Poetry in Stasis

Brian Laws has been fired from Burnley

2010-12-29T12:24:00.000-08:00

It is true. In a move that was in the "We all saw this coming" section of the news the - now former - Clarets manager was asked to step down from the role. A statment will be made by the club tomorrow.

Some people will point to his record of 10 wins in 40 games, one away win all season, no back to back wins and the fact that he was hired to keep Burnley in the Premiership but didn't as just cause. Some people will point out the fact that we won most points after falling behind, meaning we always conceeded the first goal. Others, will point to the fact that he never really got the fans onside. Few will point out that he made mind boggling subsitutions and was never sure of his best team. Or that he paid over a million for a defender and then never played him and then loaned him out to Preston. One or two kind minded individuals will point out that he does seem like an awfully nice bloke. And, his daughter is a page three model who is going to the States to try her hand at muscular women modelling. Apparently.

I believe that he was given the footballing equilivant of Mission Impossible. He had to follow one of the most popular (up until he fucked off any road) managers of the last twenty years, the entire back room staff buggered off, the team spirit had evaporated and no one believed we could stay up.

When Coyle took us up in 2008-2009 we were an average Championship side. A few clever signings and a team belief later we went up. We looked to be doing all right in the Premiership but Bolton Wanders wanted our manager and he wanted them. So we appointed Laws.

The fans never liked him, the players mustn't have believed in him and now he is gone. A new era and a whole load of me getting upset on a Saturday awaits.

And the Video for below

2010-11-30T10:49:00.000-08:00

Why won't it Snow

2010-11-30T02:03:00.000-08:00

JJ72 once sung that, but I bet if he looked outside now he wouldn't. I am snowed in and it does not look like it will cease. It is the most snow I have seen ever and the novelty has worn off.

Oh, and apologies for the absence (did ya miss me? did ya? why not?) this is due to house moves, Laptop Aids - which had nothing to do with my downloading habits - and laziness. But like something that was once in remission and now isn't or a double dip recession. I am back.

Terry Jones

2010-09-10T03:13:00.001-07:00

Is a wanker.

One protester has died because of his vain and idiotic plan to burn The Koran. How many more lives need to be lost until this "Pastor" has enough publicity and attention.

He is dangerous and blinkered. He is also another example of how "Religion Poisons Everything" (Christopher Hitchens,'God is Not Great')

New Post

2010-08-28T13:53:00.000-07:00

Standing at an ATM
Card in hand,
Machine accepts it
With a automated sigh
As coked up rich cunts
Canter by, laughing,
Smoking, high five

Fag hanging from
Acrylic nails,
They go from bar to bar
Bathroom stalls.
I type in the PIN –
Four digits
To deny me.

If, a big if, a massive
Fucking improbable if,
I can get cash
Then I can crash
On the lash
Off the leash
Drunken British
Baring darkened,
Crooked teeth.

I type in a sum
Something small
Hopefully enough.
A pregnant pause –
An aborted cause,
A secret clause
Is you have to wait –
The machine spits out
Pictures of the Queen.

The missus and me
Hit the street
Another bar
Where the rich cunts meet,
I get our drinks;
She finds some seats:
Is this seat free?
Is this seat free?
For me fella and me?

The difference between
Them and us,
The missus and me, is
Those rich gets
In their
Suits and boots
With their expensive
Hair and clothes,
And drugs, and
Plastic tits
Is simple.

Me and my proletarian
Ideals hanging onto
Poetry like it’s a
Nursing mother
Dancing to the low level
Corporate drum is simple.

They are rich and I am not.

Shameless Self-Promotion

2010-08-15T05:05:00.000-07:00

New blog at the amazing: http://www.poetryinstasis.wordpress.com/

Using one blog site to advertise another, I think the internet might implode if you don't click on it. Then how will people get poorly streamed football and porn? It is a responsibility I don't think you should take lightly. Or avoid.

In other news, the new season has started. Burnley are undefeated (one win and a draw).

In the Premiership one round of matches has been played and from it we can garner some facts:

Chelsea will walk the title, they beat West Brom six-nil
West Brom will go down, they lost six-nil
Wigan are awful
Blackpool might surprise everyone, but most likely will do what my beloved Burnley did.
Bolton Wanders will be mediocre but safe
Blackburn Rovers will be exposed as being owned by Satan and funding a secret Alien Invasion and will then be disbanded with all their players and supporters imprisoned for Treason

I wonder how many will come true - my guess all of them.

Tram's, Theft and Moral Obligation

2010-08-09T14:34:00.000-07:00

On my way home from employment today I boarded the Luas from Abbey Street, it was - as is to be expected at rush hour - crammed. I feel, at this juncture it is necessary for me to digress somewhat. I am paranoid, and I mean not "they are after me" paranoid more "that man wants to rob me" paranoid. I suppose, cautious to the nth degree would be a better description. I suspect the worst because the worst will normally happen.

Anyway, back on the tram - to the immediate right of me sat on the disabled chairs (chairs for use of disabled people and not chairs with some physical handicap) sat a man. He had obviously expensive headphones on, following the wires downwards I could see that they were attached to an iPod. Again, an expensive luxery item.

Within the crowd two men, roughly mid twenties, were walking down the crowded aisle. Thin men with tattoos and short hair.

At Smithfield a couple pushing a pram embarked. They stood near the entrance doors effectively blocking it off. The Luas started up again.

The man with the iPod sat watching a video, the two tattooed were walking further down the aisle. The new parents cooed at the child. My eyes flitted from person to person and from my feet to my hands. Sometimes they shake. My own iPod was playing something non-descript. My mind began to wander when the entire tram burst in to noise and bustling, awkward violence.

The two lads had grabbed the man's iPod as soon as the tram stopped. He was clinging on the one of their coats screaming "give me my phone, give me my phone". The one who had grabbed it was desperately trying to break free and flee through the slowly closing doors. His mate stood as a barrier between the man and the thief. As they were running for the doors the clattered into the pram, the man still shouting and trying to hold on. Unfortunately he was unsuccessful and the two lads got away - ironically, running towards the courts in a bid to escape. About four minutes after the robbed man got off the tram the inspectors came and asked for my ticket. A woman started to describe what happened and I briefly added some supplementary detail. Such as they were young, one had distinctive tattoos. Bullets on his hands. But I got off at my stop and left for home.

This has gotten me thinking. Is there anything else I should or, indeed, could have done? I don't think I could have made it across the people to stop the men - nor could I have done anything of any great value if I did. I could have called Garda Confidential and gave a description but they will not recover the phone nor would they be able to get the men. The phone is probably covered by insurance on the contract. One could argue that by displaying such an expensive item so brazenly is asking for trouble. That is a controversial and dispassionate point, but a point none-the-less. I have mine close to my body and difficult to steal. Also, they do have frequent warnings about pickpockets on the tram system. But that evades the point that someone just minding his own business was violated and stole from. And I, along with others, didn't and to an extent - couldn't - do anything. I wish I could have stopped them but that would only have preceded with me getting a sound beating. Not something that I am particularly keen on getting.
Am I under a moral obligation to say or do something? What, realistically, could I have done?

This just reminds me of the lines by Martin Niemoeller - who was a Catholic priest during Nazi regime:

"First they came for the Communists, but I was not a Communist so I did not speak out. Then they came for the Socialists and the Trade Unionists, but I was neither, so I did not speak out. Then they came for the Jews, but I was not a Jew so I did not speak out. And when they came for me, there was no one left to speak out for me.”

Thoughts of the Day

2010-07-09T11:12:00.000-07:00

When writing these things a lot of ideas pass through my mind. What do I want to say? Is there a form of poetry that I want to tell the reader about? Just how drunk am I really, honestly? The last few posts were me trying to be all clever and thoughtful. Now this, dear reader, is not. This is just me giving out. I wish it was more, I really do – but it isn’t.

My amazing ability to grow hair had reached a point where strangers would confuse me for Cousin It (picture on the internet somewhere). However, I decided to get a haircut. Yes, this is really a post about a haircut. So, with this intention I went to the hairdressers, well Barbers – the one in Stephen’s Green with the suit of armour in the doorway.

The following conversation took place:
“What can I do for you?” asked the Barber, we’ll call him Barney.
“Just a trim, please. I want some of the length and weight taken away but I want some length. But not as much length. But still some length. And some weight but not as much weight. If I had to but it as a percentage then I would say, 25% less weight and length.” I said.
“Ok” said the affable Barney (I don’t know if he is affable, but I cannot remember the last time I used that word).

So he started to snip, comb, spray, and ruffle. He said “this much?” indicating about an inch. This was fine and I indicated as much by saying so. He then proceeded to take far more off. Like a fuck, load more. Like nearly all of it. And for some reason hairdressers never talk to me, they never engage in that ‘hairdresser client’ banter that everyone talks about. Actually, one hairdresser in Ormskirk once called me a “boring get”. Who the hell other than me gets insulted by hairdressers? It is not like you can have a witty retort as the bastards have sharp scissors in their pampered, effeminate hands. And hairdresser scissors are sharper than most scissors. They are second only to surgeon’s scissors in scissor sharpness (that is not fact checked but I am sure it might be right, it does sound right). So I am sat in the chair with the horrific plastic green wrapping around my shoulders and this man – who I thought was affable but is not at all affable – performing a Slash and Burn policy on my head, his hairdressing style is similar to the Zippo raids carried out in the Vietnam War (again, not actually fact checked). Apart from the hacking going on around my ears, I have Key 102 on the radio playing Westlife and I swear to Jebus that this guy starts singing along. I know that they are stereotypes but you don’t have to play up to them.

Hack, hack, you raise me uuup so I can stand on mountains... hack, hack.

All the other barbers were sitting around doing nothing. I don’t think it is because they are shit at being a barber. Just that they had probably finished all their days barbering and was having a break. But anyway.

Hack, hack, stronger than I can be...

So he shows me the back of my head with that little mirror that they use. That is probably the single most pointless thing to do. If you don’t like it or they have hacked far too much off what are they going to do? Glue it back on? Wankers.

Walking home I kept seeing my own reflection and the hideous mess of a hair cut mocking me. Met up with the missus who started almost laughing when she saw me.

