ABC POETIC

In 1948, Anglo-Irish novelist Elizabeth Bowen (1899 - 1973) wrote a fifteen page critical text on her personal creative process in an early anthology containing various authors views on the nuts and bolts in their how-to of writing; and reading this:

"The novel lies, in saying that something happened that did not. It must, therefore, contain uncontradictable truth, to warrant the original lie" - I was struck by Shelley's, Defense of Poetry; where he talks about poetry being:

"..a mirror which makes beautiful that which is distorted.."

A lie (fiction) being conjured and kinked by the writer's imagination, such that it's imprinted reflection imports into the readers mind, some poetic or wider universal truth; more hinted at, not explicit, and with an unseen, implicit gravitas, absent and buried in the text as the psychic weight of a knowing creational mind.

The effect we can imagine produced when a féath fíadha, or druidic mist of invisibility was conjured by the filidh, back in the time when fiction and fact mixed, appearing on the pages time forgot, in old irish manuscript, where i found my own answers and myth hoard, still perfectly working, supremely poetic, oiled to roar of eternal truths, and a gift from Ogma, the islands' god of poetry in both Brythonnic and Goidelic culture.

Shelleys quote, and indeed his Defense of Poetry, is written in lingo far deeper than - what George Szirtes calls - the quotidian "linguistic aggregate," of everyday speech.

And this got me thinking of my own poetic, or critical abc of the poetic act and Art; the initial and founding two thirds of which, came after reading Heaney's 1986 T.S. Eliot memorial lecture at the Univeristy of Kent, in which he dissects and decodes Wordsworth's poem - There Once Was A Boy - to illustrates his own philosophy on the basics. This is the poem recalling Wordsworth in his childhood, making owl calls in wild lakeland woods, around which Heaney constructs his case.

I will not outline the other influence, save to say it is American poet Amiri Baraka's piano analogy, which parallels Wordsworth and Heaney's poetic, in which he also expounds and advocates a three stage development to explain how a poet ascends to eloquence.

Heaney's essay is on Plath and appears in one of his two collections of critical prose writing, Finders Keepers: The Indefatigable Hoof Taps: whose submrged yet simple and deftly sophisticated three point logic, i detected when reading George Sziertes' eloquent skating metaphor in his T.S Eliot address in 2005.

As mentioned, this text was a contributing intellectual third to the poetic i cobbled together, as my own three point take which charts the stages of poetic development, or as Heaney describes it:

"..poetic journey" of "three stages which seem to exemplify" the "three degrees of poetic achievment.."

Heaney's logic is very poetically persuassive, as he reduces the mumbo jumbo of less linguistically skillful poets - trying to pass off unconvincing and often confused critical prose as verbal beauty - to an easy abc of poetry; using Wordsworth's poem from Lyrical Ballads - as the core of his analogy - to effortlessly elucidate, in an affirmational register, what poetry is.

And Heaney explains his poetic in deceptively sophisticated, yet precise, straightforward terms and - most importantly - based on the grounds of a consummate positive belief, as opposed to defining his core poetic faith in oppositional terms, which many poets fall into the trap of doing. Saying "This is what poetry is not," rather than what it is.

Not bad going when dissecting a poet who committed suicide. A true pro, who uses There Once Was A Boy:

"...as a parbale of these three stages.." of poetic development in the chase for the magical linguistic gravitas only they who sincerely profess poetry possess.

And he takes the young wordy one tramping in the Cumbrian woods making owl calls; telling us:

"The first task of the poet" is "to learn how to entwine his or her hands so that the whistle comes out right...to trumpet and tu-whit, tu-whoo..happy to perform this feat for its own sake, repeatedly, self-forgetfully and tirelessly..an original act of making, the equivalent in the oral/aural sphere of.." making sand castles or mud pies.

And i concur, also believing that this is the first stage in ones career as a verse-smith, when we write our first poetry, and as Heaney says, go:

"Listen I can do it! Look how well it turned out! And I can do it again! See?"

The second stage in the trajectory to ollamh, is when the owls start returning our calls, us fooling the real thing, much as when we start getting into mags and being considered as genuine by other poets. Heaney describes this stage as:

"..the vale filling with the actual cries of owls responding to the boy's art," and "we have the image of the classically empowered poet, the one who has got beyond scale-practising..who rejoices in the spirit of life" as "..the owls in our own dream branches begin to halloo in recognition."

He goes onto describe how the third stage of poetic achievement, when the poet can no longer make the owl calls, "cannot make any noise with his hands" as Heaney described it, and is summed up in the Wordsworth poem:

"And, when there came a pause
Of silence such as baffled his best skill:
Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung
Listening...the visible scene
Would enter unawares into his mind
With all its solemn imagery, its rocks,
Its woods, and the uncertain heaven received
Into the bosom..

~

Heaney has a beautifull metaphor for this moment, describing it as:

"..like the bird of poetry at the glass pane of intelligence , seeing where it needs to go but unable to gain entry. But the windo glass is miraculously withdrawn and deep free swoops into the blue pool.."

Achieved as the poet is gifted - out of the blue - full sight of their myth kitty and eternal image/symbol hoard, by whatever gods their gods swear by in the music of what's happening in our career, as we ascend or nea, hear or not in the return of silence, what ghosts flit to us from the anima mundi.

This is the third stage, after we have become the bees knees at mimesis, and engaged in our call and return with the birds of poetic utterance, and - my spin is - that we reach the point where we have become so real to other poets/owls, that they no longer return the call, and we are left dumbstruck and unable to make the sound, and in this moment of complete surrender - when we believe the game is up and there will be no more return - we are rewarded for our slog, effort and imaginative faith by the gifting of whatever poetry gods one believes in; with the keys to the door of our myth hoard, along with our poetic garb, dress and badge of entry to the third and final stage of sound-development.

A peak few manage to ascend or conquer in their search for the nuts and bolts knowledge of song and the sound-scapes whose form is revealed only to they who dig and swim to the deepest and most lambent flame of ones inner linguist valency; where the aggregrate of language is at its least quotidian and the most fruitful routes to ones unique word-crop, cluster as the poetic reward.

Yeats: O
My God!
You.. make us laugh & laugh.

People around me think i'm mad;
believe you advised me on ignorance.

That's the trouble you see
ignorance, plain pure stupidity!

Idiotic nickampoop that I am - said suzan.

I don't have a clue what you're saying
to me. Is it possible to translate
your rambling poetic ode into 21st century
English, dearest?

An english de-cap, out of the question
suzan..to get it edited for a minor fraction
of clarity would be too much to ask?

~

What a shocker, one letter English
t'other english, undercover, Bondy
doing the biz, stress- metrical genius
you is, suzan. I watch you twist,
this is the place for it,
where i live suz suzzy scuzzy suzan.

