THANK YOU FOR YOUR TIME

Hi to all the people I am trying to get invites off. Mary my sister painted this and I would be very grateful for any assistancce you can give me in coming to your event. I need a pretty quick reply as I have to give at least six weeks notice. Thank you very much.

WHAT A DAY

TONY AND GEORGE

Monsters trapped in human bodies jostle
war with world peace and un-tether your song
of hollow moral concepts swaddled
in a bright cloth of defunct language gone
daft in the spirit of this modern age.
Neo classic pillars of abstraction
with your artless blather of throwaway
lines, sow fear with the proliferation
of words like right punishment, vengence and
retribution. Bruiser gods raining word
shells upon our consciousness, blow minds bland
and sanitise banality to purge
your hearts of accountability when
debates cease and the naked dead return
your dividend of talk in crisp cold flesh
packaged in body bags and draped in the flags
you have hijacked. Come, hoodwink citizens,
lead them to believe your cause is just and
unrelated to commerce or cash black
gold below the surface of desert lands.

Haiku

Let the mask slip and
see the goddess of your mind's
mirror reflecting

~

Written rules of life
in true poems no eye can
dismiss or reject

~

Just like the sequin fella with coulouring felts who uses public consciousness as a canvas to re-draft and re-draft until the instinctively mathmatical backwash is freed from wrong computation and the last post radically different, in syntax, smoothed to an ungrabbable ergonomic.

Is that a word? Have a butchers. Lets talk of the afterlife and those navel gazers caressing the seeds of time free druid pawns and playthings of love-mating irregularities under the thumb of t'other half, tell of in tales of Tony at chequers and Marlon starring in a Hotton pub.

What plots and intriques on the dark bank of Acheron when we cross with our oblos eagerly thrust to the boatman.

Shall we talk of the dead?

~

Sunset strips filter through window slats
edging across a bone white wall

and beech wood floor with mole knots
dotting the faded grain.

As dusk draws darkness in
peeling back the pith of light

opaque forms appear in pale shadows
and cast a chill spell in the night air.

A ghostly clan seeping from the
otherworld through pictures on brick
visit the room

filling the hours before dawn with an aroma
of spirits, spectres and long silent ancestors.

Their fuse of flesh life lit and left as
a pyramid of past we’ve no cognisance of

is the human history of reality chaining our
existence to an unfathomable entity.

A void of unconsciousness
no man or woman will speak of until they
speak no more.

~

Love you all more in the otherworld.

Vicki Feaver - Guardian Poetry Workshop Siren

The monthly Guardian Newspapaer poetry workshop is very prestigious.

~

To hygienically stick your mental jizz in the bonces of the bores on that board, be skill-less and tick boxes in one of the numerous contemporary dot to dot career manuals lost minded rhyme-smiths and fully homogenized poets of the lyrically pedestrian unfunny line swear by, for inspirational instruction.

Randomly add a pick 'n mix content of your colour-in influences, then order (un-mangled) a syntax by numbers in dum-de-dumbed down, dim mind-numbing "I am"s, whose relevance can be immediately read as an example of the school whose one compositional method produces oeuvres instantly appraised by the oolamhs we imitate in our poems, original and interesting or cack-handed crap.

~

I posted a recognisably simple fledgling piece to Vicki Feaver, flapped it in past the midnight deadline of July 31. Sent because I desired to swipe for myself her visible poetic gift, coolly exuding from a highly professional online portrait. From this picture I deciphered her crackable psychological code, which the remote power she yearns to encounter when scribing her speech, revealed to me through a working method Amergin supposedly spoke and wrote of over ten centuries ago when Celtic rhyming was a craft akin to quantum mechanics; harnessing electricity an ungraspable concept and television's logic, a magic whose truth only extraterrestrial gods could blueprint.

Audience unable to believe what you are reading, see

the de rigueur smoulder of her stark, no-nonsense, full frontal mug-shot in natural black and white, like some still life sixties siren slipping into a post office on pension day. Gasp as the massively frozen ability behind her straight lipped chilled out stare overpowers you with OTT visual audacity and cold raw talent; oozing from her unashamedly age loving face, framed by a superbly creative hairdo, nestling next to what looks like leaves; themselves appearing to burst with vitality merely by basking in the nearness of such an unadulterated aura of pure “Vicki” vibe, fissured to nuke your post-modern mental motor when gawping at her poetess head-shot.

When my eyes first fell upon that light-generated representation of her physical form, I became instantly impelled to toss her a hand of thin-line free-verse, written last year during late spring when composing a draft idea for a bird sketch, as I stood waiting at the railings of Russell Square one Saturday morning in May, at 3am. A love god called Aonghus came and deposited a sustainable splodge of lingo jizz my mind then propagated to the finished poetic thought-flash of words my muttering mouth formed as a mechanical pencil wrought along the page doing its thing.

~

Two months ago I sent a ghost poem to the editor whose inaccurate spelling accidentally lobotomised the hard-drive of her mind and re-configured her inner pen to automatically craft bland-on-demand dribble she’ll leak when asked to come 'n hack for the rags.

As you may not know, I have an otherworldly nodal-implant harvesting the mental technology our scribble through time programmes, and was hoping to impress Esther with my universally unique state-of-the-art hardware, which has an unlimited capacity for telepathic upload.

I was serial-stalker keen for an online relationship to occur, but alas, her system allows only wrong-word psychological software now, as all the poetic bits from her brain were removed, which, due to an IQ down-grade in the subconscious section of her grey-matter-motherboard, I now possess.

Unfortunately, Esther is a black-hole of poesy at the mo and won’t be capable of running up goods from her gob for the foreseeable future. She is in desperate need of any verse-cells from those with a spare poetic intelligence, who can help correct the cock up via the medium of reading this text.

Make sure she's topped up to her previous capacity by sending your unwanted language skill to her non working areas at the earliest opportunity. Until she’s re-booted, all her opinions remain obsolete and have been safely debunked by a knowing one at the edge of life's barricade.
~

Feeling somewhat glum at my blunder which inadvertently deprived Morgan of her talent, I fell into a mild depression, significantly deepened when the net-negative benefit of her poetic transplant became apparent - and after drinking heavily for the several days I spent alone in the attic foolishly gazing at a 10 foot blow up of Ed's face, extorted from a terrified trainee at Supersnaps - I came to mistakenly believe that the one constant my life lacked in the upswing of its manic state, was a textual relationship with Jane Duran.

This was because I misconstrued the instruction of my Devine Emanation Council operative who oversees the recruitment of human beings, like me, who work for their various business organizations, trading and trailing a blaze in telepathic communication markets throughout the galaxy. My psychotic state, coupled with the chemically altered parameters of my consciousness, meant I imagined Alan - a middle-ages Moorish instructor who bashed out Yeats’s wife's automatic blather - instructed me to jerk some hip 'n savvy electric text her way. But I mistook the message when under the influence of a 2 litre torpedo of 9% ABV scrumpy, and his actual advice was -

"Don't bother. You've no chance of scoring. She needs a full re-bore which may fail and render her an unworkable write-off."

~

Such is the state of my mind, it is constantly hallucinating a group of composite Guardian poets having continual inconsequential coma-thons; the most immortally minded egos engaged in terminally dull intercourse with a cultural void and textually insatiable artist who was the banal verbal star of a spectacularly unexciting group borgey at "Dim Slob" Loink Oxley’s funless depression festival in a North London cellar last November.

Gushing forth from lip 'n nib that forgettable winter night, was Jean MacMillan, boring all within earshot to slumber with her pointless genius for putting people to sleep whilst extemporising nursery rhymes and simultaneously remaining cognizant of seven different conversations, occurring in the filthy and fully equipped dungeon hot tub during that comatose night of non-stop torpor.

