Gallix is a prime bore, God forgive me for speaking my mind, but i am
persona non grata on the blokes bloke.
The editor is Claire Armistead who used the words appalled and appalling in
relation to a piece she wrote last week which proved only that she is not an
intellectual in any meaningful sense.
They have slung me off there for good now, and i jolly in re-joining and
tormenting them..
last week Amy Newman referred to the generic *scientist/artist* as *he*.
Now some may consider this a minor thing of no importance, but in the
guardian GUlag, they have all these manny women hacks, with well paid jobs,
who just moan and act like they are the world expert on everything from four
star travel to global warming, giving verbal assistance to the opressed they
do not know, the millions of dead, in love with authors long gone and which
are chosen in the attempt to con the reader that they have any brains..
Spam poetry was done last yr, and now it is appallingly laughable, the
delusion, the head burying this mob of woman who are unable to refer to
their ideal state as she but has always gotta be *he*, and you will notice
that since shirley dent admitted to having tatts, and claire armistead said
there were three literary dimensions and i proved there are four at least,
that i lost all respect for these trolls...
...last summer i had been spamming there for a few months and a bunch of
transgressive writers got ushered in by the then ed sarah crown, who also
bottled it when it came to speaking to me, and the readers rebelled, as we
had poets who wrote filth, with no experience, and lecturing me what poetry
is, and it took a few months, and lots of bullying and a history which means
i was genuine and the eds and their trolls, a pack of am-dram bluffers, when
the three Derry poets, who practice under the name Poetry Chicks, came down
to dublin and truly, proved to me at least, that fodhla was re-born that night.
Me and the prime trangressive had been locking horns for weeks and i wrote a
piece which finally saw the faker off, his claim of a tree falling in the
forest being poetry, blown away with the Live energy those three poets
transferred, with a message of Hope, and not male fantasy add ons in a
transgressive poetry of *skinny hookers* and one in which a really dire
practitioner Rob Woodard, has one in which the poet I gets through a dozen
or so casual sex encounters, replete with explicit unimaginative lingo, and
this is their top proofs, means they are a joke on the guardian, i sacked
the lot of them fakers and smug actors, all competing for Jolly hq Sir and
rise, kneel and suck..
Jenny Doherty has a poem, The Fear of Gods, and this is some of it:
"Season of horror hurled hurricane
Dug deep our sordid secrets,
Our blood spoilt trees
Withered,
Smothered pistol shaped leaves
Left hanging in angry embittered warfare winds,
Once served us murderers,
Cold Cathedral hymns
Now wash our stench from this rot deceit,
Story eaten beaten defeat
.....
You came here unsuspecting of my land and lie in wait.
I come with wild dirty dogged confession at history heels.
Took the tattoo trail to mountain top,
Daggered choir crop,
Stung a solitary star, bared solid, barred stare
Knew a promise of silence there
No poisoned cloud, bottled flood or petrolled head
No faceless crowd, no jagged carved out carcass shed.
I feared our world was sinking.
Troubled thinking,
Terrorist stink.
Yet,
The dead; they tell no lies,
Boiled stories bold,
They understood our Nation
Toiled and sold.
And you with voodoo visitation,
All the Gods blown in our path,
One by one
in the space of a breath,
Strangled all hesitation.
Can't undo,
No act of contrition.
Voices veiled frail from beyond.
Young boys coiled,
Buried,
Soiled.
....
And we will change it.
We are hours yet to be counted,
Moments to be made and mounted.
Celestial on pedestal with fresh feet of clay,
And hands, once cup-fisted like stone,
Birth-earthed open.
Winds
Tides driven once by bitter men,
Faithless women,
Families killed in hell harbours,
Shipwrecked lives.
I want to pull us out.
I want us to sail free,
Berthed on shore of angel wing.
I want us to be strong.
I want no wrong.
I want us to bend like branches shaking guilty song.
We'll walk on water, my love.
Who cares what it means,
Everything is beautiful -
We are burning,
Hot,
Light us up,
Strike it!
...
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