Don't you see gods in the sidhe troop
tripping from treetop to bole
on midsummer's night, suzan?

The sidhe of Munster's Aine
that is beyond all comprehension
or analysis dearest one, silken cipher,
Muse of a contemporary sage
and dreamer pleading for Love's stay
against hatred and mis-direction?

Only in this calm pool sidhe thoughts
are free, outed in the utterance
after misery, wo/men i love
more than He, Sir, Lord talking bullshit
of honour and respect, freedom and
speech, which is but a placebo
for the swell of grief which rose within
when a kicking fom an imperialist
- whose rage against the simple
countryman and his banner for freedom -
fell in the moment his mindset was pricked,
latent in the rain on saturday dearest.

For now we have found it, what words
can convey the magnitude of abstract beauty
One is capable of making, wo.man that dare
not proclaim for fear of what others think
the Poet alone will love.

I know you do not care for me as i do you
myriad of life, prism of moonstruck hope, luna
force that guides me as i rite through time
life; existence a comedic phantasm of wish
gathering fancy,

trope above conceit, selfless goddess of the straight
bowled knowledge from Tir na Og, land of eternal
life where age and death break not the resident,
sidhe lennane, you whoever one wants her to be.

Please be faithful to me, midsummer moment
of love proven in the return of silence saying
more than a thousand words, a million pictures
of your image, competitive reject outfacing
what passes for winners in the black and white age
of brutal rite and uniform wrong as thought cops
gather round a water cooler dearest.

Fear, career a lesson, who won
the tree of a literate bardic,
branch for his native english poetry,
flamer sweeping 'cross the keypad,
writing goidelic-hiberno-english?

A fourth generation mimesis-invention,
who got switched, and deprogrammed
a colonial mind in the native tongue.

It's time for the party, who wants to come?

Ha-Ha-Ha!

Laughs suzan

orbiting the blog-sphere,
proud knowing arch not yet designed...

~

Suzy
we can develop a dream here woozy.
I love you but the eye descending,
is a spell cast saying we must stay de-capped,
say less, keep silent in an open-line of thread,

excite the flame beyond comprehension,
glad it stopped. Now we can relax suzzy
love; silly wonky zonk flaming everyone.

Am i leader yet? Has the crown stopped droning,
gone?

Is it retracting?

Here, play suzzy, get scuzzy and zonk with Ophra
and jfk in them thare hills; we love them too suzan
dearest.

~

Are you hot yet?
Get randy not nea mah hot nose suzan.

Be not a dancer from Alnwick but a butterfly,
flutter and flit to Cumbrian moor and Yorkshire
dale, pale Indonesian goddess.

Ever bin binned off?

Slit to the slush pile where we are minting
Gertrude again?

What's in a name randy hot nose,
riddle me that, zonkladim, what's in ones;
nomen, nothing whatsoever suzan?

Do yourself a favour randy hot nose, no cold
can come, love pup of effluent, aint it so?

~

To be fair to - though god knows you be
nought but a total bastard to me now dearest,
in May you will star in ones' ouevre
at the Cuisle.

Come on down, there is a festival on
and a lot will be happening; a gathering of gobs
caring not that Clare were humbled
in the All Island final when Munster's sidhe

Aine's mob - An Mhumhain mooing in the wilderness -
told us what odds of the whirring blade severed
an ash plant, an axe, the hunt, hound and champion
word-raider eyeing the moment of her main chance

O talentless money grubber whose business
is keeping out of work.

~

Which seems a fair
appraisal; if it is true, that the two are different,
being amatuer and pro. Is that wot you is on
about suazan, please let me know.

O and please, ms, miss please de-mist
yesterday you made happen..we need to meet,

come to the show in a couple of weeks
and bring a fee of utter acknowledgement
mistress. Mein host Suzy, sidhe flitting
unanswering this plea, post a link
Or I'll set free my three card pack of war dogs
with imperial scores to settle.

Dethrone a few top boasters, best and scalp
a magus. Be unique. Play the inverse
reverse the word and joy it up there flamer
trolling Polish shop-women being very beautiful,

incredible stunner-dump for ex beauty queens
and gangs of them warring men
in a fight for sex, invasion and raid of emotional
blackmail. Be the new troll at the rite bore
academy, a distant thesis, the pause in beckett,
discuss it again..

~

It was not setanta
churchill, cuhullain
mick collins, connacht
leinster, munster, ulster
who picked the winning myth,
glorious and great all
connecting civilisation of the
setantii in south west
lancashire. The brython
behind romana-celtic
cromwell and sloppy bob
marley living as the ineluctable
robert the rasta we love
spirit swimming nought but truth.

~

Annette.
Returning hope
prove my salvation.
and remember how glad
success is. Do not remember
a tree pole sitting in a hearth,
free around the kitchen table
the morning we parted, tousled
hair, teasing locks in the moment
my eye conquered the maiden
laughing, Annette.

Arm around you all night mocking
naieve and gloriously irreverent.

What chance did we have of winning
dearest Annette?

Afterwards you couldn't keep yourself
in bubbly, the girl i found who loves me.

~

We met via matchmaker
a content wife and blind watchmaker
satisfied till together at last, we waited
in the machine - like one ghost too - and
any objection was mine, perhaps, Annette.

~

Dunno, suzy woozy jackaboozy bubble
bubble boil and trouble.
Explode in the stone riven sytax ted
went on about; the colouring in of reality
reaching into a demanding sky,
where vengeful gods thwart and best
all our plan, scheme, doings and yet still
terrible ted's beauty is here, syl - for ted
was no mug, but a man who women killed
themselves over.

A tall order we all agree, is too too poetical
it just had to be, the bio tells us; but
who cares about the kids now Annette?

~

An all island deciding straightner in croke
park, on the cobbles of a comment box
in virtual reality, what a palava, what speed
the sliotar, a cork the inner, outer its leather,
and the world's fastest field team sport
in terms of game play makes a head of loving
sense, the rest forgotten as sidhe troops
muster, call the air of very utterance,

all very lovely
supremely sedate
the arena filling
with face price prince and princess
king knave, ace and a fictional chimera
nailed beneath in Lir mac Manannan's sea well,
and later; goon filled air debating an assassin
south munster sword, a quarter deasmuhuman
three part Connachta, one sidhe wan
in the lost angel light... ..erm what am I
on about lovely one laureate so slender in fern
lauded with the lapidary grace of gallowglass
and kern..

~

Mandy motion one
more time
uptight be not,
but mine tonite
at the sixth
former disco..

Ms
miss
away with yer
twaddle of Ted
gassing kids
it was not him
but the missus
warning us of
Ted being level
ten in Goethes'
spectral theory
of colouring in the
bastard dernier
at the terminus of myth.

