The art of disabling a life, the art of stifling progression, the art of crushing is the job of the Slapper!
Trying to follow the rules of the 'so what' theory in that I was advised to expand on depressing poetry by making it readable I managed to get this one on page and then try and make it jolly! Well, it ended up quite rhythmic 'cause sticks and stones can break your bones.....
Having read a self help book (the name of which I forget now), I did cling to the idea the writer's advice to write all the names I had been/you had been called and pin them to a coat. In line with Tracy Emin's 'Tent' and her fantastically cathartic name dropping, I have often thought of the names I have been called (which are a fair few and some blinders!) but I feel I wanted to get down (some) of the physical hits I have receieved.
This poem covers my childhood Slappers and Kickers but it seemed a natural progression to be hit, punched, kicked by a 'boyfriend' so more later I guess! Also, I have never forgotten the little girl I saw on a bus going up Upper Street in the 90s who broke my heart and she is in here too. When I meet people who have never been touched in this way, I admit to feeling envious, but at least I got a poem!!!
Sister Glen when I said, aged ten,
I’d wed Glyn when we were 19
Slap! Bang! Wallop!
What a welter
Right across me face
Putting paid to
A playground fantasy
I never got hitched and he’s a gay vicar
My old man, the bastard
Slapped me across the face
I think I showed my nerve at him
I think that I said NO to him
And that was excuse enough
Julie Fox for defying her
Smacked me into shock
Guilty as sin
‘Why dunt yer hit me back?’
I shook my weightless head
I turned the other cheek
Biggest selfie slapper was me!
Finger rapping good
Knuckle dusting clapperboard
Stomach, thighs, face, head
To hurt yourself hurts no one else and you’ve got a slapper on tap!
Slap slap bang!
Round me head and shoulders
I’d driven her mad
And now she turned
On her messed up 17 year old
Working her up to kingdom come
Her tired soul was irked
Ranted and railed until she erupted
Over bloody youthful lip
Her angst was mine was hers was mine
I’d give anything now to change it
It maybe cliché but the saying goes round, youth is wasted on the young
First to whack, kick, blow
Certainly gave it to me
Evil little bastard
Followed the trait
Bloody encounters regularly
Planted me my first
The hits, the kicks, the stones, the throws
Slaked a sickening thirst
The affable Mr Marshall
Who lived across the road
Said ‘When you were just a bairn
No bigger than a rose
He gave you a reight humdinger
And yer sat on t’causey edge crying
Mamma Mamma Mamma’
First slap is the deepest but no defeatist then, I screamed and shouted, before I ‘died’ did my family hear?
Punches I could pull ‘em
Out of a hat
When lads showed lasses who was boss
I was a prime target
Lucky dip for a lippy kid
My face invited their wrath
Anita ran but I stood firm
My back against the wall
It wasn’t me they were after but
My defiance was a taunt
Watson the pink faced piggy
Dearden scowling ‘n’ skinny
Bwannan the geek who couldn’t pronounce R’s
All three had a go
Like a weevil wobbling
I didn’t go down but
My feet were lead in tar
Punch! Punch! Punch! No first of the month! My nose! My nose! My nose!
Kicks in the coccyx meted out
By Shocker when I stood
A valiant fool on Valley Road
I was stuck like a spud in mud
I thought he’d pass me by
How wrong I bloody was
When we worked in the pea fields
When the rain had swamped the ground
This kid booted mud covered toads!
He was after me mate
But she ran off
And all I got was a sneer for my tears
And a spine chilling
Shocker boot thud!
John Fairweather, he was no friend
I didn’t run to the last post
Playing Rounders in the Juniors
Gave me a pain that I feel now
‘cause he kicked me right where Shocker did
I almost collapsed
Nearly toppled me in two
Little martyr me, told nobody but he emigrated to Australia and I hope and pray that the anti POMS, pelted him with shit and regalia!
Tiny Asian girl on the 30 bus
On Upper Street, sweet and jolly
‘look daddy look daddy’
She wanted his attention
Excitable little dolly
But the fucked up little rat
Gave her a slap
A real palm burner to turn
Her pretty smile into a frown
Crying, sinking, into the deep deep down
I bet you had to please
In many other ways
The little weasel’s
Wants and needs
Keep ‘daddy’ happy
Anything to appease
I hope you found your buried glee
Are you smiling now?
