TOTALFECKINEEJIT

Social Dis-ease.

2011-10-11T22:09:00.003+01:00

The movers are the shakers

see them groove baby!

99 Becks and a bus ticket

We have a boardwalk, we can see the same stars!

But I still wish this was Brooklyn

or Santa Fé, Sacremento, una momento-

'Chateau Neuf du Pape Cristal, Garcon!

And make it snappy, like an allegorical sandwich !'

I wish this was what I had hoped it would be

you wouldn't have deserted me in

The Desert Inn

Lost Degas

Niet Nada

dim parkio

your stretch Limo

Nevada

would you?

Ya gotta love the O's!

2011-09-25T23:16:00.002+01:00

Ah,isn't it GOOD to be ALIVE!

2011-08-19T20:53:00.003+01:00

What I like best about blogging is there is no control. Like being on a train platform there is nothing to stop you pushing the vicar/parish priest/ pensioner/drunk in front of you under the wheels of the next high speed through train.

If I feel like saying Quantum physics in a pink blancmange I can just say it. Or at least write it and nobody can stop me but me. And I'm an idiot so I'm not likely to do that because idiots don't care about anything so long as they can shop for bovril and anchovies in their stripey pyjamas and fur lined parkas. Besides I'm in the other room and taking no notice of me at all.

On the other paw given such freedom to express myself isn't it a little bit disappointing that that is the best I can manage?

So basically I am a coward because I would never say what I would really like to say. And I think perhaps the world is a better place for that discretion. And we don't want to delay the trains too much now do we.

Fuck it. I think it's time to come back.

2011-08-16T21:36:00.002+01:00

TFE rises Lazarus like from the piss stained armchair and rises up up up out of it on his strangely bony (for a fat bastard) knees and rises up up up above the house up up into the sky up up above the grey dreary rainstreaked streets and shits on them like a pigeon on laxatives.

FOLLOW THE BUS!!

2011-07-18T15:22:00.001+01:00

http://thepoetrybus.blogspot.com/2011/07/bus-building.html

Go make some poetry flavoured jam!

2011-05-03T13:58:00.002+01:00

Let's get the weekly poem goin again!

HERE

GOODLY NEWS

2011-04-29T16:14:00.002+01:00

NanU has taken up the gauntlet to keep the spirit of the poetry bussers alive. Get over to her blog, give her support and help choose a new name so that we can keep being forced into writing a poem every week!We need to be pushed!And it's great fun. So come on join in! Over HERE

Gwanyagudthings!
Kosmo.

TFE is dead.

2011-04-28T19:22:00.009+01:00

NO flowers no cards no tears.
Hello my name is Saran (aka Kosmo Vinyl) brother of TFE. It is with sadness my duty to report that TFE is no more.Though not actually dead in the real world sense, he is in the blog sense no more, a dead parrot, virtual brown bread, jossed it, defunct, redundant,shot off his perch.

If you try to fly there is always someone to shoot you down, stick your neck above the barricade and someone will squeeze it. It's amazing it didn't happen sooner. It is beautiful that it didn't happen sooner. You can be a nobody all your life and through the power of the written word reach out and touch people and be touched in return.

TFE was able to fight when he was young, but he could not fly. Now he can fly he is unable to fight. It's the drunk and the lampost in his previous post brought to life.

The weekly task of The Poetry Bus produced some amazing work, so much so that a magazine was born from it. That magazine, born of the blogs, lives and breathes to this day with the promise of PB2. There would be no Poetry Bus Magazine without TFE, but equally there would be no PB2 or 3 or 4 or 5 without each and every person who took the time to get aboard and fuel the catalyst of creation.I hope some of you will wish the magazine well and follow it's progress HERE

He would love it , I'm sure, if the weekly task could continue under a different guise, a different name. And a big posthumous thank you, from him, to all that drove the bus through thick and thin.

Best wishes to all,
Kosmo.

THe Poetry Bus poem type thing

2011-04-26T00:02:00.008+01:00

Shadows will cross your path, dead people rise up or lay down to haunt you, but it's the only way ahead, no turning back, never look back except in anger.

Tis a catharsis a symbiosis, a process by which..., a coping method, a linear procedure, a putting of one letter in front of another like feet of a thousand miles. Why, because they (b)are there and the only other alternative is not to, and that seems the greater of two evils and somewhat negative.

So to accentuate the positive while still (or through) emitting/ expunging/ processing the negative in a written detox seems like a reasonable thing to do in the face of everything we are faced with in our daily lives which like the courses of true love, never run smooth. In this life you will only regret the things you never did, unless you supported Liverpool Football Club or murdered all your family.

What I am trying to say is that this may not be a good poem but it might possibly be better than no poem , for the writer if not the reader!

Nothing exceeds like excess and Nanu was in search of too much, I hope she found it in spades in all your poems

Today I have mainly been drinking Obst- Schnaps and lager and am on the ledge /knife edge of relaxation and vomit. Such a thin line between too much and way too much and this ironically when your judgementy/perception of excess is at it's least accurate.

It's so strange. When you're sober you'd be at your best able but least likely to climb a lampost, and when you're drunk you are conversely at your least able but most likely to climb it. Life can be a sardonic bastard.

Also, and,if ,or but, the thing is, when things are really desperately bad you are paralysed in the moment and can't /won't/ wouldn't/ couldn't write at all. It is later when you are (almost) safely ashore that you can dare to go back. You need a little sunshine to cast a shadow.

The Easter song.

We had it all we wanted for nothing
We wanted more

And how will I cope how will I live
Among ghost estate life
Turf fires, embers now
Glowing in memory
Enough was enough
Never now
Too much is never…

Juke box bandits one-armed legless

Keys in the lock
A different lock every night
Oh,nameless as the stars above
Houses, houses ,houses
Up on the skyline we yearn to
Float flee fly free
Life once enjoyed,now endured

Thick through the thin years
And (pity me
Have mercy on me)
Money passes hands far
Quicker than the lives I broke
Goat rough hollow heart

The wren in the hand I held
The wren in the hand I crushed
Cowardice in telephone booth
every card held, poker faced
those thin lips I almost kissed
I wonder if that love is hate

too much is never enough

glass of red pint of blood
scar lit city
dirt beneath the nails
filthy lucre
skip filled, the in, the out
the richest corpse
the glory and the soul
worms turning
that forgave the plough
but who will live
to forgive
me

As rain’s river falls
In tumbling cats and dogs
I look for wounds to sink my hands
To kiss another cheek
From candlelit page
To moonlit street
My head bowed drunk
Over bare boards
Screaming hordes in my forgotten head
Forget-me-not
Lover, brother, sister, fool.
Hallelujah.

And all you need is intelligence a Swiss Army Knife and charm!!

Bus crash poetry from Nanook!

2011-04-20T11:59:00.010+01:00

The latest Poetry Bus prompt is HERE! http://sciencegirltraveler.blogspot.com/2011/04/just-too-too-far-too-bussy.html
Many thanks To NanU for driving last week. This week she hands over the keys to her twin sister Nanook or more correctly ' Nanuq' who inspired by her sisters entrepreneurial skills invented a methane based self sufficient central heating system that syphons human gases from the air to burn as fuel.
People using this system had to maintain a strict diet of cabbage, bran, and baked beans to provide enough gas to fuel the system.The disadvantages of having to wear a clothes peg on your nose at all times and never having anyone visit were far out weighed by the financial benefits.Once installed there were no further bills and the sytem proved so popular that everyone for miles around had one fitted.

In short Nanuq ran out of customers and had to look for new territories. She decided on Hudson Bay In Quebec as it is so cold and heating would surely be needed. Again the system sold well, initially, but most customers lived in igloos and as their homes slowly melted they sought refund after refund as well as compensation from poor Nanuq till she was left penniless without even the means to get home. :(

(Above is a roofless 20 ft high 'Summergloo' being constructed from giant blocks of ice and snow on the frozen Tundra of South Wicklow last August.)

But Nanuq was a bright resourceful woman so she built herself an igloo and learned how to hunt and to survive and make new friends till she was very happy. Ever looking for new inventions she quickly realised that due to the sub zero temperatures foodstuffs seemed to last indefinitely without any sign of deteriorating. ( Here we see the dangers of living in this frozen wasteland, animals grow to vast sizes on a diet of human flesh and wheetos)

So coming full circle she developed a methane powered food cooling system that later was developed into the fridges we know and love today. She made a huge fortune but was so happy living among her new neighbours that she stayed where she was and built a giant igloo that is used as an ice hotel to this very day. And everyone lived happily ever after. Except for a few baby seals.

Mork calling Orson, NanU, NanU! Bus poetique!

2011-04-16T23:08:00.005+01:00

EVEN AMIDST FIERCE FLAMES THE GOLDEN LOTUS CAN BE PLANTED.

Lovely scientist/inventor Nancy NanUhammertime, you can't touch this is drivelo le bus cette semaine und I have respondo with this quickler write off rapido fire respondo sansrewrito ou edit. Voila mon poemme et ici pour tout le monde et ses uncles de lire and rire , ou non as le case may be. Mais either which way, ici est mon attempt at le prompt.

Merci beaucoup ( indeedy muchlo muchio) and aussi que votre dieu/totem/facsimile/nothing de la poésiesoit may party avec vous pronto.Et in ,les words de la petite Oiseaux Edam Peeoff, 'No I regret nothing, except the things I regret. I have beaten Dylan Thomas's record and the curates egg.'

Poetry is.

Is poetry.

A confusion a contemplation a question an explanation

A profusion of colour a cloudburst of double rainbows

A jet of light a volcano of thought

Bidding bridling boastful bashful brilliant

In yellows and greens and blues all hues

Read and dead and crimson leaking

Seeking sapping tapping unwrapping

Mental mettle a singing kettle

A dream of joy that never fades

Never goes to grey

Never too high a price to pay though

every shade of black burgeoning and malign

But kept in line by the buzz the adrenalin rush the heartfelt crush

Of the crazy days of summer yellow iris sunshine

Bright white light headed

The ending of the days dreaded

The ejaculation of joy

The pleasure in the pain

Resistence futile

Fuse lit missile

The insistence constant nagging

C’mon c’mon c’mon yawill ya willya will

Dragging beguiling invigorating liberating

The urge to write write write write write!

Can flowers scream?

(Lotus= Lots Of Trouble, Usually Serious.)

But wait on the bus,don't get some sleep, no need to wait, your ship can come in.

THE ALL NEW NANU BUS!

2011-04-13T23:02:00.004+01:00

Hello world. This week the bus heads to France which is near Europe to the home of NanU.
Her task is to be found HERE

Nanu is a multi millionaire who made her fortune from her numerous patented inventions including the reversible fleece jacket, the reversible car and the reversible decision, the latter being very popular with referees and married couples.

There was the self-winding clock, the self-walking dog and the self-punching boxer-all very poular in their time.Self-punching boxing is set to make a comeback as an Olympic sport. It's long been thought that boxers, although in roughly the same weight groups, are rarely evenly and fairly matched. As self-punching boxers only ever fight themselves it is a perfectly fair fight.It's also environmentally sound as only one pair of gloves, one stool,one gumshield etc are needed.

Not such a great success was the solar powered solar system and the tiny individual helicopter that never really took off.A big success was her remote remote. You know how annoying it can be when you're lazing comfortably feet up on the sofa watching 'Hart to Hart' and you want to switch channels when the ads are on but the TV remote is out of reach on the armchair? Well with NanU's 'Remote TV remote' you could operate the remote with out having to go and get it.Brilliant. Her follow up for the 'Remote Tv remote' was the 'Remote, Remote Tv remote' which outsold all previous models.

Fed up of losing teaspoons NanU designed and produced the first invisible teaspoon that was impossible to lose as you could never find it.

She invented a new recipe for Carling Black label lager that actually tasted nice, not like horse widdle, but it didn't catch on with the asbestos palettes of the Carling clientelle.This despite the added bonus side effect of reducing the length of the Carling drinkers arms so that their knuckles didn't scrape the ground.

She also made a lot of money from second -hand and recycled holes of various sizes. Very popular were her very small holes that she got for free from sweet giants Rowntrees who have millions of holes from their polo range of mints. She has larger holes from roads under repair and a giant one, in fact the worlds biggest hole (after Slough)taken from the ozone layer.

But right now she has invented a briliant prompt for the Poetry Bus , so get ye gone to her blog, pronto!

THE BUG BUS POEM!

2011-04-08T19:46:00.005+01:00

The angled Son of The Perpendicular.

I am a crooked line

and I’ve walked a crooked mile,

sang every crooked song,

wishing for sixpence-

though none the richer,

I was Home

with the Devil at the stile.

Kittens never cats, barrel bound

each hungry mouth,except

the one that caught the mouse,

I let it go, we all let everything go

from that crooked little house.

Spuds laughing on the plate,

sods of humid turf wasting sweet in the grate,

and the hurried lorries of change

like thunder of our fate

on the one way tarmac road,

Before Tony hung himself,

Before I was afraid,

Before the heavy rains,

Before the internal storms that rage

would always scream,

in forgiveness, and for mercy

in every crooked line.

IT'S THE LAST GASP BUG BUS!!!!!

2011-04-08T11:27:00.001+01:00

Bug to the rescue!! This weeks poetry bus task right here http://danabugseyeview.blogspot.com/2011/04/look-out-poetry-bus-is-all-over-road.html

Bus drivers required

2011-04-07T23:14:00.002+01:00

Lots of dates available including RIGHT NOW like this very second, the engines running , passengers are looking for tickets but there's no driver. I'm the back up driver (I get everyones back up) but I'm calling in sick.

Any volunteers?

It's the wrong trousers!

