Thursday, August 08, 2019


No manifesto but the breath
till even that goes.

I found my orphaned voice one day
it was living in the ruins of a house
collapsed years ago beneath the weight
of what was unspoken.

I sculpted diction like pulp fiction
gifting it the colloquial violence
of a gun.

I lifted glib scriptures from a sweet
preacher's passions to fashion misspelled
gospels from its own fears

whilst the illegible heart left the tracks
of its tears untranslated.

But the word got out.

No manifesto but the breath
till even that goes.

I misread the writing on the walls
that said a death without joy
is a night without stars

and at last when I comprehended
I penned this on remnants of night
between pinpoints of light.

I misunderstood, people are not killed
for what they say, but for its echoes.

The roar of distant suns is unheard
yet years after their deaths are we
aware of their presence,
when it is darkest.

No manifesto but the breath
till even that goes.

We have all misspoken
testimonies consigned to air
are yet tethered to earthly prejudice

word balloons are too leaden to fly
and make cartoons of speech's reverence.

We have all misspoken
and for it our ends will be identical
when the bottom drops out, all swinging
our days away on the rope of this life.

Our inexhaustible diatribes
our inexpressable disbelief choked between
lip and lungs and lost forever.

No manifesto but the breath
till even that goes.

But tongues will cleave to language as fire
to that which fuels it until all meaning is
burned out and nothing more can be said
and history cannot be recited nor repeated
until we are left standing in the ash
of voices fallen from a feverish nation
with its tongue inflamed.

The ash of voices spiraling down in ever
slower revolutions

to a day we have waited in their remains long
enough to recognize the virtuosity of their silence
to a day when every song martyred by mouth
goes unsung once.

The harmonics of sympathetic strings
and crossed wires fading at last to leave
empty the contemplative air and room enough
to simply breathe.

I heard somebody crying.

We don't cry in the streets, do we?

Laugh. Argue.

Hanged conversation is laundry on the line
between points A and B

and even in despair
the boxed silence.

But I heard somebody crying,
the most private, the most vulnerable
of human sounds.

And if we don't actually prey upon
we ignore the injured among us,
stacked tens upon thousands in camps

squats, tenements, trapped housing;
the lights flickering,
our empathy short circuited.

But I heard somebody crying.

And I followed down alleyways
amidst those wanting to disappear,
and others broken,
the crevice open in the back,
the white hot filament in the throat,
the eye sockets stuffed with filth,
the mouth corralled by needles.

I followed
disentangling the sound
from that of bells ringing out
the remaining hours of our divinity,
or at least our memories.

Same thing.

Oh, to see these hierarchies of regard
and worth as broken ladders
not burned bridges
not part of a vexed diagram.

And meanwhile, the monkeys wave at us
from the trees, saying 'come back,
come back, you've gone too far.'

But I heard somebody crying.

And I followed. Past a hundred
evocative and revealing scents
accompanying like ghosts the jubilant
masque which passed before them.

From Ave to Requim, we stink,
or try desperately not to stink.
Never a whiff of the desperation
beating on our skins.

And this place knows.
And this place knows, the rain
can be a shroud for such raw souls.

The still mewling harlequin feotus
interred in the heart of the city.

I followed there.

The rooms parceling the air,
along the widened avenues
the brick door corridors and cutting
edges always laid so close
to the bleeding ones.

I followed there.

Through the babel and squeak,
the profound and profane
tongues tied and loosed as rope
binding bodies to their past,
tethering them to their present,
their 'Who' the last thing they truly own.

That and their gods, their only knowns
when each one a knot in the weave
of this one heaving net.

I heard somebody crying.

A snapped twig, a turn for the worse,
a final straw, a black mark,
a forgotten thing.

I heard somebody crying as I stood
in the centre of these grand schemes
made irrelevant.

Stood to centre in great shame
made naked, lost to all reason,
fallen and unable to locate
or even recognize its resonance
in my own weeping cavity, I followed.

And it has led me here.

Saturday, February 17, 2018

Honesty and recognition.

Two brave souls believe in your book,
and would like to see its plaited
letters track closest to the contours

of love. That will come fall show sit
sue sing and grain the faithfulness
of a champion under God your head has

taken refuge in. A word crop cut from
branches of them. Smart sharp particles,
stripped sheaves woven and whispering

a silken fresh-mouthed point by point
commitment in the act of setting up
finely formed protection of an early

age-old bookmate. Compositional charm
and lock, dark and speckled, black and
curling, melancholic, mournful, drawn

mystical, religious, from the calf
to the oil of equations, a clever
skilled comportment that is worthy

of acknowledgement for yourself and
everyone. Mortality under that head
a blank body supervising Sisyphus

it was difficult for you to get rid
of. That state of loneliness you were
in comparable to the main goal

O Music far away, the cloudy stone
you swallowed has established Her.

Dublin February 2018

Inspirational source text was a poem by Nessa O'Mahony I saw on her Facebook. This poem bears no resemblance to its inspiration with a handful of words perhaps the same, most being totally different.

