Death of a Scofflaw
he was popular
with the police force, they will
miss his demeanour.
inspired by The Daily Jolt.
Death of a Scofflaw
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The Daily Jolt Names the Day (plus a haiku about law enforcement)
…and the day is Friday!
…and your Daily Jolt is…….
Scofflaw
…which is an actual word meaning : “a person who flouts the law, who literally scoffs at the law”
Scofflaw (the haiku)
call yourself a cop
well, who the hell arrested
your development?
If today’s jolt word inspires you to write a post, let me know by linking your post to this blog, or post a comment.
Daily Jolt Update:
So far, the most frequent contributor to The Daily Jolt has been the witty, the inimitable, the one and only Steve Simpson, in fact he has been the one and only contributor.
If you are not reading Steve’s blog you are missing a treat; Steve is one of the most original poets out there. He writes fantasies underpinned by the everyday! Check him out here !
Four Lines That Kill Me Every Time (1)
“There’s flies in the kitchen I can hear ’em there buzzing
And I ain’t done nothing since I woke up today.
How the hell can a person go to work in the morning
And come home in the evening and have nothing to say.”
This is from “Angel from Montgomery” by John Prine……a life in 4 lines, says more than some novels.
There are many versions of this song but one of the best is by Bonnie Raitt and John Prine.
Lost (Rhyme On)
Lost
like a gnome without a garden
like Shakespeare without a fool
like a priest without a pulpit
like a freak without control
like Camus without The Stranger
like a saviour without a manger
like a gambler without a wager
like Keef without the Stones.
Rooster (Ometepe haiku)
Rooster
still dark, the rooster
starts his moronic complaint
damn pre-emptive cock
The Daily Jolt Lives Another Day (but will England?)
…..and the Daily Jolt word is “tumultaneous”, meaning “when two tumultuous events occur simultaneously”…
So, for example, if the Conservative government in England was to implode tomorrow over Brexit and at the same time, the English soccer team was to lose to Croatia in the World Cup, those two events would be considered to be “tumultaneous”.
Note: To date, The Daily Jolt (my cynical attempt to boost traffic on my blog) has not been a success that roars, but still I am enjoying it because I appear to be inspiring myself, self-jolting, so to speak…..
If you are inspired by or use the jolt word, let me know through a comment or link.
Waiting for Slim/ Melania’s Cheekbones
Waiting for Slim
Sunday afternoon in late June
I’m sitting outside The Post-Coital Beetle
watching the traffic on Broadway,
at the next table, four bearded guys
wearing flat caps and plaid shirts,
looking like the bastard sons of Mumford,
are downing pints of over-hopped pale ale.
At the traffic lights, an eighteen year old Asian kid
checks his hair in the rear view mirror
while his Lamborghini growls
like a panther on a leash.
And who is this slouching along Broadway
his bald head shining in the sun?
No, it is not an image out of Spiritus Mundi,
it’s not one of the boys of summer,
it’s Slim,
a man with all the charm of a pit bull with distemper;
his remaining hair is scrunched into an angry man-bun
he’s carrying a magazine
which he slams down on the table in front of me
“Look at this bullshit!” he whines.
Later, as the sun goes down over Point Grey
and automatic timers turn lights
on in empty Styrofoam mansions,
we settle in to a plate of nachos
and one pitcher follows another
until we find ourselves face to face
trading lines like Lennon and McCartney (well, not quite)
and driven by our shared admiration
of Melania Trump’s granite cheekbones
we compose this maudlin cri de couer
Melania
his megalomania
don’t let it stain ya
don’t let it restrain ya
don’t let it contain ya
and if he should fail ya
remember this:
you know the size
of his hands
and his……..
(the last line is drowned out
by the roar of a feral Ferrari
tearing down Broadway).
there is no stopping us…
Ivanka (a slimverse)
Ivanka
no offence
but your dad’s
a wanka.
there was more, but I can’t remember…..
Picasso at the Vancouver Art Gallery
Picas-so-what? (a slimverse)
oh yes, Jim
it’s still life
but not as
we know it.
Notes: Apparently the phrase “It’s life, Jim, but not as we know it” is from a song by “The Firm” called “Star Trekkin” and not from the series “Star Trek”as I had thought!
Photo: “Coming Into Land”
Botero Awareness redux (a tetra-slimverse)
Botero Awareness
I was not
aware of
Botero
until I
visited
Medellin
where he is
famous for
his art and
his largesse,
one could say
his largesse
is nigh on
bottomless
but his art
it is not.
Photos by Marie Feeney
Holy Scripture (a Slimverse)
Holy Scripture
when asked to
pick a font
he replied:
baptismal.
