I know that I locked the back door but I’m going to check it again anyway. Street kids always a danger. Nowadays they’ve got all those fancy acids for rotting the crud right off their teeth…

I went calling for my friend Epstein. Don’t worry, not Epstein, the infamous. It’s just that his name was Geoffrey and we called him that as a sort of a tease.

‘Ulster Volunteer Force. We’ve come for you, you bastard.’

No answer. Undeterred, I stormed the stairs, in search of somewhere suitable for the dispatching of a well-formed stool.

As the mechanism struggled to flush the particularly stubborn turd I began composing a simple hymn…

‘Force the woman gently. From her hindquarters infil-traaate.’

The melodious strain flew my frontal lobe and a sudden hunch for hunger assailed me. I would sequester in the downstairs kitchenette, perhaps being lucky a half-dry crust might find me.

With my pale, limpid, handsome face leant flat against the ancient tiling, I peered into cobwebbed cupboards. Lentils lentils lentils. Fuck it. I’ll have another drink.

Cocksure sneer, the ones becoming
Manifold supple surplus and such
Sanitised in filthy halls
Behoved to scrub and felch the crevice
Then pen their thoughts in certain terms
Adhering to strictures that do not rot prettily

Awfully now on Bambied legs
Parading paramount smiles beguiling 
Their every move decided and guided
Every filled in monitoring form
Not for nothing they endure
Their failing hearts squeezed of impurity 

Bamble bomble on they jaunt
Though failing, still they cooly flaunt
Drawing onlookers with a forced depth 
Of perception and peril still
Kiss to kill, desks strewn with bills
Sauntering surely past your summer sill

———————————————————

God chose the chosen, and chortled at the cheese. With a brief inhale he wheezed, then sipped another drip of potcheen. ‘God, this is hard work, isn’t it?’ He spoke aloud. Gripping then the pen that had lately replaced his quill, he began poking holes in a brown envelope addressed to heaven. Prayers rained down upon his hairy head, so he took another sip. Can’t put off what needs to be done, it’ll catch up with the man eventually. It was time he settled down to providing some vague, promising answers.

Paul,

         Your wife is never coming back. Why not try online dating? Or look about a dog? These suggestions found wanting, please invest heavily in strong waters, and give your own good head peace.

                     Regards,
                                   The Big Man

God stretched yawned and drank, heavily. Then dictated to his many winged minions, allowing himself an evening relaxed, free and careless.

The craic is elusive. One must be patient if he is to succeed in becoming possessed. Like a jazz musician, happening upon some blessed line through the art of spontaneous composition, you can really only reach around in the dark until it decides to befriend you. Some men are destined to endure full embraces with craicage, on a regular basis, crazed naked horseback riders chasing lightning, leaving behind them a rail of incoherent chatter. There exists a rare transcript of some of the earliest examples of such manic ranting; notated below is such an example:

Ex1: ‘You’re flibbin the mind off a poltergeist. Ye granny’s weein. Ye’ve got your crisps in the fridge. Ya big spud ye.’

It is said that Irish drunk, and writer, James Joyce actually picked up the pen in an attempt to navigate a failsafe route to a craicful life. After five Guinness however, he resorted to basing his efforts on a classic tragedy written in Greek, a language few Irishmen are fully fluent in. After obtaining approximately one million pounds over the course of a lifetime from some countess or other, he decided he’d rather drink absinthe, paying dearly for this habit with his already shrivelled eyeballs. Anyway this Greek fella never came looking his royalties, while Joyce for his troubles, was never served a kebab again in his life. But hang on here I got carried away talking about that James Joyce, let us return to the cold clinical examination.

The craic is apparently fuckin lethal and see when it’s out an all it’s the pure craic haha, like jokes and pure buzzin and everything’s just good, and here I go bonobobo, and umboobalooloo. Can ye do the candelabra? Mon here an I’ll take ye dancin on the ceilin. Can also, like, when I want to, I can like, so. Right. Like this.

