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The Peyote-ry Zone

I cannot lie. I only became good at poetry after copious consumption of narcotics. Hence I wrote this. I would be ignorant to state that those who stand in the way of good peyote-ry might shudder inwardly at the thought of so many laws being broken: meter, iambic pentameter etc in the pursuit of a morally good existence/life but I cannot write in any other way.

The Iambic pentameter whom nobody loved 

Sat down at the bank of the river and cried

Why does nobody love my throbbing prose

The daisies turned their heads and sang

‘Cause we’re too busy getting…..(insert favourite activity here)’

She was so upset by this she jumped into the river and was drowned.

But by some miracle, she survived!

Later, she had a good think about her close escape and returned to the river bank and sat down with a book in hand to write the story of her life. Lighting a big ‘un she began’

‘I hated Iambic pentameter which is why i decided to become a poet…’

This is like owning up to a NO-GO secret like ONE THAT I HAD. I agreed to go in the army because I trusted my dad. Longtime ago Big Mistake! But I taught me that sometimes even if we end up doing something for all the wrong reasons that sucks bigtime we still do it! And it’s not our fault if we weren’t thinking then if we didn’t know how or why we were alive or really have much of a clue about what we really wanted to do at the time when it sounded like a good idea.

Recently I gave up on science to concentrate on poetry. I began this post wondering how to get into the zone. I had been reading Edgar Allen Poe Tamerlane and Ted Hughes early works today and followed that by writing thirty lines of prose, which is not what I had expected. Again I looked at the poems by Poe and felt eager to emulate his great work I was just understanding it not really digesting it though like a cow with only one stomach It went right through me! Really unclogged me!! But the words did not come!

Why? I did not expect it. I cannot describe or predict the artistic process, creative process, poetry process. It all takes time. God knows how I wrote the ‘good’ poems I wrote except that they bloomed when they were ready to bloom. No-one thing did it either I believe. Even peyote (which I have never ever smoked) could not predict the coming words.

During my misspent youth at around twenty years of age, I wrote two lines of poetry

‘radio’s my only friend

don’t let it ever end’

And it was twenty-five years later that they ended up with a poem/song/lyric.

Play On

It’s a wrong way of life
that you feel deep inside
knowing that you can’t go on
With the feeling going on

(Radios my only friend)
(don’t let it ever end)

Going down to the disco
Looking for someone alive
There’s a big get to
And you know you
did something right

Carry on Carry on
The Sgt Majors
got a baton

Carry on Carry on
Got a mate in a band
Got suicidal and he took your haaaaaa’nd

There is a light at the end of the tunnel
Throw away the hipflask with the funnel
with the funnel
with the funnel
Yeah!
Can play on, and on, and on, and on, and on


There’s no way of knowing. So perhaps you just have to wait. And read. And write. And laze. And bite. Away.

Anyway, I enjoy writing other than poetry and this comes through in what I write myself. I have enjoyed this passage of time like a surprising whisky flavour but it is more rewarding because I get to share it with you, eyeball.(we are online after-all)

So go on and write that verse and don’t worry if you hate meter, rhythm, iambic BLOODY pentameter. Just give it a go. (I am telling myself)

Thank-you eyeball for your undivided attention. Ta-ta.

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Uncategorized

The Walking Show

Crosseyed at dawn; fences silhouetted, cows moo!

I avoid cow pats but the smell is thick in the air.

Filling my boots I run towards the group and the waiting mini-bus queue.

Warthogs are not from these parts or in my mind as we traverse

cattle grids and leave the wild hills behind.

What did that air imbue in mind body and sinew than thirty years after

the event I can recall it’s essence anew?

Was it the food or the friends or the country air or the mud or cows chewing

on the cud and the stories and campfires and treks through fields where Bulls roamed free?

Or was it the feeling of just being me? Alone in a crowd. Not imprisoned just allowed to be?

To peek here and there over the walls to look at the flowers and weeds, to breathe in something pretty?

It wasn’t about girls or having the best, of that I can put your mind to rest. Nothing of that kind existed yet. But the little bridge over the mountain river would bring my heart up into my mouth as we floated along like a procession of waterproof wearing ducks our footsteps resounding in my ears: a hollow sound but one I followed wishing I made the same sound but I never did I always thought my footsteps inferior to those gone before.

I accepted this on the basis that I had the wrong boots or the wrong walk and that I should watch my Dad the next time I saw him as I knew he had the right sound, the right walk an all and that it would as he promised of the future ‘would come to me’. So I didn’t worry at all.

That the future did come to me was prescient of he although he forgot to mention that the party might be gatecrashed. Accordingly, I left him out of my will and vowed that I would wring his wallet dry of beer money until we were even!

Still, the country has the same effect on me although these days I am usually too stressed to notice how my feet make the right sounds that I skilfully avoid cowpats and easily traverse stiles. But I am still scared of bulls. Don’t tell anybody!

