Update For Blog

I've just worked out how to embed the HTML for posting a video from elsewhere on the web, so that should provide some variation on the usual grim verse posted here. The Internet has come a long way since I was online 10 years ago or more, when I had a website back then, so I have to get perusing and researching and wotnottery.

Nowt more.

Nick Cave - Stagger Lee, a traditional testosterone-filled ballad

Growl n Snarl

"I wanna be your dog"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Eer9UoqN_9E

Justification

I was about to try justify myself, due to the nature of some of the verse within my WEBlog below, but, I've decided I'm not going to bother. Why the Hell should I? People can take me or leave me. The poetry was written at times of creative distress, so to speak. What I'm trying to say is, I'm not "nuts" on a permanent basis - well not yet, and I hope never. Note to Self: I must post a little more variety.
What a dope!
I've just realised
I've justified myself.

What the People Said

"I am the Alpha and the Omega"
Scripture said.
These people wrote
These people in my head.

I see demons' snarling lips
They come for the children in their beds
While they dream of the holidays at the seaside they swam
Their innocent small unscarred bodies in the foam-filled waves
Throwing them around.

Amongst the corruption and the desolation
The seeds of desperation
In the faces of the needed
The abandoned, the conceded.

I see the homeless lie in downcast eyes
Humble at heart, guilt-laden to die
And the up-front, asking for one pound
To go to the crack house
And when alone to cry.

A True Tale - Honest Guv!

'twas a bleak, dark, night,
Full of fear, little light,
For the Sun, it had long ago set,
When a lone, dark figure - I'd never met -
With his hat pulled down,
And his mouth set in frown,
And out of it uttered,
"I'm that Nutter,
They call me Sir Peanut Butter".

"Oh hello, how are you, a cup of tea?
Do you want to read my book?"
I stammered and I shook,
He must have noticed how I looked.
Out came nonsense, a gibbering wreck,
And then he grabbed me around the neck:
"Please cease, please cease,
Before I call the police" said I,
As he shook me to and fro.
And then he, in deep voice he deep mutter,
"I'm that nutter, I'm in woe,
You see, I like
To play with dolls you know".

"Do you like dolls?" he quivered,
All in anticipation.
"Oh yea, oh yea", I answered
With a little too much elation.
"Have you got any on you?
A Barbi Doll maybe?
If you have we can sit down here,
Until we're called for tea".

"I have not any on me Sir,
I'm sorry, I really am,
I'll do anything, absolutely anything -
If you leave me as I am".

So on that walk, to enjoy the plan had been that night,
I ended up spending it with a man entitled Barbara Wainwright.
He adorned me in silk, linen, and lace,
And said "Just call me the Human Race".

At least I live to tell the tale,
Although I've still got red toenails.
I've scrubbed and scrubbed,
To get them clean,
And the whole sorry episode
Has made me mean -
Mean in a tough and hardened way,
Not with a purse, being camp and gay.

So for all those folk yet to meet Sir Peanut Butter,
Take heed, carry your doll, and remember do not stutter.
For if he sees any distress and dread of which to devour,
You may change your name to Barbi,
And twirl your skirt among the flowers.

29 August 2000 (Revised version of earlier verse, with Post Script added at later date)

Allen, Woody Allen

I've just read this Woody Allen line in Will Self's foreword in a book of Nick Cave's lyrics/poems (whichever you wish), and had to share a tiny excerpt with you millions who so fervently forage my blog for any new nuggets of wisdom. The first line of Woody Allen's parody of Albert Speer's wily memoir: "I did not know Hitler was a Nazi. The truth was, for years I thought he worked for the phone company".

Note to Self (Myself, not Will Self): must buy some Woody Allen prose.

Porchester High Ebbs

I see faces in the lino
With grimacing laughter insidious intent

But I walk on this lino
The faces so cruelly bent

Warped eyes, chilling eyes
Filled with truth and mischievous lies

Those faces on the lino
I will not let be sent

Those faces on the lino
And what inside they meant

As I look through the bars
And the massive surrounding fence

Porchester Ward, Summer 2009

tired

I'm weary of walking in slippers in streets of sliding snow,
I want to float away
Float away
Float away elsewhere...

Great Quote to give the Better-Than-You-Brigade

“We are all murderers and prostitutes..."

R. D. Laing

If anyone looks down upon you from their perceived lofty heights, spouting what a low-down tramp you are, just say "We are all murderers and prostitutes". No need for the rest of the quotation above from that genius psychiatrist/humanist R. D. Laing. There's a phrase which people use who don't like anything innovative; it eludes me at the moment, but that phrase can be used for how Laing came along and upset the psychiatric applecart. If it wasn't for the occasional genius such as him pottering along and putting his million dollars in (as opposed to two penn'oth), we'd still be burning witches or going round madhouses to watch the insane for amusement. Hobbes was right, methinks and fears, that "...the life of man, solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short". Reminds me of the Jeremy Kyle Show...