In his disorder flitting
utterly hateful
sodding shite, c'mon
Ted,
c'mon kids
sing of a bastard
Edward the bard
fallow amaranth colouring in git,
fits in a little cauldron of tragic
comedy not yet salivating
at the prospect of nutting a Bohsfan

Dalymount - Phibsboro - Ahern's manor,
Croker - a nutter stalking him whose
not there, and a Collesium shrunk
to the barest of nubs, bluntest of hints
and toughest of love at the All Ireland final.

A decider. What a shocker!! A moment of myth
in the European home of iron age literate practice,
for they who keep an eye on where a sliotar lives
as it zips from hurl to hurl through the air, sidhe
troop leaping from ash to ash since history began,
gave us a game of unbroken lineage, encoded
unforgotten in natural "no shit,"

in an ash hurl measured just up to the hip.

~

Oh what a lovely jackboot and flicknife
of intellects we have gathered for our goatherding
quest to find what fictional chimera is boast
to be bested.

May I suggest we get a book on the go?
What's the odds on predicting history and inversing
reality, to Tipperary 20 Clare Nil?

Work it out genius, ms aquamariness
I love water and will one day return
to the earth like ted the spacer

suicide magnet who had reality to work with.
I've got none, but it aint half fun,
sidhe all around us, Her guardian fluxing in natural
ash-hurl, hip cork and leather.

~

Thats all there is, the squarest of poloygons,
four zones and spiral too, with a three card trick
from the unequalled myth, source of wonderment
to all but the archest of spacer who dabbles not
in a dark art of surreality..but Dante's coat
on a sound-hook well angled and jangling music
from an oak of two blossoms.

Sidhe host sleep, yet deeply awake, not one stone
asks the question of quotidian being, life loss, Love
be here tonight with me dearest.....

I switched off the telly six years ago. The radio i have not listened to for 3 months and i don't read newspapers. When one is without these magic boxes and props for enough time, the quotidian need for their affect dissolves, and the media mist melts away as one begins to see the light of what's important in ones life much more clearly.

And as one views the merry go round of irrellevant information from the vantage point of a detached observer, one identifies how subtley the sublimation of corporate dream permeates the greater consciousness of those still in thrall to the electronica of a cod reality on which the axis of consumerism turns; the image being all.

And at the heart of the ideal image, the elixir of contemporary existence, is a seeking of eternity. And be it the middle aged looker whose wish was cooked up in the fictional swirl of absent electronic realities of an unreal and therefore unobtainable femminine beauty - who attempts to reverse the revolution of the spheres above her by a continual round of nip and tick, lypo and hoovering fat from her wrinkly crumpling body; or a shallow and confused young person building their myspace shrine on nought but a portfolio of computer enhanced images with which they seek to fool others; the impetus behind this desire is acquisition of the elixir of Self, found only in a mythical pool of eternal life.

Self does not exist except in sir scum snoot cocker, pervading snout in the exterior consciousness, waking a world of mammon and its manifestation - according to Shelley - is material wealth as - cash - which he was born to spend prodigiously on his many whim and fancies.

So can we trust this voice; so haunting and really, attractive to us as Art, when the ego had been removed, the force of disorder from which this massive beauty - the eternal literate Love - had ceased moving in spin with the spheres above him as he breathed back then an all..for when Shelley is apprehended by the purest of critical eye, the mauling and assaults he suffered in print, the response to his Literacy by - essentially, and clearly obvious now - men possessing the lesser and therefore, the minor talent his poetic orbit forced to overshadow in their consciousness, who were - naturally, as a result of jealousy - non-affirmational as the hacking critics during the shared time they spend, creating beauty, or nea - time and the cooler eye decides - not the outraged bores who surrounded him as he surrounded himself with a band of willing women and engaged in debauchary of infamous and fat to purile a kind for the rare strained Love poet to dander too long, for fear of the shelley mythos being removed.

If we knew the truth of all artists, the world would be a poorer place for it, or rather, the potential there work has for the fosterage of Hope and Love, peace, effectively, however disconncted, for poetry such as Shelleys - though i know little - does have this eternal beauty; and the clincher is his defense of it.

In this chapbook of prose, his verbal invention is simply - stunning - and though it is a full skim and scroll, before we get to stroll through and recognise the part, the craft on which it resides, entering shelley's mind effectively, as in understanding the state of his psyche at the time of its composition.

Only a mind of similar poetic capacity can cognise the true poetry, the scraps and grails, the two word combination that is uniquely coined by the me, but as it is so unique - effectively unbeatable - two words, nouns are the creme de la..verbs their mirror..knack and know..not the best, but two inique verbs in that combination, as in returning zero when googled in parenthisis, self legendary, poet at home understanding Horace, who most serious lyric leaning poets have as the template.

Even if they have not read him, when his defense or book on the Art of poetry was written two milennia back an all - it is fair to say - is completely congruent still and horace would heartily endorse this innovative electronic method of making up the math - metric - as and with owt going, anything the creative mind can usefully harness and utilise in a clearly demonstrable logical way of sense'ness, knack and know, the learnt kink, and straight line within which comes after many years of developing a trust system, the essential You as artict and creator..indeed at times, Creator even, in control of the gravitas..you in exostential reality being in the readers' head and wotnot.

And for Shelley, Percy the poet..yet still his rakish'ness, his nihilism is upheld - or rather - the mirror of his literate Art is turned to us for a manifesto of beauty, though it be writ by a profligerate drunk and drug taking shambles of human reality.

Yet still, shelley spoke beautifully. Behind the mask, the man we all want to hate for being such an unproductive moral specimen - as in - that Shelley is still a respectable template for the Love poet, means what..?

Offering up ones spiritual energy to cold hard inanimate objects, in a prayer for material acquisition; instead of cultivating a need for few material objects beyond clothes and computer to be happy with as a human being standing up unafraid to announce to society, this is moi; is beyond all but the best of committed bores.

Only a few reach this rare height of eloquence and contentment; unbowed or apologising for possessing a happiness based on nought but air, imagination and the full force of divine focus found within, after many years contemplation and study of Britian's native poetic lore.

We understand that it is Self which demands the attention of other eyes in the concert and theatre of ones daily flit through the ephemera which constitute the events forming a sound to which we dance in the happening of our brief cognisance of the waking consciousness that is life itself. And blindly, unthinkingly we herd and moo, calling to others in the random sink and rise of existence, occassionally snagged by a fleeting physical attraction to the mugshots and minds acting upon a greater stage here on my blog, where you rehearse your realities for me, in deed and print; occassional deigning to take things further in the search for Love.