Later I Sing

Overnight a blue-blood moon on the sea's clear water,
their voices sloshing through an open window, recurrent
light in the evening skies stretch out in waves, mermen
of mauve that murmur from the harbour. Rumbling

on the road slowly sprung the future time backs out
a vast breath and buzz of human birdsong. Come fly
with me across the sea new age beauty tools of rage

spring much like life, this shadow noise a tiny ego.
Hopes newly thrive sight through from what next
door a crashing quay of building's beep, mid-morning's

prayer waking from fear, clops quiet upon the pillow.
The year's roar in tooth and claw from the safety
of a honking car, chained our beaks one last time,

in such voices of our sea-worn breath that opens doors
when morn comes round, and the mere fact of our existence
remains, flickering naïve their wonder that has come.

Powerful it coasters out, enters our minds, even
in these days of endless ordinary language, magical
opens up our returning tribe of Her spiritual mermen.

(Write-thru of Rising Late by Derek Mahon.)

Friday, May 05, 2017

Waterford Whispers is a fake news site.

Which will, I imagine, soon be unavailable in the US once the American Electoral Security Act, or some equivalent, has been signed into effect by the disgusting evil anti-American misogynist nazi dictator currently destroying the reputation of the US and the esteem in which is held the most powerful and respected office of state on the planet.

I wud advise everyone, please, do not add to this the most dangerously insidious problem of our time, and fueling it by reading anything that is published at this site, or any fake news site.

Although some people falsely label it as 'satirical' (satirical means reporting things that are not true in a very sensational manner by creating 'fake news' purely to fool and insult the intelligence of the the Reader) - most sensible normal hard working American and EU people do not.

And we do not because we and you are horrified at this vile anti-American explosion created to undermine and breach the US electoral process, by the Russian Intelligence Service, commonly reviled by the vast majority of Russians and with the one rationale; to destroy American democracy.

Russians do not have any freedoms at all. People there cannot vote freely in elections. Russia has a censored internet, and all its citizens, every single one, is under mass electronic surveillance and unimaginable oppression that invades and affects every single second of every single day of every single ordinary Russian.

All terrified of the commonly reviled and profoundly feared not so secret police the Russian Stasi. Most outside Russia do not know this, although a few of us, that do read the news properly, do, but Russians are fleeing that desperate effectively third world country and closed repressive heavily state controlled society in record numbers because of the crushing poverty and terror inflicted on its people by the regime of the acutely dangerous dictator, Vladimir Putin.

Who is currently spending huge sums of Russia's natural resources, not on addressing the poverty of that nation, but diverting much of its incredible wealth that could improve the lives of ordinary Russians, into a process of building a twenty-five foot concrete 'Peace Wall', running from St Petersburg to Rostov-on-Don, under the guise of 'protecting Russians' from 'American aggression.'

Of course nobody in Russia is fooled, nor the rest of the international community, because as we all know from recent not fake news, Putin hacked the last US election and installed a treasonous puppet, that it is with great sadness and shame the US calls its ... no, I cannot bring myself to say it.

Putin is also diverting billions that could be spent bringing some semblance of democracy and freedom to the ordinary Russian, with the lowest life expectancy, at the bottom of every league table measuring quality of life - 99% of whom live below the poverty line on less than ten dollars a day - into the creation and maintenance of an army of forty thousand border guards in place from the Caucasus to the arctic, solely to prevent ordinary Russians from crossing into freedom, peace and personal security and where they are not under the tyrannical despotic rule of a brutal ultra anti-American, clinically obsessional ruthlessly dangerous and quite very possible psychopathic, and therefore mentally ill, Vladimir Putin.

A wise psychoanalyst told a meeting of the emergency House Committee of Inquiry into Fake News, that we should not look at what Putin and Russia does, but what he and its organ of fake news state media says, and know what is going on because it is the exact opposite of what he and the fake news say.

We already know from real reporting at CNN, NYT, WaPo and the curated respectable true news that Russia is ruled by a vicious anti-gay, anti-Muslim, anti-Woman animal, and tough cold calculating evil Stasi chief with a plan to take over the world. But Putin is also, whilst not very bright in American terms, not entirely stupid either, because, as the globally eminent psychoanalyst with unimpeachable credentials told the emergency meeting of the House Committee of Inquiry into Fake News; he is clever enough to conceal his world tyrant ambition from the global audience, primarily by constantly using American foreign policy errors made by previous administrations, as a deflection away from what it is he actually wants, and what he is really doing.

The Russian state media is the only media allowed to be broadcast there, and tells a terrified citizenry that the wall is to keep Americans out, but we all know that under the yoke of stone-cold anti-American hater Putin, it is the other way round and people are fleeing in record numbers from this unhinged unstable world nuclear power stasi state ruled by despotism, nepotism, and state terror.

And as we all know, since last year, there has been a terrifying expansion of Putin's sick megalomaniac ambition for world conquest. And a 10,000% increase in attacks on American democracy by Kremlin controlled fake news outlets alone. Published across the globe in all its languages purely to undermine the American electoral process and US democracy.

