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Austerity Signs (AKA The Three Bastards)

This is one of my last great ideas. Note, not one of my last great poems.

Perusing papers, looking for placed pledges
There are none
Charities have stopped pleading in the press
Spoiling my anti tragedy model stance

No chugger has stopped me in the street
To pounce the unwanted penny
The homeless man a yard away could use
I've missed our chats
Admin, Chief Executive Feeding Bastards
Spoiling my anti-tragedy model stance

Even the wee yellow Pudsey bastard
can barely stir my screen.
Bastard, bastard, bastards three
Spoiling my anti-tragedy model stance

But, wait till the geese in the country
Get fat again. Bastards
The bastards will be back
You just wait and bastard see
Fuelling my anti-tragedy model stance

Posted by Rich Downes, 5 December 2012

Last modified by Rich Downes, 12 December 2012

The Theatre Crowd

theold, the young and the pompous

Yeah!!! Three DAO pages achieved by my last entry. This entry was put together on a reporters pad, one day when tramping the streets. I was between appointments. I had been in and out of galleries, done a little bit of work here and there, composed a poem for DAO on seeing Lord Nelson from the National Portrait gallery. Later i went to a favourite cafe and watched the theatre crowd unfold.

In the cafe, as shops close, the theatre crowd gather to eat and chat. What a wondrous show. three men, eacah closer to a final tragedythan the other enact their roles with hands at rest in different places, demarcating non equitable status. the Young Man's hands - the younger man's hands - are onhis neck, closing in on his ears. He is notprepared to share the bill. He tells the waitress so, whilst straining to hear the oldest forget stars that have already gone out.

This second character sits with his elbows set square to the table, his fingers interlocked in fron ofhis mouth (he's forgotten his manners too). It is as if he prays not to be remembered as the one who couldn't hold onto things. the fat, flaccid, superior onerests his hands across his ample stomach. His possessions, rows of unused tickets, stretch out in front of him. He is the onnly one to efever utter the word we but he is not talking about the people beside him. this stage is being set to blank out collective loneliness.

The scene will be re-enacted next tuesday. Same day, same time, same actors.

Posted by Rich Downes, 5 December 2012

Last modified by Rich Downes, 12 December 2012

A True Story for Georgina - Otherwise titled; 'Boring'.

Image - pale_pallid_boring__life.jpg

Early September. Sun beats down and burns my arms. I sit in a public space with pigeons by a fountain. I'm not doing much. I'm reading a paper. Something she never wanted me to do. To pass the time its being read from cover to cover, back to front and front to back. I'm occupying myself - passing time.

An older woman with dyed red hair appraoches my bench. She sits away from me and eats an ice cream. Sheis the fourth co-occupant not to acknowledge me. Her anme is Maria. I know this because she is followed by Georgina, a 38 year old from Cyprus who is covered top to tail, head to toe in Black. Georgina and i talk. nice day, nice here. Small talk. we compare our ize and accents, talk about our birth places. nothing much is said. I can barely be bothered with the scenario. Idle gossip is not my kind of gossip. She asks me what I do.

I'm a writer. I prevciew, review, interview around the arts. Bu tmorethan this i have political ideas and sometimes express these too.

Geogina doesn't like politics. Its boring and in truth a lot of party political shananigans are filled with dread ennui but political ideas might exite me sometimes. Given this response to my interests I would like to go back to being quiet. Yet i yawningly return the compliment and ask georgy girl what she does.

She's a support worker. She takes people out of their houses into the community if they are isolated by loneliness or impairment. She likes to see a smile. I could go on now into a diatribe about how it came to pass that a world of Support Workers like Georgina came to lead more exciting lives through the actions that disabled people took and why the idea is, in fact, exciting but I am concerned that poor Georgie would find that boring. instead I tell her that i will write a story about her.

Maria leaves and Georgina follows, led dociley away by someone leading an independent life. I go tot  the library. It sells cheap coffee and is quiet. I pick up a post card. It shows a man and a woman holdingpapers and reads; 'Mary loved interacting with her favourite magazines. it certainly beat interacting with Harold'. Harold's magazines have art in their titles. Boring.


Posted by Rich Downes, 5 December 2012

Last modified by Rich Downes, 12 December 2012

Chatting to A Chugger - Quite possibly the last in the series

The language in this one is not consistent with my the language I would normally use as a disabled person committed to the social model and i apologisein advance for any offence caused. It was not meant butit was inthe story as it unfolded.

A vision in purple with an aerial on his head stands outside marks and Sparks rattling a tin.
Who are you?
Tinky Winky
Why dress like that?
It gives people something to remember
I think you are lal lah
No he's the yellow one
I still think you're lahlah i say as I walk away


Clap hands children if you ever thought your needs wold bebest met by tinky winky

Posted by Rich Downes, 5 December 2012

Last modified by Rich Downes, 5 December 2012

Self Indulgence

I am sitting in a car in winter time. Its good. I've got writing and can indulge in a poem or two.

