Tag Archives: Fact

Selling out or taken in

Sometimes I write terribly he said
You never do I assure you
But of course I do as everybody does
No actually nobody does
Well what do you call this then? Will I read it for you?
Don’t bother I’ve read it, and while I don’t like it I believe others could.
You’re mad!
Says you with your generalizations
Well you claim to know everybody’s mind
Indeed I do not
Then why do you proclaim your writing shit
I said I write terribly but anyway, because I know it’s so.
You know you don’t like it is what you mean.
Yeah… And…
But who are you to judge?
Surely I’m the best judge
Hah! And why is that?
Because it’s me who’s written it.
True, but is it you who buys it, reads it, criticises it and comes back for more?
No, but…
No, and therefore… Shut up!


Back again my pretty creepy crawley 

With school start and hair washed- 

It doesn’t matter. 

You discriminate not though many on your behalf do 

They shout “You filth” and they do not mean you. 

The psychosomatic impulse 

The hand that reaches, scratches, passes back to point 

And waits 

The tendency engorged by fitful, fanciful, frantic 


And back again to torment, Cos that is what you do. 

The morning’s bus-stop-wait inspection 

The routine, the chore imposed. 

Each itch, each scratch, questioned 

Queried, curious, cautious 

And paranoid, yes paranoid, 

The present you endow. 


© TheHairyTeacher 2017

The provisions of…

The provisions of the day
Outside the window the premature darkness of a rolling storm sent wisps of flue steam directed away from their previous predelictions
Their swirl and curl and rise and flutter all shoved aside and southwards.
The sunset spilling o’er the newly coined immensity lit still a south and west that dared a sunset breach.
And the city in its awkward splendour, the castle regal there beyond, and even here the fine brick exterior(s), perhaps facade to feccund interior.
The streets beneath less travelled by or so a wishful thinker hoped, but each siren bore a patient prize, each car a reluctant visitor.
And from a perch as this I was set to thinking…
The rust streaked stained walls, the dust grey grating, the white bars solid to fulfil imprisonment
And in flicker of a sunlit window the laden clouds came contrasting
While from an enclosed balcony I gathered back my thoughts and looked through cracked-paned window glass
To where a child, my child lay, set to sleeping, perchance to dreaming, perchance to rest.

© ThehairyTeacher2016

Tina Turner’s

The night before my birthday, my fortieth, and I hit Tina Turner’s…it used to be called Anya’s but that half-Greek fantasy set sail down towards the ninth district, somewhere around Mester utca, a long time ago. The soap I bought, a dried up reminder of a notion I once had.
The whole place is infested with memory and even my darkest hour, not worth mentioning, being part of the fabric of this place provokes a Dichotomy, an idea of improvement based upon a previous moral digression, thoroughly equated therefore by its having occurred within the confines of this place.
It was always an awkward place, often ruled by boredom, fatigue, drunkeness, and paranoia. It, however, served well as a last resort. It never closes, you see,”… and that has made all the difference…”
I sometimes long for this place in the blur that is pre- fatherhood memory, but in truth, a moment like this, actually living the memories, is the closest anybody can get to all things past. Sometimes it’s worth coming back for the trip – the reality of what was left behind, suitably soft, a drawing smudged to suit a tolerable indifference.
The corner in one of the upstairs booths, was my workbench of occasion, though never to the extent of B City and the Soproni place, now Cheerio – then nameless (at least to me), and yet Tina’s, ahem…Anya’s (like the stalwart calling Snickers Marathon), provided some of the material for my future. Here dreams were shattered, rebuilt, born yet before, and after. Time bent here… as these words may take me back, they may in time propel me forward, or at least be read again in a time not yet recorded. For now I just create them in the hope that someone, maybe even me, can read them in a future!

Me too

Me too



I had skinned knuckles once too.
I even tried to express this as significant;
It wasn’t, anymore than I was,
in the sense that I was me.
I had the marks of brutality upon me,
they remained long after any sense of bravery.
If you display yours to an intimidation,
remember I did that and I know what lies beneath.
If, however, you pick at these in shame,
like somehow they are wrong for you,
like somehow you are better than these scabs,
then I have nothing to work with –
dare I judge?
I’d judge thee, judgement being… what?
A penchant you might say.
I have tonight tried to contradict myself
but it’s so much easier to believe the fallacy,
so much easier to reason to your passions
than to the core of fact itself.
Half-informed I’ll rage in dreams
against the dying of our rights
but if ever proved I will not stand against the foe
as I perceived it,
and therefore vacant,
I may as well
stand for nothing!



The Way of the Baby

I wear the coat of one brother
and perhaps even his jocks,
the jeans of the other
but I think not his socks.
My jumper is my brother-in-law’s
and the undershirt too,
but perhaps the shirt only
was bought somewhere, new…
but not by me:)


Face Off

The poisoned mind of online clutter, the shift from art to emptiness.
The bells, the lights of bar room games, at least a numbing quality.
Instead in this, a pernicious plot, slowly eroding reason.
And when the anger finally takes hold, I’m still responsible for my actions.
The inner fizz, the steam pipe hiss, the gas leak rising staunchly-
to ruin the air, the fettered mind, alone in the conclusion.


Everything and

Picture this.
A very sunny day though not yet hot.
Still cool enough around the edges
to feel my short sleeves.
Sitting on a bench at a busstop waiting.
Behind me at the old chapel steps
three vagrants sit.
Chatting, loitering,
and one with a kitchen sink –
It’s steel skin shining in the promised heat.



I’m half hating it?

I’m half hating it?

I’m loving it or I’m hating it? I’m not sure cos, for starters, I’m not even sure where to begin! The fact that I seem, semantically, to be answering a question suggests that I have recognised the statement form above as question: rendered, as it is, intonationally in the spoken form. I learnt or learned this, though I do not profess myself the learned man, in a random French class of my youth. As it happens, my odd-Catholic mother ( odd because she adheres to the practice while not believing in shit) furthered my education when, one day, I proclaimed I had French letters in my bag. Ah, but that is, as they say, scéal eile!
Returning to another point I’m not even sure I’ve made yet: I’m loving it. Taught as incorrect by desperate ( panicky rather than terrible) EFL, or other acronymical, teachers everywhere because of those damn stative verbs and yet more recently contradicted by Ronald and his cronies, I do now have to add my 50 Cents(!), or tuppence or 5 forint or whatever.
Those who teach languages as rule-based risk being discredited by popular culture. Those who don’t risk unnerving their students. I, however, have just this to say:

and because Otis said it, I believe it, and… A. that’s that! B. that’s fuckin’ well that!
Your choice. My opinion;)


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