drawins drawn 2008

3 pomes

I am an ironing board

I am an ironing board
I can be hot and flat
I can even get very heated at times,
But, I feel no emotions
About this or that
Things get laid on me
Things get straightened out
I am an ironing board
This is what I am about

I am a Tiger
I am a Tiger, burning bright, in the forest of the night,
Or in the day, and in the shade, lying, watching in a glade
Where golden light is stripeing down
Through green foiliage and leaves,
Me almost invisible
Except for my
Unbliking eye
Which only the dying should see
I am a Tiger and
I once heard a philosopher teaching, he said
“Philosophy is like searching for a black cat in a darkened room at night with a
brown paper bag over your head. It is totally out of court. It is just not cricket.”
I thought that this did not concern me because,
I am a Tiger, not a black panther,
But lest some roving forest gypsy passing by
With a handmade flintlock gun made out of an old gas pipe
Should descry my unblinking eye
And shoot me through it
In order to sell my powerful powdered penis
To give another Chinese millionaire
A hard on that he doesn’t really need,
I stir myself
And pad out across the jungle floor
Yes I think I’ll eat a philosopher tonight
Knock of the back off his head with one swipe of my paw
Lick all the knowledge porridge out of his skull
With my abrasive tongue
So that I then might know
What he was talking about
Or I could like my northern brothers
Up in the snow
Go for a Siberian
But that might just be like
Drinking a gallon of vodka.

LEADER
Waking up in wet November
Crawling into clothes
Crawling into types of transport
That take you where you don’t want to go
To spend a day
Doing what you don’t want to do.

That is depressing.
Or hearing the radio, early in the morning
State the date
When that day is the day of the exam
Or the day when the dentist will drill your gob down to the nerve
Or the day when the bill hits the doormat
Or the day when the shit hits the fan
But nothing is more depressing than
Hearing a crowd enthusiastically applauding
A leader’s speech.
I’d rather be a shepherd
Stuck up some celtic shitpile in the rain
Hearing the bleeding sheep, bleeding bleating
Again and again and again
Than ever have my aural orifice offended
By the happy clappiness of humans surrendering their humanity
To some blonde political phantasy

Oh, leader, leader
Take it all away
Take us up to heaven today
Where sweet sky pie is free
And we never pay
And all our headaches have gone away
Because all our thinking is over and done
It’s all all over
Because you are the one
Who bathes us in smiliness like the sun.

So clap, clap, clap
You vacuous creeps
Your public grovelling makes me weep
Smack me up, send me back to sleep
Let me die and rot and feed a tree
Because political compost is what I’d rather be
Than ever follow a leader.

The entirely appropriate Reginald

This poem is entirely appropriate,
because it is called Reginald.
And because it is a bespoke poem,
Not ready made
And especially tailored for this moment only.
It is exquisitely crafted
And contains words like
Voluptuluminate
And arquebusphosorounderdrome
Which cannot be found elsewhere.
Some of its vowel sounds and consonants
Have been washed by the spume of atlantic gales
and the soft rains of peat bogged coasts
they have been carefully collected from
The utterance of gnarled Hibernians
Who ply their age old craft by speaking softly
In sail lofts and crofts
Pieces of their speech
Have then been cut, sewn and woven
To make this entirely appropriate Reginald
With all its subtle and softly
Unspoken undertones.

The whimbrel whines

The whimbrel whines in the gale gnarled gorse
A curlew rises piping feebly
Silhouetted above the ancient drizzle stained edge of moor’s blunt blade
This piffling avian is blown away,
Like a drug addled scribbler
Tatters of scudding cloud
A wind howling through time has blown
All vacuous vapour away eastwards
Away from old hills
To piddle on flat midlands
In this wereweather three men stalk across eons
Rising dripping from peat hags like polished bog-oak
Three men from Porlock some say
Although the place that they come from
Has had other names
Some once uttered in long lost langues
They were even once alluded to
By the ice people who some now call
Neanderthal
With brow ridged grunt and crude gesture of flint adze
Hirsute the mammoths trumpeted mournfully
And avoided their gaze
The three haul huge monolithic concepts in our time
Heavy and absolute as any henge pillar
The three brought the ideas that inspired the antler pick miners
And the hewers and haulers of
Massive granite shards and blocks
With fire water rope and slave
But mound and ancient Temple are
Only passing representations sketched in stone
Of infallible inevitable and immutable rectitude
Ponderous super heavy weight thoughts
That pulverize all other ideas
And pointless poetic drivel
Like an tank track crushing
A poppy into paste
This then is their mission
They did not choose it
But being the determined determinators of determination
They must enact their duty.

