Beyond It All

That’s what she said to me

Giving me a gentle sleepy kiss.

“Just believe,” and she smiled.

“Believe in what?”

“Just believe.”

“Go to bed now, I believe.”

But wait, “Believe in what?”

“Oh, you know.”

“Something. Anything.

Something greater than yourself.”

“Oh, yes, I was seven once,

And I remember believing.”

“What was it you believed in?”

“I can’t remember,

But I believe in you.”

“That’s a nice thing to say.

I believe in you, too.”

Voyeur Me.

(rejected by Happy Voyeur Monthly -  Bangor)

Voyeur Me.

Porno Jim is an amiable man,

An average Jock who does what he can,

He bides in a flat, deep in the estate,

He never did marry, he never was late.

He goes for a pint on a Saturday night,

Standing alone by the bar out of sight,

He gets up on Mondays and goes to his job,

Where he waits to go home to feel like a slob.

But Porno Jim is comfortable most,

Alone, where only he can play host,

Assisted by image pretending to care,

To imagine a passionate love affair.

So it may well be for the mother Lesley,

Who only likes to watch the telly,

And all the dying babies,

She cries for,

And all the poor animals,

Her heart throbs for,

The feeling of the pain of sympathy,

For these poor souls,

Her neurons spark off,

The electrical impulse,

Which squeezes her soul.
Princess Lesley is so attractive,

With faultless manners and interactive,

And she, too, likes to be alone,

But her largely unheard escstatic moan,

Is only found in the pain she perceives,

And the tortured face it's believed she receives.

Or it just may at last be JT Gow,

Who keeps it together, all together now,

The hero for holding back crisis meltdown.

But when he is alone...

...he tortures the cat,

And congratulates himself,

For not using the bat.

He likes to watch,
People getting hurt.

But nevertheless there’s still today,

And Para Gav has joined AA,

After pissing half his life away,
After pissing half his life away,

Which came to a head just yesterday.

He used to be happy and then he had strife,

But now AA will sort out his life.

Porno Jim is an amiable man,

An average Joe, who does what he can,

But Para Gav has changed his ways,

And paid his dues in latter days.

Remember Bukowski

"If you're going to try, go all the way. Otherwise, don't even start. This could mean losing girlfriends, wives, relatives and maybe even your mind. It could mean not eating for three or four days. It could mean freezing on a park bench. It could mean jail. It could mean derision. It could mean mockery--isolation. Isolation is the gift. All the others are a test of your endurance, of how much you really want to do it. And, you'll do it, despite rejection and the worst odds. And it will be better than anything else you can imagine. If you're going to try, go all the way. There is no other feeling like that. You will be alone with the gods, and the nights will flame with fire. You will ride life straight to perfect laughter. It's the only good fight there is." 

— Charles Bukowski

Setting the Tone

I recently received an e-mail in reply to an offer of first-class cut-price writing. I have chosen not to identify the company in respect to them being good and decent people who are fighting the good fight (an opinion which I offered them in my original correspondence), but replicate the e-mail verbatim due to its interesting language and train of thought:

“Craig,

Here's some friendly advice.

1) Do not call prospective publishers 'motherfuckers'. It sets the wrong kind of tone for your email.
2) Follow the rules and guidelines, they are there for a reason.
3) Don't make us trawl through your stuff, select appropriate material, we don't have time to piss about.
4) Acting like a prat gets you nowhere.

Better luck next time.

--
Kind regards,”

The line “Better luck next time” cut like a rusty razorblade and I decided the only way to deal with this was to in fact sharpen the pain by a process akin to neurobiological sensory lateral inhibition. I replaced my everyday clothing with the Eastern Tunic and began to light copious amounts of incense before proceeding to meditate, standing with feet at shoulder-width.

Dulling out all externals I focused on the pain until, gradually it turned into a deafening yet life-affirming sonorous hum swimming through my existence. I tuned in to the overpowering reverb, opened a can of Fosters and switched to the Coronation Street omnibus where several people were really in deep, troubling times.

