Fresh from a stinging encounter with a dead man’s genius, I am rushing to answer questions to which I have no right in fielding. Such exchanges are facilitated thankfully in the form of coded forums, where injured would-bes can salve their wounds with the delivery of off-hand blends of wisdom and knowledge. One can be sure of their compositions garnering the requisite levels of praise and recognition with an accumulated rating, whose accruing is shadowed in mystery.

Should these harmless offers fall short of silencing those deafening screams of inferiority, the injured party can always set about taking down their silent assailant with a dry, pedantic listing of their superior’s faults. It might well be advisable to shroud any such critique using clever methods of distraction.

Anyhow, we can’t all be Jesus. I once spent a year trying to contact the ghost of Samuel Beckett, blundering into a haughty misunderstanding of what a ghost writer actually is. The executor of his estate wasn’t in the least bit amused having received my dictated stream of consciousness. I do suspect he got a giggle at my insistence on pronouncing that ‘S’ with a lisp however, a slip in his otherwise impeccable hand hipped me to the game.

It’s all very petty anyway, us sensitive artistes, with our barely-concealed egos, remorseless in our envy of the corpse. I suppose it’s a compliment really, not to us of course, that is unless you compromised your creativity for the basic sense to guide it. One shouldn’t nip to the shop in a state of undress, but you need milk, and a quick shock of reality to inform the next artistic foray. One can achieve unlikely feats with a shirking of the bare minimum of common sense. The enlistment of sensible friends is crucial since your social lack is showing. Have fun.

———————————————————————-

Edna O’Brien would
Write of the smell
Of pea green soup

Joyce likewise insisted
On detailing encounters
In a lurid manner

Synge wrote wild
The islanders’ patter
Tale was fit

Kerouac’s antecedents
Spelt Keltic as
Waves of experience

No leash for Miller
A mad Parisian
Ideas for days

Journalistic Mailer
American quintessentially
In manhood relished

Introducing DeSade
A shame for them all
Le Frere Grotesque

—————————————————————-

‘The Gutter,’ is really an impossible concept. The idea that homeless drunks are apt to scale precarious pipes of plastic in order to access a soot-filled ledge is temptingly ludicrous. What’s that, ‘unfair misuse of grammar?’ The idea that something both tempting and ludicrous, when considered a possibility worth investing with imagination, maybe even full-throttle belief, results in a conceptual flavour, replete with texture, colour, and shape, I thought was obvious enough in its conceptual availability. Perhaps the unwieldy expansion and dissection of the thought seen its coherence succoured by grammar-wanking academics, whose patched-up jackets fooled us plebs into funding their whims. You should really try wearing a likewise jacket, give a lecture on till-operation and first-hand poverty. They might offer you a job, scrubbing the shit from some professor’s latrine. (Just to note: Charles Chaplin, previous to Communist conversion, was tried daily by the talentless regulars who had simped their way into an occupancy on the set of some clueless approximation of the working class experience. Chaplin’s initiative prevailed in the end when he slept with their wives, in an Oscar nominated scene. The relegates were sent to play in a Navy band, where their homosexuality was welcomed and taken much advantage of. These hapless few fell to their deaths on a concrete harbour and never played again.)
Let’s resume our Inquisition. What further tries the reader is the suspension of condescension necessary to enable them to see clearly that their socially defunct cousins are indeed capable of entertaining such feats of wordplay, with the attendant appreciation of the end product thus achieved.

Now, nobody here was promised a story, this is merely a wafting of some drying skulls. The 78.5 or so milligrams that escapes apparently the stiffening human cadaver is said to cover the soul’s essence, though your spirit might well be mistaken for a fart. The etheric body, its several layers beyond, pulse in such a fashion as to trouble the step of a dull, enduring uncle. His ranking as a chartered voyage around in a circle has confounded what previously amounted to his character into a numeric listing of every wilting leaf in the family bible, whose tatters are smeared by raging toddlers, which goes without saying, of course. The generations-old tradition of triangular-cut sandwiches is under threat from the prevalence of the air-fryer, you can frame this symbolically should you wish. Regular staples like the spud, or ‘potato,’ persist in spite of Mediterranean imports, along with something called ‘burgers’ from the New World. Probably there’ll be a joke at some…juncture.

Uncles have a certain knack of riding waves of soft applause with some care. I think the idea is for them to protect the build-up, that familiar (though never familiar enough) launchpad of vitality and shameless vigour awaiting their ascension. It’s a familial ritual, time-honoured, the easy send-up they embrace, knowing full-well the glory that lies in store, for any self-respecting uncle, really. Aspiring youths regard only their cocksure senior’s as capable pun-runners, the easy delivery with which ageing lotharios relate their exploits is plainly more accessible. Our sillier uncles are capable of a good telling though, if the truth here be told. That sense of the ridiculous could only be acquired with experience. It’s kind of a relief, to be honest. Women employ a different method altogether, should they be inclined to tell.