She said, “I suppose it’ll take some getting used to”
Yeah like a degenerative disease or AIDS takes some getting used to!

Bastard hairdresser.

And whilst I am here, they are some other things pissing me off:

1. That guy from Pineapple Dance Studios; it not the campness or the desperation to dance all the time. I’m grand with that. It’s the lisp.
2. The Clagon ads; who lets their kettle get that dirty. Sort it out, or you’d be drinking shit tea.
3. Fat Families; the TV show... and the families.
4. The Sex Education Show; it is a good idea but I don’t like how the presenter lady sounds so very forced when she says: “some people are gay, some are straight, and that’s normal” yes, yes it is but don’t sound so disingenuous.
5. Crap pornography.
6. The morbidly obese woman on the same show as point number 4 who claimed to be having sex five times a week. I just don’t believe her. She seemed like she was lying.
7. My fucking Internet connection; never works.

Specific Blog

2010-07-04T12:45:00.000-07:00

Since I couldn't figure out how to change the name of the site, from this rather long winded title. To a nice and cogent "Poetry in Stasis" and also to have something thematically linked. I have created a new blog.

www.poetryinstasis.wordpress.com and a specific email poetryinstasis@hotmail.com the aim, simply is to have online poetry magazine. Featuring articles, reviews and what have you. I want it to be full of other people's opinions and beliefs. So send in an email about something you have seen, read or heard. And it will more than likely be put up.

Articles should be once or twice a week.

Arthur Golden: Memoirs of a Geisha

2010-06-30T11:54:00.000-07:00

First thing to praise about this book, and the first thing that is truly striking about it, is the sheer depth of research that Golden partook in order to write this novel. The level of detail is staggering and totally immerses the reader in the world of the Geisha; the slightest details such as Sayuri’s make-up and hairstyle are described with such assuredness and skill.

A Geisha is an artist with expertise in music and dance, they would attend parties thrown by businessmen and pour drinks and generally entertain them. The closest Western equivalent would be Escorts, but they were not prostitutes. They are, fundamentally, a symbol of the old world in Imperial Japan. For the men, they were ostentatious displays of wealth.

The novel is written in the bildungsroman narrative structure, which follows the protagonist throughout their early life and development. Jayne Eyre being a classic example. Memoirs of a Geisha is another classic example as she starts of in poverty and ends in wealth. It is in the first person narrative and addresses the reader personally (“I am sure you understand” etc). This can lend a certain degree of informality to the narrative voice, which at all times is strong and engaging. There is no “and dear reader, I married him” style moments which is a, frankly, a relief. However, this form of narrative can only ever be from a singular perspective so does lack the depth of characterisation that using the third person narrative can sometimes deliver. This is over come by having a strong and interesting central protagonist.

One of the themes of the novel is the clash between the old and the new worlds. This is shown most brutally during the course of World War 2 – steel American bombers destroying towns made of wood. With this, there is the death of the old, traditional ways of doing things. The Geisha are shown as reluctant and resistant to change. Change is literally dropped on them at Nagasaki and Hiroshima. One gets the feeling that change, and the effects of the Great Depression, are happening to others in Japan and not the Geisha. This is a point that Golden makes frequently, the Geisha are closeted ornaments of men. The entire life is geared towards entertaining and pleasing them. They are taught traditional dances and instruments. Always with one goal in mind, to secure a wealthy “Danna” – that is to become a rich man’s mistress.

Another of the major themes is water. The sea and rivers are depicted in various ways, when she is a child it is depicted as violent, slate grey and restrictive. This symbolises how people in her small fishing village are trapped by this fundamental link to the natural world. This link is best shown through her father who is a fisherman. Her first idealised male is Mr Tanaka, who works for a fishing company and becomes her way out of poverty. Another recurring motif regarding water is that Sayuri’s personality is mainly made from the water element. This element means that she is adaptable and artistic – factors that help her in her life as a Geisha. During her time away from Gion during the War, she says that her personality turned to ice. This is symbolic of not only her own, but her nations struggle for survival. She has to become cold and hard in order to survive, it is only when she has the chance of return does she start to melt. Water is also embroidered on the Kimono that they wear and the jewels that adorn their hair. This is a visual link between nature and the women’s sexuality.

Another interesting theme to note is the relationships the Geisha, with Sayuri in particular, and the women in the novel have with the men. The men, her father aside, all have vested interests in the women. If the men in the novel are not making money from them – such as the dresser, the wig maker and the artist then they are professional men who are entertained by them or desire them for sexual gratification. The only non-professional man in the novel is Sayuri’s father. The men she entertains are either shown as idealised demi-God’s such as the Chairman, Mr Tanaka and to a lesser extent Nobu or as one-dimensional drunks and sexual predators, such as Dr Crab (who wins the bidding war for her mizuage, or virginity), the Baron, and the Minister of Finance. This is one criticism that one could level at the book; the men are sparsely drawn and at rather secondary. However, it can easily be argued that this is because the female narrative voice is surrounded by women so how would she know men to any real depth.
The women’s ambition, as previously mentioned, is to get a rich Danna. This role would give the men soul sexual access to the Geisha however, he would be expected to pay her Okiya and all her expenses. Throughout the novel Sayuri idealises the Chairman – the head of a powerful and successful electrics company – and he becomes her rason d’être. Everything action she takes through the majority of the book are geared towards having the Chairman as her Danna. One does ask would a woman really be obsessed with the same man for nearly twenty or so years. This does lead to one of the most disappointing aspects of the book, and that is the final two or three chapters. They are unsatisfying in the broader context of the book. If one thinks of “Great Expectations” by Dickens then this would explain why. These lead to a sense of anti-climax and a sense of Golden not so much rushing but desperately trying to tie up the loose ends. Maybe the ending is meant to in

However, this is still an engrossing and at times beautifully written book, some of the phrases are pure poetry. The pacing of the novel never really drags and that is some achievement for a work of fiction that runs to 420 odd pages. Any complaints about this book and the bildungsroman narrative structure are really rather secondary to a very good book.

The below post

2010-06-16T11:43:00.000-07:00

For some reason the below post would not format properly. Now this could be a mixture of my own ineptitude or some other factor *cough, piece of shit, cough*. I am unsure. It is meant to be in five line stanzas and with a simple a-a-b-b-b scheme. So imagine it is and all will be well.

The poem was based on a friend's status update on Facebook. Her family are the bravest people possible and seem to take every set back with such grace. That is a rare quality and is so very admirable. I hope that I could take this one "weak" moment of looking at a healthy family and feeling envious to show that there is no such thing as perfect and the love that binds them is more real than any facade of the ideal.

The Perfect Family

2010-06-16T11:09:00.000-07:00

I watch people, not in a crazy way,
That is to say – in the bushes, hiding away -
No, quietly, when I have a moment to spare
And I wonder about their worries and their care.
Most of the time, I think, they don't know I am there.

I wonder about them and keeps them going,

Whether they are hiding more than they're showing.

Things like that, nothing much, nothing much.
I spend a lot of time in waiting rooms, so to keep touch
With the world, I do, this. Kinda like a rabbit in a hutch.

I remember one family, quite clearly,

In Wetherspoons sitting opposite me.
They looked so perfect, like an advert on the Telly
Beautiful kids with no wires, no tubes in their belly.
Both looking happy, both looking healthy.

They laughed, they joked and they said it was great
The way that little Timmy pushed peas around his plate.
Then they’d leave, get in their new car, new mobile phone,
And drive to their clean and expensive home,
As I still sit here alone.

I sit here thinking about the lot I was given,
The many miles that I have driven
To get to hospital wards, clean sanitised hands,
Yet everyone acts like they understand
But they’re just grateful their kids are grand.

While my girl lies awake in pain
As I clumsily fumble with another chest drain.
And I wait and weep as she goes under the knife
And think to myself: “so this is her life?”
I struggle to be a mother, woman and wife.

Some nights I feel so broken
I crumble before a word is spoken.
To me it seems so unfair,
A pained angel, lying prostrate there
Sometimes I wonder if God could care.

But I snap out of this self pity
To count the blessing bestowed on me.
There is no such thing as the perfect family
But I have this hope and love to surround me
In this realisation we are safe, and, we are happy.

World Cup 2010

2010-06-13T05:32:00.000-07:00

So it has started, I missed the opening ceremony due to work but made most of the matches. And apart from an absolute stinker of the French-Uruguay game, most of them have been good so far. As I type Algeria v Slovenia are determined to bore me into a football based coma. But it did get me thinking.

Every four years I go into a state of near delirium because of the feast of football, the amazing players on display, the irrational and unbridled optimism of being English, the wall charts, the BBC and ITV opening credits, Eamon Dunphy hating a certain player for reasons that defy logical explanation, the controversy and the inevitable blunders (thanks a million Robert Green). For me, this is brilliant - if I could I would take four weeks of work and watch every minute of it. Plus the analysis and the highlights. Then in September the qualifying for the European Championships start and two years later the tournament itself. I am spoilt by all this football, it makes me forget the torrid season I have just endured and the worries I have over the managerial choices made by the board of my team.

However, for some. This is not a good time. For those that dislike football then every channel, every newspaper and every conversation is about the thing they dislike. Football saturates everything as they are easy ratings to be made, easy units to shift and easy money to be made. The average non-football fan must endure this, and they have my sympathies. Honestly, they do. I may not agree with your opinion but I'll fight to the death for you right to express (to paraphrase someone). I can find a similar case, well two at least.

These are the programmes that I dislike and do not understand but the whole god damn world seems to love. I am talking about 'The X Factor' and 'Britain's Got Talent' (and 'Glee' but more of that in a later post). These shows exist to make Simon Cowell richer than God and to make the music industry more tedious and to make stars of desperate nobodies. When they are on everything becomes about them, and I feel alienated and bored of it all. Just like, I imagine, the
non-football fan.

The problem I have with both these shows is that they are always the same. Every series, every episode. They sing the same songs, do the same key change three quarters through and have the same sob stories. The fact that the judges on these shows include totally ridiculous choices as Danni Minouge - she is only interesting as she has bigger breasts than her much more famous, talented and prettier sister. Plus Kylie is a trooper. She has not had a really good pop career so what the feck does she know? About anything? At all. Her best song was 'Put the Needle on it' and that's only because it is a rubbish innuendo.

