Tuesday, March 15, 2005

SELLIN'

I got the idea off an hairdresser in the shop next to the kip. It was the second time I'd bin in there to have a chop, and there's sumat goin' on in her head that doesn't really make it worth the 8 euro to go in there. She's like a cat on a hot tin roof, as I have obviously freaked her out just by bein' meself. I think she may have seen me hammered round town, or maybe she's a heavy drug user, into the coke and paranoid all the time. She looks the type. Dyed red hair and a party lover. Last time I went in there I had to flee half way through the process coz she couldn't really be arsed cuttin' me hair how I wanted it. I don't know what it is about barabers, but I've never had much luck wiv 'em. The first one was Kieth Wither in Ormy when I was a kid. Let me give yer a bit of advice. Never get yer hair cut by someone who's bald, coz they've potentially got all sorts of freakiness goin' on in their heads and will smile at yer and nod when yer say what yer want, but yer'll never actually get to look like John Travolta circa '77 or Donny Osmond '73, yer only get to look like an inmate at the loop bin, fresh from tanglin' wiv a frontal labotomised head shearer. The barbers by the kip wiv the junkie looker has upped the price as well, coz I only went in there thinkin' it was a fiver, but now I have had a few hours to look back upon the experience I can see that all she was interested in was gettin rid of me as quick as poss, takin' 8 euros offa me, and pssibly, although I could just be getting para, making me look like a tit hairwise.

She told me about the ribbon idea and when I asked her if she could show me when I got the ribbon she reacted as if I'd asked her out to watch a pornographic film with her mother. She said she was gettin' off in a bit and wouldn't be about, but when I happened to see her on my way back from the shops and went in the salon she basically told me to fuck off coz she was too busy to show me how to tie a bow. Basically she must think I'm not the full shillin' and has probably cast herself as the object of an unrequited passion, spendin' her days thinkin that such a one has got the hots for her and goin' through a whole rigmarole of bollocksy actin' and bitchin' instead of just bein' upfront and normal. Life lived as though you are the central character in a self created soap opera and the rest of those who come into your orbit are their to project your fantasies onto, so any guy comin from the kip to get the head cut is immediately cast as only worthy of a number four on the shears, no matter what they ask for. Why do head cutters do that. You ask them what you're after and they are the most miserable bunch of tossers goin'. They ask you how you "want it" and when you tell them they say "I don't know what you mean."

I think it must be something to do with them being frustrated creatives, tryin to make out they is all arty farty and full of ideas. That's the problem with the world today, everyone wants to be an artist, including meslef. It took me years to get over the trauma Kieth caused in my life. You'd go in age 11 with unrealistic hopes that you would be leaving with a haircut you actually wanted, but by the time you leaft it would be the usual short back and sides. Sat in the red plastic seat he would look at you in the mirror, and not so much ask as gunt at you, which meant "what do you want." You would raise a hand, about to go into an elaborate physical description, the ultimate fantasy of which would have Kieth happy smiling, laughing and wanting to help you acheive the tonsure you so desired, but it was always the same. A nervous spasm would come over you as his stony face dared you to ask for anything other than short back and sides, and when you launched into the first few tentative words, the minute shift in his downturned miserable jaw would crush all hope that this time was going to be the start of a beautiful new relationship and you would sink back into the red plastic defeated and wondering if you would ever get a haircut you wanted. Well today I didn't, again. In fact I was 32 before I ever walked out of a barbers happy and couldn't believe it. All the highly intricate thoughts I had around the subject of barber pyscology were totally vindicated. I had thought that it was just me but barbers are actually sad acts who have the power to make you look daft and regularly do so. The next time was about 4 years later, a barber in Rochdale and then a year ago with one in Liverpool, but not alas now I'm living as a tramp in Dublin, city of broken dreams and bitter outpourings. PJ was letting it out over the last few days, and I can see that to maintain an equalibrium emotionally I will have to stay off the ale and try to remain upbeat, but the last few days have bin difficult for that. John Boddie being the main cause.

I stumbled onto a site called poetryfreeforall.com and it had a "high critique" section for "experienced" poets and there were all sorts of signs up about how serious a poetry vibe this end of it had. I posted up GOT CONNECTED and within half an hour John Boddie had cum back saying "diarrohea of the keypad" which really pissed me off, coz all the other criticisms were couched in technical terms. I ghad a look at his stuff and couldn't see any poems, just lots of negative and dismissive comments about what everyone else had written, as if he was God and was in possession of the ultimate art antanea. I wrote back satying how flattered I was he felt so passionate, but really wanted to vent my spleen, so I got back the kip and composed a piece I posted up the next day under the Scalljah monicker, basically saying I was gonna rip him to shreds when he posted up. I wondered if I'd gone to far, then realised that he was just a bully, throwin his weight about. He was obviously the main man there and I can imagine the type, king of the dungheap and a little Hitler.

Sheep will bleat the thoughts
they hope will keep them safe within the flock,
for safety comes in numbers
huddled tight to keep away the demon wolves
who terrorise their dreams.
But the wolves have disappeared
and the farmers in his bed
for soon they go to slaughter
where a stun bolt to the head will end
their woolley thoughts of what to do
and who is good, bad, right, wrong
and if they should agree.

Because sheep are meant to compliment potatoes
and mint sauce, with no need to ask them
what they think of poetry
or if becoming Sunday dinner is something
they considered when fattening on the pasture
down at the farm.

Outfoxed by the shepherd and fleeced
without a second's thought, they are meat
upon the table before they're even born
and when the rams have rutted and the little
lambs arrive, they are no more than walking
corpses, bought and paid for
and awaiting a side order of vegetables
in order to fully serve their purpose.

Much like those who call themselves poets
when they are only critics
kickers of talent and all round bores
who've bought into a school of thought
that claims divine privilige in the
relationship beyween sound, sense and beauty.

Tired old dried up drones
pontificating on a knowledge they could never
emody because what they say has not come
through a life of passionate extremes
where the seeds of metaphor are kindled
but by a life of being purely filler
masking the few true poets working at the craft
for sheer love, or if they're lucky
because it's been in their blood for 2000 years.

The truth of a true poets making
they would not believe
unless they read it in a book
written by a long gone dead man
from a far distant age, who could bring
them intellectual kudos in the places where
poetasters gather and oil the air with their
blather on art, and how so much more of a poet they are
than the rest of the contestants in the race.

A real man with a poets soul arrives unnanounced
and they'd dismiss him as a fake within a heartbeat
unable to recognise the real thing because they need
instructions from their sheep leaders
who will decide as much upon their fear of the new
sheep being wolf, as upon them being any good.


Yo tosser Boddie what makes you such an expert? Got a pHd in kickin' people have yer? I don't see none of your poems here fella. Well I can't wait till you whack sum stuff up knobhead, coz I'm gonna rip yer to shreds, and all on the technicals, coz I'm educated see, and I know me onions, bully boy.

So that was that, and I was wonderin' if I'm just soundin' bitter and twisted, or is their any entertainment value in what I'm saying.

3 Comments:

Blogger Steve said...

A lot of entertainment value Mr. O'Neil...of course, yo were juz bein rhetorical.

Pat, would it be alright if I used this wonderful poem on my small website to introduce my spattering of readers to your work?

That would be great...but if you would rather not, I understand. I will have a link to it anyway. Take care.

http://loudbuzz.blogspot.com

6:37 AM  
Blogger the drifter said...

Hi, just saw yr comments on a recent Guardian blog, thanks for defending me in my absence. Me-middle-class-I wished.

7:39 AM  
Blogger the drifter said...

By the way I'm Joseph Ridgwell

7:39 AM  

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