24 October 2010

Meat On The Table


I’m sick of the effete elite; navel gazing banner servants telling us this is that and that is this. Curtain twitching window worriers who tell us art should reflect the ideal – because they reject the real. Agoraphobic identity jugglers who have to find themselves in books so they can write it down in other peoples words and then wave it like a fucking flag while they march to the music of somebody else’s long dead band. I got no time to worry about who I am, or what shape the world is. I gotta put meat on this table and I ain’t gonna find it in here.
For the Urban Hippie – who sparked me off, again.

19 October 2010

Dirty Harry

I don’t think too much about it, I just write from whatever direction the wind’s blowing. I have no flags to wave, I don’t believe in ‘things’ - so I got no use for flags. I have no cause to affect and no mission to accomplish. I already set myself free, as befits a man of my temperament.

I have no beef with anyone in the normal flow of events, but when some numb nutted, bovine brained, cloven hoofed, worm tongued, would-be Wordsworth wanders lonely as a fucking cloud across MY horizon - I figure, why shoot the breeze – when you can shoot the messenger? - I bark bullets - I don’t take prisoners - I don’t have the facilities.

I dish out summary execration to anyone waxing lyrical on the virtues of agape, or how their soul abideth with some mythological god. I read them their rights  – before I ram my muzzle home - and loose my words - BLAM! - d’ya feel that? - BLAM! BLAM! – do you understand? BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! - any questions? - then we’re done here – one less polygluttonous book maggot wasting good paper.

*This work is entirely fictitious and any resemblance to person or persons actual or fictional is purely co-incidental. The views expressed here are not necessarily not the views of the author.

© Copyright John A Jack @

3 October 2010

The Mark Of Cain

I come from East of Eden,
And bear the mark of Cain,
That may be the reason,
They say that I’m insane,
My boots are caked in mud,
From walking in the rain,
My hands are stained with blood,
From the brothers I have slain.
The End

*Image by Robert Crumb

2 October 2010


There’s the tenderest vibration of laughter’s unheard echo. The emptied out sensation of rooms that are left hollow. They left in their wake a trembling, fluttering, quake of nerves and pulse. A gentle sort of heartache and too long delayed impulse. It’s the sense of something fragile between happiness and sorrow. Something now is missing, some subtle nuance fled, has left behind vacuum of feeling in its stead. Like something half remembered that burns inside your head. Like the long forgotten passages of a book that you once read. Someone’s left the room and gone where you can’t follow. 
The End