A message from the twenty-fourth century

doo yoo woo mooo?
DoO AyE waan tooo?
waa ee ooo poo
fee floo gloo
viaa grnaa
gtyoe
brooa grooa trooa too moo
soo kooo jooo gooo claa mee kii nia
plaa hoo xoiae boeuo
vuo mua trui voo
dooo yooo wooo moooo?
by fuck!

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You are what you eat?

(An old poem: from around 1999)

Do you want to be a vegetable,
or a pineapple chunk?
Would you like to be a rotten grape,
continually drunk?
Or if you wander in the woods
and eat the fungus balls
Does that mean that you’re a spore
infinitesimally small?

My mother likes a bit of fish
all soft in crispy batter
now when it’s raining cats and dogs
she says it doesn’t matter.
Sometimes on a Saturday
my brother eats lamb curry
I think his face has started
to go all white and furry.

If it’s true and we’re our food
don’t you think it’s time
to serve up David Beckham
Posh Spiced, with sage and Thyme
Or maybe we will tuck into
Catherine Zeta-Jones
On a bed of Holly Wood
Be careful of the bones

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Being Air Under Sky

Being Air Under Sky

From the deep, enigma
the source of the river
springing, sparkling
spreading its dream
flowing, glowing
a growing stream

Through the long, dilemma
the course of the river
shoaling, shining
shedding its blood
splashing, flashing
a dashing flood

To the wide, conundrum
the force of the river
scouring, scumbling
scuttling its breath
flaring, glaring
a sharing death

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No one reads poetry

No one reads poetry,
except poets,
English Literature undergraduates,
and some academics.
(though these are mostly the same people)

No one reads poetry,
unless they have to,
or think they should
for their career.
(usually academic – sometimes journalistic)

If you follow a few rules,
show you understand,
you’re not a charlatan,
you know the form,
you can be a poet too.

You then acquire mystical powers,
and you are allowed to judge,
to evaluate and assess,
to stamp your approval,
and you realise
that’s what you wanted all along.

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Shadows and Silhouettes

NOTE: This blog post is meant primarily as a personal record of something I did and the context in which I did it. It’s no more than that.

In the late sixties, when I was a teenager I used to sit in cafés and watch people. I don’t mean in a creepy way, I was just a casual observer. At seventeen I spent some time based in Paddington and worked as a Lugger – a Roadie’s assistant, carrying speakers and amps in through the back entrances,up the steep stairs, and along the narrow passages of nightclubs all over the UK. I grafted for several bands including Jon Hiseman’s Coliseum and Jimmy James and the Vagabonds. I shared a flat with other roadies who between them worked for some of the biggest names of that period.

The Roadies’ flat was in these buildings

Continue reading

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Careful what you wish for . . .

At the end of next week – on Saturday January 7th, I will be appearing on stage at the Chapter Arts Centre in Cardiff along with a wonderfully disparate bunch of performers (which is what you might expect considering it’s a Wyrd Wonder happening). I won’t explain too much here but there is more info on the Facebook event page which should be accessible if you click this :- https://www.facebook.com/events/551824065014351/

The thing is I’m not sure what I’m going to do yet, but the fallback position is that I read a story or perhaps some poetry. What I would like to be able to do is some kind of stand-up comedy, or a funny narrative, something that will make people think they haven’t wasted their time sitting quietly for fifteen minutes watching some idiot making an idiot of himself.

So I thought of the opening joke:

“When I told my wife I was thinking of doing a stand-up comedy routine, she pissed herself laughing, so I knew I was onto a good thing . . .” – Ta-Da!

What do you think? It’s a bit Tim Vine isn’t it? In fact it probably is one of his that I’ve subconsciously absorbed and regurgitated.

I’m only kidding of course – ‘kidding’ – get it? (ha ha)

But seriously, I’m not serious about the stand-up idea – or am I?

Who knows, maybe I’ll see you then.

Cyfarchion y Tymor

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Tools of the Trade

tools-of-the-trade-rsSome work in progress.

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in a shell

Myself is in a shellinashell

Myself is in a shell,
Being hung up
And that.
I shed my shell,
From now
And then.
I am being sat;
Upon a wave
Of Freeness.
My shell is shed,
But what
Do I find to be done.
In the phase,
It’s hot
Outside, it’s muchly warm.
I am being moved myself,
But be looked
Onto Scorn

We Us-self do change
Our scenes and our shells
And in the interim of truth
We’ve such a much to tell

***

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UNDERNEATH

A snippet from some work-in-progress on my autobiographical-novel This is it

***

slade-poster-res‘It. Is. Art.’

‘No. It’s. Not.’

