
Carousing on the manic wheel
Foolishing another gash
Only for the want of a place to peek

Moonshine in a crabbit alley
Heel-ponce keeps dick
While bashful gets his piece out
And douses the scoundrel to his bones

Now loud the corporal basks
And asks keenly for come-uppance
Sanitation arriving bleeps
And the whole thing does a runner

——————————————————————————————————————

-He walks like a bitch, dresses like a tramp, finds his way about with a miner’s lamp.

-What’s that you’re singing?

-Aw just a wee song I’m writing.

-Nice. What’s it called?

-It’s called Maggie’s Britches Will Not Do.

-Oh right. Is that off that Iron Lady Concept album you have coming out?

-Naw, this one’s based on the life of a fella I seen sitting outside City Hall on a Saturday afternoon in September of 1973.

-Say no more. Here, you’re on the boiled eggs again today.

-Always and forever. Know where ye are with a good boiled egg. Have to get the troops marshalled here too…

-What’s he on about the troops?

-That’s what he calls his soldiers.

-Aye, but it’s just toast.

-Here, son, I’ve been eating boiled eggs for more than fifty years. I ought to know a thing or two about them, shouldn’t I?

-The troops…

-Yeah, and that makes me the General, so don’t make me have to pull rank here.
Anyway, aye. I was speaking to the pressing agents yesterday, they said they can do the ton at 150 so it’s looking good…

-Well that’s beyond fabulous, Lucy-Margaret. Let me just check on the salted flapjacks…

-What is it you do, Thestle?

-I’m a humanitarian, thank you.

-Ooh, how delightful! And where is it that you work, love?

-In bathrooms. Mostly.

-Oh

-Yes well you see, when you’re cleaning your own toilet, scrubbing away at your own fecal matter, it doesn’t mean so much, does it?  But to be faced everyday with the piling stains of strangers, the various smells, the sights. It’s quite a thing I’ll have you know.

-That’s fascinating. No thanks, I’ll pass on the flapjack, Juwanda.

-So. I began thinking of each of these strangers, in order to lighten the load so to speak, as members of my family. It was much easier for me to face the task at hand if it were a brother’s, or say my son’s stubborn turd tracks that I were getting rid of. So of course, by the process of reverse logic in practice, I soon began to look at these disgusting men, who frequent the rest rooms in bus stations and pubs, as truly my family, in a strictly human sense. In a manner of speaking, I was forced to broaden my vision of the world’s population as an international brotherhood, through shit, really.

———————————————————

-You’re a bitter cynical bastard, Barry. Aren’t ye?

-Wa?

-Ack nahin. Do ye mind the time ye raced the horse?

-Aye, and I nearly beat him, didn’t I?

-Ye were up that hill like fuck. No helmet or nothin.

-Coulda won the Olympics, if I’d went in for it like.

-Ye’d have never got past the drug test, son. Mind that, there’s some craic about thon Olympic village.

-Aye. My plan was to go in like Good Will Huntin. Go runnin down the corridors, then they’d let me in probably.

-Well, Barry, far be it from me to dismantle the dreams of any young scoundrel; but did ye ever stop to consider the logistics of such an audacious sherade?

-Well…

-Naw. Ye did not. And that’s why you and me’s sittin here, talkin shite; and that Matt Damon’s over in Hollywood, stickin it into some young starlet. Goodnight, son.

—————————————————————

Rollin Stones, ye can lick the fuckin back of them
You got two women, sure look at the fuckin hack a them

Bally fuckin hackamore, wanna go to moneymore
Havin craic wi Macklemore
Post Malone Boyzone
Lights are out im on my own

******************************************