I am feeling very smug and proud today....
I heard yesterday that wee Stan "the Hands" has an extra middle name...you've guessed it, it's Matthew...Hoorah...makes me feel all warm inside....
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Friday, December 08, 2006
Fucking Rite On Julian, m'lud
Shamelessly copied and pasted from Julian Cope's Head Heritage Address Drudion Dec 06
There are no Gods but those we create. Some have invented protectors like Jehovah and Allah because – like children’s belief in Santa Claus – the cosy blanket of belief cushions them from the extreme unknowns of Raw Life. Our human power is so intensely strong, however, that merely through inventing Gods, so they take on a life of their own. But life is too short and finite to trouble ourselves with troublesome Gods. One day soon we too shall no longer be here, so do me the favour of taking me for granted while I am here. Accept the books, the records, the Albums of the Month as my evidence to you of Constant Revelation, for there is nothing greater than Sonic Revelation. Rock’n’roll. Yes, those avalanches of sound cascading over and through us inform us more clearly than any berserk invented religion, for they are manifestations of the R I G H T N O W. In order to beat death, Buddhists challenge Time with their day-long rituals. Catholics fill their churches with sumptuous art to separate their God from the everyday drudgery outside. Muslims head bang back’n’forth to approach Otherness as they read their ‘sacred’ Koran. But our Western rock is far greater than all of these things. Greater because it celebrates both our highest and most stratospheric emotions and our low lowest most barbarian senses S I M U L T A N E O U S L Y !!! When I say rock’n’roll celebrates our Inner Moron, it’s because ‘moron’ was once merely an Urban description of a rural type, he who lives upon the moor. Of course, as being a city dweller was the preferred option, a moron soon became a disparaging term. But rock’n’roll is of the moor, and on the moor is where our wildest inner feelings still reside. Take yourselves on to the moor through rock’n’roll and you will have no need to invent Invisible Gods. Dance, shake, pout at your partner, feel them up, point lavishly at the sky and scream ‘Motherfucking yeah!’ Make a God out of your rock’n’roll if you need, but whatever you do remember to let those vital watts of electric sound permeate your body, Babies, we’ve barely begun! Check out the music discussed below and I’m sure you’ll agree that rock’n’roll only gets better and better.
There are no Gods but those we create. Some have invented protectors like Jehovah and Allah because – like children’s belief in Santa Claus – the cosy blanket of belief cushions them from the extreme unknowns of Raw Life. Our human power is so intensely strong, however, that merely through inventing Gods, so they take on a life of their own. But life is too short and finite to trouble ourselves with troublesome Gods. One day soon we too shall no longer be here, so do me the favour of taking me for granted while I am here. Accept the books, the records, the Albums of the Month as my evidence to you of Constant Revelation, for there is nothing greater than Sonic Revelation. Rock’n’roll. Yes, those avalanches of sound cascading over and through us inform us more clearly than any berserk invented religion, for they are manifestations of the R I G H T N O W. In order to beat death, Buddhists challenge Time with their day-long rituals. Catholics fill their churches with sumptuous art to separate their God from the everyday drudgery outside. Muslims head bang back’n’forth to approach Otherness as they read their ‘sacred’ Koran. But our Western rock is far greater than all of these things. Greater because it celebrates both our highest and most stratospheric emotions and our low lowest most barbarian senses S I M U L T A N E O U S L Y !!! When I say rock’n’roll celebrates our Inner Moron, it’s because ‘moron’ was once merely an Urban description of a rural type, he who lives upon the moor. Of course, as being a city dweller was the preferred option, a moron soon became a disparaging term. But rock’n’roll is of the moor, and on the moor is where our wildest inner feelings still reside. Take yourselves on to the moor through rock’n’roll and you will have no need to invent Invisible Gods. Dance, shake, pout at your partner, feel them up, point lavishly at the sky and scream ‘Motherfucking yeah!’ Make a God out of your rock’n’roll if you need, but whatever you do remember to let those vital watts of electric sound permeate your body, Babies, we’ve barely begun! Check out the music discussed below and I’m sure you’ll agree that rock’n’roll only gets better and better.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Welcome to the world to Stanley John Rance
Congratulations to Het & Simon for giving birth to half child/half mole Stanley...he has the biggest hands in the world. 8lb 10oz of lovely little baby....
Friday, November 10, 2006
Newer things, in progress and the like...
Human Torch
I am a human torch,
I will transform myself, boil everything aqueous
to an inch of my life.
I have a sense of dry humors.
I stand for something,you must believe.
I have walked on coals to no avail.
Fortune has not smiled,
indignation takes over now.