“Better luck next time,” Gail sobbed to Martin, who had just made a failed attempt on her life.

My gold-embroidered tunic suddenly swept out behind me, lifted by an inexplicable sudden gust of wind indoors.

Frustration

   

Over the past few weeks, Mr Guthrie commenced a correspondence with several people. The circumstances were such:


          Mr Guthrie first contacted the University of Liverpool's student magazine "Ellipsis" and submitted four poems which he believed to be outstanding works (and perhaps some of his best) loosely based on the theme of "Home". He was rejected outright by the editors.

          Mr Guthrie submitted five pages of poetry to "Erbacce Poetry Prize"and five different pages of poetry to "Erbacce Poetry Magazine" and was told that the second submission did not adhere to the submission guidelines (an oversight which he believes that he rectified soon after).
          Mr Guthrie then submitted the poem "Broadchurch Revealed" to Poetry24 (a reputable news and current affairs-related poetry site which has published previous work of Mr Guthrie) under appropriate guidelines. His original e-mail was such:

Dear Poetry24 team,

Thank you for your time perusing this piece. If I could just say quickly, I think your first reaction may be to reject the piece as it can be first seen as random, uncohesive and perhaps even too personal to justify the "news story" badge. However, I would like to say in its defence that I have paid great attention to detail on this work (as I like to think I always do) - and although this has a very, modernist, free-verse style, I also write within the strict structures of forms such as heroic couplet, villanelle and sonnet and I believe my free verse pieces are all, to some degree, influenced by this.
I guess, what I'm trying to say is, the more you look at it, the more it should morph into the opposite of what it first appears to be: as opposed to "uncohesive" I would argue that it is actually hyper-cohesive, as opposed to random and quickly penned, I argue that the words are in fact chosen meticulously for their relationship to one another and that "current affairs" are reflected greatly in the piece. The main idea is to reveal the juxtaposition between modern disposable entertainment and our own private thoughts which are consistently more complex and unique and often of a sublime or biblical magnitude.
Unfortunately, I feel I may have put you off even more now, but am just trying to stand by my work and highlight merits which may not at first be apparent.
Either way, thank you and all the best.

Attached is my own photo which I have the rights to which I would leave to your discretion whether to use or not.





          The next day, Mr Guthrie partook of libations within his family home and sent the following e-mail to the Poetry24 editors. 

Dear Poetry24 Team,

I have a pretty good idea that you have a mind to reject my poem, "Broadchurch Revealed".
I just want to say one last thing, whether it is accepted or not. Read out, aloud, at your computer, the last six published poems on your site - to yourself, of course - have a fag, or a glass of wine, or whatever it is you do, then read out loud my poem - confidently. Please do me this favour of reading my poem aloud.
Bearing in mind that no-one has ever recognised my work, I am poor and have a terrible haircut and three children to support, tell me which is the most powerful piece, personally and honestly.
And then tell me if you will not answer to a Higher Power and burn in Hell for the neglect you are guilty of if you refuse to acknowledge my work.

Best regards and fingers crossed,
Craig.
(PS - I hope we all find hyperbole amusing)

          His submission was rejected on the grounds that "it wasn't suited to us".

          The next day Mr Guthrie wrote to the Birkenhead Press imprint "Appin Press" declaring that they should "keep their finger on the pulse" by being aware of the "very best" current literature being written in their local area at this time. He sent the link to "Diary of an Obnoxious Sociophobe" and challenged the company not to finish what had already been written - to which, Mr Guthrie has, to date, received no reply.
          Mr Guthrie then posted a humble entry on a local poetry group's Facebook page "The Dead Good Poets Society" regarding his site "Satan is Biting My Ankle" and was promptly insulted by what appeared to be a very child-like brain, which managed to post some infantile rhyme regarding self-promotion and declare that the page was for "poems only". The sight of this reply caused Mr Guthrie to immediately leave the group in the knowledge that he was unqualified to deal with people with such severe psychological and social difficulties. 
          We acknowledge that the case against Mr Guthrie by the family of Ms Parker in no way relates to the case pending against Mr Guthrie by the Crown.
         Mr Guthrie would like to re-iterate that he has no affiliation with any group, does not subscribe to any pre-ordained philosophical theory and will be glad to be held accountable for his actions should any body of men prove themselves worthy of judging them. He maintains that "all my work is shit" and goes on record as saying "it is all utter nonsense, however, I rarely repeat myself and it's all hugely entertaining." - Literary Underworld, 2013.
          Mr Guthrie is now under the protection of a local psychiatric unit and will be unavailable to comment until further notice.