Or is it just a cover?
How many breakdowns?
Do you conceal bruises round your eyes?
Make up, hide the dirt, SLAP IT ON!
From on line dictionary: dislapper/ˈslapə/
noun a promiscuous or vulgar woman. informal term for slap shot.
Another 'bus home' scenario that make me smile, make me frown, make me want to write it down!
They could be friends
Walk at same pace
Instead the argue across the aisle
‘I had a hip replacement – nothing wrong with you’
He upright the three wheeled disabled walker updated zimmer man
(not Robert but I wrote this poem for you!)
A trike strike!
‘I got bad legs’ said the woman with the raffia basket trolley affair
(Clang, clang, clang went the trolley
Ding, ding, ding went the bell
Zing, zing, zing went my heartstrings
From the moment I saw him I fell....out!
The human hurry up pace
It's a space race
Why can’t they be together (they ought be together)
Instead they argue
Hip replacement versus bad legs
They could walk at same pace talk about their legs, their hips
stroll, amble, bit of canter banter
instead of ‘you pushed me out the way to get on’!
I could plot my life
On a hospital tea room ragged seat
I could have been with a Friday crowd
Having fun being loud
But the Men’s Semis
Lured me on the TV
Grateful for the difficult sec
Who was mightily rude to me as a temp
The agency said ‘go home’
Rather than money lost
I relished the chance to see
The men’s quarter finals
In between I lost interest
And I harped back to little me
We chalked the lines
Whining the toss
Positioned us at the bottom!
The top of a steep street
We could see the Pennines
And batted the balls
A bugger if you missed and had the long run down
But being out was better than in
Escaping the call of ‘him’
Waking in hungover summer boozing
Beckoning you from the sofa
To satisfy his oozing
So you fought to return
Just to record my feelings and memories of Christopher Lee and Ron Moody who lived to great ages and both died last week. I think they reached everyone with their charisma and performances! One sucked blood which could represent the present government and the austerity measures and the other resorted to picking pockets!!!
Christopher Lee’s Dead!
If I had a Hammer Horror
I’d nail it to the door
Our Lord and Master
Of blood and gore
And tongue in cheek
Black caped mesmeriser
Watching a double bill
Kids on the sofa
Scared, not scared
Of heaving breasts
Stakes in chests
Flapping outside windows
Of screaming beauties
Dirt filled coffins in faraway Castles
That were really studios Herts
Carriages burning through
We believed it wasTransylvania
Klausenberg before sunrise!
I'm Moody now Ron's gone
Top of the Uriah Heeps
And Fagin great!!!
Back to School
The bullies never stop
But this time
I won't let it drop
I must fight
'You're the problem!'
Spread by those who seem servile
When it’s your face that doesn't belong
Purging my wrath at Survivors
Looking good and acting strong
Performed primal screams, satisfying
But vulnerability's not gone
I shone for a while but tears never stop
'Because I've been wrongly accused’
I guess it’s the trait of all Jane Eyres
‘You think too much of the love of humans beings’
And after the shock of the verbal
My body went into meltdown
My whole body froze, and still does
Like when I was young and abused
Positivity gone to pot
Stirring rot set in long ago
It’s all still in there, ready to serve
My crime defending a colleague
Not brave enough to stand up alone
So muggings here did it for them
Now there is gang warfare
Plaguing, my being, my system
Playground bullies are still fruitful
I show strength but inside I cry
They come in all shapes and sizes
They’re long and they’re short, this one’s small
But could easily be a 10 footer
Screaming HATE into my face
Could pass as a dolly lash flutterer
Yet I'm the one who’s disgraced
In the gutter but at least I can look up at stars
These low lives stick together
Pour forth their stories, I store,
But I don’t think my mind can take it
I am going to open my mouth
Not keeping my pain to myself
This time I’m getting in first
The bullies never stop
But this time
I won't let it drop
Lava heart spilling over
Bottled up anger and rage
With passion and words
I’m not on the fence.
Mine eyes have the seen goriness
Of the coming of the Tories
Life now won't be so glorious
It'll be just bloody tedious
The government promotes shareholders and selfishness and greediness
Thatcher's troops go marching on!
