Life and War with Mikey Fatboy Delgado
Saturday, August 09, 2014
 
Mikey Delgado's dream, part 3




The Famous Five and the Arab Boy


To be perfectly honest Tony was a little bit uncomfortable around Donald.
When they had first arrived at camp Tony had been overjoyed to see that
there were bunk beds and he had baggsied one of the top bunks but Donald
had gone awfully strange and..well…Donald had been rather beastly to Tony.
He had turned to Tony and because of the sun shining on Donald’s glasses
Tony couldn’t see his eyes. All he could see were Donald’s thin lips moving,
and though Donald spoke softly he sounded frightfully hostile to Tony, if the
truth be known.
  “Listen, kid,” Donald said, “you ain’t nothing here. You ain’t what we call a
man. A man knows another man. And I’m a man. And I know you ain’t one.
You...” and he stopped here for what seemed to Tony like an awfully long time
“are just a kid pretending to be a man. Well, kiddo ...that crap don’t cut no ice
with me. We are going to need someone to switch the lights off and that bunk
down there,” he pointed to a bottom bunk next to the door, “is next to the switch,
and you are going to be in it because you are going to be the light-turner-offer.
Capeesh?”
  Tony was quite taken aback by that and turned to George and Condie and Dickie
and Wolfie for some support but none of them seemed to have heard, even though
they were right there in the room. They were all looking the other way and Tony
thought for one odd moment that they were simply jolly well pretending not to
have heard. Uncle Colin had heard though and he just laughed and thumped Tony
on the back good-naturedly.
  “Hahaha,” Uncle Colin chuckled, “well I guess Condie has got her dog, and now it
looks as if Donald has got his pussy.” 

-------------------
Thursday, July 31, 2014
 
Letter




By day we wait for war again. We listen
 for radio items that make no sense: for lists,
numbers, archaic words and usages…clues
to the call-up of reserves. We walk barefoot
to the supermarket, watch lovers inflaming
each other. We imagine those women turning
to catch us peeping as they wave their men off to war.

At night we sit on the flat roof listening
to the distant sea. How the noise of the daylight hours
disrupts the senses. Late at night when it’s quiet
we can smell the ocean from here. We can taste it
on the salty breeze. We have learnt to say omelette,
matches, the time, because the women here are beautiful,
slowly, I don’t understand.

 
The English-language newspaper writes often
of terrorist incursions in the north. We imagine
Bedouin trackers and their private photographs
of dead fedayeen lined up like fishing trophies
between the smiling hunters. We debate the foolishness
of travelling to the border to buy matchboxes full of kif,
 and we go just the same.

We communicate with Galilean Arab girls there in nods
and smiles. They reward our earnest attention with golden-teeth grins
 and we wonder about their strong thighs, and what if things
were just different enough for them to yearn to come into the trees
with us, or for us to slip into their lives as serious prospects.
 On the train back south we talk of how the death of Elvis shook us,
even though none of us can stand rock and roll.

We talk of how we might extract the morphine from Diocalm.
We talk of the wonderment of Fantasia on drug-addled senses.
Catching our drawn faces reflected in the window between us
and the night I wonder what the oldest Arab girl, beautiful
with those heavy breasts beneath her embroidered Bedouin dress,
must have thought of us today, as we sat at the roadside café
guzzling the cheapest red wine, bleary-eyed, bullshitting.




----
Sunday, July 27, 2014
 
life and war
from…
Life and War with Mikey Fatboy Delgado

What is it with those people who live over there? We were saying down the pub
last night that the problem over there is that it’s too hot, mate. It’s like when you’re
on holiday in Spain and you sit on the beach all day necking bottles of that San Miguel.
It does send you a bit loopy and, be fair, we’re only over there for a couple of weeks.
Imagine if we were in the sun all the time like those Iraqi lads, we’d be as potty as they
are.  And it’s not just Iraq, it’s the whole area. It’s like going south of the river at the
weekend. Those Israelis had to chop some more of the Arabs living in their country
tonight for taking the piss after they’ve been told to simmer down. Anymore pissing
about and we’ll chop the lot of you. Kill one of ours and we’ll do fifty of yours
.
You can’t fault that can you? They don’t fuck about, those Israeli lads. It’s like they’ve
been taking lessons from Davey Ribnecklace Gallagher. Step on their feet at the bar
and they’ll have your fucking legs off, mate.