2011-04-04T21:17:00.005+01:00

The world has the wrong trousers on.And nothing fits my head either.All is akimbo.All is dark. Glimpses of light come and go like tube stations, but basically I'm in a black tunnel, travelling horizontally when I need to go vertically to the daylight.

I won't go on other than to warn you that the first poem is a dirge, but it is the only thing that fits exactly, so I have to wear it.

Tis Titus's bus drive and a fine one about animals but the only animal I could come up with was me. Apologos. I've added an old one at the end that fits the prompt a bit better, but comes from the same well. I only have one well, I'm beginning to think I only have one bucket too. Links to Titus below and to the side.

Parallel lines

Live within them
tumble without them
stumble the dire strait
The straightened narrow
Confined cornered
Bitched bollixed bewildered

Is it a pit or a pendulum
They’ve tied to nights
Sleepless arrow ?

Daybreak
Faces up like wallflowers
No sun no yard arm
sanity unrequited
Common cents
The finishing lines
These pistols of dawn
their rising panic of
another day
laid out before them
like a swaddled corpse

Waxy sweats break out
On the bus the train in the car
The shakes beaded beats like
Tiny hammers and coffin nails
Mirror after mirror
Day after day
Finite/infinite
Fleeting/eternal
Darkness, daylight
Incessant repetition
black dogs barking
And no going back
And no going forward
Grinding the gears, meshing the cogs,
of work, of death , of dreams.

Menagerie a tragedy.
(The auld triangle)

We hibernated most winter
but roared like snotty lions in the spring
We were howler monkeys, whooper swans,
cheeky meerkats always looking for a better view.
Our dads were grizzly bears
who never let the hare sit,
and when they were angry
the women showed their arses-
(only metaphorically, not like baboons)
especially the big ones who
were all cellulite and combustion.
We swarmed like rats in the summer
and swam like seals in the sea,
lounged like lizards on the canals grassy banks
and slept like lambs in our beds.
Mam and dad would fight like cat and dog
then make up like love birds, months later
we would be quiet as mice while the new one came along
When we could we ate like pigs and
as we grew we drank like fish,
Goldfish, that went round and round the pale
but still, like elephants, we couldn’t forget.

The Zoological Gardens Bus!

2011-04-01T16:35:00.006+01:00

Forgive me folks for I have thinned. Tis six months since my last bath and 2 weeks since I went to the dentist and he attempted manslaughter. I need €450 worth of dental renovations to the East Wing, but I am an Eejit of little importance and no money, in fact quite a lot less than no money and some large wallety demands are foisted upon me and this is but another whimsy in the field of dreams. So the teeth hurt when I eat and I've been eating less, drinking (praise be to all that's holy), continues pain free and unabated.
And the dark that of late pervades both day and night lingers in the hollows and haunts the shadows still won't leave me be, but the human soul is a cork and it's hard drown it, it's natural inclination is to joy and a chink of light is all it needs to blossom But what's this got to do with the price of fish you ask/ Nothing says I Universe pass by, nothing to see here...BUT
there is something to see here http://titusthedog.blogspot.com/2011/03/tfes-poetry-bus-its-ark-this-week.html

Titus minimus Caninicus not only has a prompt but a plan? How can we resist?

Titus is from a long line of Eastend gangsters and biscuit manufacturers, her Uncle was Jack 'The Hat' McVities, who before he was plugged by the Krayzee twins Bonnie and Veggie in 'The Blind Bastard' pub, invented the Digestive biscuit and made a vast fortune.

He married the famous actress/politician/friend of the underworld, Barbara Windsor Castle, who not only was a champagne socialist of some renoun but also appeared in several 'Carry on' films including 'OOh er Matron' and 'Uncle Fred's giant marrow' starring alongside the irrascible Russian king of comedy Ivor Bigennd who changed his name to Skid James at stage school. His ingeneous catch phrase being'Mwahahahaha!'

Titus knew from an early age that she wanted to build on her uncles colourful past to become a poet and celebrity chef. Inspired by her cousin Jimmy 'Can I have some more please' Oliver , she enrolled in cookery school and graduated with flying colours and a lovely pair of vol au vents.
But cooking was not enough and having seen the hit American TV show 'Sarky and Crutch' starring Paul 'Man United 'Glaser and David R Soul, she decided the Police Force would only be a force to be reckoned with if she joined it, which she did, and crime in England ceased overnight!

Which was brilliant, but yet there was something missing, and the missing link was not Vinnie Jones, but POETRY and life's aching 'Je ne sais quois' And from that day to this Mighty Titus has devoted herself to the muse and Aldi's Thursday specials in equal measure.

And a PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT regular bus passengo and all round nice human Kat Mortensen has moved her blog to http://poetikat-km.blogspot.com/

So please viit and re-connect with her.

But here's a questo...

Would an affair between a Budgie , a lion and a walrus, be a menagerie á trois?

Meanwhile why not undo your azip and go up to the azoo?

MUSE SWINGS THE BUS !!

2011-03-28T21:58:00.006+01:00

My muse has swung into a deep black well. I can't do a feckin thing. I hope it fecks off this heavy dark cloud. They've changed my medication, could be the prob?.

Yesterday I got so old I felt like I could die...

MUSE SWINGERS BUS

2011-03-23T23:24:00.003Z

No, it's not what you think. Can you believe it's that time again already? Just as you've managed the last one there's a new one. But that's what keeps us goin!

ANd Here it is http://muse-swings.blogspot.com/2011/03/monday-poetry-bus-ride-is-on-muse.html

This week tiz the turn of Muse Swings who got her name from her days as top batter and pitcher for the 'Pennsylvania Fifty-sixer-and-a-nickel-poodle-pups' baseball team. She became famous for her mean throwing and batting action accompanied by improvisational stream of consciousness style poems used to intimidate and distract the oppostion.For those of you who don't understand Baseball, the rules are quite simple .

Play starts with a cat batter standing at home plate, holding a baby cat. The cat batter waits for the pitcher of beer and a plate, and attempts to hit the cat with a bat. The cat catcher catches the kittens that the batty batter does not hit—as a result of either electing not to swing or failing to connect—or being an animal lover.

At the beginning end of each half-ending inning, the nine hundred players on the fielding team arrange themselves in ballet positions around the field looking for mushrooms. One of them, the pitcher, stands on the shoulders of another.
The pitcher begins a pirhouette delivery with one foot on yer man's head, pushing off it to gain velocity when throwing a meat pie toward home plate, knife, and fork. Another player, the crapper, squats on the far side of home plate and does his business, facing the pitcher. The rest of the team watch TV, typically arranged as four hundred infielders—who set up along or within a few yards outside the nearest bar and picture imaginary zig-zag lines of transcendental meditation between first, second, and third base with their girlfriends —and yogic flying between the three hundred balletic outfielders.

In the standard arrangement, there is a policeman positioned several steps outside the bar as lookout to the left of first base, a second caveman to the right of second base eats a hot dog, a shortstop to the left of second vase of flowers wears a big hat and lifts in his baseball boots to make him look taller and a third milkman to the right of third base falls asleep. The basic outfield positions are right fielder,wrong fielder, and I told you so fielder.

A neutral umpire sets fire to himself up behind the crapper with some toilet roll...

A batter who hits the cat must then drop the cat and begin running home, at which point the player is referred to as a bastard for hitting the cat (or, until the play is over, a ****). A cat batterer-runner who reaches first base without being killed is said to be safe, but isn't really .

An anti cat batterer-runner may choose to remain at first base or attempt to destroy second base or even beyond with a pogo stick and a flame thrower.. A player who fails to reach base despite proper roadsigns has recorded a hit. A player who reaches first base safely on a hit is credited with a hit single, like Jedward.

If a player makes it to second base safely or hospital as a direct result of a hit, he gets a double brandy, third base, a triple. If the cat is hit in the air within four miles of the entire outfield (and outfield fence, if there is one), it is a home run the batter and any runners may 'free-base' ie may all freely circle the bases, each scoring a nun. This is the most desirable result for the cat batter, and the nun.

A player who reaches base due to a fielding mistake is not credited with a hit—instead he is shot twice in the legs with a pump action rifle.

Any runners already freebasing may attempt to talk to the man in the moon, or contact the ground, in fair territory, before or after the eagle has landed. A runner on first base must dress as a halloween pumpkin to advance if a cat lands in play. If a cat hit into play rolls over and dies before passing through the infield, it becomes glue and any runners must return to the planet they came from they when the world began.

If the cat is hit in the air and caught before it lands, the batter has to play three rounds of truth or dare and any runners on base may attempt to advance but only if they have legs.

Runners may also attempt to stick their fingers up the pitcher's nose while he is is in the process of delivering the cat to home plate—a successful effort is a 'green sticky'

A cat that is not hit into the field of play is called either a twit or a twat. A batter against whom three divorces are recorded strikes out. A batter who has four balls is awarded a base and a free advance to the clinic. (A batter may also freely advance to first base if any part of the batter's body or uniform is struck by lightning before the batter either swings a cat at it or it contacts the ground.) Crucial to determining balls and strikes is the umpire's jumper which is used to warm the strike zone, a conceptual area 3 miles above the atmosphere extending from the midpoint between the batter's shoulders and down to the hollow of the left knee.

I could go on all night, but in short...

someone throws a ball, someone else hits it with a stick and everybody goes home.

They've already got me, And I've said it before, but I'm saying it again: BEWARE OF THE FLOWERS BECAUSE I'M SURE THEY'RE GONNA GET YOU...YEAH!

Uiscebottlers Bus

2011-03-21T18:21:00.005Z

THis weeks task was as follows

1. Go somewhere new.

2. Experience it.

3. Write about it.

If you like, you can write about an old memory that comes to mind while there (this often happens when somewhere new- if it doesn't, just write about the experience)

And you can link the experience and the memory if you're feeling adventurous.

The poem cannot be more than 40 lines long

The poem shouldn't rhyme. Aim for similar line length, giving a nice shape to the poem.

See full details and udder passenglos HERE

I've been nowhere globally but everywhere locally except the local Protestant Church. I was curious for a goo inside but never made it.

We haven’t a prayer.

I wanted to go to the ‘protestant’ church

And I wondered of the etymology of the word-

Highly uneducated brain being paradoxically,

my deepest sorrow and greatest gift-

I wondered if I wanted to make a ‘protest’

A plea for reformation

By entering where my mother and father joked, or believed,

They would be struck down.

But I didn’t go.

Instead I went to mass-

I feel I should confess that I still go to mass

(I fear it may be a crime)-

And we had a missionary priest

Asking us to open our hearts

And I was thinking that our poor Catholic hearts are broken

that it’s our eyes that we need to open.

He quoted Chekhov

(Well it makes a change from poor fuckin Paddy Kavanagh)

about Uncle Vanya and his dysfunctional family,

The ‘Cool factor’ of atheism, and the alienation of Catholicism.

And I’m praying to God this ordinary man of God would find a mirror

See the ultimate dysfunction of his global family

And thus an answer to his unrealized confusion.

And I told him this on the way out

in the few seconds that I had

For that is all we are afforded

And I felt good for 5 minutes,

Self-righteous and brave and smart,

then I just felt bad again

And all I wonder

As I’m not yet atheist

Is what else for now and at the hour of our death?

Amen.

Rattle me grottlers, TIZ Da BUZ!!

2011-03-18T13:01:00.006Z

HERE

THis week it's the turn of Uiscebot or as he's listed in The Golden Pages 'The singing plumber'
There is much competition among all the trades in Dublin with the recession and all, but Uiscebot has cornered the market in a newly created niche , singing plumbing.

WEll versed in pop, rock and opera , Uiscebot can belt out the tunes of your choice while he plumbs the depths in your new bathroom suite .Bathroom tiles and floors provide excellent accoustics for his rousing renditions of 'Nessun Dorma' and 'Ave Maria'

For an extra €50 an hour Uiscebot will bring along his famous dancing Orangutan 'Charlie' who is a talented Sean nós (old style) dancer as well as being a dab hand with a monkey wrench. You have to keep an eye on Charlie though as he's obsessed with obsolete equipment, water levels and heat conservation, before you know it he'll be fiddling with your ballcock and lagging your cylinder.
And if there is an old boiler lying around he can't wait to get stuck in.

Uiscebot and Charlie are very conscientious, a lot of plumbers when they try to fix a blocked toilet are just going through the motions but not these two, they like to see a proper job done, even if it turns out to be real big sticky job, something they can get their teeth into. When other tradesmen are all at sixes and sevens, our heroes stick to number ones and twos

But the only blockage on the agenda this week is writers block and Uiscebot has just the cure, so get over to his blog and check out the inspiring challenge for this week's world famous Poetry Bus.
Go on ! Fuck off out of it now and get creating!

Ps I should also point out the little known fact that today ,between 2 and 3 in the afternoon, is the longest hour, being 60 minutes and one 'leap' second. This phenomenon occurs only once every 650 years and is all to do with the Earths orbit around the sun and the moon's gravitational pull. Due to a very large hotspot or 'solar flare' on the far side of the sun, the Earth thinks 'Feck that's a bit hot!' and deviates slightly off it's normal course creating an anomally in the time/space continuum.

This anomally must be corrected or the entire planet will be plunged into eternal darkness as we fall from our orbit around the sun. The moon is like a giant magnet and the earth a giant spoon and if we don't keep our course and speed constant then the centrifugal force keeping us on route will diminish and we will be playing pinball with the planets as we spin out of control.

The extra second makes the Earth think it's bit late on it's route and encourages it to speed up by ignoring the pain of the extra heat and sticking to it's normal course, but this only works for 650 years till the Earth thinks' feck this !' and deviates again.