By fooling the average voter with this exact sort of WW fake news on sites such as this evil purveyor of sick and twisted anti-US fake news masquerading as 'satire', but really fake news that will soon be excluded from America's internet once the anti-fake news screening applications are brought in with any American Electoral Security act. This great and democratic informational gift to the world and humanity that serves to foster the core American values of freedom and democracy across the globe.

The psychoanalyst, Miranna Absummada, graduated first in her class at Harvard School of Psychiatry, was head of the UN Peace Through Psychiatry Global Initiative, and has just returned from all the above mentioned countries. And with years of on the ground experience in the middle east, Absummada knows exactly what is going on with Putin. She laid out in the emergency meeting of the House Committee of Inquiry into Fake News and election hacking, and in very chilling terms, the fact that everything Putin does is one very large and dangerous act done to fool the world, and to convey a false sanitized image of himself and his regime to the world, that, tragically, much of it, gullibly swallows.
We know from the peace work the US is doing in Iraq, Libya, Syria, Yemen, Somalia and Sudan, that Putin is actively undermining US efforts by bombing hospitals, supplying crazed anti-Christian religious fanatics killing in the name of their sick non-existent god, chemical weapons, uranium, yellow cake and an entire industry of chemicals for the sole purpose of killing all opposition to the religious fanatics establishing a 7C Old Testament style of rule in terrifiying proportions and in which life is valueless and the rulers barbaric evil men drawn from across the world to join this insane anti-woman cult.

The US is trying to stop this, more or less single-handedly, but are having a tough time of it because Putin is now using the new global fake news methods of open media lies, spin, distortion and outright warfare that relies on fake news to present a false reality of what is going on, very cleverly, with armies of paid fake news content providers and Putin trolls spread across the globe writing in all languages, publishing fake news that contextualizes the US as the bad actor.

By very skillfully presenting US efforts at bringing democracy to challenging places, countries and people that are not used to it, in the reverse light of what the US intent is, and what is actually getting done in these war torn countries where the American military with its local partners on the ground have been valiantly trying to bring the civil wars there to a close. In the case of Iraq, for a decade and a half.

Russia is actively keeping these wars going.

And doing so, in part, because Putin's Russia is the largest arms manufacturer in the world, selling a forty billion dollars a year in weaponary to anyone at all with the means to pay for it. Unlike the US that has strict 'peace protocols' in effect at every stage of the very controlled and heavily legislated American arms industry.

Under the excuse of the First amendment fake news sites such as WW have exploited the generosity of the American people, and subverted the very founding principles on which this great country and haven of constitutional freedom, democracy, learning, industry, law, innovation and a deeply profound material and spiritual happiness, is founded.

And Putin's regime did this purely as an attempt to destroy this amazing nation of very different and diverse states tied by geography, food, attitude, music, sports, theater art books, and an American cultural mindset of fairness in all things, democracy first, helping those less well off than ourselves, being kind, not causing trouble, and just by virtue of these facts, hated by Putin's evil despotic regime.

And this coordinated and controlled fake news explosion last year that originates in the Kremlin and squarely at the desk of the Russian tyrant - let that sink in a moment. Our longest lasting most dangerous enemy that was founded by Communists - actually caused Trump to be elected, because Russia has been steadily building up this new cyber-warfare department whilst its people die of hunger and cold in the streets, spending last year twenty billion dollars employing a global army of paid trolls, including WW, that, collectively, disrupted for the very first time in history the free and fair US electoral process.

It is vital that this act of war, under the terms of the Logan Act ('any act of falsely distributed information by any agent of a foreign government is hereby declared a unilateral act of war'), but most US citizens are not taking this sort of thing nearly as seriously as they should and they will be legally obliged to when any new  American Electoral Security Act becomes law of the land, and what now is called creating and/or publishing so called satirical 'fake news', in the interests of American electoral security; will become acts of espionage the US citizenry is prohibited from engaging in and any contravention of said law result in very tough penalties.

Harsh perhaps, but a power very much needed if the US is to go forward once the current incumbent is impeached, sectioned into a psychiatric hospital, dies unexpectedly - or however else he leaves office, the sooner the better - in the same stable democratic fair and innovative manner it was used to prior to Putin's stooge being illegally elected by this terrifying new Stasi method being employed by the evil regime of Russia's current Tsar in all but name.

Real Americans do not engage in undermining American democracy and I welcome any declaration that outs those who do break the law by creating publishing or republishing or communicating any so called satirical 'fake news' material once the  American Electoral Security Act becomes law.

And although some very nasty individuals believe this kind of stuff is actually humorous, most right thinking people do not because they are rightly disgusted with this deliberate terrifying and undermining of American global democracy, by false news written purely to make the American Reader confused, fearful, and to vote in ways that are not acceptable in a democracy.

Please report this to Facebook and demand it be shut down. Thank you very much.

Thursday, August 04, 2016

Gwion Bach Hazih

Comment by gwionb on Guardian Poem of the Week nearly 500, 1-7 August 2016, You, Lizard-like, by Lynne Hjelngaard.


There's no way to know if the narrator's addressing someone or something other than their own countenance, figure, form, aspect, kind, or species.

You, a lizard-like anonymous genderless being the anonymous genderless narrator is addressing.

