The Belle of Bulgham Bay

This verdant,  windswept spit of land
Ringed around with golden sands
Tended by MecLir 's right hand
Where magic makes its final stand.
Curlews cries,
Enormous skies,
Phynodderree in poor disguise
Mooinger veggey in Elfin Glen
Preserved til now from way back when.
Cashtal yn Ard, the sacred ground,
Silkies surfing at The Sound.

The lady I'd like to discuss with you now
has been cruelly misnamed as a sea cow,
by sailors sloshed on rationed rum
I'm not sure how else this siren would become
such a lumberous beast. She's more the sea sparra.
She is the Belle of Bulgham Bay, the beautiful Ben Varrey.

Now, memories made
when families play
In millpond waves
on sunny days
Often come at hidden cost,
I mean, how many earrings have you lost?
How many individual socks,
How many flip, but no more flop?

When you've baked your brain you know you can't trust it,
Distracted by sand in your toes and your gusset,
You picked up the spade, you picked up the bucket,
But you always leave something behind.

These tiny trinkets, swallowed by tide,
Make for glorious mermaid finds,
Out at Maughold she's a cave that's filled with wondrous things.
Buttons, brooches, bonnets, buckles; the bounty high tide brings.
She's got spectacles and hearing aids, dentures and toupees
But these oh so personal items are not lost, in fact they're saved.
In the Curiosities of Terra Firma Museum they are all exhibits.
And it's helping to explain some eccentric human habits.
Creatures come from distant oceans to educate themselves
on the ways of the grotesque flesh folk. Entrance costs two shells.
The Belle of Bulgham Bay is rightly proud of her collection
But she keeps a secret stash of her special selections.
In here she keeps the sandals, flip flops,
Workmen's boot, verruca socks,
Toe rings in particular are impossible to resist.
You see, the Belle of Bulgham Bay is a foot fetishist.
It all began when she was young,
Angsty, teenaged, spotty.
She saw a flip flop floating by,
A bit unbleached and grotty.
The imprints of the toes were clear
On polystyrene foam,
Stroked the ridges, mesmerised.
She felt her heart unfold.

So on this verdant windswept spit of land, &
When walking barefoot on the sand
Domt be surprised if a clammy white hand
Reaches out
AND GRABS YOU!!

Picking Scabs

Fire gazing family,
Night breezes lazily
Hissing through leaves and open windows.
“what is it? Why the sudden stirring?”
“hasten, children. Close the curtains".
Scrubbed cheeks, kissed brows,
Blankets tucked, thumbs sucked,
Knotting feet and now, sleep.

My mother had warned of the Carras Dhoo men
When the briny breeze blew up the glen.
She'd told of the gloom and the peaty tomb
And the lives of unfortunates taken too soon
And their hunts conducted under silvery moon,
Oh, we knew of the Carras Dhoo men.

The paths, the routes, the cave, the nooks,
the crannies stashed with finery snatched
From drowning grasp
Of hands that lead to skulls scarlet smashed.
The rocks that froth with bezerkers ferocity,
Passengers previous pomposity
Reduced to loot worth losing your life over.
Hah! We knew of the Carras Dhoo men.

Night dashes on hillside, steep and tripping slide,
The cruel tide siding with those who upon her do not ride
Through respect
But instead turn the earth.
Whose women were dark haired and dark eyed,
Adorned glorious bejewelled in their men's finds,
Beguiling glamour of the hard life,
We were warned of the Carras Dhoo men.

We heeded indeed, our ravenous ears
Drank the juice and spat the seeds
As reformed roguery and diabolical deeds.
Reigniting a fire in our eyes, we rose,
A group of reluctant wives, willing warriors,  natural worriers,
To reclaim our lives.

Revestment bereft, avoidance schemes ended
And with them all chance of our happy ending.
Mouths to feed, our need undeniably greater
Than the flashy tourists, the odd passing freighter
That might pass our way.
There's a big boat in the bay, boy.

