THE SCHOOL BUS IS AFTER US!

foreign land
unexplained

somewhere
life blanked
not know

not now

Prison hell

death knell

school bell

dirty dust

disinfectant
mothballs,

medicine ball
assembly hall
Doc Martens.

No hope
little scope
pound for pound
dope for dope
set square
strait jacket
compass point
wage packet

blank page

internal rage
Fact file
Don’t think

must drink

their opinion
is dominion

'84

government whore

pain away

Ironic sham
rights of man

snuffed out
seeds doubt

don’t belong
all wrong
no choice
no voice


School fate
School flame
School blame.

Thank you school!

The Kings Are Dead Long live the short lived

Cardboard Kings

Blood red sovereign exchange

‘remember that thou art dust’

And.. the brightness above?Well..

The shadows weave doubt,

hope subjugated under a cadaverous sky

I cannot remember my dreams

before hell showed the needle’s escape,

after sleeping rough in the park.,

keeping the blood line alive.

Lines, do your lines,

Double white lines on double yellows

Blind-locked beat-alley poets

damned one-way souls on shady,

shabby, dark little streets.

Our days float blind above cobbles

sleeping partners trading on sacred times.

We are TheCardboard kings!

By night we sink cans of Dutch Gold,

watch Liffey Boardwalk lovers weave

Midsummer’s other dream,

our eyes spaced-out flying saucers

as they tango in moonlit oblivion to ‘us’-

and Mammon’s crack burning ire.

They, seeing only despair,

never know that ,we, each night,

in cutting-edge purgatorial desire,

witness spaceships and vultures,

hope and damnation,

demons and angels,

Circling their god’s magnificent spire.

AARRRGGGHHH THE SCHOOL BUS IS HERE!

The poetry bus is back, it has morphed into a big yellow American schoolbus, just like they have in The Simpsons..Cool!

The bus was brillo driven by Chiccoreal last week and I enjoyed each and every one of the poems ye all wroted.So many thanks to Chicco and also to all yous what writ stuff.The whjole charabang would be but a cymbal clashing or a gong booming without all of you joining in.So pat yourselves on the back.We are all broken pots, it's how we put ourselves
back together that matters and no matter how many times we break, poetry(reading or writing) can always be a bit of glue.

So this week buspassers the Poetry school bus is in the very capable hands of Karen.You can read her instructos and her poems HERE

So the class bell is ringing, Stinky Whelan is getting a wedgie, Inky Stacey is swotting in the library, Lugs Lannigan is telling tales to teacher, and I'm off to the bicycle sheds for a can of lager and a fag.If you see Chalky White, tell him he's DEAD at dinner break if he hasn't done my homework.

Se ya Monday chums, except of course I don't do skool on Mondays so I'll see ye on the bus home. Pippple toodles!

Yes, Now Kato! SHADOWSTALKING

Hello world and colonies in outer space with internet connection.Today we have a special visitor to The Peeps Republo D'EEjit, Ms Kat Mortensen, better known to the blog world as 'Poetikat'
A prolific blogger and writer Kat has produced a fine book of poems called 'Shadowstalking' and has kindly agreed to travel all the way from Canadaland where she do live, to visit us and answer three questions.

But before we begin , let's finish off this homemade runner bean wine poteen cocktail. Lovely! Potatos and beans, you can't beat them.










Kat's just been sick but she's coming back now.




Hello Kat,you are most welcome to Castle EEjit. What a cool looking book.I loves the cover! Now lets find out a bit more about the inside, and your poetry life in general.



Q1) What is the poetry scene like in Canada? Are you the member of a writers group?



There are many fine poets in Canada, but it's not easy to be recognised as such. There are not nearly as many opportunities for writers as there appear to be in Ireland, for example. Locally, there are no poets' organizations, no regular readings, no venues that support poets on a regular basis. The culture does not seem to support this particular branch of the arts, but it is my hope that it will change.

There are yearly "festivals" and a small collective of poets who are endeavouring to generate interest in the art, but it is an uphill battle, to be sure. Recently, I participated in the "Cambridge Arts Festival" and did a reading to a very small crowd, most of which were made up by the poets themselves.

I honestly believe, that to the general public, poetry is anathema. They remember being forced to read arduous verses in school (poorly selected, I might add — my sole remembrance of school poetry was a line from a Canadian poet (by God, get the Canadian poets drilled into them, what?), that went like this, "Along the line of smoky hills, the crimson forest stands"... Exciting stuff, isn't it?