See all ye fuckin hallions, you’re on the fuckin snooker cue, wearin fuckin blue socks, I’m runnin about in pure puma. Your mummy is a wanker and your da’s a hard cunt. Ah, that’s me, done ma best.

Eh, let me step up to the mic my fellows. Young sheep slappin, eh? Fuckin Eton with the Cameron, got my camera on and your weeins are skint, while I’m scorin wickets with oul Freddy flintoff. He loves the craic, accepts me as a person, and so do you, we’re all good, G.

Here hang on I’ll do pure literature an all. Illumifuckinati, come and fuckin get me, rockin the green hills on a horse made of daisy stems fuck sake, I turned to her said Jesus my dear I’m astonished now come to fuck and we’ll all read a book or two, like a cuckatoo clue, always sniffin glue, still passed my eleven plus, now I’m just tryin to develop some basic social skills and hopefully not a heavy drug habit, hands up

Oh here I have a question

What’s that now young fuckin Mc Johnson?

See when you finally do know the craic, does it stay with you forever?

Eh, have to wait and see son. Mon do a wee rap for us, we’ll get the craic goin yet.

I have the craic all night make believe I’m in Spain
Church bells ring and it started to rain I’m in pain
Need a bandage for my brain like a hug from that bird that a wouldn’t mind knowin
Maybe if I keep exploring this crazy shit the love will start flowin 
And I’ll be glowin, hair lookin well, all compliments from my mates
Got a free hairdryer after a caught my hand in an escalator down there at yorkgate
There’s a funny fella comes out with all this deep shit and he’s sound
But I think he’s got his eye on me and that’s why he-

Woah woah woah mate. You’ve said a lot there. Why don’t ye try throwin a few more jokes in?

I’m broke as fuck, don’t have much hair Sometimes when I’m lyin in bed at night I think I can hear voices
My clothes are shit but what if I pull out this here saxophone?
Can’t play any tunes but it’s something I think I’d be really good at
Call me on a datin app I’ve been told that I’m appealing
Just a few confidence issues that ma big mate Gordy says he’s fixin
Fuckin blue hoo the blue hoo goo
I fuckin picked up a spanner an buckled ma shoe
Put five white penguins in your lunchbox
Suki and vodke, peace the fuck out

Not bad kid, give me a go

Your claim to fame was knowin miles Davis’ da
Ye read about him in a book and opened up a museum in his honour
With your primary school chairs and the suspicious lack of evidence 
Ye bend a few more ears cause ya just love a wee chat don’t ye
I fuckin play the masaxamophone, giz over here and I’ll give ye a bone 
They call this one the humour so get your guard up ya flim 
Punchline knock fuck outta ye catchin fish for the win
Let’s go for a spin

Dunno what that was there. Just a few boys rappin. Fuckin wouldn’t mind a go myself, but I really have to get back to this literary craic, won’t be too long.

There’s a fuckin saxophone in thon corner.

Aye Ano, ye wanna hear it

I have heard, I have.

He’s fuckin good inne?

Who, baldrick?

Naw, I mean, your man who comes down. He can fuckin play it like

Aye, he’s alright

Aye. But here, he’d not be fit to do it without thon saxophone.

Aye ye’d hardly see him playin the pendulum like.

Naw, he’d not be fit for that, same boy. There’s a man plays the gong up the road. I says to him, fuck
You’re some rip the oul pendulum Alistair. He says, aye, morning noon and night. Mornin, noon and night.

Here do ye mind I used to play the gramaphone?

I do surely, ye were at it too. Good wee jockey. Horseback and the grammarphone.

Aye tell ye what the granmarphone doesn’t talk back to ye.

That’s right. Ye’d Needa watch the needle right enough.

Ye do surely, very good care you’ve to take, that’s the most important part. You get that done and everything else will fall into place.

Excuse me lads, times up.

