Burning Tar

© Lachertenok | Dreamstime.com

JPS Lotus. I liked the car,
Gold on black, medium tar.
So at 19, I had a drag on it,
But frankly, it tasted like shit.
If I had a million to give,
I’d remind that many how to live.
Cash and tobacco for influence,
Health lobbyists bullied into defence.
A formula for our lives or those jobs?
Coffins carried out amidst tear-felt sobs.
Marlboro Man looking cool on his steed,
But from his wheelchair, his aching heart bleeds.
Your Majesty’s government, I owe you a new spin,
Your addiction to money has my filthy old habit packed in!

JP Morris
No.1 Embassy Estates
Lambert City
United Tastes

31st December 1997

Mi Amor

© Vladi Samodarov | Dreamstime.com

Candles of harmony flicker in evening’s hue,
Libran blue, how I feel about you.
Slow burning serenity over troubled water.
Your values I can neither question nor falter.

A slow start if I recall,
Into emptiness we wouldn’t fall.
Soft Spanish eyes, so deep and brown,
In that special place, I can now be found.

Relationships had to be endured,
So when I found you, I could be assured.
On first sight of you, my chin hit the floor!
To save face, I was half-ignored,
But in your presence, I was fully absorbed.

How I hungered for your first kiss,
In my youth, you were sorely missed.
Now they fall upon me like a shower,
And buds of joy burst into flower.

Cloud nine,
That giggly heart of mine.
Loneliness, that swine.
Now having fun is fine,
Your sweet love, so divine.

15th March 1998

Collecting CD’s

Collecting CDs


1996  A.D.

Another collection…TV, spotlight, discs, an odd slipper, an overcoat.
Memories cannot be left behind, as I credit my fund of knowledge;
An account that lingers in red;
A Queen of Hearts will move me into black,
Only for Hell’s joker to saunter through and squander my hand.
Bound for another town and another job, amassing the stop gaps.
More gaps than chapters, but each gap builds the book they call ‘life’,
furnishing a long chronicle to sit amongst the sleeping masses;
they fill libraries as we do graveyards.

2010 A.D.

In the New Age, future generations surf over our life stories.
Go on…activate CD; resurrect me.
The disc was first collected by me.
A virtual photo album snapshots civilisations past,
Its idiosyncrasies provide a muse for the curious surferette,
Where ordinary legends can be launched from PC-TV.
Transmit them to your French pen pal over the ‘Net.

2100 A.D.

The begrudgers of history will find no disc space out in the future,
archived in dormant libraries on the I-way’s death row,
sentenced to a lifetime in downtown Alpha-Purgatory.
Hey look! There’s grandfather, father, daughter and son!
Related first by blood and then by inherited CD.
Technology ensures their lifetimes will run continually.

2200 A.D.

No more Anno Domini, what She giveth, She taketh away.
She comes to collect; an experiment; overgrown.
All human records are commandeered; a new Project beckons.
Will our remains ever be re-sown?
Or will our DNA mapping direct us to the great library in the sky?
Perhaps the map was divinely encrypted.
Unable to disengage from it’s self-destructive course.
Banished by its architect-in-chief,
Plunging us into an infinite equation beyond our best
Scientific and intuitive concept.

El inF?

January 1996

Follower – By Seamus Heaney

Image

My father worked with a horse-plough,
His shoulders globed like a full sail strung
Between the shafts and the furrow.
The horse strained at his clicking tongue.

An expert. He would set the wing
And fit the bright steel-pointed sock.
The sod rolled over without breaking.
At the headrig, with a single pluck
Of reins, the sweating team turned round
And back into the land. His eye
Narrowed and angled at the ground,
Mapping the furrow exactly.

I stumbled in his hob-nailed wake,
Fell sometimes on the polished sod;
Sometimes he rode me on his back
Dipping and rising to his plod.

I wanted to grow up and plough,
To close one eye, stiffen my arm.
All I ever did was follow
In his broad shadow round the farm.

I was a nuisance, tripping, falling,
Yapping always. But today
It is my father who keeps stumbling
Behind me, and will not go away.

Seamus Heaney

My Perfect Fantasy

A loving heart searches through a meaningful gaze,
To security bound in love, not doubt.
Too many killing fields have been played,
There exist barren plains and a generation lost.
Futile backgrounds ground lovers into dust,
More than anything I want to earn your love and trust.

In love, please accept the power of your self,
Allowing love to flow freely between us.
I yearn happiness in so much haste,
But your love I seek not to waste.
Don’t leave me in mid-sentence,
Abandoned on an icy-cold seabed.

In search of peace and tranquil waters,
I feel warmth in your colourful sails.
A loving woman I so want to deserve,
In you, I see one I’d happily serve.
So don’t lose me in the rocky ravines,
Just lead me down a road to our dreams.

Fear not those families at war, negative in tone,
Doubt neither yourself, or the one who willingly seeks.
Protect your values, and hold fast to your dreams,
Amidst the gossiping swell, I don’t want you ‘alone’.
Leave skeletons buried, banished in history’s place,
For in our friendship, much love has already grown.