Photo Of Baptistry, Pisa, Italy.
Pigments of the Imagination
Pigments of the Imagination
black crow, a
chunk of white
bread, becomes
an eagle,
pigments in
flight, flying
pigments, yes,
imagine.
….the return of slimverse* after a month of haiku.
* A verse form in which each line can contain only 3 syllables and each verse can contain only 4 lines. In its purest form, there is only one verse, a poetic morsel.
High Plains Sushi
High Plains Sushi
This bar’s insured by Smith and Wesson
Says the sign upon the wall
Vern studies his empty beer glass
Time slows down to a crawl
Audrey, the lank-haired waitress
Watches from the bar
Order something soon, she yells
Or get the hell out of here.
There’s a special on at Wanda’s Ranch
Tuesday night 2 for one
But Vern doesn’t have the appetite
He doesn’t have the wherewithal
There’s only one thing that he wants
And he’s going to get it soon
High Plains Sushi
High Plains Sushi
Hot Sake in a cup
Five thousand feet above the ocean
And he just can’t get enough
Two guys from the goldmine
Old Arsenic and Rock Face
Have journeyed up from the centre of the Earth
To join the human race
But no matter how hard they try
No matter what they do
In the glow from the pool table
They’ve still got that subterranean hue.
Something’s warming beneath a heat lamp
Looks like deep fried road kill
Beside a tub of mashed potatoes
It’s making Vern feel ill
There’s only one thing that he wants
And he’s going to get it soon
High Plains Sushi
High Plains Sushi
Hot Sake in a cup
Five thousand feet above the ocean
And he just can’t get enough.
I spent a little time once in Elko, Nevada. There was a sushi restaurant in the town which served individual portions large enough to feed a small Japanese village. Elko hosts an annual Cowboy Poetry Festival. Interesting place. This poem started as a song lyric and then became a poem with a chorus which I believe is called a “duranga”.
The Daily Jolt Returns for a Day
The Daily Jolt Returns for a Day
And the Jolt word of the day is: “frumpet”.
This word comes courtesy of Eilene Lyon and is an actual word, she explains it all in her excellent post “La Concion es la Cosa” .
The challenge is to use the word in a post, make up a meaning for it if you like, for example:
A Soccer Hooligan’s Diary
11p.m., a pub somewhere in England
Kev says he fancies a bit of frumpet
says he’s tired of skinny fit girls
says they’re all angles, bone and gristle;
comfort is what Kev wants, comfort.
Daily Jolt Update
Response to the last jolt world, “brattitude”, did not exceed my expectations, although the incomparable Steve Simpson did inadvertently use it in a comment on the post. “Incomparable”, see that’s the kind of publicity you get if you participate in The Daily Jolt. So muster up a bit of brattitude and give it a go.
Link your post to this blog or post a comment with a link to your post, if you like.
Late at Night in the White House (redux)
…thought I’d re-post this one
Late at Night in the White House
Late at night in the White House
while Donald’s in bed asleep,
the dead presidents
one and all
leave their places
on the wall
to dance their dance
to sing their song
of presidential grief.
Waiting for Summer/Vincent Buckmaster
Waiting for Summer
Vincent Buckmaster
At school,
Vincent was known as either “Vince” or “Vinny”.
He does not currently like to be called either.
“Vince” is too rockabilly and rhymes with “wince”.
“Vinny” is too mobster and rhymes with “skinny”.
He is not even that sure about “Vincent”,
but the sonic collision appeals to him
– the chain saw screech of “Vincent”,
the Germanic boom of “Buckmaster” –
This is the way he thinks.
Children held in camps at the US border…(haiku)
Children held in camps at the US border…
the sultan of spin
in all his orange glory
can’t polish this one.
The Daily Prompt is dead, long live…..
The Daily Prompt is dead, long live…..
Suddenly at the end of May, the Daily Prompt disappeared from the blogosphere just when I was getting to know it. Frankly, I miss it. I didn’t respond on a daily basis but every now and then, a prompt would fire my imagination (I can’t get no..) and I would write a poem that I would never have written without that prompt. So here is a haiku to lament the passing of the Daily Prompt.
In Memoriam: the Daily Prompt
left bereft, promptless
stalled and stumped and paralysed
how can we go on?
But all is not lost, I have noticed a few bloggers out there are trying to fill the gap, and I would like to throw my hat into that ring. The difference is I will be offering prompts that are not actual words, but words that I have made up. Today’s word is “brattitude”. As in…..
“The dress has that swaggering catwalk brattitude we have come to expect from a Karl Aufderfelt design.”
