Half a Millennium of Moronics

In August 2010, whilst lying in the rank sweat of my ensemed bed, stroking the corpse of my social life and giggling maniacally, I committed a most heinous act: I added a "hit counter" to my blog...


Hit me, go on. Oh yeh. Yeh right in the face, go on. Harder. 


Since that empty test of self worth this site has somehow clocked up over 500 visits, which means that there are at least a few people with more time and (possibly) less of a life than me out there in Interenetoland. Thanks mum!


This deserves celebration. Or castration. But let's celebrate first. Have a drink on me. No, really, go on, whatever you like, go and get it. Go on, seriously. 


Ergh.


Well here's a poem about babies on the bus to make you feel warm and fuzzy. Go away.

Russell Jones

EXCLUSIVE: Jones wins money, buys chair, wipes arse

I like money, I do. It pays for my various addictions. And whores will have their trinkets. So it was nice to find out that The Writer's Bureau wanted to give me some pennies for winning 3rd place in their poetry competition. I have since spent them on a chair, berry vodka and arse paper because I'm that damn exciting.

The poem is below, and this in-depth analysis was made of it: "This is highly original, beautifully crafted and resonant."

Crossing Over




Remember how we crossed the bay
in that little wreck we found,
five-past-midnight, after drinking
on the shingle? We rowed
to the lighthouse you said was haunted.


I forget how long it took,
what we said or didn't say.
The fear of opening a graveyard
had shrunk or evaded me


but I kept the bruises from when you fingered

my arm like a crucifix

when we headed upstairs. Everything

was silhouette
as we watched the hillsides sleep on the horizon.


Remind me: did we try to relight
the dead and search the ocean?
Did we name the shades of darkness
because of our intoxication?


We drew particles of the night into our lungs
and spirits made it through.
You switched on your torch and rotated
so that somewhere,
between worlds, we’d shine our beacons.

Russell Jones

Please Daddy, No! EDITED VERSION

Today was National Poetry Day and as such I inflicted poetry on the young at Wester Hailes Education Centre.

Actually they chugged it down and asked for seconds. They love it.

You might not expect kids to take kindly to a posh Englishman in a suit telling them about intergalactic stasis travel, babies licking bus windows or dead birds, mightn't you? Well that's because you're a monster and they're lovely.

What struck me was how much they enjoy sound. The younger ones especially. Their favourite of mine is a concrete poem called "star", which they demanded I read at least twice per class. I had to regurgitate the damned thing about 14 times at high speed.

And adults love that one too.

So what am I saying? Nothing really, just that people like sound. Big discovery, huh? Yeh that's right, yeh.

Try reading the concrete poem "star" for yourself, the faster the better. Or don't. See if I care

(I care)





Russell Jones