Wednesday, March 23, 2005


Poets all around the world
surf to where the edge of language
boundaries blur to a new tongue.

Come to the lingo shack
where Scalljah's rappin' out the licks
of post-modernity
under the guise of Jan Manzwotz;
one phonetically corrupt identity of
Desmond Swords
pinnacle poet head of four other
who came over a course of study
in Ormskirk,
where he wandered lonely
as a Gary Glitter tribute band
for 6 semesters.
Shunned by the student kids
who couldn't understand what drove
this grey haired
dad like
plastic Paddy sad act
to return to a life at the academy.

A learning environment
dominated by trainee teachers
dreaming of a settled life
in suburbia.
Media wannabees
aching for television
weather presenting careers.

Long term unemployed
fast-track access returners
to social science learning
who yearn to become social workers
only to find part way through
that they are not on the appropriate
pathway which allows them
to take children
into local authority care
or section the mentally ill
into a secure pyschiatric environment.

Sports science mad athletic youngsters
in a uniform of tracksuit
and seriously stern facial language
aiming to open chains
of health and fitness centres
where they can forget the talk of
how Foucault's philosophies
relate to the pyschology of jogging
on a treadmill.

And in amongst the chips and sausauge
a bog standard humanities department
offering English Lang, Lit
Film Studies
Drama Theory and Creative Writing degrees.

Populated by mainly
earnest young women
reading Harry Potter and
after mind expanding experiences
so they can become ethereal artists
working in showbiz worlds
full of soap fuelled reality
and mobile phones.

This is where my intellect was sharpened.
The West Lancs plain.
Home to carrot pluckers
leek cutters
and spuds galore.
A flat body of farmland
fringed by the urban cloak of Liverpool
tinging the Lancashire twang with
a freedom to instantly lose our natural
bumpkin identity of slow witted
sheep fiddling field lovers
and become street wise
city slick jive talkers
giving it the

Oh aye
hey laah
eeze a boss beaut blert
whose gonna get sparked right out
when arrgh kid get's old've 'im
for mouthin' off about his bird.

Oh yeah,
when was that then Jacko?
At Tommo's party in the tower block
at Crocky last Satdee
where me Ma 'n Da got arrested
for 'avin a domestic?

No Terry fella.
Down the Yatesies in town
last Wednesday
when the match was on
'n everyone got barred for fightin'
when we lost arrgh heads
coz we'd bin on the ale all day
'n descended inter anti-social behaviour.

N' wharra 'bout yer accent?

Stayed scouse till we crossed Maghull
went back te'th'normal
when I got 'ome 'n put me indoor wellies on
and settled down te Coronation Street
and a few days of actin' daft
'n reet northern
coz we 'ad a job on in th'Wigan
so it were best to get back
to a more normal sound.


Blogger amanda smith said...

Thanks for the comment thought I recognised you. I was in some of your writing classes with Rob Sheppard. Love the Ormskirk poem. Michelle hasn't finished her degree haven't seen her for ages, wild child she is.

1:21 PM  

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