A very abstract poem that supports any projection and reading. The traits of a solitary squamatean being enunciated could equally refer to a specific being, history and/or relationship between two real people the poet is drawing into free verse from experience, or to an aspect of the Muse itself.

A 'mirror to the creative self', as Carol uniquely puts it in the 'wilful literary vandalism' of her exegesis week no nerly 500.

My first thought was a narrator addressing a break-up, or unhappy relationship. Until peering closer and seeing how cleverly the words are spun into this object wholly spirit. I saw a recording of the poet reading live and she reminds me of another American poet who writes finely wrought verbal threads of fragile gossamer power one can easily overlook and took me a second listen of the recording I'd made of her reading at the House of the Dead on Ushers Quay to appreciate it for the high-talk of an angelic voice well-versed in the noble art of spoken song superlatively spun upon the page of our visual eye and otherworldly aural ear inward within where the 'there' of all poetry at this level is silently heard.

Jane Hirshfield.

I'd not been long writing, April 2009, eight years at it, and still a student of The Handbook of the Learned and poet's primer Auraicept na n-éces, with at least four more years to make as many mistakes as one could wish without feeling silly or uncouth in front of any poetry professors of the contemporary commons practicing the art of letters and accent, dialect, and various different languages one finds to communicate with on a structured curriculum and twelve year course of bardic learning our poetry professors in the ollúna teach their charges.

When I heard Hirshfield reading in the busy room at full capacity, simultaneously recording it, as unobtrusively as one could, and aware that because at that time the etiquette around recording live poetry readings was still 'up for grabs', some people wudda felt as if their soul were being stolen and others could not care less, and not knowing if what i was doing was some kind of unforgivable act of the total w***** in the mind/s of those I recorded - i cudnt chillax 'n listen with the due care and attention the werk demanded.

The craven crass half of me at the time of the live reading was half-thinking what i wuz 'earin wuzza loada sh**e pal', as 'we' werking-klaws fowkza Kirkby 'n Ormskirk oft opine in matters such as pooatreh raidings, but oim gled one ad recorded and listened back to the reading because it was only in the silence and solitude of one's own study one heard its true register 'n pure vatic spirit.
I think this can be similarly judged.

The words are uniquely arranged in the most poetic and unusual order possible. In ways tharra lay reader will not be conscious of but the keener eye, all those regular ones here, for example, will be aware of, at various levels of articulacy and cognizance.

expert at loss, loyal to none .. two short declarative statements in a minimum of words, arranged unusually, to punch meaning largely into the mind of a Reader. And it continues all the way through the poem. The essential poetic brevity and method at the core of the poem spelled out as we learn: claws / digging quickly in, out. You disappear.
There's no messin abow 'ere innih?

An expert at what she does, in this poem, 'n wunza yuge nu-fan. & tho sumwun as expert in language and lingo as this week's poet number nearly five hundred can no doubt handle uz loh 'ere, tiz anly joost 'n faer she dunt cum 'ere ''n geh plooted by us comn az dertz wittalaery loutz 'n tha, innih?
Loving two supreme folds and divisions above us as the one sovereign human being doin shilly voices ov werk dahling, wivva birra iarm-berla, the unaccented words, 'the speech Iar Mac Nema discovered last, and it is not possible to analyse it', because of its cryptic iron-like hardness.
Practised from bardic grade five Clí/ridgepole on.

Kevin Desmond Swords

Tuesday, July 19, 2016

Gobyohlat Armchairbro's Gaff

I know many on these threads will vividly recall the intensity of the Obama 2008 summer (at the discussion forum Harriet.). America was hemorrhaging debt, treasure and blood at an unprecedented level.

And the only reason I became interested in US politics for the first time in my life as a forty-one year old English emigrant four years in Dublin with few Irish friends and a fully flowing seven year old writing habit, was because of how monumentally and unprecedentedly badly daddy's boy George II was fucking up the planet.

For the very first time in my life - obviously, with hindsight, because of the internet, coupled with a then relatively new habit of writing spontaneous speculative discourse at any virtual venue that tolerated one's Dos or Cano/whelp grade three/four bardic blather of the new writing student in a full flush of unblocking the psychic wangst accrued by twenty years of unexpressed cerebral build-up, creative confusion, psychic madness and intellectual literary silence; i felt acutely unsettled by what was originating in America.

I had never before as a young man been interested. I was living in London at the 2000 election, and though momentarily registering the unusual-ness of it, one was not in the slightest interested in the 2000 steal Jeb and the Brooks Brothers riot instigated.

The actual instigator, one discovered this year, from the man who wrote the playbook the privileged wealthy draft-dodging tramp is parroting from as his election bible: The Clintons' War on Women; Roger Stone.

Former GOP insider, arch Machiavellian strategist, style guru, and an incredibly eloquent and intelligent operator who can convince you white is black and vice versa. A veteran of nine presidential elections. Confidant of Nixon after he'd been disgraced, and now as a place-holder a member of the Libertarian party.

His insights are brilliantly poetic, 'I worked for forty years in the corroded rectum of the two-party system', and the four political history books he has written in the last four years are a fifty-fifty mixed bag of the living and the dead.

