too tru Desmond

altho spam poetry was done at least 4-10 years ago ;)

myself involved included

;)

:p

On Jul 3, 2008, at 7:32 PM, Desmond Swords wrote:

> 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!
>
> ...