squid pic

THE KRAKEN HAS INSOMNIA!

in an

Incredible tentacular spectacular

P.R.Murry’s artwork:

“The Big Squid”

has re-emerged from

the Dollis Hill Abyss

to display itself in the
Brent Artists Register Spring Show 2008
at Willesden Library Gallery
(Willesden Green Library Centre,
95 High Rd, Willesden,
London NW10 2SF
tel:8298 1421,
email info@brentartistsresource.org.uk).
The show will be open to the public
from 13th May until 5th June 2008.
X
Private View 22nd May 6.00-8.30 pm.

A ROTTEN POEM

I am the compost
I rot in a heap
I rot when you wake
I rot when you sleep

I have no body
Nor brain instead
I am the living
That lives on the dead

Potato peelings
Garden cuttings and teabags
Or a philosopher’s head
Wrapped up in a sack

It all came from compost
I bring it back

All organic transformed
That’s what I do
I am the compost
Soon you’ll be too

the men of porlock

the men of porlock

present

PR “Tooting is Mutating” Murry

Zolan “Some Birds Fly So High” Quobble

& Emile “That Adja Goin Dinit” Sercombe

at the Poetry Cafe
Betterton Street, Covent Garden on
Saturday May 31st 2008
Doors open at 7.30 - Show starts at 8
£6 and £5 concs

“Incredible! I was struck dumbe!”
Samuel Taylor Coleridge - Poetraie Nowe

“True heirs indeed!”

Elizabeth Forbes-Knottley - Horse and Home

Vampires and cough

VAMPIRE BATS

Vampire bats could be called

Primitive communists by an ignorant man

A very ignorant man

Who does not have leather winged night flight

Who cannot ride out over dark lands

On rising thermals from

Cooling desert and scrubland

Following the red scent that remains

A trace on the air

And vampires don’t sniff after spilt blood

Like stupid sharks

They smell it live

Still pulsing through veins

They smell it and swoop down to it

Their scalpel sharp incisors slit

The man, horse, cow or mule

Feels nothing

As the bat drinks a batful

Spits a little anti-coagulant in the wound

And leaves on leather wings

Up into the night skies

Back to bat roost

Where it gives blood

Not just to its own babes, kin and co-genetics

like some tight arsed dawkins

But any bat of the commune may share

Any who is needy may drink

What is batmine is batyours

And then sophisticated communists sleep

The sleep of the just

All day upside down

under leather wings.

I COUGH IT UP,

I cough it up,

Hweeerrargh Kuh

The flob globule launches

Severs the phlegm strings

That moored it to the back of my throat

Phwerrapperaurgh

It is in flight now

Becomes aerodynamic, mini mucus zeppelin

Flying through broken battlements of teeth

And into open air

Spit rocket crosses

A small trajectory of bathroom airspace

And spaltlands sinkside

Flattened by its own impact

Against white porcelain cliff

And ambivalently slides down

Is it live or is it slime?

It was once part of what I’m

But now

After it has flown once

It slides down hill all the way

To the plughole

Where swirled by tapwater vortex

It twirls round into oblivion

Like a galaxy into a blackhole

And is gorn, gorn, gorn

Odd's Dice

There's a giant asteroid shaped like a potato
Plummeting towards us through the soundless void
Say what you like, it puts things in perspective
We whinge about wars
Ethnic cleansing, global warming,
But, to say the least,
our perspectives might be altered
And we would get the mother of all shocks
If we were all
To be exterminated
By the massive impact of a spud-shaped rock.

The Final Squit of Sir Pemberton Hamilton-Extractor

mmodru108

modrew108

DREW08