One of my guttersnipe street-creeping friends related to me a theory that I confess to forgetting, luckily I’d used shorthand on a matchbox, along with having sketched a quick portrait of the ailing gent. In the interest of brevity I’ll relate it back to you shortly, providing you promise not to publish it at the expense of my skeletal pal’s financial health. Yeah, so, basically, his theory, having survived seven sisters and a seriously botched circumcision, he’d observed a drunken surgeon flirting gently with the nurses who passed. The nurses soaked up the assertions of this senior lush, cooing as he used a bloody scalpel to peel his apple. Come the midnight hour, the surgeon carousing, on waves of raised brow and appeal, made his final crack, an uncertain gag of little substance, whose timing cast the whole scene in poor taste. The surrounding femmes, who had interred the neglected shadow of this hapless fool’s psyche, turning up several elements of dispute, with practiced nuance, decided finally that a comeuppance was due. The rest was left for me to etch in any fashion I fancied, up the pipe he had gone, chasing a suited broker who’d just scored horse, or ‘hearse,’ as the fresher mixtures have come to be known. Turned out this blethering philosopher-deviant was the very same surgeon, with his seven sisters unconscious nuns. They’d worn plastic smocks for years, torturing the shaking savant, in a manner that was not altogether displeasurable. According to one of his scrambling cohorts, he’d been the victim of a pernicious social experiment, and was now mispronouncing heroin as ‘hearse,’ with his dealer voicing concerns over the possibility of an unacknowledged deathwish. He made an attempt to score just last week, only for a celebratory wreath to be hung around his neck. I tried to assist yesterday with his connection, only for the bag to contain the ashes of an amputated foot. Now he’s wearing a plastic smock to mass, they’ve got him handing out communion. And you know the twist? That’s his favourite step, he once performed with Donny Osmond, who later died of ‘excess tanning.’ Anyway, I’m fresh out of matchboxes, and Eason’s is a rip-off. Former Prime Minister John Major due to visit in due course, details below.

————————————————————————————-

What numpties and the dull fail to accept, in their short-sighted inadequacy, is that any foray into fictitious invention must be preceded, and thus enabled, by an investigation, an exhibition of excellence in litigation, the where’s and whys of linguistic technique. Any further discovery may enable, or prevent, in some cases, an interference of inappropriate rhythm; visually improper, phonetically inferior or otherwise unwell wording. If you cannot see to the good health of your now personified toolkit, he’ll fall asleep at the machine, due a life-altering injury, sure to raise a laugh, buckling also your non-personified line of inherited machinery. ‘Inherited through ingenuity, of course, sir. Nice patches.’ Breathe life into him, he’ll birth the ideas for you, on his off days you can have a go yourself, I’m sure you’ll make a fine financier. One must write, express; failing the EASY availability of any creative idea, work that muscle in a different area. Chaplin was welcomed back to the land of the free, collecting some trinket or other, then cast under the proverbial bus, into eternity.

————————————————————————————————-

I fell in love with a man today. Purely platonic, of course. Neither of us spoke. He was of the good-natured, bumbling, country-man sort. Though I’m pretty sure he knew a bit more than he intended on letting on. I had him miscast as uptight, intellectual, materialistic starting out; a great relief when he started cajoling, rolling his Rs in conversation with his lady attendant. I looked out the window for most of the journey. Really he was my kind of person; leathery, youthful, authentically tanned. Without being overbearing or in any way invasive, he exhibited a knack for expression that was refreshing in its assuredness. He knew just where the line was. I didn’t see much of his face, but that voice…I’ll confess I was smitten. Never had it been so easy for me to love someone. I was lost, so sweet was his benevolence, no twisted notion could thrive under that glow.

Having understood implicitly that I was to continue staring out the window to the best of my ability, I turned only briefly to rest my back and neck. I had been wondering after the turns of an erstwhile friend for some minutes, when he coughed and I received an electronic correspondence from my target. I was breathing like a piper, employing harmonica technique, using the fingers of my left hand to tap some code against my flank. Flourishing under his silent tutelage, and with the benefit of his backing, inspired answers to every question asked flowed to my fingertips. His sixty or so years of earned experience seemed to guide and inform the direction of my sway; he may have known my grandfather, who had likely given him the cure for some racing dog ailment or other. It was easy pictured. Anyway, you can see how I fell for him. You don’t meet a man like that every day, you’ve to suffer the fullness of their embrace. Understand but, the kind of love I’m drumming on about here is really more akin to a good friendship, or the usual passing fatherly thing*. I’d hate to unsettle the guts of any traditional male, perhaps I should have cleared that up to begin with, but it’s done now. There was an unspoken termination of our communion, best wishes for him, and the wife. She’d done well, part of our communication had prevented me from considering her too much, I believe this was for the best. I’ve to look out this window again now, there’s something to this…


*(In a passing exchange of consciousness between two males of a particular age against the other, the fatherly archetype is commonly engaged with some consideration given to the other’s situation and how things might be in the reality of each and again in the imagined potentialities of various relations, regardless of age; the two could be mates, work pals, etc… a mutual appreciation of how each handles the other and himself ensures an enjoyable distraction from what could otherwise be a difficult, competitive weighing of the other. It is better to appreciate our commonalities than suffer the petty defeat that envy, pride and the like will all too easily engender. Count yourself blessed if you’ve ever shared the ease of a good fellow in passing.)
——————————————————————————

We read cereal boxes
Counted chemicals
Off the closest there
To clutch and wonder

Upended glass bottle
Ornamental, large
Fit to bank coppers
Silver, coloured threads

Counted the coins
Grouped them
Wondering how an arm
Outwits its summons

Cupped hand to
An ear invoked
Further wonder and sought
Knowledge of self

Gripping toes arched
One atop the next
Pinky didn’t fit
Barely matched its brothers

———————————–

I learned first
To throw a punch
Many’s a day
Having come home crying

Open-handed ‘hitting’
Was limited in is effect
Wielded with mental
Surety, the possessor

Prevailed upon
Blushing youngsters
Of shy nature
Self-worth deficit

I struck the bully,
He ran crying,
Leaving me the hero
Amongst us shy lads

The bigger lads
Later played
Down the victory
As is their way

Scraping knuckles
On heavy sand bag
Gave me a weapon
You had to be fit to scrap

——————————————

We started stealing
Wham bars and drumsticks
The craft of it
And the thrill

Clapton’s first addiction was sugar
Sometimes you’d find a tenner
In the street by the kerb
Or a fiver in the bin