As Jean held court in the centre of the whirlpool she told the ghost of Edward Hughes to remove a jester's hat from Laurence, Hardy, Hemmingway or Auden's oeuvre, for her to wear in the joke-free Jacuzzi. A hat, of course, was semblanced from Pam Ayres' daft heyday and Jeans plainly crafted art and Barnsley wit regaled us unconscious once again until we woke and weirdly found she’d morphed into a fascinating she-male character whose talk no longer bored us but explored the boundaries of earthly existence.

S/he said telepathy's just mental adventuring into the unknown, and as s/he told us of what comes when we dare surrender blindly to the word by instinctively stepping into a circle of faith reserved for us alone, an unknown poet in the corner conjured up Ogma, a word-deity meaning the good god none there had heard of till that night, who enlightened us with the hardcore uncut logic of creation as s/he fell silent and Ogma spoke -



"Oh all ye genuine thinkers who flap language revealing the methods your muse revels in during the joy gushing forth speech, come surf to my one stop language shack stocking genres from Langpo to metrical verse. On offer - verbal compatriots - is free and safe lunacy top ups with every fibre spent believing..." -

~

...it will be fun to compose as many poems on this board as we can when the next Guardian bore appears offering us their insights into and examples of poems.

Basically have a group writing session where we e mail our efforts to whichever personality poet's mug-shot is pasted up on the least wanted page; not written with a view to submit them, but to generate material we may send in subject to our desire to gift in stuff anytime up till the deadline. I will send my efforts in to whoever's picture pops up next.

It's just a thought I want to warm you with, as this place could do with a bit of group action and effort for the mutual poetic benefit of all who will chance to give online writing exercises a go. The concept of failure or loss is factored out, I sincerely believe, when groups genuinely engage in a joint artistic enterprise of this nature.

I sent the poem below in with I LOVE YOU VICKI in the subject field and this pre-amble

Hi Vicki

Please forgive me for being late with my work, but I was seized last night by several drunken transvestites who wanted to dress me up and shoot me in an outfit which may have meant I've made it onto page seven of the Big Issue. Out of fashion section. A pastel number which really accentuates the line of my arms and waist, in such a way which doesn't draw attention to the fact that I am 27 stone of sheer flab.

I was also high on heroin and crack cocaine after being abducted at straw-point by a number of christian milkshake enthusiasts who got a bit carried away when they saw me waving me Wotsits at two very well known nonentities I will not mention here, but who have been saying untalented things about online dominoes.


This confident dice I currently seer falls favourably. It is steered by an accurate eye and makes straight aimed throws cast at the intellect’s bullseye in a tossed offering adhering to the creature ethos of your online poetry workshop. Verse-truth pervades where words lie folding in dreams blown real by breaths of imaginary air Vicki


LATE MAY DAY

A fluttering
above
in the skin
soft slither thin
leaves of a
beech tree

alerts her to
a bird in the
branches
over-hanging
an oak bench.

A grey
feathered fledgling
awkwardly flaps
falling to the pitted
tarmac and nestles

its downy breast
against a coping
stone border of
the oval green. A
cricket match ends

as the birds first
flight from its nest
into the unknown
traffic of a new
world view

begins. The creature
takes its bearings
from earth level

and looking into
the depths and
complexity of
existence

anchors an
eyeline securely
on the confusion
life's nexus of
glimpses distills

across the freshly
stretched backdrop
of a silent dumb sky

offering no
foothold of slender
wood poles with
which she can measure
her ascent through
understanding

up to God's hand.

Basement George

He knocked at two am; a light rap on the grey door accompanied by an incoherent voice strung out on cocaine, mumbling a request to

- open the door; let’s talk. -

This was the first time George had made a personal call or crossed the hitherto strictly amicable and neighbourly divide Ray had expounded so much mental effort on attempting to create, with diffident nods and friendly smiles calculated to ingratiate himself with George, in the hope of creating a social buffer built on mutual respect.

Ray wedged in the earplugs trailing from a small plastic radio, turned up its volume and began praying for a different reality; one sound proofed to insulate him from the dysfuntional behaviour of nutters like George. He tried to focus his mind on a drunk radio-caller mapping out his booze fuelled vision of tackling anti-social behaviour to Pat, a snappy sounding jock manning the graveyard shift at the decks of Talk-Sport Radio, station of late night chat.

- Well, sure, they should be making laws against it. Ban the lot of them completely. Street rats going about the place terrorising honest hardworking people just for the fun of it, thinking it’s brilliant craic and a great gas all together. Filming it on their mobile phones and putting up websites about it. Scum, that’s all they are. -

Unimpressed with Ray's failure to respond, George struck his fist on the door and re-entered his room with a muffled curse, loudly slamming his door and, as he threw himself onto the bed, hurling a tirade of abuse at the flimsy partition wall he kicked upon landing.

Pat was engaged in his usual routine, playing devils advocate to an idiotic caller named Terry, his voice effortlessly oozing the soft bland burr of sophist reason weaving along its 107 FM path to the ears of insomniacs and night-shift workers throughout the city. The background moan-fest and signature of Sport-Talk’s early AM show.

- So you think the government should introduce legislation in relation to this problem Terry? Some kind of anti-social behaviour law? ASBO's maybe? That’s certainly one way of addressing the issue, and one which our listeners will no doubt have opinions on. If there’s anyone out there who want to have their say on this topic, give us a call on the usual number. -

It briefly crossed Ray's mind that, if he possessed a phone, he could call Pat and acquaint him with his own anti-social situation of being the unlucky neighbour of George and closest witness of his slide into chemically induced madness, fuelling an aggressive paranoia now directed at Ray through twenty millimetres of jaded plasterboard the colour of dog dirt fawn; functional, like a dump. A picture came into Ray's mind of holding up the phone so Pat and his fellow listeners could hear George's routine, imagining the manufactured concern in Pat’s glib response as a hollow empathy filtered out of the radio’s tinny plastic speaker to scratch at George’s deaf and drunken ears next door.

Trying to remain silent Ray began dressing as Pat and Terry continued to chat about the possible connection between hooded tops and anti social behaviour; one which Terry believed to be obvious and the intrinsic links of which he began to expound upon with all the eloquence of a man trying to argue the existence of extraterrestrials from inside a portable toilet.

- What do they be wanting to have the hood up for when its warm? They can be only up to no good. -

- Could they not have the hood up because it’s wintertime Terry and they, understandably, have the desire to remain as warm as possible, which is what the hood is there for in the first place? - Pat, not unreasonably countered.

Terry seemed oblivious to this interjection of sensible comment, blithely waffling on and unburdening his load like a conspiracy theorist railing from the stump of Speakers Corner.

- Well, I watched a news report on the RTE about a gang of young ones in Westport who do nothing all day but happy slapping and now everyone in Mayo’s too scared to go into the town for their shopping. Pensioners and disabled people too terrified to leave the house for the fear of it. Grown men unable to walk the streets because of it. It’s complete and utter madness. They should be shot. -

As Ray slipped into a pair of lightweight mountain boots whose robust clunky soles and stout tailoring offered full comfort and equipped the feet of the wearer with a trusty sense of protection, Pat began working up to a predictable denoument, preparing to cut Terry and his unconvincing argument loose; discard him into the ether after a a last word salvo of synthetic outrage had completely rubbished his opinion.