650 years may seem a long time but relatively speaking in the ancient cosmos it's only a fraction of a second. So don't waste it,this leap second, take it as time to do something special with family or friends, after all we may not be here for the next one.

For the day that's in it.

2011-03-17T16:46:00.004Z

When I think of St Patrick's Day, I think of exile, I think of days away, I think of those gone before, I think of THE DUBLINERS!

I think this is my favourite quintessential Dubliner's song, pure Dublin irreverence and the Legendary Luke Kelly in his prime. I'm half bogger but I KNOW the tune!

My favourite song of exile

The Watercatbus DLTBGYD!

2011-03-14T21:16:00.012Z

DON'T LET THE BASTARDS GRIND YOU DOWN!

I'm not giving up
though I'm never gonna win
maybe they've given me the best view
from the outside looking in

Yes, it's that whacky time of year again where the arts money is distributed by the local arse council. Last year I didn't get any for the soon to be LEGENDARY Poetry BUs Magazine.
Stupidly, perhaps even naively, I worried that maybe I hadn't done a great application, that I hadn't adequately conveyed the special brilliance of the magazine, that I hadn't spelled it out, that I perhaps mistakenly thought the brilliance of the mag shone through and spoke for itself, therefore I hardly needed to speak at all.

So this year I went to town,there would be no margin for error, this bus would be watertight, like a duck's arse. I gilded the perfect lilly, I dotted every i for idiot and crossed every T for Twat, I spent 18 hours in total on putting together a beguiling and cast iron case for funding, I included a copy of the first issue in all it's glory, I included artwork and projections and poems from issue two. I included a copy of Popshot magazine to shop how the mag could look if I got funding.
In short I presented the perfect application, I thought of everything, I thought of things I hadn't even thought of! I fashioned a beautifully impassioned argument for funding as eloquent and convincing as Martin Luther King's 'I have a dream' speech.With all due modesty it was perfect and irresistable.I had no doubts and no regrets.

Unfortunately I also had no funding either as my application was routinely rejected.

I have deleted/censored most of the rest of this post but If you had got to read it and enjoyed it even half as much as I enjoyed writing it, then you'd have LOVED it! Venting your spleen can be very therapeutic.

I know that there are people out there who believe the arts world and it's establishments are well meaning and fair and do their best in difficult times with limited funds. Igenuinely wish them luck in their belief.

I was bitterly disappointed but also see it as a silver lined cloud. To be blunt I needed their money but deep down I didn't want it. It may be a lucky escape, I'm not sure that I will apply for funding again,but I am honest enough to admit to being a well meaning but weak hypocrite. I really know I shouldn't apply again, and not just because of the fact that I would never get any. That isn't a good enough in the real sense of 'good'
The truth is I have always been on the outside looking in, usually critically, it has made me ( both good and bad) what I am.
The day that I am accepted is the day I lose everything. Fuck them.

And also talking to myself I would have to say to me, in order to get a bt of world perspective here, in my decadent luxury,that if , for argument's sake there is a God , TFE, which I believe you still believe there is, despite total disillusionment bordering on revulsion with your Catholic faith, what will you do when you die (if you die,- you may be the first being to live forever) and you are up there , wherever that may be, being 'judged' and' somebody', God for instance, he or she says to you,

" Well TFE, look at you there in March 2011, you look a little fed up, unhappy wth your life and the way things are going"

And you reply" Yes Boss, truly terrible, I didn't have the Porsche 911 I always I thought I'd have by the time I was 30, let alone 40! And also I didn't get funding for my lovely poetry magazine!"

And God says , somewhat ironically,
" My god! That's awful! Poor you! And did you know that at the very same time children were living in sewers in Brazil because they would be shot if they didn't, and that other children around the world were were dying by the minute of starvation, and that thousands of families and homes had just been wiped out in Japan?"

And the reality of my dichotomy is that I'm caught between the divil and the deep blue casket, that I'm a little bit of this, I'm a little bit of that, if I smoked I'd have a' crushed up Carrols packet in my hand' and that if I was MOR pretend mock rock megastar I'd contradict that' Hearts of fire' NEVER' turn cold'.
But mainly I'm just pissed. In every sense of the word.

Feline Waterbus!

2011-03-10T20:17:00.007Z

Yes it's that (random) feckin time of the week again! Spot on to the nano second!
For those busy beings and tjose who hate wading through pissed pretensious piffle the poetry Bus prompt is by The (World Famous) Watercats! HERE

THey think it's just beginning. It is now! I'm even writing Haihooey, I really must be fluthered.

Bonsai tree dead-leafed,
mescaline Muscadet muse,
must haves -the haves not.

Sorry,It just slipped out, ooo-er Matron. Lucky it was only a little one.

But now, come here to me, listen, do you hear that? It's the sound of magnificent,benificent bicycle wheels zinging down the tarmac at top speed, pell mell, harem scarem, flat out, baldy perished tyres and down-to-the-metal brake blocks, heading for brick wall, red and crumbling and warm and imminent and... Ten green bottles sitting on the brick wall like crickets, rasping for the sunshine, waiting for the impact, waiting for blood,waiting for the great leap forward..

We are never too late until it is too late, so, get off your bicycles, brush off your poetry boots and get kicking arse.

Quicker than you can say 'Quango' get out there and Tango, dance the light sabre fandango, fantastic, Plastic Bertrand? That'll do for me, 'Ca plein pour me another en watercat coleur' for the good times ,your head not yet upon the pillow, the wee small hours, the mind journeys without a single step a thousand times a thousand and more miles than lightyears the Buzz of light ears, and a bus will follow... follow, try to remember and if you do then follow me follow down to the hollow of your heart where it must all start, us rag and bone men and women with or without a ladder, let words be your steps from sadder, the moon light to guide us till a bus will lead the way, headlights like mighty luminous lemons squeezing through the night air, cutting the dark into two giant gin glasses, turbo tonic symphonies from our knees we rise and rise like steam from the heavy horses piss as the dawn breaks and... if...if..if.. the answer is 'I don't know' then the question must be 'Why?' But why is that? I don't know.

But I do know THe Watercats are from Obscurity in North West Texas ,US of A. They wanted to leave Obscurity behind and head for Glory in The Appalachian Mountains but turned left instead of right at the little town of Indecision Idaho and ended up at the foot of a mountain in Waterford Ire Land which is in the ancient county of Europshire.
The Watercats were still known by their original name of Pa Burke and The Middle Digits until they came up against The sheriff of Waterford ,Captain Louis Mac Blodstayne , who used to round up all the unlicensed kittens of the county and drown them in Lough Upyadortas.

The newly arrived animal loving band immediately set to work writing a protest song to inspire
and unite the good people of Waterford against the evil sheriff.The resulting song 'Drown another kitten and I'll twat you' proved to be so popular that as a charity single it raised enough money to buy a license for every cat in the land, not one single kitten was drowned and the band became known as 'The saviours of The Watercats' or The Watercats for short.

Now they want us to help them write another protest song. Don't say ' Me? 'How?' say miaow!
Don't say 'I couldn't' , say ' Of course' for we are off course, on the one road singing along, singing the poets song.
All together now, shooby-dooby-do-wah-wah-tercats!

GOULDING'S GOURMET BUS!

2011-03-06T01:08:00.005Z

And the inertia and the fog and the certainty of confusion
And the loss of control
And poppies grow do poppies still grow
And there was a gene there is a gene
Gene Pitney 24 hours without a drink
Would be a personal best
Georgie Best I spent a childhood in adoration
In the aim of the father and the son and the holy spirit
Uisce Beartha,

Would water by any other name taste as sweet
And I supported Northern Ireland
Because of him, a prize Plastic Paddy In Noddy Land
Red white and oh so blue,odd fish was I without blessed water
And I wore plastic football boots because of him
Bled because of him,
And I never saw him despite hundreds of miles travelled

I wished I was in Carrickfergus
I belonged,I should have been in Clonony
Where the castle looks out for me
I played hurling in the road
Before the big trucks came
Only for nights in Ballygrand
To Old Trafford and to Wembley
Always away was he

And then In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
He was there a lifetime too late in Manchester
Yards from me walking with Rodney Marsh
And I left the van and I ran
While horns blared I didn’t care
It was after the bomb
And I had lived
Still my ears rang racist taunts
And I ran like I had run from school to always just miss his soccer skills
And there he was in the flesh and I ran
And life unwound in every step
And reality tore my lungs and within ten feet I looked and saw and
Turned away
The world fell like scales and everything meant nothing.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
I lay on my back with the radio
Crickets sang
And the sun aglow
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Low lie the fields
Gone are our fields, my fields
Mushroom and thistle cow shite
House ,turf bog, memories in the dust.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
The enemy within
To you from failing hands we throw
He was my cousin my best friend
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We all die and this too shall pass
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
will always grow in Flanders fields.

BUS BUSINESS

2011-03-02T10:37:00.009Z

Okay, by now if you have followed my orders/ commands/ ordinances/diktats, you will be in current posession of a somewhat excellent 14 line poem.But now what to do with it?
Should you hang it on the washing line with an odd pair of socks and a lettuce leaf and call it art? Name it Michael and introduce it to your friends down at the pool hall? Should you get it tatood acxross your forehead for the world to see, one person at a time? Or should you stick it in drawer in the spare room never to be seen again except by small spiders and the burglar?

NO! None of these things,or at least you don't have to, for usually there is madness in my method but this time, dear friends, there was method in my madness. Now, if you feel like it, you can send your 14 line meisterwork to this magazine HERE The choice is yours, be brave!

Now for this weeks task self deprecating poetry genius Peter Goulding has lain before us a sumptuous smorgesbord, a veritable cornucopia of tempting prompty treats
HERE

Pete owns Irelands oldest inland lighthouse built in 1923 after Ireland suffered one of the wettest summers on record. People feared that by Christmas the whole island would flood and be only navigable by small boats and dolphins and that many national treasures might be bumped into and damaged just below the water. Pete's 30 ft lighthouse was built in seven hours at a cost of 36 shillings and stands beside the magnificent GPO (Generaly Pissed Office) on O'Connell street.A slight miscalculation in the plans rendered the lighthouse 150 ft shorter than the GPO, but luckily the dreaded floods never came.
Old fears die hard though and an unmanned lighthouse called 'The Spike'was unveiled on O'Connell street at the turn of the millenium and towers over the GPO and the whole of Dublin, ready and waiting for wettest of wet times.
Pete lives happily in the old lighthouse with his 3 wives and 23 children

Oh, and dont forget Monday is Oven Monday, so be sure and get your oven blessed.Traditionally the oldest female member of the family carries the range or oven to the local parish priest where she cooks for him and all his family and friends a magnificent meal and in return he blesses the oven with left over sunflower oil, before the woman, usually tiny and in her late seventies,heaves up the iron aga onto her aching back and carries it home again (being careful not to scratch Fr's brand new 4x4!) her wizzened little old face beeming with varicose veins and gratitude. And even if she dies on the return trip, as they often do, at least the lovely priest has been fedand she can die happy in the knowledge she has earned a plenary indulgence of 10 mins off eternity.

But if she dies on the way to the priest, well that is a mortal sin and she will go straight to hell wearing brillo pad knickers and a hairy shirt There she will spend eternity scrubbing a never depleting mountain of cookers with her arse while listening to 'All you need's a glove' by Those loveable loonypool mop tops The Brutles.

THE POETRY BUS LIVES!

2011-02-26T11:17:00.027Z

See post below for details then get aboard, you are ALL welcome!

First aboard is Smoky reminiscences from Karen
HERE

Next up Spenserian sonnetification from Jeanne
HERE

Padhraig Nolan weaves a fleece of his own
HERE

No shelter from the storm by Annell
HERE

I used to be a loony but now I'm a Moony thanks to Bug
HERE

Waving or drowning? Kim says they are scared to even test the waters!
HERE

Darkness on the edge of town from Peter Goulding
HERE

Heady hedonism in the ballrooms of romance when 119 socks just won't do
HERE

If the whale doth fail, have a rhyme of a time with Niamh
HERE

Memory lanes with THe Jinkster
HERE
And this one makes a pair
HERE

Passion play from Helen
HERE

Science Girl, Sunday Girl NanU
HERE

See if you Can you see what Dave sees in the seas?
HERE

Life's a breeze for Kate
HERE

Kat's multifaceted Fleece
HERE

Battle crying Titus will lead us to The Veedon Fleece, it's for sale at Romford market!
HERE

Izzy has been busy, just peachy!
HERE

And here's mine.In response to the old photos.

It was the best of times.

It .Was. The . Best. Of .Times.

It was.The worst of times interwoven,

projected on a future screen.

It was the best, of times gone by.
The best of times long gone.

Echoes of shadows

Trapped between the light and the half light

A different world within this world

Though hard truth and reality

Were beyond me.

The future would catch us up

Grab us from the clouds

Rub faces in the dirt.

Dense dark is betrayal

All I have is all I had and

All I had was not allowed me.

THE EMERGENCY BUS !

2011-02-24T16:19:00.009Z

THe Poetry Bus has broken down somewhere on the lines of communication that criss-cross the blogosphere, but fear not stout-hearted travellers of the poetry universe, we have a spare bus in the haggard and it's raring to go.

Choose one of the four photos above and write as much as you can, then whittle it down into a FOURTEEN line poem

Or planB, Van Morrison has a song , 'You Don't Pull No Punches But You Don't Push The River' (below) in it he mentions 'The Veedon Fleece' I don't know what the feck that might be so write about whatever the Veedon Fleece may be to you and then whittle it down to FOURTEEN lines

PS. Goodly news! Horrible Header comes down tomorrow night after the polls close. (Socks got it, BTW) Hopefully a horrible header won't be required again too soon, but I can't promise, so gird up your loins blogpeoples!