Rise with me like a heat,
everyday, everything must change.
I am my own sun.
In time you will come to see me
getting to this stage as
necessary, an important movement
in the scheme of all things
too terrible to contemplate.
Everyone, join hands with me.
Painting In Numbers - for the Bunny
We rendered it uselessly,
watched the hole freefall from the wall;
a perfect nose dive to form it’s own splash
on the floor.
The boards reclaiming it through gravity.
Our jaws seemed to be tied to it.
The walls we splattered
in your soon to be child’s room.
Onlookers would suspect finger painting
or potato prints from the look of us.
Still, life has a habit of working
and we got the walls covered.
Your wife stopped play
with cold beers, before we called dads.
Before we were called dads.
Night Music
All night your breath holds a rhythm
against the skittering of moths
searching for their own light.
I hear the angry duets of foolish cats
squalling for old territories,
the mournful solo of a fox
done with bins, the slim pickings.
I want this recorded.
Fuck knows if they are any good, or will ever be finished........
Human Torch
I am a human torch,
I will transform myself, boil everything aqueous
to an inch of my life.
I have a sense of dry humors.
I stand for something,you must believe.
I have walked on coals to no avail.
Fortune has not smiled,
indignation takes over now.
Rise with me like a heat,
everyday, everything must change.
I am my own sun.
In time you will come to see me
getting to this stage as
necessary, an important movement
in the scheme of all things
too terrible to contemplate.
Everyone, join hands with me.
Painting In Numbers - for the Bunny
We rendered it uselessly,
watched the hole freefall from the wall;
a perfect nose dive to form it’s own splash
on the floor.
The boards reclaiming it through gravity.
Our jaws seemed to be tied to it.
The walls we splattered
in your soon to be child’s room.
Onlookers would suspect finger painting
or potato prints from the look of us.
Still, life has a habit of working
and we got the walls covered.
Your wife stopped play
with cold beers, before we called dads.
Before we were called dads.
Night Music
All night your breath holds a rhythm
against the skittering of moths
searching for their own light.
I hear the angry duets of foolish cats
squalling for old territories,
the mournful solo of a fox
done with bins, the slim pickings.
I want this recorded.
Fuck knows if they are any good, or will ever be finished........
Friday, November 03, 2006
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
She's here, she's beautiful and she's mine
My baby has joined the world...the beautiful, perfect, wonderful and amazing Florence Eve Riches was sprung from her mothers tummy on 17.09.06 at 12.32 pm weighing it a 5lb 9oz...she's perfect in everyway.
Mother & baby doing fine, dad in a weird place mentally...but all good...back at work now after paternity leave (way too short)
Pictures to follow....
Mother & baby doing fine, dad in a weird place mentally...but all good...back at work now after paternity leave (way too short)
Pictures to follow....
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Big Weekend with Granny & Grandpa!!!
So the weekend went well...aside from R's parents having a minor detour through the wilds of Norfolk on Friday night, and my beloved and I having stinking colds all weekend.
It all went so well for us on the way there aside from R getting me lost trying to get to the Blackwall tunnel, and me eating all my Fox's Fruit sweets- Must consumer sugar when driving!!!!
The two granma's (they'll hate that) took R into Norwich for the day on Saturday to shop till R dropped for Baby paraphenalia...we now have almost everything we could ever need ever for a baby, and a few things we probably didn't need but aftera neatly executed pincer movement by granny 1 and granny 2 we have ended up with things that match...outrageous.
Grandad1 & 2 spent the day admiring tools and things made in fibreglass (me pa's boat is coing along lovely..it's a work of art and a labour of love that floats..I am proud as a bowl of punch of him)
Meal in the evening with all involved plus me brother and his missus (congrats to she and he too...a cousin for spud!!Hoorah)
Sunday...relaxing..more boat looking, big roast...I fucked up on the Yorkshire Puds...one egg too many...and thenm from Yorkshire...oh, the shame!!
Quiet pint in evening..sleep and then drive home Monday. Nice.
It all went so well for us on the way there aside from R getting me lost trying to get to the Blackwall tunnel, and me eating all my Fox's Fruit sweets- Must consumer sugar when driving!!!!
The two granma's (they'll hate that) took R into Norwich for the day on Saturday to shop till R dropped for Baby paraphenalia...we now have almost everything we could ever need ever for a baby, and a few things we probably didn't need but aftera neatly executed pincer movement by granny 1 and granny 2 we have ended up with things that match...outrageous.
