Category: Poetry

Where Are The Best Minds of Our Generation?

Where are the best minds of OUR generation? Sitting alone in the dark on the edge of a world of electric glass and twittering proclamations. Where the words of the prophets are written on status walls and the sponsored post men and women hijack ideas for friendship and sharing; feeding us news on a constant loop of meaningless candour. Where judges sit with wavering thumbs to pass verdict, make fleeting media darlings on the whim of low-brow king-makers as our thoughtful masses park their brains and lower their weekend guards, too tired; lacking desire to give meaningful protest, reaching instead...

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Thursday, 2345

And here, you see, is me writing this at a quarter to tomorrow. With the worry of sleep most pressing, the thought of rest,  I cannot consider or give good countenance. For fear of fear itself comes to haunt my darkest hours before dawn. And finger drums of rain, delivering another Friday. Please follow and like...

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Saturday Night on St Mary Street – circa 1997

Ev’ry Sat’day night the same. Queue up on St Mary St. for the Philly or Life or Sam’s. Jostling and flirting with girls out of my league. Short skirts and flimsy tops: exposed flesh no matter what the weather. Edging to the front – bouncers at the door: black coats; wannabe Krays getting sexual kicks from their crumbs of power. In at last, elbows up in a fight for bar space. Buy two at time when contact is made. Alcopops, Aftershocks, foreign lagers and vodka. Students, nurses, bankers, lawyers Dancing, talking, boozing, smoking As we try and try and fail to attract the girls. The clock passes twelve; the clock passes one. We bounce to Indie tunes and we dance. Broken glass crunching underfoot; gagging at the stench from the overflowing gents. “And why,” a voice asks, “Why do we do this?” Past two – back outside where the cool air aids that drunken feel. Eating our curries among the bin bags and vomit; lecherous men, crying women and the fighting drunks of Caroline St. Sirens wailing through this rush hour of the damned. The mass exodus of booze-filled refugees. Frantic flailing arms and flashing thighs at lit up cabs. Walk past the castle, keep ahead of the crowd, bemoaning taxis that don’t stop in spite of shaking fists; ignoring your pleas as they pull in for the gaggle...

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