In BGT as it is known in text speak or by the retarded they have that other one, Amanda Holden, I mean she, again, is a mind boggling choice. Her only talent was lying underneath Niel Morrissey enough times to send Les Dennis mental on Celebrity Big Brother.

Since I live near Lucan I cannot go too far without seeing something related to Jedward. I have never seen them sing, but they are almost everywhere. I resent the fact that I know who they are when I have tried my best to avoid anything X Factor related. I once said that they would be pretty high up on my list of people I would like to see pulled apart with Horses and Chains . And I stand by it, I would even volunteer to drive the horses.

So even though I do love the World Cup I understand if you do not and I can sympathise with your boredom. Now, if you don't like the World Cup or X Factor/ BGT then you are boned!

Updates ya ya ya

2010-06-10T10:42:00.000-07:00

Hi, I know it's been a whole lotta time since we last spoke. That is due to me being consumed with exams, and then failing them. Meh.

With the World Cup fast approaching there will be some more posts, some football related but the most not. So, if you have missed these posts relax and fear ye not.

Alternatively, for shits and gigs, if you can think of anything you would like to see on here (up to and including a new author) then post a comment and I will do my best. Or bathe in the light of mediocrity that is life.

The Question of Fundamentals

2010-04-27T14:55:00.001-07:00

In the news the other day, well more specifically ‘The Freethinker’ website, was a small story about a man being given a two year suspended sentence for a religiously motivated “crime”. ‘The Freethinker’ and ‘Atheist Ireland’ jumped on this and labelled it as “Britain’s Blasphemy Laws”.

What had happened is Harry Taylor, who describes themselves as a “militant atheist”, placed religious cartoons in the prayer room of Liverpool’s John Lennon Airport. These were seen by the vicar who administers that particular room and offended them. The cartoons themselves were from ‘Private Eye’ and one depicted Jesus on the Crucifix next to the adhesive No More Nails. Quite funny, I suppose.

The National Secular Society claimed that these laws were dangerous and allowed for “every extremist” to “persecute and prosecute” those that disagree with them and there interpretations of some old books.

‘The Freethinker’ is an atheist journal; the ‘National Secular Society’ is obviously anti-religious as is ‘Atheist Ireland’. They all come to this story from a rather obvious vested interest. And one can argue that Harry Taylor’s right to Free Speech are being hindered as is his Right to Religious Belief (or lack of) but what of the people who use this room for Prayer? What of their right to Religious Belief and there right not to be offended or targeted? I have spent many hours – many, many hours – in John Lennon Airport and never noticed there was a prayer room, nor have I ever been forced to go inside and have a little pray.

Harry Taylor justified his actions by saying that John Lennon was an atheist so that he would not approve of a prayer room inside a building baring his name, and image, to which the motto is “above us only sky”. How can a building be invested with the beliefs and ideals of a dead man? The room serves a functional purpose in a multi-faith society. The freedom to enter it if that is your inclination or to avoid it is something Lennon may have agreed with.

What Harry Taylor has done is force his own convictions and beliefs on to people. That is something that I dislike about some religious types. He has decided that everyone should follow his lead and think like he does. The comments on ‘The Freethinker’ website all go along with the “that’ll show the fundies” type of attitude. This is, I find, ironic.

My own atheism does not stem from an ardent hatred of the Church, or Islam or any religion. It comes from my own reasoning and is something I thought, and read about. My own atheism does not mean that I want to convert the world or that I see people with faith as moronic.

The irony is that the “militant atheist” is attacking Religion with all the fervour of someone who is a fundamentalist believer. Both try and bend the world to their own perceptions. Both believe their vision of the universe and of life is correct. To me some Atheists have replaced ‘The Bible’ with ‘On the Origin of The Species’ and replaced Christ with Richard Dawkins.

I dislike people forcing their opinions on me be they believers or not.

Some atheist commentators have used what is happening to the Catholic Church here in Ireland, and elsewhere, as an excuse for cheap publicity – Richard Dawkins and Christopher Hitchens saying that they would arrest the Pope, as he is not the head of an internationally recognised State he therefore does not have diplomatic immunity. Or as an excuse for saying “I told you so” to all who will listen. Priest’s abusing children and it is abhorrent but then again Parents have abused kids. Both destroyed the trust that was placed in them. Thousands of years ago it was acceptable, Juliet in ‘Romeo and Juliet’ was twelve. Abuse in any form, by anyone is wrong.

A lot of noise was made about the proposed Blasphemy Laws about to be enacted in Ireland. Where if one was sufficiently blasphemous then one would be hit with a €5,000 fine. It is more a symbolic law than one that would ever be prosecuted. But the idea of the law is to stop people criticising the established State Church in open. This is another form of ideas and beliefs being forced upon you. Granted we live in a predominately Catholic country but xenophobia and religious intolerance should not be made law.

Harry Taylor’s “Militant Atheism” could be the first step on a road strewn with pain and recrimination. Will we allow lack of belief to become as fractured and violent as belief?

It does seem that they are too few voices talking rationally and too many people talking utter nonsense. Atheists pride themselves on rational thinking, of saying “I have reviewed the information available and I choose not to agree”. Something that Harry Taylor doesn’t appear to have done.

The Dog Days

2010-03-15T14:19:00.000-07:00

Last week, Tuesday I think. The sky was sunny, my work computer was switched to the "on" position and I was quietly slapping the keyboard in the manner to which I was trained. All was calm and admin based. My spreadsheets were balanced, my tidy desk was woefully ignored. I was lost in a momentary bliss. As happy as one can be at work, unless you really love your job. Which I don't. I like my job, sure, but I do not know whether I am ready to declare my love for it. Unless, of course, it is time for a promotion then I am all about the spreadsheets and balance enquiries.

This silence, the perfect stillness, was shattered by my work phone ringing. I checked the number and recognised it to be the better half. She cannot ring my mobile as I have lost it, or, given it away to a Latvian stripper at my brothers stag do. I unhesitatingly answered.

"Hi babe" was my rather out moded call signature.

"Hi, I have found a friend" was a rather chirpy opening gambit from the future Mrs Me. I should, perhaps, explain. She had gone out to lunch with a friend to gossip, talk, drink some wine and generally unwind.
"You found a what?" confusion hit me like a light breeze.
"A friend. We went to the Hilton and this Boxer dog has come up to us and we're now friends"

"Is it a stray?"

"No, it looks quite well looked after. Won't leave us alone. I cannot leave it" which she couldn't do. As sure as Eggs come from Chickens it would have been run over and ruined a perfectly good car. She asked what to do. I suggested the Gardi, the vet and the park. She suggested bringing it home. I explicitly forbade this course of action. After all the evil cat would not like it. She may be evil but she is still scared of dogs. This information I shall use at a later date if she is still evil. I returned to my work thinking that that was that. About half an hour later my work phone rang. I answered, as per my telephone training. As it turns out it was a client. After I hung up the phone rang again. This time it was home. This time I was sure that it was just to say 'I found the owner and they were grateful and bought me a pint'. This self-delusion came crashing down as soon as I answered.

"I brought the dog home and need you to finish early to come home and help me" she sounded adamant. I could hear the dog slobbering in the back ground. I rushed home as per my instructions to find this:

It was massive. I never realised how big these dogs are. To put a comparable size to it, in the literary style of a metaphor. It was as big as a big Boxer dog. It jumped up on me and was all rather friendly. The cat, by the way, was locked in the bedroom hiding. We decided that we should take it to the vets. It was only round the corner and the vet is a nice man. Using a cardigan as a make shift lead we walked, or more accurately, was dragged to the vets. The vet looked him over, told us he was four or five years old, was in good condition and was not tagged. You should really tag pets, especially expensive pedigree ones. The vets do not keep dogs in over night as they whine and sometimes the owners don't bother picking them up at all. So bereft of any ideas, and with the DSPCA not answering the phones, we left the vets.

In my masculine decision making mode we went to the Guards. They, to put it frankly, did not want to know and more or less told us and the dog where to go. But, not actually where to go as the best they could offer was "118-50 it?". I mean seriously. So, we put the dog in the car and drive through the rush hour traffic to the DSPCA in Rathfarnham. I love my Sat-Nav. But it took about 45 minutes to get there. Once we got there it was shut. The only numbers advertised were the ones we were trying. So back to the vets. Here we meet a woman we a Boxer but with no space to hold it, she thought the Dog could be called Rocky but I don't think it was. It looked, if anything, like a Bob. She gave us a leash and suggested we go to the War Memorial Park as that is where Dog walkers go to walk dogs. A joke about Dogging fell on death ears. Shame, as I rather liked it. So we went to the park. And no one there. Here we met up with the woman again. The time was about 7:30 and it was dark. We met up with the woman again who gave us some dog food, and even though I was hinting rather unsubtly that the woman take the dog in, she explained that she couldn't. An 85 year old mother and a small garden prevented this.

Tat the dog would have to stay over with us was becoming very real. It loomed over us like a malting shadow. A malting, slobbering, bouncy, heavy breathing shadow.

We re-tried the numbers. Nothing. We decided to go door to door. Now, this would be OK if it wasn't for my near pathological fear or knocking on people's door and then having to talk to them. I don't even like ringing take aways. Five doors in and nothing. Some one saw it earlier but not an owner. We left our number at the pub. They made a sign: "BOXER DOG FOUND CALL etc".

We went to a house where a young man answered the door. He looked at me, looked at the dog, looked at me and then scratched his arm. He revealed one of those Celtic band tattoo's around his right upper arm. We explained the situation and thankfully, if I had religion I would be praising the appropriate Deity. He took our number and took the dog. I was worried that we had left the dog with a random man, the episode of Father Ted where the eponymous Ted had to get rid of a shed load of Rabbits and goes and sees that mental one with the "I shot JR" T shirt that wants to put them into a Vice. But my fears we assuaged once I had a pint. And then back home. We had the dog for a total of 4 hours. Wasted a load of credit and load fuel. The back seat of the car is covered in hair.