PPS When I said 14 lines I wasn't meaning a sonnet ! Do one if you really want to though, it's your poem , not mine!

You've GOT to ask yourself this.

2011-02-23T00:50:00.001Z

And you've got to answer truthfully, only to yourself.

120 Socks , rocks the BUs!!

2011-02-20T13:32:00.008Z

Vespertine

To return to the
ageing skin

Feel summers waning amber, a

listless agonic warmth,

parchment dry, paper thin.

What is this thing inside a head

that says “write everything down” ?

We will all pass away,

chosen or not,

head up, or eyes downcast.

Become new-found objects,

as relics of a past.

26 letters cannot be changed

26 letters that neither delay,

nor deny, the tide.

Toll after tolls

Waiting to go, or stop.

There is nothing else.

My lost soul begs

to differ,

my lost self

looks for better.

Lots of different poems on the bus every week.Everybody and anybody can get on this bus and say what they like. How exciting is that? So many different minds and ideas, so many different lives all on the same bus. You never know who will sit next to you on a bus.

Have a look

target ="-blank"> HERE

Socks and drugs and rock and roll!

2011-02-16T00:11:00.008Z

Tis Poetry Bus time once more. Many thanks to Her Royal Bugness for drivelo so brilliantly last week and for all the great passengers, whose poems I really enjoyed. Twas a good crop methinks.

Anyways tis the turn for newbie driver 120 socks. (Round of applause)An interesting blog name,apparently 120 is (on average) the number of single socks a person will lose (not wear out) in their lifetime.
Other unrelated but equally interesting statistics are that we will eat, on average, in our lifetime, 535kg of salt, 4,675 bananas, 10,431 loaves of bread and 16 Brussel sprouts.
We will drink 5 olympic sized swimming pools of alcohol (surely that's in a week?)
We will (on average) sleep for 35 years and be in the toilet for 5 years (but not in one session)
4 years and six months of that five years in the toilet will be spent doing a poo.(Not the one poo, several poos, thousands of them. Fifteen thousand seven hundred and fifty nine of them to be exact. That's a lot of poo.I'm not sure if that includes Diahrrea, maybe that doesn't count as a poo? I always think of a poo as being solid. I'll delve into it and let you know. Statistics are important you have to get them right, put a bit of effort in, especially when it comes to poo. It's no use just going through the motions for the crack and making an arse of yourself.

So, on to this weeks bus driver. 120 socks loves to walk backwards to see where she's been, in fact she is the current world walking backwards world record holder (20 metres)and has developed and patented special rearview forward view backwards mirrors that attach to your forehead using a system of steel girders, pulleys, suction cups and superglue.A little awkward in size Socks is hoping to develop a lightweight system that can be lifted by one person and fitted into the boot of a car.
An all-round athlete Socks enjoys knitting,scrabble,cheese rolling, sky diving,scuba diving, monkey wrestling,base jumping, mountaineering,politician baiting,badger fondling,skipping, and standing on one toe (someone else's)

Get thee gone to the land of socks and get writing.
HERE

DANA BUGS LOVE BUG BUS THING

2011-02-13T12:09:00.003Z

Well whadya know? Tis election time here where smug craven individuals who, out the whole planet's population, are the least well equipped to be in charge of a social clubs annual outing fund, let alone a whole country of 6 million people, are seeking power via my vote.

Repeated evidence through the mists of time shows that any individual who has the self- serving regard, audacity and pomp to consider themselves a likely candidate should automatically be disqualified from ever having anything to do with politics and really should be deported to a far-flung and inhospitable alien planet to live with all his fellow would-be politicians.

The whole political system is broken. Politics is a haven of crooks, liars, cheats, arseholes and back -slapping croneyistic profiteers. Nobody with an ounce of decency, common sense, or altruism has the least interest for getting involved in the current miasma of uncharismatic medoicrity, corruption and sheer blinkered, ivory towered pretentious arrogance that is Irish party politics.

I'm also fairly convinced it's a similar story in whatever country you happen to live in dear reader.

If any of these people call to your door tell them politely that they are not normal human beings, to go fuck themselves, and that if they persist in talking to you, that you will set them on fire. Keep a can of petrol and a ready supply life sized dummies/ shop mannequins* and a blow torch by the door to demonstrate to them.

There are plenty of these available as almost every shop in town has now closed down.

I'm not voting for a remake, or a revamp, or a re-shuffle of the same limited twisted deck of cards. I'm voting for a revolution.

And now this weeks Poetry Bus, driven by Dana Bug..........

Here we go again! I'm behind the wheel & being dangerous in the curves - but I promise that you'll all arrive safely. Really!

It's Valentine's Day (or it will be on Monday - stop being so technical!), but you don't have to write any love sonnets or Conversation Heart verses. Unless you want to - go for it if that's what's on your mind. I'm listing three different picture prompts below which should hopefully stir some creative juices. I'm sorry that it's on the heels of last week's picture prompt, but not sorry enough to change it.

1. Our neighbors took this picture of the driveway across the street last week. What do you think is going on here? Make up a story about it!

2. Dr. M took this picture of furniture in the cornfield. Now that seemed extra odd to me. I supposed that perhaps a frigid tête-à-tête was going on. What do you think?

3. A closeup of the chair - I'm not sure why this icy furniture has grabbed my attention, but I would love to see what you have to say about it.

After you post your poem come back here & let me know & I'll post the link on this post. Good luck!

I managed two poems this week, using firstly the love hearts in the snow and secondly the furniture in the snow. Go to Dana Bugs blog to marvel at all the wondrrful passenglos!

10 to the power of 158

(closer to a love poem)

Fine line architecture

Molecules of meltdown

Two hearts left in the snow

Could be identical

But who would know?

They say, the odds of it happening

are indistinguishable from zero.

We say fuck you!

I’ll bury the burden,

I’ll put the weight

of proof on you,

I'll just kiss and tell,

Plunge bars and dimes,

Forever at the fair,

Spinning wheels,

Summer evening air,

Two armed bandits.

Time stands still as you blink,

every explanation

needs not to be explained.

Listening too intently and

Not hearing at all,

Falling apart at the scenes.

Keep walking the poetry tightrope

The noose of tomorrow on the horizon

Only one way two go,

Slow down or turn around,

The sunset is still coming at you

And through it all, for it all,

To spite it all, I love you still.

The Streets Of Our Town

Walk through the streets of Our Town,

count the shop boarded-up fronts,

smell the colours of warm aerosol.

People don’t give a piss for poetry,

Heads filled with diesel fumes,

No room for two to pass,

Dreams no longer burn, though

Hearts beat still.

Walk through the streets of Our Town,

Time rolls back through the day

Like dull eyes shine crystal meth.

Souls sifted in the cleansing flame

of dereliction and neglect.

On the streets of Our Town.

Death wears a suit

Don’t ask William Blake

Don’t beg for mercy

whatever you say

say nothing,

What ever you do,

Just don’t.

ALL ABOARD THE LOVE BUG BUS!!

2011-02-09T13:54:00.004Z

'Twill be Valentinos Day on Poetry Bus Monday. Get on board!

http://danabugseyeview.blogspot.com/2011/02/bug-is-driving-bus.html

Dana Bug , or Penelope Postlethwaite to give her real name, was, at 7ft 10 inches, the world's tallest woman but the pressures of public attention forced her into groundbreaking reductive surgery that should have reduced her down to 5 ft 3 inches.

Unfortunately the aging dyslexic Russian surgeon Dr Sergei Lopitov , misread the calculationss and now Penelope stands just 3ft 5 inches tall. Her emotions have been swung like a pendulum and were the catalyst that sparked her into writing.

Currently undergoing strenuous experimental 'Greenhouse' treatment under military conditions in The Mojave Desert, Penelope is hoping to be an average 5ft 6 by the end of this summer.

Her hobbies included peering into letterboxes and basketball. A keen amateur astronomer Penelope, using only a pair of reading glasses and an empty coke bottle to fashion a telescope, discovered many new planets, galaxies, asteroids and other strange manifestations including a gaseous anomaly emitting from Uranus.

Her ambition is to reach the door handle of the green house.

THE PHOTOGRAPHY PROSE POETRY BUS!

2011-02-06T23:51:00.007Z

First up is MUSE SWINGS

http://photographprose.com/2011/02/04/a-brief-season/

Then 120 SOCKS HERE

TITUS HERE

DANA BUG HERE

VARIOUS BAGNELL HERE

and HERE

Zed HERE

Bitter late than never! Tis Swiss
HERE

And this reminder from the Photography prose website

One point of clarification though. The images are owned by the photographers who submit to us, and therefore must remain on the site unless they give permission for you to copy them to your site. You can, of course, write your prose on your own site and link to the image on our site, but that link will only work until another writer adds their prose to that image, at which time the image is removed from the gallery. Drop us an email with any more questions...

BUS DRIVERS WANTED

2011-02-02T23:44:00.002Z

Take off your thinking caps and swap them for a drivers cap. Then put your thinking cap back on and come up with a prompt. All welcome. Have a go, goon, you know you want to!

Emergency exits to the front and rear, current prompt below and on the right. Don't fly by night, go by bus!

Put your names in the hat (comments box) and I'll give you the keys. The whole world (of bus) will be yours for a week. You might change someones life, you may even save it, who knows the power of the bus.

The latest Poetry Bus challenge

2011-02-01T23:25:00.005Z

Something a little different this week.There is a new website of Photography and writing HERE
called Photograph Prose- 'The virtual collision of photographers and writers'
I saw it on Nuala Ní Chonchúirs blog HERE and put 3 photos in and a bit of prose, which they took,real quick and painless.

So painless that I want you to visit the site have a look at the pics and words already exhibited then visit the 'UP exhibit' (clickable along the top of the page) and choose a picture to inspire some words. There's a simple registration process that takes two minutes.( email and password, I think)

Then you can either submit those words to the website for a selection process (simply click on the photo and it will appear with a title box and a box to put your prose /or poem in) or just post it on your blog, or both, as they don't mind, but don't copy the pictures to your blog for copyright reasons.

It's a nice opportunity to try to get published without any hassle, just fill in the box with words and the selection process takes only 72 hours. How cool is that? The site is in it's infancy so now is a good time to try. C'mon bus poets, have a go!

(You can submit photos too, if you like)
Get thee gone now and get stuck in, good luck!

NanU part two! And sits vac!

2011-01-31T23:31:00.005Z

So wonderful science girl, NanU is still at the helm of the bus. A marathon double, never been done before (ithink) So well done to her and a mighty big thanklo!
New drivers are urgently required apply in writing to the comments box. Nobody has yet been refused so the chances of getting the gig are pretty high!

Previous drivers may apply, all are welcome.The people's poetry bus is an equal opportunities employer.

We offer no money but excellent working conditions with huge job satisfaction, you could be the instigator, the twisted fire starter of new poetry! Oh, the power, think of it! Driving a packed out talent laden creative catalyst around da woild! You can start this very week with a prompt in the next few days for poems on Monday, first come first served!
You will be part of a worldwide, world famous, phenomenon and it will look really good on your CV, as well as your gravestone. Make things happen, drive the bus before you die. Or after if you can!

I don't think I quite fulfilled the brief of NanU's second prompt, to build a poem up over time and across different moods, but then anything goes on the bus so long as you write. But it did make me rewrite, which is something I rarely do, and that's the whole point, to create something that might not exist only for the bus. I'll probably rewrite it some more and see what I end up with.

Roses by the river

Blood and Petals

Only words

Are they enough

Holding on

Floating

Face down

Drowning

In self importance

Speaking mirrors syllables

By any other name

metaphors

perpendicular

To cause

the effect

your pocket demons

safe on the banks

Grab your towel

Grab your comb

Run for your life

The skies full of

Your alien spacecraft, closer

In the rear view mirror

City beams burn,

Cut, pull yourself apart

Kill yourself for one more poem

Kill yourself just to make it stop

This war of the words

This plague this pestilence

This poison

This butterfly knife

This poetry

Reigning down

Will kill us all.

What's new NanU?

2011-01-26T12:47:00.009Z

FOREVER LOVE

I love my old runners
nothing is half as much fun as
putting them on
Oh! they fit better than a glove
i'm truly, madly, deeply in love
Everywhere they go, I go too,
Dublin Carlow Timbuktu,
joined at the heel we feel for each other,
not like brother and brother,
more like lover and lover.

Through thick and thin
they make me grin
snow or sun ,walk or run
we go our own way
near-to, or faraway
together forever,
parting? Never!
I'm keeping these
so please, please,please
don't ever let them fall in
to the needy greedy wheelie bin.

You say that they stink
that they pen and ink
but I could never think
such a thing, the joy they bring
smells only of roses
so block your noses
they are here to stay,
me and my runners going all the way
keep yer Bardots at bay
I wouldn't even swap for Birkin
It's not your leg I'd be jerkin
I'm not ferkin about
I'd throw her out
and run back to me runners
the ultimate stunners.

My feelings I cannot hide then
I love to slip inside them
So soft to the touch
I adore them so much
I'd lick them clean
only they've been
In The Palace Bar
their urinals by far
the leakiest I've seen

Instead I blow them a kiss
if they're covered in piss
ah life is such bliss
in my Gratis runners
all winters all summers
atumn and spring
they're just the right thing
for my size 9 feet
looking cosy and neat
im in leathery heaven
i'd buy another seven
pairs if I could
but they would
never be quite the same
you see
I'm a believer in monogomy
so this pair are the only pair,
the perfect pair for me.

