Narrative Paradigm

A good story beats a good argument
A coherent story augments perception
A false hero’s journey is pleasing
A simulated beginning, middle and end
A degraded facsimile, an optical illusion
The Logos replaced by the mythos

We are fundamentally shaped by narratives
Adjectives become objective
Labels applied define us
Jobs, hobbies, mental status
Others seek to define us
Within their frameworks

But we are bigger than their frames
We are more than stories
The narrative paradigm
Can be shifted

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Cold War

I’m left feeling cold

by this apparent war.

A crew torn asunder,

yet this thunder

has no storm.

This broken boat

has cap sized

under size large heads.

Kevin and Perry like kids.

Not heaven sent,

no holy smell.

Just spiteful noseless Parkers.

Peter pied pipers pepper pot,

is a kettle

black, tying a knot.

Like a Windsor,

but you’ll never be royals.

Left feeling flushed,

this lush needs soap.

Dope clean bars,

fresh new rhymes,

past times tick away

off the clock.

Facing away from featureless creatures,

with monstrous energies

and beastly vibes.

This beastmode scribe

writes a paper,

an essay.

Viewing your news as spam,

fake.

I’m not on the take.

No corrupt MF transmission

my mission keeps me woke til the AM.

I’ll slay ’em.

Don’t need payin.

Cos it’s not about the money,

but it is about change.

So I’ll resist,

until fuckers desist

and stop.

I’m hammering at heartstrings

and they’ll sing all the notes,

In short,

my hand will write,

my words will fight

and there will be blood

boiling in that kettle

you call black.

Fuck your nettles.

I sting back,

Like a bee.

We could have shared that flower.

but you cross pollinate for power

and you want it absolut(e).

Like Russian vodka.

Gushing like Niagra,

about the fall.

You prats.

Everything you do like a pregnant pause.

Everybody wants to be a cool cat.

But, you’ve left me feeling cold

and that’s that.

Self imposed hermitude

in response

to the spreading

of the self-sanctified

across all the spaces

that were not theirs

creating trenches

and loyalties

there are no sides

just mirrors

there is no game

just an act

telling stories

spinning yarns

catastrophising

between yourselves

ignored the need

of a needy friend

huddled around

a vampire instead

familiarity

breeds contempt

manufacturing

consent

you speak of ideology

of being outspoken

whilst you expand

into others places

ever spent

two seconds

thinking maybe

the problem is within

Of course not

that would require

seeing beyond

the end of your own nose

which you cut off

when you cut friends out

and get stuck

in a quagmire

a bed you made

stealing all the duvet

and leaving

everyone cold

no heart

no art

childish boys

and wet farts

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

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