Who can blame the masses for not having an interest when that is what they were exposed to? I also believe they associate poetry (as I do myself, if I'm honest) with the Laureates who have all the accolades and whose poetry is often self-indulgent and long-winded.

For this reason, I strive to write for people's enjoyment and not for some spiritual reckoning or reconciliation with grievances against society, religion or personal anxieties.

Who knows? Maybe one day we'll manage to win them over again and we WILL have a packed pub, or crowds at the festivals. If I have anything to do with it, we will!

I recently signed on with the Independent Authors and Illustrators of Canada who have their meetings in the next town over. I look forward to meeting some like-minded people.

Sorry for the rant, you just seem to have opened my particular Pandora's Box.

Q2) When did you start writing poetry, how do you go about writing, do
you write longhand with a special book and pen, or at the computer?

I've written poetry since I was a child. My first success was a poem called, "Horses". It's self-explanatory. I only started to look upon it seriously four years ago when a few events coincided; my parents had to move closer to us, I quit my job and I had a fun poem recognized by a national newspaper.

I have notebooks all over the place! I buy them in dollar stores (pound shops to you) and keep them in my purse, night-table, office - everywhere!

I usually make notes in a pad first and then transfer it to the computer and edit. There are occasions however, when I just work directly on the computer. As for a favourite pen, if I can find one that works, I go with it! I tried pencils, but kept breaking the leads and getting really mad. I suppose there's a bit of pent-up frustration in some of my pieces.



Q3) What is your favourite poem in your book and how did it come to be
written? Can we reproduce it and read it, here on my blog?

I have a few favourites and they are all very different, but one of my top five is "Great Expectations" because it incorporates rhyme, which I love, it tells a story, it has some surprises and is a bit risky. My mother was a rather shocked when she read it. I'm not sure if this is the final edit, but it's in the book.



GREAT EXPECTATIONS

All Hallow’s Eve, she was naive,

and he had charm.

Doe-eyed and tall, he held in thrall—

proffered his arm.

She walked beside him, like a bride

in wedding gown,

And when he smirked her strings all jerked—

his puppet-clown.



For party night, she looked a fright,

at her own hand.

Mom’s marriage-dress, her hair a mess—

talc through each strand.

The faded rose of drooping hose

and ragged frill,

she looked the part—the broken heart

from Dickens quill.



He wore no rig, to match the gig—

mask set in place.

Drawing her near, he nipped her ear

and licked her face.

As in those tales of ingenues

who meet their fate,

he knew that now the time had come

for his check-mate.



They stole away, shut out the fray

and found a room.

The steel-trap door, an icy floor

she, with her groom.

There Havisham, for swift wham-bam,

gave up the ghost.

Her nuptial gown, rode up and down—

her virtue lost.



Kat Mortensen copyright2010


Well that was fantastibile! Many many thanks to my Canadian comrade Kat for sharing her ideas and poetry with us. For more information and details on how to get a copy of this fab book simply clicky HERE

Now how about another glass of wine,maybe rhubarb this time?

Kat? Kat? Kat come back , where ya runnin to? Was it something I said?

What time is it? It's CHICCO real time !!

Wake up everybody tis mornin stop snorin shake yeer sleeopy heads get out of yeer beds put your slippers on and head for the interplanetary poetry extravaganzy known simply as THE( immortal) POETRY BUS.
The original and the best, accept no imitations, no limitations, there are plenty of taxis and trains and trams and tubes and planes, but there is ONLY one POETRY BUS.If it doesn't say POETRY BUS on the label then it's not the poetry bus, pay no money, get off immediately and report the incident to the nearest tree.

Do you ever wake up in the morning and ROAR like a LION?
No?
Then it's high time ya did.I suggest that each and every one of us when we wake up (at whatever time) on Monday 23rd August should get out of bed, stretch from toenail to scalp with fingers stretching for the ceiling and toes curled up, then draw a deep breath so big it sucks in the curtains and creates a temporary vacuum, and with eyes scrunched closed, ROAR like a lion.




And I mean feerkin ROAR , a bellow that starts at the tip of your toes and builds like a tsunami as it gathers pace, volume, and momentum as it climbs yer legs, jiggers yer danglers (if you have any) ,booms round yer belly, rattles like a cannon ball around your bosoms (if you have any) and explodes through your snarling widestretched gob like the mother and father of a super sonic BOOM!