Porchester Poem Two

Wave your magic wand for you and I
Reserve a seat of comfort in the skies
Let me know pray before I die

Seek, and ye shall not find -
Blind leading the Blind
Forget and be Forgotten

The oiled gates are opening
into the ice & flames and
Broken glass sharp as a brand new razor
Of Hell

Standing upright and glaring
Realizing I'm looking from within
Hammered with mirrored nails of psychic horror
The walls are so steep
I cannot fall...

Notes from Porchester Ward 2009

Porchester Poem

The Pawns they Fall
The Queen correctly stands tall
And the King lies drunk
Within his Mistresses lair

The Knights
The Golden Eyes
Meet Mine
There's no Design
But Mine

Give me her eyes opium brown
Calmness descends
Crackling Excitement Intensifies
Blue & Red
Metamorphoses to two wings of a Peacock Butterfly
Fluttering & Bliss
And
No Fear
No More
Surrounds...

Found in a Notepad from Porchester Ward

Untitled

Do you really think you scare me?
The places I've been
The acts that I've seen
The stories that I've heard

No, you don't scare me.
But I scare you
Or will!

"Where are you for fucks sake?"
(whispers unconsciously "better for you").
Don't lay your eggs in my
Broken Glass Nest!

Scares me

Lamb Fucking Chops

Lamb Chop half eaten with Hungry Fingers n Eyes,
Strewn upon the sparse tea-stained floor.
Christmas Time and I,
In a Box in the Corner -
The room still and will lie unadorned with Glitter within my Eyes.

A crate upside down is my table,
Such furniture used by smooth Clark Gable?
Sharp, groomed, tidy, moustached,
Unadorned by half eaten hungry fingers n Eyes Lamb Chops.

Bob Dylan playin' his favourite tunes,
Clever 'n' cool,
Nobody's fool-
He'd make the antiquated the in-thing to do.
Laid back 'Play Misty' in deep tones,
Bathed in good music,
Lock the Door,
Turn off the Phone.

Unread newspapers to straddle,
with intent to read, and
Crossword to attempt.
But somehow there's too much
And no time to make amends;
Yes, the house and hair to brush,
Teeth and worktops to scrub the land, downtown land;
Then relax in ease and comfort lie back:
No
Don't think where it's all going,
Nor the places where its been;
The whereabouts of my friends the ragged people -
and the aching, dying monsters -
The deterioration of what they've seen 'n' been.
Christmas shopping,
Feel better to toss a coin
At the Priest now Itinerant,
Whose faith has faded 'n' passed away,
Camouflaged by the Decaying furniture
Of the Streets.

Yes, "The Shadow", the black & white detective knows,
The radio stumbles across to say,
Another concept to try not think about,
Pots and pans and well-being Strays.

when did this transpire out of that cleaved mind I don't call a self?

"Well I couldn't help it"

Wait, I'm tring to think................................................

The HodgePodge mind of a Genius At Work.

Works of Genius

"Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death's dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are

Sunlight on a broken column..."

Excerpt: The Hollow Men, T S Eliot

I wonder if his pecker's always pixellated? Can't be much use being a young sexually-charged stag when you've got no lunchbox to show - his female student peers won't be able to see what they've got for their din dins.
At first I was mildly to moderately annoyed at some no-doubt bourgeois toff having a piss where he oughtn't. I mean, he's actually pissing directly on the wreaths. But then, with time to reflect, my mild annoyance got milder. The two main reasons for my change of opinion, is that he did not perform this dastardly act when sober, but when he was so pissed that his next act of student-style antisocial behaviour was curling up unconscious on the street.
The second point that lessened my rabidly mild annoyance was find me a man or woman who hasn't done something in their youth - or indeed later years - that they're ashamed of. Granted, it might not be pissing on a major war memorial and its wreaths. But, in your cups, you could have performed any shameful deed under the sun - and not even know about it! So, as the Good Book (not Mrs. Beeton) rightly says, "judge not, for as you judge so shall you be judged".
However, if this young fresher had acted in sobriety, and pissed all over those wreaths yelling "the war dead were a bunch of cowardy custards", a dose in the stocks might be appropriate - with an apple shoved firmly up his arse. No, too harsh, maybe just the apple...

Grouch Marx says (not W C Fields as I had earlier asserted!)

"From the moment I picked your book up until I laid it down, I was convulsed with laughter. Some day I intend reading it."

Another poem for nobody to read. Why do I bother?

Found this little ditty written the 17th August 2006.

I try to find my way back home,
To the Evergreen trees softening the stream-smoothed stones.

I never knew which path to take:
were there many, narrow and wide?
Were there few,
Or only two, or,
Was there sadly but one way?