——
Friday, June 20, 2014
 
the afternoon's incessant chatter




Fanatics discuss matches in memory
and Marjorie watches the football float slowly
across the pale blue eggshell of sky,
above the straining hearts of the hand-holding lovers,
past the tightened throats of stranded defenders
betrayed and adrift in no man’s land.

Marjorie talks to herself about how the ball
never came down, about how in the time
it takes to light a cigarette it has transmogrified
into a dark bird, with a delta, and swift,
and has ascended above the stadium’s rim,
fleeing the afternoon’s incessant chatter.
Marjorie holds her hand flat across her brow
to block the glare, to see the bird buffeted into tumbling
by the frenzied air, like sweet papers, like a cellophane bird
in the wake of a train. The ball itself, but for its plotted line,
barely registers. It skips the way a flat stone might skim
above a green smooth ocean after leaving the arm
of a boy on the shore. The body of the crowd,
a raucous channel packed with boats bobbing at anchor,
in slow motion twists and gasps to see
the same ball do the same thing again and again .

At half-time talk is of the shadow of the stadium roof,
of how it leaves one small oval of the crowd golden
in the last light cast at sunset. Marjorie imagines
hearing him speak of how in the language
of the heavily-armed state the word for ball
is the word for bullet, and how the poor deserve
their misery. The striker – “he’s gone down
like Capa’s militiaman for a penalty” -
holds their attention instead. No-one links
the shot of the dead ball specialist rebounding
from the marshalled wall, and the fusillade
which felled the puppet emperor Ferdinand
as he held the hand of his white-shirted general.



------------


spain v spain (Cerro Muriano, Sept 1936)

mexico v mexico (June 1867)




------------
Friday, June 13, 2014
 
Mission accomplished - Dumb and dumber














from...
Life and War with Mikey Fatboy Delgado

Bush flies onto that aircraft carrier all dressed up like some fucker out of Top Gun,
only with Bush he just looks like the back end of a fucking pantomime horse in all
that gear, mate. He’s a scream. You can’t help finding him comical. Not like old
Blair. And the geezer on the BBC news made us laugh when he was commentating
on it and he said that Bush did his national service by flying round Texas a couple
of times and then ducking out of going to Vietnam.

I like Bush when he’s making his speeches. He’s a scream. He’s like a cheeky little
kid. He always looks like there’s some fucker behind him tickling his arse with a
feather. He looks like he wants to burst out laughing at the crap those bods have
written for him to tell the American people. Not like Blair. Blair looks like he doesn’t
think anyone’s going to swallow what he’s got to say but his eyes are bulging and his
arms are flapping about because he really wants them to. “I say this to you..” or “I want
to make this perfectly fucking clear..” and crap like that. And Blair just looks fucking
stupid when his people slap a guitar in his hand and try and make him look a cool fella
for the young people to get into. He just looks like an area manager for British Home
Stores in a grey suit holding a guitar. Shape up, Tony, for fuck’s sake.

But that speech old Bush gave on that ship was funny as fuck, mate. That guff about
freedom and darkness and captives and light. He looked like he wanted to fall over
side ways. He’d be much happier telling it straight. “These motherfuckers fronted us
up so we bombed the shit out of them. Did we get the right ones? I don’t know, but if
we didn’t we’ll bomb the fuck out of them till they learn who’s the fucking daddy.
God Bless America.”

--

Tuesday, June 03, 2014
 
These are horrible times
But I feel angrier than I ever felt then. The way in which the crisis of 2007 got flipped, so that suddenly it's not bankers but people living on welfare who are the problem, was extraordinary. These are horrible times.

"At one level, it's not all defeat," he says, citing gay rights, the women's movement and race as areas where things have at least improved in the last 40 years. "Everyone asks why people are so passive, but my experience is that they aren't, it's just that a lot of the fights now are defensive – keeping nurseries or libraries open."

----
Saturday, May 17, 2014
 
A Companion Reader to The Chilcot Report


Can't wait for the Chilcot Report?