—— ————————————-////——————To be confronted, with the twisted reality, to understand. We always rush to understand but in truth it’s a painful thing. Perhaps one learns to navigate better with age. In any case, the pain soon fades, and the true insight we have gained can be welcomed as a blessing. It’s very hard to perform in a high pressure situation. Some people thrive on it. None among us, though, can claim to be so savage as we never have a moment of weakness. That’s kinda reassuring to know too though, innit?

Dashin out the lines with fyodor dostoevsky
Left his desk in a mess now am chasin after ye
Fuckin Bernard Hopkins wouldn’t have a look in Mon da fuck
Talkin all these madmen get us a bit a luck

Fuckin hedgehogs sound, put him in a shoebox
Bit of toilet roll and some carrots, and he’ll probably eat a snail
Fuckin super hedgehog, imagine he started flyin
Tryin to save the world an all daft wee legend

Twenty years of fuckin about and I finally learned how to teleport 
What do ye say, I only went and teleported to prison
There is no soul here and the wardens are pure cunts
So are the prisoners but only sometimes

They give good advice that will kick in as the years go on
Speakin to a murderer but he did a good one
Other fella goes round slammin everything
I told him he should be a drummer and he asked me for my phone 

Prison mentality can be easily acquired
In the psych wards and asylums
It’s either sink or swim and if you do learn
You probably have a good life about 70/30

I used to help with the poems
One guy who knew boxing moves 
Was writin about touts and describing their deaths
He was a bit fat to be boxing but must have been clever
Fat man with good feet need to be wary

So while I endured their craic and so so
One guy rapped his poem
And the last line
Had something to do

With everybody else in the room letting it hang
And him for some reason hung up on maintaining
A strong front. Looking back, he probably came from a particularly hard area of already hard Belfast

It was nice for him to cut loose
We were doing tai chi
A move called parting the clouds
Good looking nurse comes in

Of Indian descent I think
With big red lips
And a tendency to cry when a
Bullish patient got angry

So this fella starts
Doin the taiChi move
Goin Parting the blouse, look
Pardon the blouse

It was a really good joke
Especially coming from him
Cause It was designed
For his personality

He also came in when me and a beautiful older girl who liked my poems
We’re chatting deep, and she told me that her da went away and never came back

It was very funny the way it came out
And here comes pascal,
Slidin about in his socks, pure
Frank Sinatra, singin some song with matching title.

And am only sayin title
Cause that’s kinda the way I am some say posh
But am proudly poor like yeknow proud to have come from pain
But the reason I talked kind of proper

Is cause
I loved reading and was very smart
But not smart enough to realise
That people talkin

Is different from the stuff
You see written
People don’t read
Books anymore

So the good writing will maybe go into cartoons and films
And still poems, yell never kill the poems
But aye that was a major source of like a trial big theme in my life

Lot Of Ppl probably similar thing
but they weren’t as eager
To be accepted on both sides
It seemed

Very important to me
For some reason
Which I’ll never know
But as long as every now and then

I wrote a good poem
Or play a good song
Then I Can be settled
And feel Good

Cause you get guilty if
You’re not
In a
Normal job every day

If
You can provide evidence that you’re keepin busy
Well then that’s good enough, keeps cheeky
Nosey bastards

Who I still do like
From puttin it on ye
You can’t let anybody take your self worth away from you
We’re all here for a reason

Sometimes it seems
To be clear
Like everything
You’ve

Done was for a reason
That’s the best
You don’t have to tell anybody 
Which is good cause if

You’re seeking validation and approval it can mess with your ego
Lucky I have a couple mates that are very good that way keep me from goin too far out

And that’s life innit
Ye put in the hard shift
Then ye get away on your
Holidays

It’s a good life
Honest and hardworking
Even tho it seems somebody’s just sittin fuckin around on their phone

Makin art takes a deep
Toll 
But we all do that
It seemed too like people were put in your path

Who conveniently seem
To have just the right qualities and influence
And you too helping one’s
Careful not to condescend

We’re all people regardless of bank account smarts streets smarts common sense or lack there of
A good person is just that
And alot Of
Others are just good people in waiting

