A poems

COPYRIGHT 85,97,98,99,00,01 C.W.J BYRNE.
Chris Byrne asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of
this work.

Dead Artist. Modern Art

I am out of copyright
I've still got loads to say
I am out of copyright
And there is no one left to pay

Extract from Dissertation Acknowledgements

...No thanks to a certain fast-food restaurant in Aldershot, Hampshire
for many hours of much perspiration
and rational bureaucratic exploitation
for a very miserly remuneration
but thanks very much for the inspiration
and inside information
for this dissertation/independent study.
Thanks to my fellow "crewmembers" there for the odd moments of
transcendental existential
elation
and jubilation...

Bullshit (Dedique a tous poetes.)

I do not get shitfaced
Pissed up
Or hammered
I am an artist
Too exquisitely sensitive for the world
I seek to explore the extremities
Of the human condition
Booze is for me
An agent of mystical transport
Je bois
Pour epater les bourgeois
I do not have a romantic attitude to lager
It is integral to my (f)art
Shits
And hangovers

London

I am reliably informed
That the Chinawhite Bar's VIP area
Is called the Mao Bar
When can we discerning punters expect
The Hitler Brasserie
And Stalin Cafe?

Romance

As a firework farted in the starry sky
I try to stare into your cross eyes

Mucous

From panpipe purgatory
To the saxaphone moods first ring of
hell

Westside

I'm so suburban
I think my Nike trainers make me
Hardboiled
Risky
Edgy
Raw and Gritty
Yo Baby!Wassup?
It's no coincidence that statistics show
Reebok Classics footprints are now more often found in
Forensic evidence than Air Max

Bland

In the kingdom of the bland
The person with a non-ear piercing is (shoc)king
The man with a comedy tie is Joe King
And the man with a Jamiroquai CD is fun(king)

Dreams

I want to be a cult author
I'm going to shoot my wife
Drink myself to an early grave
Do drugs man
To provide vicarious thrills
For commuters on the train

Clubbing in Aldershot. Shite

As the deejay piles pure piano tuna
On hard cheesebag endlessly
Anybody who is nobody
Will soon walk through that door
Life is not hard in here
Just a lot of it is para trained
Major structural damage is being inflicted upon the premises
By the mattress backs
(Not mutton dressed as lamb
But offal packaged as mutton)
Waddling in time to the big numbas
It feels like the roof is about to cave in
My dandruff is glowin' under the UV light
Oh the glamour

Talk of the Town

I was once an eligible batchelor
Now I am an illegible old batchelor
Now I am more Debenhams
Than debonair

Phart

I am so modern
I listen to post rock
I like post ironic humour
I use post shave balm
I hot-desk in a post office
My post is delivered by the Royal Mail

Question

Do smart bombs
Write anthems for doomed hardware
And software?

Questionzzz

Am I "Lost in the automatism
Of the hypnotised corporeal"
Or off my nut
On half a paracetamol
And a vivid imagination

Retrograde

I am the spirit of retro youth culture
A costumed crisis living in a costume drama
I am the process of what was cool
Reaching room temperature
I live in inverted commas
In a self-imposed cartoon
I am excitement for those who like routine
My "revival" is resuscitation
Smiling knowingly
Sarcastically
Cynically
Satirically
Ironically
Today is of little valueI prefer the good old days before I was
born
I deny the creative possibility of young blood
Or am I just fancy dress for a far too serious world?

Branded

Baptised in the TV channel
Triangulated by clubcards
Pinpointed by market research
As target
Youth market
Nike tattooed on my chest
Catchy jingle on my mind
When I blink I see negatives
Of cola logos and golden arches
Conspicuous consumption has diffused
Through my pores into me

Ice Cream Cone

Up shit creek
Without a boat
With concrete socks on
I see alligators...
Or are they crocodiles?

Ode To Chips

Thou art divine

Lines on Wrinkles

When you are young
You try to find yourself
While yourself is finding you
You do what you are told
And also just do
You are only young once
So that one day you can grow old
But we are not born warm
For us to grow cold

Iffy

If this poem was a pop song
It would have a producer
It would have strings
And be an instant classic
It would have crashing cymbals
And thundering kettle drums
(I use clever symbols)
I'm going to do a cover version of some other writer's poetry
To get my name known

Mekon

If I was a film star
People would still say
"You've got a big head"
And I would have to explain
Cinema projection to them

Norman

When the sky is your oyster
The world is your limit

Deep

If you are agonising
Over which designer egg cups to buy
Then your life may be
Too full of vanity
And frivolity

Smokin'!

I am a professor of social engineering
My cigs are my social toolbox
"Would you like a fag?" to a room of strangers ="I come in peace"
Embarrassed, awkward?
Anxious, cracked a bad joke?
Light up a fag!
Want to look generous?
Offer everyone a cigarette
I'm never alone
With my 20 Strands
Trying to look sophisticated?
Want to meet more people?
START SMOKING!
Want Rebel Legend Mystique?
Smoke Marlboro Reds
Want to be a supermodel?
Smoke Bro Golds
Want to be a true player?
Smoke Camels

Well

I did not play myself in
But I made three appointments at the dentist
On the off chance
That I would

Down Memory Lane

Some of the windows
Have a rose tint
The road is cobbled with millstones
Down short-term memory lane
There is a pothole

Manners

I was quietly picking my nose
And got a bad reaction
Do they react so strongly
When they see things that are really disgusting?