Since I do not want to sully the memory of the Daily Prompt, I have struggled to come up with an alternative name. I thought maybe, the Daily Prod, but some of my friends in Belfast might mistake it for a sectarian bulletin. I toyed with the Daily Prick but abandoned it for obvious reasons. I finally settled on the Daily Jolt, like a shot of caffeine, a creative laxative. (This post is like a bowling ball that keeps veering towards the gutter.)
So give it a go, hit me with your best shot, post something inspired by the jolt word “brattitude”, link back to this blog and I will list a link to your post here. Or simply post a comment here.
By the way, it’s very unlikely that I will have the imagination or application to do this on a daily basis, so the Daily Jolt will probably be occasional.
The English Goalkeeper Reflects (2 World Cup haiku’s)
(in the England-Tunisia World Cup game which England won 2-1, the Tunisians had one shot on the English goal, 4 attempts.)
The English Goal Keeper Reflects…..
It’s lonely back here
hoping nothing will happen
that fear when it does
(how does my hair look?
are these gloves too big?)
The Story So Far
Messi’s misery
the agony of Neymar
Christiano’s joy.
Jerry Seinfeld Takes a Walk in the Park and Writes a Haiku (re-Post)
Why, when dogs chase birds,
do we see optimism
not futility.
***********
(By the way, if you haven’t already, check out “Comedians in Cars getting Coffee” where comedy, coffee and cars are the only constants.)
Landline (for Dad)
Landline (for Dad)
Sometimes, I think
I should text my dad
give him an update
tell him where I’m at.
Not that he would answer
he’s been gone a few years now
and even if he were alive
texting would hardly be his thing;
at the turn of the century
he was still approaching
what we now call a ‘landline’
with some trepidation.
Landline: a rope
uncoiling towards the shore.
He once told me
that when we have children
of our own
we begin to understand
our own parents better
so I think my text
would be an attempt
to let him know
that, yes, dad
I have found this
to be true.
Slim’s Other Dream
Slim’s Other Dream
3 a.m.
Slim returns to his dream
of pipes bursting in the attic
even though he knows
there are no pipes in the attic.
4 a.m.
Slim wakes
to the remains of a poem
crackling on the antic air.
Slim’s Dream (re-visited)
Slim’s Dream
The poet struggles
to achieve opacity
his poems are
clear like perspex
familiar like sin
in his dream
he explains this
to the grey arse
of an elephant.
(tomorrow…..Slim’s Other Dream)
Bi Words
Bi Words
libidinous
labile
bibliophile
Biloxi
bivalent
bifurcate
bilious
bivalve
bloviate.
Samantha Bee (a delayed reaction)
A flashback to pre-history when I first started drinking in pubs………
It’s closing time, Saturday night, Dublin, the rest of the evening is stirring like a patient emerging from a coma (sorry, T.S) . I’ve had a few pints and got a nice buzz going but now I’m standing in the men’s washroom (toilet, bog, jacks) staring at the white tiled wall trying hard not to make eye contact with the guy beside me whose eyes are drilling into the side of my head. I eventually cave in, turn and look into his bloodshot eyes….”what are you looking at, cunt?” ….he slurs. He’s pissed, langered, hammered, plastered, three sheets to the wind and he’s angry. Why is he angry? Could be he doesn’t like the length of my hair, could be he recognises that I’m a student and considers me a member of the elite whereas he is a member of the noble working class who earn their daily bread with their hands (although, back then, the word “elite” was not typically used to describe educated people with liberal views, it was more likely to be a found on a box of chocolates – Cadbury’s Elite, save the soft centers for your mom) but mostly he’s angry because he’s a miserable cunt and the ten pints he’s consumed over the course of the evening hasn’t made him any less miserable.
So when I hear Samantha Bee call Ivanka Trump a “feckless cunt”, I think of closing time, urinals, drunks and I wonder, how in Trump’s name, did the level of discourse get this low.
Dog in a Tartan Skirt (Edit)
Dog in a Tartan Skirt
There’s a dog wearing a tartan skirt
outside the window of Starbuck’s;
a tartan skirt, a belt, and a knitted white sweater.
Its little dog legs are moving frantically
on the wet pavement,
while across the slick road
and the sodden green park
the ocean sits
like a slab of lead
having clearly decided
to take some time off,
no crashing on the shore today.
South of the border
America blunders around
trying to remember
where it parked
that big ass car
that everyone admired
and envied.
The people look to God
but God, once again,
is moving in mysterious ways
and I, for one, wish He would knock it off,
enough already with the mystery
could He not for once in His eternal life,
clarify something?
I mean, for fuck sake,
there’s a dog wearing a tartan skirt
outside the window of Starbuck’s.