‘Hah!’ Samantha stood up. ‘Gotta go,’ she said, leaning down and puckering her heavily-lipsticked lips.

Benedict tilted his head upwards and reciprocated with the puckered lips.

Their puckered lips met.

‘Mwah,’ they said in unison. Continue reading

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Reporters in Time

time

from The Words in Me

Reporters in Time

It’s the beginning of the universe
and I’m here – live
It’s difficult to see
through the cosmic smog
I haven’t yet caught
a glimpse of God

What I can tell you, is
it’s not what you think
un-describable emptiness
dumb-blind nothingness
not very interesting really
back to the studio

Well, we’ll return there
to the beginning of time
where space emerges
after we visit
our man at the end
where even light bends Continue reading

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Hello Spring

daff2Hello Spring
it’s no good pretending, lurking,
I can see you coming.
You can’t help it, can you?
It’s something you have to do,
whether you like it or not,
so stop hiding,
come out from under your shield of last year’s leaves,
reveal yourself,
you are wanted,
needed.
Hah! With your cheeky yellow wink,
of course you know,
you were just teasing.
Well, you are –
here again.
Hello Spring.

Say Hello to Autumn too

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A selection of poems

a selection of poems from The Words in Me

Dogs and Lambs

My sister-in-law talks about dogs as if
they were people
and eats lambs.
The s is important
it sneaks up softly
unlike cows
which jars.
The animals have it
every time.
They depend on us humans
and we love them to death.

On Walls

On walls
low brick walls
boys sit
and think
boys spit
and cover the tarmac
with white globules

In their rooms
they keep grime
proddable stuff
dark places
to hide futures

Ninetyfivefive

you know the score
in a movie
or a tv show
the flaws
small flaws
idiosyncratic flaws
twelve flaws
or just one
we’re allowed to be flawed
it’s ok as long as in the end
we’re fucking good at our job
in my real life i’m an artex ceiling of cracks and fissures
with some small redemption

it’s kind of arse-backwards ain’t it?

You’re Fab

There are those that wake with still closed eyes
And grunt and hide and live in lies
They swallow anything that comes
And lay to rest with nothing done.

Then there are the ones that see
That live their own humanity
They show their beauty in the night
And when they leave they leave a light.

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Early Spring Haikus

mossy-brick moss covering brick
last year’s leaves decomposing
green appearing

~

magnolia-budFebruary dawn
magnolia buds open
pink blossoms emerge

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The Words in Me

On the cool May water patient ducks do their duckly duty and chilled out swans lurch in almost imperceptible leaps. One, a big one by the sound of its wings, flies berserkly, its feet still in the water behind the bushes, where I lay with a girl in the long rushes. A hard-nailed dog, paws stiff as death chews a fluorescent tennis ball and vaguely obeys the small man, whose narrow dark eyes acknowledge, but only out of duty. The pond is not warm now. Was it ever? Even when the old works of undulating metal disgorged its useless vigour. This place is a place where times collide and all roads cross. My fathers, survivors though they were, naturally, thought they were here to stay, thought they could walk on the water. That pond, that cool May pond, that clean green pond, that home to dutiful ducks and chilled out swans, started with their sweat and with their water. The cross-ponds bridge, the tidy tarmac, the grass, the dog shit, the drunken piss. See – even now the waters come – even now but with less pain. An angry crow, helpless, or it could be a rook, anyway, it has a big yellow beak and it craws loud and angry at the new road and the thick-wheeled cycles and the motorised wheelchair, and most of all most of all, it shouts at the patient ducks. ii A dying pylon collapses, its corpse disintegrates. The three parts of its giant insect body, decomposing prey to the acetylene burners and the maggot men with their big yellow jaws. iii A slow pad over the arc of the Pont d’Agen to the tarmacked path, where the long rushes were and a nervous coot, scoots, home to its dying mother. iv Like a lost turtle, out of place, the ghost of my future is barely seen by the thick meat frame and quick cold eyes of men, protecting their brood, with their stares. I am alone, more akin to my dead father, less at home than I was as a child, even though then, I stole and lied and cheated at cards, when I could get away with it. Without a dog, or a bike, or a young child, or even a girlfriend, I walk on purpose even though I’m not going anywhere, just crossing and looping and thinking of then and thinking of now and thinking of then again, as I avoid the cold sharp stares. v Polly the dog makes a nuisance of itself. The little girl craws its name like an angry black crow. Her mother tugs, it’s time, time, it’s always time to go. vi This is a moderate place it hovers between then and now between here and there existing only because of a random coming together of the right sort of stuff but it still hurts. vii Under the arc of the Pont d’Agen cars flow; the scintillating heat of their breath settles on the new black road, and she sighs, and she hides her secret methods. But she knows, and she will recover. viii It’s time, and time again, time to let the dreams vaporise and settle and hide in the black tarmac, and wait for a new reality.

