Methinks blah blah, protesteth too much for by the mere fact of implying you're 'not bothered' immediately confirms the opposite, unless it is a double think ironic twist with lemon and lime with liver and onions and look at your heart bleeding on your sleeve pretence that has you outwitted byGeorge O's 1948 last digits reversed type proclamation that says things are not how they could neither nor how they should let alone how we would wanty wisher they to be or not to be depending on the double bluff and eggs broken make omelettes but when it comes to making sausages the butcher may be involved but the poor pig is committed so this little piggy is squealing FOUL! Not chicken.Some are born others achieve some have it thrust upon But the great hill of beans is on the side plate that we can't take with us in a Ferrari or a fiat 500 means, that ultimately, little matters -we go out as we came in- with nothing and the trail of the snail is how we will be judged, or in other words,they think that i've got no respect but, sneaky feelings, i've yet to get right through, the way I feel for you, so fuck the world, love the world, hate the world, need the world, forget the world and though my aim is true, so true, none truer, it STILL seems that, despite bleeding knuckles and sweated blood.....Everything means less than Zero...Take it away Elvis! No really, like take it away from here,Heh, heyeh!
Every dance is a mystery, every day a miracle, and still I'm stepping out because the angels wanna wear my red shoes, but i'm not ready yet, this is not my time, me? I'm staying to FIGHT.
Ps All images on this blog including' Lisa through the barbed wire' are taken by moi and are available as signed limited edition prints..all proceeds go towards printing 'The Poetry BUs' magazine.
It's time to feed the feckin Pixies.What have we got to lose? Singer song writer par excelklence 'Don't feed the pixies' (check him out on his blog singng 'Last night of the fair' with the dulcet toned Argent on his blog) is driving this weeks poetry bus.It might struggle, but it will never stall.And DFTP has set a brilliant task this week. Check it out here... HERE
Pale moon rising Roadsigns lipstick traces unfamiliar poses pout from familiar faces every where you go, traffic moving slow printed words none of them pointing home, don't see lost and lonely is not the same as being alone.
Little arrows point up and down, motorway chevrons fly a thousand people you'll never know, who fears the reaper?
The guardian the gate keeper parralell universes in lit windows flashing by each and any one could have been and there , but for the grace....
look once see twice let it not into your mind the delicious night-neon orange flashing by.
Not only has Padhraig Nolan (Scalder) given me two fantastic illustrations for The Poetry Bus Mag (wait till you see them, genius!) but he has asked to pass this on. I've lifted straight from his blog. Padhraig says............
'I reckoned I should pay some attention to the weird synchronicity that arose during a recent Poetry Bus prompt. As a native of Enniscorthy, I've always been conscious of the amount of writing talent that has emerged from the town and its hinterland. So I had a chat with the good Tom Mooney, editor of local newspaper the Enniscorthy Echo, and Paul O'Reilly, driving force behind Scallta Media, publisher of local writing and music - and this is what we came up with;
Enniscorthy 1500 : Scalderverse : Call for Submissions
Enniscorthy, Co. Wexford is currently celebrating the 1500th anniversary of its foundation in 510AD. As part of the anniversary celebrations, local newspaper the Enniscorthy Echo will feature a weekly poetry column, entitled Scalderverse. (Natives of Enniscorthy town are traditionally known as ‘Scalders’. A punnet of best Wexford strawberries to anybody who can categorically explain why?)
This weekly column will feature a poem by a local writer - or which references some aspect of the town itself - in each issue of the Echo from mid-June to end of November 2010. A pamphlet of these poems may also be produced at the end of the year.
While a number of established poets have been invited to partake, it is intended that the majority of poems will be sourced by open submission from emerging writers from the town and its surroundings. Unpublished poems reflecting contemporary life in Enniscorthy are particularly welcome.
Poets from further afield are also welcome to submit poems which specifically reference some aspect of Enniscorthy or its surroundings.
Scalderverse will be curated - and occasionally illustrated - by Padhraig Nolan in association with Scallta Media and the Enniscorthy Echo.
NOTE : There is a production limitation of 40 lines of verse, including stanza breaks, for each poem. A maximum of three poems, with a short biographical note, should be emailed for consideration to scalderverse@gmail.com before July 15th.