I mean it’s nothing to be proud of
But some kids had all the money
We saw to it that there was more
Fairly distributed among us rascals

It was humiliating actually
To leave the house with nothing
And come home to no dinner
As a common enough experience

Drug dealing appeals to the same sort
Easy income, more in fact, more of everything
Perhaps there’s a connection
A psychological attempt to correct something

There’ll be no scientific inquiry
No conscientious social thinktank
The existing system seeks
No preventative solution

Try enough lockers
One will open
Coins in a shoe
No conscience then

————————————————

When we got to a certain age
Most of the lads got trades
They began to talk like men
And I tasted ‘the outside’

I tried to pass myself off
Painfully obvious
Frustration compounded
Come to know ‘alienation’

Getting on with the years
Further obstacles threw me
And Jesus wasn’t it a wonder
That I ever got settled at all

—————————————————

Self-acceptance
Requires
Some examination
From each of us

Chances are
The reader
Is possessed of
An artistic nature

A fair degree
Of sensitivity
Will serve you
Scupper you too

Consider your nature
A wild bucking mare
Your discipline and craft
The reins

Tame the beast
Let your head-dress flow
Run the fields
Of those early days

Might be an idea
To form a posse?
Your tribe could
Already be waiting…

———————————————

Being not in a great deal of pain, Ort wasn’t fit much to offer anything worth recording in the usual fashion. Any of the pain he did find himself in was owing more to common worldly problems, which in his experience could summon only administrative-type renderings. It wasn’t a particularly appealing pursuit for one who was used to labouring under the gross weight of existential dread. Still and all, somebody had to record it, and so he set about himself. The main suffering here actually is due the artist upon realising that he must engage in what he regards as a ‘lesser pursuit,’ signing off on the inevitably lesser results. I’ll tell you something all the same, there is a type, though it’s rare to encounter them, there is a type that slavers and slobbers over such tawdry records. They are of the dog-caste, us cats despise them. Then again, cats are bastards. So yes, these dog-fuckers, they’ve been trained and weaned on sub-par works. Their method is particularly insidious; they come padding towards authors, panting and generally making a nuisance of themselves. What they do is, they compliment the simpering clerk until he falls under what we call ‘canine-hypnosis.’

When he awakens, all of the cats are gone. The litter tray is heaving with proposals and offers, and; this clerk, he begins to visualise things, fine ankle-length horse-hair coats, winkle-pickers and a blackthorn stick. Before he knows it those literary aspirations have fallen by the wayside and he’s been assigned chief sub-editor of The Sunday World. It’s kind of tragic, and funny too, if you consider it. He perfects the reassuring handshake, combs his hair. Plays chess with similar cat-men, cat-men who have fully integrated their dog-person shadows. He starts singing in a band, The Unfortunates, a trio of self-consciously hip, balding gents. They have a small but dedicated following who drink exclusively from a porcelain bowl. These knowing wilts take to the floor every second number to enact ‘The Creeping Guvnor,’ a syncopated two-step, choreographed by the very Guvnor hisself.

-Check out The Unfortunates this Spring Equinox upstairs at The Crown. 2 and 6. Support from gas new Imperialistic Techno Outfit: CONGLOMERATE. Collectable antique coins accepted only, stamps will be considered. Cushioned Opium Den now open >in the interest of legal servitude, we endorse Ironic opium use only – Genuine addicts will be slaughtered on-site, no readmission<(Sure aren’t we only doing you a favour?) Next week sees the return of The Presidential Candidates, support from WORKHOUSE whose latest single Eviction Day celebrates the ingenuity shown by one Irish landlord who gave orphaned peasants faulty abacuses, ensuring any access they may have had to liberation through schooling would be skewed by an absence of the number ten. Really we’d like to tell you much, much more, however our specially-sourced parchment requires the obliteration of many more indigenous tribespeople to facilitate the unusual levels of curiosity you have conveyed. We meet at a decommissioned post box on Financier’s Sorte every 2nd Wednesday before the dawn of noon’s new wave superficiality summons. Ciao.-

Things were better in the old days. When the car was full of gaseous carcinogens and your head rattled off the dampening window until you’d vomited in your sibling’s lap. An adult would spit on the mess and rub it well in, inducing a mild rash on the pale skin beneath. Your ma would drag ye across the road, clutching your frail hand in the very same grip policemen use to evince submission from aggressive drunks. A teacher couldn’t hit you so they’d to torture you otherwise, in a manner already covered by bitter Rock musicians, whose solutions would reach you just in time to soundtrack a drug-fuelled rebellion.

‘Gaming’ in those days, involved actually physically encouraging an improbably athletic plumber to evade predictably reptilian villains, with an earnest approximation of his next existential leap, through, or over, the familiar obstacles we all rightfully feared. Somebody’s father was usually on hand to relieve you of your duties with an assurance as to the vital importance of the next bit. Skateboards were to be found mostly in coal bunkers, and were forbidding in their construct. The possibility of achieving anything approaching stability seeming unlikely, an uncle would appear in order to demonstrate several antiquated tricks, fucking off promptly, in time for Formula One.

The importance of having a sense of identity was enforced in the classroom, its utility as a kind of cultural ‘Get out of jail free card’ alluded to briefly. Often, a well-meaning schoolmaster would make reference to the wheelchair-bound loudmouth drunk, our only representation across the four channels of television. T.V was an old wooden box whose controls were invariably broken, its simplistic format of quality ‘programming’ preceded the appearance of ‘Sky,’ mostly in the homes of well-to-do neighbours. Becoming ‘rich’ involved being born in a another country, with blonde hair, and privileges. This is mentioned merely as a peripheral flash at the short-sighted pub dweller’s ferment; the plausibility of which is to be ascertained by the individual.

