BEASLEY STREET - JOHN COOPER CLARKE

Far from crazy pavements - The taste of silver spoons A clinical arrangement On a dirty afternoon Where the fecal germs of Mr Freud Are rendered obsolete The legal term is null and void In the case of Beasley Street

In the cheap seats where murder breeds Somebody is out of breath Sleep is a luxury they don't need - a sneak preview of death Belladonna is your flower Manslaughter your meat Spend a year in a couple of hours On the edge of Beasley Street

Where the action isn't That's where it is State your position Vacancies exist In an X-certificate exercise Ex-servicemen excrete Keith Joseph smiles and a baby dies In a box on Beasley Street

From the boarding houses and the bedsits Full of accidents and fleas Somebody gets it Where the missing persons freeze Wearing dead men's overcoats You can't see their feet A riff joint shuts - opens up Right down on Beasley Street

Cars collide, colours clash Disaster movie stuff For a man with a Fu Manchu moustache Revenge is not enough There's a dead canary on a swivel seat There's a rainbow in the road Meanwhile on Beasley Street Silence is the code

Hot beneath the collar An inspector calls Where the perishing stink of squalor Impregnates the walls The rats have all got rickets They spit through broken teeth The name of the game is not cricket Caught out on Beasley Street

The hipster and his hired hat Drive a borrowed car Yellow socks and a pink cravat Nothing La-di-dah OAP, mother to be Watch the three-piece suite When shit-stoppered drains And crocodile skis Are seen on Beasley Street

The kingdom of the blind A one-eyed man is king Beauty problems are redefined The doorbells do not ring A lightbulb bursts like a blister The only form of heat Here a fellow sells his sister Down the river on Beasley Street

The boys are on the wagon The girls are on the shelf Their common problem is That they're not someone else The dirt blows out The dust blows in You can't keep it neat It's a fully furnished dustbin, Sixteen Beasley Street

Vince the ageing savage Betrays no kind of life But the smell of yesterday's cabbage And the ghost of last year's wife Through a constant haze Of deodorant sprays He says retreat Alsations dog the dirty days Down the middle of Beasley Street

StreetPeople turn to poison Quick as lager turns to piss Sweethearts are physically sick Every time they kiss. It's a sociologist's paradise Each day repeats On easy, cheesy, greasy, queasy Beastly Beasley Street

Eyes dead as vicious fish Look around for laughs If I could have just one wish I would be a photograph On a permanent Monday morning Get lost or fall asleep When the yellow cats are yawning Around the back of Beasley Street

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night - Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

I love you I love you not

THESE ARE ENTRIES TO A WASHINGTON POST COMPETITION
ASKING FOR A TWO-LINE RHYME
WITH THE MOST ROMANTIC FIRST LINE,
AND THE LEAST ROMANTIC SECOND LINE:

1. My darling, my lover, my beautiful wife:
Marrying you has screwed up my life.

2. I see your face when I am dreaming.
That's why I always wake up screaming.

3. Kind, intelligent, loving and hot;
This describes everything you are not.

4. Love may be beautiful, love may be bliss,
But I only slept with you 'cause I was pissed.

5. I thought that I could love no other
-- that is until I met your brother.

6. Roses are red, violets are blue, sugar is sweet, and so are you.
But the roses are wilting, the violets are dead, the sugar bowl's
empty and so is your head.

7. I want to feel your sweet embrace;
But don't take that paper bag off your face.

8. I love your smile, your face, and your eyes
Damn, I'm good at telling lies!

9. My love, you take my breath away.
What have you stepped in to smell this way?

10. My feelings for you no words can tell,
Except for maybe 'Go to hell.'

11. What inspired this amorous rhyme?
Two parts vodka, one part lime.

WHO SAID POETRY IS BORING

Greenlands Mountains

The scenery and the way the awfy poet fae Dundee saw it.

GREENLAND'S icy mountains are fascinating and grand,
And wondrously created by the Almighty's command;
And the works of the Almighty there's few can understand:
Who knows but it might be a part of Fairyland?

Because there are churches of ice, and houses glittering like glass,
And for scenic grandeur there's nothing can it surpass,
Besides there's monuments and spires, also ruins,
Which serve for a safe retreat from the wild bruins.