Please don't let me be misunderstood.

2011-01-22T01:06:00.003Z

I'm just an asshole whose intentions are good, oh Lord ,please don't let me be misunderstood!

Well, I've feckin done it now. Yes, drink was involved. I'll be here sunday 4 pm taliking to ace radio presenter Niamh Bagell on her final Sunday Scrapbook show and I'll be listening in to know WTF I said
http://www.liffeysoundfm.ie/live.html

Double bopple bop labofranco

2011-01-21T01:13:00.004Z

Now you see, the thing is, is it? Yes! I guess. Anyway how could you be supposin what I'm proposin? The thing is. The real thing is that. 'That' is the real thing, not this, nor those, nor rhubarbstyillification. And anyway. Could it be. Is it, it?. Well know, or now?!

But mainly the thing is that it's time for another Poetry Bus prompt and tis funny for the prompt is never prompt, tis always late, due to me.
But buses are rarely on time. They are gloriously unreliable. Lord bless us , save us, and guide us from reliable prompt people and their regimented ways of measuring tapes and stopwatches and rain guages.
Enough is never less than sufficient and we are sufficiently ontime, though I must waffle on a bit to deter the half-heartedly sensible casual poetry traveller er er er um tiddly um pum tum.

Many glorious felicitudes to the multitudes that embarked on last weeks journey within, without the aid of breathing apparatus, beyond the afflatus of our own creative genius.

Brava, bravo, and alfa tango foxtrot, charlies gone and left the begonias in Kitty's, and so on and so forth of firth type thing. So!
This week, and forsooth verily the following week, tis the turn of intrepid scientist and bilingualist at leastish among other varied talentios tis the turn of NanU

who is a bubble gum, bubble blowing champion , capable of blowing a hot air balloon sized bubble from chewing 1016 packets of hubba bubba at once.This balloon sized strawberry flavoured behemoth actually floated NanU into outer space where she made contact with bubble gum loving aliens from the previously undiscovered planet Kashyyk,inhabited by wookies who loved chewing gum but only had Tobacco, hence the nickname of the most famous wookie,Chewbacca, who later went on to star in the hollyforest blockbuster 'Straw Woes'a film about a milkshake cafe that ran out of plastic straw supplies.

Terrorised at an early age by a horde of stampeding long haired guinea pigs Nan U sought revenge by becoming a scientist dedicated to using guinea pigs as, well, er, guinea pigs.

A keen amateur boxer NanU is lightweight, middle weight, flyweight, butterflyweight, bantam weight, wanton weight, put on weight, lets wait , wait a minute Mr Postman, golden glove champion for 3 years in a row row row your boat gently down the stream.

Get ye gone to her place to see what all the fuss is about. She'll be bravely driving for two whole weeks so be kind to her and mop her fevered brow.Being a clever scientist she has cleverly implanted the prompts into the right hand sidebar of her blog
HERE

EEjits short day of the Poetry Bus soul.

2011-01-16T13:33:00.024Z

We're skating on thin ice,one world above , one below.Break the ice,down we dive to deeper and darker waters, we will not drown, deeper breathing in and out, inhale exhale,poetry is oxygen, ponder and think and delve and dwell deep within the chambers of ourselves for a little while.

More passengers welcome, see full prompt in previous post.Meanwhile across the globe breaths and chances have been taken and the dark muse kissed.

The early bird catches the bus, first up is...

a double whammy from Jeanne the ovaltiney
HERE and
HERE

Jules the Jewels is next
HERE

Rachel The Quick Brown Fox
HERE

Helen The Pleasure Dome
HERE

Feckin hell, complete caramel, it's Annell !
HERE

Izzy wizzy she's been busy
HERE

Kitty clay take it away bonkers Bagnell!
HERE

From Kitty to katy,breathtaking from EMERGING WRITER!
HERE

Dana the storm bug is cloudbustin
HERE

Karen's behind the curtains
HERE

Heather's sippin time
HERE

Can you keep Mairi's poetry secrets?
HERE

Have you bin enchanted by Chris?
HERE

The night puts a sock in it
HERE

Mr Kipling does make exceedingly good poems
HERE

Is it a bird, is it a plane? No! It's SUPERDAVE!
HERE

Ouch! OOh! Ughh! It's last gasp Canada Kat
HERE

For whom the bell curves, a pack of twenty from Titus
HERE

Bubba blesses us with a curse
HERE

Jinksy is stardust, she is golden, see her shine
HERE

Et en fin c'est Nuts pour fruits, je crois
HERE

And here's mine.

Dog day Sunday.

Rhythm yes,
harmony of sorts
a gospel choir of thoughts.
Life’s breath, yes,
but laboured, shallow, scarred.
I see, I hear, I fear,
full moons and jet planes,
darkness on the borders.

A beat, yes,
blood pumps
squeezed tight, tighter.
I tread these mind graves
softly, the hour short,
but not yet up, not yet out.
Life’s Clock ticks still,
perhaps Chances left,
extra time, injury time,
to fight fire with fire,
and live life, with love.

Behold, tis the Mighty Poetry Bus!

2011-01-14T22:33:00.006Z

Beware the ides of March and the tides of turn, in fact it is (apparentlio) my turn to take a turn at drively the world famous, poteen powered pooetry bus, me own bleedin charabungle!
Iam currently thermally, as well as intellectually, challenged, and the main problem ( with only the onset spring as the affordable solution) is that the komputee is in the coldest room in the house.
Did you ever see The Poseidon Adventure where they had to take deep breaths before plunging into the watery stuff to emerge over the other side where they wanted to be? Well that's a bit what it's like going to the komputer- get wrapped up, take a deep breath of heat and head in and do what you can as quick as you can while your fingers and toes are still your own and not blackened and needing amputation.

And so and thus, and this is why I am blog-lite of late and not getting round as much as I should and ting. But anyways many profuse thanklos to Emergely writo what did the prompt last week so typically thoroughly and professionally, and artistically to boot.And also thanks a plenty to all who were good enough to get aboard and I hope I will read all the pomes ADAP or ASAP even.

So the brillo EW hands over the keys to moi, totalofeckloeejly.

TFE is a fig leaf of his own imagination, a three legged racer and demi god of milk jelly. He talks about himself in the third person as the other two are invariably asleep, or in prison. A love child of the 1930's TFE was the first person to walk on the moon without the aid of a pair of idioms. A precocious prodigy he produced a prodigious amount of poo and thanks to his time-travelling cot that he fashioned from rusks, used nappies, and pram wheels, could play Beethovens sixth before the fifth had even been written.
He attributes his nihilistic tendencies to being brought up by a marauding gang of marxist bank robbing beavers who adopted him as their spokesperson after being abandoned by his parents in Roches stores at the tender age of 36.He dreams of dreaming and delays falling asleep by getting up 3 hours before before he goes to bed. His ambition is to have an ambition.

And so to this weeks task. Write a poem. Don't think, just feel. Sit yourself down,stay quiet, find silence, concentrate on your breathing, feel your chest rise and fall, your heart beating, blood pumping.You are alive, so alive.Breathe in and breathe out,count those breaths, slowly look into your heart, your soul, how are you? Who are you? Are you happy/sad/ lost/ found/ confused/ certain.Are you where you hoped to be, do you know yourself? Are you who you were? Who might you yet be. Where might you be? Forget what your brain tells you that you know,and forget what your brain tells you to think, listen to your breath,tell me how you feel and why you feel it. How many breaths have you taken in this life? Think of them, focus on them. How many breaths are still to be taken? Disengage the brain and write from the heart.Close your eyes examine your breath, examine your life and feel!

A cool toon as a reward.Boy George looks like a giant toddler!

Poem for the Emerging BUs

2011-01-11T10:41:00.004Z

Phil Daoust was right.

Minchin pretentious rhyme bitchin

With eyeshadow blue

I'd love to read that review

black eyeliner Barbie Doll Hairdo

dogmatic diatribe is such doggy doo

Look at his feet without a shoe.

A boorish bore

a polluted beach

should never preach

you're not a Sandy Shaw

Tim, Tim,Tim, it's such a sin, sin, sin,

you Think you know where it's at?

You, you, you, you,

Twat.

Emerging Poetry Bus

2011-01-07T01:06:00.004Z

The worst organized weekly prompt returns.Resting on our arse but never our laurels...or our hardy's. Onwards we must go, haphazzard, rambling, ragged and irregular, for form and rules and regularity are for bowels and we all know what they produce.

So forget bowels , take your vowels and your constantinoples and fashion poems with your own bare hands. Unless you are a bear in which case use your own bear hands, or paws,to use the zoological term.

Last week saw an amazing prompt from, and an amazing response to, Jeanne.So a big thank you to her and all the stalwart diehards that braved the cold to clamber aboard.

this week/next week, type thing, tis the turn of Emerging Writer, Kate Winslett.
Kate is famous, not only for her record breaking ears (they can stretch right over her head) but also as an olympic gold medalist. A keen winter sportswoman she has competed in the last three winter olympics,winning gold in the luge,silver in the snowballing, and bronze in the brass monkey hurdling.She lives in a semi detached, 5 bedroom igloo on the outskirts of Carlow.

Her favourite foods are, caviar , smoked salmon,truffles, and paprika flavoured noodles from Aldi.A keen amateur neurosurgeon she likes to practice her skills on close family and friends,most of whom have survived, albeit in a slightly impaired manner.

A victim of a drive-by poetry reading, Kate has a horror of tweed jackets and small crowds.She likes to travel and has visited many exotic locations including Ballbriggan,Limerick Junction and Hounslow.Her dream holiday would be two weeks in a treetop house in kenya or Skegness. Slightly accident prone after a few drinks she once broke her arm in three places...The International Bar, McDaids and Slattery's.

So t5here you have it, now get ye gone to her wonderfully informative blog HERE

Jeanne's poetry bus.

2011-01-03T19:59:00.004Z

Not just for auld lang syne

Don’t talk,

whatever you say-

say nothing.

The snakebitten poison of past,

a bone-eating cancer.

That past is still what it used to be,

the past made us,but

it does not rule us.

Past tense,

future bright.

Forget love, forget hate, forget past,

that’s another country

We must be go-aheads

No longer go-betweens

for loss and disruption

the veins of communication

the shot-up messenger

bearing false comforting plenitude.

We can sing a new way,

sing tomorrow’s song, today,

your hand in my hand,

for the future,

for this New Year,

for hope in your mind

and in mine,

for the promise of this newborn year,

no longer just singing by rote

for the sake of auld lang syne.

again!oofWe're bwartyfraeytxcsqz!

2011-01-01T18:09:00.009Z

HAPPY NUDE YEAR TOUT LE MONDE!

Tis bus time encore, le premiere bus de la nouveau yearo. We are human turkeys stuffed with mince pies and booze so I'm getting jeanne to go past the bus stops to make us jog a bit and burn off a few calories.

Many thanks to Muse Swings for last weeks driving and to all who got aboard. Not sure that I've read them all yet as I've been too busy shoving food into my face and trying to drown in a vat of drink.

But that was last year, now i will be a lean mean fighting writing machine no food, no booze, no clothes, no breathing.

And to kick off the new year who better than Jeanne Iris Lakatos of Connecticut in Americaland.
A seasoned naturist Jeanne owns and runs Connecticuts oldest naturist grocery store and chapel. Licensed to sell vegetables and conduct naturist weddings Jeanne performs the sales and the ceremonies herself. I went along to one a few years ago with a relative that was getting married, some of the guests and the grooms brother were very late and I came within an inch of being The Best Man.

When not working in the store Jeanne likes to indulge in her passion for Inuit throat singing which she performs with a local Inuit skiffle group call the 'Igloo highwaymen' She learned the ancient art on a naturist expedition to the North Pole where she met an old woman who used create incredible music using just her vocal chords and the arse of a (dead) polar bear as a resonator.
Blessed with an inherant cosmic talent for communicating with birds of all kinds Jeanne is an ex (six time) world champion competitive duck herder. She has also successfully talked three armed gangster Magpies out of a hostage situation with a rich sparrow.

So there you have it. It's the Nude year, so get yer kit off , get over to Jeanne's place and write a poem. I bet you've never written one in the nip/starkers/birthdaysuited/butt naked, before.

HERE

Into 2011 and Still (the best but) the worst run blog prompt in the universe. Never fear peeps,You can rely on me to be unreliable.

Muse Swings The POetry Bus

2010-12-27T23:32:00.002Z

THe last Poetry Busof 2010 and the worst physical present ever given to me was ...shoelaces! On my birthday. But what can you say about shoelaces that doesn't rhyme, chime,or be sublimely offputting for all things footing?

Shoelaces put me through my paces
they said more in the spaces
than the eyelets would allow
how?
Well,
Shoelaces caused me two faces one that cried 'How lovely'!
One that, well, just cried.
I've lied.
I didn't cry at all,
I loved them.

Well that was that and this is this, whatever this may be and it's this that I hope for...only better.

Past present

The greatest gift
The worst
Don’t give your love to me
I will break your heart
because despite the music
despite the stained velour
I could take your soul
but not your hand
180 degrees or 360
Centigrade or Celsius
There is no us, only me
I give fake, give lies , give
the glitterless prize,
Take hope destroy joy
The vainest of vices
I sense weakness
like all kissable
Incendiary devices
I’m going to blow up
In your face

This is the day

2010-12-25T01:40:00.003Z

And this is the next poetry Bus , the last bus of Beverley Hills 2010. 2011 is upon us like a wheel upon a bike upon a planet within a wheel.. HERE
Mighty Muse Swings dings the bell telling us to move down the bus, tickets please! Many thanks to Weaver and her beautiful starry poetry parade and also alls the peeps wot rote a pome.