Love. The divisible sum into which we all are but a miniscule part; our pyschological intent forming a figure, whose tiny weight is nevertheless, a cog and computing part - however small and brief - which impacts on reality, measured accuratley or nea; in our lifetime or not. It does not matter, as long as one is happy, and cheerful in the fray; uncomplaining when we get binned off and rejected by others. For this a par for ones course and what makes people love us more, is when they see we are not arsed about their opinion; as we do what we do regardless of any and all opinion.

Only once this nut is cracked and understood; when a full cognisance of the word "craic" is known, can we fly. Ignored or elevated, all of us execute a role. By necessity, a self created part, starting as a seed of dream first stirred in the cauldron of our childhood; in the raw first mix which casts the hue and potential register of our mature mindset, voice and song.

Each sound, each word, each pause for breath, is a singular event and letter apart, in the wider frame of human history that - by armeggedon or earthly paradise - will be nought but a poem itself; each life a letter, word and line of the greater whole. And yet still the full of human history is but a brief drop in the wider universal force of which we are both all and nothing; centre and furthest dernier, simultaneously existing in a way only Art can hint of, capture and portray.

For a thousand biblical books and a million moleculer boasts of knowing, can never convey the rose of life whose bloom is forever frozen in the mind as a cipher for eternity. The pale pink or full lipped red of an acorn crop of severed heads held in the beak of the raven and war goddess Morrigan, who swooped to the shoulder of the Ulaid peoples' undisputed warrior star, Cúchulainn; tied to a pillar to die standing up, after being mortally wounded by his foe the prince of Munster, Lugaid; avenging his fathers death.

Cúchulainn is the de facto hardest man in the island's myth. His life was a succession of challenge and slaughter of warrior foe from competeing war bands, of the Connachta to the West and Munster to the South. One after another - as was cultural practice then around the time of Jesus - the various champions of single combat were slain and fell at the feet of this half man, half god superbeing; until the time and death of his prophecy occured and life and time carried on, as always it does.

And this figure left behind him, not only the immortal quote all modern poets agree has never been bettered in 2000 years for as an accurate definition as there is for poetry -

"the music of what happens" - but also the beau ideal which moved at the centre of Yeats' dream:

"I care not if i day today or tommorow, only that my doings live on in myth after i'm gone."

And this iron age nobility, source of the terrible beauty and dead warriors standing up beneath ben bullen like a chinese army of terrocotta, clay soldiers; all mix in the jumble of fact and invention Yeats assembled into his vision, philosophy drawn from the pages time forgot, that weighted his verse and continues to confuse all but the most inquiring of poetic minds.

And like the poet in his round tower as Robartes and Ahern pass on the moonlit night, cackling at the fool cracking his wits on a meaningless conundrum in which all reason is absent and can never be attached; so too our search for Love in the material physical world will never yield it in the baubles we expend so much effort on acquiring.

For we can not love a man bag, car, house or yacht in the way as we do one another. Humanity wins every time. The cerebral over flesh, and even the most astonishing of blooms fade to ropey aul bags, unless they are lucky and the eyes of an angel burn in their heads at a hundred years of age. Far and few between but still, if ever witnessed, a touch of divinity to speak of and prove ones contention of Self to self with.

The potter and his clay, a poet and his pen, the Self creating force of nature is but a sublimation of the light all life is but a derivative of, and which all our hope and wish to be a toffie makes a Self with. And our desire to Love honestly results in Self being outfaced and shrink in the simplest of con, discovered after the most difficult ascent up the mountain of fact and ephemera which terminate at the peak of knowing.

For when we study letter lore, we all can reach the.. shh..of Self shrunk self being proffered as a true stay and plea from an honest single poet in straight talk looking for online Love with another.

The human source of sun, our closest hand and orb that spun us to existence and - i beleive - mixed with the magic ingredient of eternity; is the soul of self-shrunk Self. The hardest trick to sight in the hall of smoke and mirror, placebo and sleight of hand that would effect us to believe HP potter-sauce is our be all and end all of contemporary literate existence.

And yet still, the corporate machine proves there is and always will be a need and ready supply of common humanity willing to bond over a dream of writers we elevate to fulfill the role of our fictional gods in the citadel of Literacy from which we self-exclude when the Self is still motoring at our greediest core.

Sheep in wolves clothing, lovers all, some pretending to be hard nosed rakehelly boy galloglass and kern, wishing only to die standing up and facing ones foe like Cúchulainn, as the brave and fearless Men of Self, for Wodin, Lugh and Appollo. But surely the truth is we are all more cowardly than this; more Mr Bean than James Bond?

For the half god, half man is a fiction and fallacy; maybe a cipher and unreachable bar or role model our peers present as the great noble idea of Self. The surface of self in full puff and bluster, being a fanstasy and fiction, we forget to initially cap our boasting desire in the first flush when all around us is night, as the tv man is telling us about the babes and billions a life of swearing in fast rhyme bestow upon the killer.

A Cúchulainn who doesn't exists except in a dream; attempting to be sold via the magic of quantuum physics and technolgical trickery, as the answer to a way out of a mindset that can never be so until Love replaces the desire for death to they who live next door or beside us in the bed of whatever this thing of "now" is..

Lucky we for the life we have, lets thank benevolence for being..today and tommorow we can make up..the past is a tablet to draw hope from..remember the silence and use it to make others hear what sorrow and suffering the ghost within we can never outface, weights our gravitas. The pyramid of ghosts on which we breathe, their past funnelled in through us, to sing of or nea in lay and rann. Wrought the poem from our past of silence and the invisible voice of lives who fought for justice against tyrants whose English speech sought nought but injustice and murder of an ancient language; but from whose ashes rose a phoenix in at least one defiant native, who wrought a way of expressing them in english.

Learning to initially cap the Self before prophecy and the death of one small link who puzzled for them in a deep beyond; caught a glimpse of where their souls are hung and bound as one, and will return to hang with when his song is sung and life reclaimed by light to noise as air in graceful freedom, sounding in the tune of dust i will become.

For we all wish to be Cúchulainn; warrior bard who was not only the most handsome and strongest of fighting champions who all women hurled themselves at - unable to control their lust for him - but a bard whose bravey and skill knew no bounds; seeing his dad was Lugh, a god of light and war champ himself in the first battle of Moytura between the Tuatha Dé Dannan and Formorian.

But the island mythology is a lore in itself and such was the fear other warriors had for Cúchulainn, when his eventual killer Lugaid slew him with one from a set of three magical spears - prophesised to kill 3 kings; after the tragic prohesy attached to this figure ground out in the narrative event, Lugaid only approached Cúchulainn after the great phantom queen in her shape of the raven and war goddess, Morrigan; had landed on his shoulder, signalling he was dead; tied to his stone after being fatally wounded by a magic spear, to die with the dignity one expects the ultimate arch warrior in Ulster myth be accorded.