There’s a big boat in the bay.
Tomorrow we'll take the children to play,
Down by the breakwater,
Picnic sandwiches cut into quarters,
Castles and hole digging,
Where the tide washes in.
You should come down to meet us.
We like to play a game we call
“Finder's Keepers “.

But tonight? Ah, tonight.
The brine’s in the breeze
Hissing lazily through leaves
Whispering claxon call to deeds
for those that know
To listen for it.

Psalm for Motorcyclists

TT is here

The wheel of prayer roaring
Thirty seven and three quarters
Of energy embedded in
Sacrificially sanctified soil.

This is how new ley lines are formed.
This is where heroes are born.
This is why leather is worn.

The pillion-pilgrims return
With acolytes of their own
And pass the passion in their turn
To new generations grown.

Sacred speed, courage, endurance,
Gladiatorial battle with nature's forces
South sea sounding gulls wail a chorus
Heralding the arrival of thousands of tourists

The islanders take a breath.
Let us pray.

Straight outta tha Pondy

It's nice to be down with you Southside folk. 

Got my passport stamped by some Culture Vannnin bloke.

He gave me border grief,
wouldn't cut me no slack.
I'm from the wrong side of the electric railway track.

I live in Ramsey.
It's the place to be.
We don't get your chances or your budgetries.
You've got most of the jobs, most of the bars
and most of the parking for most of the cars.
We've got increasing numbers of unemployed,
pregnant teens and banged up boys.
We've got genteel hippies, restaurants,
Shakti Man and the Mooragh splash park.
We're a town with texture and layers of past
and the odd pool of vomit you have to sidle past.
They've gentrified our heart and installed a Costa Coffee.
The old businesses are closing 'cause the young folk have no money.
We've a working port, a bit industrial.
Still a bit rough; we're Mannanin's rebel.

You've know you've met a Northerner when you meet attitude
and you in your ignorance might think them being rude
but what you're missing is up here we don't have need for graces. We like straight talking, standing ground and getting in your faces.

They've fancily repaved Parliament Street
but that doesn't change the leaking shoes or dogshit on your feet.
You can will a town to prosper but you can't make poor folk spend
and everything's eroded by the pigeons in the end.
You tell us about Anagh Coar and what it's like in Pully
but they all seem bourgeois when you compare them to the Pondy.

In the winter it is crowded in the Library
because it has heating and you can stay all day for free.
The businesses that work up here are all a bit niche.
Old money eccentricities unlike your nouveau riche
high street brand name blandness up and down your old Strand Street,
homogenised and sterilised by office shoe clad feet.
Not happy with two Costas, you've a Starbucks now as well!
And what have we got to counter that?
Leonard Singer, and Alan Bell.

Camping

In this canvas-shanty-holiday town,

you'll hear strange sounds when the sun goes down

and played out families are tucked up tight

in polyester slug-suits in the still of the night.

At half past three

you need to pee

in insomnia regretting that last coffee.

Your tent mate is oblivious;

they've been snoring for two hours

while you slithered up and down the slope

with great rustling sounds.

The decision made, you try to rise

and sit up with a plan.

But your elbow's caught inside your zip

and it pulls you down again.

The zip is caught! You can't get out!

Your bladder twitches a threat.

You cursing, muttering free your legs

which immediately don goose flesh.

Pull on shoes, wrong foot, wrong way

laces tied as long as they'll stay

and with screwed up face and finger tip

try to open the front door zip.

The slower you go, the louder it is.

You think “Fuck it!” and try to go quick;

The zip is caught! You can't get out!

The whole tent gives a wobble

and you burst into the porch of sorts

in a breathless, blundering bundle.

Picking past the other homes

newly acute awareness

of whispered squabbles, saucy moans

and farts confidently careless.

As eyes adjust you realise the toilets are worryingly distant

and like Lara Croft with lasers you must cross the guy rope alarm system.

You wheel and tiptoe, duck and hop

knowing you'll pee yourself if you stop.