Read the Unofficial Appendix while you wait.
A snapshot of the state of the nation back then.

The more things change, the more they stay the same

looking to buy someone a present and don't know what to get? look no further...

Amazon.co.uk £7.99
The Book Depository £7.99, includes free delivery worldwide

Before Hutton, before Butler, before Chilcot,
Mikey Fatboy Delgado was looking into the matter...
In the spring of 2003 the Iraq war is underway and
Mikey is almost all in favour of it. It makes for good
television and is improving his sex life. If only the BBC
would sort out those green pictures of fighting in the
dark he might even be prepared to cough up for a licence.
And if only corrupt policing and the amount that Blair grins
weren't so unsettling he would be able to relax and enjoy
watching the highlights of the fighting more.

***************

“Saddam has bitten the kids and pissed on
the mat and eaten our ganja and he won’t
stop fucking barking, so bosh, ta-ta, thanks
for all the fish, and fucking goodnight Irene.
Your services are no longer required, Saddam.
You are going up the motorway, pal.”


***********************





-------------

-----------

Labels: , , ,


Tuesday, March 11, 2014
 
Happy trails, Bob
http://www.theguardian.com/politics/2014/mar/11/bob-crow
`



England in 1819

An old, mad, blind, despised, and dying King;
Princes, the dregs of their dull race, who flow
Through public scorn,—mud from a muddy spring;
Rulers who neither see nor feel nor know,
But leechlike to their fainting country cling
Till they drop, blind in blood, without a blow.
A people starved and stabbed in th' untilled field;
An army, whom liberticide and prey
Makes as a two-edged sword to all who wield;
Golden and sanguine laws which tempt and slay;
Religion Christless, Godless—a book sealed;
A senate, Time’s worst statute, unrepealed—
Are graves from which a glorious Phantom may
Burst, to illumine our tempestuous day.
----


Song to the Men of England 


   Men of England, wherefore plough
For the lords who lay ye low?
Wherefore weave with toil and care
The rich robes your tyrants wear?

Wherefore feed and clothe and save,
From the cradle to the grave,
Those ungrateful drones who would
Drain your sweat -nay, drink your blood?

Wherefore, Bees of England, forge
Many a weapon, chain, and scourge,
That these stingless drones may spoil
The forced produce of your toil?

Have ye leisure, comfort, calm,
Shelter, food, love's gentle balm?
Or what is it ye buy so dear
With your pain and with your fear?

The seed ye sow another reaps;
The wealth ye find another keeps;
The robes ye weave another wears;
The arms ye forge another bears.

Sow seed, -but let no tyrant reap;
Find wealth, -let no imposter heap;
Weave robes, -let not the idle wear;
Forge arms, in your defence to bear.

Shrink to your cellars, holes, and cells;
In halls ye deck another dwells.
Why shake the chains ye wrought? Ye see
The steel ye tempered glance on ye.

With plough and spade and hoe and loom,
Trace your grave, and build your tomb,
And weave your winding-sheet, till fair
England be your sepulchre!


Percy Bysshe Shelley
-------------------


Friday, February 21, 2014
 
kitchen window, early morning sun

through east facing kitchen window, early morning sun
mfd
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
 
I was leaning




I was leaning back in my swivel-chair, with my feet up on the desk, magazine open,
and I was enjoying this little essay. It talked about Schuyler's history of stays in psychiatric
hospitals. I liked the snippet that said Schuyler had been making poems for about thirty five
years before he gave his first public reading. By then he was 65. It took him that long to
overcome his extreme shyness enough to stand before an audience and read his poems.
According to the essay the queue for tickets stretched several deep around the block.
Imagine that – people queuing to hear a poet.

I can imagine that little piece of information comforting a few people who may write poems
and who may want at some time to be known for writing poems and who may want at some
time to stand in front of an audience that has queued to buy tickets to have the chance to listen
to these poems being read. I imagine some of them thinking that they too are terrified of public
speaking, or that they too haven't the faith in the poems that they have made to dream of reading
them aloud to strangers. And I imagine them looking at Schuyler's age and thinking that they are
only 27 years old or 34 or 51 or 63, or whatever they are, and so they still have time, and that
maybe they will get there in the end, by the time Schuyler did, and that they too will be writers.
And because of that they don't give up because they are too old, or not good enough, and because
little by little they think they may be finding the voice that is theirs, or all of the voices that are theirs,
or at least a voice that is casting off what was put into it in schools and opinion columns and other
venues.

