Thursday, June 21, 2007

Poetry Assassin - Online Gurning:

In the absence of Poem of the Week, one will offer a glimpse into an ouvre, written on the first of April 2005, something just conscious now, as one searches online.

It was written in response to a journalist writing under the name Cocktail Girl, a wag on the circuit flitting from drink to drink on the Observer during the last British election. It has no title as yet, for one is currently assumming the duties of naturally daftest national of these islands in the european union where euros is normal, just like the smoking ban one will encounter when in England and Wales weeks from now, when the british will discover how rational oneness is, several hundred years behind their irish partners in peace, love and rhetoric of hit lists and ratio of hits; blue and red, one toffie-blooded-kopite with dual bragging rights on any gift going as armchair silverware accumulates and expand into future projections and/or predictions of any likely success for ones team shopping in a battle for gongs their fans will laud as proof of faith, belief in what sporting dream they are born and decide to create with, or nea.

Oh wot psychic decider, spoken sidhe did, putting Cocktal Girl talking shite down to a wag-lite hack-asassin collapsing, sorrow weighting silence, if s/he can in ones DaN Art amd life of amergin in drag, error and lite comedic verse...


Cocktail Queen of the Kilburn High Road,
I saw you last night
in my dreams
tastefully sipping Laurent Bollinger
in the snug of the Goose and Granite.

You were dressed in an Imitation of Christ
number, runway clingy - fragile fawn -
like the colour of well cooked chips left
overnight to burnish and mottle in a dry
April breeze.

Your voice
and innate fashion sense
fragrantly exuding
the tartnes of a pungent class
punching well above wot weight
all else gathered there knew.

And the chatter of travel
caravans, tarmacking
and bare knuckle bouts
momentarily ceased
in an aroma of shadow
and whisp, left in the wake
of your passing spoor.

For your elan and breeding
where talk of the lounge
long after you left
leaving a tang of the cloud
from your sweet smelling life
as ones gift to a dying breed
of old Irish shovel men
at sup there.

When one awoke
and the memory of you faded
- my dream exposed as purely fancy -
my Cocktail Girl
longing increased
and one got permission
from an ollamh, to compose
think in occupational literate therapy.

So please comunicate to an island's asylum
let us move to the bedsit
Wolverhampton, in a shop set, stilted
the comedy couple

nutter and cut glass go getter
setting England's midlands astorm
getting twisted
n' locked and nightly on the lash,
gratis, free and all for the sake of one,

Dearest Cocktail Girl, CG Sir Salmanic rusty aul wotsit, innit listed, the book not yet written, have this one deposit as a call to arms for the warrior bards of Amergin.

Dear Robotic Moderator

Please accept my apology amergin for disrupting the bore-floe at such length, sidhe urge you scroll and forget, one begs Sir Paul, please ask only this of a list: Does Sidhe Tonne Up too, go metric, forget quids, and lunch into love as ones free book list loving mantra chanting citizonea singing of european harmony in the ebb 'n flow of being; innit just a list loik ezrastotle said, sky as it buckets down in cubic grace, chained earth and wet morbid violent talking, pointless enragements of one list if the fire of love is aflame.


Jane Holland: Editor said...

One of your favourite films is "Chopper Chicks in Zombietown"? All is now explained. How about "Desmond Does Dublin"? Now that's one I'd pay to avoid having to walk out of ...

Only jokin'.


Omaniblog said...

I was the Cocktail Girl
hand burning in your grip
we sipped, until I slid under
and spaghettied you.
That's what I'll remember
long after you are tomato sauce
on my napkin.