Thursday, June 30, 2016

Thom Brady Poetry Football

Sounds like you were briefly hot and exciting with The Bernzmaey in Romania. Thanks for inviting me. I had a rubbish time here in Dublin when you were in Romania getting it on with the Mabzta. Jealously seized me and there was nothing I could do but sit here with writers block, fuming for several days, barely writing a word, until the dark cloud of depressing paranoid thoughts lifted, when I thought I read that the European trip you were so happy on, had all gone horribly wrong; and that cheered me up no end. Until I saw I'd misread the post and you were actually very happy.

After which i collapsed back into a low level hum of anger and ill will. But I have cheered up now because the great feminist politician and possible next President of the United States, Hilary Clinton, has asked me to be one of her campaign's official poets in residence, touring speech stops and warming up for her with some of my early love poetry; that I hope America will find as much love hearing and reading as I found bitter unhappiness straight after writing them and finding the courage to follow through my stupid plan the fateful failed night after i gave what i thought was a very innovative ordering and excellently stapled and very well put together home made diy collection, to its intended giftee.

Who just completely crushed me and nearly sent me into STOPPING ALTOGETHER when she shouted in my face and told me in no uncertain terms to piss off because she felt creeped out by me 'following' her. There's no law against being in the street at any time of day or night.

This was my first, unpublished chapbook, 'Fuck Off.' The experimental poetry came to me over several years after leaving Rampton Detention Unit, when I was on probation in London, and working as an interior decoration consultant and outdoor landscaping contract supervisor. With a Canary Wharf office and several people I could shout at and felt very superior to sending out to get me sandwiches and coffee. They are a must have. Underlings to shout at. For a medicated manic depressive like me, they are vital for my well being.

But I will get to the point. The reason why I am here. I wanted to ask, if it doesn't work out with me and Hilary, if the scene turns shitty for me there, if she starts trying to tell me how to live my life or write my work, please can I come and live with you and the Mazba and start a poetry commune in New England, please? I think it would be great. Me, you, Nembzta, who perhaps could give me a start at his university standing about teaching silly voices, running open mics, and setting up a publishing press, finally see my chapbook, Fuck Off, in the printed saleable form it needs to be in if the word is to get out across America. If I am to become one of my new home's most beloved bardic bores. I am thinking of offering a facebook poet contact in Brooklyn, the opportunity of her and her husband setting up a NY base for me, and you, and Ben, when we start doing readings together there, and begin our journey to wherever we end up as America's Next Top Poets. I will post a piece immediately after the result.

Thanks, Thom. I like it better when your name is spelt this way, it is soo more pretentious and effective. Ye never get a second chance to make a first impression, you know, Thom.

Um. Argh, er, yeah, one small thing, mate, how long ava known ye now? Please can you buy me a plane ticket and I swear on Armchairbros next stunning prose collection that he will make sure you get it back from my first payday from whatever university teaching job you, the bobsakil , or any of our colleagues and people i do not know, complete strangers, who are really just friends we've not yet met, can create for me. I wouldn't mind working in tv, with an office, and my own dining, living, and sleeping area. An apartment would be amazing.

And any easy enough no show job you must be able to get me at Lesley, would be just so sweet, darling? Or get Pinksy to give me a no show job. I think we would collaborate well together. The ultimate American master, me, you and the male poetry mafia. Like in cosa nostra, but the cosa nostra of Bawsten poetry.

I was told by my university tutors that the way to success in the world of poetry is to find others whose places you can stay at and who will financially support and contribute with day to day expenses involved in running a focused and committed practice that is fit for purpose in this new era replete with opportunity for any who seek beauty in a song.

I am deeply unhappy now.

Slainte, good luck, hope you do well, but not too well that it will crush my own already very blocked (for five years now) writing process. I am doing a lot of conceptual poetry that is great because it only exists in performance at the synaptic level of thinking something in the mind, and so the performance occurs in the brain only in conceptual poetry and a poem can be done and dusted and go on the CV without even having to have been thought, because it's not like anyone's gonna know, unless the Thought Police are in America yet?

I'm not going if there are no Thought Police to police what I am thinking and keep my mind safe and in this respect I am hoping DS will join our exciting gang of man poets and we can talk discuss shows, times, runs, and how my new life at the Poetry Foundation will be organised. Here's to us. I know where you live, Thom.