I can imagine this because I remember reading Kerouac by the side of a road in Greece as the hills
turned purple at dusk, and then on Basel railway station, and then in a flat overlooking the beach
at Portreath, and I remember thinking that Kerouac was late getting into print and that I had still
got a few years to get to how old he'd been when On The Road was published and so by that age
the three pages that I had written and had spent years endlessly rewriting would have grown to a
great novel that would make all further novel-writing redundant.

When I passed the age that Kerouac had been and my piece had grown only to an endlessly revised
seven pages I thought of Henry Miller. He'd been even older. I would still be able to make it by the age
he was when he'd got his book out in Paris. And as I was thinking this I shifted my position a little in my
chair and I knocked a glass of water with my feet and it went over my keyboard. I didn't pay much
attention to it immediately because I was enjoying this article I was reading in this magazine, and I
was enjoying the thoughts it led me to. But then I started to get a tiny panic about what would happen
if I wanted to write something at the speed that I need a keyboard for, but I call someone on the phone
as I read and am assured a keyboard can be sent to me in a few hours. And so I continue to read about
how Schuyler returned from a European trip with his dream of being a short-story writer. In the same year
he suffered his first major episode of psychiatric illness and I read that over the next 35 or so years he
is hospitalised around ten times and then the article comes to what strikes me as a fine piece of
poetry, something Schuyler wrote, an elegy for Frank O'Hara,  Buried at Springs. The poem
starts

There is a hornet in the room
and one of us will have to go
out the window into the late
August midafternoon sun. I
won. There is a certain challenge
in being humane to hornets
but not much….

and at that particular sitting that is about as far as I got with the essay since those lines made me agitated,
as poems or journalism or fictions often will, and I had to get up and move about. For some reason
I decided I should get outside so I decided to take the binbag out to the bin. It was March and very 
sunny and my porch is brilliantly white, and with the intensity of sunlight that day bouncing off the walls it
felt like stepping onto a porch on Mykonos. On the waist-high ledge of the porch, by the left
supporting pillar, there was a wasp, dead, on its back. It shouldn't have been there. It was only March.
I couldn't fathom how a dead wasp could be there in March. I stood there, already agitated,
almost paralysed with thought about how that wasp could be there, dead on the wall of the porch.

I came back into the house, puzzled, and that feeling was in the back of my throat, that feeling of
agitation that comes when I think I'm going to have to try to explain something to myself by hitting
the keys of a keyboard and then reading afterwards what words that hitting has made, and from that
see if I can see what it is I was trying to explain to myself.

But the keyboard was fucked. From the water. Some of the keys worked, not all of them, but no
numbers, no commands, not always spaces, no tabs. I was in that frenzy again. I threw everything
out of a cupboard and got a hair-dryer out and plugged it in and with one finger typed and with the
other tried to dry out the keyboard. I got something down before the frenzy stopped and when the
frenzy stopped it let me stop. I could just stop and read what hitting the keyboard had done but I
don't suppose it explained much at all.



Mykeyboardis        fucked/betterthanitwas/the       numberswork
butstillfucked/    youcanseetheproblemhuh?/nospacebar/
soIhadhopedthati          wasntgoingtowanttowr        iteapoem/


untilsomeone’spromiseofasparekeyboardarrived/
soishouldneverhave started readingschuyler writing
aboutfranko’hara/
thebitaboutthe       hornetintheroom/whichihadn’t
readbefore/                  youseeitwas sunny heretoday andtheporch
outsidemyfrontdoorisbrilliantwhiteandonthis
brilliantwhiteporchwasa dead wasp-  on its  back   -
and ican’t for thel ife ofme figurewhereit came from





---
Thursday, January 30, 2014
 


Leotard (excerpt from Prison: a monologue)

collage: mfdelgado

------------------
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
 
Southernmost Point Guest House / Pretend Genius Press





























Southernmost Point Guest House
poetry from Pretend Genius Press

poets: Raewyn Alexander, Alex Barr, Lynn Blackadder, 
Sean Brijbasi, Susan Campbell, David Cooke, Tim Craven, 
Mikey Delgado, Vanessa Gebbie, Kim Göransson, 
James Browning Kepple, Charles Lambert, Laura Lee, 
Andrew Mayne, Geraldine Mills, Stephen Moran, Nuala Ní Chonchúir, 
Richard Peabody, Lynsey Rose, Judi Sutherland, Lee Webber. 


