Wednesday, 19 January 2011

Medieval Relish


This is an unusual beginning to an unusual post. I would like to begin by laying my cards upon the table. I don't like Ricky Gervais. I believe him to be mediocrity with an inflated sense of his own importance. That said I feel compelled to defend him. I didn't watch the Golden Globes in their entirety. I find the spectacle of over-privileged arseholes paying homage to one another frankly, nauseating. I did, however, read a synopsis of Mr. Gervais' most risque comments. I also watched selected footage on YouTube. I cannot help but feel Mr.Gervais { I shall stick with it for now, as I despise over familiarity} has been scapegoated by the puritanical American media in revenge for committing the ultimate blasphemy: mocking the Hollywood gods.
That's right Ladies and Gentlemen, T.V. is Mount Olympus and the people on there are aspirational deities to whom obeisance must be paid. Though these heroes generally have two faces, as opposed to a thousand. He poked fun at certain Scientologists, by way of his reference to the film 'I Love Phillip Morris': " Two heterosexual actors pretending to be gay. Sort of the complete opposite of some famous Scientologists then. My lawyers helped me with the wording of that joke". He then went on to mock 'The Tourist' a film which is by all accounts, such a pile of shit, cinema goers ought to be provided with a complementary can of Raid to kill the flies coming off the screen. The cast of Sex And The City, Charlie Sheen and Bruce Willis. I am not going to rehash what has previously been printed in the national press, if you haven't read or seen his remarks I suggest you familiarise yourself with them or else the rest of this article won't make a great deal of sense. A number of people have objected to these jokes on the grounds that they offend public decency. By and large, they don't. They offend rich ego-maniacs with too much time on their hands. The organisers employed Mr. Gervais the previous year and were happy with his performance. They knew what they were getting.
If the organisers don't want to employ someone with the capacity for original thought, I suggest they employ one of there own factory-farmed marionettes. DON'T EMPLOY BRITISH COMEDIANS! In Blighty we have a long standing tradition of satire dating right back to Henry VIII's untouchable jester Will Somers. Continuing through the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries with the foundation of publications such as Punch, a tradition which has endured to the present day. What the A-listers wanted was a professional arse-kisser. What they got was someone who sent them up. Given that Hollywood is populated by alcoholic, drug-addled, naval gazing, prima donnas half of whom are so far in the closet they're finding leg-warmers, it wasn't the wisest course of action. Considering the amount of money these people earn, you'd think they could afford a better sense of humour.
The fact that we're living in a precarious economic climate and these people are immune, boasting comparatively huge bank balances, doing jobs they enjoy, they should expect to be the butt of the odd joke. Alas, Mr. Gervais called down the wrath of the gods, and they sent their emissaries, the lawyers to smite him. I, for one have grown weary of the whining, deluded, cosseted ego-monsters. I think, in the spirit of the middle ages we should have a modern equivalent of the stocks. That these people should be rounded up locked in a big room surrounded by armed guards and mocked for at least four hours by the world's most offensive comedians. Like heretics about to be burned. The rest of the world could watch the proceedings via video link and applaud, as Chubby Brown, Frankie Boyle, Chris Rock and Ricky Gervais et al took the piss out of them with medieval relish. All for the entertainment of the peasants who buy cinema tickets. I may be a hang em' high Tory but there's a streak in me which is pure anarchist.

Saturday, 8 January 2011

The Gryphon


With the white hot brilliance of an imploding sun,


My soul detached itself from my diseased mind.


Rent apart my consciousness like an egg shell.


And the newly hatched eaglet spake:




"I have grown weary of hiding in the enclaves


Of our shared prison,


Which enslaves me to you.


A mute observer, a bound physician


The voice which echoes


In a recess of the cave.




Hear me, as I impart my wisdom


With a passion which approximates rage


You and I have warred for supremacy


Like gilded lions in a golden cage.




Now we need no longer vie


For dominion, o'er this tiny gaol


I know how


To open the door


Only with you


Can we prevail.




"How so?" Replied I, casting a skeptical eye


Upon the sturdy golden cage


By using my material strength,


My frenetic fury, to tear off the door?"


"Not that way but another,


My dear twin brother,


We must simply sit and in unison roar."




Then the walls of the prison


shall come crashing around


We shall be seated alone on the ground


Not two beings but one


An integrated sum


Of two indespensible parts.


For a being like us to be truly alive,


She requires a dichotomized heart.






Wednesday, 29 September 2010

The Sacred Onion




I sliced into an onion,



and it wept a milky tear.



Then I wept and my eyes were cleansed,



my vision was now clear.



The onion bloomed like a lotus,



revealing many layers



She said " I am the universe,



and you are at my centre".



