Tuesday, September 30, 2008

from manchester, u.k., John G. Hall, one of the greatest lyrick poets writing in Am-english on the planet!



John G.Hall - Manchester Poet & Editor of Citizen32, publications include Orbis, Iota, Rain Dog, The Wolf, Coffee House Poetry, The Ugly Tree, Carillon, Outlaw, Left Curve(usa), Square Lake(usa), Spume, Aesthetica, Brittle Star, Harlequin, Monkey Kettle & Fire.

Performs his poetry throughout the North West , mixing militant politics & biting humour with touching visions of childhood, love and football. The live recordings of his ant-war trilogy 'And Still I Cannot Wake From Their War' were recently bought by Drexel University,Philadelphia,USA.

Wet Cement Poems, is the title of a new Chapbook of a new series of poems by JOHN G. HALL w/ nothing less than a foward by the ula's own FDW

Wet Cement Poem N:5

we stake the world on youth and beauty

surely no one would pull a knife across perfect skin

surely no one would pour lies into such fine china ears

surely no one would puncture the bubbles of their dreams

surely no one would drop explosives on such fine bones

surely no one would rape these Pre-Raphaelite faced angels

surely no one would steal the ancient ground from it's people

surely no one would electrify the diamond spider web of a mind

surely no one would blow open the Sistine chapel of the skull

surely no one would dare nail the body of love to a money tree

surely no one would blind fold the blind man or dam the damned

surely no one would pay the rich to be rich and punish the poorsurely no one would leave the torturers to their own devices

surely one day we will show them the instruments of justice

surely no one would object to the hanging of their heads.

jgh© 2008

Wet Cement Poem No:6

The throne of cash is empty but for a skull with a bullet hole

and a diamond collared dog lapping at a pool of his own vomit,

while in a corner of the Pentagon the Stars and Stripes spontaneously

combust and the ghost of Jimi Hendrix pisses lighter fuel on the flag.


Wet Cement Poem No:4

I am the hounded slave; I wince at the bite of dogs,

the sound of the cataracts of cash machines echo

I sit and look out on all the sorrows of the world

and on all oppression and shame, I run with blood

afoot and light-hearted, I take to the open road

the human traffic burns through the metal rain

absorbing all to myself and for this song, I drink

bottled beer and lime and text instead of talk,

I have heard what the talkers were talking, and

vowed to write up and down these boulevards,

I will sing the song of companionship, of the

opposition of each heart to the murder of love,

to the maddening of minds, to dreams genocide,

all these I feel or am, all these call out for songs,

I am the hounded slave; I wince, turn, and sing.


*Every other line is from Walt Whitman

Wet Cement Poem No;3

they reckon birth may hurt babies

they say life is worth every penny

they believe the working class do not exist

they tell this to shop workers and nurses

they take the proof of our silent witness

they stare through the television screen into us

they trace each thought back to its owner

they rig the trail of life with sticky pleasure

they laugh at the poor behind their backs

they pin down the butterfly inside you

they pull the wings from your genius

they find starving people then feed them war

they have decided to counterfeit everything on the face of the earth

they reckon love is a rumour spread by dirty rotten communists.


Wet Cement Poem No:2

the road pours me into the city machine

the fire damaged man sells me his bad news

the live wires suit themselves in culture café's

the show houses play Les Miserables for laughs

the bar maids cry pints of crocodile tear liquor

the happy skull smiles of the living shine brightly

and the city machine passes me like a hot beer shit.



Wet Cement Poem No:1

from crashing waves deduce your answers

burn holes in paper tigers with ember tongues

be a red angel flying on swept back blue wings

carry a dove spangled banner in the midst of battle

touch a strangers pain at least once a day with your eyes

leave a trail in wet cement where your mind wandered

hide secret things, leave false clues, become unsolvable,

find undiscovered lands, burn their maps, wait to be found.


Thursday, September 25, 2008

Michael Grover's, I'M CALLING YOU OUT. audio! and audio! ANDREW LOVATT's, confessio1remix, with his original music!


Calling You Out

My country hates the poor,
The homeless.
Blames them for living
Out in the open.

Haves take more,
More government relief.
Poor not a pot to piss in,
No relief or jobs in sight.

I saw your hand print america
Across the face of a battered child in the street.
I'm calling you out.
You tried to hide
In the TV,
Behind the troops,
Behind the flag,
The statue of liberty,
Some fucked up cracked bell.

I'm calling you out.
It was you that put crack on the streets.
To kill the poor
You hate the poor.
You engineered the AIDS virus.
Now I'm speaking in conspiracies.
Like dreams come true,
Deferred away,

I'm calling you out.
You fearmonger.
Feeding on the fear

Of your weakest.
Sending fear through mass media,
Sittin' there feedin' on it.
Getting fat off it.
You are the fattest of the cats.

I'm calling you out.
I don't stand for the national anthem.
I laugh right in your face.
The last time I heard it
Someone tried to make me
take my hat off.
I said "Who are you the police?"
Won't love it or leave it.

I'm calling you out.
Won't listen to some chump
With a three piece suit and tie mind,
Tell me a vote for him
Will make my life better.
I know I'm gonna wake up
And it's all gonna be the same anyway.
Change is gonna be
What's left in my pocket.

