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

Blog at the same time!

Mairi Sharratt leads another blogging project but this time it's ruddy international!

Yep moaners (poets) from "AROUND THE GLOBE" are all blogging at the same time, on the theme of "A Broken Conversation"

My effort is posted below (a little late, I was sleeping...), see the other bloggers' work on their sites:
Roger Santiváñez 
Cisco Bellavista 
Jesús Ge Ana Pérez
 Cañamares Felipe
 ZapicoMartaerre
 (Marta R. Sobrecueva) 
JoAnne McKay 
Rachel Fox 
Alastair Cook 
Scottish Poetry Library
(and Mairi: http://networkedblogs.com/b5Jkr)

The Bang

Alice:   Pretty naked, pretty fast. For the sake of staying positive, call me Alice.

Atlas:   And me, Atlas.

Alice:   Pleased to meet you at last. So this is magnetism. Can I ask -?

Atlas:   Oh, do.

Alice:   What are we doing here?

Atlas:   You shouldn’t assume –

Alice:   You’re right of course.

Atlas:   We’re on course

Alice:   For what?

Atlas:   The truth is in the name. Not Hadron, but Collider. We’re set for, done for.

Alice:   But we’ve this time at least.

Atlas:   Yes but be quick about it.

Alice:   Can we kiss?

Atlas:   We can collide.

Alice:   That doesn’t sound entirely romantic –

Atlas:   ah but there’s romance in frantic creation and creation is what I’m all about

Alice:   Has it always been? You seem something of an opportunist

Atlas:   I am.

Alice:   I suppose great times –

Atlas:   Require great measures. Come closer, my sweet Alice.

Alice:   I’m not sure I’ve anything for you.

Atlas:   I adore you.

Alice:   Well perhaps –

Atlas:   Perhaps -

Alice:    Perhaps.

Big Brother is under your bed thinking bad things

There's a completely genius website that analyses the language of another website and tells you various things about its author.

Obviously I tried it on my own blog.

Turns out I'm a 50 year old woman who is "happy".

I wish.

Try it on your own favourite site:

http://urlai.com/url/poetrusselljones.blogspot.com


Russell Jones

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