Grandad1 & 2 spent the day admiring tools and things made in fibreglass (me pa's boat is coing along lovely..it's a work of art and a labour of love that floats..I am proud as a bowl of punch of him)
Meal in the evening with all involved plus me brother and his missus (congrats to she and he too...a cousin for spud!!Hoorah)
Sunday...relaxing..more boat looking, big roast...I fucked up on the Yorkshire Puds...one egg too many...and thenm from Yorkshire...oh, the shame!!
Quiet pint in evening..sleep and then drive home Monday. Nice.
Saturday, August 19, 2006
Scary shite ahead
Ok, so now I have to drive to Norfolk tonight for the meeting of the grandparents to be...that's some scary stuff right there in front of me. rach and I have been togerther for 4 years, and they have never met...It seems only right and proper that they are formally introduced before they get issued with their Granny and Grandpa t-shirts though.
Excellent, it's pissing it down too...so this should be a fun journey...oh poor me....
Excellent, it's pissing it down too...so this should be a fun journey...oh poor me....
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Ok, it looks like it's working again
Five weeks to baby and all's well...congratulations to Chris who has just had baby Joe...
Thursday, August 10, 2006
A fine night for the Arsenal
Goals from the boy Cesc and from "The Violence"...it's a good start to another season. I hope the baby likes football, or we are in for a turbulent ride.
Must get me a new shirt...and really must work on convincing the missus to let me put him/her in a baby sized kit..
On the bad news front, the bathroom has sprung a leak...bollocks..we really need this at the moment. Still, me ma's coming down this weekend..wonder how handy she is with a monkey wrench.
Must get me a new shirt...and really must work on convincing the missus to let me put him/her in a baby sized kit..
On the bad news front, the bathroom has sprung a leak...bollocks..we really need this at the moment. Still, me ma's coming down this weekend..wonder how handy she is with a monkey wrench.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Come on the Arsenal
So we're back in Europe tonight against the mighty Dinamo Zagreb...let's hope our plucky youngsters can do it again...come on Cesc, bring on Rosicky...oh and Ashley Who? Go join Sol on the south coast.
Friday, August 04, 2006
Here's a few things I think I consider finished now.
Un-struck
I am an un-struck match,
you are already the sun.
Probes have been sent to far of places
but cannot compute what you have become.
Sorted
I can only pick moments
because moments is all this will allow.
Let’s not even consider one or the other
as any sort of sacred or cash cow.
You saw to what was yours,
and I saw to what was mine.
Everyone was happy
and all will be for all time.
Rounds
You have come through to make checks
at various points in the morning,
turned the vacuum up to twelve
just to check I am still alive.
Out of bed and stretching arms
like a bird testing healed wings;
cautious and not entirely confident.
Last night you were doubling up
during happy hour.
The Patient
Stock answers don’t always fit the bill;
on more than one occasion you
have been fit to burst,
or ready to kill.
There have been times
when you’re beyond being at a loss
about what to do.
People have crossed obvious lines
when they forgot to give even half a toss
about how this affects you.
The Baileys bottle will never see the cap again,
it’s easier to just discard.
For richer or poorer, better or worse
wasn’t meant to be this hard.
Weekly phone calls from interested sons
mean something, and there are relations to help.
The location to live in you both chose.
You’re, of course, not the only ones
to go through this, but who can forget the self
when you see through the doctor’s helpful pose.
You swore you would both be together
beyond being old.
Somebody has to give.
What are you not being told?
Armitage Shanks
Softly, softly catchy monkey my arse.
Who’s got time for that these days, I ask you.
I was put out to grass,
But I swear I will out last you.
Like a tiger asleep
you’ve kept half an eye
on exactly which side
your bread’s buttered on,
maintained a stance in the eye of the storm
and kept more than a glance
on which directions the cookie crumbled.
Asked who’s batting or bowling
and from where the thunder rumbled,
taken note of what’s good for the goose;
seen what’s preferred by the gander.
You observed and calculated the sweet spot of your dander
and exactly how it’s raised.
Lord be praised,
you’ve chanced upon something.
Travel Adapter
Room 110, Las Tres Palmeras, La Gomera, September 2005
At 4am, waking with a factor 20 hangover,
time to get away from this,
to get somewhere to stop the mind turning over;
the brain’s throttle stuck.
You arrive at the destination
dressed like Alec Guinness in the River Kwai,
it will take light years to get this body
anything other than white.
You have a week.
Two days in,
and, like a drummer, the sun
has tightened our skins;
wound them in to create the perfect ouch
with every touch of cotton sheets.
Easing, and peeling your swimsuit down
in the shower later, the sea salt
being replaced by our own.