C'mon everybody - chorus:
Gory Tories will deceive us
Gory Tories will deceive us
Gory Tories will deceive us
Thatcher's troops are marching on!
So it goes moths gather round a flame
So the mollycoddled will get theirs fanned
So sure are the popular of their fame
So sure their bullshit will go untamed
So sure the covert stirrer will not be exposed
So assured worshipful oohs and ahhs
Now you know the tricks
That duped your younger self
Gullibility and ignorance helped you on
To places where you survived
But one day woke to realise
You were just a joke, accessorising their egos
Exorcist of their remorse
When the real needy are ignored
Left to build up bricks for a sufficient barrier
To keep out any love that the moths
Now flutter at you in faint wafts that do not touch the edge
While you burn
Cross my arms
Over my chest
I love you
In the US
I prefer Sign UK
Touch my heart
In the English way
Point my middle finger
To my heart and point to you
To say amo-te in Portugal
J’taime I give you my heart in French
Ich leibe dich crossed German
hands flutter from my heart
Appalled at the bastardisation of London Town I weep for Soho.....and the brave squatters of the 12 Bar club.....
Soho’s for Bohos n Bros
Yeah n Prose
Fishnet hosiery n clo’hes
Provocateurs who chose
Not so white bright lights
To be Queens and Knights
Of the red n cosy n low n seedy
For women needy
Come in, number 1
Greek Street, Soho’s historic shelter
St Barnabus to welcome us
Now it's a members club
Soho speaks to us:
Blakies have trod me, fashion Gods have loved me
And did William's feet walk these hallowed streets
STOP the topiary of Soho
Spurious Agents of Assurity
Purveyors of purity
Kneeling to ‘heels’ with money
Mending what’s not broken
Slow it, oppose it
Fight it, recite it
SOHO’s for Bohos, bros n prose!
Grrrrr... started this blog, blow, blah to shake of the X-mass noo year blues that have dwindled into 2015 hence a wake up call to say **** 'em all I'm getting my act together!! And then there's an electrical surge!!
Gathering my negative thoughts and turning them to positives is helped by DAO being there, right here right now, for me, we, us, the bloggers, to rant our asses off!!
Wanting to share my insecurity at not receiving X cards but feeling a hypocrite as I was away for a week in December leading to panic because I couldn't get cards off and getting myself in a right old TIZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ because I didn't want to be left out, I bought and sent cards and stamps on my holiday to make sure I wouldn't upset my 'greeting card' relationships (why the hell we bother just saying how are you once a year I wonder??) so that I am safe in the knowledge that all is well for then next charade that is Christmas!
So, thanks to DAO for letting me vent me spleen! I'll just upload my poem dedicated to consumer gurus who play with our minds when they need to sell us something then tell us we're weak, fat, insecure, Godless neurotics!
And enjoy a brilliant song by Ultravox 'Sleepwalk' to wake us up! (or should we make a song 'they try to tell us we're too fat...........)
Let Them Eat Cack!
To the fakery
The Bakery of Commercialism
Concocted by Bernays and his ilk in our psyche
Consumerism gurus feeding our minds
With what they need to sell
Corporate connivance creating corporeal expanded Coprophagists!!
(then they tell us we’re too fat to be treated!)
Trying to get in X-Mass spirit! This poem was penned because a few years ago Radio 4 were after poems and that all entries would be read by John Hegley. However it would be an unearthly hour in the a.m. and I thought, well, I'll never hear it anyway.
But the demon sleeplessness abounded and this time it was fortunate although having my ear stuck to the radio trying not disturb anyone, intent my listening mission. Nowt! I go an write a poem about what I hate and nowt comes of it. At least I got an okay poem but please be aware - it is a poem of 'hope', not my attitooood! I seem to remember at the time drawing a picture with Santa's gun in my back in the supermarket!
X Marks the Spot
Is it the X-Factor? (Can I be an attractor?)
Is it X-treme sports? (Can I race you in me tractor?)