- But Terry, you can’t tar everyone who wears a hoodie as scum, - said the record spinning chat king, in a register of professional insincerity honed by years of late night blathering to oddballs and weirdos,

- I, and many others, including numerous friends and family have worn hooded tops on many occassions and neither I, nor any of my friends and family, as far as I’m aware, have ever mugged or felt the urge to physically threaten anyone when wearing one. Do you not think, Terry, that you are going completely over the top here; that the opinion of making hoodies illegal and shooting people for attiring themselves, in what many people consider practical and comfortable clothing, is an extremely illogical one which can serve society in no beneficial way whatsoever? -

But Terry was unswayed by this artificial voice shifting through the gears of midnight reason and told Pat he was firm in his conviction that hooded tops should be outlawed and withdrawn from the racks and shelves with immediate effect.

- It’s the only way to stop it. - Terry said, impervious to the critical flaws Pat had isolated in his theory.

He sounded drunk, lonely and increasingly deranged. Another sacrificial lamb from the dial chained masses, functioning as Pat’s verbal punch bag; a fish in the barrel-offering to be slaughtered at the altar of late night radio.

- If it was up to me I’d be making them illegal tomorrow. It’s too dangerous not too Pat. The whole country’s going to the dogs through young ones who’ve got no control and can only think of mobile phones, burgers and runners; hiding themselves and smashing the place up. Vandalising, sniffing glue and taking all sorts of mind bending drugs. -

Terry was beyond redemption and Pat began working up to the inevitable blow off, crunching the logistics of Terry’s vision by concentrating on the fact that criminalizing hooded tops was a very impractical enterprise to embark upon.

- I’m sorry Terry, but I don’t think that’s a sensible idea, or one which has a chance of working in any way whatsoever. I would strongly argue that it is in fact a pretty stupid idea and one that no rational normal human being should hold, as it would be an incredibly foolish and effectively impossible undertaking. -

The first sound of Terry's attempted rebuttal was instantly cut off as Pat disconnected him from the airwaves and cast him abruptly into the night with all the aplomb of a pub landlord slamming the door on a sozzled patron. Ray pictured Terry's booze befuddled brain taking a few seconds to realise what had happened and imagined him aggrieved; like the kicked out drinker who had spent his money and time boring a pub manager before the sudden pushed exit left him facing a locked door instead of the late night lock in he had been expecting. Pat’s voice effortlessly segued into a flirty timbre for the next, female, caller; switching to a register leaking an homogenised brand of airwave magnetism male DJ’s aspire to imitate in their quest of becoming radio emperors and housewife heart throbs.

- OK, we’re going to have to leave you there for now Terry and take a call from June somewhere in the South of the city who wants to tell us what she thinks of hooodies. Hello June your though to Talksport. So, June, what have you got to say? -

Ray slowly laced up the boots and reclined back on the bed fully kitted out for a night street roaming. Excellent footwear to keep out the cold November chill of a windswept seaport.

June began pouring out her opinion with a cliché, telling Pat how a few bad apples were giving the rest of the kids a bad name; but just as she started to warm to the theme by giving the example of her own teenagers, who were all law abiding hoodie wearers, "Hot Legs" by Rod Stewart drop kicked its way from George’s stereo and through the wall in a sonic boom, drowning out June’s voice and Pat’s sudden switch from love god to attentive asexual conversationalist. Pressing the earplugs tightly down with the tips of his fingers Ray tried to suffocate wrinkly Rod Stewart and concentrate on June telling Pat about her perfect family, closing his eyes and searching his mind for faith.

Rupert the Man

Rupert Loydel, the head knob of the Langpo press Stride publishing was getting a kicking from the bores on the Poem UK site, where they witter and gossip, so I stuck it to him as well, as I am in that frame of mind to be positive about my dislikes.

~

Rupert came to do a reading at Edge Hill College, Ormskirk, Lancashire, UK (My home town) when I was in the third year and the poetry class (all 6) were told we could have a gig doing support, but I was the only one to avail of the offer, along with a few MA students.

I was the last support slot before Rupert and, as was my practice at the time, delivered my five minute set from memory, eyes closed and mic clutched in hand for the first one -

Take that trip to where your spells can cast
themselves and linger not too long upon the way

some thoughts may be too far researched then
wrongly shape the words you feel a need to say.

What's inside is abstract and precision with the fit
of words helps refract a potential multitude of

meanings one soul spark of thought can dazzle into
life on its journey of translation

from mind through mouth to audience before you-

At this point I opened my eyes to see an audience and continued to finish -

held from spellbound to disinterested

depending on
depending on
depending upon your words.

I then did the other two, a metrical sonnet Aughton, and a section from a performance poem Moods Are Passing Clouds. I had put about an hours rehearsal time that day into the five minute reading from memory.

During the delivery of his metallic 40 minute reading only one poem, about his dad, was spoken in a way which afforded genuine connection between him and his audience. The rest of the reading was about as unexciting as being stuck on hold when phoning the tax office, and his mask that night seemed to be one of professional misery and the above-it-all-torture of an under-recognised and self declared linguistic giant amongst the 20 or so names which constitute the Langpo landscape UK side.

The following day, because Rupert was such a heavy hitter, he did a workshop with both the MA and poetry classes, and I detected that, beneath his grumpy facade, he was actually pissed off for real, and naturally convinced myself that this was due to the high quality of my support the previous evening.

The format of the workshop was like doing factory work and it was made clear to us that the stern hued, foreman faced literary squib before us was a man whose workshop leader MO was of a no nonsense or leisurely chit chatty type, as he had public transport considerations to think of. An uncuddly George Sziertes from the opposite side of the lyrical track. (George is always droning on about trains and what happens on them, but never buses.)

A commercial enterprise of art by numbers. Poetic construction using a method equivalent to the dot to dot or colouring in book, which involved Rupert playing snatches of songs on a tape recorder, and the participants who he had deigned to share his being with, writing to barked commands as the non-rhyming genius of meaningless verse bestrode a small section of classroom floor like a caged animal, exuding the magnetism of one whose mind was utterly focused on catching a train back ino the bowels of SW England.

The enterprise resulted in a bumper number of turgid works the more generously minded would call "workshop poems", but which were in effect, a collective outpouring of complete shite, manufactured by a random lengthy conveyor belt-like process of robotic collaboration, where Rupert took on a camp commandant role, issuing instructions and orders with a quiet and authoritive control, furthering the impression of poetry I had been recieving from poets in the UK during my three years study. Namely, that it was a very serious business with no real place for japes and titters, unless the crack or gag passed muster and had been grunted assent in an exclusive kind of way by an imaginary panel of laugh assessors who, far from wetting their knickers with my mental efforts at releasing the titter gas, would have had me horsewhipped for gross unfunniness.

~

It was a tough old slog that afternoon, with a distinctly rushed feeling to it. A marathon session of poetry making, with Rupert's mien being a mix of Mein Fuhrer and straight faced gentlemen joke-hater doubling as state executioner, with an overall demeanour suggestive of striding through a 1930's Berlin patio door dressed in leiderhosen and trench coat, barking out short snappy orders to keep the precise and long-winded poetic compositional method of his own devising running on time. One of what I presume are many methods used, which have led to the results in his own, massively under-read ouvre.

~

His aura that afternoon could be likened to that of the seasoned sex worker who is always seeking to finish early. He was there, he did what was expected of him and immediately exited, with no conversation or pretence that the exchange was anything other than the business of creating pointless poems no one believed in, but which helped pay the bills one acquires in a life as a poet of no importance whose work will be immediatley forgotten once consciousness slips into the big beyond. Indeed the only use of his method would be when the participants became creative writing teachers who could palm it off on other wannabees themselves as a legitimate mode of gang bang creation.

