The dark shinyness
of brand new poetry,
like the smell of a showroom car.
Poems don’t have to be factual,
they don’t even have to be actual
poems.
Reality is, writing breeds writing and
violence breeds violence.
The children that survive
may well be the soldier’s of tomorrow.
Terrorising their own children.
Terrorising their own fathers.
My words will still be here and so will the irony.
Both lost.
‘I don’t buy flowers, I can’t work out what they mean.’
‘The words I might never say, are going to come out anyway.’
Great lines from Mr Morrison.
—————
If I gave you flowers,
in this shaded public house
would we have swelled for hours.
Letting the walls clamber in
on several mis-tangible coversations
about the overly worked oak tables or
perhaps the temptation of the quiz night on Monday.
Half-expensive and
a bit battered from my heavy hand,
these flowers would give you something
from me.
An apology, an advance or a cry for help.
You gave me so much more
than flowers ever could.
You gave me my dreams.
And my flowers couldn’t save me from myself.
Quiet mid-afternoon
in a modest semi-detached,
a child cries.
His young mother gently encourages
a mashed-up banana,
he normally likes that.
Too tired to play
with his toy soldiers
and action men.
She frets,
probably over nothing,
but so fragile are these little souls.
On the news, in Lebanon a child cries,
looking for his stricken mother.
I wonder if the Gods are crying too.
Some swearing is always good,
fantastic swearing is the way forward.
For fuck’s sake…
Some classic quotes:
‘No matter how good you are at something, there’s always a million people better than you.’
‘This next song is called – My Fans Are Stupid Pigs.’
More to come………
Hope’s Impossible.
But I hope it’s possible
etc…
Everytime I see you
in my dreams, you know me so well…
Guess that’s why they’re called dreams.
Good news – bruised foot.
————–
I’m ridiculously positive.
I continually think I can do things that I continually fail to do.
I’m a schizophrenic.
I instantly agree with my friends.
I’m embarrassingly gullible.
I’m almost always in some kind of physical pain.
I keep all my true feelings to myself.
I have total belief in myself.
I think too much.
I always think the girl likes me more than she does.
I’m incredibly self-obsessed.
I get easily bored and lonely.
I think there should be an easy answer to everything.
I drink too much.
I compulsive gamble too much.
I spend way too much time on the Internet.
I love travelling.
Everything makes me jealous and insecure.
I trust everyone.
I’m loyal.
I’m cool when I’m drunk.
I’m cool when with mutual friends.
I’m most comfortable when I’m centre of attention.
I’m shy.
I don’t keep in touch with friends.
I take too long to reply to e-mails.
I obsess about basic bodily functions.
I’m tired all the time.
I think I’m above others.
I can’t commit.
I often feel sorry for myself.
I don’t pay attention.
I rarely worry about anything.
I hate confrontation.
I know too much.
I wonder……
A Clubber's Guide to Life 