Is it X-Mal Deutschland reforming? (Vell zay may if you give zem a contract!) Or
Is it XMAS, that eXcellent time of year
when people eXchange gifts and rifts are lifted
for a time
spirits are, like snow, shifted
Drifters may find a stable,
able to join in the cheer
Tears shed, for absent friends
Copious cards are penned
to those far and near
Carol singers fa-la-la-ling
then rat-tat-tatting, welcomed in
Mulled wine drinking mince pie munching
Off they're trudging in the night
To the wind three sheets they are
Bearing song sheets traverse afar
Drunks on an outing
Well wishers shouting
Following yonder jar
HO - HO!
Santa's on his way tonight
With CDs DVDs
Fill my stocking, it's too light!!
And the TV it’s all shite!
I thought I was watching playtime at the local primary school on the tele last night. See if you can guess what super freak programme it was!!
Please Please Please
I’m the egoist
I’m the IDest
I’m the greatest
I can throw my toys further
I can stab you in the back
I can lick your arse
I can create a farce
I can beg and plead
So that you
NEED NEED NEED ME
Regarding library week on the BBC here is my contribution about Kensal Rise Library which is now being tampered with. There is continuing confusion as to what will happen to the library.
I have blogged before re this beloved place where I found solace and relaxation when recuperating after a major illness. Having no decent computer at the time I was glad to see my council tax was going towards such a worthwhile cause and helped to keep me in touch with the cyber world. It smelt of wood and wax and held books from G K Chesteron's bio on Chaucer to diverse subjects and dvds. It was small and had the old fashioned one to one service that we miss now.
Can't see me going to the hyper library in Wembley - sounds like my idea of hell if Willesden Library was a stepping stone. More like a security section at an airport than a temple of books and knowledge.
It's good to hear BBC6Music is highlighting the libraries but will we ever get back the past?
Ne’er the Twain shall meet …with cuts!
Lain in his grave
A hundred years
May turn to learn
The library he opened in 1900
When people had nothing
Would be CUT
Along with other branches
In the 21st century
By bureauprats who know
The price of everything
And the value of nothing!
Not anticipating (or caring) what the ultimate price will be!
Usually I try not to watch harrowing programmes or films before bedtime (bit difficult at the moment due to Art of Gothic series on the BBC!) but I was compelled to watch 'Inside Holloway' on Channel 5 last night. Part Two of a two part documentary, it made for a disturbing, depressing insight into the world of a women's prison.
Ruth Ellis, the victim of a brutal, nasty, violent upper class man resorted to shooting him and in doing so was charged with his murder and hanged by the neck. However, her case touched peoples' hearts and a public outcry led to Ruth being the last female victim of capital punishment in this country. Below is an extract explaining how the 'establishment' viewed Ruth. Obviously, they couldn't have some 'tart' killing one of 'theirs'!!
'It was in Holloway on 13th July 1955 that Ruth Ellis became the last woman in Britain to be hanged. In the press and in court, she was portrayed as a fallen woman – a peroxide blonde nightclub manager who had murdered her unfaithful lover David Blakely. As the law stood at the time, the judge had no option but to condemn Ellis, but the systematic physical and mental abuse that Blakely had inflicted on her raised public concern about the death penalty.'
No wonder women in those days were scared to act upon domestic abuse. As still happens in some countries today, the victim would be treated as the criminal!
Some people may be saddened to know Myra Hindley, later proven to be manipulative and conniving, just missed out on this punishment for heinous crimes to children.
One shocking revelation was that women up until the end of the 20th Century would be 'chained' when giving birth!
Another shocker is that they were almost spoon fed Largactyl.
'Conditions inside Holloway had begun to spiral out of control and powerful anti-psychotic drugs were used to sedate problem prisoners. By the 90s, conditions inside had hit rock bottom and changes were made with a new emphasis on education, cleanliness and purpose.'
It seems many girls/women are involved with the wrong men, come from poor backgrounds and many have mental health issues, addicted to drugs and alcohol - not surprising. In fact, the old Holloway prison was levelled and replaced with a new 'villagey' communal setting with therapy and art rooms.
'However, three quarters of Hollowayʼs inmates now suffer from a mental disorder, half are addicted to drugs or alcohol and two thirds are mothers.'