I went to work the following day and the missus spent three or four hours on the phone. The owner had rang the DSPCA who had rang us, then the owner rang us and picked the dog up. Apparently it had gotten free in the morining and ran down the Old Kylemore Road and accross several main roads. And what did we get? Nothing. What did we give the nice lady who helped us out from the goodness of her heart. Nothing. So a moral? If there is one, is simple. Don't let a dog die on the roads. But don't take it in. Chip your pets and don't do anything for anyone as you won't get anything.

Death Poems

2010-03-02T11:37:00.000-08:00

In Japanese culture it is customary for some Zen Monks, and other people, to write a poem before the moment of death. It was part of the ritual suicide, or Seppuku, where an aristocrat would write a small poem, a waka or haiku.

The idea behind a Death Poem is to reflect on life, death and the transition between the two states. Especially if you are writing it just before suffering execution. In away it is similar to the last statement that some prisoners get before the chemicals are pumped or the bullets splits the air.

According to this site: http://www.quietspaces.com/deathpoems.html they would be left as present to loved ones and students.

From the above site here are a couple of examples:

"Senryu, died September 23, 1790, at 73:

Bitter winds of winter --
but later, river willow,
open up your buds.

Hosshin, 13th century wrote:

Coming, all is clear, no
doubt about it. Going, all is
clear, without a doubt.
What, then, is all?

Kozan Ichikyo, died February 12, 1360, at 77. A few days before his death, he called his pupils together, ordered them to bury him without ceremony, forbidding them to hold services in his memory. After writing this poem on the morning of his death, he lay down his brush and died sitting upright.

Empty-handed I entered
the world
Barefoot I leave it.
My coming, my going --
Two simple happenings
That got entangled.
Senryu, died June 2, 1827
Like dew drops
on a lotus leaf
I vanish."

The waka form of poetry, specifically the Tanka consists of a series of lines with restricted "sound phrases", if this is Anglicised then the sound phrases become syllables. The syllables are then arranged as: 5-7-5-7-7 in its most rudimentary form. So, you could change the numbers of syllables around I am sure. But like a haiku, or a Shakespearean/ Italian Sonnet I think the technique is the interesting barometer. As much as I love blank verse poetry which allows the author to throw anything at the page, I think the constraints can be interesting. I will endevour to get some of my own on here in due course.

I hate my Cat

2010-02-23T12:13:00.000-08:00

Yeah, she is cute, some would say that she is a very nice cat. But she isn't. She is pure evil. Pure unadulterated evil. How? I hear you all spontaneously ask. Well here is how:

She always attacks me - not the missus - just me. At random. Fucking thing.
She meows to go out and then immediately meows to be let back in, as soon as I sit down. Fucking thing.
She broke MY FUCKING SPITFIRE CUP! I am British and as a result I like the Spitfire plane, "never has so much..." and so forth and she broke it. It was a big cup which could fit about a cup and a half of tea in it. I like tea, now I have to drink a normal amount of tea like a Pleb.
She knocked my Nigella Lawson (beautiful, beautiful Nigella) on the floor which lead up to her BREAKING MY FUCKING SPITFIRE CUP.
She fucks with the blinds, that is just annoying. Fucking thing.
She opens the doors, normally when I am half asleep. Which is annoying.
She tries to escape and then returns straight away. Make your mind up you damn thing.
SHE BROKE MY SPITFIRE CUP I LIKED THAT CUP, REALLY LIKED THAT CUP.
She has no alligence to any football team
She contributes literally NOTHING to the household budget, she is a drain on resources more than anything.

She is evil but if she falls asleep on you then you do end up forgiving her. Until she bites you inexplicably. Which happens quite a bit. I am a victim. That is the real tragedy in all of this, I am the victim. Never would have happened if we would have got a dog.

The Horror, The Horror

2010-02-09T10:44:00.000-08:00

I was innocently watching Eastenders with the Missus last night when my eyes were bombarded by Natalie Cassidy. I dislike her intently. She looks like someone skull fucked a kipper.

Also I dislike Kerry Katona and her yo-yo weight gain and loss, she must have a fuck load of cardboard cut outs of her looking fat and miserable. And then buy a fuck load of pies in order to put it back on again. I also dislike her. She is the human equivalent of that fluff that gathers down the back of the sofa, it serves no purpose and reminds you of absolutely nothing good.

I would put a picture of them up but I don't want to.

Ok here it is:

Romantic Limerick

2010-02-04T11:00:00.001-08:00

Since it is nearly Valentines day, here is a romantic limerick. I love ye baby.

I met a girl who was Scouse
She let me put my hand under her blouse.
We went on a date
It all went great,
Now she won't fuck off out my house.

Vampire books etc

2010-02-04T09:47:00.000-08:00

As a present my newly married older brother bought me the complete Stookie Stackhouse novels. They have recently been turned into the excellent TV show "True Blood" - which was written by the quite frankly fantastic Alan Ball (not the dead ginger footballer, someone else) he also wrote one of the best shows to come from America in the last ten years "Six Feet Under".

And since she was in it, and I appreciate her aesthetics qualities, here is a picture of Lauren Ambrose who was in "Six Feet Under".
Any way, back to the books. Written by Charline Harris, who looks like this:

Don't know why but I didn't think she would look like this. But she looks happy and she is at a signing and she is signing a book so I would imagine more than one person turned up. So she is popular.

I have just finished the first book, "Dead until Dark", all the titles have the word dead in them. As Vampires are dead. So they are based on a firm grasp of logic. I have to admit that I was sceptical about whether or not I would like these books. As I thought they were targeted firmly towards women. Like Twilight. But I have read it, as previously hinted, and it is really good. The characterisation is immersing, especially given the fact that it is a first person narrative. However, rather cleverly, Harris has given her protagonist - Sookie - mind reading abilities which allows the reader to temporarily to hijack their internal monologues. Which usually run as an italicised stream of consciousness.

The plot basically revolves around the romance between Sookie and a Vampire named Bill. Vampires came "out of the coffin" two years ago when the Japanese invented a synthetic blood which Vampires find as nutritious as human blood. And there is a killer on the loose. Not saying who it is, unless you have seen the show then you'll already know. So after Jason has killed three of four waitresses Bill fights him in a really exciting finale.

But this got me thinking of the comparisons between this series and the other famous Vampire love story. Namely that piece of shite that is Twilight. Both feature lonely marginalised women in love with dangerous romantic type outsiders. But if Twilight is aimed at the teen market and is a way of making teenager stay celebate before marriage. You could argue that the Twilight series is such a success because it captured the Vampire zeitgeist and the lovers are, due to ones mortality, ultimately doomed. Like Romeo and Juliet they are meant to be opposites, like Peter and Katie they are divided by culture, but like these two they must be doomed. Now I have not read them so they may end up living forever together in a semi-detached in a suburb of a major town. Probably not.

Regeneration

2010-01-04T14:28:00.001-08:00

Like the Doctor or a football manager changing teams, this site has changed. It is all jazzy and sleek. More posts soon, but lets all bask in the blogs "glowing warming glow" (Simpson, Homer)

"Blasph for me, Blash for you, Blasph for everybody"

2010-01-02T03:02:00.000-08:00

The new anti-Blasphemy law came into effect yesterday. A person can be fined €25,000 if it is proven that they were Blasphemous with intent to cause offense. Even though Freedom of Speech is constitutional it must be imperative to protect outdated and dangerous beliefs. It's depressing, though the Atheist Ireland website has published 25 atheist quotes, though for some reason the website isn't working for me. I cannot be the only one who finds that in the second decade of the second millennium people are still doing things such as this?

"The death of Dogma is the birth of Morality" Immanuel Kant

"Know then thyself, presume not God to scan
The proper study of mankind is man" Alexander Pope

A New Blog for Reading

2009-12-28T12:22:00.000-08:00

We've set up a virtual reading book club....
go to the blog join and get your book chosen NOW!!!!

www.thereadingodyssey.blogspot.com

The Results 2009.

2009-12-19T03:07:00.000-08:00

I was a little cheeky with the actual incorrect quotation, as it is one that is generally believed to be said but there is no proof that it was ever uttered by the person in question. And that quotation is:

Dramatic Drum Roll

"Let them eat cake" Marie Antoinette.

For a start Revolutionary France they would have eaten Brioche which is like a biscuit baked a few more times. Secondly, and more importantly it is believed to be Anti-Royalist propaganda (Simon Schama, "Citizens" and Ruth Scurr, "Robespierre: Fatal Purity"). At the time Marie Antoinette was unpopular for being Austrian and being embroiled in what was known as the Diamond Necklace Affair so she was an easy target. After the Revolution she was accused of abusing her children - without the benefit of that annoyingly pesky evidence. Louis XVI was executed and a few weeks later she was sent to the Guillotine. Her last words being, "pardon monsieur I meant no offence" as she accidently stepped on the executioners foot.

Sop there you go.

Because I didn't do it when it was all the rage

2009-12-13T06:16:00.000-08:00

A while back, long ago before anyone uttered the word Christmas or Daily Mail Christmas Party Scandal That Was More Like A Storm In A Tea Cup Than An Actual Scandal-Gate (all the best scandals have the suffix ''gate'' now a days), people put up ten facts and one lie. Some of the truths which were revealed were fer-nash-a-nating. Some of the lies were subtle as well. For example, I could see Various being scared of Parrots when she was a child. Especially the Norwegian Blue - just do not disturb it when it is pining for the Fjords!

Any way there was a point, and here it is:

I didn't do one as my life is essentially quite dull. Always has been and will most likely always be. I mean I am not like Tiger Woods. Though you wonder how he got a way with it for so long. He was probably complaining to his wife that he wasn't getting enough sex since the kid was born, and she in that empty threat way women use said, "find someone else then!" and he took her literally. But 10 women and 2 of them Porn Stars! If you are going to fuck up your life you may as well go nuts and do the best job you can. Any way, I didn't do a list and I won't but some people doubted me when I quoted Oscar Wilde on Friday ("The man who calls a spade a spade should be compelled to use one. It is the only thing he is fit for" - Oscar Wilde) it was suggested that I do a list of famous quotes and one will be a lie. A tad pretentious, yes. But you know, whatever.