Buy here
and here

-----


Tuesday, January 14, 2014
 
Southernmost Point Guest House -- Poetry
Current reading - Southernmost Point Guest House 
Reheated Cabbage   --   Irvine Welsh















This collection brings together poetry by writers currently living
in America, Britain, Ireland, Italy and New Zealand. They have
little in common other than finding themselves here, in this book,
and in the early part of the 21st century, with something to say.
Contributors: Raewyn Alexander, Alex Barr, Lynn Blackadder,
Sean Brijbasi, Susan Campbell, David Cooke, Tim Craven,
Mikey Delgado, Vanessa Gebbie, Kim Göransson,
James Browning Kepple, Charles Lambert, Laura Lee,
Andrew Mayne, Geraldine Mills, Stephen Moran, Nuala Ní Chonchúir,
Richard Peabody, Lynsey Rose, Judi Sutherland, Lee Webber.
The title is taken from a poem by Alex Barr.
Best price here:
Also available from Amazon
---

Tuesday, December 10, 2013
 
Willesden Herald International Short Story Prize


Willesden Herald International Short Story Prize

Get your entries in, the deadline is approaching,
the trophy has been polished and shined and put on public display.
Closing date for entries, Friday 20th December 2013


This year's judge is the excellent Charles Lambert

How to enter






-----

Thursday, October 10, 2013
 


 Léo Ferré, Avec Le Temps
Tuesday, September 17, 2013
 
top 40 vilest
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nWzFYZYOIqs


chunkymark gives it to them in fine style

---
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
 
reading
reading


mfd
Sunday, May 12, 2013
 
Willesden Herald Short Stories 7
willesden herald short stories 7   
 ...

 Nutrition

The prize-winning stories from the Willesden Herald International Short Story competition.
Book available here



-------------------------
Thursday, April 25, 2013
 


Night Souk / Candy says feat Foy Migado

---
Sunday, April 21, 2013
 
Tears shining like slug trails

This week I witnessed the most pitiful sight imaginable, a true end-of-an-era moment.
As a gun carriage dragged a dead woman in a box covered with a decorated piece of
cotton through the cleared streets of London to a performance by a man dressed in the
garb of a witch in front of an assembly comprised of charlatans, chancers, and class warriors,
I saw a man burn his own poems.


Monday, April 15, 2013
 
amsterdam girl


from Prison: A Monologue
-----
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
 
Glenda Jackson remembers Thatcher's victims
Thank you, Glenda

---


Friday, March 29, 2013
 
Our Bog is Dood
`


Our Bog is Dood    --   Stevie Smith



Our Bog is dood, our Bog is dood,
They lisped in accents mild,
But when I asked them to explain
They grew a little wild.
How do you know your Bog is dood
My darling little child?

We know because we wish it so
This is enough, they cried,
And straight within each infant eye
Stood up the flame of pride,
And if you do not think it so
You shall be crucified.

Then tell me, darling little ones,
What’s dood, suppose Bog is?
Just what we think, the answer came,
Just what we think it is.
They bowed their heads. Our Bog is ours
And we are wholly his.

But when they raised them up again
They had forgotten me
Each one upon each other glared
In pride and misery
For what was dood, and what their Bog
They never could agree.

Oh sweet it was to leave them then,
And sweeter not to see,
And sweetest of all to walk alone
Beside the encroaching sea,
The sea that soon should drown them all,
That never yet drowned me.


----------------------
Thursday, March 21, 2013
 
Eulogy Fir Robin Cook
by   'Jason King'


Edinbury's mobbed the day
but awfay circumspect
for a Scottish statesman droaped doon deid
n it's time tae pay respects

Eh did ehs bit fir freedom,
Fir justice n fir truth
No like thon toss in Downing Street
The yin wi the hoor's mooth

Erse-lickin yon Yankee cunt
Oan the issue ay Iraq
And sendin oor lads to the front
N some widnae come back

But Cooky had his principle
His courage, gall and pluck
'Where ur they WMD's then?'
'Thir no thaire - git tae fuck.'