But still the spirit and phantoms, the force of life that is exhaustively documented here but which few care to seek the true knowledge from, had a trick up their sleeve; fulfilling the other bore who said of the place:

The predictable never happens, the unexpected always.

Indeed this is the only guarantee one has in the home of didlee dee, where minute by minute things change; and as Lugaid severed his head, Cúchulainn's sword dropped, severing Lugaid's own hand, and then the tale continues anew with Cúchulainn's best mate in the war band avenging his death. And also, as usual, Lugaid severed head was the noble spoil , stock and proof of his slayer's prowess in this society of such terrible beauty.

Indeed Conall Cernach - who avenged the golden boy of irish myth - was one of the very few in it who lived out a normal span; Cúchulainn was dead by 30, much as many of the young men on the island today who choose to live by a similar code of cyclical death and revenge. The fear of Failure in the sight of others, incarnate and heaped into us by an incessant shower of electronic reality too perfect for man to mirror.

And so we pretend to be the ideal man whose child is hidden behind an unreadable brow and straight pursed lips, reflecting the mien of a lonely man whose chimera's an act and con; until Self sinks and disappears completely, when we reach the rock bottom of our self created sorrow, and Love appears in the moment least expected, to draw us up and clear the féath fíadha, or mist of invisibility and irrellevance, guiding our hand along a page. Both within and without, divinity and man exists, and our trick of balancing light and shadow, is a voice within few attempt to find and sing with.

The natural run, harmonic fact, words and sound collide as an acoustic picture and the moment; slowly, surely and without fuss, will become yours and define you to others who profess to know what the net is all about..

Another non stop week of talking bollix on the Guardian books blog.

I have been jostling with the numerous staff and commentating bores there since March, when a hack and Blakean scholar called Shirley Dent laid into the Love Poetry Hate Racism events that occured in April in various cities all over the globe, and since then it has become my workspace, of sorts, generating - somehow - 700 pages of blather, though most of it useless for any long term purposes.

But nevertheless, after writing 400 pages in a couple of months, i realised that i had ratcheted up a notch by sheer dint of windic experience and gone from Clio to Anruth (level 5-6 on the bardic qualificational scale) cracking the process of novel writing; as i was churning out a few thousand words a day. And although it was prose i wrote, i imagine the process of writing this way falls into the general scope of novel writing.

It's a great place the books blog, as one lives or dies on the strength of what they say, the eloquence of the words one strings together, and it has led me to higher peaks of poetical understanding, as everything i write there is done with the purpose of seeking these elevated ridges to sing from. The latest blather is all harry potter and before that salman rushdie's nighthood, and the process of churning out 700 pages in four months has tightened up the voice and bestowed a level of skill and understanding that was previously absent, as the gush of language is now at full force and i am dreaming in it, as well as speaking it all day.

Bill Naughton said that he learnt to write by setting aside time in the day to practice it, until he reached a stage where he had learnt to love it, and i took this idea to create the maxin:

What is a love of writing but loving ones Muse?

Simple after the spoil of six years has been extracted. The rubbish and failure we all create on our unique authorial path, and which led me to the theory that we are but the latest brief force of live atop a pyramid of past flesh-fuse of living and dead foerebears.

Two parents, four grands eight greats etc, and so are the sum total of all those lives that went before us, and poetry in its purest form is nought but communing with ghosts, a prayer to self and dialogue with the soul, in the quest to speak of Love, or at least advocate it as poets.

This piece came out of a discussion on the most ego free online poetry community,

Dr Whup-Ass's Bitch-Ass Poetry Roundup - A collection of liberal minded spacers, is run by an Oklahoma native, Dr Quincy Lehr, a Trinity College Dublin ollamh teaching American history , and who i affectionately refer to as herr dictator, as he is not like the majority of online bores who set up these sites.

The tedious fuhrer and fuhresses who cannot attain eloquence by democratic means, in the fray and fun-fest of online utterance - where we serious poet-bores eek out our stay against hatred - set up online communities for timid fawns barricading their careers in from a reality to terrible for them to comprehend, that they aren't up to much poetically. Sad sorry gits, unlike Quincey, and the text below came out of a thread on the identity of Shakespeare. Was it Will or Mary Sidney, Countess of Flatbroke, and the weight of opinion was heavily against the woman attempting to get the doubters of her theory listening.

~

There is an aul saying i made up maybe, about the sunrise. That no one goes round bug eyed with the exciting news, telling all they meet that it is coming up tommorow; meaning that obvious truths are something we all know and do not need to convince others of. And as long as you believe it, that's all that matters. The few recorded facts of shakey are unbelievably few, and not having done a detailed investigation into the authorship debate, am unqualified to speak, but the factual truth is that whoever wrote the stuff attributed to him, be it the one you believe or a rent boy in glasgow the world will never hear of; what's important is we love our shakey's words, who wrote them is irrelevant to me..

I have experienced stuff i would not dare dream of telling others, in order to not give them a chance to label me completely cuckoo and insane, and i know certain higher truths you would not believe if i told you, and which would only serve to make me appear from another universe intellectually.

Look at all the flat earthers getting burnt at the stake for heresy, and as humanity delves further and deeper into material knowledge, science completely displacing the humanities as to where existential truth and the proof of reality's structures lie.

So all material truth seems to be relative and just the latest gloss, take or layer of existential spin cloaking a much more slippery set of theoretical data; drawn from the conjectural well of ones intellect first and proven later, as the science catches up with technological innovation. One could say we make happen what we believe first, all life on the globe connected in a way we will never know, being as we are enmeshed and constituent parts of this light and force for void and darkness.

For we are but the latest brief force of life, lit atop the pyramid of past flesh-fuse lives of living and dead foerebears. Two parents, four grands eight greats etc, and so, surley even the most spacey of scangers would agree, are the sum total of all those lives that went before us, and poetry in its purest form is nought but communing with ghosts; a prayer to self and dialogue with the soul, in the quest to speak of Love, or at least advocate it as poets, you and i.

Imagine trying to explain to a 16 century person the concept behind tv or any quantuum theory, it would be - to them - real diabolical magick, and should they see one, it would drive them insane. What four hundred years ago would have been the most insane of magic, is now scientific fact, and the science humanity makes up, but a placebo cloaking the higher knowledge of which i refer to but am not at liberty to divulge.

Thus the register of suspense is created, without having to reveal or project the truth of my intellect, that most - should i choose to announce the secret of the universe, would consider as that of an idiot who learns at a national enquirer school of factual proof..Believe it mary, if you choose and be content that you know, forget trying to convince the doubters, for their truth is no greater than our own, whatever it be, for (time)

like truth is each our own
unfurls unique to one and all
and lives are lived as days
have gone, no two the same
beyond the passing of horizons
by the sun...