Nearly there but then your heel catches and pulls out a peg.

You freeze and hear blamey whispers coming from inside that tent.

“That' the fifth time! I said not to camp here!”

“Fine, you can come on your own next year!”

Run away! Preserve yourself and reach the portaloos.

They'll be equally grubby, no matter which one you choose

and finding one with toilet paper's a great thing to behold.

You lock the door and sit but the toilet seat is cold.

The relief is blessed beautiful. You dress again with leisure.

And water free hand cleaner is a modern camping pleasure.

Confident, collected now you begin the return trip

and trip's the operative word as over the same peg you slip.

Twang! With owl wide eyes you scurry,

ducking, wheeling, tiptoeing in hurry.

The saucy moans you heard before

have progressed to throaty groans of “more”

and their unfortunate head torch shadow display

is giving delight to some, but others dismay.

You pass by and observe all this

but after five minutes, something's amiss.

Where did we put the tent again?

I'm sure it was here. I remember when

we pitched up. That seagull flag,

the leilandii trees, that plastic bag.

Oh look. It's starting to rain.

Didn't bring a coat of course, the noise it would have made

would have been a rustle too far.

Oh God, looks like I've walked right past

it. It's all the way back there.

Stumble, trip, grab the zip.

Slippy fingered wrestle with it.

The zip is caught! You can't get in!

Over in the next tent a stirring begins.

You've woken their kids and they've started to fight

An angry bellow rings out through the night

followed by a man's voice, shrilly;

“I've told you before not not stand on my willy!”

Back in your bag, the rain sounds heavier

but only liquid sunshine falls on the British Riviera.

And fresh air sleep is fuller

you wake feeling so refreshed

and sleeping under canvas for sciatica is best.

So when the sun comes up we'll cook sausages and bacon

And smile like we heard nothing of the other campsite's patrons.

Are You Sitting Comfortably?

If you like the theatre,

or going to live shows

there's a whole cast of characters

who to you are quite well known.

I'm not sure if they're real

or some sort of rent-a-crowd

but where ever there's a view to obscure

you'll find them gathered round.

It doesn't matter if you book seats

or turn up hours previous

to guarantee your front row view.

They're cunning and they're devious.

First up in this parade of pains

is the Giant Head-Geared Horror.

Whether hat or hair it doesn't matter;

its mass is a thing of wonder.

You crane to the left,

you strain to the right

attempt to secure

uninterrupted sight

of all the stagely treads afoot.

You finally find the best place to look

and now the 3 rows behind you's view's hidden.

As you hear them all shift you're a bit guilt ridden.

What you don't realise in your angsty little quest

is that now you've taken the entire armrest.

“That ignorant bloody space invader”

is how you'll be remembered.

But this about-to-be-a-bad neighbour

is of an individual standard.

He's invading space on the other side!

He got quite claustro when he tried

to avoid to being touched or crowded or crushed.

Now it's becoming apparent he's the Great Unwashed.

The stench started as just a whiff

the woman on the end wasn't sure so she sniffed.

It made her eyes sting and her nose hairs burn.

She gagged and the woman in front of her turned

and over glasses chastised a “hush!

You're ruining it for the rest of us!”

Gagging woman sees her chance

and joins the crowd at the front to dance.

And just as she's found a great view of the feature

enter the Four Legged Staggering Crab-Like Creature.

United at the shoulder, mutually supportive

but with feet and legs at war with each other,

attempts to walk are abortive.

Everyone they stumble into spills their drinks in shock

but from their own never-empty glasses they don't waste a single drop.

Another multi-organismed beast

makes incremental attacks and never retreats.

It's starts in on your peripherals,

usually embodied by a group of girls

who over time push their way into the space

that previously was taken by your arms, or your face.

They never tie their hair up

and it all goes in your mouth

when you try to light your cigarette,

then try to put it out.

Their bloody hair's on fire!

They use so much spray and mousse.

You put up with it for so long but in the end it's just no use.

