“Good afternoon, ‘Cardiac” Says the huge American voiced receptionist.
“Take a seat Mr K” Says a nurse.
Somewhere it’s Kafkaesque
…and me I make the tiny bird prints in little field of snow on my lap.
Bolstered by being the most grateful to be here on the bus of complaining souls in.
They muttered about time
It’s ticking them off.
Outside a building sites ten storey thrum, anticipates many more sick people to come.
Bless.
“What have you done to me here?” the mighty receptionist asks the miniscule support guy in the hi vis support vest.
“Everything’s slid around”
Look there I am scratching in the notebook.
“I just want to go one place for everything”
“Take a seat Mrs. Dickinson”
It’s literature day in the cardiac unit as Mr K leaves suddenly a picture of inexplicable enigmatic anger.
Sometimes you hear poetry.
Others complaints.
“Sorry sir I’ll be right with you”
“That’s ok I have all the time in the world”
“Are you sure?”
Grim chuckles, call yourself support!?
“The human mind is amazing aint it?”
A three kilogram bullshit generator according to Kurt vonnegut…
“Mr K?..MISTER K!?”
From a cosmological viewpoint none of us get out very often.
Honestly the shit I find myself thinking.
I hear my broken heart beat
It’s a medium tempo hip hop
a groove at the centre of us all!
I resist rapping to it, but will travel home trying to remember it.
I see all four chambers.
Like the expectant mother of nowt.
Home on miseries packed number 12
Crammed in with people bored of the sea and the sun sinking into it,
vermillion,
Ignored.
I’m kindle-ing two books alternating chapters because i’m a brilliant maverick who does whatever the fuck he wants..
Just Like you.
I decide to write down the first thing I read from each and no cheating..
From From Yuval Noah Harari’s ’21 lessons for the 21st century’
“Today close to 1.25 million people are killed annually in traffic accidents (twice the
number killed by war, crime and terrorism combined)
and from ‘Good omens’ by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman.
‘She carries her sword and smiles like a knife’
Teatime in eden.

Well, I don’t know what
Moves you lot
today. 
With your telephone small talk

and selfies
Is everyone but me here
A tourist?
on the aching familiar trail north
Running, (but crawling) late
Some poor selfish bastard
Hurled himself on the rails?
Our grave pilot tells us
The silence for him or her
Is not a minute
Nowhere near
A teenager says
‘what’s the point?’
So no change there
Invent your own I think
but I don’t say it
I can’t be bothered frankly
They’ll probably fucking shank me.
Today it’s Mrs C’s funeral that moves me
and everything that can go wrong
Does
and it’s ‘Is this our stop or the next one?’
Cuz
What y writing asks his ‘cousin’
‘Thoughts’ I deadpan
‘heard of them?’ I nearly add
Burgess and his hill be damned!
‘So what ya thinking’
He insists
‘This n that just sketches’
‘Is it a rap?’
He guesses

This just in
The bloke who looks nothing like a rapper
Went to the toilet then sat somewhere else
as no one got on or off
at Wivelsfield.
Where was I?
The automated tannoy voice
is broken
Makes its announcements Helium voiced
Some grim smiles wan
Haywood and his heath be damned
In Monday cold sunshine
Smile later in the week maybe…
A moby blats
half an conversation begins shouty
about the outlook for someone called ‘wiggy’
after what was said and done
at the party
furtive frowns
abound
I think about the funeral
and tune it out
Balcombe intervenes
Ball comb?
Leave it!
No one on or off again
pointless stop two
Can you believe it?
The button that you thought would open the door
Flushes the loo.
Feel a little sad and sick
push on heroically
Well Gat my wick.
The voice of michael mouse speaks quickly
If you see something that doesn’t seem right
Inform the staff
I see a first class twat
See it say it sort it
good luck with that