1. "Christ died for our sins. Dare we make his martyrdom meaningless by not committing them"
- Jules Feiffer

2. "I love blinking, I do!" Helen, Big Brother

3. "Beauty is truth, truth beauty' - that is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know." - John Keats

4. "Regret. There is always Regret" Philip Larkin

5. "A truth told with bad intent beats all the lies you can invent" - William Blake

6. "About the time we think we can make ends meet, somebody moves the ends" Herbert Hoover

7. "I pity unlearned gentlemen on a rainy day" Lucius Cary, Viscount Falkland

8. "Computers are stupid. They can only give you answers" Pablo Picaso

9. "Let them eat cake" Marie Antoinette

10. "I go from a corruptible to an incorruptible Crown, where no disturbance can be, no disturbance in the world" Charles Stuart, King of England

So there you go, one of them is wrong. I will know if you google it as this site is loaded to the tits with spyware!!!*

* Not really.

The Exit is Lit

2009-12-09T14:12:00.001-08:00

The exit is lit
The words do not come
The words are impotent
The words do not come.
The exit is:

"My father and I used to play a game"
He would say:
"Son, you go hide"
So I ran off
A giddy kid
Ducked under table cloth
Made myself hid,
Though he never came.

Did you Daddy!
"Ach du, Ach Du"
Hanging around
Like a singular shoe
Did you?

Alone I would stay
As the light would fade
My father, ah, well
It's all lies.
If I ever hid
Or sank,
He would find me and
Pull me out
Place me back on the boat.

"For the first time ever
I don't understand my television"

Flicking the channels
Attention span narrows
We are tools for advertisers.

"J'accuse"
The vapid, reality sluts of nothing.

There is uniformity
In this banality,
A Dule tree can be made
From any tree -
This is real uniformity.

I close the curtains
To kill the Sun.
Comrade Duch paces the halls
As he makes additions
To his crowded walls.

Poetry

2009-12-07T15:01:00.000-08:00

I have decided I want to read some Dylan Thomas.

Suggestions

On the Tram

2009-11-19T12:45:00.000-08:00

I’m crammed on a tram
Stuck between three or four
Bags on the floor
As the rain pours through
The left hand side door.
The mass of men
Behind me sway and lean
Pushing me nearer
To a woman reading
Closer magazine.
She eyes me suspiciously
And I sway continuously.
I smile a weak smile
In order to apologise
And with her disapproving eyes
She returns to her page.
A cacophony erupts,
A chorus of coughs,
Over my shoulder
As the chances increases
Of catching seasonal diseases.
People push on
And fight to get off
Some men mutter almost mute
“Won’t you all just f**k off?”
We’re packed in tight
And off to my right
Some kids has his ipod
On too damn loud
So all that the crowd
Can hear is a tinny
Rendition of something
Quite dancy
Being blasted into his ear.
We get to a stop
And there is a rush to
Disembark with
People shoving, pushing,
Bobbing, weaving
Ducking, slipping
To step into the dark.
I have some space for
Rest of the way
And then I approach my stop.

Joan O'Flynn

2009-11-13T09:48:00.000-08:00

I heard the sad news that Joan, Drama Queen, passed away yesterday. I only knew her for the best part of this year. She was always encouraging of everyone in the group and will be sadly missed.

Because I haven't written anything in a while

2009-11-04T10:27:00.000-08:00

Something Silly

New Poem and no updates

2009-10-28T11:51:00.000-07:00

The man to the side of this picture was recently on Question Time. Some people said it was a cheap grab for ratings (they peaked at eight million people) the BBC claimed that it was in interest of fairness and imparitality. To be fair, it was an hour of people picking on Nick Griffin and making people feel sorry for him. Interesting historical footnote, Hitler got to power because the ruling classes underestimated him. Mmmm.

Anyway, on the back of this and the Stephen Gately post is another VAGUELY TOPICAL POST.

Dressed is shirts not brown but blue,
Hate only ever changes its hue,
Collar undone, tie hanging awkwardly loose,
Fixed grin shining off new shoes.

Students shouting slogans outside again,
Arm links, human chains with a friend;
Reflective jackets blocking black gates
They are equal only in their hate.

Suave, sophistication
Masking solipsism,
Panel pointing fingers
To garner audience opinion.

The disaffected, the bored,
The forgotten, the ignored,
All line up to sign a Protest vote,
As He promises what other suits wont.

This is the danger of grubbing for ratings
To allow prejudice its space for ranting,
To give it a platform and to call it equal
By legitimising the backward and evil.

But, in the end, when he is in power alone
We can all stand, conform, and admit
The massacre on the streets
Started with ignorance in the home.

-Also in the interest of fairness and all that crap. Jan Moir apologised for any offence caused and said that there was no homophobic intent. There was, but meh.

I don't normally complain...

2009-10-16T18:16:00.000-07:00

The "newspaper" The Daily Mail (who supported the British facist Oswald Mosely back in the 1930's) has published an article about the tragic death of Stephen Gately. It is here: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-1220756/A-strange-lonely-troubling-death--.html

Now, first and foremost. THE only thing that should be said when someone aged 33 years of age dies, is that it is a tragedy. No matter if you was a fan of his music, or if you agreed with his lifestyle choices. It is a tragic, tragic event. That is all that should be said. If some homophobic, misguided, desperate woman wants to make money on the back of his death it is pathetic.

A better response than anything I could do is by Charlie Brooker: http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2009/oct/16/stephen-gately-jan-moir

It is interesting to note that this article did not appear in the IRISH EDITION OF THIS NEWSPAPER. Draw whatever conclusions from that as you want.

I know that I wrote, Super Nova, which criticised elements of the deaths of other celebrity's. And people are free to get offended by that. I have no problem with that, my argument is that I disliked the way they prostituted themselves in their final days. It was not a homophobic attack, it was not bigoted and hateful.

Stephen Gately came out as Gay when he was in a successful boy band - he was one of the first to do so. So what if he was pressured into doing it by someone threatening to "out" him. That took considerable bravery. And it should be admired. Who knows how many confused, scared or worried young men his announcement helped. How many countless men took solace in the fact that they were not alone and that they could be accepted. Would Will Young have come out if he didn't? Would any of the other popstars?

The Daily Mail article just helps to reinforce the idea that homophobia isn't a bad thing. The idea that because someone is of a different sexual orientation then they are a bad person, that they are "sleazy". Why? Because he was homosexual? Because he new Elton John? Because he was married to a man?

If I died tonight of the same thing would that be all right because I live with a woman? As Charlie Brooker said, linking this passing with the death of Matt Lucas' partner - who took his own life, who posted on Facebook: "death is better than living", so that it can show how unnatural and futile civil partnerships are is wrong. Simple as that. It is wrong. Could I get away with writing that "a white woman and a Black man/ Asian man/ Indian man is a myth". No I would rightly be called a racist and because I have selected decent friends I would be ostracised, and rightly so.

The whole article is abhorent, it is dangerous and it is moronic.

As I said earlier, things like this lead people to tell homophobic jokes, heard one already, and to hold opinions that are backward. He did not die because of "The wages of Sin" nor because Civil Partnerships are fundementally flawed. The divorce rate amongst hetrosexuals in America is roughly 40% + so is that not FUNDEMENTALLY FLAWED!

The British Press Compliants Commission (PCC) will not do anything becasue the thousands of complaints lodged are third party and not from Gately's direct family. And by only publishing it in the UK this means that his mother does not have to read it. She should, if not only to get this hateful woman fired and blacklisted.

This paper has always been a shit-rag and now it has sunk to a new low. Never read The Sun and Fuck The Daily Mail.

The Beat My Heart Skipped

2009-10-15T11:52:00.000-07:00

This is an awesome song

Supermarkets

2009-10-11T07:56:00.000-07:00

Cow people patrol supermarkets,

Slowly shuffling

Filthy fat feet with

Glass blank stares.

Hungrily they eye

Each item down the aisles.

Pushing processed packages

Into packed baskets.

They chew minty fresh gum, like cud,

Mouths opening slowly,

Drooling absent minded

Down dirty T-shirts.

Greasy lank hair

Tide taught lying on

Clothing not covering the

Stretching tattoos on their back.

The sweat on their skin

Shines under halogen lights,

An image of the consumer consuming

In a mass market setting.

Because Various is clevererer than I

2009-10-04T10:26:00.000-07:00

Here is my guest on Niamh's show:

http://www.mediafire.com/?ttijwhlmwjx

Yay her

Updates

2009-09-29T13:56:00.000-07:00

I am trying to get the Sunday Scrapbook Show, starring Various and supported by me, online for those that have missed it - or enjoyed my fast paced nervous renditions of some of my poems. And my fantastic attempt to sound clever but saying "singer songer" as a new form of artistic movement. And would you like to relive the short history of Burnley I gave. I would.

Well I am trying to make it in to a movie and then split it into six parts, whack it on Youtube and then slap it on here. And all the while attempting to write something new for group and for Glor.

In the meantime I am scouring the earth, Facebook, for guest Bloggers and persuading Dan to do another post, but on what? Suggestions?

If anyone noticed that I put up a Blog sometime over the weekend and then it promptly vanished, like a blogging version of Lord Lucan or Richey James. The reason I took it down was simply the draft was funnier than the end product. We strive for, and more often than not miss, perfection.

The land of Honey and Cheese or Daniele Simoni's blog post

2009-09-21T10:31:00.000-07:00

Due to laziness and a desire to widen the scope of my world view, I will start to have guest bloggers. And yes, I did steal the idea from DO.

The intention is to widen the scope of this blog, to bring in different ideas other than my own idiosyncratic view. It is to look at the familiar with a different set of eyes and to see something new in the staleness.

First to post is Daniele Simioni and his blog about Dante’s Inferno. Dan is Italian, about five foot odd and a former flat mate of mine.

Also, in other news it is my Polish Name Day so everybody sing ‘Sto Lat’.

Inferno

Being Italian the word “poem” soon recalls La Divina Commedia by Dante Alighieri. Some info: The Comedy is one of the greatest epic poems of the Medieval Literature and it describes the journey of the protagonist through the afterlife, this intended in the Roman Catholic terms of Hell, Purgatory and Heaven, or as we say in Italian: “Inferno”, “Purgatorio” and “Paradiso”.