You sidle to the sidelines and go for a quick wee.

At one point one of those girls ended up sitting on your knee!

Upon returning to the scrum,

sweaty, dancing, joyful.

Your space has been taken by a man

wearing a coat half-duvet, half-hairball.

A firm-fan-favourite song begins

the surge forth irresistible

and you fall forward into him.

As least when you land it's comfortable.

His po-faced wife or girlfriend is leaning over the railings

looking bored and slightly offended by these audio assailants.

I don't know why she came along,

it's not like it was free.

I think her space would be better taken by

a fan. You know, like me.

Upon closer inspection, you recognise these two.

They're the one's that annoyed you earlier

by pushing in the queue.

It wasn't fair, it wasn't cricket

But you 'd never say anything,

you're far too British.

And besides, you've been waiting a third of your life

for this very gig, for this show tonight.

So you put up and shut up,

choose the obstruction least offensive

and if you can learn to live with it

be an audience attentive.

So if by some lucky twist of fate your eye line's unimpeded,

you're comfortable and the toilet queue's non-existent when you need it,

check you aren't just pushing in or obscuring others' view.

Because you might be unaware that the annoying bastard's you. 

Where's the Justice?

The debutante floats down the stairs,

gloriously made up dead-eyed stare.

Hand rests light on banister.

can’t grip too tight for tendon’s tear.

Fabric flows over fragile frame.

Shawl on shoulders hunched with shame.

muscles mangled, marked and maimed.

Blindly believing she’s to blame.

These daughters of a generation

grew to dream of degradation

and aren’t presented to society as they ought

but instead face their attackers in days in court.

Boys who play at being tough.

Punch-bag girlfriends painted as sluts

by advocates paid by tax payers’ pounds

to let violent criminals walk around.

“Service the community,

pay your fine and you’ll be free.

Legal aid with pay my fee.

You can put your faith in me”.

How dare they show their face in the street?

Hold it high and smile and meet

supposed friends who go and treat

as heroes boys who girlfriend beat.

200 hours, some cash, no bars,

while they walk about bearing your scars,

sometimes bear your babies too

‘cause they can’t afford the boat fare to Liverpool.

Meanwhile back in those same courts

other battles are being fought.

15 years for importation

of a herbal medication.

Sole carer of his wife, for saving

his son from men who wanted to erase him.

This justice is a fallacy.

It’s all misjudgements I can see.

Don’t say they need help mentally

when she needs reconstructive surgery.

These boys who never do hard time

perpetuate their life of crime

and become the kingpin slime

of empires rotting communities spine

who drag us all down to slum-like homes.

Curfews, flood-lights, no-go-zones.

Locked in for safety. Don’t go out at night.

Don’t walk down dark alleys. Don’t wear clothes too tight.

Don’t’ stick your head up, don’t have any pride.

Let these happenings go on island-wide.

Say nothing and just keep it inside.

Brush under the carpet that she nearly died.

The law is an ass, not a donkey, an ass

and since I wrote this more miscarriages will have passed

and the new Chief Minister will be raising a glass

and we’d better see things changing.

Fast.

Stardom

Stella lived her life in a most dramatic vein.
One crisis was replaced by another
each with limited arc and time-frame.
Each morning montage defined the day;
a theme song sung in the shower.
Costumes thrown on any old way
had miraculously stylish power.
Her morning walk to work was seasoned with cheerful greetings -
miniature talk well rehearsed,
ceremonial coffees and sweet things.
All was an adventure.
Stella occupied the Right Place at the Right Time.

But that time became a trial
and Stella's smile
began to slip.
She was tired.
One night she took the option
of having an
Early Night.
She just... went to bed.
Head under covers.
Smothered.
Swaddled.
She modelled
her behaviour on a bear she'd once seen on a documentary
and slept for months.