Glaffort & Gladstone, Solicitors at Law.

Broadchurch Revealed

(rejected by Poetry24)

Revealed the killer on Broadchurch,

Twenty two four, U K world,

Nine-something time,

Pfft, ah, shit,

Deafdumb blind kid,

Mastic tax super glue,

Tiny twenty-four-hour hearty steeple,

Scratch my balls,

Sweat in my crack,

Pfft, grasp,

Reach for…

Love is a Dead Dog from Hell,

Don’t ease faith's pain...

...The pain of Broadchurch,

Missing the rain,

The reign of Big Lurch,

Missing Miss Assisted Suicide,

Mastic beeswax goo,

I will go outside,

Go outside, me,

Go outside me,

I speak with no-one

While GRACE kneels waiting bloody in the rain,

Aside the Carcass of God.

Goodbye Broadchurch,

Sink into the ether,

Of another lonely day,

Fade rapid in the smoke,

Fade rapid in the grey,

Behind the Sun,

Sinking,

And drinking,

All my thoughts away,

From broad what?

God's Church.

I've Got the Measure of You

When regarding this piece, it must be said that I, myself, do not view any of my "angry" pieces to be great or fine pieces of literature, I save that for Emily, however, they contain a required burst of emotion. I do not overwork these pieces intentionally, in the hope that they retain the feeling of that all-consuming, one-dimensional rage.
I wrote this after messaging the person who had allowed me to join a Facebook in relation to a small publication. I supplied links to my sites and a pleasant message that I hoped she would like my work. I received a message back advising that I should not contact her through her personal page and only through the official publication site. 

(rejected by Lopsided Magazine)

I've Got the Measure of You.

Come, my fellow students, come one, come all,

I await you with open arms,

Because I hate you,

Each and every one.

I am not an animal, I am a man,

I am not an animal, I am a man,

I am not a troll, I am a pan,

Cooking,

Cooking up your fucking guts, Sir.

Where are the radicals?

You shower of screen-dosed shits.

Where are writers?

They’re lazing in their pits.

And Why am I the Best? You say,

This side of the Mersey,

Because there’s nothing here,

You dozy does,

And there’s even less,

Where youse be.

Dinnae gee me shite wee man,

Or wee wifie in yer ivory tower,

Dinnae gie me atty-tude,

Eh can slip right in,

An oo a it,

An tak a blow,

An member gettin chibbed in the Cutty Sark,

An member gettin loved-up in the dark,

An aa the hoaspital,

An aa the bench in the park,

An aa, an now ye look glaickit.

Ye look like a fool.

Cos Eh – Eh reached oot tae ye,

Ye foul scum.

An ye rejected me, like the shite on yer shin,

Ah fuckin hate ye, ye foul scum,

Ahm better wi ma ain.

Did ye hear me scum?

Ahm better wi ma ain.

Harry.

This is a poem which was actually published by Poetry24, but something I have not published elsewhere due to the fact that I went off it immediately as a sub-standard, ill-thought-out and little revised piece of writing. Its saving grace is the pressing home of the image which initially sent me into the fit of anger required to write the piece and that is done by repeating "seven seconds in" - the precise time in the BBC interview linked where Harry says "take a life to save a life" and grins like a Hollywood star.