I try to find my way back home.
But all things change;
People get old;
Life and death move on.

I try to find my way back home,
But I fear I'm losing my way.
I never walked in solid stride,
But fell into unkind jungle
(Dressed with creatures in camouflage, some say satan, some say god.)
Where demons prowl, behind benign eyes,
Where the sad people laugh, and the happy people cry,
Where beauty is spiteful, and where love is ice cold,
Where all walk naked in the drifting snow,
Where most wear fur on skin-searing days,
Where the sun brings night
And the moon is ablaze.
Where the Doe hunts the Tiger
And the Flies eat the Spiders.
Where everything and all is turned upside down,
And all things in Dark and Light,
Bring terror and wonder and do astound.
Where the weak and strong,
And the lost now belong.
Where slaves become kings,
And kings become slaves,
Carrying iron binding chains,
To be plucked by their masters into the blood lust arena,
Starving lions to be slain.
Where the wife becomes her husband,
And the husband becomes his wife,
Where feminine becomes metallic
And the chisel-faced men soft.

What is this vortex, this whirlpool of confusions?
Of harsh realities and illusions?
In this jungle so strangling dense,
Hostile life is rapidly growing.
Is their no way to escape?

Pathways, if they existed, have ceased.
If there was a pathway I have strayed.
What can I do but lie in deepening blue swirling waters?
And think and dream of how to find out my way.
Out into the sunlight and open expanse,
Where all is in order,
And confusion has ceased.
Where the iron bar have vanished,
And I am released.
And I find a small track
And along I walk -
No cracks in the walls,
and words flow when I talk.
And when I go to bed,
And dream peaceful dreams,
Of stream-smoothed stones and trees Evergreen.

Post Script 3rd September 2006 0915hours

I found a path out the jungle,
and now I run
And every day is cloudy and misty cold.
There are no clear blue sunflower-filled days here.

David "Tosspot" Cameron and his Anti-Hunting Bill Repeal Plan

It looks increasingly likely we are to be governed by the Tory Twats again. But this time we can relax folks, for they are brand new. Yes, they are a brand new "brand". They are now (relax) "Compassionate Conservatives" - an oxymoron if ever there was!
Were you aware that the Tory Upper Class Twit David "Tosspot" Cameron is planning to repeal the anti-hunting bill? Not that the said Bill works particularly well, indeed hardly at all, but it is on the Statute books, and I imagine that fact is still slightly irksome for the red-coated reactionaries galloping around the countryside - irksome due to the fact they are in essence committing a crime in their native land. In the redcoats' eyes, a land where the redcoat's pile is still his castle (he can shoot the hungry itinerant with his big double-barrel if the whim takes him), and where his 'proles' are firmly ensconced in his positions, either tilling his fields, or where one of his fair wenches is squashed beneath his bloated (on trout) stomach, while he's trying, yet alas not managing, to get it up.
I am planning to take part in saboteuring this hunting season. Something to get my teeth into. Something positive to do. And I am urging all to participate in making the repeal of the Anti-Hunting Bill a vote-loser. However I have no great faith in my aim. Apathy has taken hold. Jeremy Kyle is on the airwaves, the latter-day equivalent of a 19th century day out 'enjoying' the entertaining sights of Bedlam.
With regards to hunting supporters, the major group being the Cuntryside Alliance, take a minute to witness an example of their true multifacated pernicious nature. See it on YouTube at
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YccRUc2SDBs
The membership/supporters of the Cuntryside Alliance: over privileged unfeeling pricks or inbred - too thick to think - hayseeds? I believe their is irrefutable proof (I have boxes of research on the topic) that the majority membership of the Cuntryside Alliance are a hotchpotch of both social types. Yes, that's the majority membership of the Cuntryside Alliance, over privileged unfeeling pricks intermingled with an assortment of inbred too thick to think hayseeds!
Now I live in the countryside, so writing this (although I don't expect anyone to read it) I am aware of the potential risks in making public my thoughts of the Cuntryside Alliance. I am fully aware, touchwood, that I could be subjected to a "Deliverance-style" serious sexual assault (they actually tire of sheep or pigs or whatever they can get their pecker up occasionally, and then is the time for any enemies of the Cuntryside Alliance to be concerned for the safety of their bottoms). Or, I could be tormented by a vigil of hillbillies/hayseeds, sat on the wall outside my house, and periodically falling backwards off it. Or I could be enslaved by the local lord, where, fettered, I have to shovel shit in the stables for the rest of my natural. We will see, or rather I will. If there are no updates on this blog for over three months, you can assume the worse.

PS.
Actually, come to think of it, my maternal family has lived in a certain part of the countryside for hundreds of years. And I know for a fact there has been interbreeding in my family - generations ago, that is. However, it appears this case of interbreeding has manifested itself in various ways. I am a touch nuts I suppose. But, and I must stress this, I don't indulge in falling off walls backwards - although it could become quite an important art form.