There follows an apology for the disruptions
squeaky and insincere
No one laughing
or listening here
a distant voice calls
‘The old rapper disappeared!’
‘Got off at the airport coz he’s posh’
everyday folk shouting everyday tosh
The cartoon rodent voice interrupts
(the only thing here that’s high speed)
Your next stop is east Croydon
That’s it blame me!
My life, a fiasco viewed by a clown
at least London Bridge
Hasn’t fallen down
a relief
I’m looking late for the funeral
It appears
Is that pathos or bathos
well it’s one of them Musketeers
Black friars
says the disembodied Disney voice
no thanks
an arrow outside then says ‘Holborn hill’
another says ‘cash machine’
adjust pants.
It drags on,
on the blue tartan seats of doom
On and on
apparently, somewhere,
Someone’s Farring Don
then Saint Pancreas
A troubling name
Fucking Saints
Fucking train
Fucking time ticks me off
fucking late
We trundle through a dying station with no name
Extinct
Gone
as the shrill rodent says the saints name
and someone say’s
‘What did she say?’
and I realise it’s been Mini all along
and I’m counting down the stations
of the cross country slog
destination nearing snail paced
Clock flying and walking this race
black suit pale face
grinds teeth wills haste
No chance Jacko
no way mate
Sorry Mrs C
we’re both late I guess
Mini speaks but I miss it
trying to think of a rhyme for St Pancreas
and
I look white in the window reflection
and glum
trying to immortalise
my mates mum.
an old girl smiling
catches my eye
says ‘you look very smart
where y headed’
A funeral I sigh
she says
‘Oh no, have you far to go’
I say no the next one is mine’

A Coda.
(Free blood of Albion)

So at the terrific service for the last of the great original matriarchs of our tribe, in the willow whack

test match sunshine of Hertfordshire, , the pastor mentioned that Mrs C had received her gold medal for donating her 50th pint of blood!..Think now you whirling headed children of the digital wasteland that is England ltd.com. Think slow and long on how the NHS, -this fabulous edifice manned by the self sacrificing saints of healing and caring- is fuelled by the free blood given daily by these quiet angel heroes. and ask yourself, you practicality driven materialists of the enterprise profit curse, would they, would Mrs C, have been elevated by charging for it?
How many nameless lives did she save?
Who would look to profit on her like?
Should those who would decide the fate of the free blood of Albion? 

The Hall of Zeroes
Is packed with liars and thieves
Big mouths and heads who said
Follow me.
then led you nowhere
sell outs and creeps
In the Hall of Zeroes
That is all you will see.
they’re having an episode
It’s a repeat
The hall is full of gawping fools
Who don’t know
they are there to clean
and polish the Zeroes medals
and kiss their fucking feet
There’s a Hall of Zeroes
In your high street
It’s the finest building
That I guarantee
who paid for this palace?
It was you and me
It looked like it would stand there
for all eternity
and yet last night they torched it!
In your fucking dreams.

Brent Jackson 09/08/2018

I’ve been in a lot of bands.
Over the many years I’ve luckily survived.
They’re families, tribes and gangs.
Don’t argue they are.
We had a band in the early days me and my mate who cooked up music from bits I gave him and his own bits, We’ll call him Stu for fun.
Short for stupor as we practised derangement of the senses as advocated by all our favourite artists.

We were children who hated the Society we’d been marooned in.
We wanted to ridicule it and precipitate change based on our childlike belief that anything would be better than the unfair grim bollocks we saw.
We called the band Hells Donkeys.

An angry noise designed to shock and annoy.
Beautiful.
We couldn’t afford the good things in music our folks had spent all their money in stuff from adverts.
We played stolen instruments and borrowed a couple of amps then avoided the owners indefinitely.
We were rich in ideas and desire but they don’t get you studio time and transport and stuff.
We had to find finance somehow or the dream was pointless and we’d be stuck jamming in a shed.
We had to compromise and invite the posh boy to join because he had a van and equipment and money.
We’ll call him Peter not peat.
Because that was his name.
We knew he considered himself superior in every department to us but the ‘mission’ we decided was worth it..and laughing about him while he was up the bar getting the drinks in got us past the
frustration of having to pollute our muse with the very type we despised.
He wanted to be in a family, a gang, a tribe because his was rubbish.
These uptight snob folk feared intimacy as they craved it and couldn’t help scheming and condescending to compensate.
He diluted are vibe and made loads of pretentious suggestions that threatened to spoil our style.
Peter not peat.
He didn’t get that our music, songs and attitude were forged like firedogs on the brazier from years of the heat of heartfelt disbelief at the insane circus.
Not for Peter not peat tho’
His folks worked for the circus and were close friends with the ring master you see.
Everything we did was compromised by his contribution and tuning out the embarrassment at his entitlement and affectation drove us slightly sly and bonkers.