Harry.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-21119727

I have now deleted from my life,
An army man and an army wife,
It twisted, twisted and twisted, the knife,
I saw no option.

I questioned not the courage there,
Nor intent to prove a care,
Nor the man of action rare,
But blind obedience.

If I a parcel of vain strivings tied,
It is the horse’s conscience you provide,
So friendship for honour's sake has died,
And suffered greatly.

It was the praise of Harry’s sin,
Applauded seven seconds in,
His ominous and passing grin,
Precisely seven seconds in,
That ominous and passing grin,
Which tipped me over.

I've not the time to argue, or,
The energy to make case, for,
The pulling from all foreign, war,
While ignorance of this magnitude reigns.

-

Helen

This was the second poem in a trilogy of celebrity-themed poems which was sent to Poetry24. The first, "Colleen" they published, the second, "Helen" they rejected and the third has not been written yet:

Helen (I've Gone Off Colleen)

I like Helen on her teacher’s chair,

And she’d like me with my affro hair,

We’d ride to Vegas on our Palomino,

Sniffing ether and drinking vino,

All would be bliss until the next day,

When she’d find God and I’d go grey,

She’d slap my face, I would vomit,

We’d laugh, make up,

And go back to discussing Socratic method in the sand.

Response to "The English Society"

“It is well known and widely if tacitly acknowledged that poetry is a retarded practice, close to absurdity as counting for nothing in a real world: it surely does make nothing happen. Really we know this, outside the hot-house, because by now we are grown up past the fancy that language could ever tell us more than we already recognise from daytime TV. To draw anyone’s attention to a newly published poem-sequence, therefore, must seem like a solemn prank, essentially surplus to serious business, by winks and nods from within the expiring cohort of revivalists.” J. H. Prynne 2009.

After publishing an unwatered down version of this poem on the Facebook page of The University of Liverpool's English Society, I received an unexpectedly aggressive and personal response from, otherwise placid and charitable people of good breeding. I was also almost immediately banned from their site.
I penned a lengthy response, regarding the speaking voices in poetry and metaphor and such like but then decided that the quote above would adequately explain any position I might hold.

The English Society.

(rejected by much - but not all - of The English Society)

Little did I know that you would amount,
To a sickening social network account,
Of inane tos and fros, labels, designs,
Make-up and dress-up philosophical crimes,
Soft focus photos who seek for a beau,
Or false bravado so aching to sow,
The hollowest of hollow, no depth to sin,
The emptiest vessel promoting within,
You do not like this and you do like that,
Destined for refinement as a bureaucrat,
Retarding the century to fit your ends,
Tapping the key which lies about friends,
Associate yourself within your plans,
To climb the ladder your ambition spans,
Aspire to the same postcode as your mother,
I-Phone in one hand, dogshit in the other,
While Rochester allows me to be profane,
Say every stupid cunt to me looks the same,
The smiles wouldn’t make me feel so sick,
The haircut wouldn’t say that you’re such a prick,
If only you had something other to say,
Than what someone better said yesterday,
Work charity hour to furnish CV,
It will pay you back dividends, ultimately,
While the red brick walls that saved my sight,
House this shower of shallowest shite,
Who seek no truth that exists outwith,
But exist to assist in creation of myth,
That the greatest minds of a generation,
Are found in the institutions of nation,
Which strive to educate in more than show,
While straining under each financial blow,
Within six-hour contact time each week,
Attempts in vain to draw each to speak,
Of matters other than the colour of hair,
Or reality telly, or what they wear,
Or the latest shit music on their phone,
Or the cocktails they’ll have when they get home.

Little did I know that you would amount,
To a sickening social network account,
Whose shiny face will last but a day,
Till another pretty uploads them away,
With self-involved conceit just like the last,
And just when I thought the gag-reflex passed,
The to-ing and fro-ing all starts again,
More shiny little fuckwits, pretend, pretend,
To have an interest outside of themselves,
Or the rags on racks or bags on the shelves,
I have never laid claim to grace or piety,
But Lord how I pray for The English Society.