As a student, and an adult, I have always found the Inferno to be the most interesting of the three: this is because of the humanity which it expresses. All of the sufferings and the stories told are genuinely part of the universal human experience. The first place Dante walks through is the Limbo, where all the people who died un-baptized are. This is not a place of sufferings but it is a place of sighs, where neither happiness nor sadness is really known. Souls live in the constant hope of being saved by God. This is the place where the major figures of Poetry and Philosophy of the pre-Christian era can be found from Homer, Aristotle, Plato, Ovid and Seneca and many others.

Regardless, what are the moral implications of this stage of the Inferno? I believe that the Limbo stage is a paradigm of our society. We live in the society of knowledge, where science and technology replaced literature and philosophy. What does this mean? We are still looking for the truth, whatever the shape of it can be. We are still pushing our boundaries towards places where we hope we will find the light that can lead us all. In the final instance the need that few of us have of writing Poetry is an expression of it; this is the need that gives us the opportunity to discover ourselves and to be who we are meant to be. It is a constant tension towards the unknown.

We don’t accept any given answer: believing in God as it is described by Religions is a comfort zone, let’s get out of it.

In this respect, does it make sense to profess ourselves Atheist, Christian or anything else? And most importantly why every time I am with Matt watching Burnley play I assist to a massacre?

Football, Football, Football

2009-09-12T04:41:00.000-07:00

Today it is Burnley, my beloved team, play my missus team.

So it is:

Burnley Football Club

Versus

Liverpool.

Those Left Behind

2009-09-07T08:56:00.000-07:00

This is a transcription of the poem I read out on Various' Radio show at the weekend (thanks Various for letting me on BTW).

I am looking into getting the show itself on here. But, I just need the technical know how. Well, my mate to tell me how.

Those Left Behind

What do you say about a man you hardly knew?
But in your span was in view
At family events or with my Dad for a Sunday brew.

What do you say about a man who hardly knew you?
But knew enough to swipe
At the arrogence of academics and youth.

What do you say when he's not there?
Those left behind are never prepared
And stories of his youth don't relate.

What do you say when you don't want to go
But seven days later
You have a box on your shoulder?

What do you say to those younger?
Who have seen death but need closure,
When all you can offer is a stronger shoulder.

When in the silence of the viewing room
And the buzz of the lights and the shell you hardly knew
Lies there still, questioning you – what do you say?

What do you say to your distraught father
When you have shed no tears
And you won't because you ought to.

What do you say when standing at the front
Lines and rollers and fires burning the nape
But you cannot think of a damn word to say.

What do you say to a man you hardly knew?
Sorry, but you was there
Without ever actually being there wasn't you?

When memories are mentioned,
When times and friendships and loves
Are anecdotes and fables?

When “I'm sorry” is empty.
When you search for meaning
And find nothing.

When relatives grieve
And you just want to leave.
But, you cannot and you will not.

Better Politics

2009-09-05T01:07:00.000-07:00

Apparently, most politicians are scum on the make... who knew? Not me but I pay little attention to anything. However, some people don't. Some people still believe they can make a difference and change things.

This site I stumbled on, www.betterpol.com, aims to do just that. It is mainly British in its political orientation but its principles are, sadly, universal. If you join then you can complain about the Irish, American, Zimbabwean or European parliaments.

Old Poems

2009-08-26T13:14:00.000-07:00

I was looking through some stuff and stumbled across some old poems, probably about six years old as I was doing my under grad when I wrote them. An excuse? Possibly.

Fat Porn Stars

Fat Porn stars
What's the point?

When nothing achieves
The purpose designed.

Like so much dead time
Floating as we drown

In what we make
And what we are.

Overweight they fake
Every intimate aspect.

This soulless vacuum
Of watching suffocates.

They are not female,
They just are.

You are not male,
You just are.

This is not real
Like hookers under bridges,

You wonder why the do
What they do

As you sweat and writhe
They think the same about you!

-Also, as an added extra -

It's not that if I told you everything
You wouldn't understand
As I am sure you would be comforting

It's not that if I laid myself bare
You wouldn't lend a hand
It's just I don't think you would care.

Due to a lack of poems

2009-08-21T17:53:00.001-07:00

something silly

Adverts, Perverts and Late Night rantings

2009-08-21T17:14:00.000-07:00

First off, I know that I said that this would be primarily a poetry blog but it is my blog and I can run amok if I so wish. And, wish I so.

I was watching the TV and on came that new Diet Coke advert, the one with the not overly attractive women on it. Where the woman opens the pickle jar (I see what they did there, they inverted the normal stereotype of men being only good to open jars and run errands, ha ha ha die) and then some bird fucking up the pictures on her wedding day as if to say she doesn't take the whole thing seriously. That it is something that she doesn't want to do. Now call me a misogynist but that is bull as women like all the attention. And for another reason IF YOU HAD JUST SPENT CLOSE TO TWELVE FUCKING GRAND ON A WEDDING YOU ARE NOT GOING TO FUCK ABOUT DURING THE PHOTOS AS MOST OF THEM ARE FOR ELDERLY RELATIVES WHO WANT TO REMEMBER, AND THEN FORGET, ONE DECENT MEMORY BEFORE THEY DIE! So that one is bullshit for a kick off. Plus even if she did do it to be "crazy" her new husband would look at her and call her a dick. And then have an affair... or something, I am not yet married so do not know how these things work. At the very least he would be put out. Then, then, you had some woman pressing her face, which looks like a bulldog being rimmed by a thistle (with poorly fitted braces), against the unusually clear windows of a boardroom as her friend gives some presentation, possibly on cake... or Aids... or the figures for Q4FY2009, I don't know. But, her friend finding it most amusing ruins the presentation and with that her promotion (which the presentation was relying on) and then her fella will have an affair or end up gay, again - I don't know how this works. Finally, you have a bar scene. And then something happens, something that would keep the man to the right (or left depending on your point of view) of this tripe happy. She, yes in a cunning and clever inversion of the sexualisation of the feminine by patriarchal system which controls, dictates and makes advertisements, she pinches a mans arse. Thus making him the sexualised object, therefore empowering the woman on the piss and reducing the formerly dominant masculine to the role of sexualised female!! What larks, but it gets better as not content with that they throw in some homophobia for good measure. As the pinchee, not the pincher, turns and sees a well dressed and stylish man - so obviously a homosexual or metrosexual man. Thus assuming that he has sexually molested him, they both look awkward and this empowers the lonely bint that did the pinching. If a man pinched a woman on the arse it would bring up the bad taste and memories of the Carry On or the Confessions of films and nobody wants that. Ever. Because the roles have been reversed and stereotypes inverted then it is ok. Almost as if Chalkie White was hilarious in concept. It wasn't.

But as it is not a man doing this things it cannot possibly be sexist. And as a caveat I was speaking to a woman (yes, it happens) and she said that she still faces a lot of objectification and is treated as "lesser" because of her gender, and this is equally deplorable. You cannot have one rule for one....

Oh, and well done to the Mighty Clarets for the wonderful mid-week win

A Poem for Home

2009-08-12T14:14:00.000-07:00

Disused factory chimneys
Penetrating the sky.
Their black smoke fertility
Now resting impotent.

They stand useless and erect
A symbol of former importance.
The hills roll to a halt behind them,
Canals that once fed stagnate.

My Grandfather
Photographed this whole town.
The history was his
Detailed in, now, discarded slides.

A reminder that all things
Are eventually lost.
Boarded up shops stand where
Those men in flat caps once did.

This concrete necropolis mirrors
The sky, an endless stretch of grey.
Abandoned cars are engulfed
In dancing orange flames.

The places my Father played
As a child have gone.
Tesco’s tarmac covering places
Lost to history, like a fading memory.

My childhood now
Almost forgotten,
Swallowed by this town
And spat out, rejected.

Lying sterile and ignored
In semi-detached suburbia.
Surrounded by sepia coloured gardens
Where I played bored and alone.

Before being consumed by
Temporary McJobs,
In featureless offices
That replaced workhouses.

Assimilated into binge drinking,
Culture praising narrow thinking,
BNP Posters line the streets,
As everyone else fell into

Everyone else’s beds.
I watched the TV instead.
Subtitles substituting as
A lazy form of modern literature.

Eddie Murphy's Career Choices

2009-08-11T13:43:00.000-07:00

make me sad.

BACK ONLINE YAY

2009-08-11T11:56:00.000-07:00

A while back, before the theft and loss of the Internet. I bemoaned my lack of self-discipline in finding new poetry, or at the least - modern. In my search; through a book I bought, at the back, down near the middle somewhere. I stumbled across:

http://www.archiveofthenow.com/

It has sound files of poets reading poetry. It appears to have been set up as a response, or addition, to the Poetry Archive (http://www.poetryarchive.org/poetryarchive/home.do) which is mainly canonical in nature.

Either way I like both of them. And in the end, that's all I really care about.

"I take so much and offer little in return"

2009-07-21T12:23:00.000-07:00

I take so much but offer little in
Return, but, then again doesn't everyone?
All things seem doomed before the begin.
You wake with the feeling you've been done.
Although, words that men say to their women
In the stillness and solitude of night
And the words that she will say back to him;
Offers, or seems to, something right.
A hope, a unity between two souls.
In this darkness many lights have been re-lit.
People, before they fall into the holes -
These self made holes fill'd with hate, doubt and shit.
They are together, not by the stars above
But are because of an enduring love.

Downtime

2009-07-13T03:45:00.000-07:00

Hi, how are ye? Good, good. Listen. What it is, right, what it is. Is this. I have rather limited access to the old internet so things here will be rather slow. I will and try and get an updated version of the sonnet up here sooner rather than later. And due to the controversy I have bowed to public opinion and changed it slightly. That will be up soon. Also, the second one - "Half Yearly Review" will be up once it has been improved.

Hope all is well,

Debt

2009-07-02T12:40:00.001-07:00

We, the dutiful emasculates,
Stifled under the growing
Interest rates and late payment fees,
Attached to Government approved
Remortgage and relending schemes
Shiver in the cold light of insolvency.
To me, the need, to break through to
The place beyond
The consolidated glass ceiling.
Somewhere without the demands
Of incessant scrimping and saving.