And comrades oan the benches
They were craven, timid swine
Thir erseholes in tight clenches
As they towed the perty line

The track his only respite
Fae the Middle East debate
The Tory press cried him a traitor
Wi thir Arab racial hate

Eh died up in the hills eh loved
Nae doaktirs on alert
But it was the liars doon in London toon
Thit broke that brave, brave hert.

--
from the story Kingdom of Fife from the collection
If You Liked School, You'll Love Work by  Irvine Welsh

----
Monday, March 18, 2013
 
booking hall, spalding
waiting room, spalding
mfd

---
Saturday, February 23, 2013
 
The Sidekick Woman


The Sidekick Woman (excerpt from Prison: A Monologue)
MF Delgado
 ----
Thursday, February 14, 2013
 
"....they'd kill us all to make a buck."

.
Fuck the Tories, fuck their class war, fuck their urban clearances.
Fuck all those who accept the trinkets and baubles of the Tory establishment.
Fuck all those who collaborate with them.
Fuck all those whose wealth and contentment is dependent on the poverty and misery of others. 




-------------

Song to the Men of England   -----------   PB Shelley


Men of England, wherefore plough
For the lords who lay ye low?
Wherefore weave with toil and care
The rich robes your tyrants wear?

Wherefore feed and clothe and save,
From the cradle to the grave,
Those ungrateful drones who would
Drain your sweat -nay, drink your blood?

Wherefore, Bees of England, forge
Many a weapon, chain, and scourge,
That these stingless drones may spoil
The forced produce of your toil?

Have ye leisure, comfort, calm,
Shelter, food, love's gentle balm?
Or what is it ye buy so dear
With your pain and with your fear?

The seed ye sow another reaps;
The wealth ye find another keeps;
The robes ye weave another wears;
The arms ye forge another bears.

Sow seed, -but let no tyrant reap;
Find wealth, -let no imposter heap;
Weave robes, -let not the idle wear;
Forge arms, in your defence to bear.

Shrink to your cellars, holes, and cells;
In halls ye deck another dwells.
Why shake the chains ye wrought? Ye see
The steel ye tempered glance on ye.

With plough and spade and hoe and loom,
Trace your grave, and build your tomb,
And weave your winding-sheet, till fair
England be your sepulchre!



-------------------
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
 

django  


django
--------
Saturday, January 26, 2013
 
Johnny Parent reads Civrene K. Brabt's taxi music  -----

text of the poem here


--------
Monday, November 12, 2012
 
`
Adam Hu Gesher and The Mizrachim play live
at The Center for Distressed Poets

`
Thursday, November 01, 2012
 
Driver, out

 and here,

and talking of here , something stunning


----------
Thursday, July 19, 2012
 
Imagined Poetries
MF Delgado




"Shooda won that Turner thing..."


---------
Sunday, May 06, 2012
 
café

café
mfd



...
Friday, April 27, 2012
 
....to bring us back to the truth, to a consciousness of what we need,
to those deep desires for justice and meaning, for respect and commonality,
for freedom from debt, from the monomaniacal ideology that creates
the plantation and calls it the world. 



.
Sunday, April 22, 2012
 
literature / art

Literature / Art
mfd

Buy Willesden Herald New Short Stories 6
.
Friday, April 13, 2012
 
Willesden Short Story Prize 2012: RESULTS by Steve Moran
(film recording from Katy Darby's You Tube channel)



The very affable and amiable Stephen Moran announces the winners of this
year's competition. Stephen is a great champion of the short story form and
through his founding of the competition, and via many other venues, he has
given great encouragement and support to many others, including myself.

Buy the book here
.
Thursday, March 01, 2012
 
Moving Poems

curated by Dave Bonta


.
Wednesday, February 01, 2012
 
...they tell me if I don’t show them how to link it up to the tv
they’re going to send my toes back to Danville in the box that
the highly durable, quality feel, sports attachments came in.