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Yeah, take no notice of my harmless speculative typing practice. Me and you won't ever run out of long windy screeds of spontaneously composed printed lingo. I remember when we first met on Harriet Blog the summer of Obama, and you and Chris Woodman were the only other two people I had stumbled into online, doing what i had been for the previous four years. My own thing. An unpublished wannabe bardic bore banging all manner of Irish text in English translation against my head like a tea strainer, seven years into working thinking and typing hard on a swivel chair, with another seven to go before the process finally reached some form of resolution fourteen years after I first wrote as a total thirty-something failure, building site operative and latterly an office jockey, who'd written three (very bad) poems over the previous eighteen years.

Then the floodgates opened and the words began erupting on 2/1/01 and didn't stop and still are coming enough to know even if the stuff is not up there with Mezbos and Armchairbros, we can be the B team, they can be our patrons.

We can go stand in for them, if they have any gigs in Dublin they don't fancy doing, that I can do, and that way I could get back at all the slam and live poets here who I am currently in the tenth year of having to deal with as creator of the AIPS and very influential figure in Dublin literary circles that go round the back of my flats and up to the top of the hill and round south city centre, where all the most ordinary working-class Dubliners live and speak a back-slang cant, patois and Dublineez that is chillosophizing and Cuchualinary (copywrite John Cummins Poetician) at once both of and its self and what of itself and very very seriously slippery and whack fol the loora toora laddy whack fol the toora loora lay'ish and by gawd tis a grand place altogether to have a good splurge me aul mukka. God bless, me ye and thee A team dudemanbrosis.

Thom, you know I know you know I know about what's happening with the dreams and plans and schemes to eff u ova, that are only a symptom of a made up mental illness, that i invented and pretend makes me say racist shit, just in order to be able to say shit that's not true, and that I can just then pretend I am mentally ill and get away with it.

It's great. Recondite as Joycean pub crawls on Paddy's Day, when I had my first great idea of the year, and am not going to tell you here because it is intellectual property and intellectual property is very important to someone as significant and influential in certain open mic poetry circles as me. At the very bottom of the ladder, I know, I know, but when I am not on drugs or in prison serving sentences for violence, bank robberies, jaywalking - i fukin jaywalk all over this city, and no one's ever gonna stop me - all kinds of really cool incredibly craic'd and well smooth because I am actually an international war crimes suspect and the cia are very worried one may well take up that opportunity, turn up, do that gig with Hilary Clinton, and, because, well, lets just say there's some unfinished cia cos nostra Irish poetry business, lets call it, and certain high value never before revealed state secrets i stole from Dublin castle and are going to the highest bidder.

Yeah, that's me, a full time war criminal laughing at the pathetic response of international law and at all the mayhem my dreams made real, that me, i, oneself caused, all the wars i started, all the hate i put into the world, and all the repenting I did when i was saved and born again as a licensed preacher and completely rehabilitated volunteer in a small project looking for a patron. Patron of the AIPS, PAIPS, paips is good, its funky, i can go with paips. Marketing just comes natural to me, Thom.

And so sing sweet so friend, i am very seriously and often deeply emotionally disgusted at myself for the harm and mass graves my poetry made happen with just one call of the The Morrígan and straight she comes getting stuck in and demanding really, all the killing and dying and Middle East turmoil i am responsible for as a poetry hating Little Facebooker with a fanzone and everything. Come over, I can put you up, a hundred a night. Spare room. Send the money now and we get started on the All Ireland Poetry Slam funding i am desperate for and without which sadly may well not happen. I have funded it myself all these last nine years, and nine men have won. Do you know what that makes me feel like, Thom?

Fek'n terrible. I am this close to jibbin it off and just going over there to start over, escape the pain here, begin a new life working in a scene i can set up here and with you, arms, my initial-sake, the mebzta, and, who knows, there's loads of poets there that i could start a new rest of my life scene with. Use my wisdom teaching skills that have been handed down to me by generations of healers, carers, lovers of wine, writing and song, and i cud start some writing classes and earn a shitload of lolly outta before the penalty payments kick in, and i have to start work again at the front-line, city centre south, where the coat'd be kut str8 frum ye bak. You know, Thom, I think if I keep going to the angel healing sessions and sign on at the police station every afternoon, stay out of prison, pull a few more blags, a bitta pavement work, all will be kushty mwolgrae. Peace ow yohl.

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