***
We kicked off with the first Scalderverse column this week, featuring - with the kind permission of The Ollamh Himself - Heaney's Requiem for the Croppies. An auspicious start! And we have new poems to come from Eamonn Wall and Anthony Cronin, amongst others.
It's fantastic to have some serious established names featuring - but the exciting thing for me is seeing what might come from poets whose names I'm not familiar with. I'm particularly keen to see work which speaks about contemporary life in the town and its environs - so if any of you out there have something that fits the bill - please do submit! '
If there is something that doesn't get mentioned in poetry that you think should be mentioned, pop it in the comments box and I'll try to rectify the situation with a short verse. This is a limited offer, a one day closing down sale of poetry for the overlooked and overshadowed, the poetically bereft and forgotten items,body parts, people, places, all the multifarious dull or tawdry subjects in the world. Now is their time. All comments put in the box by midnite will be guaranteed a poem(terms and conditions and weather forecasts apply)
This one is for Titus whose previous comment gave me the idea.
Essex girls.
See the Es-sex girl
her head in a whirl
as she dances around her handbag
white stilettos for the urban get-goes
and micro mini her gladrag
She'll kiss you once
she'll kiss you twice
she'll be naughty if you are nice
but Essex girls are cats
and men their mice
So watch yourself.
Tradelines
European Container & Trailer Operators World-Wide Freight Forwarding and Logistics
a world of maps and charts , numbers and signs,
economic performance and statistics
they see the world in a million ways, each one lacking in sweet beauty
a tree lined scenic drive through France becomes nothing more than duty.
Trade switching countries from one place to another
as the planet coughs in diesel fumes
and we begin to smother
perhaps it's time we were heard
made our protests clear and vocal
the best produce that you can buy
is the produce produced local
Potholes
Potholes, the earths assholes,
Fill 'em all in
gather up your rubbish and bitumen.
Stuff them with junk mail,
fill them with bills,
make them a repository
for all of our ills.
Stuff them don't smash(into) them
riddle them ree
clog them with bullshit
and buckets of pee
I love Potholes
They are not deep but are round
poetically speaking
I'm back on safe ground
Phew!
Comical epitaphs? Well Ogden Nash is credited with the world's shortest poem. About fleas, it is simply... 'Adam, had 'em.'
Which in my book is 4 syllabubs.
When the (at the time) President of America Ronald Reagan died, I thought I'd beaten that with... 'Ron? Gone!'
which is only 2 syllabubs,I did send it out, but nobody would publo it. Ah, well!
This could be a whole new offshoot, if anyone wants an epitaph for someone (preferably famearse) put it in the commentarios box.
Midsummer night's dream (Based on truth)
Strawberries and Cream
That Wimbledon June dream
I remember Chrissy Evert
for she was my favert
to a young boys ears
back through the years
she served a siren song better than Yvonne Goolagong
We snuck our way in
and we drank Gordon's gin
and we saw(me and Seamus)
though he wasn't quite famous
John McEnroe go toe to toe
with someone we didn't know
And boy we did grin so filled up with gin
and I have to report we were asked to leave court
for the effect of our noise caused McEnroe lose poise
and I state here in verse we made McEnroe curse
for it's a habit he gained though we no longer remained.
Another trip to the green we could never have seen
as such a trip could never be afforded
but I know cos I was there
that we first made Mac swear
thus another claim to fame is recorded.
Computeranasea
Technology and old people go hand in hand
like petrol, lighters, and thatches
or like hand grenades for tennis balls
whacked at wimbledon matches
It's not because we are wrinkly
or that we cannot thinkly
it's just that computers are designed
with younger people in mind
We need a computer we can reason with
to make them understand
not tapping on a keyboard or
clicking mouse with hand
If we could talk and tell
and they would listen and do
they might just manage something
that we wanted them to
But as they just grow more complex
our tired minds they vex
so with our relationship looking hazier
I vote for computeranasea.
Well done Kato on driveling the bus onthe rocky global road of poetry whisterings.Ands much thanklies to all wot parriclipated in producing what was firecracker of a response to the prompt.
This (next) weeks driver is Don't Feed The Pixies, muso and wordsmith.
But more drivelees are needed.Anyone can havea go, no previous experience necessary. Having said that anyone who has had a go and wants another is more welcome than a decent match at the world cup.