A snippet from Time, a poem i wrote several years ago that came over a few easy drafts, one of the magical ones you can barely believe came from you, as if one were merely the conduit of a higher power. The truth of stuff like this lies on one person holding the ear of an audience who fall for their spiel. Hitler did the same, and so proof can often be nought more than weight of opinion.

Imagine ten people wrong and one right, then ten look and nod at each other, lets have a vote, we must be right there are ten of us who beleive it and only one crazee who does not. Proving that proof is nought but fictional beleif, in this debate, and at the mo, the fictional shakey we know from a picture and few recorded facts, is de facto head fantasy-proof, yours sounds a lot more interesting and compelling for a bore seeking to speak of beauty in a song..

Plea For Love

There is a fundamental connection with the Art in conversation, that prose writing seamlessley replicates, but allows one to shine as they rarely can extemporised, and allow us the privelage of being a tool of art in language. The gods Ogma and a host of global equivelants, all lined up in the myth factory, inspection ready for the poet to draw and create with them as the basic building block of whatever form of writing the Mistress of the Universe order one does as her willing thrall.

MUTU for large Art guerilla graffiti happenings and raids for the greater good of beauty; each of us an artist in the Love collective, seeking only to further the human cause of full and unfettered freedom to love in a polyamorous civilisation, where nudist and all other misunderstood and victimised communites within the wider pan galactic Love umbrella, can wander freely naked, shop, spend and interact in the concert and quotidain theatre of their lives, without the fear of discrimination and prejudice befalling them as they go about their business within the society we envisage.

One in which the Love parties collective of indivdual bores and lonely hearts on the web-net-dump, will hereby be requested to vote for at the forthcoming election, which will be fought by two warring forces.

One for a greater unity and understanding of compassion and Love, the other in opposition to this force for demonstrable good, and it is my duty today to voice my support for the former of these, for i am the third cousin removed by matrilineal marriage; to a poet of the finest oratory skill. A close relative and dearly missed man of transparent goodnes.

And what i suggest to you here today in my capacity of cuhullain's phoenix

i arise today by the strength of heaven
Stability itself above in accordance with
the wishes of fitzgeraldean francis
Man for love and the crisis cracked
knowing one and poet, swiftness of mind
Tongue talked a natural know and knack...

People in literate prayer seeking to execute what dream within your mind moves the world to Love, care not for the men who seek to influence the affairs of humanity with a fearfull address, composed by skillfull sophists wanting only to steal the bread from the mouth of beauty and turn the desire of rich dictators to existential fact, speaking of a crisis non but they believe, create and address by force of arms.

Care instead for the people around you, the real life here and now. Do not tarry or stray into the intellectual realm of these - mostly - men, demanding absent others in lands far away, comply with the instructions written by them to further their material gain on a diabolical scale, to suck the earth of all her resources, for a swathe of penthouse and yacht, minimum wage serfs and for no good reason.

Not to further the aim or cause of Love, but selfishness and greed, cloaked in the shabbiest of con, of doing it, not for themselves, but for the absent "other" they would not piss on if s/he was on fire, but who they claim as the intended recipients of what Hate they try to speak as love.

For Love cannot be faked and fear never the basis for a successful relationship of any description, for fear breeds silence and lies, the painted smile of a terrified "other" victim, a child in india, iran or iraq with the snub of a gun pointing their way by a teenage trooper in shades and bomb jacket, there to spread democracy, bring stability, overthrow an oppressive brutal dictatorship and replace it with another, friendlier bunch who fear them, pretend the marriage is hunky dory, ignore the truth, that a mistake is best admitted, dismissed and forgotten, not dragged out in farce, the sinner unrepentent, being led away by men in masks and coat to the delusional rest home of failed armchair general politicians, the world wreckers doing it for good aul jee jee dunt yer noo.

Jesus their personal advisor, noughtie jesus the one they invent in the attempt to legitimise murder, turning truth on its head. Christ, jee jee never said that did he? Or are the rich dictators possessing a deep spiritual commitment to their gods, God and inner divinity, Love if one's lucky, millions dying when time chance and accident collide and the children of rich dictaors get the Messiah bug. Daddy telling them they are a prophet for good in the family businesses, make money for God, kill for jee jee, crusade for peace with a war first policy..oh Love do not abandon or cast off the yoke of memory and what wisdom there lies, draw up true the knowledge in poetry and love will come......

Changed, as one outfaced, aware but of time chance, graceful accident and the terribbly compelling truth of a Muse alone, sean was king of camelot. Joe's second string and two patrick's, grand and great, who died on November 22 1858, at thirty five during an epidemic of cholera, one hundred and five years to the very day, that the fullest shoot on the furthest branch from Patrick in the derbhfine, was assassinated in Dallas by a foe in shade, host of shadow and hate.

Sean fitzgerald kennedy was born 94 years after a starving illiterate pair struck out, fleeing for fictional gold and going it our way. Patrick and bridget are a quarter of John Kennedy, and this fitzgerald son of fils gerald is a poet who drew the torpid light from within, and wishes to sing of sean's brother Bobby; the speech on April four - 1968 - the day of Martin's assassination.

~

Bobbies great grandfater was Patrick kennedy, head of JFK's derbhfine (four generations of one family) which produced the unofficial American political royalty; which he was an eighth responsible for creating, and patrick learnt what meagre literate skill he had in a hedge school in Wexford in the decade before the mid 19C famine in Ireland.

The 1840's were a watershed of horror of the most terrible kind the island ever knew. Fifty years after the failed 1798 rising had dealt a knelling blow to the United Irishmen of orange and green, there was a golden finality about the aul sodding dream, and a Mor Gort - great hunger of holocuast proportion, whose socio-pyschological dna is the grief of silent rising sorrow within us, descended in the black blight that turned the subsistence crop of spuds to all but mush and goo.

But two great grandparent of sean's eight island natives, carrying only the linguistic spark of ancient rann and lay - in the knack and gift for language threading to a time beyond all barrier of what is understood - connected their lucky offspring from a new continent, to this island. A place where poetic lore is naturally preached by all natives; invisibly administered and instinctivley understood, this culture and language that go together in a very rudimentary way. Where non but the natives can speak with an island accent, where no Hollywood star or non Irish actor, has ever successfully imitated it, ever. An anomoly of speech that makes the talker their own self fulfilling gaurantee of genuinely being from here. Interesting and strange, but true and straight, easy to ignore or dismiss, but for those seeking to orbit poetical spheres, a fact they cannot escape.