That’s the world, that’s art.
The will to change and challenge to live a new way held back by deluded clowns.
It still drives me n Stu mad.
It’s still the same.
Peter not peat.

Twittering twats tweaking phony stats to fit the fatuous freak fascist act facts.
Innumerate illiterates illuminate the illusion deluded ignorant itinerates inverted ingrate idiots
huddled befuddled troubled mongrel rabble rubble rumble and bubble up
oozing losers choose to bruise schmoozer cruisers blown fusers folding falling users head hoovers
shown the tone telephone alone unknown, bone grown, bemoan, foam, groan.
Unlicensed righteous flightless licentiousness
unsighted insight unconscious consciousness
online outsider seething subterranean substance less
virtually virtue less viscous virgin reductionist
a herd list of herbalist hedonistic verbalists
Ace crook slack cack shroud crowd glue cube Fritter.

Do what you like
without consequences
Have everything
put it on expenses!
Find a scapegoat
Blame is our friend

One rule for them
One rule for them

Fuel your excesses
on the working poor
Own your successes
show sharing the door
Hollow competition
Without end

One rule for them
One rule for them

Do you feel like a turkey
hearing the first carol singers?
put another nugget
in the click bait meters
we’ll be nit picking when
the shit show ends

One rule for them
One rule for them

Fuck all for us but the pointless pound shop struggle
Shut your stupid face you mindless muggle
The consciences objectors are just causing trouble
War generates lots of lovely revenue
one rule for them
but many for you.

Brent Jackson.
29/06/2018

We came from nowhere, the no hoper perimeter where the schools are cheap and nasty and serve mainly to facilitate the parents working, where what should be a heaving workshop of inspiration and the nurturing of the new blood is reduced by mere economics and political ‘philosophy’ into an obedience school, indoctrination camp and kresh..me and my brother from nowhere had it over the fence and (having a wild country childhood in common) looked at the deal and snorted in derision..

Then suddenly,
A book cover in the mobile library told me
“Man is born free and everywhere is in chains.”
I couldn’t wait to tell my brother from nowhere.

But of course we knew already, the mystery to us was ‘Why do people put up with it?’
We’re still not sure.
Fear is our best answer..

The banner that offers you safety and belonging will lead you to war..
We decided we needed to challenge and hey we’re Sixteen, even overthrow! this errant nonsense..
That’s not going so well here forty two years later!
forty two!
42!
That’s how long we’ve been seeking our ‘Jericho’