We could blame the heat,
doing things only done on holiday.
Like Buzz Aldrin in flip-flops
you hope from rock to rock
over this lava, this moon country
to watch black crabs cling to the rocks.
If they let go, it’s next stop America,
you wonder if you would put the effort in.
That walk across that black sand,
the sea delivering each tiny stone right to your feet,
you notice the way damp sand
looks like the invisible man walking on a carpet.
You notice you have time to notice this.
Desert Island Discs
We have our record collections
that will never meet…
songs to choose as our own.
Go too fast and there will be blood on the tracks.
There are things that I have never made you hear,
songs I love,
words everyone should love.
Dylan you have yet to grasp,
as you should.
Or rare groove I don’t get,
but if given a chance I could.
There are things I need you to hear.
Philosophy
I want to write the poem
that connects Deeley-Boppers and Wittgenstein,
but I haven’t the learning
and I haven’t got the time.
Un-struck
I am an un-struck match,
you are already the sun.
Probes have been sent to far of places
but cannot compute what you have become.
Sorted
I can only pick moments
because moments is all this will allow.
Let’s not even consider one or the other
as any sort of sacred or cash cow.
You saw to what was yours,
and I saw to what was mine.
Everyone was happy
and all will be for all time.
Rounds
You have come through to make checks
at various points in the morning,
turned the vacuum up to twelve
just to check I am still alive.
Out of bed and stretching arms
like a bird testing healed wings;
cautious and not entirely confident.
Last night you were doubling up
during happy hour.
The Patient
Stock answers don’t always fit the bill;
on more than one occasion you
have been fit to burst,
or ready to kill.
There have been times
when you’re beyond being at a loss
about what to do.
People have crossed obvious lines
when they forgot to give even half a toss
about how this affects you.
The Baileys bottle will never see the cap again,
it’s easier to just discard.
For richer or poorer, better or worse
wasn’t meant to be this hard.
Weekly phone calls from interested sons
mean something, and there are relations to help.
The location to live in you both chose.
You’re, of course, not the only ones
to go through this, but who can forget the self
when you see through the doctor’s helpful pose.
You swore you would both be together
beyond being old.
Somebody has to give.
What are you not being told?
Armitage Shanks
Softly, softly catchy monkey my arse.
Who’s got time for that these days, I ask you.
I was put out to grass,
But I swear I will out last you.
Like a tiger asleep
you’ve kept half an eye
on exactly which side
your bread’s buttered on,
maintained a stance in the eye of the storm
and kept more than a glance
on which directions the cookie crumbled.
Asked who’s batting or bowling
and from where the thunder rumbled,
taken note of what’s good for the goose;
seen what’s preferred by the gander.
You observed and calculated the sweet spot of your dander
and exactly how it’s raised.
Lord be praised,
you’ve chanced upon something.
Travel Adapter
Room 110, Las Tres Palmeras, La Gomera, September 2005
At 4am, waking with a factor 20 hangover,
time to get away from this,
to get somewhere to stop the mind turning over;
the brain’s throttle stuck.
You arrive at the destination
dressed like Alec Guinness in the River Kwai,
it will take light years to get this body
anything other than white.
You have a week.
Two days in,
and, like a drummer, the sun
has tightened our skins;
wound them in to create the perfect ouch
with every touch of cotton sheets.
Easing, and peeling your swimsuit down
in the shower later, the sea salt
being replaced by our own.
We could blame the heat,
doing things only done on holiday.
Like Buzz Aldrin in flip-flops
you hope from rock to rock
over this lava, this moon country
to watch black crabs cling to the rocks.
If they let go, it’s next stop America,
you wonder if you would put the effort in.
That walk across that black sand,
the sea delivering each tiny stone right to your feet,
you notice the way damp sand
looks like the invisible man walking on a carpet.
You notice you have time to notice this.
Desert Island Discs
We have our record collections
that will never meet…
songs to choose as our own.
Go too fast and there will be blood on the tracks.
There are things that I have never made you hear,
songs I love,
words everyone should love.
Dylan you have yet to grasp,
as you should.
Or rare groove I don’t get,
but if given a chance I could.
There are things I need you to hear.
Philosophy
I want to write the poem
that connects Deeley-Boppers and Wittgenstein,
but I haven’t the learning
and I haven’t got the time.
It's been a while
Have just returned from a weekend in Worstead in that fair county of Norfolk. T'was my annual trip to get absolutely twatted for four days and forget about what the world has to offer. It won't make it to Norfolk for a few years anyway. This year was a bit more poignant as it is the last time I go there for that sort of things sans baby. This time next year Spud will be amongst us and demanding a look at the second hand stalls and the cake tent...
