Si Philbrook

Si Philbrook is a militant atheist married to a catholic. Lend him a tenner and he'll buy you a pint. His favourite food is gruffalo crumble.

Find Si's other work at
Myspace
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thoughts on kaplowitz

if he didn't exist we'd have to invent him

he is a poem
the one about how your mother
caught you wanking
over the lingerie section of kays catalogue
when you were ten

"i was lucky enough to learn with the bra section
of sears catalogues and the onset of 976 numbers.
national geographic would have been a challenge.
every generation has it easier than the last"

he is a poem//the one about your piss-stinking granny
who died alone in some care home
cos she was too much trouble
and a bit embarrassing

"Do I owe you an apology for almost making you think?"

he is a poem
the one about how crap you are in bed
lacking the imagination
to talk dirty
or use a blindfold
or spend an hour //just kissing her cunt

"I told you I don't fuck dogs anymore"

he is a poem
the one about children
with feet and hands blown off
by british-made american-planted
landmines

"Thanks for catching my typo.
As far as everything else you said,
fuck off."

he is the poem you don't want to read
but can't help yourself
car crash poetry

"it's simply my lack of imagination"

____

Recognising the smell of shit

I sit down and decide to write a shit poem
so shit that everyone has to say
"jesus this is shit"
and i start writing
sitting in the backroom
of an irish pub in Boyce Street
and then this girl walks in
all split skirt and legs
and suddenly i'm thinking of a poem by bukowski.
Yeah i see you, charles bukowski
sitting in your californian betting shop
eyeing up young legs
and guessing which horse
might just come in at 40-1
and laughing at me
and all the stupid-fucking-dimwit-poets
like me
who spend so long with their heads up their own arse
that they are no longer able
to recognise the smell of shit.
_____

Kenny

Kenny was a mate of mine,

we used to go and watch Millwall together

managed to blag a couple of season tickets

on account of his disability

I went along as his carer;

too bloody funny.



Kenny had Down's Syndrome.

He didn't worry about it;

he had some trouble speaking

and the most evil sense of humour I ever knew

I can still hear his laugh

worse than Mutley.



Kenny swore a lot

but

"Fuck off" came out "Fug all".

He was proud that he could say his own name,

properly,

H

he'd tap his chest and say

"Kenny Evans" when introduced.



I didn't know better when I first met him

so I tapped my chest and said…"Philbrook, Simon Philbrook…"

He roared with laughter

and ever after when I arrived he'd tap me on the chest saying..

"Fug-all, Fug-all, Smime"

then fall about laughing.

I miss that.



Kenny loved football,

he loved the cheering and the chants,

and anyone who scored…..them or us!

Upper tier behind the goal

whenever "the referee's a wanker" could be heard

you knew that Kenny would be standing up conducting

like it was last night of the proms.



At home to some crap nobody's in the cup

Thatcher steps up to head away a corner

perfect own goal

silence,

visitors end was always empty then,

Kenny stands up

shouts "GOAL" in perfect diction,

I couldn't look.

then from a couple of rows behind the chant began

"Stand up if you love Kenny…..Stand up if you love Kenny".

He conducted’

I cried.


this is why I fucking love football.

Georgia Griffin

Georgia Griffin is a multimedia artist and writer.

See Georgia Griffin's
Artwork

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"miniskirting around"

miniskirting around like some dime store ice pop
any color you like, no flavor but sweet
the cool dripping off your wrist before it hits your lips

who are you with when you lay in my arms
do i register in your mind as you caress my flesh
what do you hear when you render me senseless
is there anyone with me in the heat of the night

silent as death and twice as lonely
sex alone with the one you love
where are you going with me in your pocket
am i with you or just stuck in the seams

miniskirting around like some cheap ass whore
any type that you like, no scent but sweat
the sap dripping off your groin before it hits my lips

slime encrusted mattress memorial to the night
broken clock, broken table, dead bulb, dead bug
there's an ache but i can guess where it came from
can guess it was you, who ever you were at the time

pain, stone, fire, rage, ice, ice pop, ice queen
ice cream in your hair from lapping the cone of some
some dime store ice pop with his hair down to there
his pants full of melt in your mouth, not in your hands promise

miniskirting around like a sad tired breeze fighting
working its way from the shore to the boulevard with
the mist dripping off the air before you hit my lip