And there's icy crags and precipices, also beautiful waterfalls,
And as the stranger gazes thereon, his heart it appals
With a mixture of wonder, fear, and delight,
Till at last he exclaims, Oh! what a wonderful sight!

The icy mountains they're higher than a brig's topmast,
And the stranger in amazement stands aghast
As he beholds the water flowing off the melted ice
Adown the mountain sides, that he cries out, Oh! how nice!

Such sights as these are truly magnificent to be seen,
Only that the mountain tops are white instead of green,
And rents and caverns in them, the same as on a rugged mountain side,
And suitable places, in my opinion, for mermaids to reside.

Sometimes these icy mountains suddenly topple o'er
With a wild and rumbling hollow-starting roar;
And new peaks and cliffs rise up out of the sea,
While great cataracts of uplifted brine pour down furiously.

And those that can witness such an awful sight
Can only gaze thereon in solemn silence and delight,
And the most Godfearless man that hath this region trod
Would be forced to recognise the power and majesty of God.

Oh! how awful and grand it must be on a sunshiny day
To see one of these icy mountains in pieces give way!
While, crack after crack, it falls with a mighty crash
Flat upon the sea with a fearful splash.

And in the breaking up of these mountains they roar like thunder,
Which causes the stranger no doubt to wonder;
Also the Esquimaux of Greenland betimes will stand
And gaze on the wondrous work of the Almighty so grand.

When these icy mountains are falling, the report is like big guns,
And the glittering brilliancy of them causes mock-suns,
And around them there's connected a beautiful ring of light,
And as the stranger looks thereon, it fills his heart with delight.

Oh! think on the danger of seafaring men
If any of these mighty mountains where falling on them;
Alas! they would be killed ere the hand of man could them save
And, poor creatures, very likely find a watery grave!

'Tis most beautiful to see and hear the whales whistling and blowing,
And the sailors in their small boats quickly after them rowing,
While the whales keep lashing the water all their might
With their mighty tails, left and right.

In winter there's no sunlight there night or day,
Which, no doubt, will cause the time to pass tediously away,
And cause the Esquimaux to long for the light of day,
So as they will get basking themselves in the sun's bright array.

In summer there is perpetual sunlight,
Which fill the Esquimaux's hearts with delight;
And is seen every day and night in the blue sky,
Which makes the scenery appear most beautiful to the eye.

During summer and winter there the land is covered with snow,
Which sometimes must fill the Esquimaux' hearts with woe
As they traverse fields of ice, ten or fifteen feet thick,
And with cold, no doubt, their hearts will be touched to the quick.

And let those that read or hear this feel thankful to God
That the icy fields of Greenland they have never trod;
Especially while seated around the fireside on a cold winter night,
Let them think of the cold and hardships Greenland sailors have to fight.

January 25th Burns Day

Today is the day many Scots celebrate Rabbie Burns, The Bard, felt to be Scotlands National Poet by many, or as Snootipedia describes him as a "poet and lyricist". Sounds a bit pretentious, for such a common man born into poverty and who grew up looking after the cattle. Born exactly 200 years before me and living only 37 years, he developed a tremendous legacy of Scottish language.

Many will eat haggis and drink whiskey at numerous Burns Suppers around the world. These are generally pretty formal and stuffy events, based upon my experience of attendance at one in Singapore about ten years ago. Generally, drunken people get up and talk funny and then tuck into haggis and the required embellishments. Although I am quite partial to haggis now and again, whiskey you can keep for the most part.

A little background for the uninitiated.

Fae Scottish Wikipedia

Haggis is a traditional Scots dish. It is a wechtie pudden traditionally served wi chappit neeps an tatties.

Altho the'r monie recipes, some uisin deer emmledeug, for ordinar it's makkit wi the follaein ingredients: sheep's hert, liver, an lichts, minced wi ingan, aitmael, shuet, spices, and saut, mixt wi bree an traditionally byled in the beast's painch for several hoors. It is amang the maist muckle kinds o sassenger. The'r recipes athoot maet an aa, speceifically for vegetarians, that tastes gey seimilar tae the maet-based receipts.

There's even a wee Haggis poem by Robert Burns. This is the first verse of Tae a Haggis, spoken prior to the ritual decapitation of the poor wee beastie prior to being devoured.

"Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o' the Puddin-race! Aboon them a' ye tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm: Weel are ye wordy of a grace As lang's my arm."