Go on ,we'll shake the fucking world, and annoy the neighbours.


Here meanwhile in a different key of life, is my contribution to the Poetry BUs.

First person up in the morning owns the world!

(The poor bastard)

Are we there yet? I think it may be morning

Ah, blessed relief; much as I hate you,

darkness was never my old friend.

Or are we ( you -still asleep

and me-stirring)

stuck between sunset and sunrise,

on an edgy ledge between

The Devil and the dishwasher?

Morning has broken in two

the veil of black is rent

dirty grey descends like depression,

the bedroom door is half-open or half-closed

(Q: When is a door not a door?

A: When it’s…)

Don’t mention ajar

I’d love a jar

My god my mouth is dry

My tongue as rough

As a bears arse

I wish I was still asleep,

dreaming of a lunar landscape, a rocket escape,

a pie in the sky, a cheese and whine party,

for the weightless mind and the restless soul.

Then worst of all

the birds pretending to sing

But they only whistle

Do they not know the words

‘Welcome to my world’ ?

And this, my friends , is how it should be done, by The Pogues.
Don't believe me? Then just check out the lyrics by Jem Finer below the video.










I dreamt we were standing
By the banks of the Thames
Where the cold grey waters ripple
In the misty morning light
Held a match to your cigarette
Watched the smoke curl in the mist
Your eyes, blue as the ocean between us
Smiling at me

I awoke alone and lonely
In a faraway place
The sun fell cold upon my face
The cracks in the ceiling spelt hell
Turned to the wall
Pulled the sheets around my head
Tried to sleep, and dream my way
Back to you again

Count the days
Slowly passing by
Step on a plane
And fly away
I'll see you then
As the dawn birds sing
On a cold and misty morning
By the Albert Bridge

Plan A log B it's the CHICCOREAL Poetry Bust!

Yes Earth dwellers, tis that time of the week again when one brilliant driver (Enchanted Oak) hands over the gunpowder to the next (Chiccoreal)

Been round to all this weeks buspassers ( i think) and I reckon it may be one of the best weeks yet for numbers, quality, and variety.Two great prompts from Enchanted Oak who drove skillfully and at a difficult personal time for her.
So well done and thanks to each and everyone of you, and a special thanks to Chris (Enchanty Oaky Dokey) for driving.

So this week that madcap cheeky Chiccoreal has given us a choice of THREE prompts all with a first thing in the morning vibe going on.But I'm not gonna tell ya, instead rollup yer trouser legs or hitch up your skirts and run helter skelter over to Chiccoreal at Logb to see what the craic is

HERE

Then scatter ye across the face of this planet scour every corner, search every hillside, plunder everyvalley, leave no grain of sand unturned upon the beaches in search of poems, and when you find them bring them back tothe Bus so we can share the fruits of our labour with the universe.

Remember, even the stars above are listening, the blades of grass are looking, but only we can tell. Forget the Generals, lawyers, politicians, the businessmen, the bankers . FOR
WE are the butchers. WE are the bakers. WE are the poets.
Raise your pens comrades, raise your voices -WE WILL BE HEARD!!

The poeTREE Bus with Enchanto oako

• So I've been away.I'm almost back, it's toigh in outer space floating in a tin can far above the world, by the way planet earth is blue (with a paisley motif) and there's nothing I can do.

That bastard 'Poetry' once my best riend has deserted me like a mangy cur that eats all the food in the cupboard then pisses off to wait tables in a spanish restaurant but gets elected as the president of a global prosthetic leg enterprise and marries miss world.The usual stuff.

But enchantedio Oakey Dokey hasset us a magnoifico task with 2 amazly pictures so I's got to post sumptin no matter how bad.The standard of the passengos pottery BTW seems to get better each week.I'm gettin out of me depth a bit now. I chose the cool boaty pic above.Deadly savage n'est ce pas amigos?

And aso i'm like totally feckin mad busy the whole time lately and blurging (specially getting round to others) is takening a back seat (ho ho)
Extra also is the pressing urgenco to get The Poetry Bus magazine finally finished.Tis the SUMMER issue FFS and august is wheezing it's way to autumn like a dying fly on a dusty window sill.
Belly to the grindly stone for fatso EEjo.