I'm calling you out.
This is an abusive relationship.
But I'll stick around just to fuck with you.
Have you noticed I'm moving
Closer to the border.
I'll sit here on the edge
Watch whatever Armageddon you're playing out.
I have no fear left to feed you.

I'm calling you out.
I'm unlearning what I've learned
Because wisdom and peace
Are not a cluttered head.
I study the bloodline
Of the Poet.
I know what you've done.
I am living and dying simultaneously.
We all are.

I'm calling you out.
You're just an image marketed.
You are the biggest illusion.
I've followed your roads
From coast to coast.
From south to north.
I have seen you.
I know just how beautiful you are.
I have seen the injustice.
I know just how ugly you are.
I have felt the freedom
Of an open road,
Nothing in my way.
How do we live up to that?
How does the feeling last?

&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &





the title dead drunk dublin sprang from a collection of poems of the same name which i started writing in 2002 while walking the streets of dublin, a city i have known off & on for over 30 years. the book is still in the writing. -- andrew lovatt, editor



all pictures in this post credit FDW Ireland 2004 & Ponte Vedra Beach, FL. 2006

Thursday, September 11, 2008

Poet, G.Tod Slone editor/publisher: THE AMERICAN DISSIDENT, "Overdawg Slayer"

Caustic critic (aka P. Maudit) of the academic/literary established-order milieu et al and founding editor of The American Dissident
. “Let your life be a counterfriction to stop the machine” (Thoreau).

All pictures, poems and cartoon panels are by Mr. Slone, GeorgeTodSlone @ 2008

link to read Mr.Slone's Monday Report for the Alliance!
Published February 11 of this year ....

Testing the Waters of Democracy Today in Concord… and at Walden Pond

Preservation—Free Speech in Peril

Andrei Codrescu and Lawrence Ferlinghetti
January 2007—All Things Not Considered:

The Glossy Vacuity of Art & Poesy*

Is it not interesting to wade through

a silky, colorful artsy magazine and

end up with nothingness?

How much does nothingness cost?

you may wonder.

Well, it surely must be expensive!

The names grab your attention,

of course, Mailer and Tennessee,
but what they say does not.
Through the interviews with the artistes,
you hunt for a bite of wisdom, but find
only anodyne questions and responses.

"Why do you paint on panels instead

of canvas?"

"What role does having exhibitions play
in your work process?"

And of course there’s the poetry editor,

boasting how great the poets

she’s selected

and how one of them could have kept

her poem in the present tense, but

the decision to shift it in the last line

complicated it, making it oh, so

"charged, immediate, and layered."

There’s the essay on the state governor,

deeming politics a fine art,

or so says the smitten writer.

And there’s the essay on the millionaire

public intellectual with photos of him

playing tennis and walking his white poodle,

so proud of his corporate executive son.

The poets, writers, and artistes, so

successfully bourgeois are they,

yet such sterile failures!


*Poem written round Provincetown Arts, 2007

A Poem for the Edification of Lit Cogs

Intellectually I sharpen from constant collision

with the established-order—its myriad components

and ubiquitous legions of abnegating proponents.

"I agree with much of what you're saying," wrote

one such editor,* who then proceeded to argue

that what I was saying was actually

"rant" and "sour grapes."

But how could an intelligent person agree with that,

I wondered, bringing it to his attention, though in vain;

besides, why should the literary agora be open only

to sweet grapes?

"But if your tone is anything like your tone here, I

wouldn't be interested in it," he stated with regards

another critical proposal of mine.

Thus, my approach was off, my tone wrong, and

of course my taste not in good taste at all.

But was Villon’s verse written in the right tone or

Solzhenitsyn’s prose or Bukowski’s or how about

Thomas Paine’s? Was his written in good taste?

But to that, the constituent simply closed the debate

with a curt "good luck with the browbeating."

Sadly, the logic tends to die, inevitably,

with diehards of the established-order


*C.L. Bledsoe, editor of Ghoti Magazine

Poem #2 for the Edification of Lit Cogs

An editor wrote that my "general frustration with

some of the ‘norms’ and ‘protocols’ of the literary

world were well-founded and needed

to be expressed"* and

that he was "really drawn" to my writing.

"I must say. I actually agree with a lot

of what

you say."

Three months later I wrote him a reminder, asking

if he were still drawn to what I had to say and would

consider publishing something of what I had to say.

But in an unsurprising about face, he responded

"I'm not wanting to out and out burn bridges because,

well we’re a writer-friendly publication."

Yet how, I wondered, had the prime concern of

literary publishers, apart from excellence—

oh, but of course!—

become apprehension of burning bridges, while

"writer friendly" equated with truth avoidance?

Had the Janus-faced politician turned role model?

"But I do want to take on (more) controversial issues,

and I do want to give voice to ‘unpopular’ views,"

he proudly declared, as if fence straddling had been

elevated to one of the fine arts.

"Some degree of prudence is needed, but not to the

point of sacrificing authenticity and fairness."

Would he, I wondered, be presenting himself one day

as candidate for the Congress or Senate?


*John Amen, Chief Editor of Pedestal Magazine

G. Tod Slone

(todslone@yahoo.com)1837 Main St. August 2007
Concord, MA 01742