Jim Ferguson (British Working Class Poetry)

Jim Ferguson is a working-class writer from Scotland. He lives in the north of 'The British Isles' and would accept the word 'British' as a geographical term. As a long-time anti-imperialist Ferguson does not endorse the British State nor most of its governmental institutions which are long, long overdue for radical reform. Ferguson would like to see the final deconstruction of the remains of the British Empire, which would mean the restoration of full national statehood to Scotland, England, Ireland and Wales as democratic republics. He has published a number poetry collections, pamphlets and so on, details here: http://www.jimfergusonpoet.co.uk"

 

accumulations

 

 

how things gather

seem to seem crusted

aggregate dust

 

itchy eyes

with peering -

goo in the corners

 

moves to a crunch

a crunchy mass

a mess of this n that

 

sneeze it away

or rinse with tears

the newest goo re-forms

 

scratch it out

scratch old eyes out

everything cleared

 

for

the 

new

 

*

 

word is a

four-letter

                      Word

 

sign and symbol

so deeply rooted

                     Manipulative

 

the outside world

as symbol and sign

                      Inside

 

the head a-dreamful

abstraction only

                     Tells

 

the names of things

unknown before

                     Now

 

the outside world

somehow predictable

                     Only but

 

not always

impossible to fathom

                     Aye-aye

 

you sail out

somehow forward from the womb

                     If you are lucky

 

have moments in hand

ahead of time

                     To go

Bye-bye

 

*

 

   Dark –

            Too is and also

a four-letter word

 

with time the spectacles

become more elaborate

 

some like

the metaphor of the milk-bottle

 

the eyes pearls of the head

not teeth

 

teeth fall

like toppled cemetery stones

 

the eyes are the pearls of the head

perhaps a better metaphor perhaps

 

they gleam still don’t let enough light

into the head

 

how the eyes shine from the face

in the mirror of a toothless head

 

what is dark

accumulation of

 

absence

being outwith

an almost anywhere

sense of light

 

*

 

work and rock

four apiece

 

what is the alphabet

all combinations

 

from outside the head

inside transferred to the outside

 

again

 

to understand and

simply call it

 

 - lanwij

 

magical connections

of sight and sound and

 

add it all up

simply call it

 

- maffs

 

eyes work

eyes pearls

work dull

work

work

work

 

the four-letter word 

as code for survival

 

survival feels good

alas - all that work

 

to enable survival

wears out the pearls

 

of joy residing

in hedonism

 

of the heart

 

*

 

see how they run

see how they build

 

see how that consumed

becomes accumulated waste

 

forms the goo

the crust upon the eyes

 

that blinds you

close-down

 

in whispers

through the dark

 

good night

 

dark is a word

what is dark

 

blind-mice

 

mice is a four letter word

what is light

 

light is five

and

five is a four-letter word

                                          boom - boom

 

dreams jump over the moon

 

My battery is running low

My electric mind goes pop pop pop

Bring my headphones

Night vision goggles

Dance across the top deck of this bus

Get naked now with Oliver Twist

Got the frozen blue-skin blues

Got a valentine’s card in December

The memory of you is dementia pleasure

The memory of you is a black n white snapshot

Bring on the dancing elephants

Bring on Madam Exotic

Come out with your deathly exploits

Let’s take this acid bus into town

You know what it’s for

You know that it’s love

It’s a valentine’s card in December

It’s a must must must improve my bust

It’s the birth of sanity

It’s the poem of the century

It’s ginseng ice-cream

It’s marriage and babies

Happy families

Men dressed as ladies

All the curtains come down

Take a bow right now

Now you’re dead

Now you’re dead

Now you’re dead

Bless your low artistic heart

It’s a grey sky above

And you’re whisky raving

On the top deck of this bus

Brecht is on fire

And now it’s a riot

On the top deck of this shambling bus

Roll over buddy boy

In your bankrupt igloo

An immoral being in an immortal zoo

Love is dead there is no resurrection

Love is dead there is no breathing heart

Just a bun and a burger

No mayo or sauce

Just baked in mediocrity

In a sponge full of corruption

Burn this king’s bus to the ground

Burn this king’s bus to the ground

Get started all over again

New sandcastles and starfish ice-cream

Watch the bus melt

As our dreams jump over the moon

- our old bankrupt dream -

    Our dream jumps over the moon

       While some other nutter is burning the cakes


 

at the hoose whaur tam did bide

 

my auld pal tam

three mile at least atween his place and mine

easy by 44-bus in drunken time

 

and she, my love, off to jamaica

the why and what for unremembered

nothing between us was going right

 

children lost and blind to myself

the summer sky looked sad

eternal rain and heavy cloud

 

tam and me in boozy reverie

watched that movie called

‘the legend of the holy drinker’

 

a violent legacy of love and magic

for people without an address

a symphony for the homeless, the needy

 

and there was plenty to drink…

much later, dancing, in a garden pond

plump with goldfish

 

my heart glad of friends, the woman knitting,

the thick seam on the back of her stockings

brings in my mother from the 1960s

 

who would remember, who would know

the pain made softer by company

other people not being hell but gladness

 

solace and serenity and the blood all wine and madness

a gentle self-destruction, in mourning for her,

in mourning for the unborn

 

how those children slipped away

miscarried evening, stillborn morning

that was why she’d gone to jamaica

 

and that was why my heart was broken,

nothing was going right between us

and tam giving friendship to me

 

sharing a movie, his booze and his money

i wanted to jump in the clyde but didny ─

at the last moment clarinets and strings did sing


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