The apparatus of debt:
The bills, the calls,
The men in suits knocking on the doors,
Walking down halls,
Coming at dawn
Like a Financial Gestapo,
Don’t mean a thing
As the women on the other side
Of the call centre divide will
Agree a fee free payment plan
To get you back on your feet.
For a while at least.

But, we work, the hours
Pass and the salary
Is gratefully received
As we strain to believe
That after tax we can almost
Reach the idyll –
The solvency dream.
The Dàil takes more,
Two percent won’t hurt,
Unless your working class or poor,
But are we, you and me, love,
What are we?

Debt accrues debt
And they pile on each other,
You work to pay one
And then there is another,
It’s not that I am
Not happy.
Far from it really.

The Desire for the New

2009-06-29T10:51:00.000-07:00

I spent some time this weekend trying to re-engage with Poetry. Trying to rediscover the spark that lit my interest when I was sixteen, the initial rush of enthusiasm and awe I felt when I first picked up Larkin or Sexton or Plath or Keats. The same enthusiasm I had when I started off at Under Graduate level and took with me to Post Graduate studies.

In an attempt to rekindle this I picked up ‘Paradise Lost’ by Milton and started to go through it. I hadn’t even got passed the first book before I put it down. This is a book I read voraciously only two years ago. What has changed? I moved on to Shelley’s Prose (‘On Love’ and a ‘Defence of Poetry’), but retired them in favour of a Top Gear repeat and a cup of tea. I mention these not to be showy about my book shelf or to try and convince any one that I am particularly erudite or classically trained. The fact that I picked up these, and nothing from this century, says something. It highlights what I consider to be a problem for someone, like me, attempting to write in the “modern” era. I use the phrase “modern” as meaning simply, ‘up to date’ or ‘as is being written or performed currently’ and not as a reference to Modernism or Post-Modernism.

The problem as I see it is threefold.

Firstly, there is the danger of stagnation. A few years back I showed some work to Robert Sheppard, who told me that although “there is a talent there” that I was not very modern. And as a result the “work” and any potential progression would suffer. This was a critique I rejected out of hand, as a moody teenager is often wont to do. However, looking back I can see what he means. He wasn’t, as I originally thought, criticising what I was doing. He wasn’t telling me that I was garbage and should reconsider my “vocation”. He was merely stating the facts as he saw them. And at the present moment, a rather obvious fact. Because I did not heed this free advice, and I didn’t appreciate that fact that he had taken his time to read some poems slid under his door, my “work” suffered. It stagnated. It may have progressed in terms of theme and vocabulary but it was, and I feel still is, firmly rooted in the past. In the Larkinesque style of “blokes talking to other blokes in a pub”. And this stunting cannot be blamed solely on my decision not to take Creative Writing at under graduate level. It comes from my own stubbornness and the mistaken belief that I knew better than someone who has been working in, and for, Poetry since the 1970’s and has run several successful small print magazines. Also, his new book, “The Complete Twentieth Century Blues” is out now and I need to buy it when I have some spare money.

Secondly, with this stagnation comes the belief in ones own ability. Which is more often than not, totally mistaken. This was shown most clearly at the International Bar’s Open Mic Night a few weeks ago. The current guardian of the Open Mic Night, Stephen James Smith, is a poet of the Modern Era. He is what Modern Poetry should be. Accessible, funny and very talented. He learns the poems off by heart and apart from looking impressive it shows he absolute dedication to his art. He travels many miles gigging and getting his work “out there”. This is something I do not do. Nor is it something I would particularly want to do. For a number of reasons, chiefly that I find it terrifying and the old excuse, “Larkin did not need to”. But, “Ah” I hear you say “Larkin was a Genius”. I have started to enter competitions which I do not in all honesty expect to win, no false modesty, I just regret the choices I made in the submissions.
At the Lucan Creative Writers group they are some really good writers and poets. Some are award winners, or have been commended – which is almost as good. And I presume works as a great affirmation of ones own talent. These poets are again doing stuff that I could not do, one in particular has a knowledge of form and of the technical aspects that puts me to shame. They are forward facing poets, though they do seem to reflect the past in that they understand the past and move onwards. They are like Janus, where as I am the woman who looked back as Gomorrah burned. This lack of knowledge, on my part, is endemic of the lack of spark I feel at the moment. I need to get reacquainted with theory. But not classical theory, modern interpretations and modern ideas. As one of my tutors complained during my MA (not to me thankfully) “No one is using critics that are still alive”. How can you move forward with both feet and hands in the past? This leaves any belief that what I am doing is right for me at the moment baseless. It only highlights the fact that I am out of touch. I am regurgitating familiar styles.

Thirdly, I have not developed my own poetic voice. The journey to this place, this absolute individuality. A poetic Nirvana. Is different for everyone who picks up a pen or sits at an empty word processing document. To hark back to Larkin, he spent much of his Juvenile years copying Hardy. Keats spent most of his brief career alluding to, and copying, Spencer. Wilfred Owen only found his voice whilst he was recuperating from Shellshock and met Siegfried Sassoon. And so forth, and so on ad infinitum. But these examples are at best a slight digression. It was explained more eloquently than I can by one of the writers in Lucan. “Each poet has a poetical mentor” this is someone they look to in order to inform their own writing and form their own poetical self. This process is evolutionary; you start of as a simple organism – writing because you enjoy it. Then you develop style, structure and then finally – much like the Ape standing on its hind legs and using tools – you have your own voice. But like your own genetic code, you bare resemblance to those that have gone before. Be it a familial nose, or a particular turn of phrase. It is a level of foolishness to say that once I find “my voice” I will rekindle what is at the moment eludes me. However, since I am not reading new Poetry, or even enough Poetry, this development is stagnating.

However, as I have previously stated I do not believe that I should disregard the old poets that piqued my interest in the Art form. There will always be a place for them. And a lot can still be gained from reading them, just not in isolation. I have used myself as exclusively as an example, and this form of self criticism is essentially egocentric. But I believe that any artist, successful, emerging or at whatever stage cannot write in either a vacuum or with their eyes drawn only backwards.

So, what next? Give up? Hardly ever likely to be an option. I must, as a matter of urgency, start to scour bookshops, the internet and journals for something new. The slightly exciting prospect of this is that I can gain new insight and discover new styles and poets and re-ignite the passion that I once had. I can reformulate long standing poetical beliefs and theories; I can critical asses my own Poetical vision (for what it is). As Confucius said, “the journey of a thousand miles must start with a single step”.

Any suggestions, negative or positive, are as always welcome.

Disapointments

2009-06-26T17:25:00.000-07:00

I suppose I should start off by saying something about Michael Jackson. Shame, was a lonely and troubled man. There I contributed to the massive out pouring of grief that has consumed us all again. The very people who called him a pervert now mourn him. Whatever. Fuck ye all.

I went to Marco Pierre Whites Steakhouse on Dawson Street tonight, would attach a link but you have access to Google and I am not here to spoon feed you. Was slightly disappointed with the meal, the service was good. And the steak was good, it is difficult to mess up steak. But it could have been warmer. I was just left non-plussed by it all. Which is a shame, also, what size ego must one have to paste a rather unattractive photo of yourself, everywhere.

Also, I have been busy, I saw Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen. It is OK. Bit too long and, well, kinetic. It was all right and Megan Fox is stunning. But a pretty lady doth not a movie make (unless it is porn but that is a side (t)issue). I would recommend it as it is perfect popcorn fodder, not much plot or point but plenty of robots and bangs. Depends on what you look for.

The night is drawing in, and Michael Jackson is on almost every TV channel. What an effect on schedules a mere mortal can have. Fuck, Ben has just come on - possibly the highest placed single about a Rat. I might be wrong, but I doubt it.

Changed channel and some shite called Steel Panther is on. Jesus they suck.

Anyway...

Things I Want To Do Before I Die!

2009-06-19T10:56:00.000-07:00

I like to make pointless lists. Useless collections of information and half arsed opinions based on nothing in particular. Today, for no reason other than I am waiting for my tea and want to add a particular picture. Here, is the list of things "I Want To Do Before I Die" but probably won't. Laziness is a helluva mistress.

In no particular order, except for numerical, here it is:

I want to be on 'Come Dine With Me'. I am obsessed with the show, it is pure awesomness. I want Dave Lamb to narrate my life and I want people to judge me on cookery - even though I cannot cook for shit. I am useless, I assemble food - poorly.

I want to shoot Katie Price

I want to prove how much of an unsufferable arse Bono is

That is all, but point one is the crucial one.

And here is the image, awesomeness.

Stephen James Smith's Open Mic Night at the International Pub... Downstairs in the lounge

2009-06-16T09:32:00.000-07:00

Late last night, in a drunken haze, I sat at this old laptop. Reflecting on the evening, the music, the poetry, the ambiance and the whole point behind Open Mic nights.

Stephen James is an engaging host, rattling of poems from the depths of his mind, creating an atmosphere where even the most shit scared amateur can feel comfortable.

If I went through the acts one by one I would miss someone out. I would also probably be offensive unintentionally. The guy who played the banjo was awesome, would not have expected that voice from that man, sort of like the singer Anastasia.

There was the first poet, who read out four or five short poems, had a rather fantastically sculpted beard - not unlike Craig David.

This one guy, who dressed like a Teddy Boy made everyone applaud his girlfriend/ wife/ carer. But the sentiment of the poems was powerful all the same, even if he did elongate the last syllable of his line endings.

I did some of my own stuff and was shitting bricks, I did an anti religion one and wasn't glassed or stoned as a heretic, so I was rather pleased about that. It is difficult to judge your own performance, so I won't.

Various recited a poem from scratch, which fair fucks to her (to steal a Lancashire-ism) I couldn't do it.

Another singer did an interesting version of "Don't You Want Me Baby". And I suppose that is the point, as Stephen himself says, "to create a place where people can express themselves safely". Even if ye never perform or are like me totally tone deaf you should attend.

Anyways, I am off.

Breakfast Tastes Like Dwarf

2009-06-14T05:07:00.000-07:00

Firstly, I am lucky enough to be put on the bill for the open Mic night at the International Bar on Wicklow street. Everyone should attend, even if you live miles away.