Ruth and the Girls
I try to imagine
My heart cries for you
To be incarcerated
For what not
Is always your fault
It's always the guilty who go unpunished
The soft and vulnerable who come undone
Seen as tarts, whores and slags
Druggies and thieves
Young slappers, old bags
One day we'll all be free
Your sister insane
The Arts have now been 'disabled' -The Arts Show - 23/10/2014 - with Claire Cunningham and views of other Artists
Marie-Louise Muir profiles of Claire Cunningham, artist-in-residence at Belfast Festival at Queen's, and meets disabled artists who focus on their art rather than their disability. Interesting programme and
Terrorism. 2. a person who terrorizes or frightens others. (Dictionary.com)
With all the exposure of child sex abuse I am wishing in an ideal world that our bullies should also be punished.
They say 'move on', 'it's in the past', 'look to the future'. Well along with sexual abusers, our bullies should be made to see the damage they've wreaked.
In an ideal world we could go back as we are now and have the confidence, the power to fight back.
I thought of getting in touch with one of my bullies to have it out with her and was told it was 'creepy' by a so called friend!! Eh? This girl/demon/witch made my life a misery. I was only happy when she was happy. Life at home was bad enough but she had more power than anyone over me. I went to school when she said. I went home when she said.
When she she didn’t know where I was, I got hell and remember when she gave me that evil look from the field as I ended my journey on the bus back from grandmas and fear struck, in my turquoise and white dress I ran round to appease my mistress. 'You didn't tell me you were going.....you've been gone a week!'
I stopped going to Grandmas and when she was hanging out of her bed during an accident during the night, the home help found her asking for me. She was dead a week later. I went to see her in hospital at least but she was so 'gone' under the hallucinatory effects of the cocktail of drugs that they seemed to dish out to finish people off back then, that she didn't really recognise me. I have felt guilt ever since. I was 12 and Grandma 86.
That bitch shook her fist at me one grey night and shook my world. I avoided her at all costs but one day she followed me home and finally went for me by locking her arm around my neck. Even though my brother and his mate put her face in a puddle that night, I was scared to death.
From a keen scholar (I couldn't wait to go to secondary school and learn French - I already knew some) and do homework (oh yes) I turned into a greasy, lank haired, depressed little doormat. Luckily she being a year above me had to go the upper school for her third year onwards and I could have some peace at school at least.
But it led to me dreading every single day at school when I progressed to the upper school (of which I had another three years). Ending up being lax with schoolwork, homework, hanging around with the wrong crowd who again dictated my life and then came more terrorism and undignified assaults and belittlement.
I have been fighting ever since to educate myself and learn and find a life.
I found out when my 'mistress' deigned to explain why I was targetted, it was because I was 'bonny' and the two girls she idolised want me to hang around with them as I was better looking! My fault then?
Her 'terrorism' combined with my home life almost destroyed me but I have some kind of survival instinct.
I used to think 'at least I got away', 'I moved out', 'my life is better' but now I sometimes think she and the other terrorists may have won. They seem to be surrounded by family who care while I am isolated. Fighting gets tiring. Writing and performing is my therapy! This is where my big gob's got me. The following poem explains:
(Now I Am Grown And w(R)eaking h(A)voc) Falls
I have managed to spell out NIAGARA as I appear to have cried a waterfall rather than a river.......
Now I’m grown
And I can ruin your world
I was your toy
When I was young
To be picked up
But now I can ruin your world
‘cause I have grown up
I kept quiet
But now I can open my mouth
And you will be undone
When I unleash all the years
To ruin your little world
For the years stolen
Let the tears begin
Not for me this time
I could have flooded Sudan
Torrents of torment
Now it’s your turn
How apt, just read Colin Hambrook's excellent editorial and in response to his paragraph: 'I think madness is often a sane response to living in an insane society... etc' I find I concur most sincerely (folks).
Now we hear, in the 21st century this 'Lord' making claiming disabled people are 'not worth' the minimum wage. Somehow his derogatory comments about people who at least are willing to 'do' something to make their lives more bearable is intermingling with my thoughts on Colin's article.
I commented: 'Being a good person can be regarded as mad, being truthful can be regarded as mad, being kind can be regarded as mad. Being a shifter/mover/shaker/shafter seems to be rewarded!
Reading Freud's Wiki page: Freud was first employed by the Financial Times as a journalist, writing the Lex column over a period of four years. In 1983 he was hired by the firm then known as Rowe & Pitman. Freud admits that this job which involved "writing research on companies at the same time as taking money from them for advice" would be considered illegal today.