Right I’ve definitely done enough now.
And me condescending like fuck lol
Can’t help that sometimes
Wee bro says my brains too big for my Head

He’s always been sweet
Good heart and lovely way about him
I didn’t used to think that people like that could exist
I’ll just do my best

And try not
To carry too much on my back
Too ambitious
Better bit at a time

Be no use to
Nobody with a broken back x

So Jesus, he was out in the desert, doing his thing. And ye know, apart from the morale-sapping fatigue, the boredom, and the general malaise that that sort of situation entails; it wasn’t the worst. Looking back, I think more what the issue was, was that there was no water. And as you well know, without water, you can’t make wine; at least not the way Jesus makes it. So Our Boy was bustin’ for a drink, dying in the heat, with an oul dry mouth the likes of which you could keep your biscuits fresh in; when it just so happened, on day 37 I think it was, he comes across a couple of palm trees amidst a grimy puddle – an oasis, you might say. There was a nondescript man crumpled in amongst it all, clutching what appeared to be a tall bottle of clear clean liquid. Jesus thanked his lucky stars, and made a casual stroll towards the scene…

J – Well, kid. What’s that you’re drinkin’?

? – Gadzooks, me ole fucking mucker. Never you mind. I’m fooking Prince of Darkness, but you can call me Liam. Wot’s yore name, ye sandy bastid?

J – I am Jehovah, Son of God. Yeshuah, the One and Truly…

L – Shut t’fuck up! Prince of fooking peace. Doin’ a man’s head in, wot? ‘Ere, take drink of this.

J – Thank you, vagabond. *holds bottle aloft* Ah, life-giving water. Essence of truth and all that is good. *starts to neck bottle*

L – *snatching bottle away from Jesus’ quivering lips* Oi! Give back vodka, fooking tramp…

J – *slurring words* What is this vodka you speak of?

L – It’s fooking top tier drink, innit? Jesus fooking Christ, you near finished bottle an’ all!

J – *continuing to slur* I can remedy that. *proceeds to roll eyes in the back of his head whilst making impressive geometrical motions with his arms* Behold!

L – Ey up, mate, you could be on stage with moves like those! I said MAYBEEEEE… *the near empty bottle he once held has somehow rolled to his feet, full now to the brim, with a thicker, red solution* …if yoUr garden groOooOoOOwssss… Wait. What t’fook? What have we ‘ere then?

J – *looks up with nothing but divine cool, the trace of a smile apparent* You’re welcome, Mr Gallagher…

L – What in thee fook? How did you? Wait a second… *uncorks the bottle, guzzling readily at the murky purple contents* …Buckfast! Ey up. Tell you wot, mate, you and me are going on the rip!

Thus ended Jesus’s forty days in the desert, three days early, thanks to an unlikely encounter with Liam Gallagher, of all people. What was the Manc doing out on the sands a couple of thousand years ago? Who’s to say. Jesus’s father wasn’t best pleased with the antics that ensued, but he forgave him in the end; what else could he do? And so began The Son of God’s much-storied association with the beggars, the robbers, the cads, and the sex workers. One can only suppose that he enjoyed a good rip as much as the next man, his acceptance among these varied characters must have been owing to something. God bless.

A new inroads to fresh sentiment inspired by some skewed awareness of a mortal man’s hypocrisy inescapable. Compassion held close to the breast, an earnest interest in understanding. Any expression of cynicism spun, with painful exactitude, to taint impressions still waiting to be born.

Did you know that ten thousand ants take their lives every second, in protest against a liberal regime who’s relevance was quashed in 1903?

But aye, at bottom we’re all teenaged boys, clinging to our opinions like life rafts in a sea of pith and fizzle. One must retain awareness of the significance of this fact. If we think that by growing up we are to shelve our petty ticks then a hard fall surely awaits. One must parry, counter, and charge the enemy with dubious speculations. Of course to perform at the implausible levels demanded by our misled expectations, one’s output must be enhanced by some extra bodily imbibement. 