Once sated,
on waking
she walked naked to bathe.
Eyes closed
in steaming flow
she cleared her throat to sing and
----------------------
nothing.
In the absence of theme
she brushed her teeth
and roughly dried her skin.
Throwing on any old clothes, towelling off her hair.
You couldn't call it an outfit
and even "bird's nest" wasn't fair.
Leaving for work, a memory lapse.
Her keys stayed in their bowl.
As the door clicked shut behind her,
she shivered in the cold.
No smiles wore the merchants
as she purchased her refreshments.
Perfunctory politeness,
instant coffee, cold toast
and lack of breath-mints.

Ahead of her, along the street
she noticed a commotion
of cameramen and camouflage
and folk of filming notions.
As they scurried to their points of view
a figure strolled with confident shoes,
a figure well known to Stella.
She knew that hair cut, she knew that sway
of the hips, she knew the way
the chin was lifted in a smile, she knew
the length of those legs,
the shape of the head, she knew
her.

It was... her.

Did she have a twin?
Stranger things
have occurred.
Stella turned and saw this doppelganger
greet Joanna.
A long time colleague and friend.
She watched them bend
in the choreographed art of hello
showing their best sides to the man
who'd tried to hide behind the post box.

Stella tripped towards them,
head curious-terrier tipped to the side.

Now about 25 feet away
she heard a crackle-voice say
"Stop her!"
Stella fell to the left,
a great force had hit her from the right
throwing her to the ground.
Hot salty fingers crammed against mouth
hairy knuckles inches from two pound coin sized eyes
and spittle-flecked "Shhhhh!" spilled forth
in halitoxic sigh.
Crackle again:
"Get her away. You'll have to tell her
she's been replaced
she got too dull. We've hired another Stella".

"You heard the man, get out of here, you're ruining the shot"

"But," Stella whispered, "this is all I've got.
You can't just take my life from me.
What do you mean 'replaced'?
Have you given that girl surgery?
She's got my fucking face!"

"Look, love, you need a new job, they've given you the boot.
The viewers demand to see action,
new Stella's 'enjoying her youth', if you know what I mean".

He leered and patronised all at once
"You know, if you're stuck I know a bunch
of guys that make films with girls like you;
rejects, has-beens, once-had-it-alls.
They'd pay you well, it'd be something to do,
your back's really against the wall".

A wave of panic burst through her chest
as she kneed him in the bollocks and took her chance to wrest
herself free from his weight
and scrambled away
sobbing.

*********

Blanche works in a cafe.
She wear a practiced smile.
She hands out cappuccinos
and is a bit fifties in style.
Brittle blonde and boring,
but for the moments in her day
when she relives her past life
and the cameras point her way.
As a bit-part she is comfortable,
it's a steady job at least.
But her eyes expose the brief time
she tried to get by on the streets.

_________________________________________________________________________

This poem was debuted yesterday at the Deep South Music Festival, where I was performing alongside the magnificent poets, Bill Strutt, Martin Lynch and Jennifer Davies (winner of the 2015 Manx LitFest poetry slam). It was a brilliant event, despite the weather being typical of a Manx summer (rain/sun/rain/sun/rain/sun/WIND).  Lovely atmosphere, great music, much silliness and aches this morning. Love the Summer season here on this island, there is always something going on... Roll on Dark Horse.

Love to all of you.
Xxxx

Romero

Romero was a romantic.

Voluntary Zombification

wasn’t included in his epic.

Nor was informational monetisation .

We are the mumbling, stumbling masses.

We’re the brain dead, GM fed, disposable classes.

Deafened by the rumbling malice used to reassure us.

It’s the somnambulists’ sonorous psalm-like chorus:

It’s their fault – COMPLY

It’s their fault – OBEY

It’s their fault – ACCEPT

Above us holographic promises projected

onto roiling clouds of discontent

seem concrete.

Below, the mire sucks to ankles, feet

rotting in perpetual effluent, deep

and cloying as corruption is cheap.

Malaise molests our mucous membranes,

remaining even after exhaling this weighty air.

With fuzzy focus, our brows furrowed

we attempt to see clearly in ever-long shadows:

the projections.