Commenting on mentally disabled people from someone who is supposedly educated and should know better being part of the family that fled Nazi Germany - he should be ashamed of himself.
Is it fair that this privileged prig who seems to have dodged and ducked and dived with people's lives anyway should be in a position to say who in society should get the breaks (or cuts)?
Maybe he should be cut. What makes someone who has so much take from people who don't? He admitted he's not a politician and, oh joy, Blair's gang brought him in from the City (the guy who came in from the gold?)
Now there are excuses flying round that Freud meant that companies cannot afford to employ disabled people and that the government can make up the money so they will have some income. Surely, he should be educated in how to choose his words but then again, we are lucky to hear the bitter truth with no spin!
Big money maker
In charge of our welfare system
Let's wake up
Don't be taken in
By his making up
Breaking up is hard to do
But he does it with ease
So he's talking about economic worth
Not our actual selves
Too late for grovelling apologies
The articles have been written
Recorded for posterity.
I Love This Dirty Town (too)
I found this plea
In the archives of the BBC
Margaret Drabble, Sean Kenny Arthur Doole
I love you
But weep knowing
They took no pity
The architects and town planners always win!
Wise words from Theo Goody
Highlights the wasted taxpayers' money
On skills are wasted for empty words
Paid for by the sweat and toil of ordinary workers
Joan Littlewood as usual
Fighting on the side of good
All over our souls
Until we do them a favour
And become their natives
In a concrete jungle
Where can I get some decent food in this goddam town? In between the fantastic festival I just needed a real dirty fry up to keep me going and guess what? Been around the world and I, I , I can't find a fry up... Runaround Brew.... where are you? Had to settle for MACDONALDS
ARGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!!! Get this city back to reality please and give us back the cosy Italian cafes and Full English brekkies! Then I find that: London Hot el is charging £39 for the humble fry up!!! Let's reclaim our food!
At least my anger churned out quite a long poem and all the Embankment trekking inspired The Waistband in me!
For Real City
Ravenous for a dirty breakfast
Of bacon and eggs and all things fat
I traipsed Charing Cross
And borders of Covent Garden
To satisfy my stomach’s wretch
Horrific and wrong
Tempo Temper Tantrum
The large male Italian
Who served the best breakfast
My mate from Amsterdam vver had
Had turned into a cappuchino
Muffin selling slim line youth
The counter looking
At this alien
Asking for a fry up
‘haz changed’ he seemed
Perturbed at being
Disturbed whilst fiddling
With his mobile phone
Oh No I cried
Another nail in the coffin
Of a London that caters
For my craving heart
Who needs to eat
Albeit on occasion
Than an airy bun
Fucked up City
Ray Davies said
T.S. had it sussed
We’re losing culture
We’re losing character
To three flouncy boys
Entering Thai Pot
Looking like a greasy spoon
Would ne’er be on their map
I have seen Stratford
It’s flattened it’s lost
Like a wasteland crying
For years of growth
Torn from the backs
Blood sweat and toil
Of dockers and labourers
Now just building blocks
For some kind of realism
Not just Westfield
And fancied up locks
A burger’s the alternative
Full to bursting on the Strand
Coke milk shake chilli
Unreal, these are now
This is now
I look for familiar
Earlier I saw a face I knew
Curly mop and little eyes
Crossing the bridge
I nearly shouted
‘I know you don’t I?
Weren’t you with me
On the stage in Mile End?’
Traitorous bitch! We acted together
Thought she was a friend!
Turning into Bakerloo Northbound
End of the corridor walk annoys every time
When Trafalgar Square’s entry
Is shut I imagine
That I’ll see the ghost
Of my lovely Gabby
A friendly face
In a sea of scowls
Rushing opposite way to me
Lit me up, we chatted a while
But her ghost never walks
Charing Cross Station
I am left in quandaries’
My dear dead Gabby
Reekious in Pace
With long gone bacon
Greasy fry ups
Sweet smells dying
98 years ago my Great Uncle Arthur Bowler was 'killed in action' in the 'organised murder' (Harry Patch). He is commemorated on a brick in Thiepval, France.
Strangely, he was near an area called Albert, and he had a brother called Albert, pronounced very differently with a Barnsley accent, who also served in Malta in the same conflict and survived to have a very good life. I wonder if Arthur may have connected these names as he waited in the trench to die.