His first book: Who Killed Kennedy: The Case Against LBJ, as he points out, could not have been researched and written without all the other books that exhaustively documented numerous connections, links, movements of and relationships between the principle historical figures, cops, G men, politicians, secret service agents, and placements of the various people in the build up to and on the day of the murder itself.

It is written and footnoted with all the forensic factual detail of a fine English language QC, and the frighteningly brilliant barrister's mind bringing together a most compelling and sensible argument for the Veep being the principle actor in a fluid and multi-faceted cia-mob-gov plot to whack JFK.

As Jackie Kennedy and the rest of his family, I think i am correct in asserting, have always (privately) believed. His book Nixon's Secrets is also a must read as he manages to present him as a human being. He said Nixon answered cryptically when saying of the presidency, that though he was a sharp operator, he never killed anyone to get the job. 

His book on the Clintons, written off as a hatchet job and ignored, makes a compelling case that Hilary was involved in plenty of dodgy pranks from the first time she hung out with Bill when they bunked after hours into an empty Louvre art gallery together; painting them as Tom and Daisy Buchanan in the Great Gatsby, creating havoc wherever they go and leaving it to others to clean up their monumental messes as they skip off back to to their gilded and privileged existence.

His latest book: Jeb and the Bush Crime Family, dishes up the footnoted facts of Jeb's history as a bagman in South America and daddy's boy doing his father's work and in the family businesses of - according to the GOP insider - international arms and drugs smuggling, espionage and financial piracy; and, if you believe Stone, Bush dropped out of the race, because he knew his rival had the dirt on him from Stone's book.

Books that nobody is reviewing, apart from thousands of ordinary people online who've bought and read them. The Kennedy book is by far his most positive contribution of them all.

And now after eight years following American politics and contributing the odd rant, i feel that the next three months are gonna be as frantic, and more so, than 2008.

This time the black and white binary choice of McCain / Obama, has become less clear cut. Europe is experiencing a wave of refugees created by Hilary deciding to bomb Libya and (at first) covertly trying to overthrow the internationally recognised government of the sovereign state of Syria, by her hubris attenuating the legitimacy of the UN; whilst simultaneously deflecting our gaze from her own illegality by shouting very loudly for us to look how illegal all the other new enemies are behaving. China, look how Russia is behaving.

After she came up with her bright idea of a reset button, and courted all the news and made all the decisions, covertly, not admitting at the time what she was up to because it was a secret, and because she was trying to be too clever by half and completely fucking the world up in the process.

Though Bush started it, Clinton and to a lesser extent Cameron and our somewhat reluctant political pals in Brussels are the ones responsible for Europe now daily receiving thousands of people fleeing the consequence of her choices as Secretary of State, and causing what Bush had not.

Increasingly grave and troubling instability in Old/New Europe. For free we got the Ukraine mess. Look at Russia. When the factual claims are tested, they are proven to have no substance beyond the aspirational will of one woman and her State Department vision of the world order. If Europe goes down you (we won't be here) will be no doubt treated to a vintage Clinton tearjerker of a reality-performance. Maybe it all fucks up and Bill dies but it's ok, America, Hillary will soldier on all tearful and it'll be as if the death of one Bill Clinton can cancel out the millions in Europe who, oh, I dunno, get nuked when Putin doesn't back down to Hilary telling him to stop being so aggressive.

Trump, for all his oafish cruel and wicked evil dictatorial spirit and thought-crimes, has not created any of this. Which is not to say he wouldn't make things ten times worse than Billary, but my understanding is that this space-thread is a theoretical exercise-ground for the intellectual projection of conceptual possibilities and scenarios, and the questions we feel it is useful for us to speculatively muse on and ponder in order to become better and more perceptively philosophical pooertz yohl.

I suppose there's a case to be made that if Roger Stone hadn't have spontaneously led the Brooks Brothers riot that stopped the recount in Florida, as he himself is on record as saying; it would have been better for the country Gore had got in. If Stone hadn't made that choice and perhaps Bush would not have got in and made the most monumental mistake of the modern era. That we are still trying to clean up now and making only worse.

I feel the rhetoric is going to get red-hot over the next twelve weeks, and that there will be plenty of eructions of fuck and cnut and name-calling and everyone going bonkers and screaming at each other. Which will culminate on Tuesday 2nd. And by Wednesday morning a new global reality will slowly begin. A new tone. A new rhetoric.

Oh how short our memories are. What got me into the 2008 election, apart from being slung off everywhere in the UK and having no choice but to start trolling the Foetry Poundation where i met and united with fellow trolls/language freedom fighters; Cordle, Graves and Woodman, was the rhetoric of Bush. Bellicose, vulgar, anti-intellectual and no shred of eloquence. A then life-long disinterested citizen of the Soul drawn to speak up and out about this recovering alcoholic 'n witless fok.

And though not feeling personally threatened by the madness of George II, one was exercising in a relatively new activity of writing a view of impending doom that if McCain got in and threw more troops into Iraq, carried on killing thousands of innocent civilians and continuing the Bush 2 (Cheney/Rove/Rumsfeld) doctrine that Obama's Hope alone quenched in the landslide victory; there would be an increased sense of feeling personally more anxious. 