Fill a few hours on the time sheet, or turn it into a full chapter by utilising it as a group exercise in a how-to-write book they would call a manual, thus making it appear to that the art of poetry is nothing more than a commercial skill one can pick up. Like becoming a mechanic or accountant. Just read follow the manual's instructions, do the 101 exercies and hey presto, you are a poet. Forget meter and all the usual stuff that's been the foundation for centuries. Rupert the one man revolution had decreed that all that jazz is rubbish. The methods have changed, not because they involve hard work and above all ability, but because all the contemporary poet of the Langpo school needs to do now is to pick words out of a hat and put them side by side, and then back it up with unreadable criticism which contains absolutely no meaning.

~

The night of Rupert's reading was the one when I acquired my first bona fide fan. A bricklaying poetry buff from Kirkby, who approached me and offered to buy me a pint. I took him down to a pub in Ormskirk and we bumped into Gavin, a mate from childhood and I dragged him over, telling him the craic. My fan was of the opinion that Rupert's reading was rubbish and stoked my ego all night by saying how great mine was.

He was quite interesting for a couple of drinks, until he started showing me his own scribblings, when it dawned on me, that in my rush to obtain the trappings of a real poet, I had overlooked the fact that my fan was in reality, a lonely middle aged divorcee who lived in a bedsit; much like I will be when success beckons and I go up in the world by moving out of the homeless hostel.

Finoula, Caoimhe and Nyree

Let me twist you the tale of Finouola, an amatuer rhyme-smith and TV hack who attempted to pull a fast one by having a gas time at the expense of Caoimhe Masterson outside an art gallery, after getting the hump when her right to be the sole bore drone and over-sensitive moaner who got upset if the tounges of others weren't permanantly ensconced in licking her praises, was questioned by the mere fact of Caoimhe's existence.

Caoimhe had heard Finoula's ouvre several times over and indulged Finoula's predilection for pontificating to all within earshot about what's what according to a philosophy of reasonable sounding bollocks and plausibly carted out bullshit, but had kept her counsel on the socially disruptive manner Finoula displayed when putting people to sleep with her outpourings of unrequited love and doomed relationships, because she detected that behind Finoula's mask of bonhomie and good cheer was a soul suffering from a desperate case of human inadequecy, due to the tragically unfemminie condition of alopecia clearly balding her pate.

To compensate for this Finoula invented herself as a Neo-Romantic dreamer; a twenty-first century Christina Rossetti, who concealed the less savoury tenets of her rampantly misogynist amour-dogma by constantly kissing hands of the opposite sex and acting to the hilt the role of a genteel gentlewoman who places personal integrity and honour in personal relationships at the nexus of all things.

This however was a cunning mask, constructed after a lack of romantic action during those all important and formative teenage years had left her with a highly developed sensitivity to failure in the realm of love, which manifested itself in the cod-Romanatic manner only a full strength dreamer could sustain over a prolonged period.

~

After a poetry gathering in the said art gallery, Finoula invited the meagre assembley back to her gaffe around the corner, with the sole aim of plying an Armenian Irish teacher with wine; the modus-operandi of her unsophisticated seduction technique. Nyree had been imbibing the cultural vibe of Dublin to a full capacity during the course of his 6 week long sojourn to the land of myth and poesy, obstensibly with the intention of assembling ideas for lesson plans, but behind his academic facade beat a heart in search of writerly excitement in the place with a hot claim to being a significant global home of the imagination.

Finoula, believing that Caoimhe's presence at her scruffy bachelorette pad posed a threat to her creating a drink clouded tete-a-tete ambience in which she hoped to get intimate with Nyree, had suddenly and casually mentioned that Caoimhe was not on the guest list, by attempting to conjure a bogus set of, what would no doubt be delivered as, acceptably persuasive reasons for inviting her to stay away. Finoula's strategy was based on informing Caoimhe of some petty slight Caoimhe was unaware of enacting against Finoula.

But Finoula, whilst acknowledging the seemingly trivial nature of what she had now termed "the insult", would attempt to dress it up as proof of Caoimha's inherently gross and uncivilised nature.

For this contrivance to be executed successfully, Caoimhe would have been the sap of any exchange, blithely nodding and taking on board Finoula's commensenscally sounding comments, no doubt with a parting shot by Finoula about

"Have a think about it Caoimhe. You can't insult people like that. You are quite welcome to come around in a day or two, but I feel I have to stand my ground on this point."

Caoimhe would then wander off disconsolately homeward, pondering and searching her mind for the defects Finoula outlined. No doubt inwardly promising to try her utmost not to be the insensitve oaf of Finoula's depiction as Finoula staggered back to operational HQ, the surface epitome of artistic decorum. But beneath the placid facade, her mind peddaling furiously like a bitch in the fullness of heat, plotting to steer Nyree onto the outside sofa on her extension roof, where she could begin the pawing assualt on Nyree's matrimonial integrity in earnest.

However, sensing the utter phoniness of the moment, Caoimhe felt a surge of anger and injustice and was unable to stop herself from forcefully telling the several stragglers from the poetry gathering, when asked by Nyree

"Why has Finoula barred you?"

exactly what her take on events was, which involved informing Nyree in a short sharp burst the truth behind the subterfuge.

"Because she wants to get you back on her couch and give you what for before you go home in two days time."

Caoimhe then flipped her index finger at Finoula, with the parting shot,

"Go fuck yourself you prick."

Caoimhe stepped away, diginity intact. Another tale in the personal myth kitty she could recite over the coming weeks. Finoula's limp attempt at hot airing up some lame comment, broken before it began, the slow realisation only a true insult brings dawning on Finoula's shocked face as the eight second whisp flung by Caoimhe took effect.

~

The life of a poet is a funny thing. As Yeats said, the more sincere the life the more sincere the poet, and Caoimhe tries to uphold this as a central philosophy. But one aspect of the writers life those at the hack end of the business fail to fully grasp, is that there are two components to poetry; talk and text. It never surprised Caoimhe how seldom the supermarket minded dot to dot poets, the non-oolamhs who struggle to understand the true calling of the craft and vision the fountain well from which it springs, seize this salient point.

Whaddya reckon?

It's another hot one today. Probably going to be a record summer here, as it is very unusual to get it so sunny for such a prolonged spell.

~

Another litany of disaster has occured which gives me the perfect opportunity not to post. My computer crashed a few weeks back and I eventually bumped into the guy who bult it and sold it me and saw him for the conman he is. Then I sat on my Mp3 and bust the LCD screen, and it will be three weeks before I get it back. Then when I went to upload my first podcast from the art gallery readings, I discovered I would have to shell out some dough to continue.

And the irony being that the week before last was the busiest and best yet. A singer songwriter breaking up the spoken word, lots of new voices and there till 1am; smoking indoors and having our fill of ale from the offy, which is 4 times cheaper than the pub. Plus all the arty vibe of painters and their politics.

~

I read the rest of Heaney's ouvre over the weekend, and got a much clearer handle on him. I only knew up till 1980'ish and after reading Station Island, his trajectory as a poet becomes very clear, especially when read in conjuction with his prose. His essay on fellow contemporary Northern Irish poets Place and Displacement was written in the same year as Station Island, which is the transition of his voice into the higher stream of poetical thought, where he manages to free his mind from the cultural bind of his own part of the world, by invoking an alternative realm equal to but apart from the actual: a world he can sidestep into and strike, as he says, his "own note".

This is effectively him "at the top of his bent"; the langugae of an oolamh coming through and plain for all to see. I learnt quite a lot from this read and only wish I had my computer on which to work, instead of this public space whose novelty has long worn off. Now it is only a place in which to avoid the stares of giggling tourists chasing chimeras of real Irishness one can so easily conjure, stun and pull their minds to mine with. Like Dunleany's Ginger Man seeing life devoid of pretence and unable to escape the cold reality of its transient warmth, via linguistic magic understood in all its naked form. Stripped from myth and uncertainty so many believe its essence is imbued with and clouded by.