Weaver now handsover to Muse Swings who has spent the last twenty years building a life sized clay model of a life sized clay model of The Taj Mahal, and several other curry houses in her home town. A talented cook, Muse Swings likes to source exotic fresh food, cook it, and eat it. But not necessarily in that order. Muse swings is also a champion blindfold golfer at The Ikanoseeafuginthing Golf Club, her handicap is not being able to see the ball. Or the hole. Or where she left her clubs. Or the golf cart. She once smashed the club record and the club CD player and the clubhouse window with a wayward chip from the bunker on the 17th. Her hobbies include eating sprouts and All Bran and avoiding confined spaces. Her ambition is to become a world class jockey and win the Kentucky Derby riding a fried chicken. So get over to her blog, read the prompt then write the poem. Simples!

YULETIDE GREETINGS!

Scuttery buttery boom fill basted wasted langrous freaks of snowcrusty rolledstarry crisped even stevens day we will see another one gutter what are wordsorth
fickle me spickle span bespectacle shandy bars handell messiah present tents macushla macdonalds the pale burger rising damp encrusted diamond girl ropped froople tutti fruit riot squad wainscot methusla rattled round me gartle the rocks the perish everybody needs a body sometime half the time out prither the yither yon tum tawdry drum yops yops yops plump buck stately barge pole indeedy credulous indescribability and reindeer and turkey mistleto catch me quick cook me sausage slow tinsel town wrapped up played down and out the heelof the hunt bread and butter Nell flanagans tractor broke but she can foot a pot I know by the black mark I saw it at the dance dishy dish trifley jelly welly moulded rum pum tum scrooptious pulppoosted prickly holly iveagh league boots snudge plunged slush fund monkey mickler hackler backer price of poteen skyrocket pound pocket euro billions for everyone in the audience world wooly jumper mulled wino pine needled rendered rustic ruthless toothless mc Taster flambaster fludgeon blick bludgeoned booster hit flooster flopped floozy no jack ouzi up in the park apres dark chicken tikka mcFlurry snow upon snow upon freakin snow.

AND MERRY CHRISTMAS TO EACH AND EVERY ONE OF YE!

WONDERFUL WEAVERS WINTRY SNOWBUS

2010-12-18T15:45:00.005Z

Good winter and yuletide felicimations to thoust all fair blog people of the bus, the worst organized weekly prompt on the planet,and all the better for it!

The Summer In Siam

Remember how the stars shone
For us alone, we stole each one
Lit our dreams in coloured sleep
True until the end

Let me dream ,wake me
20 years from now
Leave autumn’s blind
Indifference for times’
Stark Trembling delirium
russet leaf and fallen gold

Let late Winter’s necessity
be the gates by the cross
Give us a final dance
For who we were
And not what we became

This aged world shaped us
Took our vibrant colour dreams
For blacks bleak crackle
To flitter us free
Like the dead leaves
Of a forgotten past

Spring may come to
The minds eye hot in Casablanca
Black and white memories
But these closed eyes under
Penny weights see only colour
Dream only of you and
the summer in Siam

Eek! It's THAT time again!

2010-12-16T22:34:00.004Z

Yes folks, just when you thought it was safe to drive a bit of prose, the Poetry Bus rumbles across the horizon like a rumbling poetry bus.

Many many thanks to mighty Titus for brillo drively, a fab porompt it was too, good dog/woman Titus!

This weeks driver is the wonderful Weaver of Grass ( I thought she rolled her own spliffs when I first read that) Weaver hasn't been too well of late so it's really great to see her not only back on the bus, but actually driving it!

Weaver is a wonderful woman who breeds racing stoats high up on the Yorkshire moors. Racing stoats are very poular among Yorkshiremen/women and Arab Sheiks/Princesses and a prize specimen can cost as much as £50, ooo.
Racing stoats are smooth skinned for improved aerodynamics and are slighty larger than ordinary stoats. After years of selective breeding modern stoats are able to run upright on their massively powerful back legs, speeds of over 60mph are commonplace with a gut busting 73 mph being achieved by world record holding pedigree stoat sprinter, Cedric Dynamite Flyer. Stoat racing is still a minority sport but gathering in popularity all the time and is expected to be an Olympic event by 2016 along with Badger Lacrosse and toad tossing.

A keen and gifted amateur scientist, Weaver once amazed relatives and friends by splitting the atom and putting it back together in less than an hour, using only a hammer and some fine thread.

Blessed with 'Healing Hands' she once cured a man of hiccups just by poking him in the eye with her finger. He couldn't see properly for six weeks but was delighted when the Hiccups disappeared a few hours after.
In her spare time Weaver likes to sky-dive, fish, knit, gargle, and mud wrestle.

Get thee over to her blog for poety writing thing!

HERE

And if you've nothing better to do have a look a me trying to make myself sound interesting over
HERE

INTERVIEW

2010-12-16T13:04:00.002Z

HERE

TITUS the Dog's AT THe Wheel of Poetry

2010-12-12T01:14:00.008Z

God Woman.

They weren’t fish from the sea
Any more than blue bears were
Black silhouettes of herself
God Woman mother of all
Making progress reach for the skies
Evolution not revolution,
parity stars, lights trouble
uncalled for. We all have a monkey
on our backs ,crystal clear,
blue is black in light relief.
I love the city, I hate the reality,
rapid fire irritation jarring.
We knew it was wrong,
Alchemy, conjuring.
Sing, sing ,sing,
reaction in the nightime:
Hearts on fire;
Blazing light;
Break my heart
Like an egg, like the question,
cracked into the heat.
We who could do anything choose
To do this, or this, or this?

I know the answer
If it's a poem, it has a million
beginnings a million chances,
I’m just dreading the end.

This is a control poem

This is the benchmark

The vice of neutral

The control experiment

The yardstick

By which

Others will be measured

This is the voice of reason

That’s reasonable, isn’t it?

Hardly treason

Hardly a revolution

This is the sensible shoe

Well heeled

The waxed barbour jacket of authority

This is a golden Labrador

The Sunday times

A bay windowed Victorian semi

Lint removed from its suit

Neatly pressed shirt

For the office on Monday

It won’t let anyone into the traffic queue

But it wouldn’t cut anyone up either

Unless they deserved it

Middle of the road

Suburban grey poem

Black and white

Is for rebels

And losers.

Who will answer my prayer?

2010-12-10T21:30:00.005Z

HERE

Bleeding heart.

The night the riots began
I felt old ,out in the cold,
caught between the devil
and the detail of the revolution
The codes were lost, the codes
were moral, a helping strong hand,
Ethics balanced against anger against
Subversion against anarchy
Last night I heard the screaming
I wanted to call the police
but they were already there
Loud voices shouting
People were in need
people were broken down
People were lost
People were bloodied
I prayed for change I prayed for justice
I prayed for a law to protect the vulnerable
a government that knows
the children are the future
Who will answer my prayer?

First Kat , now a Dog!

2010-12-09T21:40:00.007Z

Yes folks, it's the pottery bus here again, regular as a bran addicts bowels. This weeks driver is canine extraordinaire Titus The Wonder Dog (AKA JoAnne McKay) but first many thanks to last weeks drivelo,Kat Mortensen (AKA Kat Mortensen) and all the brillo poety passenglers what boarded in such good spirit, skill and style. Pat yourselves on the back!

What can I say about Titus? Truth is often stranger (more unbelievable/extraordinary) than fiction, but I'll stick to fiction. Titus is a dog , but also a woman, but never at the same time. It all started when Titus was abandoned as a pup and picked up by mad scientists who were experimenting with DNA , bubblegum, elastic bands and matter transportation.
JoAnne, a fiesty police woman was trying to shut down their operation as it had criminal intent (beaming small dogs into bank vaults to steal money)
One day she broke into their secret lab but unwittingly hid in one of the transmissioin booths just as Titus the dog was being teleported, their DNA was irrevocably mixed in a Jekyl and Hyde , Woman and Dog,Ying and Yang, Starsky and Hutch, Salt and Vinegar,configuration.
One moment we have Titus the dog, the next it is suddenly JoAnne the woman. Which can be particularly embarrassing when Titus is doing his duty with the local poodle... Either which way they cope and thrive with their new duality.

JoAnne at first thought the process could be reversed but she was barking up the wrong tree, not realising the advantages of being a part time canine, ie. Lots of lovely long walks, sleeping in front of the fire, biting the vicar and widdling on the postmans trouser legs.

As a dog Titus has won Crufts best in show three years running, appeared in several TV ads and done a lot of charity work to buy cigarettes for retired lab test Beagles. As a woman JoAnne was the first person to swim the atlantic using Doggy paddle, she won who wants to be a millionaire on the quiz machine on the prom at Llandudno, entered local politics in 1999 and narrowly missed winning the seat for Barking in the 2002 North London bi-election. She also writes poetry, but it isn't doggerel.

I'm sure you are all straining at the leash, so get thee gone over to their blog HERE and see what the feck we are doing on the next bus in the cosmosphere! Good luck, and there will be plenty of food and drink on the bus , too much in fact, so bring a doggy bag. Don't sit on the back seat if you feel a bit ruff. I'll keep hounding you till you write a poem, so get on with it!

AAAaarrrgghhhh!! It's IPYPIASM !!!

2010-12-07T18:09:00.009Z

There's no known cure! Actually TIPPSYSCHISM is not a tropical disease.No, it's a wizzard wheeze to find new homes for pomes.IFFYSPAM (actually an acronym for INTERNATIONAL PUT YOUR POEM IN A SHOP MONTH) was Cunningly devised by ace poet, writer, broadcaster and Carol Singer, Niamh (Various ) Bagnell.

LIPPYORGASM is now an annual yuletide event that is spreading round the world like a recession.Actually feck the recession, spread a little happiness, share a little poem. Poems already flying around shops in places like Scotland, Canada, America, Ireland, to name but a few. Get all the details of HIPPYSPASM and follow up posts over HERE

Put simply, write a poem on a piece of paper or card and leave it in a local shop so that an unsuspecting shopper may happen across it and burst with joy at their good fortune. They may even bring it home and treasure it for the rest of their lives, or till the end of the week, whichever is soonest. Be sure and take a photo of the poem in the shop and put it on your blog and let Niamh know so she can link to it.

Last year I took a photo with a mobile phone but the pic wasn't recorded. This year I used the mobile fone again but a) couldn't find the fone at home and then b) Can't seem to be able to connect the fone to the Craputer to download the pic. Doh!

Fortunately I took a photo with an ordinary kamra before I left for the local Dunnes stores where I left my work of genius among the Christmas decorations. I went back the next day to try again to take another foto in the shop and my magnum opus was gone!!(in fact all the Magnums were gone, and in this weather!) Look out for it on ebay.

KATOS BUS TICKET!!

2010-12-03T22:21:00.015Z

Still waiting to do a funny one but in the meantime and in case I don't make it by Monday here's these things. The first one is new.

Stretford. End.

Oh Lord doncha know it?

Cheers! For eleven years

I was as pissed as a poet,

parrot sick in The Vic,

frightened now to own it

how much skin was split.

On payday, come what may

I would have my say

talking to the walls in Tommy Ducks,

surveying knickers on the ceiling, among

somewhat less than appealing clientelle.

Meek as fuck ,oh so meek

in Peveril Of The Peak!

And singing? Lord did I sing,

midst the bling the blag and swag,

the sharp tongues, the razor blades.

Nothing quiets ,nothing fades.

Steaming, screaming mercy, Lord have mercy!

On the Ordsall estate, saving for grace,

boiling ,writhing, reeking, in The Kettle,

hard chaw lads from the flats,

uncool cats with baseball bats,

mental mettle tested, none found wanting,

safe for another pint.

Bluff and bluster

Bleep and Booster, blood and guts,

beside Robinson’s Timber yard, minus 5,

battered Bertie Blue Noses-

Salford Lads , red till dead!

Monday mourning reality dawning

early doors only for the hard of heart,

battle scars running deep, cheap?

Less than minimum wage pay

all the rage for those with more say,

more Salford keys in Salford Quays,

more of this life flying to sunny days.

A Dublin Doorstop in O’Sheas,

12 pints by lunchtime

Inner city grit, multicultural grime,

a multitude of ways

to survive to fight

(mainly run)

keeping on

in the White Lion

Jesus, Mecca, and Zion.

Downstairs Inn,

The Withington Ale House

Bursting noses

no composer supposes

like symphonied rainbows arced in blood,

never mind the deluge,

this was our flood.

Pool cues saved teeth from rotted,

Nick Lowe would love the sound

when people were potted

wearing Scarface disgrace in

The Fallowfield.

(Flats now, holy cow!)

The misery was on tap,

Mad Mick was quick to try

Special handshakes

I knew why he would try

to break my bones if I slipped

explained,in pained plained English

people from broken homes had nothing on me.

See? I kept the noose loose,

Nothing personal, even if it was.

He didn’t get it, while he got it,

in my drunken mind

easy after the first time

Hardly a crime punishable by the law

who can talk with a broken jaw?

So, rough justice don’t make a fuss

(Now go! Do one!) this

is how we live,

factory fodder five days a week,

which is odder, the weak, or the weekend?

And now I don’t sleep

a quivering coward,

reality freak.

And now I search the shadows,

afraid of the light, afraid of my life,

afraid of the ghosts.

knowing

that now, and now ,and now,

too little is too late,

and still I have to wait, I cower,

and I wait, I see, I seal,

my hate,

my fate, my fate, my fate.

At my wake.