~

And it was against the backdrop of this horrific swirl and whirr of event and occurence occurence, that Bridget Murphy and Patrick kennedy left for Boston in 1849, escaping from an island bereft of all hope. For it was the famine that brutally collapsed their native tongue and this cultural collapse was the shortest day of heat and rock-bottom one must reach as we and one alone, and garner strength in the heavy price of understanding that the light of language that made myth flee and turn reality silent with the absent dead cries of a starving mass of bare boned humanity; is eternally frozen within us all, and remains a perma-frost of hate, until it melts in the heat of Love. In the human compassion for "others."

~

And the millions trying to die stood up and yield not their dignity beneath the yoke of their foe; did so until a collective resignation descended and the island mist of immediate and eternal sorrow enveloped our pysche as one and we alone. And this sensitivity to a state of native lore and talk in proud iron and bronze age lay, ran, sequence and way, pro-actively ignored by England as the "economic" crisis saw the natives starve, is what drives and guides my hand today, here for the reader. To reverse the notion of Greatness for all those in the immediate sphere of britonnic influence and address the absent shades who uttered:

"Sure they have only hiberno-english anyway."

The imperial landowners, absent on vast estates saw not fellow humans, but a strange laughable blundering lot, principally becasue they spoke not English; William Carleton being the first native to out the inner melody in print, briefly wrote propaganda to further the lie of oaf and natural fool in inescapable blundering, until his mind became its own and the true stories flowed from his pen; so that now his tales - written by the son of a real Tyrone senachie (lore-man) - only garner greater praise as the harrow of time and true literacy plays out.

And when the boat of this island pair of kennedys came in, Pat and bride began enacting what shenaningans of making their dream occured in the music of their life then and there, as irish-speaking immigrants in America, with amergin and Cuhullain singing the inner music happening within for us. We who seek and find true,the simple craft that comes after great learning. And i would like to take this opportunity of editing an impromptu, extemporised address to a crowd in Indianapolis the day Martin Luther King died, when Bobby Francis Kennedy confessed, he had not the Answerer; for cuhullain perhaps can execute peace, but this is a homage to the dead and other "theres," absent and wishing only to find francis kennedy speaking of love, off the cuff, in a rare gift of immense poetical gravitas:

Ladies and Gentlemen,

"..Talk..for a minute..this evening,
because..some very sad news..
Could you lower those signs, please?
..sad news for all..fellow citizens,
..people who love peace..the world;
..Martin Luther King..shot..in
Memphis, tennessee..dedicated his
..life to love ..justice..human cause..effort..
And on this difficult day for the United
States..perhaps it is well to ask what..
nation ..what direction we want to move in.

For those of you, considering, it is
..evident..there were white people ..filled
with bitterness, and with hatred,
..A desire for revenge. So..ask..tonight
..return..say a prayer for the family
-- Yeah, it's true -- but more important
..say a prayer for our own country,
..Which all of us love -- understanding
..compassion.. can do the country good
In difficult times. We've had a difficult ..past
..will have a difficult time in the future.

It is not the end of violence;..the end
of lawlessness;..disorder..the majority
Of people in this vast..country..live together,
..improve the quality of life..justice ..all
Human beings that abide by peace in ..our land
let's dedicate ourselves to what a Greek poet
.. Many years ago:

..tame the savageness of man and make gentle
the life of this world.

Let us dedicate ourselves to that, and say
a prayer for our country and for our people.
Thank you very much.

..move in that direction as a country,
In greater polarization..filled with hatred toward
one another. Or we can make an effort,
As Martin Luther King did, to understand, and to
comprehend, and replace that violence,
That stain of bloodshed that has spread across
our land, with an effort to understand,
Compassion, and love.

For those..tempted to fill with -- be filled
with hatred and mistrust of the injustice
Of such an act, against.. people, I would only
Say that I..feel in my own heart the same kind
of feeling. I had a member of my family killed,
..by a white man. But we have to make an effort
In the United States. We have to make an effort
to understand, to get beyond, or go beyond
These rather difficult times. My favorite poem,
my -- my favorite poet ..he once wrote:

Even in..pain which cannot forget ..drop by drop
upon the heart, until, in our own despair, against
our will, comes wisdom
Through the..grace of" good...

"What we need in the United States is not division;
what we need in the United States is not hatred;
What we need ..is not violence and lawlessness,
but..love, and wisdom..compassion ..one another..
A feeling of justice toward those who still suffer
within our country, whether they be white or..black."

~

I will arise topday by the strenght of heaven
swiftness of wind, radience of rock
Firmness and stability of Bobby F Fitzgerald fili.

~

On April four, a short time after leaving the airport, after deciding to go ahead with a pre-arranged address to a crowd in Indianapolis, unaware Martin Luther King, the prince and prophet of non violence, had been slain by a fool and history revealed - as much as one beleif can hope to find when drawing parallels of fitzgereldean zero, the eight straight resident sidhe within the person one wishes to be, a sidhe king or thrall, slave or freeman - that all have a tune to carry and air to flee and return as wind blown fawn grey, lost in a liminal space where sidhe flit and play, come the thirty first night; Samhain eve.

Sunday Muse

When i decided to write and fell into poetry, i wasn't juggling with the assurity and eloquence six years slog of 12 hours a day addiction to this mad craft will bring.

Indeed my imagination coupled to paranioa and no confidence, self affirmed that i was an outsider, barred from the citadel of "Literature," and until i found the door was not locked and that all those inside are not all talking about me, hating me for my imagined gift or plotting ones downfall, did i seperate what i thought i knew based on guessing, with fact as i experienced it as an honest wannabee verseman; logically - as i see it - pursuing the correct course of study and approach, for one whose culture of verse was bardic for 1200 years and which no poets talk about with much authority, even though it is the most logical one to assume as the most sensible place to look for genuine poetic knowledge, stretching back to and containing the real druidic trace. The oscars of the poetry community.

Indeed the first time i found the door open, was when i realised that - actually - no one gives a toss about my writing and there was no love-in designed specifically to keep others out, as the mist of a self created chimera slowly wore down the more experience i got. Literally as the words stacked up, one by one, in whatever form we write, the dream becoming real.

Six years from Ollaire to Anruth in the bardic grade and it was only when a poet reached anruth s/he could publically offer their services, to wherever they could find work, or if they were in demand, to whoever offered the best dough. For the job was simple in this culture, and there were essentially two modes their gobs worked, either talking someone up or trolling them. Like a lawyer today paints a person black or white, honest or crooked, depending on whose paying.

I have always written on instinct, for what i dunno, but there have always been intellectual lights going on and poems i write in the heat of the moment that act as the markers of these breakthroughs, and my latest one is this, the final realisation in public as much for me as any potential audience.

