KONY2012 – This video is bullshit war propaganda

Don’t believe the hype… Kony’s probably already dead and this is just an excuse to steal African oil reserves.

John had Pancreatic Cancer, He said.

He was in and out of hospital

He said.

3 years, in and out

He said.

His deep set eyes and cavernous wrinkles

They said,

He was a man who knew what pain is.

The pain in his eyes said it all.

He said, he had tried to escape his sterile prison

He said, the pain was so bad

He wanted to throw himself under a bus

And the driver would have had no say in the matter

He said.

They’d given him two days to live

He said.

But doctors say the craziest things.

The coffee rings of fatigue on his cheeks

Had a lot to say about John.

They said – look at this man

Merely clinging on to life,

Clinging on to a life of pain.

You see, again and again

He would tell the very same story

To anybody who would listen

He said.

While smoking yellow finger smokes outside A&E.

Waiting to have his say taken away.

Faridah Walden & Chosen B in Pressure Ya Lov

A friend of mine from sunny Uganda… show some love.

Fuck it

I just thought to myself… fuck it.

Try and find the voice

Watched a film that made me think because one of my heroes,

Another one of my heroes is dead, dead within a shroud of mystery

So again, I thought… fuck it.

Try and find that voice that was so prominent in Africa

That same voice that didn’t give a fuck what anybody thought,

That same voice that made me proud to read back what I had written

That same voice that made peoples’ eyebrows raise

Ever so slightly.

And rightly so because I say fuck a lot

I use profanity in a lot of my sentences

Because I can’t articulate myself aurally

And why change my written words from the voice in my head.

I’d rather be dead. Than write another word for anybody else

But myself.

It isn’t selfish, grandiose or smug.

I just think there are a lot of shit writers out there

Writing shit poetry and splashing it all over blogs

For other shit writers to kiss their asses and tell them how wonderful

And nice

Their words are.

Who wants to be nice? I’d rather be cunt.

I’d rather be that smug cunt of a writer with delusions of grandeur

Because at least my words would be different from all the floral

Hippy, vegan garbage that wafts through chat rooms and forums.

I don’t write for recognition from my peers, because most of my peers

Can’t fucking write, they can reproduce and plagiarise

In a world of intertextuality.

And with any luck, all these reconstituted words about the same boring shit

Will be burnt in a beautiful literary revolution.

And bloggers, like me, will cease to exist.

And crap authors selling millions of books will cease to exist.

And true prose will once again emerge.

Here comes me

Here comes me, thirty year old me
Born into the world kicking and screaming
Still wanting to be in his twenties, really, though
Does he?
Promised I’d give up smoking when I turned the big three – oh
But I don’t intend to unless you want to replace
My beautiful addiction with something else that gives me as much pleasure
You won’t find me sipping on wheat grass and herbal tea
You’ll see me at the back, whiskey in hand smoking big fat obnoxious cigars
So all the little babies can die from the cancer I’m giving them.
You better not walk your dog too close to me, it might get cancer
I better stop fishing, I might give all the fish cancer
My cat probably already has cancer
And it’s all my fault!
You’ll be sorry, when all this isn’t such a joke anymore and you’re lying in hospital.
Uh huh.
Sure.
Why don’t you come visit me and say “I told you so”
Why don’t you come visit me on my death bed and say
“It’s not so funny now is it?”
And listen for the response you get that I try to muster from my tumour ridden innards
It’ll sound something like.
“While you were all going around telling people how to live their lives…
“I lived mine.
“While you were too busy – busy bodying around other people’s business.
“I had a life I enjoyed.
“And who the hell wants someone to wipe their ass for them when they’re 90?
Thanks for the words Dennis.

these scars

Should I be worried about the man I have become?

Should I really worry if my writing needs a little influence?

A little beer here a little snort there a little bit of courage to get it out

Just a man. That’s all I am. A thirty year old with love for music

A love for real people, real people make me smile

Smiling makes me feel alive a man in disguise can’t hide from a smile

And so I write. With little fingers punching at keys or fondling pens again and again

Forever heaven sent words that come from somewhere. Somewhere I don’t know

And how do I know? Who knows. It just goes to show

That we can do anything we want with the proper influence

My influence comes from within, within a beer tin and there we see the sipping

Begin. Because I have begun to sing a song that will live on forever

Ever and along it shone through shining lights that inhabit my appetite for the real life

The real life hidden behind screens where we all scream our hearts to death lest we forget

Who we really are behind these scars.

I am so much more

 

I am so much more than what you think of me

I am so much more than what your memories persist

On re-approaching and reopening bad mistakes taken in view

Of others. This isn’t guilt, but I am so much more than

You think you know, so much more than rumours

In a one horse town dragged down and kicked around

I am so much more than drunken slurs and coke induced gurns

So much more than a cheating boyfriend, so much more

Than a callous individual devoid of deeper meanings

. I am so much more than your empty words

So much more than corners turned

More than you.

I am so much more than every bad word you ever spoke

I am so much more than your lies

But more importantly

I am so much more than your truths

And what do I care what you think or what you  believe

But believe me when I say

I am so much more than all the whispers that have scorned me into corners

I am so much more than 21 to 26 I am so much more

Than the kid who’s dad died when he was 9

Never contemplated suicide often spoke out of line to friends

Did some things that hurt me even now

But I am so much more than you will ever know

who I am and why I am

All these words be damned because I am so much more

Than you say I am

What I am can be found emanating  from this pen in my hand

All that I am is nothing but a different man than the one you can’t stand

At least this is what I think I am