Housewives had two voices in those days; scolding, and telephone. The miraculous transformation that occurred with every cradling of the weighty enamel receiver served to bewilder the lingering child, planting a seed that would see them saving their best manners for emergencies only. The mix of kids ran free then, a shared sense of humour often relieving them of their respective backdrops. A common proclivity for criminality, albeit within different spheres, strangely united them, along with the easy hedonism they ascribed to by rote.

———————————————————————————————

Everyday ecstasy scaled back in accordance with impermanence looming. An allowance at the chemical dispensary. Holographic approximation of experience inescapable. Infinitely appropriate therapeutic dictum.

—————————————————-

Drag your bag and don’t you lag
Fill your probe and wince
Scold the cold through folds
Of flesh and best your brother

And when your brother sees it clear
Approach the rear and smiling steer
These waves of fear will surely rock
I’m glad it’s your bag, baby

———————————————————-

Smugly lug your waiting hug
Dismiss each kiss upon your mug
Entranced we dance and stitch our pants
Gyrate so at our soul’s expense.

Smiles beguile but you duck neat
No fingers stuck with stranger’s sweets
It’s fine, keep time, we feel your beat
Every time we tread the street

———-============——###########]]]]][‘;=-

The outrageous terms of my latest enjambment would leave a postman scundered. So intense would be the humiliation, debilitation, whatever like, mate. Yeah, basically, what happens is, this postman climbs into the back of an Amazon Prime van, selloptapes himself head to foot in bubblewrap, then just bloody flings himself into an industrial factory type thing of some description. Right, he doesn’t die, but, he emerges part bubblewrap royal mail guy, part fucking gluebeg robot thing, of some description. Yeah, so it’s not Marvel or any of that shit, this is original, and like, poetical, and meaningful, artistic, like probably Ed Norton will play him.

Right so this mad post delivery guy goes about poking his nose into peoples’ Amazon packages, for Christmas, and usually just like changes the name, or gives them to this charity that his uncle runs on the side. Right, then he does a pile of DMT liquid, with Joe Rogan, and The Rock, and they all go to do an online podcast. That’s pretty much it so far. Pretty ropey I know but you have to see the sketches and all, it’s gonna be great once we get the funding from my uncle’s charity. If Ed Norton agrees to it which I think he will, he’ll have to do away with that swastika tattoo, no harm like. Also, he can’t get too arty and start tellin’ Joe Rogan all this art stuff to enrage him and what have ye, cause like Joe’s into hunting big animals and shit, wildebeasts, horses what have ye. Anyway aye that’s it, gonna give Ed Norton a shout here think he’s on Broadway but this being like special interest and the troubles yadda yadda yadda I think he thinks it’ll make him look good for the Pulitzer or whatever. Right peace out, let me know if you get talking to Rogan or big Dwayne Johnson.

—————————————————————————————–

Slurred renunciations
Unveiled threats
Desperate confessions

They say there’s levels to this
That means degeneracy too
Fascination for the underground
Fades with these encounters

‘I’ve seen plenty of talented wrecks’
The wrong kind of fix
Disgrace makes it chase

I almost wanted to be his friend
It’s cruel, but people like that are the end

—————————————————————————–

An in-tune musician
Faces a predicament
When nearby punters
Express, dismissal, dismay

You see the processing of emotion
Involves a savvy abandon
The details unimportant
End product potent

Alchemists tire and fade
Their passions betrayed
And sored in the crossfire
The transfer blots a docket

Smiles and eyes glow leading
A peril of supercharged glut
Further nuance desirable
So settles floating leaf

———————————————————————————————-

Why, discomfort seen him flee
And some sense in the shallows
Summoned a sickness well known
So in the shadows relate

Con men, cads, the lush
Flinched he thought
And again tried street tricks
Finding you all settled

Queer altogether
Draw sickened souls
As if you could
Do any different

—————————————————————————————–

At a time I wondered
Whether either of us
Would ever return

You’re back at it
It’s a wonder
I’m glad

I’d hazard
There’s a way
To go yet

————===============—————————================

-Eh, hello, is this Mr Norton?

-Yes, speaking. Call me Ed.

– Eddie, what’s the craic? Do you want to be in my film?

-I’ll certainly consider it. Is this an independent production?

-I’m not familiar with with these terms, Mr Edward. Look, it’s a charity-funded human interest picture that clicks with the current zeitgeist, concerning corporate fuckery and a basic tendency for the working class to hold certain nations accountable for centuries-old colonial crimes. Are you with me?

-Yes, hang on, I’m just making notes for research purposes.

-Right. Good on ye. I’ll send you across all the necessary details. And Ed?

-Yes?

-Get rid of the swastika.

-Yes, sir.

