WIDE, WIDE WOMEN
What is it with young women with buggies?
Both seem to get wider with each passing day
And use the pavement as a playground
Where their feckless children can play
Skateboards, scooters and other diverse playthings
Are added to the cigarettes – usually Kings,
That hang permanently from pinkified faces,
Beneath this rainbow gathering of hairpieces
Adorning those many empty spaces.
The pavement, somehow, seems smaller these days.
REALITY CHECK
Busy hips and pouting lips
Powder the streets of cruel illusion
Sideways smiles and dark alley wiles
Add spice to the confusion
Of the boy who thought sex in the park
Might be a bit of a lark
Until he got unpleasently surprised in the dark
‘Hey! My heels are longer than your dick,
So put it away you scurvy little prick’.
CHASSEUR
Chasseur
Skyshrine
Gold-plated muzzer
Briglith
Brigand
Mantle of Kronsek
Stingers
Draconic Recognition
Drakota slingers
Void-sheltered stud
Night so Tender
Darklight wood
One of the best books I have read on the theatre, and on the people who people it,
is John Osborne’s DAMN YOU ENGLAND. He doesn’t suffer fools gladly.
Surprisingly, he has plenty of time for Brendan Behan. Here he is on their first meeting;
“Brendan Behan lurched into my life early one Sunday New York morning. Pounding on my hotel
room door. ‘Is anyone in this fucking cathouse alive?’ he roared. ‘My name is Brendan Behan.
I don’t smoke, I don’t eat and I don’t fuck, but I drink. You can always tell the quality
of a country by two things;its whores and its bread. And neither of them are any fucking good here’.
Brendans life was a ballad, the wild outpouring of a pure, forgiving heart. Who is there in Ireland
or England to take up his matchless song now?
SAN QUENTIN
Johnny Cash wore black because it was raining
Not to protect him from getting wet
But to show solidarity with the elements
Which to his mind had darkened perceptibly
Since he had begun to sing
San Quentin, he roared
I hate every inch of your name
And the prison bars responded
Reverberating down the endless corridors of shame
HE DREW FIRST
He drew first
But I drew better
Then, he always did fire blanks
While I put my trust in French Letters
C’est la vie
NIGHT LIGHT
A car pulls up to a red light
The owner has a feared animal look
Something screeches
For fourteen days now
The tiger has prowled
A gruesome half torso
Floats in a pool of blood
Somewhere close is an imp of the perverse
Buying a return ticket but not going anywhere.
He looks at his alarm clock
Blood red in the four a.m. nearly light
The hands are rotating backwards
Backwards
While all around him the candy-stripes flap in the breeze.
INSPIRATION
The midnight muse does not wait
For the lure of silver at someone’s gate
Nor the rattle of chains in rust-red splendour
As the moonlight beams on the night so tender.
The midnight muse has something strange to tell;
‘Silence is violence’
Say the damned in hell
To speak is to live not bound by chains
An ’empty silence’ is all that remains
all 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
ARTIST
I must paint or die
I wake early
I meditate
God gives me strength to lead this double life
Milk! Please, I need warm milk
I must paint at first light
When the colours are not too bright.
What is Buddha,I overhear in disbelief
Then three pounds of flax, please
Is the paintbrush really mightier than the sword?
Did Gallipoli fall just because of a word?
Give me your fucking Giro
Before I shoot you with my Biro
WHO IS NEXT?
??? ??????? ????
Amy Winehouse 2011
Jeremy Michael Ward 2003
Sean McCabe 2000
Richey Edwards 1995
Kristen Pfaff 1994
Kurt Cobain 1994
Mia Zapata 1993
Pete De Freitas 1989
Jean-Michel Basquiat 1988
D Boon 1985
Chris Bell 1978
Pete Ham 1975
Dave Alexander 1975
Ron Pigpen Mckernan 1973
Linda Jones 1972
Jim Morrison 1971
Janis Joplin 1970
Jime Hendrix 1970
Alan Wilson 1970
Brian Jones 1969
Dickie Pride 1969
Rudy Lewis 1964
Jesse Belvin 1959
Robert Johnson 1938
My Writing Life 