24 October 2010

Meat On The Table

MeatGinder_Blk
I’ve been through the isms; Animism, Mysticism, Pantheism, Monotheism, Monism, Dualism, Agnosticism, Atheism, Classicism, Humanism, Cynicism, Empiricism, Romanticism, Realism, Surrealism, Marxism, Pluralism, Positivism, Scepticism, Negativism, Nihilism, Existentialism, Expressionism, Impressionism, Modernism, Post Modernism, Situationism and Structuralism – all the fucking isms. It’s been a fun ride - and it’s by no means over. I’ve learned from isms, but I never wanted to belong to one.

I’m sick of the effete elite; navel gazing, banner servants, telling us this - is that. 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.
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For the Urban Hippie – who sparked me off, again.
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Rejected

Rejected_blk

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The line’s been disconnected,

Your love is disaffected,

By the lies that you projected,

They feel disrespected,

Your motives are suspected,

Their doubts are resurrected,

The changes you detected,

Should have been expected,

But now you feel dejected,

Downtrodden and neglected,

You’ve been thoroughly inspected,

And you have been rejected.

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19 October 2010

Dirty Harry


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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.

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*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 @ http://johnjack62.blogspot.com/

9 October 2010

John Lennon

John-Lennon-Script

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My role in society, or any artist's or poet's role, is to try and express what we all feel. Not to tell people how to feel. Not as a preacher, not as a leader, but as a reflection of us all.

John Winston Lennon

9 October 1940 – 8 December 1980

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Entombed

entombed
Her coffins are filled with the images of dead actresses and the memories of her all her failures. She carries the scent of bitter disappointments which linger like shrouds of crematorial ash and the dark barks of ravens on the wing. She hides in funereal disgrace the abject poverty of her dreams – regurgitating the pulped scripts of lies so long told they have stained her lips purple – like wine pressed from nightshade. She gathers her spewings to fashion paper mache masquerades to hide her truths behind tissue thin lies that fail to conceal the shaming knowledge that she isn’t merely an also ran – she’s a never ran. When the rest left the starting block – she was resting on someone else’s laurels - she’s an imposter in her own borrowed pipe dreams – her greatest ambition is to be someone else. She gives herself a leg up by stamping on the feelings of others and ripping the legs from spiders – he loves me – he loves me not – he loves me not. Loss has long turned to avarice which blinds her thought with searing poison that courses through the arteries of her soul like the Styx in flood – carrying the ghosts of loves extinguished by caustic vapours and scowling intemperance – of jealous rage and acrid recriminations. Father, mother, sisters, brothers, friends and lovers – all battered down into caskets lined with tainted pages of doggerel satin – buried deep with a heart as withered and dry as the womb between her empty thighs.
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The Abattoir (extract)
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5 October 2010

Silence

glen_lyon_03

There’s a silence in me,

The silence of graves,

Where no sound can be,

Like beneath the waves,

Deep under the sea,

In the abyssal caves,

Of unfathomed psyche,

Where contours reflect,

The silence in me.

The End

Finis

3 October 2010

The Mark Of Cain


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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

Hollow

43253107_abc70af940
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, but they have left a shadow that promises tomorrow.
The End
Finis