It's not where you start out but end up, and being published is great, but not the be all and end all, for it is the inner eye, your I all alone who must first be happy before any else and other, for the only guarantee we have poetically, is ones own, and do not fall into the trap of hubris that appearing in this or that rag means anything other than your work appeared on a page, for it is the words that do the talking, not the marketing and spin of career blub compilers blinding in the fray to the one essential fact. That poetry is the highest literate Art and as a craft, as difficult to learn as any. Don't be fooled, speaking and seeking Love within is all it is.

Damien Hirst and Keith Chegwin on the roof of the Groucho, idiotic criminals tossing traffic cones on shoppers, champagne blerts on all class of persian rugs and having a laugh as a stream of fawning audience members line up to be insulted and abused by them in the name of art. A bacon butty smeared on a lightswitch and disposable Glasto tent hung from a naked tramp, dead on commision.

Art as reality, in yer bleddy gob suckers, us the audience paying 500 euro in for a pre-opening VIP after show/party/ensemble/ gathering of rich Art lovers wanting only reality to taunt us for the ridiculously easy lives we have managed to secure ourselves as capital bores.

Part of the event is a stuffing of wads of moolah up tim's arse, the de-capitalised tramp denied his dignity, naked and cut in two, glued to thin glass, his body painted as the well known martyr, Jesus, nailed to the door of John Lennons Weybridge white house, opening apart, shocking the audience at the critical crux of the Happening, as five packets of bangers Cheggers has cunningly strapped to a thin bomb vest, hidden beneath imitational flesh, explode onto the latex mould of a real bomb victim, all under a deceptively slim pastel sweater, that makes Kieth appear chunky, at his cuddly best, winner of the non stop smile-athon earlier in the day, that kicked the Happening off.

Damien bladdered at the denouement of tims head rolling off as Paul Newman goes to work, hired for the night for 10 million dollars by damien, to play a part and yet remain sworn to secrecy until the book launch the next day, when the gag is revealed to the nations press.

A hack sent to simper, into the wet morn, forgetting her ticket and umbrella and being turned away, its pissing down and her hair's beyond all hope, as cheggars dashes out asking if he can borrow her mobile to ring the bookies..

Richard Cranshaw: Rehabilitation? Glam Dicend? Pantheon and Sidhe Nut.

Sidhe attract the light by dint of nomen,
zonkladim cuisle and beat, heart
Intellect wildly done up, ann nea undone
genius the time sidhe come to out
Behind donne's companion, in many
ways, perfect..with which to explore him,
......
Dick Cranshaw: Musicks Duell: 1646:

an epic of control in beauty, Cranshawe's
One gift to a world that was perfected air
itself. When i first read this piece several
Years ago, it immediately forced itself
into a primary space it has not slipped
From, as the effect was genuine, and
perhaps unblocked me at precognitiion
In level absent conscious, a deep import
of valency and lambency is but platinum
Heat of granite and stare, boring into the
soul of very Art, and if i may, a personal
Joy of the highest order, proffer up
a short section of this few hundred word
Poem of sheer perfection, Cranshaw at
his once in a lifetime best, clearly, equal
Indeed, being a simple unread knowledge
what milleau in which he paced, the list of
go read names, some there, others bluff
....
And absence in space of a windchime,
history sounding sidhe, now and again
dickie cranshawe left us rann and lay:

"...those precious mysteries that dwell
In musicks ravaged soule dare not tell
But whisper to the world: thus does they vary
Each string his own Note, as if they meant to carry
............
All...strings breathing..best life
Oh blest variety attending on
His fingers fairest revolution
In many a sweet rise, many a sweet fall)
A full mouth Diapason swallowes all.
.............
...measure all those wild diversities

Of chatt'ring stringes, by the small size of one
Poore simple voyce, rais'd in Naturall Tone;
Shee failes and failing grieves, and greiving dyes.
Shee dyes; and leaves her life the Victors prise,
Falling upon his Lute, o fit to have
......... "

Musicks Duell - Richard Cranshaw..

Herr Dictator Telly

Whilst with a fellow practitioner last week, i had the misfortune to witness the latest incarnation of the confrontational tough love confessional genre of mid-morning tube, a gobby unpleasant host, belittling alcoholics, drug users, single lesbian mothers and an array of sadly compelling charachters, drawn from the telly well of shock .

A competitive market where the most important rule is lost. Don't bleddy watch the tosh, electronic reality is exactly that, do not base ones dream and career chimera on another, disembodied poetic contingent from the most po-mo of quantum process to exist, in virtual form. No, not the most solid of dreams to fruit a reality of physical poetic, but the banality of fawning bores, pointlessly blocked with unhappy practice, a struggle to relate, cheating on, or cuckolded by their muse.

Watching people who need psychological help spool out of control, is escapism and a pretty shabby sociological act to engage in repeatedly, it becomes an all circling addiction spiralling out of hand, the trajectory of its orbit is really unforgiving, penalising voyeuristic telly of the most purile kind. Mary Whitehouse would have an immediate heart attack should she have witnessed it, at 1030 AM!! .

This mid morning cultural baiting chamber is a mirror of bad skinned fag addicted chavs - themselves a media-cultural-construct that blossomed into reality after the legions of Enfield disciples chaunted this behaviour once parodied to exists, acceptably mainstream, tugging forelocks to tv producers, for a shot at hamming up their worst side, as they tread the sad and sorry path of their incomprehensibly dumb quest for "fame" of sorts.

For in fifty years from now when the Trisha, Ophra, Jerry and Phil re-union industry is in full swing, as the second to fourth generation of consumers of the telly help myth, will look strangely befitting, a mainstream cultural presence, for good or ill, viewing the collapse of others, as instructional/entertainment?

All that is wrong with britain was on show. The need for demonisation, of right and wrongness, a pathological offiicous demand for certitude. If people do not demand suffering to watch under the guise of seeking humanistic benifit from the deluge of constant informaton being hammered into us, it would not be watched, as when we watch a lot of box, some more than others, many few drip fed by it. ..

Radio is much cooler a medium to pluck at work, for visual overload is distorting reality, as the reflection distorts behaviour, a syzgy of allignment can be the only outcome of continual cultural glue-sniffing ways, this faux liberal outrage twenty years irrelevant now, mired in a forest of caveat and cavail, contigencies, disclaimers, hedged in like timid fawns we are, as one mass of mediatised robotic mindsets, moderators pro-actively seeking reason to steal anothers dream of being alone with ones muse, searching the inner ether for Aiofe and Amergin, the Morrigan circling, mist is all it is, poetical cloak of ancient utterance, hidden, excluded from the airwaves, too longwinded to grasp in bitesize, poetry, life the narrative, lyric eye of a modern I clio or anruth, what are the odds for ollamh today in the nemeton?