HEMINGWAY’S HEAD

 

HEMINGWAY’S HEAD

 

You know, I always thought Hemingway

Had a Romanian head on him.

Well, it had that bloated look to it,

And Romanian heads always

Look a bit soggy, I think;

And Hemingway had that in spades.

‘Course it might also be the drink

He could never pass a bar, could he?

Or it might be that time he landed on his head

In those two helicopter crashes he had

One after the other, the same day I think.

Split his skull open, they say

Exposed his innards to those African parasites;

Who knows what damage they did?

Rampaging around his grey matter.

Times like that tend to make you feel

That life’s a real bitch.

He never said much about it afterwards

Though that twinkle in his eye

Began to look more and more like a twitch.

LAST BREXIT TO ASYLIUM

LAST BREXIT TO ASYLIUM

There are no free lunches anymore

But there are food-banks galore

The last brexit to Asylium

Is the first exit on the right

Or maybe it’s the left

But it is well known that the left are bereft

Of ideas that are pure

And ideologies that can cure

The cultural emulsification

Of a once sane nation

Hear them all wailing in Christendom

Let’s have another referendun-drum

 

THANKSGIVING PRAYER by William Boroughs

 

THANKSGIVING PRAYER by William Burroughs

“To John  Dillinger and hope he is still alive.
Thanksgiving Day November 28 1986”

Thanks for the wild turkey and
the passenger pigeons, destined
to be shat out through wholesome
American guts.

Thanks for a continent to despoil                                                                                                              and poison.

Thanks for Indians to provide a
modicum of challenge and
danger.

Thanks for vast herds of bison to
kill and skin leaving the
carcasses to rot.

Thanks for bounties on wolves
and coyotes.

Thanks for the American dream,
To vulgarize and to falsify until
the bare lies shine through.

Thanks for the KKK.

For nigger-killin’ lawmen,
feelin’ their notches.

For decent church-goin’ women,
with their mean, pinched, bitter,
evil faces.

Thanks for “Kill a Queer for
Christ” stickers.

Thanks for laboratory AIDS.

Thanks for Prohibition and the
war against drugs.

Thanks for a country where
nobody’s allowed to mind their
own business.

Thanks for a nation of finks.

Yes, thanks for all the
memories– all right let’s see
your arms!

You always were a headache and
you always were a bore.

Thanks for the last and greatest
betrayal of the last and greatest
of human dreams.

 

THE WAY WE WERE

 

THE WAY WE WERE

The picture house is full of it tonight;

‘A TEAR JERKER…THE WAY WE WERE.

See that old woman?

She has three carrier bags of it

To comfort her in her doorway.

Belfast Johnny has two bottles

Of it in his greatcoat pocket

And eight shiny photos of it

Bridging the gaps in his shoes.

The preacher ladles out doses of it

With hot soup.

Georgie Best,

Rock-n-Roll, wedding vows,

They are all part of it.

The past follows you around:

Like a faithful old dog

It never leaves your side.

I HAVE NOT LINGERED IN EUROPEAN MONASTERIES by Leonard Cohen

 

I Have Not Lingered In European Monsteries from “The Spice-Box of Earth”

I Have Not Lingered In European Monosteries
and discovered among the tall grasses tombs of knights
who fell as beautifully as their ballads tell;
I have not parted the grasses
or purposefully left them thatched.

I have not held my breath
so that I might hear the breathing of God
or tamed my heartbeat with an exercise,
or starved for visions.
Although I have watched him often
I have not become the heron,
leaving my body on the shore,
and I have not become the luminous trout,
leaving my body in the air.

I have not worshipped wounds and relics,
or combs of iron,
or bodies wrapped and burnt in scrolls.

I have not been unhappy for ten thousands years.
During the day I laugh and during the night I sleep.
My favourite cooks prepare my meals,
my body cleans and repairs itself,
and all my work goes well.                                                                                                                              Leonard Cohen

GOLEM GEIGHTS

GOLEM HEIGHTS

Ah Golem, they call you Yossele;
They say you can make yourself invisible
And raise the spirits from the dead,
Then you rest on the Sabbath
On your dark and bloody bed.
Ah Golem, kneaded into your shapeless husk
Created by the sages
Return to your sacred dust.
Ah Golem, man of clay,
You bowed before us once
Give to us our bread today.

 

SCOTLAND FOR EVER!

SCOTLAND FREE
Bonnie Prince Charlie tried and failed
At Culloden his protest stalled
And Cumberland his forces mauled
For him there was no other chance
He ran the gantlet back to France.
Now Scotland has its chance again
You had it once, a nation then.
Independent, free, no tyrant’s yoke
For Scotland freedom’s not a joke
Fight like a fishfag, Union be damned!
Your hills, your lochs, your lives, your land.