IRISH BOHEMIA

Something written back in 2016 obvious inspiration for this poem, 'weird scenes inside the canyon' and the imagery and strange weird characters in it' like a guy called 'captain blood' Dave Macgowan wrote about, I see that book as a microcosm of the many stages of the break down of America and a nations search to find identity and how money and power curupts people and get curupted by the media glitz of stardom and how its a more complex world than we think, you'd say the classic sex drugs, rock and rock n roll story, and the power of propaganda in the media, power currupts and absolute power currupts absolutely, to qoute Lord Acton (1887) like it was a distraction to the Vietnam war or something I'm trying to compare it to whats in the media today, I'd say it was definitely different times then not like now we are bombarded with imagery non stop in a hyper society with all the trappings mind trappings now more than ever, but atleast some of the music was good, wasn't all bad.

Irish Bohemia

Some where on the road east L.A

A man ran off to live with a pack of wild dogs

Jazz Cult Train playin in the backround

He spoke into a metal and plastic tube inside a voice box revealing his confessions

The children of the land were starvin they don't trust the government and the seeds failed during the winter

Out in the stables they lived

Which was on a ranch

Pinnoco the second coming was there spreading his formulist aesthetic politics

Poisioned from the last multidemensional journey ravaged from space rays

He was there in the Canyon in the commune Canyon Commune

C I.A infiltrated expendable characters

By June 72 everyone was addicted to heroine

No one trusted anyone

The bread was gone

only crumbs remain

Actually even they were gone

There was nothing left

A guy called captain blood

Was there shouting and raving

Hmmm so this is where he ended up sleeping on an old wooden floor

Beside him a pile of dirty magazines

The walls white with different coloured marks abstract style

Unco-ordinately

Dabbed on a hue of dull hue color

Just up the road newage travellers were living in the woods and had a space spinner

And a device you were straped into and it spins you in left right circular mode as if you were

Some intergalactic cosmonaut space traveller.

EC February 2016

POEMS OF BEING

 Expression of the words

The words to express

Come in their own time

to use the last word

On the second line

That word time

Is a contradiction

Because time does not exist

Its a creation of man

All a continuum happening

Simultaneously at will

There is no past present future

They simply do not exist

In this natural realm

Which is of the earth mist

Everything has its own path

Ordained exactly and precisely

At the right given moment

The way it is meant to be

Were it is meant to be

In the right place

Creation creator god

Made it that way.

Poems of being

The day light breaks

And a soul comes to

As the gold rays flow

Through transparent glass windows

With in dawns vespers

The rise of adam

Its the pain of knowing

truths reality on the reel

That all things are

and always meant to be

words come from else where

In this fair way guide

on the day of the sun

And the day of the moon

Were we go next we reside

As we scribe the text

Realm of here and now

In the poems of being

Taking Spiritual steps

in the inner temple.

A writers thought

Back smoking again

After about nine long years

Leave it to midnight to light up

And roll up a tobacco cigarette

Its chasing the buzz

Lookin for the next hit

A writers crutch really

Some people write best

When they light up

I seen the best of em

Smoke like troopers

I ask were does that figure

Of speech come from

Soldiers in battle wanted to relax

Because of a constant threat

And anxiety of getting killed in action

It’s the greatest love story

A real fatal attraction

Smoking to pass the days by

With in the eye of the hurricane

Which makes one blind at the sight

Of what has been just released

Just to light another one up

At the greatest showdown

The world has ever seen.

Words that reflect i

I am a painter a poet

A writer a creator

But i am who i am

I am not god

I am just i am

At the a.m dawn the light comes

I write with deep inner insight

With the force of lightning rods

And then a little while later

I express it to the world

When i get negative feedback

It may hurt my pride

For just a moment at least

And then i shake it of like dusk

I do not let it effect the out come

I mainly write these words

That express my emotions so

The same as painting drawing and clay

I connect letters together

That form words that make a pattern

On a page of all the sentences

Which could look like a row

Of sky scrapers on its side

Words that reflect i.Thinkin Bey

SPOKEN WORD 10/07/2024

A BRIEF REFLEX-ION OF THE LAST NIGHTS PERFORMANCE: 