Maybe I am just giving myself a summer off after five years hard graft. Starting in the dunce stream without a thought in my head to call my own, and now managing to convey a spiritual realism via the imprint of emotions which are moving away from poems of personal concern and towards the cynosure of an unexpected and previously unthinkable force. The originating "fountain" of spirit Heaney's Station Island finishes with. The outside-of-self silent raging light of creation swimming fate strokes upon the life-lone canvas of time we move through.

~

If I had my books to hand and time to ponder I could explore this more fully with a greater insight and eloquence than at present, but I can feel a change upon me. A taking stock and gathering. Once my computer is fixed I will gather together the entirity of my 100 plus poems on one document and start on the next phase. Wind up the curtain on the getting published stage and send out a manuscript to the names I know cannnot critically combat me to unbelieve my gift.

If any publisher out there wishes to harness their reputation to mine, please contact me with an offer.

~

Actually, I detected a cooler breeze when crossing the Liffey after lunch in Focus Ireland, the homeless charity restaurant, where a dinner costs but 1.50 euro. Today I had a chicken salad with bread and butter pudding and custard for desert. If I went a few doors down it would have cost 20 euros for inferior quality fare, such is the topsy turvy way of gaelic culture. The alternative was roast chicken, spuds, carrots or fajita vegetable wraps with cajun sauce, all fresh ingredients and delicious, but only available to the very addicted, poor or enlightened.

The poetry has been flowing thick and fast, as I have been a very busy bore of late, witnessing and reading the word. As I type I am listening to Brendan Murphy, this years Cuirt slam winner. He is from Liverpool and will be going to Chicago in October; the prize he won.

This is as part of the Whitehouse poets podacst, which was recorded in June.

In the last few weeks I have seen Paula Meehan, Evan Boland and numerous others, unknown in the main, but a lot of them, red hot. The art gallery gig has been going well and I have a podcast ready to go online once I pay up the dough to the blogmatrix site. I cut up the readers poems into verses and have snippets of 20 seconds or so, alternating male with female and backed by a trippy Led Zep intro I looped.

Last night we had 15 turn up and the week before around 25, but as I sat on my MP3 player last Tuesday and it is getting fixed in Germany, I was unable to capture the magic of Dave the singer, Raven the San Franciscan genius, Bashra the South African and all the others who commune in that Francis Street Temple of Art.

Tonight I will see the Salmon poets at the Writers centre and tommorow I will go to the Yeats exhibition at the National library.

More of the same

Dear word lovers

Monster Truck Art Gallery
corner Francis Street/Coomb
opposite St Patricks Cathedral
Dublin 8
city centre

is now hosting a weekly open floor and poets workshop/rehearsal night. All three of the fortnightly ones have been a great success and there is a good vibe fizzing up, with all the poets and audience enjoying themselves no end. So this means that the next one is in a few days time and if anyone is up for it, come on down, share, work and imbibe the ambience of language spoken in a space where learning and love are the watchwords in which we bathe our art parts and seek to commune with the true end of creative endevour. Taking my cue from He who shall remain nameless, Peace itself is the unconscious order of unknowable tune moving me to write this message.

MONSTER TRUCK POETRY NIGHT

This Thursday 6 July from 8.30pm - Guest Poet and Open Floor@

Monster Truck Art Gallery
bottom of Francis Street
opposite St Patricks Cathedral
City Centre
Dublin 8

Guest poet

Orla Martin

She speaks a superbly luscious language which investigates a space of accident, chance, heartbreak and relationships, armed with only a modern imaginative flair for spinning from the air between listener and reader, a pure poetic fabric as light as silk polished whitethorn blossom softly billowing, moire and smooth down the outline of rock dolmen beds which litter this wind drenched land like wheat husks shook empty of myth. Orla is also a prize winning poet with pitch perfect delivery and a talent that shines from every pore of her being like butter gently rubbing in a glow of golden warmth, advertising the fact that a hot and sticky existence in the summer of 06 will be dripping in the Liberties come Thursday night.

All are welcome in a totally PC compliant ambience, fully in line with ministry of cultural affairs legislation implemented for the benifit of all citizens of this land where words tumble from thought to speak with a clarity born of swiftness and precision passed down from a language incomprehensible now we can remember when we laughed at life square on, in days existing as only memories held inside, distanced from this moment by rotation measured time we'll never halt or with any words define.

This session will be recorded on my Mp3 and with a new condenser microphone, which means we will have a radio standard recording for a special edition of the Enchantingly Gay Way hosted by He who shall remain nameless but has the perfect face for radio.


Come on down and bring your own booze.

Open Floor for all to spin their lingo on.

Sincerely

Da Dreamer

Doings of a Dublin Phoney

I have been a frequent audience member over the past few weeks, regularly injecting myself with a maximum dose of poetry, like a singing superstar of sensational pop sticking in the smack spike straight to mainline at a backstage rock ‘n crack fest.

And not content with wallowing in the verse energy of live readings, I have also been spinning the odd work or three of my own to any who indicate an appreciation for the cultural validity of wordsmiths wishing to fluff and ruffle their linguistic plumage in the name of that cuddly good time art vibe poets attempt to tease from their ouvres for the benefit of all mankind.

And as addicts of peace reading this will appreciate, being a full time ambassador of Da Word and dispensing mental love drugs to those whose orbits ooze to intersect with active language maestros, bards and ovates, is a tough number. Indeed, it’s a full time affair just keeping up with the sheer volume of blatherers who explode or bomb their gift beneath the hot glowing spotlight circling the druidic podiums which litter this wind drenched land like wheat husks shook empty of myth.

If I were to detail every one of the wafflers I have come across since my last review of the Monster Truck Poetry night inaugural do, the word count would run longer than the full treatment notes of a junkie soap-star’s detox programme at a ten star treatment centre for the semi famous. So I will toss only a précis of what aural treats I’ve witnessed in recent weeks and offer a pick ‘n mix skim through but two of my doings during the last month or so.

~

First off was the Sunday Hungover Session at Monster Truck Art Gallery, Dublin on 28/5/06.

This was an exclusive, intimate and informal gathering of two wordsmiths, a singer and a painter, congregating in an imaginative assembly and sharing ideas, work and words. Visual artist Alexander Reilly, musician Hugh Deanie and poets PJ Brady and Desmond Swords (now referring to himself in the third person) held a short symposium where the current and flow of discussion was interspersed with poem, song, suggestion and an all round mixing of minds on what contemporary life and art is all about.

Hugh was there in his capacity of an auditionee for the third Monster Poetry night, which occured on Thursday 22 June, with guest poet Namaya performing the Irish leg of his Sex God and Politics world tour. This event was a great success, with a 50/50 ratio of sexes reading and it was all captured on my new Mp3, which I had to replace after the other one was stolen on Valentines Night, just after I had left a letter for Ralph Fiennes at the Gate Theatre, asking him if I could stick it near his face as he read some poetry. Ralph must have been too busy attempting to save his marriage to Ms Annis, as he did not reply.

~

Hugh was accompanied by his Barcelonean bitch Ratfink, who He rescued from the streets of that city whilst squatting in a castle and writing songs, during his Mediterrainean phase a few years back. He is currently enjoying an extended run of gigs on Grafton Street, Meeting House Square and other locations throughout the city centre, wowing pedestrians with his soulful, low-fi style. Using the streets as his public rehearsal space is a savvy move and Hugh’s guitar bag attracts a lot of cash action, complimented by the beautiful Ratfink stretched out in slinky pose to draw out the humanity on the laneways where converse and craic come easy to those being truly themselves.