I just wanted the Bush madness to stop.

And now Obama is leaving as the historical first working-class crooner from the bi-racial bardic school of world class poetically eloquent domestic American politicians, that feeling of doom is only increasing from 2008; at the farthest western shore of Europe, several seas distant from the insanity slowly unfurling at the eastern end of this continent and small shared European landmass. The one certainty throughout our shared history of which is its regular collapse into anarchy, nihilism and dark ages.

And so as KEB is trying to communicate, I think, 'we' in Europe are faced with and experiencing a starker reality perhaps than yawl there. Where an evil tramp is attempting to claim exists in America all the stuff we alone are just beginning to experience. Like we never had the mass-shootings you had but now it is appearing in a new and virulent form of craziness created by the decisions taken there o'er the nine waves three thousand miles across clear blue sea distant from and safely insulated from. The entire collective cultural memory of world war, over there, is one of the boom years of WW2 when war was great for the economy and improved everyone's standard of living. Whilst at the same time it took the rest of us back to a stone age. With a similar cast of utterly evil men.

I dunno what I am trying to say. Just exercising the intellect and imagination on this very healthy talkative pool of chat, that, perhaps, won't solve any great questions or yield any world-changing answers to our current dilemmas and challenges we in the world face today; but it is testament to the shared symbiotic acts of reading and of writing and communication and whatever else we choose to make it or are led to finding it become.

With three months to go, the goal of one's own election speculation exercise here speaking virtually with an audience of one's own conception of the lala land America one has never been to and never will because i pledged never to fly again after that last drunken fortnight in Magaluf; is to keep a lid on the shoutyness and keep dry a powder that may well ignite the biggun/s of literary noise for a more apt and the most appropriate time.

As the date draws near all kinds of fleeting off the cuff remarks from across the world will float into a daily shorter and shriller mix. We just do not know who we will end up interacting with online. For the great talkers who can gi tae fook 'n tie oop in nots and paint on a pig the shit that sticks and causes it to mortally fall exposed broken and with the election in the bag for whoever. This the stuff our dreams in America are made of. Here.

Even as the rhetoric becomes less articulate and more crass, as the underlying ineffable passion and unspeakable cultural intensity heats up. And unlike in 2008, less clear-cut now the choice a variable choice/s with numerous possibilities and pathways to a successful other side and outcome on November 3rd which are the routes successfully to 'this', that, as a Wisdom Saying of Cuchulain tells us, 'only one in a hundred will get you across'.

Hope not fear.

Sunday, July 03, 2016


Roger Dow

'A common wisdom shared by psychotherapists etc. is: "If someone could hear the conversations we have inside our heads about ourselves, they'd probably be so alarmed they'd call the police". 

Swords Odes

What we need today more than doctors, nurses, firefighters, and first responders, are two class of professional soul-doctors, and i mean of course, first, perhaps the most important people in the world right now; patrolling borders, keeping our country safe and out of harms way: DJ's.

And right behind them, at number two in the world's most needed more of profession, what we need more, we need more, we need loads more of right now today, are psychotherapists. 

Whilst many do help people recover from horrific trauma, there are a handful of psychotherapists who silently listen to paying clients talk at great length about the way they feel, and just milk them for every penny they can get by fueling the delusion, by agreeing for money with every single lie, manic vision, outrageously dumb idea, lie and word eructing from a deeply troubled and psychotic billionaire.

With the wealthiest and least principled of this profession becoming indispensable gurus to wealthy functioning mentally ill and psychotic million and billionaires, agreeing with people that need sectioning into mental hospitals, but are so wealthy it's not gonna happen without a tussle; and before we know it are on 30,000 dollars a week hanging round a global narcissist thinking, 'it's this easy, eff me this is bonkers. Yeh that's right Tyga and Karmwae, deep.

Of course, that's right, yep, of course, i've always said that, agree, agree, agree, you'd know far better than me, yep, yep, totally, as we've said, well , they're calling you the New Messiah, well yeh, of course, America needs you; and think, think Donald, come on and think hard, and yeh, harder, all the way, of course it's working, and remember, hardest when the Slug gets here with terms from the Programming Department of HBO Television Monster Series, Monsters Big Day Out At The Psychotherapists. 

Yep, yep, you first, ok me, yup all the way, explain, yep, of course, of course, it'll be a cinch, yip, yup, it's vile, yuh, urgh, losers, bums, nobody needs em, nobody loves em, they're haters Donald.'

Thom & Deso


Reasons I talk to myself.

1. I don't interrupt.
2. I can say absolutely anything.
3. No negative feedback.

So I wonder: why isn't everybody talking to themselves? All that truth, drama, art, expression lost! Lost forever! Lost to the tyrannical reign of silent, mumbling, morbid, unreflective thought!

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

-night energy
mythic past
one in light-

Hey man, you can't talk to yourself because the Thought Police will lock you effin up dudemanbrosis.

