Pink punk poet• Show poetry

Pink

Punk

Poet

I should expect a little pink then if I were you
But I feel I ought to warn you
Mostly, what you're gonna find here is...
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And you know punk right?

Attitude

Lydon's lyrics...Sid's sneer...anti-fashion...rude...sex...blood and spit...OI!
What you got we don't need, what we need you don't got.

It aint pretty. But then again...maybe it is
Give a monster a name it loses some of it’s horror

Best I give you an example of my work and you can decide early if you wanna stick around a while or not. This is from a pome called ‘E’s are good...

Presidents with their cocks out getting blown by their squeeze
Slobbering, slurping secretaries with stains on their LBD’s

...I opened a punk gig with that...at a social squat in the East end of London. And some guy said he thought it [it...me] disgusting...and walked out. Now if he he’d stopped to listen past recognising the ugly in it he’d have heard the point. Which was...that freedom is great but...aint always pretty...you have to be choosy what you do with it.

There’s something of a rule...it goes...the end justifies the means.

Take swearing as an[other] example of that...if it adds it’s OK. If it’s doesn't it takes away.

That guy walking out on me raises another point...one concerning truth. Maybe you write what you believe to be the truth and only what you believe to be the truth. What you write may strike a chord with others...most others in fact. Sure seems like the truth when that happens. But it likely aint everybodies truth. And it's a dangerous thing to assume it is. I'm motivated to write...and I write to motivate [half the time]. You really shouldn't believe everything I say in my work is my truth or opinion. Not writing your truth, writing someone else's truth is a particular skill, rarely used much less spotted. In the third dimension it's called acting. But then...there's some folks can't tell the actor from the character there neither.

There's someone here...doesn't like me...a decision they made based on something I wrote for experiment. It wasn't true...in part it was...it was based on a very real incident but I used 'artistic licence'. Experimenting by writing from another's perspective can seem dishonest if it leads to the wrong impression. So we have to take responsibility for our behaviour. I accept that and expect the same understanding by return. Judge the work not the worker. It's the only thing that makes any sense.

So...what I’m saying is...you can say if you don't like my funk...but I will wonder why you bothered. Because...If you no like...it makes sense to go someplace [else] you do like.
Stopping to criticise would be like...wiping your ass on my curtains.
And while we’re on the subject...no point stopping by offering advice on proppa gramma and punctuation...chances are I like it the way it is [think of it as style].
Sometimes the dots, the pauses, the hesitations mean something...mean a lot...mean as much as the words...mean MORE than the words [Harold Pinter an' all that]
I mean if your attention is drawn to someone's jacket buttons then you're missing their face and that's where the greater learning is.

Critique is different...I’m not so arrogant as to think I am perfect...I’m up for improving. I’ve had a professional manager for the past four years...all very rock ‘n roll...he took care of things...rehearsals were measured in days...I’d turn up, do my thing...after which...days in de-briefing, studying film and audio tapes...
I can take critique...I welcome it...I am professional [in my approach at least]. I’m not saying my work is professional...only that, live...my thing seems to be effective. I don't think of myself as a poet...my aim is to entertain.
Everyone wants to do their best don't they? Well...beyond the usual beginner's issues like nerves and learning to inflect [monotone strokes folks asleep]...there's only so much 'aint flowers pretty' or 'I was miserable once' a person can stand listening to. Maybe it's crude, maybe it's a trick but I prefer a bang.

I don't do competions here anymore
Because awards here are a measure mostly [if not only] of personal preference...not merit.
I didn't come here courting popularity
Not that there's anything wrong with that...each to his or her own
I came to give of myself for free...and to meet others doing the same...to make friends and read exceptional poetry...I’ve found some...awesome some folks here...good people, good poets, writers, communicators...of emotion, energy, power...

Still 'ere?
Respect!

You know them smug gits who spout ‘curiosity killed the cat’ [as reason to butt out]? Don't know the next line do they...they came, saw what they wanted and f'd off early

If they'd stayed [been curious]...they'd have know the next line...the one which turns the thing on it's head.

Curiosity killed the cat

And satisfaction...brought it back

[Cat see...that was a clue...nine lives...came back...wouldn’t have worked with any other animal...duh!]

Curiosity...the need to know...seeing the learning in everything...it's a rare thing...it's about ego...lose it and learn.

So...for the last time...you still here? I'm impressed! chances are you're curious...a scientist...a bit tough...my kind of people...special. Welcome...what's mine's yours...already...sincerely...love...XXX

Sarah Midnight...Pink...Punk...Poet.

Zum more...attitude...attitude is clothes...put 'em on take 'em off...suit yourself...costume...clothes...not the person.
I'm not afraid of appearing naked...I've earn't and learn't to feel comfortable in my own skin. I'm 50...my luck is largely a matter of history...I don't have anything to prove to anyone...no-one does.
I used to especially enjoy [calculated] risk. Aw hell...truth is I got off on it...drag racing in the fog...hitting eighty five [someone died]. Visibility was 10 yards [something like a sixth of a second at that speed]. Something wierd happened...I thought I'd crashed...I guess you'd call it an out of body experience. It's what happens when you run out of reality
I spent something like a dozen years living and working with the Hells Angels...earned somewhere between one and fifteen grand a night in todays terms...working as back up to a drug dealer and if that sounds like a lot it's because I did scary darn good. It wasn't hard...I didn't feel for other people.
One day...as the boss was running an angle grinder across someone's head...I thought I ought to have felt something. I quit that life...
Had my own classic car business for a while. Owned a 1760 farmhouse with galleried landing and balconies and walled courtyard.
I honestly couldn't tell you how many cars I owned
Somewhere between a hundred and a hundred and fifty
Business was international. I supplied cars for TV and celebrity use. Quit that life too. Changed sex...piece of piss...dunno what all the fuss is about [drama queens I guess]. Here's a funny thing...it's been so easy I'm thinking of changing back again. Neh...probably not...this is just TOO MUCH FUN.

Footnote...with the life comes the price...

Having crashed through a concrete bus shelter at 85 [1977] and
Hit the grey stuff butt first at 115mph [1986]...
I bust my neck and crushed a bunch of discs [two bunches in fact]
Plus I have muscular sclerosis...the sort that paralyses then disappears and gets worse year on year. In 'real life' no one notices but sometimes I can't type...sometimes I can’t walk...sometimes I can’t stand. And I live with constant pain.

All the same...I still consider my lucks been good and I like my life [the bits of it inbetween pain and or paralysis anyhow]. I'm aware...some folks don't make it this far this fair

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