Later I took to a serious and super comprehensive study of the poetry of dissent and discovered ‘The tradition’
As my brother from nowhere embarked on the same ‘trip’ but added music structure and production where I studied Jack Kirby.
We became widely known as The Lunatics and drank in the view from the edge looking in and, it turned out, practised many ceremonies nearly as old as the moon associated with shamanism and creativity since the dim dark dawn…yes, ok, mainly those pertaining to the derangement of the ‘senses’ it’s risky to play with the senses and many experimentalists now abide in rubber rooms and are not allowed sharp objects…or sleeves.
but those same senses can see you putting up with the factory and the consensus that serves the Fat Lord, our nemesis, Mammon, The king of lies..The toffs.
The argument continues but we risked it anyway as the alternative was biege and grey bingo auto life, plastic wrapped slavery as we called it..
We did this it’s true..we shouted ‘We only play guitars coz we can’t afford machine guns’
at audiences throughout these islands and beyond..I now realise we were describing what we were seeing which was many people feeling that change must be fought for and these ancient lizard folk that run this shit show will never budge unless pushed.
Oh and Lucifer was pushed.
We liked the terror and chaos that song caused it was called White eyed robots and it was a description of the already commercialised to death punk scene..The lyrics were written by a version of me who was much cleverer than the pished vain drug addled knob who wrote them..
Ah Nihilism and it’s brutal comfort that looks like a truth…Oh were things so simple..
I am a romantic Nihilist and I believe my brother from nowhere is too, throw some humanism and anarchy in also, ten heaped tablespoons of socialism..
Where was I?
We’ve cooked up about a thousand little musical psycho dramas now I spose and I’m beginning to realise they are all as good as and better than ‘Machine guns’ as everyone called it anyway..
This is the beginning of me recording as much of the lunatic insurrection as I can remember and
how it lead to Abbey Rd John Peel and fire star reviews in national papers..the Nowhere brothers upsetting some deserving V.I.P. brains and THE FIREDOGS.
Which is where you’ll find us now multiplied to four..but more on those splendid new nowhere brothers soon.
Remind me to write more!

Brent.x

I fell thru this
I plied the rick and rile
instant frill chip n nosey
I felt the fowling
through inner outer
pose prose n posie
fort the justicing
snubbery and power first
opposed the jousting
sailed the steaming
boiling sea saw
with my fellow sheep
full feasting
saw the stillness
coming as we fed
the least unleashing
our grail a lie
our crown a jest
we dressed a beast in.
we depart blynd
we care not wher
just long for leaving
I learned this least
yay things occur
once we’re rolling
n schemeing
radiant brilliance
and blade
edge meaning
lays in wait
in nonsense
dreeming.
ruck the rools
and back the trends
your own shape
kneading
before is ripe
n rotten
sinking
stinking
reasing

Mak you sang new
start linn
steaming
four go former
forms with
reckless feeling
if the vault door
must be bleached
it must i’m thinking
for wrongness
has fell here
and frost covers
iron morning
thru witch we must
trundle
freezing.
yawning for
our former snoring
slept in hiding
as the wolves
and snakes
went reaving.
for sure
their free for all
is low n boring.
Evil evening.
nowt in the orchard
for this ad man
gnawing
I may say
falling
I fel anyway
raw in
parting play
ground dan
once grand
my trees
all blushing nude
there leaves
all blown
away.
Bye good.
ward back.
gone be.
ok.

Is there a genuine poetry here in this work as I had heard?

Song lyrics certainly sometimes indulge such aspirations.

My good friend Felicity who also seeks such things has said so,
“There’s a life in here and things afoot under the statement,
mournful and homiletic.”

The journey is from spittle flecked raging youth slogans to
yearning disillusion and finally resignation, there’s clues, nods to
the tradition of dreamer poets of earlier times, exasperated by
the petty material drudge inflicted on the spirit by the exploitation
of the commercial con mans tragic comedy.

This work certainly and clearly exists outside and agen this. It’s for people who agree we should burn the flags, that there’s no mystery
no more and the prizes don’t look nice like they did.. The voice here is willing to admit to truly feel would make him cry and
he weeps anyway for the numbness and isolation he see’s and feels in a bleak manscape of disconnection and desensitisation, but wait, there’s darker than dark comedy and a distended cheek here too..young lovers name the trees and the bruised mother at the birthday party likes the ache..and it’s him whose ‘just another heartbreak’ and outside defiant blooms ignite the avenue..so dark hope hangs on in every bleak moment.

A Novel/short story collection of an album..an under the radar underground hidden
treasure of a work that foregoes the gimmickry and novelty of the current tacky moment
and exists in another timeless land of melancholy and rumbling dissent.
From leftfield the wyrd and wonderful Firedogs are quoting Finnegan’s wake at a karaoke
funeral.

Unexpected and extradinary.

Tom Langer.