In all things I wish to build,
A foundation steadfast and true.
Through drudgery I wish not to descend.
To lavish you with kind love is what I desire.
By hurting you, part of me pretends,
The best for you in life is what I aspire.

In finding each other, our love will surpass,
Sentencing at a stroke those foolish endeavours.
Set your fears free and let love take its course,
Your beautiful warmth, I’ll cherish forever.
So let love fulfil its journey,
And be swept away by this magical force.

Let dreams weave their way around us,
And merrily dance the hillside.
Fostering a love that can care and nourish,
Disposing those voices that have lied.
From a den of despair,
To a nest we can replenish.

Don’t spurn me on this fruitful quest,
For its all my love I’d like to bequest.
Avoid feelings of self-doubt,
And have faith in your being.
Through this I hope you accept me wholly,
And give our love true meaning.

For mere stepping stones I warily tread,
They infect my heart with seeds of dread.
Offer me a stronger bridge to follow,
And a book that can be comfortably read.
In these chapters our love can wallow,
To the place of your dreams I’d like to be lead.

17th February 1997

China Doll

Delicate and pure
Externally demure.

Idolised her figure
Through punishing rigour.

Obsessed with her allure,
And the search for a ‘cure’.

Worshipped her visage,
A deception, a mirage.

Superficial and sweet,
The fantasy is complete.

Ever so patronising,
The pursuit agonising.

The love of an image,
To add to my baggage.

Amidst depths of pain,
Light bursts through the rain.

A china doll for sure.

Dublin 3rd June 1999

Tart Area Rapid Transport (TART)

Saw an Irish tart,
Located at a Dublin DART station.
Shouted abuse,
And a curse of damnation.
Penance for cheap titillation.

If her arse stuck out anymore,
A daytime eclipse would surely obscure!
Even Molly Mallone would have blushed.
But alas, this ego had all but been crushed.

10th October 2000

DART train.
DART train

Castaway

Restlessness without bounds
echoing across ocean sound.
A ship on turbulent waters
without pilot, mate or anchor.
The heart does hanker;
its engine stutters and falters.

Merging with a vivid horizon
fuelled by its seductive tones.
Territory, coloured by each season
drowned by the clamour of reason.
Understanding the complex
will only confound and perplex.

Depths unchartered;
A mission over the seas
provides depth and meaning.
And a pilot, mate and anchor
on the ocean’s cut and thrust.
Leads me towards
peace, love and trust.

2nd December, 2001

Funky Chicken

Introduction

‘Everyone clap their hands. This song, goes out to our good friend, the amazing and marvellous chicken. Now I know that many of you, like me, have become acquainted with him over the past fortnight. But right now, I need some vocal support, so when I hold up the mike, I want you to make like a funky chicken whilst we sing the chorus.’

Verse 1
Whilst writing my journal
‘Chicky’ gets close and personal
A poultry meditation
But a new life situation

Chorus
Hey little chicken
Get out of my place
Right now I just need my own space!!

Verse 2
Whilst searching for meaning
My chicken is preening
Faced with life choices
All I hear is clucking voices

Chorus

Verse 3
In the corner of my vision
This bird’s on a mission
In search of some calling
Two spindly legs go walking

Chorus

Verse 4
Crazy thoughts start in my head
What would be good on sliced bread
An omelette would be egg-citing
But a chicken sandwich, appetizing

Chorus

Verse 5
My temperature is rising
This bird thing, surprising
My hut aint bijou
But this aint no children’s zoo!

Chorus

Verse 6
Disturbed in good karma
I make for the farmer
With not much vocabulary
I’ve a burden to carry
In no way of a word
He gave me the bird!!

Ending (thank goodness!)
‘One last time, people in the house,
Let’s hear it for Chicky’

Chorus
Hey little chicken
Get out of my place
Right now I just need my own space!!!

Performed in front of a startled looking audience
Written and Performed
By Rap Star J McK all the way from smoky London Town, England
Backed by DJ Ko, on Synth, hailing from the windy city, ChicaGo, US of A
Venue – Atsitsa,
Skyros Island,
Greece
September, 1999
http://www.skyros.com/skyros_island.htm

Please note: Evidence may yet soon come to light that will bring the one-hit wonder back down to earth…
for this was considered to be a grievous crime against the performing arts.

If you see this man, please feed him a chicken sandwich and
under no circumstances, let him go anywhere near a microphone.

Thank you 🙂

Cute but Astute

One eve as I sat and watched TV,
As night had all but fallen on me.
Was reduced to a state of semi-comatose,
Something only TV programmes can impose.

But in the corner of my right eye,
I sensed something waddle right by.
Now this feeling I have sensed before,
But have always chosen to merely ignore.

Through the patio window,
A sniffing hedgehog loitered; real slow.
Now these creatures may seem really cute,
But a prickly defence makes them astute.

For if you approach them in any way,
They will make like a ball,
But with one you can’t play!
So if TV makes you dull and downtrodden,
Remember the garden you had long forgotten.

24th July 1998