The weekly poetry bus is for everyone regardless of age, colour, gender,race, orientation,religious/political beliefs or lack of them. All are equal on the bus and none are more equal than others.
So come Quakers,christians, Capitalist,Communists, come catholics, come creationists,come white people, come black people, come white with black stripes,Black with white stripes, chequered, come little green people from Mars, come atheists, come humanists,come Hindu, come mormon,Mami Wata, muslim, mystic and jew, come Liverpool fan, come Haikuists I don't give a damn, come North ,come South,East or West, come Gnostic, Taoist,sikh, come lutherean, Protestant,Palestinian,Parisian,Brunettes, blondes, Redsers,Rastafarians,Buddhists,Baptists, baldies, boldies, goodies,drunks, come woman, come man, transexual, transvestite, transit van driver, gay or straight or in between,come celibate, come randy, come Goddess, Diva,Devil may care, come beauty queen or, like mine, a face best unseen, come short come tall, come built like a shithouse wall, come little, come large,come Homer Simpson and Marge, come clever come thick come healthy come sick, come wounded , broken and lost, come found, come lonely happy sad, come weak come strong, come pauper, king or porn star, come poet, come pagan, come smart, come scruffy, come piebald one-eye-balled and fluffy, JUST GET ON THE BUS!! Or even better drive it!
Firstly the second thing which is Katos poertee challengio. The fine feline gave us the above images to rite a pome about.
I have to hold my hands up here, just like in the image, and declare my thoughts.There is no denying, as the monkees said it 'I'm a believer'
I believe in 'God' don't ask me what that means , for I don't know. I do know that I don't believe in giant white statues and I don't believe the Pope (for I is some class of Catholic) should live in a palace of untold (please do tell) wealth. Tis hard/verging on the imossible to believe in the goodness of people that run the Catholic church in it's present guise of abject sickness. But, I know through brainwashing, or delusion, that there is more to this world/life than we can touch see smell taste or hear. If I am naive, then I am cosy in my naivete, what have i to lose? Drunken hazes also suit me very well. The world without 'a god'would for me be a cold place and I like to keep warm against the odds. I find life hard,sometimes very hard, probably or possibly a lot harder than the average better equipped person, I wonder would I have survived without my belief? A crutch for the weak? Maybe. But a crutch I lean on, and survive.
Let's face it if we believers are right, though 'right' is a ridiculous pejorative term, it will be seen.If the non believers are right, no one will know. A dark nothing.An end.I prefer to sit close to the fire(oops! the real, though I'm not convinced, downside of what I think) and stay warm and drunk and perhaps even deluded. Any way here's the pome.
Bernie the bolt.
No it's ok, I got it I'm strong, 'Safe hands' they call me let it go, It's okay,
Up a bit, down a bit left a bit, right a bit,
Ah, shite!
And firstly second, the pome what I previouslt rote was pure made up for a knife that was stuck in me back years ago, so relax dudes! Ishka maninga, innit?
The Bodhran! That much abused, misused and brutalised instrument that, in the wrong hands, has decimated many a lively session between portlaise and Pluto, can be a wonderful thing.Here nine years after he played at the wedding of the century(Mr + Mrs EEjit) is John Joe Kelly showing how it should be done. HERE
As the pink Panther didn't say. Poetikat has got her paws on the bus and is driving it making 'Meeeeooow' zooming sounds over.. HERE So get ye gone to Canada where the Kat lives and write sumptin wonderful and death defying about her poteegrafs on display there.Go on! You know you wanna!
It's written in the stars Ma, see how they shine ? That's pollution. Neat.
Peter, Peter Dominic, Pete, I hated it. Then Peanuts, then Pod, Then Catsand, Masty, Donga. Then Action Man, Inaction Man, Pickling, Jingler, Jangler, Jingle –me –jangle, and worse,much worse. Hated them all. Then Uncle John saved me, Blessed me Peadar, And I was home.
Oh,and in case any wun waz wundrin.Peadar is pronounced Padder or sometimes Pathur.
YEs folks it's monday that special time of the week where we pack up our troubles in an old Tesco carrier bag and piss on them, even if (like mine) our poetry is miserable , we celebrate that we are alive and breathing and writing and a few fortunate souls among us (mea culpa) drinking.