More news on the Western Front, we took delivery of a nine week old kitten recently. She's called Laika and despite being lovely she is driving me mad...I haven't slept the night through since we had her...still, it's practice for the big event.
Got the second NCT class tonight. That should be fun.
More news on the Western Front, we took delivery of a nine week old kitten recently. She's called Laika and despite being lovely she is driving me mad...I haven't slept the night through since we had her...still, it's practice for the big event.
Got the second NCT class tonight. That should be fun.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
Monday, May 15, 2006
I have been kidnapped
Blimey charlie, what happenend there. A quiet pint on Friday night turned into a weekend in Norfolk, a surprise belated birthday, a defeat for the Irons and an unlikely visit to a Gabba-Techno night. Forgive me if I have spelt that incorrectly, but I am not up to speed with this new fangled dance music malarkey...I was shocked to see furry boots being worn by the cream of Norwich's dance culture..all experimenting with various pills and powders...me, I just stuck to a few cans (well, lots) and hugged the edges of the room...I believe dancing was attempted at some point, but it was quicly discovered that none of our group could keep up with the bear, let alone maintain any sort of dance moves.
Saturday was FA cup in the unlikely surroundings of an RAF Naafi bar...all good fun...Gutted for John Rance, very happy for John Edge.
Giant fish and chips featured in the hazy dusk period, before being whsked off to the Inn of Newness for a surprise birthday party. Many thanks to Ron and Toby for a musical shindig and to all that attended...I know I left, I just don't know when.
Well done to devious Rancios and my beloved for a gigantic lie.
Roll on Wednesday..come on the Arsenal....
Saturday was FA cup in the unlikely surroundings of an RAF Naafi bar...all good fun...Gutted for John Rance, very happy for John Edge.
Giant fish and chips featured in the hazy dusk period, before being whsked off to the Inn of Newness for a surprise birthday party. Many thanks to Ron and Toby for a musical shindig and to all that attended...I know I left, I just don't know when.
Well done to devious Rancios and my beloved for a gigantic lie.
Roll on Wednesday..come on the Arsenal....
Saturday, May 06, 2006
Oh yeah, no snouts for me either
What an idiot I was...I have given up smoking this week. It has been 5 days now since my last snout, and I hadn't thought about it until today...I am a bit bored at work and I think my brain is rumbling on ahead of me, thinking pint at lunch time and a nice juicy cigarette to wash it down with. mmm
But oh no...must think of the impending baby....
I am sure this will pass soon, but you can never find carrot sticks when you need them.
But oh no...must think of the impending baby....
I am sure this will pass soon, but you can never find carrot sticks when you need them.
Friday, May 05, 2006
These are a few that I am working on at the moment. I have about 30 ideas for new poems, but finding the time to actually sit down a nd work through these things is a nightmare....some might say it's not worth the worry.
Travel Adapter
Room 110, Las Tres Palmeras, La Gomera, September 2005
Waking with a factor 20 hangover
at 4am.Time to get away from this,
to get somewhere to stop the mind turning over;
the brain’s throttle stuck.
You arrive at the destination
dressed like Alec Guinness in the River Kwai,
it will take light years to get this body
anything other than white.
You have a week.
Two days in,
and, like a drummer, the sun
has tightened our skins;
wound them in to create the perfect ouch
with every touch of cotton sheets.
The straw hat covered you face as you slept,
you woke with a red honeycomb.
Easing, and peeling your swimsuit down
in the shower later, the sea salt
being replaced by our own.
We could blame the heat,
I prefer to accept it.
Doing things only done on holiday.
Like Buzz Aldrin in flip-flops
you hope from rock to rock
over this lava, this moon country
to watch black crabs cling to the rocks.
If they let go, it’s next stop America,
you wonder if you would put the effort in.
Columbus used to stop here,
before setting off for his explorations.
After the battle of the travel adapter
you plan to throw your lot in with
the German hippies by the beach,
buy a set of bongos and just live on
the black sand and surf.
That walk across that black sand,
the sea delivering each tiny stone right to your feet,
you notice the way damp sand
looks like the invisible man walking on a carpet;
the way it turns a lighter shade
as the water is briefly pushed out.
You notice you have time to notice this.
Armitage Shanks
Softly, softly catchy monkey my arse.
Who’s got time for that these days, I ask you.
I was put out to grass,
But I swear I will out last you.
Like a tiger asleep
you’ve kept half an eye
on exactly which side
your bread’s buttered on,
maintained a stance in the eye of the storm
and kept more than a glance
on which directions the cookie crumbled.
