Life and War with Mikey Fatboy Delgado

Apr 17

That winter

That winter the cows would surround us
in the darkness, feeling like omens
against our fearful skins, fat tongues unrolling
to taste us, fermented straw-mist on their breaths
and ours, them coming through the thick mists
on our hillside, us across fields returning
to the cottage from drowning our terror.
Sometimes on no-moon nights the jigsaws
of their hides appeared so quietly from the dark
there was almost no time to scream and scream
as they bumped and pushed us from their peace.
Now they are long dead. Still their generations
do the same. Their children know us, harry us.


Apr 3
uptown localmfd

uptown local

Apr 1
berryman’s bookmfd


berryman’s book

Mar 31
start the day wellmfd

start the day well

Mar 30
charing cross road

charing cross road



Mar 29
kettle’s yard

kettle’s yard


Mar 27
authorauthor, rhiwddolionmfd


authorauthor, rhiwddolion


Mar 26
trinity lane, cambridge, march 18


trinity lane, cambridge, march 18

Mar 25

Questionnaire     —       Wendell Berry

1. How much poison are you willing
to eat for the success of the free
market and global trade? Please
name your preferred poisons.

2. For the sake of goodness, how much
evil are you willing to do?
Fill in the following blanks
with the names of your favorite
evils and acts of hatred.

3. What sacrifices are you prepared
to make for culture and civilization?
Please list the monuments, shrines,
and works of art you would
most willingly destroy

4. In the name of patriotism and
the flag, how much of our beloved
land are you willing to desecrate?
List in the following spaces
the mountains, rivers, towns, farms
you could most readily do without.

5. State briefly the ideas, ideals, or hopes,
the energy sources, the kinds of security;
for which you would kill a child.
Name, please, the children whom
you would be willing to kill.


Mar 22

A confession at line 16


Maybe that’s when you know you’re old,
when they turn to you when another kid
goes missing, and they turn to you
when the manhunt is on the tv news
and you see the hedges being beaten and
parted with long sticks and you look intently
at everyone you can see at the scene, and everyone
in all the photos they show of all the other scenes
in the missing girl’s or boy’s life, and maybe
there’s a fat guy or a tall guy or a woman smoking
a cigarette so hungrily, and people say to me
 “do you think they did it?”  and sometimes I do
or sometimes I don’t or someone else in the montage
of scenes appears more than once and even
on a still photo has an air about them
above and beyond that of mere pose.

The intensity of what it is to be human is somehow
evidently leaking from them, something
has become disabled, some protective function,
and despite the voluntary unspoken pact never
to speak of such things – for what good would it do –
medical treatments get sold. But all that aside,
that trait didn’t make someone guilty of visiting
 an ultimate brutality on another and anyway
my success rate from the armchair was pretty good,
I’d say. No character type is immune
 from exercising savagery. And with suspicions
 comes discussion, extrapolation, escalation.

 It could be that I felt weary because as I watched the sticks
 beating the bushes I just didn’t care who did it. I was doing
 my best not to think about it at all. I no longer wanted
to discuss stuff like this, no more than I wanted
 to make a case for Easton Ellis having surely had
to retreat into an intense interior life for quite some time
in order to bring back what Bateman liked to do in detail
and questions of whether this interior would have been
hugely sexual, or anyway masturbatory. I’m not a theorist.

But you, reader, know how this is. You have found yourself
talking about Neruda again. You are hoping by the end
she will love If You Forget Me but know too that she
will forget you and you will forget her.
You will heal of each other and recede
to scar tissue which is fine and pale and still
even after the sun. No one has a body
like hers, her map of psychic wounds. Crossed swords
everywhere, the arrowheads to the heart, the broken snapped
arrow shafts like porcupine spears. She may know
you are plotting again when  you
hear your own voice asking her if
she’s read him, that man, Neruda.

 We’ve all done it, surely, lived these odes
where the thing is one day, two things.
I forgot where I lived, even the name of the town.
Maybe that’s when you know you’re old,
even when they are looking for missing people,
even when she rang and talked about her boyfriend,
even when there were cities I wanted to see
for some sort of beauty I imagined existed there,
even when those intelligent guessers say that they
have discovered the start of something,
even with my knuckles white on the steering wheel,
I would go to the woods and stand naked and still
among the trees, hoping someone would see me

Eufemiano Delgado Brakes.

Oct 10

Avec le temps….

Apr 25


night souk /candy says feat Foy Migado, vocalisms, murmurs, electric, strings

Apr 13

Apr 10

Margaret on the Guillotine

25 years later…Glenda Jackson remembers some of Thatcher’s domestic victims


Mar 29

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.



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