'James Joyce was a pussy' I tell him.
His face reddens,
his blood pressure sour's
...
A piano plays through
the haze of the bar
and no-one seems to
smile around here
...
'You are un-FUCKING-believable,
you know that? '
The morning after
...
'Your 'poetry' isn't
for everyone' he said.
'You're right' I said.
...
If you listen
to Nostradamus
then today is the day
that the Anti-Christ
...
'So I take it you're going to be
there next weekend then? '
She's stood in the kitchen
...
John Alfred Anderson (62)
Thomas Howard (39)
Colin Mark Ashcroft (19)
Thomas Anthony Howard (14)
...
When I was younger
I wanted to go out like Morrison.
Life lived at
...
I've noticed
how people stare at you
almost crazed
if you walk through
...
She say's we shouldn't sleep together anymore
but turns up on my doorstep at 3 am.
She say's she needs her space
but get's angry at me when I don't call.
...
As I walked home with the dawn chorus,
5: 30 am,
I passed a car that had
been thrown into a driveway,
...
This time I knew it was over.
Sure,
she'd walked out on more than one occasion
...
All my life I have been attracted to the seedier aspects of life which I put down to my mother being a drunk and my step-father not giving a damn. So I left home at the age of 16 too seek my fame and fortune and ended up 5 years later in a re-hab clinic having suffered a nervous break-down....boy did I get that wrong. So I've travelled and drank my way acroos this country more than once and finally set down in the small town of Weston. It's ok here I suppose if you like watching OAP's just sitting around waiting to die...but for now I make do.)
James Joyce Was A Pussy.
'James Joyce was a pussy' I tell him.
His face reddens,
his blood pressure sour's
and he looks at me
as if I'd told him
that I'd just fucked his Gran.
'HOW DARE YOU! ! ! ! ' he screams at me
'YOU'RE NOT EVEN FIT
TO LACE THE GREAT MAN'S SHOES! ! ! '
'Maybe so' I grin
'But he was still a pussy.'
It had started out
like most of these night's do
with me being dragged
to a 'poet's' gathering.
'Pleeeeease baby' she'd whined
'You'll really like it,
their really great people
and their intellect's
are second to none'.
I should've warned her,
I'm not a people person.
You can count the
amount of friends
I have on one hand
and still have fingers spare
to scratch yourself.
But whenever I do
tell them they never
believe me
and you know what
they say about
action's and word's.
3 hours later
and I'm 4 bottles in,
sat in some bar
listening as they
tell me how great
their work is
and how they
just aren't appreciated
and never will be
in their own time.
Blah, blah, blah...
And then it happens.
'You know' he say's
'I have been compared,
on more than one occassion,
to James Joyce'
I take aim
and fire.
Direct hit.
The place decend's
into chaos.
Raised voices.
Threat's of violence.
I'm pretty sure,
at some point,
he may
have even
challenged me to
a duel.
And there I am
smiling away to myself
happy in the knowledge
of a job
well
done.
The next day
I'm sat with Steve
recounting my tale
and when the laughter
finally dies
he turns to me and say's
'But you like Joyce'
'I know' I said
'I think
he'd appreciate
the irony.'
Not all of Neils poems will appeal to everyone, everyone being those that choose to hide from the truth preffering to deny it. Neil embraces it, the sordid, the scary, the leftover ills of broken dreams, the drunkeness, the lonely, and the pained. He does this through humour, raw honest words and thoughts and with keen eye for detail. I am glad i come across his work. Vincent
I like. I thought that was all that needed to be said but the computer demanded more.