Asked who’s batting or bowling
and from where the thunder rumbled,
taken note of what’s good for the goose;
seen what’s preferred by the gander.
You observed and calculated the sweet spot of your dander
and exactly how it’s raised.
Lord be praised,
you’ve chanced upon something.
The Letter
How long shall I sit here?
Gathering dust, watching coming and goings.
I know who’s been and gone
nestled here with listings for cinema showings,
take away menus, window cleaners
and improvements for your home
What am I?
Could I be the letter of someone you once loved,
all handwritten on parched vellum,
scented paper or plain ripped from a notebook?
Not the typed straight out of computers
and printers stuff of bills and advertising,
not even given a backwards look.
How long will my message last?
What am I worth to you?
Have you moved on?
if so, then how and where to?
“Am I an offer of earthbound riches,
am I something someone is selling?
I’m staying stock still and enveloped.
I am not telling.”
Travel Adapter
Room 110, Las Tres Palmeras, La Gomera, September 2005
Waking with a factor 20 hangover
at 4am.Time to get away from this,
to get somewhere to stop the mind turning over;
the brain’s throttle stuck.
You arrive at the destination
dressed like Alec Guinness in the River Kwai,
it will take light years to get this body
anything other than white.
You have a week.
Two days in,
and, like a drummer, the sun
has tightened our skins;
wound them in to create the perfect ouch
with every touch of cotton sheets.
The straw hat covered you face as you slept,
you woke with a red honeycomb.
Easing, and peeling your swimsuit down
in the shower later, the sea salt
being replaced by our own.
We could blame the heat,
I prefer to accept it.
Doing things only done on holiday.
Like Buzz Aldrin in flip-flops
you hope from rock to rock
over this lava, this moon country
to watch black crabs cling to the rocks.
If they let go, it’s next stop America,
you wonder if you would put the effort in.
Columbus used to stop here,
before setting off for his explorations.
After the battle of the travel adapter
you plan to throw your lot in with
the German hippies by the beach,
buy a set of bongos and just live on
the black sand and surf.
That walk across that black sand,
the sea delivering each tiny stone right to your feet,
you notice the way damp sand
looks like the invisible man walking on a carpet;
the way it turns a lighter shade
as the water is briefly pushed out.
You notice you have time to notice this.
Armitage Shanks
Softly, softly catchy monkey my arse.
Who’s got time for that these days, I ask you.
I was put out to grass,
But I swear I will out last you.
Like a tiger asleep
you’ve kept half an eye
on exactly which side
your bread’s buttered on,
maintained a stance in the eye of the storm
and kept more than a glance
on which directions the cookie crumbled.
Asked who’s batting or bowling
and from where the thunder rumbled,
taken note of what’s good for the goose;
seen what’s preferred by the gander.
You observed and calculated the sweet spot of your dander
and exactly how it’s raised.
Lord be praised,
you’ve chanced upon something.
The Letter
How long shall I sit here?
Gathering dust, watching coming and goings.
I know who’s been and gone
nestled here with listings for cinema showings,
take away menus, window cleaners
and improvements for your home
What am I?
Could I be the letter of someone you once loved,
all handwritten on parched vellum,
scented paper or plain ripped from a notebook?
Not the typed straight out of computers
and printers stuff of bills and advertising,
not even given a backwards look.
How long will my message last?
What am I worth to you?
Have you moved on?
if so, then how and where to?
“Am I an offer of earthbound riches,
am I something someone is selling?
I’m staying stock still and enveloped.
I am not telling.”
These are a few poems that I sent of to The Rialto magazine a couple of months ago...I got a letter back from them a couple of days ago...it was a rejection letter...Still, onwards and upwards I say...no need to be disheartened...Just makes me want to pull my finger out and get on with sending more stuff out to The Rialto and other places. Any way, if you read these and like them please find a way to let me know.
Dummy
“A burglar tried to hide from police by standing in a shop window display and pretending to be a dummy. The 21 year old had set off a silent alarm when he broke into the clothes store in Vigevano, northern Italy. Officers searched the store in the early hours but found no one at first.” - Ananova 14/05/2002.
There is a certain dedication in this,
it’s the longest I have stuck at anything.
I’ve stood stock still, spent all day
selecting people from the crowds
and followed them to the end of eyesight,
or just around the corner.
It all started quite innocently,
I hid at the end of noses,
prepared myself for a million “Hold that poses”.
It’s a balanced job
in a time of recession,
to just stand and demonstrate
the rabbit-in-headlights impression
for all and sundry.