—————————-=============—————————-

---

The pathetic insult of tawdry remunerations, binded with your transparent, automatic, cursory, generationally-guarded, state-approved, barely fucking human expressions of apparent empathy and understanding; have, ironically, only served to bolster further our principle-driven convictions. You can tell us by our fading suits, by our refusal to acknowledge your gestured confidence. We will manipulate and use your framework; and when the chance appears, you will be isolated, and exposed; until your unworthy soul shrivels, and the gaudy accoutrements that you parade become a target upon your back.
———————————————————————————-

The air that fills this room
Is stale with perspiration
In one hour and five
We are promised the cold night

We shall grow towards
The artificial light
And sail our hopes
Upon the wind

Any discussion of our return
Is strictly forbidden
We do not tamper
With the dreams of innocents

———————————

I will reside in the depths
Of this deep silence
Undisciplined utterances
Disturb the ritual

———————————-

Taxi driver’s knowledge
Of music and trends
Chafe with pre-existing
Hierarchical models

Outdated structures
Are being demolished
Struck off architect
Finds his feet

——————————

I am forbidden
From generating
Auditory signals

Degrees of tension
Will inform
Our destination

————————————-

To expect to find
Acceptance in every
Substrata is foolish
Now you know

Do not dilute
Your essence
In an effort
To win friends

————————————

He who calls you out
Is most deserving
Of your wrath
Engage your wits

———————————–

And as I tread
The harrowed way home
Gesticulating how
It becomes us natives

Parked up cars and vans
Assure me only
With the familiarity
Of their checkpoint blink

———————————–

‘He enjoys a good walk
Out amid the bustle
An appreciation
For any man’s craft’

————————

Do not
Deceive yourself
In the company
Of trending fiends

Their dependence
On conformity
Is a habitual gateway
Into black nihilism

——————————–

Oh look, a talking cheese…

——————————–

-are you religious?

-religiously dead on.

—————————–

Gleaming liquid film
Orbic lilt caressed
Logical appraisal
Inspires further wonder

A backlog fabricated
Allows restricted entry
Her initiative will be noted
With the necessary composure

————————————-

Abandon yourself
To resting relief
Should ego’s chase
Find you constricted

A developing ability
To show out our worst
Frees us in the next
Coming moment of play

————————————–

By value of their length alone
Complex word selections
Are mostly redundant
Poetically speaking

Enlivenening these lumps
With a coherent means
Of context might earn
Appreciation amongst academics

———————————

Master the word
Should you wish to
See it serve
Noble ends

—————————-

It is better to
Embrace fully
This process of
Assimilation

Bad tidings
Will draw from you
An automatic
Emotional response

Within the progression
Critical aptitude will
See a return to form
Refuse to cop out

A completed cycle
Sees you at
A new task
Affirm your gratitude

———————————————

One for friendship
One for love
Back-benched at the auction
Squealing piglets press their snouts

Their future reliant
On a shrewd appraisal
He challenges the patter
Of every hopeful prig

The wife will humour him
Nursing his news in thanks
He had done well to heed the father
Clever there to see himself

It’s the clever young man indeed
Who sees the sense so early
In learning from his elders’ journeys
It is often a mark of success

———————————————

Box clever

Say what you want
But I believe, (to my soul)
That a solid foundation
Of footwork is truly elemental

Side-stepping chef’s souffle
Window cleaner’s pirouette
Shop girl’s side-faced slant
Codger’s tinkling tap dance

Intuitive sense of balance
Peripheral flip cue detection
Timely relief rest exhalation
Onboard inhibitor activated

Observational capacity increased
Embouchure adjustable according to pitch
Alternative grooves sourced
Slip manoeuvre ready for deployment

—————————————-

Excuses

The poem previous
To the one you are
Now reading
With scathing derision

Fell foul of
My own wretched
Biases and smuggery
Let me explain myself

The above
Being a means of
Describing an intangible
Set of processes

Adopted an almost
Mechanical feel
In order to suggest
Something automatic

In the whole makeup
Of such a charade.
So you see, whilst
It might appear

That I had unwittingly
Broken the very rules
That I myself had set
I was in fact demonstrating

The flexible nature
Of certain stipulations
By my very failure
To entertain defeat

———————————————

There is a comfort in scepticism
Likewise there are perks to conformity
To trust in a positive outlook
Requires you now to adjust

You’re afraid to try it truth be told
In case you never get back
To our shaded couch
Where we can better study their faults

---

---

Interview with Napoleon Bonaparte

-Napoleon man, how’s it going? You’ve had quite a run.

-Yeah yeah pretty good, we’ve done great. I want to thank the team…

-Okay. Well we’ve recently seen the release of your previously disparately existent Novella. What made you take this direction with your work, having achieved so much in the military and empirical fields? Of course, not referring to stats and figures, unnecessary proof of your, eh, stature. More so speaking in relation to your tactical nous, and general French-ness.

– Aye. Well statistically speaking, I think I’ve already made my mark, but yeah basically the novella was a necessary cathartic exercise following an inconclusive romantic excursion with another guy’s wife. I don’t claim it to be earth-shattering or anything, I just thought it was a valid piece of art, and took advantage of the pre-existing connections that I held, speaking as Frenchman, and certainly as a ‘shorter man,’ statistically speaking.

-That’s great. Do you attribute any of the literary ability to your Italian, noble roots? And could you give us a light, please?

-Aye well basically you’ve got Dante, who’s fantastic of course, but aside from that I was wasn’t really educated as to the national genius of the country, artistically speaking. And I haven’t really bothered to, eh, hip, myself any further. I do hold considerable sway as Emperor, I’ll have you know.

-No mate, that’s fully understood. Just thought I’d ask, I didn’t know either to be honest, but in my job it’s kind of incumbent upon the reporter to assume a sort of all-knowing pretence. Napoleon Bonaparte, best of luck with the success of your novella, Clifton and Jeanette; and of course, we’re all behind you with the Inquisition.

-Cheers. Oh yeah, I have an upcoming artillery thing happening now in January; hopefully by then the peasants haven’t learned to read…

-Oh that’s fantastic, where can I get tickets for that? It’d be great to see you. On the frontline, your Greatness; full regalia, the lot.

