BEING HERE

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BEING HERE

I may never be a poet
I may never rhyme;
(having no time for all that crap)
But one thing I do know;
People don’t stay, they go;
And they never come back

Oh, they are there – empty;
Looking like they once were
But deep down you know it’s not really them;
Just effigies
Waiting for you to go too

She loved you once you know;
She would admit it
Now fire has seared her mind
Cleansing the important bits;
It’s not love that sparkles now,
Just tolerance
And not a lot of that

So where do you go
When the fire has burnt itself
But into it;
Ashes to ashes
Dust to December
And no better for it;
Complacency –
And no end to the pain of it

my latest 2 collection of poems- 67 & 67 PLUS @ http://www.amazon.co.uk/Tom-OBrien/e/B0034OIGOQ/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1388083522&sr=1-2-ent

THE MANAGER’S WORDS OF WISDOM

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THE MANAGER’S WORDS OF WISDOM
The best player on the planet.
When he plays on snow
He doesn’t leave any marks
He can’t walk on water – yet
Though when he farts there’s always sparks

I am like God
I never get ill
I am always right.
Football is a game of two halves
And is mostly a right load of shite

I wouldn’t say I’m the best there is
But I am in the top one
And that’s the only group to be in
If I walked on water
Some would say it’s because I can’t swim

Some believe football is a matter of life and death
But it is much more important than that
In football as in life
You won’t get far
If you don’t know where the goalposts are

The best way to relax
Is to drink pink champagne
Before the match and after
Then losing five nil
Won’t seem a total disaster.

BAMBI, PLASTIC JESUS AND OTHER STREET ARTISTS

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These 4 works are by street artists, BAMBI,PLASTIC JESUS, KING ROBBO, PURE EVIL. The works themselves speak more eloquently than any words of mine could.

A lot of people never use their initiative because nobody ever told them to – BANKSY

ABOUT SINGING

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ABOUT SINGING
An unsung land is a dead land
Forget the song
And the land will surely die.
Our forebears, though mostly illiterate,
Made music that can still make us cry
Musical phrases, like a map reference,
And the land read as a musical score
Where singing the land
Has the crowd calling out for more.
The song couplets stretch across tectonic plates
Just like mountains stretch across continents
And someone waving as we pass through endless gates.
*
Pale sand, red rock, burning fire
Everything your heart may desire
Mapping the music
to which everything transcends
This is where the story begins not ends.
Religion, pagan or Christian
Permeating everything, blending,
People sympathetic and synthetic,
Careless and unknowing of secular beginning
Or religious ending.
All the colours of the rainbow
Dressed in human clothing
Aisling, dreang, radharc
And the gift of seeing what isn’t there
When the songs are left unsung
Who is then left to care?

CURE FOR WRITER’S BLOCK

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CURE FOR WRITER’S BLOCK
Saying Zanzibar seven times
Very slowly
Is good for writer’s block
Z-a-n-z-i-b-a-r, Z-a-n-z-i-b-a-r
Zzz-aa-nn-zzz-iiii—-
Fuck, fuck, fuck

my books are available on http://www.amazon.co.uk/Tom-OBrien/e/B0034OIGOQ/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1388083522&sr=1-2-ent

THE SONGLINES

gorgeousgael's avatarMy Writing Life

SONGLINES

 

Labyrinth of impossible pathways

Meandering across Australia

Singing the Aborigines home

Singing out the names of every

Bird, bee and tree

Singing rook and river

Singing you and me

Singing all the world

Into being.

 

A dreaming track

A path across the land

Or sometimes the sky

Creator-Beings dreaming

Songs, stories, dances, paintings

Petrosomatoglyphs on the land

Leaving huge footprints behind

Navigating vast distances

Through the parched interior

Language no barrier

Melodic contours in song

Passing over the land

Rhythmically beating out the jives

Where the spirits of unborn children

Sing to keep the land alive

 

Chatwin tells us how it was

The songlines stretching across the eons

People singing their lives into existence

Following signs their ancestors

Had tuned to perfection.

Their roads invisible to us

No traces we could follow

No marks we could discern

No bulldozer dented this terrain

No tarmac spread for…

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THE WILD WEST

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THE WILD WEST
The Wild West has migrated east
The Middle East near and far
Where the horse has been superseded
By the pick-up, the land cruiser and the car
They race across vast deserts firing bullets in the air
If there’s a name on any bullet
Well, no one seems to care
Shooting up the town was once the pastime of the bad guys
Now it is blowing up the houses
And killing little girls and boys.
The bombs rain down on everyone and everything
Where once it was just arrows
Fired by some pesky redskin
Looking down the barrel of a gun
Can be intimidating
When it’s eighteen foot long
There are no six-guns or shotguns any more
But rocket launchers, machine guns
And others of such enormous bore
Playing cowboys and Indians was once a pleasant game
But when your opponent must be beheaded
Then it isn’t quite the same.

FEAR AND LOATHING IN LAS VEGAS

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We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold. I remember saying something like “I feel a bit lightheaded; maybe you should drive…” And suddenly there was a terrible roar all around us and the sky was full of what looked like huge bats, all swooping and screeching and diving around the car, which was going about a hundred miles an hour with the top down to Las Vegas. And a voice was screaming; “Holy Jesus! What are those goddamn animals?”
This is the opening paragraph to Hunter S Thompson’s Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas. With an opening like that you couldn’t help but want to read on. It’s a crazy, fictional account of a trip to Las Vegas to investigate the dark side of the American Dream. Fuelled with boot full of drugs, Hunter and his ‘Samoan attorney’ engage in a manic, surreal tour of the sleaze capital of the world.
His next book, Fear And Loathing On The Campaign Trail, has a similar premise, though it’s a factual account of a year spent on the campaign trail during the 1972 Us Presidential election with the likes of Nixon, Agnew, Wallace, Humphries, McGovern, Muskie etc. This book brought about the term ‘Gonzo journalism’, where the writer himself is just as much part of the story as his subjects. Perhaps he is even the STORY. We follow Hunter following the candidates, stoned/pissed out of his mind much of the time, trying to make sense of what is going on. We also see the corruption, the double-dealing, the thuggery that is all part and parcel of one of the great circus’s of modern America.
Hunter S Thompson was born in Lousville Kentucky in 1937, eventually becoming a journalist with Rolling Stone, where several of his books were serialized before being published. He once spent a year living and riding with Hells Angels before writing a book about them – Hells Angels: The Strange And Terrible Saga Of The Outlaw Motorcycle Gangs – which made his name internationally. He was known for his lifelong use of alcohol and illegal drugs, his love of firearms and his contempt for authoritarianism, and remarked that, “I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone, but they’ve always worked for me.”
While suffering a bout of health problems, Thompson committed suicide at the age of 67. Per his wishes, his ashes were fired out of a cannon in a ceremony funded by his friend, Johnny Depp, who starred in two films made of his books.

DEAD POETS SOCIETY

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POETIC LICENCE
Dead poets come in all shapes and sizes
Poetic licence reigns in my head
I have my TV, but no TV licence
Could I use my poetic licence instead?

CAFE KNITTING

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CAFE KNITTING

In the cafe, sitting
Sipping coffee, knitting
One purl, one plain.
Six women, three men
One man gets up,
gathers his stuff,
And leaves with this refrain;
‘We must do this again’

see my latest collection of poems @ http://www.amazon.co.uk/67-Plus-collection-Tom-OBrien/dp/1500812250/ref=la_B0034OIGOQ_1_11?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1408093399&sr=1-11