You'll be arraigned for a Facebook Trial by a team of luvvies for the prosecution from The Ministry of Truth who talk in a language that unlike ours is fit for purpose and full of inclusive terms that show how hard they are working at becoming the very best hardworking people of this country they can be. 

Unlike us, unkewl skwares from the counter ainti-intellectual Love Police that don't kno wot wer doin, who haven't had the experience of launching a collection in a small bookshop with a packed out successful night of twenty people there, all but four buying the book, and showing the real way to be successful to those twerps who haven't been snapped up by the professional poetry presses doing the work of Culture on the American Poetry Commons.

The ones that save all our thoughts for dead-wood pubs yohl, bcuz if it aint on a shelf in Walmart, it aint poetry geeza. The silent fb'ers who know what they're doin keeping it all in, seeing the mentally ill psychiatric patients bleeding in rant all ova this august and profoundly meaingful platform; and thinking, too kewl 4 skool, eff that, I am a professional published poet on the American Poetry Commons and deeply respected member of our community (Facebook) where we can do more with one line than any of those mountebacks with all the arguments and unguents of a two dollar huckstar.

Yeah, wodda we need to talk for anyway. We are right. That's the end of it.

God it feels good to be only a conceptual poetry critic, sitting here thinking, no, no, no, that's not right, that's not real poetry like we the real poetry souljahs got doin ih fo da burn n gorjaz dudesisbroman; and the buzz of being (silently) well-thought of by all the other exciting and excellent members in our gang of silent professional poets with interesting and excellent shit to change the political system of the US-world with.

Get it working, fit for purpose, one poem and critical text at a time.

Eff you Thom. Stop writing right now and just leave it to the professionals.

God i just created an award-winning Tarantinoesk conceptual flash-fiction micro-Thought-movie. Yeah, conceptual social-media stars all silent and really with it.

We need more of 'us' and less of 'you' little people without assistants to shout at. How many flunkies you got, Thom?


I have eight on a rotating basis so their hard work of having me shout at them doesn't damage the lazy takers.

Work Camps, 'voluntary' labor programs, round them up and do it with a bit of class, get The Donald in to sort this holy crap show out.



Thursday, September 17, 2015

Fucking Reply to Fucking Prole's Fucking Poetry Editor

Originally a response to a s/m FB photo-update prefaced by the words above it, reprinted below; from the mind of Prole poetry and prose magazine's co-founder, publisher, and Poetry Editor, Brett Evans, writing from Abergele, on the North Wales coast.

Only for the fuckwits - you know who you are: those sharing Britain First posts and banging on about if foreigners want to be in the UK they should 'learn the fucking language' - well, it's a fucking school day.
Not that I expect you to have read this far. Well done if you have - yes, that was meant as patronising as it reads.


The most inventive repetitive use of the word fuck that I ever witnessed was at the National Student Drama Festival, Spring 2003, to the background of the Iraq invasion, watching tellies of 'us' going all in on the major invasion and diet of smart-bombs. Shock and Awe.

Khalid Abdalla and Cressida Trew in the Cambridge Footlights version of Bedbound, by Dublin playwright, Enda Walsh. Abdalla was truly mesmeric in the role of the father of a paralysed girl. The set was a cube, that when the audience was seated, wondering what was going on - a cube onstage - the wall facing the audience fell down. And this ingenious use of cramped bed-set of a girl and her dad sitting on it, with both taking turns doing their monologues, was a key element in the successful telling of a story by nothing but the use of hyper-real prose-poetic lingo. 

The father recounting his past as a ruthless furniture salesman who conquered Cork, at the expense of his daughter and her health.

Abdalla is such a brilliant actor, as his starring roles in the film of the book, The Kite Runner, and his debut Hollywood critical smash and classic thriller, United 93, attest - that I wondered if he was an Irish actor. For thirty or so seconds until it became apparent it was not an authentic Irish voice. By which time it did not matter a jot because the language was so gorgeously earthy, and everything one associates with the corporeal elementary and profoundly poetic Irish voice - we'd been grabbed hold of and were on a magic carpet journey powered by unadulterated linguistic joy alone. With nowt but creative faery dust and artistic verbal twinkle.

He had an animal magnetism and it was no surprise he got nominated for an Academy Award, and such was his acting, I was surprised to discover his parents are Egyptian dissidents, and Abdallah, eight years later, became one of the central English language media figures documenting from Tahir Square; living in Cairo and bringing his gifts as a filmmaker to the process of the Egyptian Revolution. At the time, watching him onstage, such was his natural physical ability I thought i was watching an actor as Celtic/Irish/Scot/Welsh as myself, to look at.

The opening. A man on a bed, in it is his daughter:

fuking hell fucking hell fuck fuck fuck Jesus fuck!!!

fucking hell!!


On the bed. I can feel that blanket wrapped around me like a sea; and me a little shrimpways underneath.

Feel them wrapped around me bony body ribs making me stay in bed.

Squeeze me lungs out of me gob and making me shout: 'Fucking hell Maxie, get out of bed, you're late!'

I swing me legs out of the bed already running I run inta tha jacks.

There's me big brother Jerry on the jacks having an early morning crap! I smack him a left hook!! Shamck!!

