Skip to main content

The Ballad Of A Raging Man



Three nights or seven by the river
Under the earth and out to forage
No one loves me, I have no Dad
But I am the raging man of my age

The taker, not the giver –
A blam-blam in the brainpain
Of the blindsided copper
And flowers for Himmler

Who had no balls
Fuck Rooney and Co.
I have no woman and no flag
Am a pumped up anti-fag

Who’ll kick at pricks, cunts and wogs
And lie down with dogs
When the infrared lines my sleep
Like a mother’s arm

To reveal my head dreaming
If not the dreams I keep
You can’t Rambo this away
Or lie about being a pig

If you work for them it’s not for me
And these days every man for himself
Really means fuck the poor and the North
What’s a working Dad worth

When the club closes and the music fades?
So I killed her a bit and hid
In woods I knew as well as my palm as a kid
And made the bastards hunt me like a stag

But they caught me, finally they did
And no one alive loves me now
Or loved me then
Except the ones who rushed to my side

During the stand-off, kept back
For their own safety, so they didn’t say to me
We love you, we love you at all
Out of remote control again

Breaking out like a fist into a face
I found a hard place and made it mine
And a trigger is a devil’s trident
Bent into an angel’s grace.

They killed me where they found me
By the stream in the pissing rain
A rat to them, a husband in name
A killer and blinder and wounder.

My blood was forgotten in a small river.
For a second before or after
I felt myself fill with a quiver
Then was just chip shop’s newspaper.

poem by Todd Swift
10 comments

Popular posts from this blog

THE BEVERLY PRIZE SUPER SHORTLIST FINALISED!

Dr Bruce Meyer, a significant Canadian poet and writer, will be the final judge for this year's Beverly Prize For International Writing - the impressive super shortlist of 18 international poets and writers is announced below.
Any original unpublished manuscript, in English, by anyone living anywhere in the world, writing in any genre or on any topic, prose, non-fiction or poetry (even drama) is eligible, making it arguably the world's most eclectic "broad church" literary scouting prize. Last year's debut winner was Sohini Basak (her book is being launched in Bloomsbury July 5th, 2018).

The rules of the prize stipulate that any author chosen for the shortlist agrees to accept publication with Eyewear if judged to be the final winner; and may not be entered into other competitions at this final stage of adjudication.
Bruce Meyer is author of more than 60 books of poetry, short fiction, non-fiction, literary journalism, and portraiture. He was winner of the Gwendolyn…

Review of the new Simple Minds album - Walk Between Worlds

Taste is a matter of opinion - or so goes one opinion. Aesthetics, a branch of pistols at dawn, is unlikely to become unruffled and resolved any time soon, and meantime it is possible to argue, in this post-post-modern age, an age of voter rage, that political opinion trumps taste anyway. We like what we say is art. And what we say is art is what likes us.

Simple Minds - the Scottish band founded around 1977 with the pale faces and beautiful cheekbones, and perfect indie hair cuts - comes from a time before that - from a Glasgow of poverty and working-class socialism, and religiosity, in a pre-Internet time when the heights of modernity were signalled by Kraftwerk, large synthesisers, and dancing like Bowie at 3 am in a Berlin club.

To say that early Simple Minds was mannered is like accusing Joyce of being experimental. Doh. The band sought to merge the icy innovations of German music with British and American pioneers of glam and proto-punk, like Iggy Pop; their heroes were contrived,…

THE WINNER OF THE SIXTH FORTNIGHT PRIZE IS...



Wheeler Light for 'Life Jacket'.

The runner-up is: Daniel Duffy - 'President Returns To New York For Brief First Visit'

Wheeler Light currently lives in Boulder, Colorado.



Life Jacket

summer camp shirtsI couldn’t fit in then
are half my size nowI wanted to wear
smaller and smallerarticles of clothing
I shrunk to the sizethat disappeared

of an afterthoughtin a sinking ship body
too buoyant to sinktoo waterlogged for land
I becamea dot of sand