Mirages of meaning

heinously inspiring  false hope

through eye burning vapours  

and looking glass lies.

Fingers outstretched we strive

to grasp

then gasp

surprised

when hands pass

through

banisters on stairs

that were never really there

at all.

We fall

for this repeatedly,

our gullibility

rivaled only by the virility

of our envy.

Gaudy baubles.

Tawdry tell-alls.

Scandals based on media morals.

Distract, deny

debase, decry,

berate, then buy

into this

mis-in-

formation.

Visions of similar vexatious veracity

we are force-fed emphatically

until this aspirational claptrap

is snapped up

by strapped up

facsimiles of fashionable pretence.

(In their defence,

all face paint is war paint

and all clothing is fancy dress.)

And yes, I too

am subsumed

by this murky world.

Cursing at cloud forms

coughing at coarse fumes

finding comfort in costume.

Is this

security?

The Mafia style Protectorate

we live under with Protocol Three?

The perverted version of protection

offered by the Panopticon

promotes

extreme proposals

perfect

for pitting us

one on one

and on and on

we go ‘til we turn on

ourselves.

Belly-flames long gone cold,

we’re dejected, cut price, wholly sold.

Raised on debt and dreams of gold,

forget ever owning anything.

Political correctness causes steroid- thin skins

to equal the pages of the books we binned

and burnt

never having learnt

to critically think

our way out

of the mess we’re in.

Overused superlative responses

out-stretch soaked and underrated nuances

to polarization purpose.

Once we are accustomed to unreason at this rate

 we lose our slippy grip on the power of debate.

Reduced to frothing opinions,

forthright remonstrations

forceful demonstrations

and farcical deliberations

over arbitrary -isms and -ists.

“No I’m sorry, you must choose from this list

of things we have determined are suitable for you.”

When the decision is between

 being thrown to the hounds,

or buried under the ground,

still breathing

it’s no wonder folk are

keeping their heads down,

silencing dissenting sounds,

numbing their sense of feeling.

With enough bodies under the mire

the heap might just be high enough

to lift us up beyond this stuff.

That’s the logic, right?

Except that fetid foundations

build putrid palaces

and subsidence is simply

impossible to fight.

Sooner or later we are all sucked under,

fucked over

by a state that places emphasis

on cronyism and nepotists.

What makes you think you can win?

It’s not a case of sink or swim.

We need to invert the way we think

to even have a chance.

They aren’t world leaders,

they are world servants

And the sooner we remind them

the sooner we end this macabre dance.

Simon Andrews Memorial Lap

We gathered in our thousands

to rend the sky with roar.

To celebrate the lives and rides

of those who went before.

Armour plated mourning-suits

helmets to protect

our beasts from saline offerings

that fell as a mark of respect.

Deafened by the orgy

of throttle twisted hymns.

Our incense snarled into the sky

absolving them of sins.

Crowds congregated, clapping, waving,

remembering the souls too brave in

their glorious golden days alive

as the prayer wheel throbbed with devotional sighs.

This is the bikers’ pilgrimage.

Thirty seven and half a smidge

miles from Grandstand to Governor’s Bridge.

For them; for us,

we ride.

Picture above totally stolen from https://forum.motorcyclenews.com/topic/74662/unbelievable-turnout-for-the-simon-andrews-memorial-lap-of-the-tt-course-thousands-of-bikes

I took part in the Simon Andrews Memorial lap and had an image of my head of the Mountain Course becoming a prayer wheel, with the exhaust fumes being the burnt offerings. It was a hugely emotional experience. The Island is always exciting at TT, but this felt reverential. 

I would urge anyone with even a slight interest in bikes or road racing to visit, take part and thoroughly enjoy the TT. It's an experience. 

Xxxx

TEDxDouglas Video

Here is the video of my TEDxDouglas performance.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kVlINYfigNw

I had a ball being involved with this.

I hope you enjoy watching it. Xxxx