-Yeah well it’s a pretty serious affair. I’d relate it to high-level Opera, only you’ve not to crawl over the bodies of so many peasants.

-Are you not dating a peasant girl? That must get awkward.

-Oh not at all. The state approves! As does her father. Do you need a light?

——————————————————————————————————–

It seems we have exhausted
This once viable
Means of expression

The next point of order
Is to see the authors
Consider themselves
From an outsider’s perspective

They will adjust accordingly
If they wish to continue
To frequent the premises

---

I’m trying to get an idea
From the pre-existing manuals
But they’ve got me stranded
At the damned gate

I’ve to write my own
With little much to go on
Save the free encyclopedia
This is not a complaint

My only aim is to function. Any breakdown in functionality prohibits further growth.

I don’t know about you, but my biases seem to be informed directly by some very petty insecurities. I had been doing a good job of hiding them up until now.

Having witnessed first hand a somebody my age doing the thing right, I can only do like this now. What’s the sense in pissing about when there’s people dying daily as they go about their lives. Fuck that pain. Fight.

I mean, I’d hate to steal his gimmick. And I’m not going to. I just want to make sure my emotions are channelled directly into one fierce fucking fly kick intended to cut you cunts down.

I’m actually a very gentle person. It’s just that there’s a severe tension in my back, and I don’t bend for no cunt. Not until they make me.

I’m fully willing to accept it when I’m wrong. That’s what this is about.

——————————————————–

Did you know
That every action taken
Inspired either by spinal contractions
Or fool-proof forethought

Is in fact
The very maker
Of your future?
Try it and see.

—————————————————————

The world’s longest cringe
Was recorded earlier today
In the bedroom of a human being
He cannot be named for legal reasons

————————————————————-

There is no point
In writing when
You have 
Nothing to say

It is better
To spend
Your time
Thinking

If you’re feeling 
Fit for it
Maybe even
Read something?

Sometimes
We just
Need
A rest

—————————————–

In order to
Get the benefit
From something that is
New to you

You must first
Be willing to
Pay the
Entry fee

If you can meet
What they are asking
You might just learn
A thing worth knowing

—————————————– 

Naturally enough
We question
Our decisions
It is essential 

That we endeavour
To persevere in spite
Of having taken
A difficult path

—————————————

What has been termed
Paranormal phenomena 
Can be reduced to
Or rationalised as

Mere illusion 
Given a slight adjustment 
To one’s perspective 
This can be uncomfortable 

————————————- 

The next time
You find yourself
Feeling sorry
For yourself

Think of
He whose head
Rests every night
On a concrete slab

—————————————-

Go easy on yourself
This road is hard
A sensible approach 
Is best

———————————————

Be sure to treat yourself
Don’t overdo it

———————————————-

She asked me my job
I said I write the instructions 
Very good she said
I do the jokes 

So I nodded my head
She said your jokes aren’t very funny 
And I replied
That’s why I do the instructions 

She smiled vaguely
And told me she needed
Instructions 
On how to write better jokes 

———————————————-

Navigating the social construct 
Can be a fucking nightmare
We scrutinise the other 
To the same degree 
When we should grant them
The same acceptance 
That we ourselves are due

——————————————

It’s all very well
When you awaken
A black belt

The very next day
You will toil
In the furnace

Doubting whether
This is worth the while
After all

——————————————–

Hasten to the lamp
There’s a strike imminent 
We may have to fight 

——————————————-

We must excuse ourselves 
Certain things
And exercise
Selective memory 

Come the time
It can be examined
An inquest begun
Practice forgiveness

——————————————- 

Today we suffer
Tomorrow we heal

——————————————-

Strip the bone bare
Mark it now
This channel
Is off the air

;;;;;;;;;;;;””””””’,,,,,,,……############]]]]]===========———ppppp;];../.[pllohyutrdiyytdy

---

They sat me down at a typewriter. There were two keys, 0, and 1. I was to compose a 3-piece suite in the key to me nanny’s back garden. My single request was the immediate presence of a choir of spivs, backed by a line of dustmen, whose cymbal lids could more or less approach the known lexicon. As a treat they invited a local magician who dealt poker, from inside the wooden shell of a genuine pub-style electronic poker simulating reliever of wages, as they became known in those early years, among tasteful wastrels. A red-headed buffoon was enlisted to cane my wrists, in the interest of a more Victorian than contemporary feel to the piece. Charles Chaplin passed the set tutting. Red Garland called in the evening to show his support, and appreciation for the avant-garde efforts of greying gents. Several retired ambulances were on hand, for to accommodate those present who were seen to be nursing threadbare skellingtons. A disgraced financier was smuggled onto the premises and charged with approaching the piece’s particulars in a cobbler’s vocabulary; his transcriptions are listed beneath.

———————————————-

The ‘rock star’ poets number few
And even their work is neglected
Like the luckless creeps
Feeding the flowers

In primrose rows
A rattle wakens
Gaseous sprites
Who can’t find peace

At the feet
Of tired tourists
Who’d dialled up
Their taste

In lieu of
A credible contribution
They leave their condolences
With the man at the bar

—————————————–

You can approximate
A man’s worth
With a studied weighing
Of his posture and build

His expression
And overall bearing
Amount to
A certain effect

A finer appraisal
Can be developed
Upon a sudden
Change in circumstance

————————————

Excerpt from a monologue

Ye were dancin like Paul Schubert
Formular one flag-man
The chancellor of the exchequer
Spillane was on the scene then
And Flaubert ye know like see
I’ve read and watched
The whole lot of them
And there’s not a man
Comes close to Joyce
For sheer misunderstandability
That would actually make ye
See sudden sense, in a pint like
With feathered festoons and all
The rest ye can keep