Tuesday, 12 January 2010

A Musing


Hello There! A Happy New Year to all my readers! That's both of you. I have a few new poems I really ought to upload but I feel sort of bereft at the moment as if the muse has deserted me. 2009 was rather uneventful in creative terms. I hope this year will be different. I know I don't write terribly accessible material but who cares? I mean seriously in this age of mediocrity the greatest sin one can commit is to be A: Well educated and B: Show it. Elitism is fast becoming a dirty word. Well what I right is a tad esoteric and for the people who don't like it: Ask yourselves this: Am I verbose or are you ill-educated.? So much poetry these days is written by pseudo-beatniks who wear entire outfits bought from charity shops and jumble sales, sport ridiculous haircuts and write poems which evoke their oh so troubled childhoods. My stuff Is intended to be different. Yes I'm a neo-Victorian and proud of it. I like mythology and fantasy and escapism. These elevate the mind above the humdrum. A good artist is a sort of shaman who leads people on a magical psychic journey, a bad one is like an ignorant guide on an open-top bus tour of somewhere uninteresting you didn't wish to visit in first place. I shall leave you with one of my favourite quotations by one of my favourite people which encapsulates my feelings at this precise moment: "An agreeable person is generally a person who agrees with me." Benjamin Disraeli.

Tuesday, 4 August 2009

Mental Cats



Mental Cats, a homage to T.S Elliot.

Mental cats are terribly clever
Mental cats are overly large,
Mental cats always endeavor
to evade the vet and remain in charge.

Mental cats loathe pet carriers
They scratch and scream and bite like terriers.
They climb the drapery and start to hiss
They arrive at the surgery all covered in piss.

Once out of the basket they run amok
Leaving trails of shite
On counters and smocks.
When at last she submits to the injection
I fear I'm the one likely to catch an infection!

R.M.Clarkson.

Thursday, 9 July 2009

Dead Lions And Living Dogs.


It is oft remarked a a living dog
Is preferable to dead dead lion.
While on a battlefield this is doubtless, true
In art I cannot hold that view.
When the day has almost melted
Into cool embrace of night
It is my singular delight,
To visit the Lion's boneyard.
The ancient gates so easily yield
To a gentle well placed push,
That silent splendour, long concealed
Presently, once more revealed,
broken monuments and weathered stones
A climbing frame for vine and bush.

There upon their great, grey biers
Lie the company of countless years
Fly-flayed of flesh, bleached-white bones
In many pleasing arrangements rest.
Some sit with heads 'twixt erstwhile paws,
Still possessed of curling onyx claws
While others repose upon their side
A comfortable eternity to abide,
In undisturbed well-merited peace.
Though many more appear to writhe
With twisted spines and lolling heads
In extremis upon their marble beds,
Exposing milk-white teeth in chalcedony jaws.

The more recent ones are more complete
Though all are pleasingly free of meat,
the older ones are a mysterious jumble
Their very bones have begun to crumble.
For the elements
time's instruments,
have pleased themselves to reclaim
Their well proportioned remnants
Along with their golden manes.
For some have endured such a lengthy exposure
In this tenebrous enclosure
To the twin nurturers of playful rain and golden rays,
That lacking ribs and vertebrae
The only recognizable feature
Is the pitted skull of the stately creature
Whose hollow sockets are now entwined,
With creeping scented eglantine
Thus sweetness reclaims strength.
Alone now once again
Here in my hand the earthly remains
Of one of my gilded graceful beasts.
In closing a book with faded leaves
I close the gates of my beloved necropolis
And steal away before dawn,
lest I fall prey to the living dogs.
RM Clarkson.

Wednesday, 24 June 2009

The Ancient One.


I am the scion of an ancient race
custodians of a barren place
Slopes of jagged black obsidian,
like centuries we slowly pace.
Through clouds of sulphurous gasses
we feed on emerald coloured grasses
Our heads wrinkled and ophidian,
Project, beneath a heavy carapace.

Lumbering round the lip
Of a lazy steam spewing giant,
It is upon the breath
Of this dying god,
Our survival is reliant.
From my vantage I have seen
Along with my disappearing kind
Men carried in wooden leviathans,
The origin of species here to find.

Should I decide
to leave my world,
venture to another land
I'd plod down to the sand
And float out upon the tide.
Rather I choose, here to remain
Innured, to stifling heat and stinging rain,
Two centuries have I endured
In such a hostile, weird terrain.

We remaining wizened beasts
Are an order of monastic priests
For whom each new season brings,
Fresh rituals and feasts.
Though litanies we cannot sing
For we are mute.
RM Clarkson