And another excuse, I has been awa frae the compluterer and I is discovered tha I canno write wi a pen no more.Only the keybored holds the poetrerty key, a kindo quirky qwerty fact.


More alsos is that I begin to realisde I have 2 poems.One whistfull look back at love thingy and the udder a ranty angsty thing, and I keep writing them over and over a million different ways.A two trick pony poet.

So here is the whistful look back at love type thingy mark 36,267. A work in constant progress.


Forget me not.

Like Swifts and Swallows we
were drifters dreaming in a foreign land
speaking the same language
that neither understood

Sweet nut brown beer by the bottle
soft nut brown skin
a slim hand
held mine

Honeysuckle and Jasmine
in full flight we spun
neath dreaming spires
our boat pulled by
the weft and the warp of the water

langrous love
we were the only country we saw
(the past the future
someone else's geography)
seduced by the want of now
and now is all we have to left hold

The Poo tree Bus THe Poo tree Bus

Q) When is a bus not a bus?

A) When it's a wheel within a wheel, a fairground attraction, a carrier of belief, a safe place to say 'This is what I feel, this is who I am' just for this minute; or forever.

Is it really seven days since the last task? It feels more like a week! And I haven't got round to some/any/all the last weeks bus passengers yet. Moer busy than a busy thing and twice as ugly. A million and one things to do and only 20 seconds to do them in.

But it was a brilliant task brilliantly set by the brilliant, mighty brainy, chillaxing harp playing, Prof Jeanne Lakatos.So many muchlo thanklers to her for taking the time and effort to inspire us.
The Bus they call poetry would be nothing without it's drivers, or indeed it's passlenglers.Spread the word around, the bus is back in town but it's singing 'Country Roads'.

This weeks driver is the mighty Enchanted Oak (Chris Alba), so lets hope our tiny enchanted acorns are planted in poetic soil. Talented poet Chris, a multi millionaire from Alaska enjoys stamp collecting , yodelling and mud wrestling. She has an honoury doctorate in milking cows from the University of Wisconsin and once crossed The Sahara backwards on a 2 legged camel.

Get ye away to her bolg HERE to see two brillo pics to inspire ye.What have you to lose, your sanity? Feck that!


Ps Did anyone (i KNOW none of you actually read these things properly to the end, why would you? I don't either) notice the fancy use of a semi colon there above.That's a first for me and I'm tingling with excitement!

Actually no, sorry, it's just the shakes.

TheProf Bus! THe Prof Bus! What profit us?

Under the cosh, under the weather.I've gone for the minty tulip without the mint or the two lips, that pursed together and blew.You know how to blow the whistle don't ya? Just put the fuse wire together and BLOW!

Intermittent internet connection, I feel a general objection in the direction of the woirld.Every poem has an equal and opposite (perhaps more apposite) anti-poem.

We are sheep and we are lambs to the slaughter , whichever way we are hung, sheep /lamb/rope/dope soap on a rope, hope on a thin blue vein line we cross so thin you hardly see it till the knife is in your back or the bullet is in your belly. KIll, don't kill, kill /be killed, read all about it/don't read all about it, duck your head/ bury your head/ blow your head or their head clean off, like a football at christmas, punish them for playing football instead of killing, double think, reverse psychology, invert good.

Set up a think tank, a depth charge, an atom bomb for hearts and minds, bodies and souls, death and destruction,everything is fair in love with war.

The smiling assasin, better the devil you didn't know.Tippler, tout, beggerman thief, rich man poor man, Omar sharif, Tim Finegan lived in Walker Street, an Irish gentleman mighty odd, he had a brogue both rich and sweet, and to rise in the world he carried a hod.

Blew his brains out in a blanket on the southside, waiting for the bus, for a gravy train of thought, his ship that passed in the fright to come in to the parlour.He thunk, he thiddled ,he widdled de dee, over the Liffey to the banks of the lovely Lee.

And so say all of us, so say we, so says me, the dot in the infinite that we all boil down to.Do you see the dark, can you see IN the dark?

It's so cold there in the dark, alone, no windmills to rage at , no moon to howl at, only your memory for company your heart to eat.
So Poets of the world of the dark, eat your hearts out!!!

WAR, huh!What is it good for? Absolutely nothing!Say it again!

What is it good for?


I fought for you and
You fought for me and
We fought (apparently)
For liberty
I stuck a bullet
In another man’s throat
To give him freedom of speech

We blew a small boy to pieces
they stitched him back together again
all the Queens surgeons
and all the Presidents men
told humpty dumpty to be grateful
that his mom and dad could vote,
if they were still alive.

