art is sexy

ART IS NOT MONEY

ART IS NOT EGO

ART IS NOT IGNORANCE

ART IS NOT A MONOPOLY

ART IS NOT PROPAGANDA

ART IS NOT BACK-BITING

ART IS NOT SABOTAGE

ART IS NOT A BOY’S CLUB

ART IS NOT OPRESSION

ART IS NOT YOUR PET

ART IS NOT YOUR BITCH

ART IS NOT YOUR WHORE

ART IS NOT YOUR SLAVE

ART IS NOT YOUR FRIEND

ART IS NOT A BUSINESS

ART IS NOT A DICK MEASURING CONTEST

ART IS NOT MUTUAL SYCOPHANCY

ART IS NOT THERE TO MAKE YOU FEEL IMPORTANT

ART IS NOT A FUCKING HAT

ART IS NOT AN AFFECTED MODE OF SPEAKING

ART IS NOT YOURS

ART IS NOT MINE

ART IS NOT A COMMODITY

ART IS NOT A COLLECTIVE

ART IS NOT A DEFENSE MECHANISM

ART IS NOT A CIRCLE JERK

ART IS NOT A SHADY CABAL

ART IS NOT EXCLUSIVE

ART IS NOT EXPLOITATION

ART IS NOT TYRANNY

ART IS NOT CHURLISH CRITICISM

ART IS NOT YOUR PLAYTHING

ART IS NOT A SIDE DISH

ART IS NOT MEGALOMANIA

ART IS NOT CONSERVATIVE

ART IS NOT A CONSOLIDATION

ART IS NOT A COMPETITION

ART IS NOT A CULT

ART IS NOT OBJECTIVIST

ART IS NOT BEING A HIPSTER

ART IS NOT A PDF

ART IS NOT CAPITAL

ART IS NOT A C.V.

ART IS NOT A JOB

ART IS NOT AN EVENT

ART IS NOT CHINESE WHISPERS

ART IS NOT ASSOCIATED WITH…

ART IS NOT A FEE

ART IS NOT A CUP OF COFFEE

ART IS NOT COSTA

ART IS NOT OPENLY QUOTING CAMUS

ART IS NOT SELFISH

ART IS NOT HURT PRIDE

ART IS NOT YOU

ART IS NOT ME

ART IS NOT A BEARD

ART IS NOT A LIST POEM

ART IS NOT A PUB

ART IS NOT WAR

ART IS NOT ATTITUDE

ART IS NOT WHAT YOU THINK IT IS

ART IS NOT WHAT YOU WANT IT TO BE

ART IS NOT WHAT YOU DO

ART IS LOVE

AND

ART IS SEXY

Update 15.04.2017

Currently writing a sci-fi/psychodrama/spiritual text based on events from that dimension, called ‘The Wheel Stops’. Think Cloud Atlas meets Valis. OBSCURE BULLSHIT SCI FI BASICALLY. Anyway, after that’s written, I’m gonna publish a longer book of poetry called ‘Archetypical’ which will be based around the poems on here.

Working on a few ‘poetry music videos’ with some great antimators and videographers. Hopefully this page will get real busy soon!

In talks with another spoken word poetry about a musical-spoken word collab.

Illeism

This one talks in illeisms.
James Donnelly is the illest illeist.
We don’t use terms like ‘me’ anymore,
and using ‘I’ is just the silliest.

Yet speaking in third person
is taken as egotism by some.
Surely, referring to yourself without ‘I/Me’
means the ego war is won.

‘I’ & ‘me’ are old hat.
We, this one, James Donnelly is cool.
But, it makes this human hard to understand
and makes us look a bit of a fool.

Despite talking like a psycho
and speaking like a dick.
James Donnelly is still the illest illeist
cos thinking about illeism is making this one sick.

Since I was 16 or 17 I’ve been writing poetry. For the most part it was catharsis. Some way to spill my bile without directly attacking anyone. As I got older, it became a way for me to be literary in a non-academic way. When I started ‘proper’ as a spoken word poet, it took on a different mantle. A way for me to express things a normal conversation can’t.

These 3 reviews let me know that I’ve succeeded in at least some of my goals when I started. To spread compassions, to bring occult/spiritual/magickal concepts to modern poetry, to combine simplicity with depth, and to honestly provoke thought.

So very chuffed with the way it’s been recieved and will set about editing the new anthology (over 200 pages!) once I’ve finished the bizarre genre-hopping novella I’m currently writing.

Thank you to all the followers, likers and readers who have stayed with this blog and given me consistent support. I hope I continue to create pieces that challenge and excite you.

 

Much Love,

James.

the last word

Looking for sacrament

I raid the houses of the holy

To try and bless

my unholy matrimony

I’m wedded to images

text bound across my heart

transmogrifying reality

in the most verbose of arts

Despite all of the abuse

I’m married to my words

I’m married to my syntax

and it’s totally absurd

Words betray me all the time

forcing themselves of my tongue

I tip toe around them, on eggshells

Whilst it chews up on the young,

naïve, idealistic version of me

who believes in its power

to make people free

I snap a shell underfoot

and the beats rears it’s linguistic head

I now have to feed it parts of me

Before it kills the conversation dead

Giving parts of me

I wish that I could keep

It slithers up my body

and into my soul it does creep

It slides inside my ear

and licks around my brain

eating all my experiences

and leaving me inkstained

Then it slithers out again

to chew upon my past,

upon that me from back then

who fell for words so fast

Now empty of experiences

I creep towards the door

The words are never satisfied

They always crave for more

There is a life beyond this

a life that needs no words

But I can’t tell you about it

The truth cannot be read or heard

Daimoney

I sup and empty my coffee cup,

slipping up into my empty coffin.

Searching my empty coffers.

Snorting with an emphatic cough.


Crying and laughing

at this financial joke.

Getting punched to the breadline.

I want out of the ring.


The bell goes,

the ball grows.

This bull grunts

at the gross bill.


I wither away,

like a dead flower,

firmly planting myself

in a nuclear bunker.


A bomb goes off,

my bank goes bust.

I’m left a bum.

I traverse the beam


of a broken roof.

This house

rings music

in my deaf ears.


SEX!

Cells replaced

by money

of mammon.


That demon

demonstrates

doom

in his dominion.


The name

of my gnome

is now

Chomsky.


Nominal noumena,

no reality.

Just phenomena

and magical illusion.


A truckful of tricks

on this tracks trek.

The stars steer me

and stirs stories.


Shit(!)

in the sewer

feeds the alligator

handbags.


At dawn

the sun is down

under the dune

and the deed is done.

Lucidity

The angel Gabrielle

said dreams can come true.

I know this isn’t false

because I dreamt of you.


My mindscape is filled with portraits

of you, and statues and busts,

of the two of us immortalised

reciting poems, reading books.


Pushing rocks up hills

just to pass the time.

Making allusion, attempting assonance

and forcing time into rhymes


You become a mirror

reflecting me to me.

I turn away from you

I’ll turn to salt if I see.


But you grab my head to look again

and I see the whole damn globe.

I start fitting, frothing at the mouth

in your eyes I see a strobe.


I breakdance in a stupor,

spin on my head within a dream,

and there’s no more artifice,

the gallery has become so lean.


Instead it’s just us two,

embracing in the black,

and I jolt up, hitting my head on my ego

with an almighty whack.


I apologise at my knees

and pray forgiveness.

Because I’ve been trapped in ideas,

I’ve not been able to witness.


The beauty of the thing

that stands before me.

The human life we’ve been enacting

and not just performing.