Dreary Day Blog
It’s a dreary day here in north Wexford, unfortunately. I had a bit of a lie in this morning, not going to lie. But luckily for me, I have one responsibility on Fridays: to write this silly blog of mine. Hello and welcome. I don’t have any fiction to share today. I am going to wing it.
As I was about to begin writing today, I saw that So Say So was back at Wexford Arts Centre. I am so happy to see that. It was up in the air whether or not it would be returning. If you are reading this and can get Wexford over the next few months, usually on a Thursday, come on down!
I finished reading a book last night. It was my second time reading it. It’s The Obstacle Is the Way by Ryan Holiday. I know. It’s not fiction. I am itching to get to reading some fiction soon. The real-life stories of the world can be a bit much sometimes. I started reading a little booklet of Oscar Wilde quotes today. It’s strange jumping from stoicism to wit. Maybe that is my problem. It’s great to be able to mix it up, though. It’s true what they say: writers read. That’s probably a quote from something. I am not bothered to look it up.
John Cooper Clarke is coming back to Dublin in September. I am not sure if I mentioned that before. This is turning into a bit of a “what’s on” events guide blog. Dr Clarke will be performing in my old stomping ground of DCU. Well, The Helix. You know what I mean. While I am at it, I’m going with Fred and Kurt to see Iron Maiden tomorrow night, and that is something I never thought I would say or be doing. Madness. Wish me luck. I’m sure you will hear all about that on Monday.
Thank you for reading. I didn’t say much, but at least I showed up. I’m proud of myself for that. Here’s a poem by John Cooper Clarke. Thank you for reading. Thank you for your time:
BEASLEY STREET
Far from crazy pavements –
The taste of silver spoons
A clinical arrangement
On a dirty afternoon
Where the fecal germs of Mr Freud
Are rendered obsolete
The legal term is null and void
In the case of Beasley Street
In the cheap seats where murder breeds
Somebody is out of breath
Sleep is a luxury they don’t need
– a sneak preview of death
Belladonna is your flower
Manslaughter your meat
Spend a year in a couple of hours
On the edge of Beasley Street
Where the action isn’t
That’s where it is
State your position
Vacancies exist
In an X-certificate exercise
Ex-servicemen excrete
Keith Joseph smiles and a baby dies
In a box on Beasley Street
From the boarding houses and the bedsits
Full of accidents and fleas
Somebody gets it
Where the missing persons freeze
Wearing dead men’s overcoats
You can’t see their feet
A riff joint shuts – opens up
Right down on Beasley Street
Cars collide, colours clash
Disaster movie stuff
For a man with a Fu Manchu moustache
Revenge is not enough
There’s a dead canary on a swivel seat
There’s a rainbow in the road
Meanwhile on Beasley Street
Silence is the code
Hot beneath the collar
An inspector calls
Where the perishing stink of squalor
Impregnates the walls
The rats have all got rickets
They spit through broken teeth
The name of the game is not cricket
Caught out on Beasley Street
The hipster and his hired hat
Drive a borrowed car
Yellow socks and a pink cravat
Nothing La-di-dah
OAP, mother to be
Watch the three-piece suite
When shit-stoppered drains
And crocodile skis
Are seen on Beasley Street
The kingdom of the blind
A one-eyed man is king
Beauty problems are redefined
The doorbells do not ring
A lightbulb bursts like a blister
The only form of heat
Here a fellow sells his sister
Down the river on Beasley Street
The boys are on the wagon
The girls are on the shelf
Their common problem is
That they’re not someone else
The dirt blows out
The dust blows in
You can’t keep it neat
It’s a fully furnished dustbin,
Sixteen Beasley Street
Vince the ageing savage
Betrays no kind of life
But the smell of yesterday’s cabbage
And the ghost of last year’s wife
Through a constant haze
Of deodorant sprays
He says retreat
Alsations dog the dirty days
Down the middle of Beasley Street
People turn to poison
Quick as lager turns to piss
Sweethearts are physically sick
Every time they kiss.
It’s a sociologist’s paradise
Each day repeats
On easy, cheesy, greasy, queasy
Beastly Beasley Street
Eyes dead as vicious fish
Look around for laughs
If I could have just one wish
I would be a photograph
On a permanent Monday morning
Get lost or fall asleep
When the yellow cats are yawning
Around the back of Beasley Street