Hang in hang on hang on. See all that there? Forget it. See the one thing you need to keep ye goin? A good steak dinner. A proper wee steak. Pink in the middle, mate, know what I mean? See that fella that was givin ye stick? He’s sexually attracted to ye. That’s all it is mate, he’s just a wee bit into ye, and a wee bit scared a that cause he’s full with it, aye? Go on you ahead, wee son.

Aye so basically ye take all them big words, break ‘em down into shit that people can understand, and then just be the pure lad. Like proper real confidence, makin’ jokes, pullin’ women, playin’ tunes. It’s in ye. Gwan an get it.

This is my wee blog so it is. Write all wee things in it, like my feelings and prophecies and all. When I’m doing this I pretend I’m just the drunk in the park who told me not to think of anyone, so I don’t think of anyone, when I’m writing. I have all like concerns and involvements with the community and all. Cause I know what it’s like, like a good bit of the stuff that goes on, and now amnta flyin’ high so I’m fit to help my wee mates and all that I see are sad sometimes. Funny they didn’t seem to see me when I was sad and thinking hard about one-way decisions like a big fuckin’ painkiller, and a feed of drink to take you to oblivion. Different people talk about different things, at one time I kept tryin’ to keep up with ones so it was well seen I earned wings. But I don’t even fly no more cause the way down ain’t so nice which is why I try a bit to stay on the level and occupy myself with something productive. Not that I don’t enjoy myself, I’m a happy person, listenin’ to tunes, wee laugh with mates. Think it’s probably more easier to laugh when you know you can trust someone. It’s a good thing, it is a good thing. And like probably ye don’t bother remembering how bad it really was, in case ye get stuck or somethin’, but that wee bitta perspective is good and then sure you’re a wee bit more fit to meet new people and gaining respect and that, man ye know for years starts yarnin’ about somethin’ wile interesting, Tis good. Right see you, fuck off, haha only joking no, take you care and I’ll see you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~,,,~~~~

Yeah, see you? Can you stop writing bout taxi drivers, boxing, drugs and depression please? You’re doing my nut in.

Thank you,

Terry 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~}#####}{]||~~~~~~~~~

• I don’t have to spell it out. I don’t have to explain. Everybody knows. Well, we all do. See your wee man spends every weekend holed up alone doing God knows what? I don’t think he knows. No I’m being serious, somebody should just let him know, like do that weird realisation thing where you have to hurt them to heal, cause yeknow all us ones are stubborn minded.
• He’s actually a very good cub that boy, it’s just he doesn’t know it and he’s backward and that.

• Do you know what that wee lad’s problem is?
  
• Naw. You go on and tell us Mr know it all.

€€€€€$$$$$$¥It was then that his eyes gleamed with some super heroic impudence. $$$$$$€€€¥¥¥

• Look mate, I am a fuckin criminal. Certified.
• We’re all fuckin criminals ye stupid cunt! Where do ye think these Nike air max came from, Sports Direct?
• I’m no criminal, I’m a legitimate mcbusiness man.
• Rite rite Lord Sugar, put your wallet away.

• Aye so your man, he’s no common sense.
• Aye well stop tellin him that, like there’s something wrong with him.
• I’ll soon knock sense into him. School of hard knocks, wah?

• Naw naw don’t do that. Kid’s a Kung Fu champion. Sure, his da’s ma served Bruce Lee that poison fish one time. And then Brandon came through the window and all, aye?

The Ulsterman is keenly aware of all that goes on over his left shoulder. His deportment is that of a knackered sailor. He wields rare arcs of coarsened vowels when meeting a would-be foe. His friends regard him as something of a comic treat, from behind a breezeblock wall. His grandfathers were able men each in their respective fields, legendary plowmen and clouts. 

Upon discovering the true nature of his birthright, he immediately takes up an imaginary post as standard bearer, sword swallower, or roving tycoon. Previously unattainable women gather to dance around the maypole, grandly converted from the rusted washing line stem. The relationship with his mother deepens, and thus he grows stronger, in spirit and in mind. His past disregarded, his future a glowing jewel; pasted.