can you imagine’ the last performance’ of thee night insights 

of a half prophetic rambler’ upon-tyne un-left, is the feckin’ past left behind 

well nar’ we be’,casting pearls, to thee swine for that, 

such imitation, from a reduced on thee spot imagination, 

I-magi-nation from a half-cut away, reduced energy free-quint-sea 

blood rains, from the toes, to thee feet so I say, on to ye’ ‘let the deeds shaw’ 

eight miles’ out of space, upon high nervous, going was the’ fellows jaw 

remembrance’ of thee dog-men cynics mis-guided, misanthropic, militant past 

solo call of hands, blame, in a solicitude gloom on fums of thee past, 

on the wire, over last and falling fast, the past that was, that was in thee moment past, 

die is cast feckin’ crass, that short lived’ poetic life on thee ever-very’ 

plume of thee night i say’ smoke my ashes’ and get high think’ Europe , 

after the reign the bomb, whom, worshipped it, now Was it thee apocalypse tribe, 

hive-mind sun has the soul, being knighted thee that air of mystic went, 

with thee winds was it a sentence’ or two of broken language ? 

THE CARPET PATTERNS: 

like a antenna to thee other realms signaling’ cast light’ 

through, its varied fabrics the carpet patterns burst’ 

of thee psychedelic hits up all points, of the retina’ of thee’ many eyes 

on the waking ol’ years and signalling ears off the old salem’ rail- line 

parallel, mind-lines bi-location under, thunder ridge, that drew deep the bridge under, 

thee ever, raging waters the long walk of thee fringe’ and thee long sleep 

mind is a resting and restoring in thee taking reep dream like within, 

hypnotic randomized eyes peak states of this dream, like a therapy of hypno-tronic 

the rotted wood floor melt back and fuse into nature from the coral score 

of and thee decade-ing vibrations kill the floors up the wall timer 

fix space to fix time and there should be just thee silence in stones-mile 

instead of many social constructs of the words’ that were said. 

THEE THIRD INSTALMENT: 

thee third instalment, of thee performance its aromatic and scented, 

in its stride like a colt, in its presence, re-a-lined to non-ent-ities that are, 

pro-fessing on thee pulpit, psychic explosions again a feckin’ mystic-all 

re-aim of the gun, as a start point extreme divisions, hence, lyrically mast-star, 

inflections magic-call freedom on a feckin’ free-way, wagon so I say 

concrete stones like the ruins of thee ancient snuffing out, 

thee dark oracles of thee mediums, commanders and conquerors, 

of thee first’ world left and right, hands tied so this event of thee ever-perfume 

that enhances’ thee per-form-hance so to the first one, rip diabolical time, 

before that ecstasy and thee remembrance electrifying and magnetique 

devotees are out in thee field of rens’ is there amends to be in a prism 

of lines and lies mind lines truth ideas alligned. 

NEW SUN I: 

this is the vase of time, so the words up-flow reflect and come out 

of the top of thee mind then and there leaving the past, left behind 

reflecting to the ever seeing, clearing future on the long lengthy dust road, 

a dead ahead although its straight and a narrow, I pledge 

on this slant highway horizon, here instead the sun beats down, 

changes thee colour of lead weighting down on all of the earthen heads 

Finding, clear cut knowledge, from the many ancient grains of thee wisdom, 

books a plenty across all games a planted seed of thought the main in-spirit, 

inspiration, creationist source ever expanded, thinking, without no remorse 

the situation is unfolding and is, a happening like a fable saga story book, 

mind over-lapping reason, like an fantasy episode, word for word 

reshaping the soul side, whilst in ever moulding the bay of souls lost, wandering, propagandised only to find light ahead, at the end of the tunnel 

just like the hitch-hiker on the road, nomadic again a true drifter feet worn, 

going from place to place move ahead within the fabric of destinies very face 

sure and stead fast, instead and always fast pace an awakening and resetting 

of thee, olden minds do you hear that. its the sound listening to intuition 

in the ear of thee mind, on this, profound mission through crystal clear springs, 

of thee signs movement propagates within, with-out flowers a journey seed.