Buy me a coffee

https://ko-fi.com/joeshooman

Sunday 24 December 2017

The Magic of Christmas

The spirit of Xmas, the magic of the season, and all that shit. Magic not guaranteed.

PiePie The Magpie Came To Visit

I met a magpie yesterday. He didn’t tell his name.
He came to visit out the blue. He liked it, so he stayed
About an hour. He perched and preened his plumage clean and bright;
He did a mean impression of a camera to our delight;

He perched on Suzy’s shoulder. Oh, she laughed in sheer joy
And the magpie laughed along. He was a funny boy.
(Or maybe girl, I couldn’t tell. It’s not my expertise.)
He even cleaned his beak upon her hoodie’s soft-washed sleeves.

We phoned up all the folks we thought could help us with advice.
Was he someone’s missing pet? Hmm. Well, nobody recognised
The magpie up and down our street. He wasn’t someone’s bird
But maybe as a little chick he’d been hand-reared, we heard.

Regardless, Mr. Magpie came and brightened everything.
We gave him water and some corn, he gave us smiles and grins.
The cats were jealous: Rusty came and tried to chase him off
But magpie just flew up and up and cat-food he was not.

My friend said maybe Magpie had been sent to us to say,
All will be well, life’s not all bad, that gloom is not the way
To be. And that to be is really all that ever matters;
The rest’s just details, fripperies, a mess of background chatter;

Time is short, black nights are long, depending how you feel;
But living in the moment is the way to make things real
And solid. Like a conversation with a magpie does.”
He didn’t say his name. True. But I sure knew who he was.

Thursday 21 December 2017

6225 622: words

Father he (Jo) ousts
Undead (we, ya

Extras): “Go in nitro
Trails!” (VO; xi);

"Danger! Inner
Outing!”

Unread, zappy,
Futile.

Leaved quiet
Winter

Colded.



Wednesday 20 December 2017

A sonnet for 2017

On the first day of Jan. First of twoohoneseven
The year stretches out, yawns, and shivers
Hung over. We all are. Fat on bread of heaven
And all of our comrades are with us,
Some are on tour; some in the studio;
Some scribbling frantically.
Strings stretch between us, wherever we go:
There’s only so much land and sea.
But then, something ruptures. A crack in the sky.
Foul lightning that burns at our souls.
A cackling, harridan hater of life
Cutting at that rare rope – and one falls.
On the first day of Jan. First of twooohoneeight
The comrades still here hope that love tramples hate.




Tuesday 12 December 2017

Tales from the bedside pad: 6225 622


I don't understand it but I did it.
6225 622. 
It was in my head.
Then I woke up and it was in my bedside pad.
6225 622.
So I did this and didn't edit.
I don't understand it. But it's done.
6225 622.
Here is what it sounds like:

https://soundcloud.com/shooberry/6225-622a

Friday 8 December 2017

SNOW

whoa
lots and lots of snow
like old time snow
growing up as a kid snow
drifty snow
maybe school's off today snow
and in a year of loss and weirdness
I look and see
it's
well, it's beautiful
and I am here to see it
that's sort of beautiful too
in a life of confusion and outworth and weirdness
I think.


Thursday 7 December 2017

But. Even then?

Yes. Well. What happened to Greece
Was a violent fuck by the banking elite
Until it bled. There was no money,
Just debt. But even then
I think I believed still in peace.

And. So. There isn’t a plan
And admitting this, a man
In a suit shrugged it off, which was
‘nt cute. Remember when
They wrote lies on a van?

Aye. Aye. The good ship shits sails,
The crops and the economy fail,
And for what? A power struggle,
Power that should never be
In the hands of those who seek hail.

Yes. Well. I wonder if this all
Will blow over, or whether we will fall
And crack heads. In schools will they teach
How we fled? How we all got
Irish passports? When we Took Back Control?