~

Next stop was Tuesday 30 May, Damar Hall, Stepehen's Green, the Poetry Ireland hothouse where talent from the Irish bardic orders launch their books. Irish poetry mirrors its society, the hallmark of which is the state of constant flux summed up in the William Butler Yeats line - minute by minute they change. This is because, whilst some characters from this rich poetic strata are ascending the shadowy laurel pole as their voice comes through and they hit their true vein, others are slipping down as the force of their muse retreats and pales out.

The blip on their radar of wider poetical awareness slowly spluttering to go completely on the blink until the shrill sound of a flatlined career is heard at the post-read gossip tables supporting the bottles and glasses which constitute the most important component of any night where words twist to snag the ear's attention, or switch the listener off to sleep.

The prime cause of a poet's amour propre delusions are years of state and academy sponsored funding for the supping of free ale on the poet’s merry-go-round of identikit library readings and star billing on school visits, garden centre gigs and a plethora of unchallenging mortal audience members whose servile natures only serve to addle the once sharp language artist's innovative and urgent minds of inquiry to a totally delusional state.

Luckily on this date Mairide Woods, a Northern Irish poet of rising buoyancy with an obvious and competent ability, was on the up; there to set forth her latest collection, The last roundness of the world.

Introduced by Dáil Éireann TD Liz McManus, Mairide proved to the large assembly that her well-spring of lingo is gushing forth freely and she need not worry about her word combos. Here's a found poem snippet wrought out of the gems I plucked from the air between us -

I have been unkind.....Oh most gerry mandered city.....but I hope you'll let it go by.....Losses did not come singularly.....the day the county fell.....the place upon your brain.....swam back a century.....Flash of flambouyant.....clear sighted verbal objects.....encouraging me as a fledgling.....Derry.....flapping my wings.....cut a deal on eternity.

~

Mairide's humanity lit up the night and her basic poetic philosophy of life was summed up in a saying which translates into English from it's original Irish form as -

It's through the shelter of each other that people live.

Wise words indeed. Which brings me to my next review, up soon. This will be of the 22 June Monster Truck do, and the truth will be heard when I upload the audio of that night at the end of next week onto Scalljah.blogmatrix. Here one of the hottest debates of recent weeks will be laid to rest when sound outs.

KATIA AND ME

Although the night shelter I call home does not allow pets, or visitors of any description, which makes it as close as you get to the old bardic cell of composition, I did once breed neopolitan mastiffs, which are the closest breed to the old Roman dogs of war, weighing in at anywhere between 9-15 stone and make rottweilers look like rabbits. Having these dogs around me when I was living in the Big L eventually led to a complete dispelling of city life paranioia.

Before the dog phase, if I was walking down the street late at night in a dodgy area and saw a couple of fellas walking towards me, my imagination would run wild with all sorts of mad scenarios racing through my mind, but with the Mastiffs I could go anywhere anytime of day or night and people were forced to just be themselves. It became clear to me that in London, apart from the native cockneys, many people put on an act. Don a mask. So walking through Burgess Park in Southwark at 3am Sunday morning I could happily wander past a group of highly dangerously minded individuals who would drop the cod Caribbean patois perculiar to the inner city youth of today and just be themselves; kids brainwashed by bullshit gangsta media, who for the short time our paths crossed had a period of normalcy and genuine exchange. All because Leah and Max where by my side like two loaded shotguns.

The reality of their being even crossed over to the time when they were absent from me, and the general clarity and brushing away of fake societal posturing they engendered when out and about, brought me a great deal of confidence and revealed the knowledge that, behind the screen of make believe we humans erect as personae for the benifit of our fellow actors in life, we are all the same.

They also bestowed a confidence which carried over, so when they were absent I would still deport my mein in the same manner as if they were present, and if anyone pissed me off my thoughts would turn to Leah and Max in much the same way that Popye's would to spinach or Hannibal Lecter's to his leather retraining belts and indoor mincing machine.

~

But only once a woman came to me via my bitch. One morning whilst walking to the shops with leah, I felt a tap on my shoulder. Thinking it must be my housemate, because touching strangers in London is a no no, I turned to see the smiling face of a beautiful women I had never seen before; Katia, a Brazillian who had only been in London a few weeks and was working as a cleaning lady. Her English at this point was very minimal and consisted of pointing to Leah and motioning I come with her, accompanied by the words come with me please.

Somewhat perplexed, but highly enthusiastic to follow, we began walking down the high street at a brisk pace, and I must admit to thinking that fate's lotto had released the golden balls of every mans dream, and Sziertzean secret levers of the universe had been depressed to instantly switch my usually unexciting role as an annonymous shopper on his mid morning trip to Tescos, to that of a first time amateur porn actor trotting nervously behind his more experienced fellow performer as they made their way to the set.

We got to her gaffe and she motioned I wait on the doorstep and this particular fanatasy fizzled out when she came downstairs bearing pictures of her own neopolitan mastif in Brasília, the capital of that hot land.

She was obviously just a lonely mid twenties Brazilian and seeing Leah tugged at some part of her and she felt a need to connect. In slow and deliberate English, and trying to conceal my desperateness, I gave her directions to my address, telling her several times she could call on me at anytime she wanted, too shy, socially inedpt and a coward of rejection to ask her on a date.

However we did bump into each other again a few weeks later in Tescos and she was with her older, more portly pal and I ended up having dinner with them several days after that, Katia's intentions unreadable because it was her mate who asked her to ask me to dinner. By now her English had improved and she told me she had got out of cleaning and was forging an inchoate career in modelling of some sort. I perservered and we started what could be called a very timid relationship, as friends. Katia would pop round to my place unnanounced and toy with me as I fell deeper and deeper in, unable to control my feelings for her and feeling the full force of what I knew would become an all consuming passion the more she played with me.

The full tale is a long and somewhat comedic one, which I will spare you from. After a comedy of error few weeks where she held all the cards and nothing more chaste than a peck on the cheek occured, I realised I was merely a mental plaything for a woman whose culture was too fiery and hot for me to take on without becoming a raging loon, and I decided not to call on her, knowing that if I was this close to the edge after only a few weeks of knowing her, in a month I would be a helpless wreck completely obsessed with her. With a career in modelling to keep her busy, Katia didn't call on me again until one day a few months later, on new years eve 1999, when she appeared out of the blue on my doorstep. I let her in and the following conversation occured after only a few words exchanged between us -

Do you think I've put on weight

To which I jokingly replied

I can't tell because you've got all your clothes on.

Do you want me to take them off?

Somewhat nervously and unsure of what was happening-

If you want to.

She then whipped her kit off with all the speed of Abi Titmus on a lads mag shoot and sat on my lap, then asked me to take my trousers off for the purpose of inspecting an obvious part of my anatomy I will not detail here, but with the subtext as clear as day. However, being out of the loop with soap and the opposite sex for so long, meant that I managed to refuse her offer of getting naked and somehow or other bungled the chance of a mid afternoon new years eve 1999 encounter with a young and beautiful Brazillian model.

This was not a good omen for the rest of the evening, as I was left sitting in my pad wondering how I had let life slip to the point of becoming a completely inedpt idiot who was unable to avail of the most simple and obvious offers which came my way. With Katia gone and my spirit somewhat dampened, I decided to salvage one tiny crumb, by setting my timepiece exactly to the speaking clock and so witness the changeover from 1999 to 2000 with perfect precision.

That night, although it wasn't the real millenium, everyone was behaving as it was, but I ended up looking at my digital watch at 13 seconds past midnight on the street at the back of my garden, missing the change by 13 seconds, unable to even fulfill the one sad desire the night left.

MORE BAD NEWS

DA WORD


Dawn's an advert for sunrise, copy of will,
mind pour, tame of process and nature; her show
will drain liquid man for disposable
cups of recyclable heat, kept in tube warm rows
stacked vertical that move in tilt noble
curves, and deport through his person her weight.