I am reading three poems, I know which ones I will read. Although, one of them (see below) I am slightly worried about. Mainly, due to its relative freshness, having only wrote it on Friday night. The subject matter, my lack of Faith, is sometimes offensive. However, I do not believe that Poetry or Art should ever pull any punches and should not be afriad to offend. It should say what needs to be said. Poets after all are "the unacknowledged legislators of the World".

The image is by Matthias Grünewald, it is a striking image. Even though I am scepitcal whether or not Christ existed at all (yes, I know that you can never find his body as it, like his mother Mary, was assumed into Heaven) but that doesn't relate to the power of the image. It is a striking account of Christ's humanity and the suffering "he", and countless millions of other people guilty and innocent alike were subjected to.

Anyway, the poem:

Thoughts Relating to the Ryan Report

The wreckage of the human condition

Is caused largely by

The blinded fools who cliam vision

Into this lie.

Yet they say that it will prove a comfort

To me when loved ones start to die,

Faith, they say, will prove a fort

A place of sanctuary where I,

In my ireligiosoty, can safely hide

Free from that specific type of pain,

And the ebbing and flowing of the tide.

Free from hatred, persecution, shame.

But to gain this I have to hand over

Myself completely, to something terribly proscribed

Like a returning former lover

Swallowing more than just pride.

Morrissey may have forgiven Jesus,

And by extension - Religion.

But, I can't. It's like a shot to the solar plexus,

Where good ideas are fucked by bad intentions.

It starves "possessed" children,

It tears the labia of girls,

It throws rocks at students,

It simply kills.

It causes you to hate me,

And me to hate you,

It causes you to dictate

Everything I should do.

And if you don't fit

Then your not worth shit,

And they'll fill your head with shame,

Regret and Sin.

It was created by Man,

In order to keep the poor

Weak and the strong in control,

To keep women subjugated.

It stones women,

It hangs homosexuals,

It arranges angry lynch mobs

It scams money for TV evangelicals.

There is no heaven,

There is no hell,

There is no god,

There is only Nature.

All the wreckage of the

Human condition

Is caused by this lie.

Bank Holidays and Manic Street Preachers

2009-06-07T09:23:00.000-07:00

I suppose there is a time in every mans life when instead of being in a pub, or being drunk, or staring at a blank wall when he finds himself in Homebase making decisions on Pot Plants. This was me on the last Bank Holiday weekend. As normal men were pushing trollies full of crap behind focused looking women. The women dart from aisle to aisle picking things up, inspecting them and then replacing them. The men follow like herded sheep. Until some kid starts screaming his head off and you snap back and are asked about something or other. I hate Garden Centres.

But thankfully me, the Better Half would rather drink on sunny days so it was only brief. Still hate them though

Went to see the Manic Street Preachers live mid-week and they were immense. Bought a T-Shirt and couldn't hear for most of the day after. Good gig.

She'd Walk On Broken Glass For Love

2009-05-31T03:29:00.000-07:00

So we won, a cracker of a goal by Wade Elliot and some "Alamo" style defending. Even though Sheffield United seemed determined to play the long ball and then fall over when approaching the box. But we are there, in the promised land, the Barclays Premier League.

Went for a run yesterday and this caused my ankle to swell and then that meant I couldn't play out last night.

Watching "The Assasination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford", long film, long title. It is quite good though.

I did have a longer post planned, one in which I would talk about Poetry and Poetics, but like so many other things it will have to wait. Besides, if you read the Defense of Poetry by Shelley or the prolouge to Lyrical Ballads by Wordsworth it is all there anyway. Why say anything if someone has said it so much better before.

Play Off Finals

2009-05-25T03:31:00.001-07:00

Burnley play Sheffield United, kick off 3 pm.

I am consumed with a mixture of optimism and nerves. This has been, no matter how today ends, the best season I have ever seen. We were two minutes from the Carling Cup Final after coming back from 4-1 down to Spurs, we got to the Quarter Final of the FA cup. We beat Fulham, Spurs, West Brom, Aresnal and Chelsea. We showed grit and some sublime moments of flair to beat Reading in the Play-Off semi finals.

We have played 60 games this season, that is six less then Man U! And we have used less players than anyone else in the Football League!

It is not an over-estimate to say that this game is the richest one in the world, as the winners will get about £60,000,000 pounds in TV Revenue, sponsership deals, parachute payments, final placing prize money and more people pushing their way through the turnstiles.

All of this and I am in Dublin, not South London, watching it on the TV instead of at Wembley. I went the last time we made the play-off final in 1994, but cannot afford to make it now. Not to worry, I have a hot line set up to my brother in Burnley, all major incidents and troubles will be discussed.

But if the worst happens, and we don't win. I will still say that this has been the best season I can remember and I have the feeling we will get promoted to the promised land of the top flight football next year!

New Poem and other thougths.

2009-05-18T06:54:00.000-07:00

Firstly, I should be cleaning. I am off work as my ankle is buggered but I have an impending parental visit, so I must clean. Cannot have my mother in a dirty house, what will she tell my brothers? Probably: "Matt's house is nice, but he couldn't even be arsed cleaning."

Secondly, Journal for Plague Lovers came out today and it is a really, really good album. Not a patch on The Holy Bible but it would sit comfortably between that and Everything Must Go. I like it and will inflict it on anyone foolish enough to come to my house or step in my car.

Thirdly, before I clean. Honestly, I have all the paraphernalia just need the application. But, to this poem. I do not think that one should spend too much time explaining poetry as it is all about personal response. How the words effect you and how the sounds roll through your mind. However, I feel I should explain it somewhat.

I grew up in a small former Mill town in Lancashire. It sits somewhat awarkwardly between Blackburn, Preston and Manchester. It is the kind of town that is far more pleasing to leave than to return to. It is dominated by Pendle Hill, the tallest and most domineering of the Pennines. Also, in the sixteenth century several poor, elderly women were excused of withcraft and hung. So the Hill becomes a Halloween hotspot for people with a mistaken belief in the afterlife.

In the late 90's, 1999 to be precise, a series of violent riots between the town's White and Asian communities erupted and became newsworthy. They were not riots in isolation as Bradford had race riots. However, they were marked out by the length of, and damage caused by, the rioting. "I remember when the town burnt". As a result of these riots, the British National Party (BNP) a far right and barely disguised facist party, descended on mass during elections. The leader Nick Griffin (a man with as many ideas as eyes, and a former Holocaust denier - in public anyway) singled Burnley out as a prime example of how multiculturalism isn't working. And every election year they gain significant results, with councillors being appointed (and then fired).
Some people in Burnley claim that the riots were caused by the sale of drugs, and this is a reasonable assessment.

The peom is a response to a childhood there, and Channel Fours belief that if they get a group of mixed race teenagers to "make art" it will change things. It won't. I have friends who work in the community and their hardwork and dedication is more likely to solve things that a gimmick for a Television show.

Also, as a caveat, and a blatant piece of self-protection, it is a work in progress and all comments will be appreicated. Negative or otherwise. Feel free.

“Deprivation is for me what Daffodils were to Wordsworth” Philip Larkin

Burnley, a reflection

Disused factory chimneys
penetrating the sky.
Once they shot out black smoke semen
now they rest impotent.

My Grandfather pictured this whole area.
The history was his, in glossy photo books,
in thousands and thousands of discarded slides.

The boarded up windows
of terrace housing,
the dog shit filled back streets
and pissed up teenager dominated town centre.

The places my father played as a child,
are mostly gone, concreted over
for another McDonald's or
24 – hour Tesco's.

I remember when the town burnt.

The fascist billboards
near local round-a-bouts,
as the town became a battle
cry for Nick Griffin.

The shops in the centre,
close and fail,
Bernard Manning was banned,
Bernard Manning became an idol,

I am just from a small town,
I am from where the
history outweighs the present.
I am from the nowhere in between.

I remember when the town burnt,

TV is coming to fix everything,
Thank fuck for Channel Four,
Art will show that racism isn't pervasive.

The town is an animal,
lying prostrate on the vets table
pining to be put to sleep.

Nothing is going to change.
I remembered when the town burnt.

Super Nova

2009-05-17T07:40:00.000-07:00

A famous Artist
Takes his life.

He leaves a short note
For his estranged wife

He points a knife
Towards his chest,
Sighing, he pierces
His pampered poets flesh.

His body is found
Several days later,
Propped up against
A broken bathroom radiator.

Several of the broadsheets
Will run a feature,
The TLS will run a cover,
He will be added to the Syllabus
For bored teenagers
To pretend to discover
His meanings
And dissect his rhyme schemes

For the most part,
He is forgotten
To be resurrected, rarely,
As a Sunday supplement
In The Guardian

A Reality TV Star
Catches something terminal,
Leaving her doctors
She calls Max Clifford
To get her a Chat Show deal.

So to Richard and Judy
She will tell of the lumps
She found under her towel,
To Paul, she talks about the
Obstruction in her bowl,
On Phil and Fern
She will learn how to
Flambé correctly.

Hello, Chat and OK
Will let her have her say
And take photos of the Chemo,

Her condition will
Consume every edition
Of all the Tabloid Magazines
And when she weds
They will all exclaim
How her bald head
Compliments her dress.

When she croaks,
It’ll be all over the news and
Taxi driving blokes,
Will pause and say:
“She meant the world
To the missus and me,
She was the fucking
Queen of Bromley”

Tribute editions
Will fly from the shelves
As the population
Become beside them selves
In grief that is intense.
And brief.

Her diary will sell,
He house will as well,
Her husband will
Give seven exclusive
Interviews a week
Then go back to Jail.

But another star will come,
And it will all be redone.
Another bleached blonde
Girl will sell the world and
It will all be redone
And redone, and redone.

And the Artist is dead.

And the Star is dead.

And I am bored of it all.

This is New to me

2009-05-17T07:12:00.000-07:00

I am not too sure what to do with these, do I use them to force my own ideas and opinions on others, or alternitvely, do I simply put new poems and poems which are being worked on here and let the world say what they want?? I think, for the sake of ease and for those times when the poetical Muse is not bothering with me, I will do a mixture of the two.

And that is as far as a statement of intent as any one is going to get from me.

As for what I write about, I do not have any specific themes or, I would argue, style and I write about what I think about. Feel free to comment, insult, glorify anything you see and read.

Matt