Embrace the comic spirit
Drop dreams of grandeur
Into fetid earth and crumple
Heavy scents assail you
A youngster now to beckon
Open now to teaching
Many opportunities missed
The cake weren’t baked
Stick a wee spud in your mouth
And go buffooning
Fulfilment a funny thing
Laugh as hard
As your labours allow you
And let none put ye off
And what have ye

But anyway
Somebody’ll keep ye right 

Rap. Music. We all love rap music. I think it’s the beat, there’s a magnetic quality to it. The beat swells, makes itself Known. I declare that The Beat and its particular qualities surpasses any other component in the musical compendium. Yes, lush tonal washings may lend the piece a certain facile beauty; but without the man, banging a stick, it is nothing.

Complex syncopations and articulated nuance may be achieved through the correct manner of disciplinary instruction. One may also incite spontaneous exhibitions of rhythmic spasmody through a studied manipulative of one’s footing. A controlled leaning of the upper thorax, accompanied by slight shoulder shrugs has been suggested in many publications as a fine accompaniment to any gentleman’s gib.

When displaying what you may consider to be masterful displays of bodily contortion, please be aware of your surroundings. If found buffooning in a fashion contrary to the given theme, you will be disciplined by a large man of authority.

Your close companion who sits at ease in your shadow, in the strictest sense only, is playing an invisible role, your knowledge of which is to be discouraged. If it were not for his presence, your confidence would falter, and the mere notion of outward expression would your conscience reject.

So look I’ll paint a brief picture of a likely scene. You’re dancing. You and your mate. Dancing. There are hundreds of people here. Everybody’s here for a good time. You engage two young lads in a conversation about boxing. Turns out they’re MMA heads. I demonstrate my deadly shadow boxing, guard high, shoulder out, throw a 1-2 and bob my head a bit. The kid turns round and says ‘I’d have got ye with a body shot,’ showing just how he’d go about it.

I gave it some thought later and resolved that I’d think about tucking my elbows in, to protect the ribs. Another young dude was giving me the lowdown on the Influencer Boxing scene. He gave Tyson fury a good chance to beat Usyk. I said look at fury’s last three or four main opponents, none of them were great movers, And none of them were unorthodox, excepting maybe Wilder. I’m thinking Usyk’s movement will make things very interesting, maybe ultimately it’ll come down to who wants it more.

Back in to Snoop! Keep meeting old friends, the boogie’s on in our wee section, feels good, like a football match. The fella right in front of me has really gotten into things by now, he bangs his head off his chest in a frenzy then turns round to spit in my face ‘are you talking to them two young boys?’

I answered ‘Yeah, the boxing.’

‘Those are young lads, young boys I’m telling ye.’

I didn’t know whether to console him or buy him a burger.’ I sort of nodded as a token of my Understanding. ‘Yes those are young boys.’

He went back to crying tears of Heineken as some hip hop tune triggered something deep in his blessed guts.

There were about four songs left and the whole thing was dying. We gave it our all to keep the beat alive. This was becoming a night for all to treasure, we had to see it off with a rally.

The aged Snoop was delivering on the craic, the Southern fellas who’d done support deserve a mention too. But yeah Snoop was bringing it all home, nearing the finish when, who but our beer-drenched admonisher should step right over the row of seats in front of him, positioning himself between two bewildered teenagers. He seemed to be engaging them in some earnest spiel of drivel, but the surrounding punters became more than a little disquieted by the wretch’s approach. He protested with, yes, outward elbows, shaking off the concerned punters, insisting upon the importance of whatever sage measures of whittled wisdom he was dispensing so benignly.

He was bustled off, with his visibly perturbed ladyfriend now lecturing me on the significance of the surroundings. Luckily, the whole charade was surreal enough that I could accept the lecture without too much embarrassment.

Upon arriving home, stepping into sacred solitude, I weighed up the night’s happenings, and noted briefly the deep sense of gratitude that accompanies such blessed moments. A one off night, here’s to many more.