His sister, my Grandma, had a strange, small piece of heavy black glass on her mantelpiece which I used to pick up and look at and feel and say 'that's not a pig!' and she would say 'yes it is, our Arthur made that pig for me!'. He worked at a glassworks before and was looked after by my Grandma and now I see it was a pig, a precious memento beside his brass plaque, one of millions, Arthur Bowler, who died in the Great War. I wish I could go back and say, 'yes, I see it is a pig' but like most things we regret, it's too late. I was too young and naive and all I can do is pay homage by the magic of social media.
Thank you Arthur for giving your life but it was all in vain, the slaughter goes on, again and again. Here is Wilfred Owen's superb poem as a dedication to you and all the innocents who thought they were doing the right thing and also the ones pressured through the 'white feather' anti-conchie brigade.
Parable of the Old Man and the Young
So Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went,
And took the fire with him, and a knife.
And as they sojourned both of them together,
Isaac the first-born spake and said, My Father,
Behold the preparations, fire and iron,
But where the lamb for this burnt-offering?
Then Abram bound the youth with belts and straps,
and builded parapets and trenches there,
And stretchèd forth the knife to slay his son.
When lo! an angel called him out of heaven,
Saying, Lay not thy hand upon the lad,
Neither do anything to him. Behold,
A ram, caught in a thicket by its horns;
Offer the Ram of Pride instead of him.
But the old man would not so, but slew his son,
And half the seed of Europe, one by one.
Lovely soundbite there from a robotic public servant! (Indeed a top banking exec used the same phrase apologising for his major high street bank's cock ups!)
The need to tick boxes, be PC (not the constable type), meet targets resulting in closed doors, dirt swept under the carpet not cleaned from the floor?
And get quite a tidy sum to boot which begs the question 'are people in charge in it for the money?' 'cause it ain't the love! Is this a significant factor why those beautiful children were ignored? Because they are beautiful, they are brave, they were let down and deserve the highest apology in the land.
Reactionary? Me? Hell Yeah!! But I've been here before and will carry on, so not quite so! I did learn from Mr Colin Hambrook's first poem in Knitting time - about Andy Warhol's repetitive pictures - penny dropped for me!
Victims repeatedly went to the Police and Social Services written off as a 'prostitute' at 12 after being groomed, kidnapped, trafficked, gang raped, doused with petrol, passed around like a rag doll. What kind of country are we living in? One girl of 12 was arrested as drunk and disorderly in a house with five adult men!
It begs the question 'are these people in charge gutless, scared of being labelled racist or indeed perverted beings themselves?' Well, as long as the poor perpetrators are looked after and understood eh? Fuck Off!!
These people are manipulative, shrewd, evil, conspirators, nasty, without conscience and know exactly what they are doing. Karma is too long a shot, get 'em now!
To hear foreign men and women in this country calling English girls 'easy' make me fucking seethe!!! Is there anywhere else in the world where the indigenous people are used as a doormat? Where the last bastion of legal racism against the indigneous population is waived continually?
But of course while our authorities, children's homes, family members, friends abuse us then it's a free for all!
When is exploitation going to stop in this country? We're always hearing about stories of good deeds done to help third world plights - excellent ! But what about the lost kids here? It's time this country woke up and acted.
It is hard to believe this crap is still happening in the 21st century but it is. How truly shocked do people have to be?
If we could get out the stories of all the dehumanisation that has gone on in our time into a book it would replace the bible, the kuran, the torah, the bhagavad gita with unbelievable stories.
Stop pussyfooting around and being scaredy cats and SAVE OUR CHILDREN!
If you've had your pride crushed
If you've had your name trashed
If you've been petrol doused
If you've been threatened with violence
If you've been beaten
If you've been ignored by the police
If you've been arrested drunk and disorderly when you're 12 in the company of five adult men
If you've been passed off as a wanderer so no worries when you disappear from the 'Home' for a week
If you've been passed around a gang of 'men' like a sex toy
If you've been imprisoned
If you've been trafficked
If you've survived all this then you are not White Trash my friend - you are a superior human being!
Wake up Britain - White Trash Unite - Rotherham is a Wake Up Call!