What are they trying to do to me?
Give me a medal?
A heart attack?
A breakdown?
Told me it was the right thing to do
Then stick him back together again minus arms and legs
With glue
Are they fucking with my mind?
Are they fucking with my life?
Are they fucking with the world?

Who is the real enemy?
Who holds the absolute power?
Absolute absolution,
Emperors in their new war clothes
Should we kill them, or,
Forgive them, though they know well what they do?
Maybe we should just say
NO, no more, fuck you!

Janey Mac ! It's the Jeanne Birthday Bus!

Birthday girl Jeanne (The Prof) Lakatos is this weeks charabang chauffeur. Jeanne, author, model,mountaineer (climbed Everest twice without the aid of oxygen) ferret fettler and collector of novelty teapots has set a broad smorgesboard of a task with something for everyone, the muse will be prodded with a hot stick if you get over to her nobel prize winning blog HERE

Reality Check

Hello .All this blogging malarkey can be fun, it can be a pain, it can be lots of things, but it's amazing how real it can be.People you'll never meet, people you don't really know, interact with you in a trivial way, then suddenly a large slap of real life hits you in the face and you are affected just as if blogpals were real friends.

Already two people that were on the periphery of my blogworld have died. I know others who have relatives that have passed away recently, or are seriously ill, and now I learn that Chris (Enchanted Oak) can't do the bus challenge for next week as her mother is dying.My God. To think she even had the inclination to let me know.The whole thing seems so trivial and silly by comparison.Jeanne has kindly offered to swap with Chris.

But anyways if you would like to think of Chris and her mother at this time and maybe say a prayer or light a candle or say a poem out loud in a field or sit under a tree and be silent or whatever it is that means something to you, that would be a good thing.You might even post a few words on her blog. HERE

Na-Nu Na-Nu, tis Nanu driving the bus.

Mork calling Orson , come in Orson.
Mork calling Orson, come in Orson.
Shazbatt, this eircom internet phone is shite.

Anyways I is still wallowing adrift in the doldrums like a harpooned fat bloke but inspired by top scientist and French underwater yodelling champion NanU and her wonderful challenge to write a poem using some blogger word verifications, I have lifted the dark veil long enough to slip a couple of poems out underneath.
Both of them are based on awful songs.The first is for the bus challenge the second is for no reason other than the first one isn't very good and if I can't manage quality I'll have a bash at quantity.
See all the other passengers HERE

My little opumpernickle.

Asnops and coadils,
cargsaflies and ghelees,
fiardots and fifgermin,
things smelling of poo,
dead fish and razor blades,
remind me of you.

Snagulls and fatxanes,
things of the skijtsarin,
winds that go diytarin,
botulism, bronchitus,
vomit on my shoe,
neon slyites,
graggle skies, or brelue,
all kinds of everything remind me of you

Sumberline,
wincdebing, pissing
spring and autumn too,
bloody Sunday, feckin Monday,
black Tuesday, every day
I think of you.
Your fgances,
rporices, like foul
things of the night,
mildew and dersubs,
decidus to write.
Mingystne trees,
autumn leaves,
a spaglog or two,
all kinds of everything remind me of you.

She
May be the face i can't forget
no trace of pleasure just regret
no man could bear the price i have to pay
She may be the song that the Banshee sings
May be the chill that a plane crash brings
May be a hundred terrible things
Within the eternity of a day.

She
is no beauty more a beast
in a famine she’d be a feast
could turn each day from heaven to hell
She may be the ogre in my dreams
A smile that launched a thousand screams
slug like and rank is just how she seems
Inside her shell

You could never lose her in a crowd
her foghorn voice was far too loud
one scowl could make small children run and cry
I pray my life it will not last
that this hellish existence will be quickly past
I’m just praying for the day I die

Drink
May be the reason I survive
for every day disappointment that I’m alive
The one I'll love all through the rough and ready years
miles from happy laughter, now bathed in tears
pain and bitterness my souvenirs
For where she goes I've got to be
The ball and chain of my life is

She, she, she

Disclaimer. Please note these words are all the fig leaf of my imagino and in no way reflect upon any human female living or dead, particularly not Mrs EEjit (the third) who is lovely altogether and is in charge of all the knives in the castle.