Through the TV series fun on Saturdays,
They educate us to our foreign ways
We’re blind to our own prejudice, you see.
But we can see it on our dramatised TV.

 

Our mind’s a stranger to our self;
As Freud discovered with his stealth
We make believe we are all saints.
In words, by gum, it doesn’t half sound quaint!

Tonight on Taggart we see Poles
Shot at close range, here, look , bullet holes.
They’re foreign though they were born here.
And, by the way, your auntie’s queer.

We want a game like chess  with rules
Make it black and white, we’re fools.
We forget the Last Judgment’s here today
And God is foreign, by the way.

God’s the foreigner par excellence
He sent us Son down here just once
But like we often do , we killed
They’re using TV   now to change our wills.

Enlighten us, dear God, by screens  of blue
Make us understand we’re foreign too
We don’t  need to go to Church
The TV’s on and here I perch

 

 

Oh, aspirin  found in willow bark
Before the advent of drug sharks
You are still cheap and ease  our pain
So we can get to work again
We work on  these conveyer   belts
Tearing the  guts of chickens out.
It’s   our vocation, so they say
As they  give us our mean pay
Mine is so low I can’t  pay rent
So for some Benefits I am sent
The lady thought I was a Czech
And so I would not answer back
But I am from the Isle of Wight
The trouble is, I’m not too bright.
But when you buy your chicken curry
Think of how  our fingers hurry
Tearing out those  intestines
Faster than a bird can scream
For the chickens were not dead.
Till Henry Tudor went to bed.
He penetrated their insides
Cut off their heads and made them wives.
For with no heads, they need no crowns
And he cannot see their frowns.
He got tired and wanted new
Advertised in Waterloo.
So my boss bought all he had
On the whole, they don’t taste bad.

My mother was ever so nice
She fed us on bacon and lice
I had paranoia,
I used to annoy her
By asking for sweet, sugared mice.

My mother was  never insane
Though she did vow to vote for  Remain
I have kind delusions
And utter confusion
I’ve got paranoia again.

My father was ever so wild
He got my dear mother with child
I had crazy notions
About that commotion
Sex is not good without guile.

I am  in need of some people to love
But I am a borderline, guv.
If I fall into a spiral
Of paranoid denial
Just ignore the old man above.

Everyone hears  voices speak,
They say, President Trump is a freak.
It takes one to know one;
My madness will show them
We need to be ruled by the geeks

Not a book by Mike Flemmimg 2017

Bibliochasm…………. am empty space in the bookshelves.
Bibliofathom…………… to understand a book after a long period of study.
Bibliospasm….  a shudder in the bookcase.
Bibliogasm.. great pleasure from  reading a book
Bibliophone… a phone that reads the Bible   daily
Bibliosoap….. a feeble or romantic book
Bibliochoke…. when you read to quickly and can’t swallow it.
Bibliodome…… a tower of books.
Bibliograve….. a long but terminal relationship with books.

The problem with obsession is it works.
The algebra, the laptop, the smartphone.
We get things done; we never ever shirk.

We are not those folk who lightly flirt.
We gnaw the problem till we find the bones
The problem with obsession is, it works!

But we if we do a wrong, we can’t forget
We huddle in  grey armchairs  while we groan
We feel deep scruples; can’t escape or shirk.

Our nature makes stuff easy to regret.
We look back at  our “careless” ways and   groan
The problem with obsession is, it hurts.

We tense our minds and bodies  in the murk
We  lash ourselves  with  blame that’s  overgrown
We get the jobs done; even pleasure’s work!

Remember that this life is just on loan
And like the boiling kettle steam, we’ll go.
The problem with obsession is, it works.
We get it done but what’s  that really worth?

 

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/randy-susan-meyers/digging-hurts-the-trauma-_b_795111.html

Quote:

 

While writing my novel, I accessed dark emotional truths. I took real events (my father trying to kill my mother) and then punted the reality into a far more dramatic story. Fiction. However, what I denied (until forced by writing the Mail article to go deeper into my own family background) was the cost of doing business. Truthiness makes for a deeper more satisfying read. Truthiness often has little (and sometimes nothing) to do with whether one is portraying actual events from one’s past. Sometimes using biographical material adds up to little more than reporting. But when one accesses the emotional truth, the ugly parts of the self that trauma can reveal, that’s a gift to the reader — but it’s often ripped from the writer in a way they don’t immediately recognize.

Writing my book meant digging deep into family secrets and crypts. Family facts weren’t really revealed so much as a family culture was uncovered and combed through. After the book was published, after I raised my head from the comforting minutia of plot and structure and query letters and editorial letters, at some point I realized something: I wasn’t telling fairy tales. I’d ripped away a scrim of denial that I’d spent years perfecting, a scrim made up of food and books and television and all the myriad ways we keep ourselves at a distance from ourselves.

Doctor, writer, friend, Kathy Crowley, talking about a study done by her colleague, Dr. Jane Liebschutz, recently told me that “one of the big things that gets missed is how victims of violence or trauma unconsciously narrow their lives — they do almost nothing, maybe sit and watch TV most of the time, lead these incredibly dull existences, and how this is, in her mind, a protective response to the trauma.” (Please, Kath — do a post on this!)