Sluts, Slags, Slappers, Trash, CHAVS, Whoors
From towns to cities from hills to moors
Kids are treated like dirt
From Working Class to Under Class
Can they put us down any more?
Bequeath us with beneath
On our wreath
Well RIP that bollox up and start again
Let's wReakious havoc In Pace!!
I didn't get DLA and suffered total embarassment trying to claim at an appeal (I could not fill the form in alone. I had to get help). Awaiting another breakdown to explain the first breakdown.
Anger walking away from the DLA in Grays Inn turned into this poem in my head and performed it the next evening at Survivors....something positive out of something negative.
The 51st State of the D Hell of A! - Poetician Needs Hand Rail
Three grey stooges assessing case
Cross examining like Soul assassins
My ‘claim’ from two years before
How elementary there’s Dr Watson
And a solicitor and a mister
Whose names rhyme and whose paradigm is cock!
Fuck me! I’m in the dock
‘by this time could you cook say an omelette and some peas’
No Dr Watson I didn’t really eat!
‘Was the friend you had staying just for reassurance’
Well Yes! Mister Cock
‘so he didn’t help you in the bath’
I couldn’t get in it!
‘do you have a hand rail?’
No I don’t Solicitor ..OH NO I failed the crucial tick
The trick of these inhuman assessors
Belittling me because
I’m not like them ‘cause
My road wasn’t theirs, straight and up the M1
I’ve had A roads and B roads
Wine-dy lanes and slippery slopes
Inn-clines and declines, my hopes
I’m not like them
My path is scattered with trying and flying and dying
What with this humiliation and Actors Centre rejection - I am a failure
The devil works for RADA, the DLA and dresses in Prada!
Brother can you spare a dime?
Brother can you spare a rail?
The tears start to fall
I’m embarrassed with it all
Telling of my ablutions
I plead it’s more than ticking boxes and
I’m looking at the man in the middle
Who tells me they’re not here to give me this
or give me that
I say just give me what I need
To lead a normal life!
And leave before my dignity is tick boxed to D HELL A!
In the corridor my humour is saved by a man who’s like Druid on Acid with a nobbly stick embedded with two different coloured eyes shaking it at the whole establishment… like a shaman – he’s a good he’s a good he’s an Ebenezer Good body who flails and rails inside (My Kingdom for a Rail)
And he’s still at it on the street…he’s angry they made me cry
But as I wander around the city of hypocrisy trying to find my bus the anger kicks in and I’m...
The new sport
that keeps me ticking
for the system
and doing my head in
tick for this
tick for that
tick for my sanity
tick for my gravity
tick this box if you’re mad
tick this box if you’re sad
tick this box if you’re bad
Well I’m ticking for the whole of humanity
To blow you up
Ticking an explosives box for you
Tick tick tick tick boom!
(I like the click, the tick and the fulfulment of online boxing)
Not in Edinburgh but what a stirring experience watching out for something special on The Fringes.
This lead singer inspires me to think this is where David Ruffin's roots must be (The Temptations).
I imagine you're sitting in a purpose built tent of a room
In downtown Stockton on Tease
Robed in a kaftan sucking on a spliff
Deigning to educate us lesser mortals
Who get annoyed and post it on Facebook
Send us e-cards professing positivity
Telling us we should live and let live
Don't waste time on anger - chill my friend
Wafting your dream catcher and reading Salinger
Malingering while I vent my spleen
Well anger is an energy
I could be wrong but I know I'm right
'SCREAMING JAY'S PUT A SPELL ON YOU FOR A CAR AD ... TRITE BASTARDS!'
*Thank for the inspiration though my well meaning friend.
Here is a limp (biskit) attempt to turn my (non comfortably) numb fingers and arms every morning into poetry as I had a weird dream that I could not shake out the numbness to pins and needles (paraesthesia) and wake up thinking of a punk band!
Now I'm dreaming of them
My fingers paralysed
One white one grey one skeletal
My paranoia's infiltrated my sleep
Only they won't straighten
They stay stiff
They won't loosen
But eventually I wake up
Uncomfortably numb fingers
Shaking (Stevens) motion into parasethesia
And I can't wait for my Alternative Ulster
I mean alternative booster
I need somebody
Kelp not just anybody
I need acupuncture NOW!