Fuck the world (metaphorivcally speaking) but love it and hug it at the same time, it's ours (for the moment) and it's all we've got.We're also all it's got, except time and time is of the essence, time is what life is all about, sands slipping through the glass.
Say it, the page will soak it up , the bus will soak it up. We are human and we should shine while there is a darkness... or not.Say what you think if you like but try to say what you feel, the poetry bus is your safety net.You are amongst friends here.Rejoice and be glad.
Prof Jeanne Lakatos ( NB. That's Genie Lah-kay-toss) has set a fantabuloso task this week. Read it , HERE then WRITE!
Here is mine
Ten Minutes
A winter’s day in June
Leave the birds to their own tune
I’m stuck in my head with a thousand others
Dissonance and assonance
Sisters and brothers
Too many days in a lifetime
Too many nights in a nighttime
See the bees buzzing in clover
They sting and die once
Me? A million times over.
Blacker than pitch comes the crow
The dark of his eye seems to know
Everything is hopeless nothing and louder is best
Strike empty vessels to drown out the rest
Everything goes in, not over, my head,
nothing lets me sleep, or not sleep, as I weep
and wait and fear and dread.
Silence is as silence does, does, does
silence is golden here the world
hear the world, heal the world
hear the bees, see the bees,
hear the word buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz………
I've tried a hundred million fucking times to get my recording to upload and it won't. I'm on the verge of a nervous breakdown by this stage so I gotta ask myself ' Punk , you feeling unlucky? I know what your thionking. Was it six times or only five you tried to upload your crap?'
I don't know any more , perhaps it's a blessing. I hATE computers fuck them all to hell. I give up.
Professor Jeanne Lakatos and her good buddy Alby Einstein are driving the bus this week, though it looks like Alberto has got on his bike and left the Prof to do the work. And a mightily good task it is too. Get thee over to her rather splendiferously decorated blog and see what the craic is HERE
Many gratefulities also to both Bill and Weaver for their most excellenty drivley in the previous twop weeeks.Both of which I was verrily busy for and mucho neglected lookying at all the brillo poems wot everyone rote. Thank you Bill. And thank you Weaver who above and beyond the call of duty managed to drive while not being too well.She is a great woman forsooth and no mistake.
Get thee gone now my compatriot bus pasengers. We have a world to woo with our penned, tapped, and typed words of wonder. Remember ye always, 'The darkest hour is before the dawn' .... unless you have the lamp lit, or the fridge door open.
As Buzz Aldrin Lightyears away said..."TO INFINITY......AND BEDFORD"...... birthplace of Sir John Bunyan who wrote the epic tale 'The Pilgrimm's posterior' and was killed in a donkey jousting contest by a Patagonian locksmith called Quentin San Quentin who went on to be a finalist in the hit TV show 'Britain and Patagonia's got talent'
And then there was Will, brother of Bob Hope, and where there's a Will there's a way and good Will, will keep us on the straight and narrow forsooth innit? Or something.
I'm back.In one piece, or several billion molecules and a beer belly.
I was away to see a sick relative and all went swimmingly. Apart from getting stocious drunk on das boat and getting, wandering, talking to myself lost, in a train station somewhere in the depths of deepest darkest Crewe or Chester or somewhere and missing /losing/ignoring/not recognising my connecting train to somewhere I should have been going, or something.
On the return trip I missed the boat entirely on Sunday and didn't find it till Monday.It was big and white and upon the sea apparently but it was extremely well hidden from the bar stool I was (almost) on.Ah, well.
Also.In one big railway station somewhere or other in Ingerland they had a lovely lady voice telling everyone to keep back from the edge as the next train approaching platform 6 was not stopping there.Then meself having stepped back, witnessed an almighty violent blur of noise and hurricane thundering through like the hounds of hell. Great.Safety first. Very efficient, polite and daycent.
BUT then no mention at all was made of the next incoming thundering beast that nearly took the arse off me as I delved into my bag looking for some holy water! WTF? I'm sure yer wan up in the announcement box had a good laugh at the fat Irish bastard on Platform 6 as he spun like a battling top from pillar to post with his heart in his mouth and his sphincter under intolerable pressure.
Got to get crackling on the poteery Bus mag and looks also some at the poetree bus poems at Weavos and Bill.