WORDS

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Happy New You

Something I wrote ten years ago on January 3rd 2006 – nothing changes?

January Tree

January Tree

I’ve just realised it happens every year. Usually it gets overwhelmed by Christmas, or it’s just forgotten, smothered by January frost and burnt away by the low winter sun and the urgent need to get on with it.

But this year the restart was delayed by illness and crushing indecision.

Lost in the dark again. A couple more days lolling around in dressing gowns, still too much left over food in the cupboards to merit a serious expedition to the large world of other people out there.

There’s a decline that begins the day the clocks go back – late October. The world gets more claustrophobic every day, the darkness comes and it stays.

At first I think I can beat it – keep busy, have a book launch, start worrying about Christmas, the essential festival of light and unfettered stuffing; like a willing goose, turn yourself into pate. Swill it down with ferments of fruit and grain, buy presents. Can’t afford it? What the hell, max the plastic.

Then – the day – the darkest day and the day filled with the most light and the most abandon – no buses to catch or cars to drive, no limits, no mercy to your lives.

Loved ones come and go, bins overflow. ‘Thank God it’s all over.’

All over.
All over.

Crisp New Year
except it’s not
it’s wet and not cold enough
and the places you’ve been
stay with you
and make you cough and moan

Get a grip on yourself
Get a grip

So you do
and you notice
the nights lightening
the days’ cool sun returning
– reviving.

And you return
You are you again
but you are a different you
an evolved through pain
and darkness you

A new you

A happy new you

But then again

Everything changes
it’s always the same,
it all rearranges
no-one’s to blame

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The pomegranate seed

I cut open a pomegranate and popped its seeds into a white bowl. They were vibrant and red, they glistened and said: look at us, look at us; we’re beautiful. Look at how we sit together,  blush together,  live together,  give together. I had to agree; they were what they said they were.

pomegranate-white-seed

What about me? a little one said. Look at me, am I not beautiful too? Am I not vibrant? Do I not glisten? The red seeds smiled, and embraced. I laughed, and ate the bloody lot of them.

pomegranate-white-seed-closeup

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After the Storm

A poem from about 10 years ago

After the storm
There is a puddle in my garden.
In the puddle
There is next door’s trousers
They are dark and grey
and meant for chapel
or officiating
at funerals
The legs
they normally contain
are old now
but still roadworthy
just about

After the storm
he is smiling
even though
he has to re-wash
his trousers
There’s at least
half a dozen
ceremonies
left
in them
And maybe
more in him
but he’s not so sure
so he won’t buy
a new pair
just
yet

He doesn’t want to rob his grandchild.

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Autumn Leaves and Autumn Trees

A couple of off the cuff verses inspired by two photos I took yesterday on a walk through Llandaff Fields to the allotments.

autumn-leaves

Autumn Leaves

How many trees are on the Earth
How many leaves
How many stars are in the sky
How many moons
How many days are in a life
How many breaths
Enough
Just enough!

autumn-treesAutumn Trees

The tree knows where to grow
The stream knows where to flow
The breeze knows when to sigh
The leaf knows when to die

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Poetry sucks!

I was just reading through an old notebook-journal type thing and came across the following ramble about poetry. I scribbled it down over ten years ago and promptly forgot about it. I do this all the time and have dozens, if not hundreds, of such books lurking in damp cupboards and up the attic.

It’s a bit of a rant and probably only serves to display my ignorance and may actually get me excommunicated from the edges of the literary establishment where I sometimes lurk in the shadows, but, what the hell – it’s as much a question as an opinion, and I would be ecstatic if someone would enlighten me since I am genuinely puzzled about poetry.

Here’s the original piece, written on March 1st 2005 at 11.30 pm (ish) according to my notebook. Bear in mind that’s it’s a bit roughly written, but I’d like to think, raw and real.

It is titled: Continue reading

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If we were rich

If we were rich, would we still have a table like this?
A table covered in the most recently used bits of shit?
Like scissors and glasses and ashtrays and tips.
Like candles and radios and needles and sticks.

There’s last Thursday’s mailshots and yesterday’s news.
There’s this week’s TV guide and half a pair of shoes.
A table that’s creaking and sagging with clues.
Yes, we’d still have a table like this – it’s the truth.

(This is a poem I just found lurking deep in the entrails of a hard disk – I don’t think it’s been published anywhere (but I may be wrong) – so here it is)

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