Now I want to do poetry. And something has just occurred to me: A poet is not just a poet by name only but is someone who does poetry. Really? I shall have to wait and see if that definition helps me understand what it is to be a poet but the question is vexing me especially when I tell people that I have given up my studies to ‘commit’ to poetry. I feel so hollow when I say those words and my heart goes up into my mouth and I feel that my poetry is not as good as those who went before me or those coming up after me. Perhaps this is a game I don’t yet know the rules of and don’t understand or is it God’s cruel joke played on people across the land? And we are toy soldiers in his hand?

Well, I have written hundreds of little poems so far and can call them my own although I posted them online I only wrote them for me and there perhaps is one source of anxiety. As a poet, you write for people to read or it’s performed and its kind of a show is one version of how it goes.

Performance? Show? Ooooeeer! Saying that I have listened to Ted Hughes (the old Poet Laureate) and he doesn’t sound like he put on a performance just makes me sound ignorant (i think) so I will say that perhaps it is a skill that can be learned like any other skill in life.

There we go!

Crisis over. Phew!

So on with the show (!)

Ta, ta folks!

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Uncategorized

Insidious remarks

Which word do you choose?

I have no control

over me or you

working on big things

things that bite and bump and scream

evil slime and bile intestine

No matter how you paint my frown

it is you who is going down, aha aha

Going down

Going down

Going down

aha

It is you who are going down

aha

It is you who are going down

 

Another day goes by in a minor key

Thrice I prayed for no more days like these

(As I bring you to your knees)

There is a calm silence that can only be broken

by the sound of your screams. Your screams are

Music to me, Sing me a melody of pain, of your pain.

The cleansing of your soul, the purification within

The droplets of blood a decoration.

 

Of your tableau of pain, of pain, of pain.

A Watkins Nov. ’17

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Uncategorized

From Beyond The Grave

Instead of, replacing, substitute

great lines of mere words in order.

Great men, musicians, playwrights, novelists

stealing my future from their graves

Stalling me in my tracks for style

Mocking my attempts at verse

Without batting an eye for a plagiarist

who ‘quotes’ them in inverted commas

borrowing from their fame and efforts

neither trialled or gaoled or censured.

Unapologetically me this time, I must be.

Lining the silks of my own coffin, with words

that will last a million years much longer

then a mere hundred or so and be catapulted

into space to represent the human race…

I don’t know how it will be yet and then I

will be gone. Next 2 me in Westminster

Abbey, you may have sat and wept for this

and for that placing your cup on my tomb

and leaving it there for the cleaners to remove.

Nevermind me, turn me into a literary tragedy

before I am born again. Let the fan who made the

pilgrimage to see me weep at your unthinking

actions. Fear not they will not strike you, but god might.

And remember ‘Don’t plagiarise me!’

A Watkins Nov. ’17

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Blogging, Uncategorized

Paranoid

Is the internet making us selfish? Like the high street of old are there places where the Weirdos went but where no respectable person would be seen?

Is it the internet’s fault? And wasn’t the internet supposed to be the place where you can go and be whoever you want?

I am a non-earner in terms of the internet economy. I may be kind and welcoming to new comers as that is one of my internet roles but when it comes to internet banking I want it working I don’t care about the colour scheme. Even the welcome you get from the banks is sincerely delivered. It’s all about what you can get away with -surely?

With this in mind, I hope to become a peddler of clicks and whirrs Whoops! I mean clicks and eyes as I have a blog which has no ulterior motive for people to get suspicious about other than it’s something I created that I would like to share perchance to raise an eyebrow or titillate a vein such is my innocence.

I am at home all day and all of the night which you would think gives me more time to write and draw but we are dealing with daresay voodoo economics when it comes to art and writing. A minute is well…a minute. But it can seem like an hour.

So get behind my new post by clicking follow or watch or favourite or Like in whatever language you are using. And remember …something profound. Or if you can’t invite around that really annoying relative you have and talk with them for three hours. That’ll put things in profound perspective!

Till next time. Ta ta.

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poem, prose, Uncategorized

Ash-ed

Whoosh (air) Something came in, something left

beats rhyme, cymbals moan, pipes groan, vocals rest

their hands on your shoulders and take you for a dance.

Casino sounds merge with memory to leave you skint with feeling

Did you ever get carried away with thrash guitar and drums?

In that state of suggestion, anything comes to mind

you are a beaker and your cerebra-spinal fluid thrums

With knowledge of what got left behind

At least until now desiccated cow, dried sirloin, ash-ed rump

And now finally you’re getting ________

And bed wetting scenes

And lurid dreams

lucidly the demon with smiling jaws leads you by the hand

and into the paper sky where biro arguments leave your mouth dry.

And scud sand dunes.

Petty lions and drawn out silences are all that remain.

©2017 Andrew Watkins

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