Other Poems by:

Olly Bryan


those who walked 

in second hand shoes 

clenching wild flowers 

writing wet dreams 

reading in naked flesh

screaming at lost windows

damning tyrants with eyeballs

grabbing peeresses

with whom there was only one chance

moments meant to last

seconds or years




love ideas

skinny torso

tears drop from my eyes 

my hands shake

I feel fallible

I am hung over  

I am a foolish wreck


I am not as foolish 

as that suited rogue

I met last night

because I have 



good intentions


I want to write

the apocalyptic



unbounded poem

the one 

that blows true

the one 

that didnít try 


just fell on the page

Iím damned headshot tho

and I seem to be


lucid thoughts 

out of my ass

I have the paper 

and the pen 

but as I shit 

my concentration wavers 

the thoughts come sweeping in

but are then dispelled 

by my internal organs


i will write it tomorrow

tomorrow is easy

today is a hardship  


not even a shit 

will deter me from writing 

I will write in snow storms 

I will write standing up on the bus 

I will write in the middle of the road

walking down the streets

each step

each stride

with my legs

and my eyes

will be poignant 

I write this with

a hint of hope


is a rotten thing


is pretty hopeless


there are 


out there

in this infected space

that donít rely on 


they are never 



lacking in confidence

they have sanitised minds

even their states of confusion 

are ordered

but Iím sitting shitting

with all of these fears

dancing with each other

clasping each other

the fear is fucking 

the perfectionism

and the perfectionism

is beating down the endeavor 

all of which 

is causing me to sweat

my skinny torso 

is shaking

Iím conning myself

with madness

but itís all alright 

Iíve got my feet 

and at least 

my blue eyes 

want to see

and my hands 

want to touch


tomorrow Iíll just be

Iíll be 

the be all 

and end all

Iíll concoct my own 

imposing lines

Iíll touch the heart 

of every thing living and inanimate 

with my tenderness 

and perceptiveness

Iíll lock arms with the lost

and Iíll kick the smug and the vain

in fact 

Iím starting to feel good

Iím going to wipe my ass

and write this down



not tomorrow.

war on terror

there are scoundrels and tyrants

and neither think they are terrifying

they purport universal truths

which will never be grasped

because truth is bound by

the beautiful blot of relativity


the heads of terror

curse lives they

donít know


itís an endless game.

Twelve Stages in a Life

Original was a forty year old man who lived in a caravan on a small hill
made of books by Billy Childish, Rimbaud and Dostoyevsky.

Original lived with Taboo, a twenty one year old girl who wore tight black 
jeans everyday. Her legs were thin. She wore her legs well. Taboo had the 
impression of an angel.

Original and Taboo liked each otherís company. They didnít like to venture
away from the caravan too often. Original and Taboo didnít like what went 
on outside of their caravan. 

They were happy with their view from the hill of the river that ran at the 
bottom of it, the other hills which were made of second hand shoes and smiling 
faces and amateur art.

Original and Taboo had a beautiful tabby cat called Harmony. Harmony suited his name.

Original and Taboo didnít like the professional world, the polluted city twenty 
miles from their hill, money which they were constantly chasing after, the music 
on the tv, the tv programmes on the tv, they didnít like a lot of things.

Original and Taboo thought they loved each other. They had been told what love 
was by the hills and the clouds and films, but they decided on what love was by 

They walked to the river every day even when the sun was hiding and toads and 
bottles of dark rum fell from the sky. The rum never landed on their heads. 
They drank the rum as though it was water.

They smiled fifteen times a day and frowned when the tv turned itself on at 
seven oíclock in the evening everyday. The tv controlled itself but knew when 
it wasnít appreciated. It would turn itself off at eight.

The family of the cat and two humans lived a life of simplicity. The details 
wonít be written about.

They all died on the same day, at the same time down by the river.

The day is unimportant.

the meat of a pig

I am too sick 

to eat the meat 

of a pig 

and drink the tears 

from Godís eyes


I am too sick

to open the damn curtains

to see the vanity of the sun 


I am too sick to

walk long optimistic strides 

head high 

mind high 


singing with      

the established and self satisfied 


But I ainít too sick 

to trust myself 

over the unknowing selfís 


Itís the pavements and roads 

That are broken and lost 

not my rotten shoes.

ye rapscallion!


and silent

coffin page

cider teeth

heavy head

in the shadow of

a solitary rogue soldier

ye rapscallion!

you are being sent

to the trenches

and you will find yourself

with customary bullets in your ass

and banal blood in your mouth

scars on your fingertips

and etches on your arms

you will ride

the dark nights alone

scrawling in your broken notebook     

the reward

will be touching

the flesh of fleeting souls

caught in the palm

of locked time

and made full on the page

no longer rotting.

ah! you fuckers!

ginsberg told me 

I could be free

if I learnt to

harness my visions 

childish accepted 

my amateurism and sloppiness 

because he could see thru them 

buk told me I was a bad poet 

but buk thought 

most poets were bad

he was just a little bit better  

hamsun didnít care 

he was rotting and starving 

writing his masterpiece 

micheline saw my beauty 

but he also saw beauty in worms

and bloodshot eyes

I wonít write you Rimbaud

you were too precocious 


what do you think of 

my humiliation?

it has a certain aroma 

doesnít it.

**Copyright 2008 Olly Bryan, all rights reserved Send us your comments on this article
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