1000 Clicks

I have come down from the dizzying heights of celebrity stardom to address you, the common folk.

Yes all the rumours you've heard in the news, the papers, magazines and movies are true: the blog has, since August 2010, had over 1000 visitors. Let us pray.

To celebrate this triumphant moment in mankind's history I will allow your mortal eyes to gaze upon a work of such gravitas and splendour that it sits atop the papier roll beside by porcelain throne.  Prepare yourself for the masterpiece that is mine own work: "Pooey Monkey"

Enjoy this aesthetic treat, visit again. Now go away.




Russell Jones

Some Edwin Morgan Stuffs

You may remember that the Scots Makar, Edwin Morgan, died earlier this year. A sad thing indeed, though there have been a number of quality tributes in the form of readings and publications.

One such tribute is from Swiss Lounge Productions and includes photography and poetry from:
Morgan Downie
Tracy Markey
Paul Nandy
Michael Conley
Richie McCaffrey
Russell Jones
Andrew C Ferguson
Colin Will
Lachlan Renwick

The complete item can be found here in pdf (it's a bit slow, be patient!)
http://swissloungeproductions.files.wordpress.com/2010/08/strawberries.pdf


A small tribute note of mine was also published alongside others in Steve Sneyd's (of Hilltop Press, leading expert in science fiction poetry) Data Dump pamphlet for December 2010, which should contain a review of my Last Refuge sci-fi poetry collection in the new year.


Peace, Jacobites



Russell Jones

Proof Test

I tend never to drink when I write, or write when drinking (whichever starts first wins out).

But at 4am this Christmas morning I broke the taboo and pumped out a piece whilst slurring on Black Russians. Then I wrote a poem. After waking and sobering up I decided to write another -

Here's the test: which poem do you prefer?  They're both first drafts, obviously, but perhaps this proof test will allow Mr Vodka to hold the pen more often...


Russell Jones

Re-entry

we were burned up on re-entry

burned up and cast out like ashes

like ashes in an instant in a flash

a flash of separation one body

one body thudding against another

against another body and we embraced

we embraced between the atoms

between the atoms and smiled stupid

stupid really as death was imminent

imminent enough and we knew it

we knew it but we smiled as the earth

the earth honed into view bold

bold and blue and devastating

devastating in one way but beautiful

beautiful as the temperature grew

grew so quickly we were vapour

vaporised in a flash one body

one body drifting through another

through another in a flash of separation

separation cast out like ashes

like ashes burned up and bought together

bought together at last in vacuum

Converse

Boys are dogs at car windows
Girls are spiced rum

Morning is position four
Night is thin shins on bed legs

Monday is the coldest month
Friday is cranberries

Hate is mustard
Love is a thumb war

Doors are a waste of central heating and therefore the whole environment
Windows are great

Television is duvets and chocolate and possibly marshmallows
Books are work

Wine is calorific, carcinogenic but preferable
Beer is cheap

Work is a nightmare
Leisure is attainable

Children are someone else’s noise box
Old age is piss

Science is convenient
Art is a room

Christmas is the 25th of December
New Year is troublesome

Parsnips are neither here nor there
Vodka is fantastic

Light is conversation
Darkness is the in fold of my wallet

Happiness is welcoming
Depression is a derelict roasting tray

The future is every colour other than orange
The past is a drawer

Confinement is marmalade
Space is a jar

You are the planet Earth

I am the last cosmonaut 

Bah, Bumhug!

I realise I've not written very much at all on this damnable site of late, so while you've been off dreaming of a White Christmas like a daft racist I've written a short article on the dull issue of winning poetry competitions.

I say "winning", I mean "not coming last"

Find it here: http://networkedblogs.com/c5Sqy

In the meantime, to get you in the festive spittoon, here's a little piece about the yuletide which I'd written for DanseMacabre last year. Now go away.

Christmas Fever

No wrapping but the gut
lining, no bow but the bile,
no box but the brittle bulge
of my projectile smile.

Ding dingaling and ding along.
Merry merry, very merry,
hear my Christmas song!

No manger but the rough
sleep, no advent but the wheeze,
no sugar but the colon’s
furious chocolate sneeze.

Ding dingaling and ding along.
Merry merry, very merry,
hear my Christmas song!

No fire glow but the fever
sweat, no chestnut but the phlegm,
no stuffing but the mucous balls:
it must be Christmas again.

Russell Jones