Champion belt thinkers, perceive and taste
her needle, found by chance in vast haystacks
of binary optical data bits,
when light touch's swoosh in trickling dance
make fingertips jive and dig her location.

Dawn fans morph in a mass of electron
and sub particle continuum switch
code, toll in life's quantum the condomic
bell, sounding her one name - humanity,
ooohing, aarghing and praying to art.

Reality becomes her servant, proves
she lies true; that fiction is existence
and our dreams but the kind her dazzle mutes,
shatters, exploding to soul shards which slip
below the love for god's absolute cold
constant zero of absence we sense,
tense, bend and be when she's shaping us.

Oh
ineffable beauty, identity's
docket; please go, to return with her bold
outline, but delineate what form she
will appear in as me. Recognised by
you, will I arrive pressed with all the right
ink in the rubber stamp light of her sheen?


I am now sporting another black eye, only a few weeks after the last one clearing up. James Street flats in Dublin is where a little bastard of around 14 years of age lamped me one and ran off, as I was passing through there on Friday night with a bald man and three women.

We had just attended the opening of Alexander Reilly's Der Schwarze Kanal (The Black Chanel)exhibition and were in transit to an arty party in a disused stables, carrying bags of beer and being slightly worse for wear. The bald man knew the way, but had got lost and was on his phone asking for directions from various pals as little scangers and general dodgy looking people roamed the wild west flat complex.

We had drawn attention to ourselves in much the same way as Times Square Tourists would do looking at a map with lost looks littering their faces. I then made the fatal mistake of asking a young scumbag if he knew where the party was and he attempted to engage me in conversation aboput the bag of beer I was carrying, asking to have a look at it. I then dropped the bag, went to pick it up and the little shit hit me as hard as he could before running off.

A young girl who was with him was all apologetic about his behaviour and proved there is some humanity left, but I am only left cursing the young thug.

~

The only good news on the horizon is Namaya, the Irish poet who has lived in America for the last 30 years who will be performing at the Monster Truck art gallery on Francis Street Thursday 22 June, so come along and have a laugh.

OGHAM

The Auraicept Na N-eces, is in the Book of Ballymote, a 15C Irish Manuscript. This trieste was translated by George Calder in 1917 or so and he gave it the title The Scholars Primer, but it's literal translation is along the lines of

The processes/methods/procedures/formula/way of doing/ of the knowing ones.

The Knowing Ones being the poets, or Fili, who at that point in history (15C) had evolved unbroken from druidic practice.

The Auraicept Na N-eces was a drawing together of all the compositional rules that existed in what were known as Bardic Schools, which ran in Ireland until the time Cromwell came and the British Monarchy's policy in Ireland turned to complete supression. And in the slaughter which ensued Ireland's unbroken cultural evolution of the previous 2000 years came to an abrupt end.

The trieste also charts the history of writing in Ireland, which was adopted by the Druid/Fili in a form called Ogham, which I will not go into here, save to say it appears to be an entirely rational, logical and mathmatical system, and out of this the Irish came to write in their own vernacular from the time they first decided to adopt writing.

Prior to this adoption in the 5-7C the sociey was ordered entirely orally, and so instead of the law being textual it was spoken.

If you get a baliff's letter today, the legal process occurs when you take physical possession of the document, but in Irish oral culture, the legal process occured when the poet spoke the judgement.

So Ireland found a way of writing in her own tongue, via the initial ogham script.

That's enough for today. I will let you have the poem tommorow. Tonight I must go see a few emerging poets read at a state sponsored do. The dual main realities behind this decision are to wallow in the word and avail of the free booze which, as Charlie himself would have known, is a very important function of most serious poets.

Tuesday Blue

What do you want?

Why are you here?

Do you know about Ogham? The ancient writing in Ireland prior to the written language being established and stabilised into normalcy by the fili, who took over duties from the druids once the Culdean monks came in the 5C?

Are you surfing for culture or a quick fix of bullshit about velux windows or what Irish drinking poems you can download for the heart-attack party when all your family will turn out, moaning at life and getting on a downer?

I don't know do I Dear Reader, so maybe you had better have a think about what it is you want from your online search.

~

This is what I've been checking out today, in my continual quest for the knowledge no-one but poets value, so have a peel then drift off into the rest of your day Dear Reader.

OGHAM


Au Revoir

I must go now and find out the info on the man who shot Anthony, Anto O'Rahilly, a young career criminal who died in a hail of gunfire outside his house last night, over a drugs deal that went wrong after O'Rahilly called the girlfriend of Sean Casey a boot. I got a call off Casey's sister who wants me to sort it out because she knows about the other fella who I won't mention here, but needless to say he won't be doing any more blathering.

I have to dish up some justice and if you want to find out more about how my day today went when I go to O'Rahilly's to see him with a few pals, then keep tuned in checking your inbox for spots of.....

Nuns Having Fun

I have a dream

~

It is Sunday and I have just returned from a lesbian orgy in a convent, purely as an artist you understand; filming documentary-reality-show footage on a camera phone for an upcoming short film exploring the changing face of vocational life in a habit and how sisters are doing it for themselves. The film is an innovative new reality programme, provisionally titled Nuns Having Fun and I am currently in pre-production negotiations with Living TV and The God Channel.

It's all about nuns, riding around the countryside in Cork and Kerry, testing their vocation to the big fella upstairs by going on dates with hunky farmers. Hand and neck massages along with intimate hot-tub moments should show the TV powers that be that this isn't just another manufactured idea mining the depths of depravity and cultural debasement, but a forward thinking and educational show which will open up a serious debate in this country about what happens when hot sisters and scorching farmer boys get up close and personal.

Nuns are just like anyone else, they need a piece of prime time because they are underrepresented on the telly and they also need to modern up their image and show its not all about praying and playing with the vicar.

We did the publicity shots last week. The nuns were put in miniskirts and suspenders and the art director hired a tractor and had them drinking babycham on it at Stephens Green. Glenda Gilson wanted in on the gig, but we thought she would not be appropriate, as she would have given a wrong, too tacky message to our potential viewers. After the shoot we all went to Ron Blacks, and I must say, once nuns kick off on the bevvy, they can’t control themselves.

I left early at 11pm as I was up for an appointment with the social welfare officer, but four of them tried to get in my room in the nightshelter at 3.30am on Wednesday morning after they’d staggered out of Lillies after being taken there by Bono, who wanted to talk about saving the world over a few quiet bottles of bubbly and how the nuns could help relieve third world debt by doing some charity photo-shoots for Hustler.

~

I awake and write this poem about Biddy Early, a faery healer from county Clare. Born 1798, the year of the failed rising. It is titled

BIDDY EARLY

Seer
surface the end-name talisman
  of this shade's edifice
who lives in the other world
  above consciousness.

Brand the word-leaves
shimmer
bob fixed
turn the air psychic and extract
   a ghost
lulled from space by sheer desire.

Tickle the thought door
  splice open
and stick straight to mainline
    a soft
some say non-existent
   picture
plucked from Tir nOg.

Come
escape
stomp sodden belief underfoot

risk the frozen crushed fish
   tower above trout gut

let logic be mangled
and this looking glass
conjur a woman married four times

who cured gout-limps in
Clare's bleak mid-winter.

A white witch herbalist
living in Feakle
whose piston-sleek mind
unhindered
wrapped
or weighted
read an empty blue bottle reflecting light.

Her mind will steer this absurd straight track
and sense will depict

   - twenty yards from the Q Bar
 ten feet below the Liffey tide mark -

a cormarant perched on the foundation base
of O'Connell Street bridge
pulling fish from green water
as neon-struck rust-cans float by

to reveal a world lit
by the art of Biddy Early from Faha.