People watching, wall-to-wall,
Monday to Monday.
I’ve lost my fear of nakedness,
although on the occasional night
I miss my genitals,
but understand the hermaphrodites’ approach.
The smoothness of skin alone
can be the be all,
and not necessarily the end.
While I no longer bend,
my range of components has grown.
It’s nothing like surgery,
but far quicker.
I no longer itch
and my eyelids do not flicker a beat.
I can look you in the eye
and never blink.
I don’t worry about the heat.
I would like to know what you think…
I’ve seen people shrink
when they come through doors;
something to do with ceilings is my theory.
I’ve probably considered yours.
The time to think is useful,
my mind no longer fears wandering.
What I can’t tell you about this
is for the backs of stamps,
and not worth pondering.
I could do this standing on my head.
Some Things My Feet Taught Me…
That staying in one place too long
can only hurt.
That they fit exactly in the tiles
of Charing Cross tube stations’ platform.
That to be sensibly shod is the best way
to get anywhere.
The route to your home in the dark
and the way back with eyes full.
That dead skin should not be mourned,
it is only an irritant.
Itches can never be satisfied,
only postponed.
To stay on your toes
is harder without ballet shoes.
The crunch of gravel is nice,
tiny massages that only hurt your teeth.
When digits meet, one end to another,
happiness is possible.
Grass is the greatest treat,
a tiny wash of dew.
Smooth shoes and an icy pavement
is as good as gliding, like flying.
That the heart and music must
agree before dancing can take place.
Hot coals are to be avoided
if you are without faith in anything.
Kizelbel, September 2004
Last night was all too perfect.
The only noise was the local crickets’
nightly jam session in the hills.
All conversation was of insect music,
as one lone virtuoso near our balcony,
sang his own exquisite love songs.
The midges massed to our left
like a Luftwaffe wave;
ready to dive-bomb us to our shelter.
Moths were taking off and landing
like burning paper scraps
against a bonfire sun.
Figs fell from the trees
at exactly the same time as the Muezzin’s siren call began,
punctuated by the click of the microphone.
Modern life beat a path inland
as you beat me at backgammon.
Knife Throwers Assistant
I hand myself to him on a plate
twice a day, night after night.
I am not one for tempting fate,
luck gets taken for no ride, or a fool.
NO FLASH PHOTOGRAPHY
is a steadfast, rock-solid rule.
Don’t talk to me of faith.
I have to remember the knives are thrown around me
and never at or against.
I have grown to see this:
His aim is his word, and it is true.
I freely take part in this tryst.
Trust being the currency here,
we spend it wisely.
We don’t talk after work or come near.
I need no holds over him, or he over me.
For obvious reason we keep the other
precisely where we want them to be.
Arms at five past and five to,
feet at twenty five to and past;
then a whoosh as the blade is passing through:
Six in as many seconds as balloons burst.
Even if he were to hit me
the show must always come first.
When I started people came here
to be entertained, or cheaply thrilled
It’s getting hard to keep the audiences’ attention,
sometimes I suspect blood needs to be spilled,
With thanks to www.painproofrubbergirls.com
Guy Buried Up to His Neck in the Middle of a Forest
In here no one hears trees falling,
or do they?
I have listened and lost interest,
being too caught up in the noises of blood in my ears;
the ferrety noises of animals.
I no-longer sweat,
or can no-longer be sure it is me.
It could be moisture,
what’s left of my clothes transforming the heat.
I had always doubted the industry of ants,
of stag beetles or the point of centipedes.
I am in no doubt.
Now I believe.
I have learnt to be comfortable pissing myself,
like a deep sea diver.
It’s all I can feel now,
reminds me I am still alive.
Insects pass by to inspect
what I suspect will become theirs.
It is not the casual rabbit
or idle hare that I fear.
How did I get here?
You may well ask.
Dummy
“A burglar tried to hide from police by standing in a shop window display and pretending to be a dummy. The 21 year old had set off a silent alarm when he broke into the clothes store in Vigevano, northern Italy. Officers searched the store in the early hours but found no one at first.” - Ananova 14/05/2002.
There is a certain dedication in this,
it’s the longest I have stuck at anything.
I’ve stood stock still, spent all day
selecting people from the crowds
and followed them to the end of eyesight,
or just around the corner.
It all started quite innocently,
I hid at the end of noses,
prepared myself for a million “Hold that poses”.
It’s a balanced job
in a time of recession,
to just stand and demonstrate
the rabbit-in-headlights impression
for all and sundry.
People watching, wall-to-wall,
Monday to Monday.
