Dancing in the dark …

October 13, 2008

A deserted corridor
Of what once used to be
The desperate traveller gazes
at what’s to be left again
The crisping ashes of the past
Give stars and particals of light
Dancing in the dust
To start a new
Once a travelling lady …


The perfect trip …

October 13, 2008

A new love so pure
no hardship yet to endure
we set a sail to a far of shore
without an inch of a bore
Not knowing our destiny
We road along
On a path unknown to me
Ever so long
We had the time of our life
Nothing could stand in our way
We were made for each other
Till that fatal day …

She stood with her back to the wall and pulled up her skirt; the moss was damp under our feet.

“Stop! A Wolf!” she cried.

I stopped. I looked around. A dog had appeared. It was a dog. It was definitely a dog.

“It’s a dog!” I exclaimed.

The dog, on hearing this, scampered. She shrugged. We continued; the moon peeking out from behind a carbon monoxide-blackened London cloud. I thought of Un chien andalou.

The razorblade; the peeling eyeball.

I peered back over her shoulder, one eye open, half concentrating, and noticed three looming cranes in the distance.

They stood like gargantuan automations; moving like automations; reaching like automations; swinging like automations; working the night shift like automations.

Somewhere up there in the black night three men are controlling progress, I thought.

Then she pulled down her skirt and we walked, arm in arm, back to the boozer, without saying a word.

Lee Rourke 2007


March 26, 2007

the off-beat has started

Tony O’Neill


Peter Wild


Chris Major


Sean McGahey


Hello WWW – This is a truly amazing issue of Savage Manners!! I’m humbled by the quality of poetry and fiction that’s on your screen!! It’s amazing that regardless of influence, background, or past literary clashes – We all want to tell it as it is!!  


PAUSE ~ Chris Major

March 26, 2007

20 years ago,
Mr popular all ‘A’ s,
football and rugby stalwart,
tests easily passed:
maths, physics, biology,
Occasionally seen leaning
on his dead mum’s
walking frame,
a rigid rudder
steadying drunken lurches
to the ‘offy’ and back,
the pathetic text
of an unlucky life,
yellow highlighted
by liver damage.
today at his flat,
a 6 week screen saver
of clouds and sky,
was finally broken
by the movement
of police and paramedics……

four years
three months
a handful of grey hairs
and you are still dead

two wars
one president
(still hanging on)
one word
became ten thousand
ten thousand one hundred thousand
one hundred thousand
too many to count
and you are still dead

a child was born
learned to sit, crawl, walk,
call me daddy, her eyes and
shining dark hair an eerie echo:

her penchant for pranks
laughter and mischief
an inheritance of her mothers
her brooding silences
and volcanic rages
a bequeathment of my own

all of this, and more
has staked its claim on the world
and you are still dead

the short stop
the three of clubs
jumbos clown room

the gold room
the burgundy room
all are still standing
in Echo Park and Hollywood
it is business as usual
while you are still dead

the men who sell cocaine
heroin and pills
are still selling to others
the economy of poetry

the cocaine is still wonderful
the heroin exquisite
the pills still a shortcut
to enlightenment
and intimacy
but you
you are still dead

the girls we knew then
some now must have husbands
or children and houses
or maybe they’ve gone mad

or pole dance or turn tricks
or remain in the same place
and right now as I write this
are loaded and talking
with machine gun tongues
and far-away eyes

not thinking of how
your touch was once alive
and their skin was your playground
your personal property

all traces of you gone from them
dripped out of them
wiped away
their holes filled with new cocks
and new tongues and fingers
while you
you, you
are still dead

I thought of you last night
fitfully, 1am
of how nothing remains
of the person I knew
except bones (interred in Cambodia)
an email address (obsolete)
and a handful of pictures
which grow older each day

it hurts to see you
once so alive and so real
reduced to an idea
fuzzy, indistinct
like Elvis or God
an abstraction, a mirage

how strange
that these words
that I write for pleasure
or penance
are my only way
of enjoying your company now

four years
three months
a handful of grey hairs
and you
my friend
are still dead

The UK is currently suffering from a new outbreak
Of “bullshitness” in the form of cheap sex books.

Details below:

BOOK(0-12)ass and Cunt,ss———-cliquewankerism
increased by approximately 16% after co-administration of cheap sex books ( Study 1011)
This level of interaction is not considered to be clinically significant.
However, in a few subjects, severe nausea and vomiting
were observed when the cheap/dirty/ beat sex books were given simultaneously,
but this did not recur when the dirtywanker#01 dose was given 1 hour before administration of a good beating..

>The doctor prescribes you an
anti-idiosyncrasy pill
which will leave your face with
a nonsensical looking grin.
>The second stage of the
pugnacious word virus numbs
your lips and narrows your eyes.

The militant microorganism
Minimizing your mind to
The size of a pea!
You’ll mimic society
You’ll fit right in
Middling new life style
Passable new friends
With mercenary plans
Of stealing your melancholy
Ideas of happiness