LANGPO CRASH

Dear Reader

If this is your first time on this site, welcome, and please, do not think the poetry below is all I am about. The example here is in a form called Linguistically Innovative, that comes out from the far naffer Lancastrian based English sibling of L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E poetry, or Langpo.

The highly fashionable academy based American modernist poetry circa 1980s and 90s.

This is basically the cutting edge of avant garde and can be traced to one man, Charles Bernstein, who I have spun poems with in Dublin. That's the top and bottom of it. One gifted genius is all it takes to start an Art movement.

I also write in other forms from slam, strict metrical, open-field and basically any genre going. Many poets stick to one, but the more the merrier I say.

The whole idea with Langpo is to be a bit disruptive with the lingo, so take it nice and slow and if you get bored, flip down to the next piece and read how I got my black eye for Ireland.

~

LANGPO CRASH

Wanna
tighten
tweak
peak
and pluck comfort-bones banal?

Wanna dilineate reality's cultural force
in an ASBO scribble

encrypt an electronic watermark
through the continuum's digital blueprint
and write with the ink of memory?

Come
step across the divide
tailor the mind
stroke
and cut to a schoolyard platform.

Here
a violent memory-train chugs love in

silence stops
sound drops
and joy is a fight
attractively flesh
in the sight of deja vous

snatched
as sound shuffling through the seal of surface
fills a magic carriage with fresh-right raindrops
unbreaking to forgive
and...

Heard it before?

Reason crashing out in a journey to the underworld
ghosts that disappear once light is shone

cute gods sensing leather hell
in a milk-break lunchtime

who always remember Morley v Mad Ox

each headbutting the little brick
basin after lunch had settled
when one chipped the chewers in his gob
as his skull crashed onto a white bog rim?

Youth's unintentional masterstroke
was stout shunted schoolkids
and the guards of entry
were wild coarse cognizant and weightless

convincingly set aside
like a congress of persuasive conmen
caught up in tossing back whisky
at a marquee saloon of weekend mayhem
all at sea and misunderstanding

alone
abandoned

the inconsequent watch-word
passing through the spirit fallow
and pastured now
in the omniscient realm

know all
lacking in taste
with ski-boots tailored by Nico

urban footwear
worn by a Shepherd's Bush maestro.

MORE

There's been quite a bit going on here Dear Reader. I got a bashing on Monday two weeks back, in the early hours of the morning. Just the one blow, to my left eye, which went completely bloodshot and so this injury means I am not looking at my best at the mo.

It happened in the early hours of the morning, and too be honest the exact details are a bit hazy, I just remember coming too in my bed the following morning with a sore face and realised I must have got a clump, but didn't have a clue if it was as a result of violence inflicted on me by another, or an accident on my part. However due to a cut just below the eye that looks like it may have been caused by a ring, I have decided to retail the fact of a large man punching me once.

The original tale was that I stepped in to save a crowd of heroin addicts from mugging a group of nuns, but no one seemed to believe it, so I dropped the nuns and changed them to tourists, which was far more acceptable to the objective listener.

It's been nearly two weeks now and the redness is fading, and it looks like I will have a faint scar to deepen the bag under my eye, but such is the life of a bloke who boozes a lot and talks about poetry non-stop.

I can imagine the scene.

Monday AM - Desmond Swords -Pissed up poet talking loudly about Irish mythology is appointed as a suitable target by a large man who likes the odd spot of recreational violence. Some folk like to go dogging, others play chess, some want to hit others for sport, it's entirely understandable innit?


~

Last night I went to see my Jazz Duo play, Gavin and Sarah who are going to be backing the poets who turn up to the poetry night I am setting up at Monster Truck Art Gallery, the very bottom of Francis Street Dublin, opposite St Patrick's cathedral D8.

Every other Thursday, that's fornightly, starting on May 25, there will be poetry going on and the Jazz Duo were bonus I bumped into by chance last Monday (a week after the eye bash) at the back of the Irish Film Centre whilst looking for Sweeney or Fintan, two poets I know. I don't have a phone and always just bump by chance into my Art pals, usually in Temple Bar Square or the back of the IFI, and was thinking we were overdue a random encounter, or more hoping because I wanted to see them in person to give them all the spiel on the Art Gallery do. But they weren't there, Gav and Sarah were instead and we got chatting and it turns out they are studying for a BA in Jazz at Blackrock College and are well up for the collaborative venture.

Last night they played the Boom Boom Room above Conways Pub, Parnell Street, which is the building from which Patrick Pearse surrendered to the British army in 1916 after the Rising.

Yeah yeah yeah. More later.

MONSTER TRUCK ART

Yo ho ho nipple me not whats Dear Reader coz da word on the scene here in Liffey land is that an art gallery has just opened at the very bottom of Francis Street, going downhill, and I have been appointed as the Director of Poetry and Chief Executive of the art collective's page and stage department.

Al and Tom are the two young art school graduates who run Monster Truck gallery and are expert in multimedia and a whole host of things happen there. On Wednesday I attended a short film showing of three movies. Very new media and totally on the edge of experiment and style. The first was people doing a lot of tapping and banging in an orchestrated performance art piece that covered the kitchen, bedroom, lounge and bog. Surreal and wacko, but such is true art dearest ones. After that it was a very violent french movie minature of three men slapping each other across the face and calling each other unrepeatable names unprintable in such a respected rag as this. The final one was a cut up of the Japanese comic book feature length cartoon Akira, and it were bonkers but brill if yer get me. The original cartoon is 2 or 3 hours long and set in post holocuast Tokyo and the director had cut it up, spun it through the computer and was also able to superimpose imges at will over the found version he created, tinkling the keyboards as though it were a piano of images.

This was a highly avant garde outing and the best bit is that you can bring your own ale and the off licence does four cans of Hackenberg five percent proof for a fiver, so a tenner means you get to be in the coolest art gallery in Dublin getting tanked up at a fraction of pub prices. The other benifit of this free shebeen house of Art is that you don't have to listen or watch the lesser Dublin drinkers who do not journey on the shuttlebus of rareified thought where we do readers, so get yourself down to

Monster Truck
Francis Street
D8

Right at the very bottom going downhill.

The Thursday night poetry gigs will be held every other week and this will be the melting pot where stage and page meet and reconnect, as I firmly believe that performance poetry as it is called is going to impact on the print world and there are two ways of dealing with it. If you are a print poet you can ignore it as Z list filler and if you are a slam poet you can moan about not being taken seriously, so the natural order of things on this score is simple. Bring the two camps together and both sides will drop the acts they perform because the real physical people will be there all in the same room and they will realise, like the smoking ban, that Ireland can steal a march on the world and be number one at the old waffle in new performance form. The world will follow suit and I will keep taking my tablets to supress the fantasy on which I float, sometimes too high, like the other night when I spoke with Kev, a tramp at the canal who told me about a divine plan he knew of.

As I sat their swigging my Hackenberg, Kev supping what looked like port, he let me in on a few facts, he claims are all part of the plan. Thinking I had met a fellow magus I kept my wits about me whilst pumping him for the real gen, but not wishing to fully connect because I was scared that Kev would seize my spirit.

I have been meeting people lately who tell me fully formed stories, and I have found that the more interesting and bizzare ones come from people like Kev the tramp, but the only way to tease them out is be genuinely human with these people; the waifs, strays, layabouts and societal write offs who many, if not most, would actively steer clear of. They are everywhere and their stories could not be made up, but as I say the only way to hear them is take what they say seriously, so when Kev started on about Satan and him being the messiah, I made my excuses and withdrew, but he gave me some cracking lines.