© 2004 georgia k griffin

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"buying Jesus"

i was at the grocery store buying Jesus
i was standing in line at the store
buying Jesus
absolution was the blue light special
but the price was still too high
the price was still too high
the price was remembering
a yellow nightie with a smiling
red apple
i was five years too hold for it
but it had happy memories
it used to have happy memories
he was a man of God
a friend of Dad's and a
Man of god
and it was ok because
i was nearly a woman
i was 14 and i knew it all
i knew it all because
well, i was 14
and he was a man
of god
women and priests
the keepers of men's secrets
so it was ok
i was standing at the grocery store buying Jesus
standing in line at the store
buying Jesus
absolution was the blue light special
but the price was still too high
the price was still too high
the price was remembering
a darkened theatre and i
making my way to the popcorn
winding out the the seats to go pee
and get popcorn
his hand was fat and warm
his cock was flaccid and hot
it was ok he said
he was a man of god
and i was an innocent
children and priests
the keepers of men's secrets
so it was ok
i was at the grocery store buying Jesus
standing in line at the store
buying Jesus
absolution was the blue light special
but the price was still too high
the price was still too high
the price was remembering
telling the truth and being told
it wasn't enough
it wasn't enough because the truth
does not set you free
no, it does not set you free
for once you have told the truth
you have to prove it
it being truth is not enough
now you have to relive it
you have to face it down
face the lying man of god
as he says you've got it wrong
as he says you're just trying it on
how can you ruin his life's work?
his reputation
for your small truth that
meant nothing
was nothing compared to the work
of god
was simply a secret
between you and a man of god
victims and priests
keepers of god's secrets
so it was ok
to be standing on the corner
buying Jesus
because absolution it is still too high


© 2005 georgia k griffin

David Rat

DAVID RAT is an Expatriate American Author and founding member of Rat At Rat R..a pioneering New York City rock and roll band...Married to award winning British poet Sara Tritt, the couple and son James currently reside in Nottingham,England

See David Rat at these sites as well:
ParoxysmPress
Facebook
David's Band

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HAPPY ENDING
Part 18
Greer...

The east village early 80's...
our 14 square blocks
of pure boho glory...
we sold our televisions for drug money
and sat on blurry stoops

seceding from the
United Hate of America...

fed by the hare krishna's
we smoked dope on the street
and bathed in tenement kitchens
filled with
garbage
and
glitter...

a few months off the bus
from pennsylvania farmlands,
I met her
at civilian warfare...
a gallery owned by
another oh so beautiful dead friend
named Dean Sarvard..

my price of freedom was
a graveyard for a rolodex...
and sometimes survival seems
like my only friend left alive...

She wasn't my type at all
tall blonde....
forlorn hazel eyes
legs like
a newborn colt...

we got high
and paraded around
the city together
arm in arm
like ragged tangled up ghosts...

lunch at cafe orlin
then a dinner party
on central park west
a cast of luminaries..
in attendance...

Lydia was there with Rollins
Sonic Youth, Swans,Live Skull etc.
Henry had somehow procured new
charlie manson recordings...
.

amid schmoozing
and bites of tortellini
a woman remarked

"you have such a lovely deep voice Greer"

when I walked in her apartment
it was like disney on purple mescaline
life-size horrific dolls
modeled after Herself,
Terri Toye, Divine and Candy Darling..
ripped apart stitched up
and strewn everywhere...
a ballerina hacked in half was
outdone only by

a doll on her deathbed,
littered with empty pill bottles.
staring at gold stars
painted on the ceiling...

ok so every idiot in the village
with a can of spray paint
was a "visual artist"

but Greer was for real
her work was truly visceral...
like surgery without anesthesia...
she had been part of Warhol's factory
and knew simply everyone...
she had shown at the Whitney
and worked for Jim Henson
actually applying yellow feathers
to the very first big bird costume...

..

a little cocaine
one soul wrenching
red wine kiss

and I was hopelessly
searching for something
eloquent to say...

"you must have been a really pretty little girl"
I stammered clumsily...

"um no...
I was a really confused
fucked up
little boy"
she (he) replied softly...

ok...now remember dear reader
I had only been in New York
a few months..

granted...

they were crazy
life changing months..
but where i came from
we didn't even have chinese food..

let alone
beautiful
post op
transsexual
art superstar
chicks....

So yeah
in the pit of my stomach
my head exploded
but outwardly
i kept my cool
remembering my idol
Lou Reed
had supposedly
married a transsexual...

i lit two marlboro lights
and we talked about it...

"Greg"
was the effeminate son
of a presbyterian minister
from Illinois...
bullied
beaten
and teased
relentlessly...

he retreated into a world of
solace and doll making..

at 21 years old
with financial help from
his father's church

Greg became Greer...

so I did what any
red blooded american farm boy
would do...

i kept seeing her...

aside from kissing and hand holding
we never had much of a
physical relationship
after that...

but I loved being with her...
we were decadent
we were glamorous
and we were
truly
truly
beautiful...

in 1996
after desperately trying
to starve herself to death...

my love finally overdosed

fading away from me...

under a deep blue ceiling
painted
with gold
coloured
stars...

Greer Lankton American Artist 1958-1996