.
Saturday, January 28, 2012
 

doorway, rye, east sussex
mfd
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Friday, January 20, 2012
 
...and in the middle of his forehead
a tiny tiny blue bruise


..
Thursday, January 19, 2012
 
revealing the true beauty and genius of the Chicago footworking scene


.
Monday, January 16, 2012
 
café

café, golders hill
mfd



--------

Tuesday, December 27, 2011
 


mfd

----



`
Saturday, December 17, 2011
 
island christ

island christ
collage - mf delgado

---
Sunday, December 11, 2011
 
Works of art are of an infinite solitude, and no means of approach is so useless as criticism.

RM Rilke

----
Monday, December 05, 2011
 
sandy road, west heath

west heath
mfd


-------

Sunday, November 20, 2011
 
“Poets cry their hearts out. If they don’t they ain’t poets”

.......
Thursday, October 13, 2011
 
Dai K lives at the end of a valley.

..
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
 
Weldon Kees reading his poem 1926


---
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
 
reading

mfd


.
Sunday, August 07, 2011
 


at Ty Coch, Rhiwddolion - meadow flowers
mf delgado


--------
Thursday, July 28, 2011
 


mfd


----
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
 
The women of Kilkenny weep when the team loses
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
 


garden
mfd

--
Saturday, April 23, 2011
 
next reading

Willesden Herald
New Short Stories 5

For the price of 4 cups of London coffee, some longer lasting nourishment.
Buy via here

-------
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
 
short stories, roberto bolaño

short stories
mfd
Monday, April 04, 2011
 
reading

mf delgado

.

Sunday, January 02, 2011
 
Reviews here and here of the novel Life and War with Mikey Fatboy Delgado




.
Friday, December 17, 2010
 
Skanking to Captain Ska in the kettle.




via dvorakoa
-----

Original Captain Ska video and download links here
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BQFwxw57NBI

.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
 
Day X

Chant -

“Give us back our EMA, make the fucking bankers pay”

http://anticuts.org.uk/

.
Monday, November 22, 2010
 
leaning trees and man

leaning trees and man, golders hill
mfd


.
Friday, November 12, 2010
 
Liar Liar



hat tip - http://fatbuddha.blogspot.com/
Thursday, October 28, 2010
 
Gregory Isaacs, The Cool Ruler - R.I.P

Brixton Academy 1984

Front Door





----------

Slave Master

Everytime I hear the music and I make a dip........





(All 13 parts of this, from the late golden age of reggae,
are here in the uploads list - big up Betopoa09
http://www.youtube.com/user/BETOPOA09 )




.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
 
Now Available -
order from Laughing Mushroom Press,
or via Amazon
or any good bookshop.




Life and War with Mikey Fatboy Delgado






Before Hutton, before Butler, before Chilcot,
Mikey Fatboy Delgado was looking into the matter...
In the spring of 2003 the Iraq war is underway and
Mikey is almost all in favour of it. It makes for good
television and is improving his sex life. If only the BBC
would sort out those green pictures of fighting in the
dark he might even be prepared to cough up for a licence.
And if only corrupt policing and the amount that Blair grins
weren't so unsettling he would be able to relax and enjoy
watching the highlights of the fighting more.

***************

“Saddam has bitten the kids and pissed on
the mat and eaten our ganja and he won’t
stop fucking barking, so bosh, ta-ta, thanks
for all the fish, and fucking goodnight Irene.
Your services are no longer required, Saddam.
You are going up the motorway, pal.”



“You’re a nasty fucker. We’re nasty fuckers.
We’ve got the big battalions, you’ve got fuck
all. Out you go. Goodnight Irene.”



***********************

Saturday, August 21, 2010
 
dungeness

dungeness / August
mfd
Saturday, January 09, 2010
 
sledging at kenwood, saturday pm

mfd



---------

Wednesday, January 06, 2010
 
sledging, golders hill, 3pm

snowday


-----

Saturday, December 12, 2009
 
golders hill





.
Wednesday, December 02, 2009
 
malus (golden hornet?)

december

.

Thursday, November 12, 2009
 
sandy heath

to kenwood
Monday, November 09, 2009
 
the soft-dying day, golders hill

the soft-dying day

.


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