THE GREEN FORGOTTEN VALLEYS
Those green forgotten valleys,
No longer can be seen
Lying hidden behind the tall fir and larch
That have made these brown hills green
Relentlessly marching down the hills
Burying everything in their wake
The dead are long gone from this place
The pike no longer in the lake
The houses just hollow shells now
Where the past ghosts eerily through
The vacant windows and doors
With rotted frames and jambs that once were new.
Back then there was no silence, only the sound
Of human laughter, and bird-calls to each other
The dogs growling at a wayward sheep.
And children’s scrapes kissed better by their mother
Nature is having the last laugh now
Soon there will be no trace of us at all
As the trees come marching down the hillside
No one hears the lonesome curlew’s call.
literary
CURE FOR WRITER’S BLOCK

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 WILD WEST


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Where the horse has been superseded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.
DEAD POETS SOCIETY
BERTHA – BIG GIRL’S BLOUSE

Hey Bertha, you big girl’s blouse, we have been hearing all week about how you’re coming to blow all our houses down, so where’s all your puff? I’ve heard more wind after a feed in the local curry house, and as for rain, well it’s hardly damped down the summer dust. Mind you, the build-up has come mainly from the BBC crap weather service who couldn’t forecast the result of todays charity shield match tomorrow. Here I was, looking for a halfway decent gale that might uproot a few trees and smash a few bus-shelters, as well as enlarge a few potholes, but no, nothing is happening again.
Ah Bertha, where is thy sting-a-ling-a-ling!
AMAZON/KINDLE BEST SELLER
AMAZON/KINDLE BEST SELLER
I see that I am at number 1,205,646
In the Amazon/Kindle best-seller list
Again
Last week I was at number 650,249
And the previous week 233,184
Or was that the week before?
I don’t think I have got into the top 100
Yet
I like to see the wild fluctuations in the list
Thousands of points variation
Mean lots of sales, innit?
Though I must confess
It puzzles me a little bit
Because according to Amazon’s
Own – very reliable – sales chart
I sold no books at all last week
And only one all last month
So Amazon/Kindle
Here’s my conclusion
You must be one cupid stunt
DUNGENESS
Boats that belong to better days
Mingle with iron flotsam
Washed ashore on a sea of shingle
Fishermen’s shacks sit like pygmies
In the shadow of the power station
Their colourful facades
Browbeaten by nature’s extremes
A stone garden sprouts incongruously
Beside one such dwelling;
It does not bloom in spring
But neither will it die when winter comes
FOREVER YOUNG (James Dean)
BAD DREAM

BAD DREAM
Maybe it was a dream I once had
This part of Ireland with no lights on
A place where strangers
Looked over the border
With razor-blade eyes
Where tall trees swayed South
From one vast plantation
And bowler-hatted drum-bangers
Stomped the streets like toy soldiers.
A game – perhaps that was it;
Where the lowest common denominator
Was religion…or the lack of it.
RUSSIAN ROULETTE CURES DEPRESSION


RUSSIAN ROULETTE AS A CURE FOR DEPRESSION
‘The first time I pressed the trigger
I knew I was immortal’
‘I wished the feeling could last forever,
My jubilation was total’
‘I’m a five-timer’, he told the newcomer
Extending his gun-finger and closing it slow
Every lost life seemed etched on his forehead
Five down, one more to go
‘Boredom mostly’ and ‘it passes the time’
Were his excuses for such dramatic play.
‘And it turns the girls on too
In some extraordinary way’
‘The best cure for depression I know’,he said
Handing the game to the next in line
Where the muzzle blew a hole between his eye and his ear
Death, too, passes the time
taken from my recent collection ’67’, now available @ http://www.tinhuttalespublishers.co.uk/product/67-2/