————————————

Creeping discomfort prohibits
Me from indulging my fancy
And so I face the music
Bursting for birth

From a tortured head
Its delivery will
Grant no real satisfaction
Only release

—————————

Orange cords
And a creaking
Leather jacket

You’ll draw
Stares anyway
There’s memories

In these clothes
And character
Whose value

Oscillates apparently,
I wouldn’t worry
Though you probably will

—————————————-

On benzos and booze
He spat furiously
Expelled poisons
With fierce zeal

Future nights ignited
As the looks
Fell from his face
Verbal coherence altered

His embouchure earned
Trumpet man’s rasp
Irish French
Athlete bodhisattva

Lit the road
Lugging that
Compassionate carcass
Across eternity

————————————-

Faced with a fillet
Of finest flesh
Flashed in a pan
For queer colouration

I struggle the hunger
Somewhere down
In my lower gut
And suffer my lot

—————————————

In my own little way
I have hastened to be heard
Hurried to be hard
Hardened to the herd

Nature plays us like puppets
Abandoning us afterwards
To learn again our limbs

We hurry still
To play as beasts
To forget in becoming
And fasten our tongues

———————————

What a relief to find
That one, being Irish
Cannot help but be
An Irish writer

Peeking out from his pint
The aspiring scribe
Will find all he needs
In the drunkard’s lag

Provided he handles
His barstool with
A respectable knack
Acceptance will come

—————————————-

These cold realities
The poet will chase
Dreamed up talk;
His lofty postulations

The likes of which
Would shame some
Into secret corners
Carefully carved of an evening

Whether in ignorance or
Blessed naïveté
Our boy meets
The curse’s cost

——————————————-

In a fit of absinthe
Coarse mannered Dubliner
Casts refined works
Into the consciousness eternal

Of course he overshot the mark
Brash as he was and aware of his gift
The various scandals need no recall
Him in his hat, barely a rake

You’ve to give him his due
The audacity, to go with that kind
Of once in who knows now smarts
And the da, egging him on

Meeting with masters at midnight
The life esoteric, Yeats by the wayside
And Flann the man a fine second
Awful tradition he birthed altogether

—————————————-

There is great fascination
For those of us who have
Ran the gamut of youth
And bear staidly the scars

Yes, great fascination
In choice tidbits and chops
Our dear interests
Every sample savoured

It makes sense then
That we are fodder
For a prodigy
And this is fine

What seems finer
Is the knowing youth
That walks among
Our dozing lot

He displays an ease
With not unsophisticated
Topics and techniques,
We must see ourselves.

————————————–

Strong Aversion

I would hate to presume
That any of this carries great weight
Or for that matter suffer
That gasping waking realisation

That I’ve been seen through
Suffered through and sussed out
Again anytime soon as
I have an aversion to ego death

——————————————-

These directions
Are designed
To rouse
The unfit spirits

Of those
Who hang
Their compassion
On car key hooks

To the
Uninitiated
They may
Serve some use

May the latent bile
Fizzing corrupt
In their unfit guts
Lace their every pissing

———————————————

I walked in your shadow
Up the Beersbridge road
Had a jam piece

And in the torment
Of a half six blight
Walked the road I hoped was home

And then I remembered
One of your songs
And that eased me

Because you spelt it out
For us that needed to know
In times like this

You’d the good to sense too
To dress up the instructions
With wit and the image

And God knows
You must’ve hung in tough
For to meet with the fiend

Wrest away the stone
And stumble home
Approach its value

I too studied
Took what I could from you
Employ it now naturally

Those that know will see and hear
Close eyed nod with the peaked cap dip
A way with time like no other

That sense of swing
And the well set phrase
Will see us through a while yet

————————————–

An encounter
With one’s
Female counterpart
Can sap cranial fluid

This is no issue
Providing you
Recognise your
Commonalities

————————————–

Regulating one’s
Physiology is
Simply a matter
Of balance

—————————————-

It’s a rare breed
That exhibits
High intelligence
And so forth

Then flips
The script
And bares
Their teeth

Their animal savagery
Is most unexpected
They must be accepted
Not tamed with our projections

—————————————-

Do not neglect
The least of your nephews
Concerning women
Example alone will
Not suffice

Though outright instruction
Perplexes him further
An increase in patience
Might quicken his pulse

——————————————————

I don’t want
To be a martyr
Despite the
Obvious benefits

My various ticks
And strange habits
Would inhibit my
Ability to integrate

However
I would be
Willing to
Work with

Certain individuals
I must try to
Not be a cunt
Not all the time

Once I get less weird
And start loving their
Insane outbursts
We may produce results

———————————————

Aptitude

As a musician
Who works from home
It is normal for him
To ‘make silly noises’

The purposes for this
Are twofold
Vocal and musical exercise
Something approaching an ‘adult comfort blanket’

We recognise that it
May have been
An oversight, choosing to
Exhibit publicly these verbal tics

Studies suggest
A relaxed, assertive bearing
Enables an integration of the above
To be packaged and sold

As the ‘eccentric personality’

Maintaining this confidence full time
May prove difficult, a chance to rest
Might appear when others
Have something to say

——————————————————

‘It’s all in the voice. I mean let me talk here a minute. While I know.’