-Well I’ll tell you this, and I’ll tell you the other, and I’ll go one further.

-Ye’ll fuck up, ye blackguard bastard! Get in my taxi! Get. In. My. Taxi!

-Well here c’mere till I tell ye this. Did ye ever hear the one about the blue-eyed monkey? Got into a snooker match with Dennis Taylor’s da?

-Get you on in there and keep your wee mouth shut, ye worm.

*engine starts*

-Do ye like the boxin’?

-Baxin’? Ye like your baxin’?

-I like Jeff Fenech.

-Jeff fuckin’ French. There’s no good French boxers, the French can’t box.

-He was an Aussie…

-He was shite. Barry McGuigan would’ve flattened him.

-*aside* Flat-footed.

*Car pulls up abruptly*

-You tryin’ to get smart with me, son?

-*meek* No. I only wanted a chat about the boxing.

-Well contrary to your blinkered world view, not every working-class, West Belfast cab driver is an authority on the finer points of pugilism. Right?

-Yes. Yes, sir.

-Look, kid, this is your stop. Fifty press-ups every morning for the next month. If you’re still curious go down and spar a couple of rounds, see how ye cope.
*turns around to stare straight at the dwindler*
What is it you’re studying again? Numbers? Aye, go on you down.

*speeds off, waiving the fare*

———————————————————-

‘You need discipline!’ He scolded me across the table, eyes bulging, his mouth ripped across in some accusatory statement of bared teeth and daring. I’d only just met him. She was a little more accommodating in her manner. Maybe he served to shock. I had seen him perform before. He was really good. They asked me what I was reading, I answered Joyce, as mostly I was, and both warned me it was dangerous. I asked had either much success publishing, turned out the soldier had been. I was very young and impressionable and lost then, but I guess they must have guessed me as one amongst their number. And guessed too, without too much trouble, that I was more than a little lost.

When I finally got a grip on the discipline thing, I began to see some results, I think I got some sort of a style going. But like it goes in these things, you think you’ve understood something, only to be led to a mouth of much wider waters.

I’d really like to pull that soldier move on somebody some day…

—————————————————-

Play That Guitar Boy

Your house stank
Of good books
And cut-up magazines

The television played
Vinyls were succoured
Radio love brandished

You danced uncalled for
And sped many from your graces
Faint prospects brought to fruition
Through silver-throated
Telephone manipulations

Alternatively you bolstered me
Then broke me down
As some are wont to do

But ultimately
The queenly demeanour
You wore in my youth
Was stole from you
By the given laws of social conduct
And those who abided by them

I hope you are well
We shared a few good adventures
Keep well with the priest
And dash that ghost away from your door
Lest he gets to growing any guts

A starving bard one day went strolling. He was walking off the hurt of a hep-cat’s screech. Contemplating the moaning of a song just heard, knowing it wouldn’t be written down anywhere legible. The night before some lout had bragged of having read ‘the world’s longest poem.’ The brief synopsis he gave was satisfactory, in the truest sense, and to go one further, more than a little gratifying. The only thing left would be to eat a little chicken. Preferably not farm-fed. You catch a chicken in the wild, you can be sure it’s going to taste superior; though good luck with pinning it down.

So the lout was something like a frog really, who when you just took the time to kiss it a little, started spurting out streams of millennia-old wisdom, quite implausibly. Lesson learned, but it won’t be the last. More than one art this noble rapscallion was ensconced in, seemingly. A well concocted man is worth more than the sum of his ports. So said he, and well the bard he went wailing and so on…

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Fly for me a little kite
And I will fill you full of shite
Bolster and brace you little one
A trembling hand laid on the gun

Mercy, please, you cry and rant
Feel free with me, go on and vent
A scaredy cat is a pound unspent
Circus-size, come circumvent

The billowed clouds of undesire
Hitch your hooks up to this here wire
The latch is creaking, thumb unstuck
In this wee game we make our luck

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