(Her) Presents

If I was a poet
I would say that the only thing that you can change is the
present
Not the future or past
But that is not true
There is no receipt or proof of purchase as
All presents are given
And we receive the present
But that is not the same thing as fate
The hardest thing in the world
Is sometimes the music stops
You get excited
And you have to pass the parcel
No one forces you to
You just have to let go
It is harder if it is your birthday
Or it feels like it is
It is difficult when it is a mystery prize
Or a ribboned riddle
I think proper poets call it passing by
There are a lot of presents in the future
But a lot less in the past
And the only way to find a good present is to
Get stuck in to the lucky dip of life and
Help yourself

Port

In a port things come and go
In a port some things never return
In a port you feel the rain more
In a port some people are cold
In a port there are dark cocoa mills
In a port there are betting shops
In Portakabins by the docks
In a port there are many boats and faces
In a port there is always something fishy
In a port things can't stay the same

Choonz

Cars go by
Hissing with the sound of amplified hi-hats
Some slide by like rattle snakes
Others sound like dodgy kettles

V.S.O.P

I'd like to be the writer type
With a click click typewriter
I would have to smoke a pipe
And relight it with a lighter
I would drink black coffee
Pondering , scratching my beard
I'd get brandy from the offy
And people would say " He's weird! "

Centre of the Universe

I can see the love glowing in your eyes
Or is it the Starburger sign I see?
Doner kebab is in the air
Or is it love?
This is Frimley
Noise and smell
I want to give all this to you
Lets hit the traffic island ( as in town)
Please do not give me the cold , hard shoulder
Roads, motorway and dual carriageways
You are the quiet above the drone
My focus in this blur
You are a daylight smile
Underneath the withering neon glare
You are the music above the electric hum
A reference point in this featureless town
In streets of monoxide and lead
Your oxygen goes to my head
You are strobe animation among grey suits
Are you real virtuality or Vanessa Parody?
You seem to fluoresce in that dress
You masturb my disturbation
Dilute my concentration
You are some stillness in the swarm

The Closed Circuit Teardrops

In this takeaway town
No one gives a fuck
Everything has a short shelf-life:
Jobs, marriages and friendships
Modern life seems to be made of many Velcro relationships
Pushed together
Torn apart
Please don't crush my Styrofoam heart
It will not decompose
It can not be recycled
You smoulder like a cigarette
Not extinguished by this ashtray town
It is not the cigarette that counts
It is the packet that matters
The electric light in this room is so strong
It feels like it is bleaching my head and hands
In this town there is no scenic route
Nothing is in black and white
Just grey

Rowhill

I like to play on words
Like they are blades of grass
In a field on a sunny day
I do not use artificial fertiliser on my words
Just pure bull shit

Just Words

She is one hell of a woman
She only calls me on payday
She is a harpy
In Harpic
One flutter of her eyelashes
Can cause a tornado on the other side of the world
She is a siren
Blaring in my ear
She gives me the best evils that I have ever seen
She gets me in hot water
Then hauls me over the coals
She glares daggers at me
Then throws knives at me
She bleeds me astray
She has snake hips on the dance floor
She is not allergic to caviar or champagne
She likes to piss on my bonfires (literally)
She likes to grill me about everything that I do and say
Over a low flame
Slowly

Provisional Poetic Licence

I have passed the theory
But not the practical
I tend to look in the rear view mirror too much
I am not good at reading the signs and signals
The fast lane is sometimes too fast for me
I have blindspots in my windscreen as well
I am not good at indicating
Giving way or racing
Music distracts my concentration
I wear a seatbelt
I seem to drive better on my own

Eyes

Her eyes are one big question
In them I think I can see my future family tree
Her eyes flash like a lighthouse
That drags me towards the rocks
She is my pupil dilator
She makes me want to die later
I am neurotransmitten

Pubzzz

In the Wheatsheaf
I can (pick my nose)
Burp
Fart and spit
In a snoozers boozer I can only
Talk
Drink and sit

Valentine

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Daffodils are yellow
And chrysanthemums are difficult to spell

Home (written 1985 aged 13ish)

They handed me a bag I unzipped it
I black suit
2 white shirts
2 white vests
2 pairs of underpants
2 pairs of socks
1 tube of toothpaste
1 toothbrush
1 five pound note
One train ticket
All in a black plastic holdall
I sighed
The records officer called me
"Sign this form Sir"
That sheet
Fourty years in the slammer
What a contrast
I drew my 1950 Parker pen
From my top left hand jacket pocket
The scratchy nib failing to make an impression on the sheet
I hesitantly asked
"Erm can I borrow a pen?
The officer yawned and threw me a biro
I signed my liberation
The warder drew a large bunch of keys from his pocket
He strolled up to the main door
The key slid into the slot
As the warder heaved open the giant door
The joints groaned under the strain
"Well then Sir. Let's not be seeing you again!" I walked out
I was free
The door slammed behind me
My bag at my feet
I looked around
My, how the world had changed
Half of my life wasted
By some man's lie
The sun shone through the electric fence
I could see the shadow of the barbed wire
On the concrete road before me
What did I have to back to? Nothing
My parents died 20 years ago
A cool wind blew on my face
I turned up my collar
And sunk my hands deep into my pockets
I picked up my bag from my feet
I felt like rifling a telephone box
So I could go home

Pinned

I am pinned to this place
I am pinned to this face
I am pinned to this race
I am pinned to disgrace
I have sinned
I am pinned
I am pinned to your door
While I am pinned to the floor
I am pinned by my fame
I am pinned to my name
I am pinned to my flaws
I've been pinned here by the laws
I am pinned by my pain
I am pinned to the game
My eyes are pinning
The world is not spinning
For me

Radude

I'm in extreme sports gear
To go down the pub
In combat trousers
To play Nintendo
I'm wearing running shoes
To walk down the road
And in cyber undies
To do the washing up

Statement

I do not write urban hymns
But provincial poems

Statement 2

I am glad thatI do not write war poems
Whether commissioned by The Guardian
Or not
Many war poets
Are real
Poets on the underground