There’s a girl who can sing
The Moulin Rouge
Bel canto
Skipping keys with style

A round purity
Rare tone
Of course
She was was trained

But to hear her talk
Was I suppose
What made it rare
I didn’t expect it

The content
Of its lyricism
Gave me pause
For thought

A torrent of charms
In the good nature
And the necessary black
Filling it out rightly

Yes, ‘Rightly.’
A good singer
Is hard to find
If you’ve been running long with musicians

—————————————

Every now and then
You will be forced to hustle
Under the duress
Of a trying conundrum

Though experience
Enables us to
Recognise the traits
We can never really prepare

You have a choice
You don’t have to do this
Having got this far though
You’re probably going to stay

It is not necessary
To dismantle the workings
Knowings will assist
Keep up your guard

—————————————

They say you can’t
Put muscle on the chin
You can however
Improve your defence

Endurance can be built
And a better
Mental resolve developed
Some are blessed with reflexes

Countering involves
Anticipating a shot
Swift slick movement
Followed by an unseen pop

Yeah I know
My pop hasn’t
Been seen for ages
Insurance scam

————————————-

An Interpretation of Reality

She promised him a castle
He could see it
In his mind’s eye
There was a short debate

Assessing the sanity
Of any woman
Who would buck
The dying trend

The fella
Came away educated
And settled for a
Nice two tower job

His moat was filled
With the toxic remorse
Of some fifty
Unkissed frogs

At the head of the table
His queen held court
Him in shackles
Dictating to a child

Pig headed ignorance
Crossed with instilled insight
Sees a man
Shackled longer than most

He was tempted
To kiss the frogs
But could never
Face the stench

—————————————

Must read
Past instructions
On how to get
Along with a colleague

————————————

Sometimes when fooled
Into thinking I’m cured;
Naivety and general foolishness.
Vulnerability will manifest

———————————–

The first time this happened
I came home in a mess
It wasn’t good like
But it had to happen

It’s easier to take now
But if I allow it to sink
The hurt is real
It’s all good though

There’s some things
Ye have to do
Like write these
Wee poems

—————————————–

This is a happy song
Gypsy rainbows and all the rest
I sing it down the pub
Under my breath
And the lads throw coppers

—————————————–

I can only write what comes
Didactic craic
In the tradition
Of Seamus Fox

Dry crackers
Leave you parched
We do laugh
Sometimes

——————————————-

It was a Sunday morning. She drank coffee after coffee trying to bring some meaning to the day. The home was a quiet hell. The kitchen area was deserted, thankfully. Uninspired reams of worthless shite passed her by in a taunt. There is a fault in the cognition. The deep screaming waves of pain had left her, numb, unable to operate. Nobody warns you about grief. Shed made sure to drink only vodka before leaving the house, nobody noticed anyway. People had a way of looking through her lately, looking into the void. Her sister phoned often, as much for advice as anything.

———————————————–

Sometimes we lean
With our behaviours
Some more than others
This is perfectly normal

This can be in accordance
With our present company
Or the societal role
We find ourselves occupying

Some individuals maintain
A steady accent
Whilst others
Are apt to adapt

This may be a coping mechanism
Though strong musicality
Can engender swift
Progress with this tool

Emotional or mental
Instability will flag
Identity issues
That can be resolved

The discipline and patience
Required to address such matters
Are driven by our desires
Detach ego if necessary

—————————————-

An introvert
Denied crucial
Alone time
‘Reflection’

Will appear
Dim and
Maybe actually
Under a spell

Diagnoses
Will miss the mark
Yet still
It’s temporary disability

Whether or not
Observers see
This as some permanent
Obstruction

Is immaterial
The man functions
He’s perfectly normal
At home at peace

He’s shy is all
And doesn’t know what to say
And afraid to look you in your face
He doesn’t like mirrors

He’s sees and hears it all
He’s just physically incapable
Of getting along normally
So he writes poems

He calls them ‘instructions’
‘Cause that’s what they are
It might not need said
But some folk are slow that way

—————————————-

Citations

The world is fucked
Everything’s wrong
Divine comedy
Five days in hell

The plot has thickened
Like my red ear
Too thick to hear
And you keep shouting

Away you go
I’ll piss in the grass
Jif lemon do rightly
And that says a lot

—————————————–

On Sunday we’d to be quiet
‘Cause mum was a psycho
If we broke a plate
She’d go even crazier

I loved my mum
But she was mad.
Sunday behaviour
She was funny like that

—————————————-

To set
The boundaries
Necessary
For a fruitful exchange

Ye’ve first to find
Just where they lie
Let rip
And breathe

---

All things considered
You’re not a bad’un
I’ll draw this one
And you can go next

————————————-

Don’t ever cry
We’re trying
To keep the fluid
So that our brains don’t rattle

————————————–

I was under the impression,
During a recent psychosis,
That the man next door
Was sending me complaints

We were using

An updated VR email prototype
That he had somehow developed
He was sending them across
And laughing through the wall

———————————————-

I used to paint
I wasn’t very good
The psychic paintings of Gerry Gleason
Are pretty good

I didn’t know
To begin with
He was concealing his genius
Beneath his moustache

I paint from the basis
Of my being. The weight
Required engages kundalini
Then leaves you bare

—————————————–

I’m not here
To make excuses
For anyone
Or anything

I’m simply
Negotiating
The oncoming rush
Of sensory information

——————————————-

Laying beneath the stars
Your eyes bugging amid the glint
Of freights on the move

You fancy
A horse’d take you
Clear across the night

The way you pull
On your cigarette
Wrinkling up those lips

Would have you coming
Straight from Sacramento
Where they do like that

—————————————–

Regardless of the rearguard
Philanthropy smiled and cursed
Skulls scalped and tasted
For their innards were rare

This the throats gurgled
And sizzled through their slits
All the while lingered a leper
His vintage scars black-moulded

Merry was the child
Bleak were their feet
Lips blotched and blemished
Finally it was finished