He hits the ground like the sack of shit he is! 'I'll deal with you later kiddo!'

Splish splash run the tap get scrubbing me face!

Look in the miror at the fifteen year-old me looking back! 'Gotta get to work, Maxie! only fifteen minutes to save planet Earth, Flash!' Spin back to the bedroom and into a suit!! A bit of damp from washing it last night but fuck it! Isn't it always damp from the late night wash!?

Have ta be clean! Gotta get going! Inta the wet shirt! On with the damp suit! Jesus I'm the smart one! Sharp is what I am!!

Outta my smelly hole gaffe, the stink of the hot sweet milk in the air, a breakfast puke! A family of lazy fucks huddled around the electric heater like laboratory rats, I leave the fucks behind. Shame shame!! Fucking shame!! I'm at the bus-stop! Bus stops and I'm on! The usual faces stuck in their morning sleep! 'Great workers of Ireland! Is it not time to drag our priest-ridden, second-rate, potato-peopled country of ours into the twenty-first century before we're spat into the next shagging hundred years?'

They half-smile like I'm a fucking psycho!


I had such a great experience writing there for the daily paper, Noises Off, NOFF, where anyone was free to write and submit. Short squibs; a poem, and enough by the end of the week, to have felt a part of something uniquely British, and not only that but English as well; what with writing on that beautiful cliff-side terrace of the Spa complex overlooking the South bay. And there was a truly democratic spirit in the NOFF office, a large conference room in the complex with ten or so free-access computers. 

By the end of my first year there, with a couple of extemporized comedy reportages that got noticed, I felt grand. The following year, i was a real contender for the hack laurel. I lost to Cambridge mafia office souljah, Chris Wilkinson, a Guardian theatre section stalwart. He won. He beat me. So, what are we going to do about it?

At the following year's festival, I think it was Next Generation 2014 poet, Luke Kennard, who returned from a collaborative smash from Bristol Uni, Freudian Slip, a Monty Pythonesque surreal gold-dust of a play, that had won the previous year's 03 comedy award.

In 04 he came back with a solo effort, a radio play that had been one of the opening specials and centre-piece of pre-recorded theatre to kick the week off, and there was a lot of expectation surrounding it. His first time alone, surely the magic of Freudian Slip would be there? Alas no. It bombed. Lots of respectful bemused silence. On his own, a year later, the mojo had gone.

Desmond Swords

Tuesday, September 01, 2015

Thank you Muireann, a star in Poetry Ireland.

Thanks very much Muireann, you are a star in Tara's vigorous throng of rhymers. May we all live forever and never grow up, old, or lose our way when seeking truth thru the literary thickets and spoken word woods. may Her hand guide ours on and off the page of our imagination and stage of Her reality, life, love; and letters that will bring us a path over the other side of a stream only one in a hundred will get you across.

Kookullanary (copyright John Cummins Poetician) Chuculainary. Thanks very much. This is our first time in Westport and it could well be, i suspect, the one heat that a canny slammer may well have the best shot of winning, as it being the first time, who knows how many will turn up? It may be a repeat of the 2008 Leinster final, in O'Neill's pub on Suffolk Street, booked two months in advance, on what turned out to be, the inaugural Arthur's Day.

The two poets that managed to find in the jammers madness, the snug there - in this unforeseen potential disaster - they won just by turning up and going thru the motions, doing one or two poems each. Live, to a packed room of competing social interests, low down the list of which was poetry. And judged by Fintan O'Higgins, and a kind couple of random strangers, it happened, democratic, straight and true. And two very lucky poets that won by default and just turning up, fell into the all Ireland final in Limerick 2008 - and second ever one that came perilously close to not happening on the night - by good fortune of fate/poetry/dán.

Sláinte, grá agus síocháin.

Desmond Swords, three-quarters Mayo (grandparents), and a quarter wesht Cark Macroom bae shoal, trapped in a proto-Lancashababru voice and language invented by the 14C Hiberno-Norman Poet Earl, Gerald FitzGerald, 3rd Earl of Desmond, Lord Chief Justice 1367-70, who turned the French speaking Hiberno-Norman aristocracy into Gaeic speakers, and his most famous work, composed when held hostage by an O'Brien rival in the Kingdom of Desmond, Mairg adeir olc ris na mnáibh, was traditionally translated during the Celtic Twilight:

Speak not ill of womankind,
'Tis no wisdom if you do.
You that fault in women find,
I would not be praised of you.

Sweetly speaking, witty, clear,
Tribe most lovely to my mind,
Blame of such I hate to hear.
Speak not ill of womankind.

Bloody treason, murderous act,
Not by women were designed,
Bells o'erthrown nor churches sacked,
Speak not ill of womankind.

Bishop, King upon his throne,
Primate skilled to loose and bind,
Sprung of women every one!
Speak not ill of womankind.

For a brave young fellow long
Hearts of women oft have pined.
Who would dare their love to wrong?
Speak not ill of womankind.

Paunchy greybeards never more
Hope to please a woman's mind.
Poor young chieftains they adore!
Speak not ill of womankind.