Love as you know it

Is nothing
To write home about
A far too easy word to say
A bitter pill to swallow
I felt it once
A passing fancy
Relegated like a team
To lesser delights
Smaller achievements
A football
To be kicked around
With spite, with venom
In a never ending circle
Of oppression
Be warm you say
Be nice wouldn't it
Swallow Bile
In failure
The nothing
Nowhere Man
Returns to Urban Cosmonaut
Loving the final syllable
Of naut
That sounds like nought
A big fat Zero
We know who invented the zero
What ahppened to them
Bruiosed, battered on battlefields
But rejoice
For a return to nothing
Is full of something

Poem 2/ Temp -3 degrees

Temp -3 degrees
Am I keeping warm
With the salt spreaders
Am I sleeping well
In consideration

Of Pros and Cons

Of hitchhiking
Whilst touring
favoured roads
In search of:
Hare, Owl, dear Deer
Doe, Buck, Stag
I spent some time here
Shorn Antlers here
Horns scattered

In bloodshed
A Fox
In the road
I heard
Its back break
I feel stale coffee
Intreated by
Your Appeal
Temp -3 degrees
Fleece half open
Window open
Fag burning
Listening to Waters
Rogering banks
Softened by a
Cconstant rain
Aware now that
Only the rabbit


Poem 3 / Joe Knows

Joe knows
The child crying in the rain
Joe knows how
He got there
Wet and Crying
Stronger waters
The child is still there
Joe Knows
He asked him to come in
To Shelter
Give himself a chance
But the child knows
What Joe doesn't know
That he was scared
Rescued for nothing
By those who told the lies
To the child
Which is why he cries
Should you want
to know more
Ask Joe
Joe Knows

Posted by Rich Downes, 5 December 2012

Last modified by Rich Downes, 12 December 2012

Delta Grumptoktapus 2 - A Children's Story

Image - delta_2.jpg

Jim welcomed me in through his door. It was great to see him. He showed me the children's stories that his brother had published. Some of them were very good. They inspired me to do something with Delta Grumptoktapus. Write my version of a children's story.

Delta Grumptoktapus lived in a river. Saddened byhis wetness, Wondering as to his purpose. From time to time he would rise to the surface to check the flotsam, check the jetsam, feed on debris, rubbish thrown away to findits way to the sea.

Grumptoktapus liked the place in the river he took his first name from other than its wetness of course for this would make him shiver. He liked that it was tidal, flowed in and out and constantly changed.

He knew thatpeople watched its flow and liked to see it changing too. He was confident that his greyness could not be seen inthe water save on sunny days when he would stay at the bottom and just let ecological wreckage just float by.

Delta Grumptoktapus dreamt bigger than the dustman status he appreciated, mildly. He liked the boxes he collected, the words perfumed and scented, though he couldn't smell himself. Not with his constant wetness and permanent cold. Oh the sneezes he had to stifle so he could go abouthis business, unseen, unknown.

Delta Grumptoktapus knew not to aspire for dry land. He tried it once. Pulled himself tentacle over tentacle onto the beach. He felt like he was suffocating there. Phew!! How he sweated as he sweltered. Drying out he felt death approaching. A child saw him and did nothing but say yuk!! the the tide turned and the sea came in and fed the river so that it grew again. Sands gave way and Delta Grumptoktapus was saved. Rescued by that wet water. "Thank goodness ", said Delta Grumptoctapus. "I will love this river and live gladly, forever, with my stifled sneeze".

Posted by Rich Downes, 5 December 2012

Last modified by Rich Downes, 12 December 2012

Delta Grumptoktapus 1

Image - delta_1.jpg

I have discovered the joys of radio 4. Listening in one day, a report came from China, read by Damian Grammaticas. No one in the world could be so named I thought and had to check him out on the internet. He's there. He exists. So maybe Delta Grumptoktapus does too.

Delta Grumptoktapus
Named in response
To Damian Grammaticas
Are you real?
Delta Grumptoktapus
Of the waters
Reaching Out
And Consuming
And Taking
No mere taker
Fat and fabulous
Delta Grumptoktapus
Keeps words
Selected for Armpits
Delta Grumptoktapus
Tucks In
Swallows verbs
Delta Grumptoktapus
Wrapped in his own arms
Delta Grumptoktapus
7 pronged
Feeds the earth
Silts himself
Builds strata
Why Grumpt
With the Oktapus
Life giver
Celebrated here

Posted by Rich Downes, 5 December 2012

Last modified by Rich Downes, 12 December 2012