Ward Ramblings

How to rid myself of these chains I have shackled my mind with?
A safe, controlled environment is required to unfetter my ever-brighter chains.
It is a potent, coarse, energy,
Trying to externalise itself, to express itself.
Not necessarily a torrent of ideas; the energy is too frenzied, certainly
Too impatient for rationally thought-out ideas
This 'psychic energy' is in chains: it thus can become enraged, a hysteria of myself, frustration, trying to break out of these chains I have welded, hammered together, some unconsciously, some consciously.
Manifestations of these chains loosening:

An "SOS" tattoo; outbursts of hysteria; rage, not with a short fuse, but with no fuse...

Notes from my time on Porchester Ward, Summer 2009

Worms - not the German City - but ones that reside in the earth and don't like the rain much

Today I saw a little worm,
It made me squeek and made me squirm,
Yet off it went to burrow, into soily soil,
And I traversed to my mirror, to squeeze my bloody boil.

Today I saw a little worm,
I said, "hello my friend, I've some germs in my head".
Said the worm to me, "well go to bed",
So I pondered, and did, what the little worm said.

Today I saw a little worm,
"Please help me", whispered the worm to me,
"For the Blackbird's after me for its tea,
And I cannot cry and I cannot flee".

So,
I put the little worm inside my Head,
And the Blackbird skulked away.
I married that worm that very day,
And from that very very moment
There was nothing more we had to say,
The worm was here and here to stay.

Rambling thoughts on serial killers and their abodes

The so-called Special Hospitals of England (Broadmoor, Rampton and Ashworth) provides a rather disconcerting fascination for myself. Why is that, I ask myself? Extremes have always fascinated me. The average is mundane, everyday, humdrum. The examples of the 'deranged' and 'estranged' inside these institutions are testament to the unusual extreme psychic conditions that humanity possesses.
Within those Victorian facades, what living nightmares exist! And people said, during the dreadful heart-rending Soham murders, that Ian Huntley was in a Butlins-type place. Huntley could not fool the 'trickcyclists'. His behaviour would be monitored every second of every minute of every day of every week of... So if he truly suffers, and if he is a deeply disturbed individual, he will be suffering far worse torments than any 'sane' person can imagine. Therefore the perfectly understandable sentiment coming from the 'hang, draw and quarter him brigade', of wanting Huntley hanging by his fingers 24 hours a day, the said brigade should be happy as he is in a far worse place than one of Her Majesty's Prisons. You cannot run from your own mind, unless you pharmaceutically cosh it, but the side-effects from these anti-psychotic drugs are not pleasant at all. Also, once you are in such a place, their is no time limit for your release. You can be held indefinitely, until the day you die in many cases. I can't see Huntley, or, say, Peter Sutcliffe walking down the local high street in the near, or distant, future.
Thinking of the Yorkshire Ripper and the due legal process regarding such high-profile cases, he was found at his trial to be sane, and went off to Parkhurst in 1981, but subsequently the powers that be diagnosed him with schizophrenia and he was sent to Broadmoor in 1984. Sutcliffe had claimed he heard voices, voices from God. These voices told him to kill prostitutes - although his torrent of sexual blood lust led him on to kill women who were not working the streets of our Northern English industrial towns.
Alongside Sutcliffe and concerning legalities, there is another high-profile case which springs to mind, the necrophile Jeffrey Dahmer. Having read of the acts he perpetrated on his victims in Brian Masters' book "The Shrine of Jeffrey Dahmer", it is hard to believe the jury at his trial did not find him lacking in rational thought, i.e. insane. But, maybe (one of the reasons, at the least) due to the depth of emotion the case brought about, the jury found him guilty, i.e. sane. Now this man was attempting to make zombies out of his victims; he was in the progress of creating an altar in his apartment with the view that the completed said altar would endow him with an assortment of superpowers. Unusual acts and thoughts for a sane man, methinks!
As far as I can recall, in legal terms in US and UK law, a case of insanity is proven if the defendant did not know that the crime he was doing was wrong at the time he was acting out the crime
Thus both Sutcliffe and Dahmer were found legally sane. Yet most of the forensic psychiatric community involved in the above cases found them to be 'medically' insane. Obviously the minds of the above killers cannot be coupled together as though they were or are experiencing the same psychic phenomena. Purely as a result of idleness in not bothering to properly look into what I am wittering on about, I've discussed Dahmer and Sutcliffe as they seem to be prime examples of how the legal system and the medical community have come to loggerheads in cases such as the two briefly mentioned above.
I suppose an elementary reason is the medical community have an element of care in their nature, and the legal system is naturally a cold and reasoned part of our society. Both are merely outward manifestations of our inward psyche.