Inconspicuous in my absence,
eyes thumbed shut,
best-suited arms stiff by my side,
unable to reach the tasty snacks or
pour a pint down the parched gullet.
Deaf ears cannot hear how much they miss me,
on the rigor mortis scale- I’m ten,
even when young they said
I was ‘Dead-but-for-the-washing.’
Do I remember the last supper?
Butter on toast on Sunday,
before the mourning on monday,
the craic here now on Tuesday
I’ll be ashes by Wednesday.
Time’s still winding clocks and watches like clockwork,
there will be clean shirts at Easter,
roasting hot days in summer with
tar bubbles bursting for joy.
If you take a walk as far as the bridge,
or the canal , buy me a red lemonade
in a black glass in Gleesons’-
at least I was never the poor craythur with a choc ice,
trying to keep his teeth in.

(Ps for those outside Ireland, Translation of 'the poor craythur' = literally 'poor creature' but meaning more like ' poor old sod')

Published in The SHOp 31 Autumn Winter 2009

Jewel

Along Capel Street I stagger into Slattery’s
and stagger out again to be sure I have my wits.
What the hell have they done?
Is nothing sacred?
Is anything safe from their blandiose renaissance?
A curse on them whoever they are.
I barrel on to the Quays singing or talking to myself,
corpulent with drink and struggling
to re-inflate between bursts of song.
Filled with stupid elation
and fuelled on pints of stout,
I gaze wide-eyed and blowing,
at the new found beauty of herself,
Anna Liffey.
Spanned by an arch the whiter shade of pale,
her waters are expressive fecund and inviting.
With undulating, warm, open arms of green
she calls to me in clamshells of desire.
Wanting to be smothered within
and bursting for a leak,
I express myself,
let fly the floodgates,
a stream of pee to the pea green below,
relief and satisfaction in equal measure.
They’ll never take the piss out of Dublin.

(Published in The SHOp 13 Autumn /Winter 2003)

Mulligan's

It’s up there in Nelly’s room, behind the wallpaper,
it’s in the rancid scraps that this mongrel
went to see a white coat about.
Left gnawing on my own bones,
I curse the pedigree poets,
the multifarious super models,
those alphas of adroitness that
trot out juicy cuts of honeyed ham
left right and centre, as smug
and as arrogant as my jealousies.
Feckit, there’s no meat here, but
a thousand wasted breaths
can soon be soothed
by a truly poetic manifestation-
the voluptuous blackening of a pint glass,
in a not too crowded bar in Poolbeg street.

WOAH! KATO 's GOT A PLAN FOR THE BUS!!

2010-12-01T10:55:00.002Z

I've just hopped on/off the last bus brilliantly driven by Buglet and now here zooms Kat from Kanada with another magical bus ride. Thanks to Bug and everyone who joined in last week. Luckily the Poetry Bus has got snow tyres as we are in blizzard conditions here in County Wicklow and I'm pretty sure that Canada occasionally get's the odd flurry too. So wrap up warm everybody, wear a hat and a scarf. There will be warmed mince pies and teas, coffee, whiskey, mulled wine(yeauch!) served as we go.

Katos bus instructions are ERE

Kato is the founder member of the Canadian meat eating vegetarian society and campaigns tirelessly for the rights of vegetarians to eat meat. Her campaigns have won her worldwide acclaim and she was shortlisted for the Nobel vegetarian prize for her development of a meat based vegetable called the Beef Tomato, but unfortunately it was technically a fruit and the prize was withdrawn. In her spare time Kat likes to whistle , in fact she is quite a virtuoso and can whistle in seven different languages. A talented multi-tasker Kat can type with her eyebrows and knit with her knees while out shopping, all thanks to a specially designed shopping trolley that she has patented and catchily called' The Knit-while-you-type-while-you-shop-Kat Kart'
A keen transcendental meditationist she likes to think about dentistry whilst floating 6 inches above the ground. So get ye over to her place and join in the poetry fun as fun is the watchword for Kats task.
Go for it!!

THe Late Late Poetry BUs Show!

2010-11-30T14:27:00.010Z

I'm late! I'm sorry! The Poetry Bus this week is driven by her Bugness , Dana Bug. See her prompt and catch up with all the other passenglos HERE

I wrote two pomes, more or less to the theme of home and they could be two sides of the same coin, or the sides of different coins, or the edges of madness, or non of the above.

The loneliness of the long distance drinker

They come and they go,

from being there.

While you are never there,

always there,

they have homes to go to,

travelling with a sense of belonging,

the colours of the rainbow before them,

the light of hope above them,

god love them and saints preserve us.

I see the shadows one, two, then three,

I no longer fear them,

the shadows are me,

but which one am I

Among the trees,

the wood, the nails.

Branches reflected in the roots,

mirror images, reflections

reaching up, delving down,

into the light, unto the dark,

becoming each the other.

Spent leaves tumble from the branches

their days in the sun short lived.

Falling to the ground

to feed the roots

which feed the branches,

to make new shoots

of reckless hope.

The Field.

The field was beautiful.

Its beauty was hidden.

We had fought them hard over it,

footprints then even of brother

against brother.

Yet blood stains were fading now,

the ground was strong,

the soil fertile.

Green shoots reached up

for sun and stars,

but some only dug down for gold,

trampled all before them.

The field was destroyed

it’s gentle slopes in ruin

left gouged and scarred,

a people massacred

without a single shot being fired.

The people devoid of hope

asked how could our field

ever be beautiful now?

Then in the dark night a

single snowflake fell

And another shining white

Joined and fell, a hundred,

a thousand, a million strong

blanketed the wealds and wounds,

drove those of greed to the margins

to suffocate there in droves.

The people reigned

and the field

breathed its beauty

for the first time...

Wish Weaver well

2010-11-25T19:19:00.004Z

Lovely person and Poetry BUs regular Weaver of Grass (Pat) is a bit under the weather to use her euphemism for being airlifted to hospital after a seizure.She is back at home but still shaky. Please wish her well in thoughts and prayers or whatever meditation works best for you when those you care about are unwell. Maybe leave a comment...
HERE

BUS LEAVES EARLY!!

2010-11-24T00:15:00.004Z

I have a sore head.Haven't been round to see all Enchanted Oaks Passengos yet (but I will) and here we are ready to go again, YABBADABBADOO!!.
Chris drove brillo last week many many thanklos and now she hands the keys over to Dana Bug, who has set three intriguing prompts over
HERE

Dana is a long distance lorry driver(Trucker) so driving a bus should be no bother to her. Dana likes to sing country and western songs and play the guitar while she travels the highways and by ways of America in her 18 wheeler. Luckily she has learned to steer and change gear with her double jointed toes. She is also an expert roller skater and is the blindfold freestyle on one leg world champion of Belgium.In her other spare time she makes high class jewellery out of teeth and wool.. Luckily her husband is a part time dentist and sheep shearer, so she has a continuous supply of materials. A keen extreme explorer she once crossed the mojave desert without the aid of a compass, backwards, wearing flip flops and balancing a fruit bowl on her head. All this with only a thimble of water and a demi baguette (ham ,cheese, mayo) to sustain her.

Still at it, there's no stopping me now!

2010-11-22T20:47:00.006Z

Picture this.

Work it out
Three simple steps
One moment jig-sawed.
Wide open abstraction- BREATHE!

I never felt more, alive.

You could never find it,
solution, salvation?
All roads lead to Roman
Candles, let them snuff out,
before it… shines.

Never did nobody no wrong!
Grammar, gramer, grasmmer.
Pieces:
of silver,
of gold,
of the pie,
One way puzzled heart
pounding in the flesh.

Top of the flats Ma,
Notice me!
A single shot,
shutter speed slow,
aperture wide open.
Swifts swallow the
black night,
tungsten lights
the way beautiful,
the city shines.

Frame it, the answer unquestioned,
warm breeze through corn fields,
minimum wage, maximum words,
saying nothing, doing…nothing,
living on the way down, this is freedom,

this is how happiness feels,
this could be for ever,
this is my time.

More bloody misery!

2010-11-21T23:33:00.004Z

Those of a disposition that (quite rightly) renders them pissed-off with maudlin self-pity and gratuitous self indulgence of the 'woe is me kind', please look away now.

I tried,I really tried to do uplifting, or happy, or beautiful but as soon as I looked at the myriad poetry skies of opportunity they turned black and it pissed down. Three times I tried and failed.I even tried using my imagination but that's like using a bottle opener to bake bread.

Anyways IT'S POETRY BUS TIME!! And there will be nicer and better poems by other passengers
HERE

And If YOU haven't already done so BUY THE POETRY BUS MAG it's bloody brilliant and stocks are running low.

Here's my tickets for Enchanted Oaks bus. Don't read them all, just browse and put something vague in the comments, in fact don't read any of them, go and do something more interesting. Or visit the other passengers.

I am

Broken.

Not fragile,

what doesn’t kill you,

makes you die a little each time.

Sheltered but homeless.

Worthless.

The entirety of my experience.

Not the worst person I could be.

Rich enough to break no law,

Poor enough

To appreciate it.

Wise enough

to know the luxury

of choice.

Lacking in confidence.

Suspicious of certainty.

Unforgiving.

In forgiveness.

Able to cry

At the drop of a hat

But not the dropping

Of a bomb

A husband.

A Father.

A Son.

A Brother.

Unqualified.

Running out,

but not out,

of time

A dreamer still.

A survivor so far.

A rebel by answer.

Inadequate by question.

My own best friend.

And worse enemy.

Angry, bitter, twisted,

fearful, hopeful, desperate,

vicious, cruel, unkind,

kind ,gentle, loving.

A new song everyday.

I was

A child.

Unsure.

Unsteady.

Forever young.

Unsung.

Unready.

Unable.

Wasted.

I will be

Someone.

Something.

Someday.

So what

If not ?

(I told you not to read!But look here, if you must, I even started with a happy title, it didn't work.!)

Beautiful Day.

On a day like this,

Snowed-in .

Music floated snowflake-light

Bathed low in winter sun

nurtured warmth, held only love

This big world bright,

shiny-faced skittered

seeds on thawed darkest soil

They painted the blank canvas

And I spattered blood

Crimson cries to earthly hell

Became what I feared

Broke bones like promises

Heard the strings the chorus

My hardened heart a fist

I could kill, I nearly did

this haunts me now

Broken ghosts remember shadows

Seeking the light where I try to shine.

(And this one!! I actually really like our town!)

Our Town

This is the peaceful town

talking up the strangers hand

local garbage round the back

The rats know the craic

Christmas lights line the way

Twinkle tears for

Madtroplis hell

This your day

This our town

Feet grind the pavements

Jaws drop the goss

Dish the dirt

Dirty laundry in public spaces

Dirty dishes in the sink

From last nights Indian

Drizzling rains grease the streets

Greasy tea greasy tills

In the cafes of the lost the lonely

Darkness comes early

To our town

MORE BUS POET ACHIEVEMENT !

2010-11-18T22:27:00.003Z

JoAnne McKay (Titus) is doing this.. click HERE
to find out!

Peter Goulding has more successes than I can keep up with. This was a recent one here

THE ENCHANTED BUS!

2010-11-17T23:24:00.009Z

Well my little apple strudels it's that time of the week again where a marvellous blogpoet sets the weekly task! Gasp and yippee! Many thanks to last weeks driver Karen who took us down poetry lane so splendidly.

This week tis the turn of Chris (Enchanted Oak) whose blog is really worth watching, specially for poems. Chris is a giant Bonsai tree specialist. No she isn't giant, the trees are giant. Years of experimental grafting and manipulation have produced bonsai in excess of thirty feet! A marvelous achievement I'm sure you will agree. In her spare time Chris likes to yodel and knit teeth warmers out of Yaks wool. A keen racing driver in the 80's she once lapped Brazillian ace Ayrton Senna several times in her three wheeled Reliant Robin only to run out of elastic bands on the final lap.
Her task this week is HERE
But don't rush over there just yet. C'mere here to me, there's more.

The POetry Bus Mag launched last Monday week in The International Bar in Dublin and was a great night, probably mainly because I wasn't there! I got ill and missed it.Doh! But by the magic of the interwireless I and you can watch the whole sheboodle right here here
It's in the highlights and are the first five videos on page two. I downloaded them here but my computer is so old and slow it fecked it right up, so I had to take them off. If stuck go to thepoetrybus.blogspot.com where you can still see them

There is some terrific stuff on there so have a rummage! It was run as part of The Glór sessions which are on every Mon night and you can watch them live at this address every week here , so tune in and say hello (I'll be there online) and witness a great nights entertainment all run by the inspirational Mr Stephen James Smith.

And congratulations to all these bus poets whose fame and fortune has increased no end since I helped them get on the bus.
Colm Keegan (Uiscebot) couldn't even speak till he joined the bus,so thanks to me he is now All Ireland Poetry SlamChampion.
Kate Dempsey (Emerging Writer) is in the latest Magma , thanks to me,after being spotted on the backseat of the bus.
Niamh Bagnell (Various) has a short story in the latest Stinging Fly, again thanks to me and the bus.
Mags Treanor (Arsekick) has a poem in my (2nd) favourite poetry mag in the world The SHOp and Mags couldn't write at all before she was published and nurtured by myself and the poetry bus.
Bus poets St James Harris Wood and his son Zak are also in The SHOp as is bus poet and TS Eliot prizewinner George Szirtes who owes the success of his entire literary career to me.
Triona Walsh (Domestic Oubliette) is pregnant (congratulations), but that has absolutley nothing to do with me, or the bus, at all..

Incidentally Colm, Kate,Niamh and Mags all read on the launch night, as did fellow bus poets PJ Nolan and Carol Boland. So many thanks to them, they were brilliant.