I’ve lost my fear of nakedness,
although on the occasional night
I miss my genitals,
but understand the hermaphrodites’ approach.
The smoothness of skin alone
can be the be all,
and not necessarily the end.
While I no longer bend,
my range of components has grown.
It’s nothing like surgery,
but far quicker.
I no longer itch
and my eyelids do not flicker a beat.
I can look you in the eye
and never blink.
I don’t worry about the heat.
I would like to know what you think…
I’ve seen people shrink
when they come through doors;
something to do with ceilings is my theory.
I’ve probably considered yours.
The time to think is useful,
my mind no longer fears wandering.
What I can’t tell you about this
is for the backs of stamps,
and not worth pondering.
I could do this standing on my head.
Some Things My Feet Taught Me…
That staying in one place too long
can only hurt.
That they fit exactly in the tiles
of Charing Cross tube stations’ platform.
That to be sensibly shod is the best way
to get anywhere.
The route to your home in the dark
and the way back with eyes full.
That dead skin should not be mourned,
it is only an irritant.
Itches can never be satisfied,
only postponed.
To stay on your toes
is harder without ballet shoes.
The crunch of gravel is nice,
tiny massages that only hurt your teeth.
When digits meet, one end to another,
happiness is possible.
Grass is the greatest treat,
a tiny wash of dew.
Smooth shoes and an icy pavement
is as good as gliding, like flying.
That the heart and music must
agree before dancing can take place.
Hot coals are to be avoided
if you are without faith in anything.
Kizelbel, September 2004
Last night was all too perfect.
The only noise was the local crickets’
nightly jam session in the hills.
All conversation was of insect music,
as one lone virtuoso near our balcony,
sang his own exquisite love songs.
The midges massed to our left
like a Luftwaffe wave;
ready to dive-bomb us to our shelter.
Moths were taking off and landing
like burning paper scraps
against a bonfire sun.
Figs fell from the trees
at exactly the same time as the Muezzin’s siren call began,
punctuated by the click of the microphone.
Modern life beat a path inland
as you beat me at backgammon.
Knife Throwers Assistant
I hand myself to him on a plate
twice a day, night after night.
I am not one for tempting fate,
luck gets taken for no ride, or a fool.
NO FLASH PHOTOGRAPHY
is a steadfast, rock-solid rule.
Don’t talk to me of faith.
I have to remember the knives are thrown around me
and never at or against.
I have grown to see this:
His aim is his word, and it is true.
I freely take part in this tryst.
Trust being the currency here,
we spend it wisely.
We don’t talk after work or come near.
I need no holds over him, or he over me.
For obvious reason we keep the other
precisely where we want them to be.
Arms at five past and five to,
feet at twenty five to and past;
then a whoosh as the blade is passing through:
Six in as many seconds as balloons burst.
Even if he were to hit me
the show must always come first.
When I started people came here
to be entertained, or cheaply thrilled
It’s getting hard to keep the audiences’ attention,
sometimes I suspect blood needs to be spilled,
With thanks to www.painproofrubbergirls.com
Guy Buried Up to His Neck in the Middle of a Forest
In here no one hears trees falling,
or do they?
I have listened and lost interest,
being too caught up in the noises of blood in my ears;
the ferrety noises of animals.
I no-longer sweat,
or can no-longer be sure it is me.
It could be moisture,
what’s left of my clothes transforming the heat.
I had always doubted the industry of ants,
of stag beetles or the point of centipedes.
I am in no doubt.
Now I believe.
I have learnt to be comfortable pissing myself,
like a deep sea diver.
It’s all I can feel now,
reminds me I am still alive.
Insects pass by to inspect
what I suspect will become theirs.
It is not the casual rabbit
or idle hare that I fear.
How did I get here?
You may well ask.
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
Well hello, I have finally made my way into the 21st century. I am not sure how often I will be using this blogging thingummyjiggerypokery device...but what's good for the goose is good for taking a gander at. I was directed to this electronic warbling by the always excellent fuck all that press blog...as soon as I work out how to link to it I will..
I was going to use this to test out some poems I have been writing recently, and pop up a few that have been written in the past. I will almost certainly be bombarding you with the minute developments concerning the status of my as yet unborn child..six months to go and all's well. Again, once I have got to grips with this I will attempt to get some images and the like up here.
Oh well, here goes nothing....
I was going to use this to test out some poems I have been writing recently, and pop up a few that have been written in the past. I will almost certainly be bombarding you with the minute developments concerning the status of my as yet unborn child..six months to go and all's well. Again, once I have got to grips with this I will attempt to get some images and the like up here.
Oh well, here goes nothing....
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