Also The Poetry Library in London have ordered a copy of the first issue of The Poetry Bus Mag and want to subscribe to further issues. Which is great news.

Now you can go to Enchanted Oaks!

STILL TIME TO GET ABOARD !!

2010-11-14T02:48:00.004Z

Yes peeps, tis almost poetry bus time, monday that half eaten biscuit of a day of the week, that grey featureless blancmange o a 24 hour period, saved only by hightailing it to the stars on the cosmic poetry bus, No time though to think just write like you are Niagara Falls trying to put out a city burning in the night. Think of the STEAM!
Steam age poetry. Get your Mojo running, get out on the highway, let your waters break down the walls of flame, this house is on fire ,the city is on fire, the world's going up in flames, don't let it burn!

Tis weeks task set by Karen is... 'to write about one of the following:(1) a time you had to choose between two clearly divergent paths; (2) a time you were called to walk a path you didn't choose for yourself; or (3) a time you refused to travel the path you were called to follow. If these won't work for you, write anything about a choice you made'

See her own poem, the task in full and other stuff HERE
Many thanks to Karen for taking time off from her elephant reiki duties at the local zoo where she works part time, to set this task. Karen, an ex haute couture dress designer and traffic warden holds the world record for most boiled eggs eaten in a minute underwater (Seven) and is a keen collector of other peoples toenail clippings, thousands of which have been posted to her from around the world. She is particularly proud of her celebrity clippings which include toenails from Nelson Mandella, Seamus Heaney, Lady Gaga and Wayne Rooney.

Remember folks Rome is for everybody, not just for christians and lions, so don't fiddle with this riddle while it burns, get writing!

Birdsong

A single leaf among all the trees,

a single bird among all the birds

Questions without answers

turning slowly above

a universal song

that the simple wren sang

And a broken leaf fell

And kept on falling

Through deepest days

Darkest nights

Fell through time

Tumbled down red and brown

Starshaped brittle

never hitting the ground

The tiny bird just sang and sang

Without question or answer

And while it sang

The world stood still

And time stood still

That the tumbling leaf

Might find some peace.

Get up! Stand up!

2010-11-12T01:14:00.003Z

Sick and tired ,I'm sick and I'm tired
Of the ME ME ME democracy
the established
path of the poet so travelled
so look at ME ME ME ME
I'm I'M I'm
and the money oh the money oh the moneeey
Don't give up the fight
never give up the light
never a mention but the look at I
grazing in the lush fields of established meant
bursary funded writers centre retreat
from the beat beat beat
this is poetry, this is Ireland
THIS is POETRY Ireland
this is the centre,
this is the writer,
this is The Irish Writers Centre.
This is the arts, here is the council
this is the heart of the arts council
Get up stand up
don't give in the fight
get up stand up seperate wrong from right
listen to the voices of the right
a hard rain it's a long reign
a hard reign is going to fall
get up stand up
don't forget to write
get up stand up
for what you need to write
writing all the wrongs righting all the songs
writings on the wall, hard rains going to fall
heard rains going to call,
'Arm, arm!' they cried
we have come to lead you
to the promised land
to the equal land
to the soft held hand
to the peace and quiet
they can't deny it
if we get up stand up
stand up for our rights
get up stand up
see the guiding lights
saying nothing only let's them win
doing nothing is the greatest sin
get up stand up
stand up for your rights
get up stand up don't forget to fight
get up!

KAREN CAPTAINS THE BUS!!

2010-11-11T01:19:00.002Z

Loads of stuff going on. Launch was great success, I didn't make it. Tell all when head straight. Yabba Dabba!

Latest Bus Trip
HERE

THE POETRY BUS LAUNCH NIGHT

2010-11-08T12:12:00.004Z

If you cant make it to The International Bar 8pm Wicklow street, why not tune in live at the link below.The Poetry Bus Mag will be officially launched along with top selling (no 3 so far, in the irish top selling books list) 'Soundings' that has people like John Milton and shakespeare and Seamus Heaney and lots of other dead people.
There will be living poets too like these wonderful Bus poets.. Colm Keegan, Carol Boland, Mags Treanor, Kate Dempsey, Maggie O'Dwyer, Niamh Bagnell, Emer Fallon, Pj Nolan, Stephen James Smith. All feckin brilliant, wait till you hear them!

Live music from Colm O'Snodaigh of top group Kilá.

Do NOT miss this!!
Tune in around 8.30 and keep checking till it goes live on air..
HERE

Also many thanks To Liz gallagher for driving last week and to Jessica Maybury for this weeks watery task, here's my efforts.

Wet Dreams.

Double yellow lines

110 miles per hour

Sal solo

Joe Stalin does what he says

On the tin

We’re in deep

Water

H2 O

Bottled up

Rapid flow

Flood plains

Stagnant jest

Safety vest

Hurricane west

East of Java

Key Largo Orson

Wells Fargo

Water waiter

Walter Mathau

H2O

Drip drip

In the night

Incadescense

Lack of sleep

Liquid dreams

Molten skies

Curly fries

Water water

I don't drink

as much as I oughta

Free flowin lip smackin

Water? Yeuch !

Fish fuck in it.

Plughole... (A song)

no tune yet..offers???

They call me big Fats Waller

Fats Domino, Pizza man-

Though I used be Memphis Slim,

Living drinking day and night

Is slowly doing me in.

Tired of whistling after dead dogs

Pissing up the walls

Senses buzzing like a drone

Gonna unpack a six pack gun

And I’m goin way back home

Tired of losing day jobs

Tired of being tired

Tired of whiskey Beer and Gin

Didn’t get my wishlist

So I’m saving up on sin

Sick of getting no thanks

For the terror that I hold

I’m tired of being what I do

I used to be someone’s someone

Now I’m gonna find out who

Throw away that sawn-off

Poets make no point

Words giving you the slip

This captains going overboard

Fuck that stinking ship

I’m leaving town at daybreak

Not at the break of day

Breaking no more bones

Kicking out the dead men

Rolling away the stones

Dreaming needs some sleep

Sleeping needs good dreams

Not those faces that I meet

Get some warmth in to me

Before I hit unconscious street

One more bottle of whiskey

One nugget of consolation

One little skin of gin

No man can turn the world around

Till he gets his head to spin

Two more nights of drinking

For each day of being alone

Got to do some thinking

Before I head my head back home

Straighten out the rat’s tales

Then I’m going back home

Yeah, I’m going home

One day I’m going home

Soon I’m going home

One more bottle one last song

Then I’m going home

Going home

MORE BUS SHENANIGANS AND TING

2010-11-02T16:21:00.003Z

Driving for the first time in the history of the universe is the talented Jessica Maybury, so get over there for Mon 8th Nov with Jessica Maybury HERE
Jessica runs her own mobile patisserie and herbal remedy shop from the back of a classic 60's Volkswagen Camper Van, which doubles up as a roaming chipper and bedroom by night. Jessica won worldwide critical acclaim for her theories and papers on' macrobiotics and the deep fried Mars Bar in the modern culinary clique' and' the literary influences of JCB's in both the sanskrit short story and topiary.'

AND, WHILE I'M SHOUTING, DON'T FORGET THE LAUNCH!! DETAILS BELLOWED BELOW...

Yes, folks, the earth used be flat then roundness was discovered,people used to walk miles to the next village to buy things, then Aston Martins were invented. Cyanide , lead and dog poo were used to clean teeth, then toothpaste was invented, people used to read boring poetry then THE POETRY BUS MAGAZINE was invented.

And to mark this huge leap forward for mankind we are having an entertainment EXTRAVAGANZA in The International Bar Wicklow Street Dublin Eiré and EVERYBODY is invited, so get yer coat, get walking, hop on a bicycle, a bus, a boat, a plane, a kangaroo, JUST GET THERE! Monday 8th November 8pm.

There will be freshley brewed Guinness* there will be music from the brilliant Colm ó Snodaigh of Kilá fame, there will be real live actual BUS POETS reading poems from THE POETRY BUS MAGAZINE including host Stephen James Smith, Mags Treanor, Pj Nolan (AKA Scalder), Niamh (various) Bagnell, Triona (Domestic Oubliette) Walsh, Kate (Emerging Writer) Dempsey, Carol Boland, Peadar (TotalFeckinEEjit) O'Donoghue and recently crowned All Ireland Poetry Slam Champion Colm Keegan.
Other things will also surely happen.

The old skool poetry book Soundings will also be revamped and re-launched with poets reading their fave old skool poems.

How much does this smorgesbord of entertainment cost? Is it €50 ? No! Is it €20? No !
not even 10 nor 5 nor 2 nor €1. All this is FREE!
Where else would ya get it!!??

The craic will be mighty, so be there on the nighty

*(other alcoholic products are also available) but they're not as nice.

The pic above is Butane Boy (copyright) by Colm Keegan and available as a FREE limited edition print with every copy of The Poetry Bus Magazine. Copies are still available but running low. BUY IT NOW. Buying the first issue is a vote for people poetry and a financial contribution to both the production of issue two, and the survival of this entirely unfunded adventure. Thank you.

POETRY BUS MAGAZINE LIVE LAUNCH

2010-11-02T13:26:00.006Z

Yes, folks, the earth used be flat then roundness was discovered,people used to walk miles to the next village to buy things, then Aston Martins were invented. Cyanide , lead and dog poo were used to clean teeth, then toothpaste was invented, people used to read boring poetry then THE POETRY BUS MAGAZINE was invented.

And to mark this huge leap forward for mankind we are having an entertainment EXTRAVAGANZA in The International Bar Wicklow Street Dublin Eiré and EVERYBODY is invited, so get yer coat, get walking, hop on a bicycle, a bus, a boat, a plane, a kangaroo, JUST GET THERE! Monday 8th November 8pm.

There will be freshley brewed Guinness* there will be music from the brilliant Colm ó Snodaigh of Kilá fame, there will be real live actual BUS POETS reading poems from THE POETRY BUS MAGAZINE including host Stephen James Smith, Mags Treanor, Pj Nolan (AKA Scalder), Niamh (various) Bagnell, Triona (Domestic Oubliette) Walsh, Kate (Emerging Writer) Dempsey, Carol Boland, Peadar (TotalFeckinEEjit) O'Donoghue and recently crowned All Ireland Poetry Slam Champion Colm Keegan.
Other things will also surely happen.

The old skool poetry book Soundings will also be revamped and re-launched with poets reading their fave old skool poems.

How much does this smorgesbord of entertainment cost? Is it €50 ? No! Is it €20? No !
not even 10 nor 5 nor 2 nor €1. All this is FREE!
Where else would ya get it!!??

The craic will be mighty, so be there on the nighty

*(other alcoholic products are also available) but they're not as nice.

The pic above is Butane Boy (copyright) by Colm Keegan and available as a FREE limited edition print with every copy of The Poetry Bus Magazine. Copies are still available but running low. BUY IT NOW. Buying the first issue is a vote for people poetry and a financial contribution to both the production of issue two, and the survival of this entirely unfunded adventure. Thank you.

OOPS! messed up there. Here's plan B

2010-10-31T12:27:00.002Z

Apologos , Mea culpa, I missed some of the kind offers to drive out, feckinEEjit! So...

Jessica Maybury Nov 8th

Karen Nov 15th

Dana Bug Nov 29th

Kato Dec 6th

Titus Dec 13th

Weaver Dec 20th

Muse Swings Dec 27th

More drivers, new drivers, old drivers always needed !

To the rescue!

2010-10-31T01:32:00.002+01:00

Many thanks to the following hardy individuals for stepping up to the drivers door ...Mwahahahahahah!! I have you now!

Jessica Maybury Nov 8th

Karen Nov 15th

Dana Bug Nov 29th

Kato Dec 6th

Muse Swings Dec 13th

Weaver Dec 20th

You know how to drive a bus doncha?

2010-10-30T16:03:00.004+01:00

Just put your lips together and blow. Or is that whistling?

Either which way drivers are required.No previous experience, talent, or ability necessary, as can be seen from the previous drivers...(Ok,I'm joking, I'm joking, calm down!)

Next available driverless dates,in order of appearance, are... Nov 8th and Nov 15th followed by Nov 29th, Dec 6th, Dec 13th.

Ask not what these dates can do for you, but what you can do for these dates.Now is the time comrades to rise from the ranks, to proudly stick your nose above the steering wheel of life and show the world what you can do, to bravely take charge and steer a bus full of burgeoning and blustering creativity and mould it to the shape of your imagination ,then send it off round the highways and byways of the globe like a chariot of fire.

Think of the power, the adrenalin rush, the satisfaction in knowing that when the bus's hour of need came you were there at the bus stop with your wit, your wisdom, and your sandwiches.That you stood tall , climbed aboard, taking care not bang your head on the conductors pole, and with pride thumping in your chest like a rabbit in a shoebox,you magnificently and single handedly lead the people of the bus out, out, OUT! of the creative darkness and into the all embracing bright-lit dawn of POETRY!

Then in years to come when your golden child or grandchild looks flutteringly up into your kindly old face and asks ' 'Mummsie/Pater/Nanny/ Grandpa, what did you do in the poetry war?'
You can lift your wrinkly old chin up high and proudly say... 'Who the fuck are you?'

Well that's what my grandparents used to say to me anytime I asked them anything.

And from Dec 20th through to 27th I'll be driving a (un)spectacular reindeer powered CHRISTMAS Holiday SPECIAL bus on ice, with mince pies,pints of Baileys, and (temporarily) live dancing (well, running)Turkeys! Don't miss it! Ho! ho! ho! oh, no! no! no! Not yet!

Play it again Sam!!

You must now drive the bus
a place for each one of us
on it you can rely

The world will always welcome Bus Poets
as it drives by.