Dylan Thomas, drunk-*** poet,
uncorked nouns, imbibed the verb
downed six pints and thought about it
sitting unsteadily on the curb:

“Winds of word unleashed in drink
will fill to the full my poem’s sails…
though it may totter on the brink,
my drunken boat defies the gales.”

Floating on wreckage to distant shores,
our ***** bard beheld the deep
where whales spout forth their lyric stores
while the inebriate muses weep.

This postwar lush and lyrical fad,
was the biggest pint in the bar called Wales.
While not the worst, his verse was bad…
(but better after seven ales).

There are some days
When one fatal heart-wrenching
Rejection can cascade into a torrent
Of gut-punching, sick-inducing barrages of failure.
One rejection after another for one long week
Of un...something misery.

The first, well, I saw it coming.
There was a heavy inevitability about it in the air
Like the thick sweat before a summer storm.
Yet, despite this, almost foreknowledge,
My heart still lies in shattered pieces,
My head awash with regret, self-loathing,
And a deep inexplicable sadness.
Swiss chocolate - she was meaningless,
Surely soon forgettable,
But in that moment ever so sweet...
And the sight of her would brighten up my day.

The second was a reminder of my "situation" -
That constant battle between our demons and our angels,
The latter of whom have mostly hung themselves by this stage,
Or drowned themselves in vats of ciders,
Awaiting judgement or an epiphany.
Maybe they were waiting for a train,
And the demons simply gave a firm push,
Or whispered sweet infinities into your ears
As they bristled against the breeze atop a tall building.

The third was another, somewhat self-inflicted, destruction.
Less a rejection, and more an ultimatum:
"Sort your ******* life out Thomas
Because you're ruining hers tall, dark, and handsomely."
- That's not what she said, but it stung,
More or less, with the same venom,
Whilst maintaining that same tinge of flirtatious tone.
Somehow I stumbled into this mess without malicious intent -
Just a stupid little boy with a box of matches,
And a canister of petrol, and a blissful unawareness
Of the inevitable inferno.
Undoubtedly, the demons are laughing
At all the tears that will surely come.

The fourth was particularly unfortunate.
In classic "Thomas" style my first thoughts were to hit restart.
I wonder if all Thomas' are arseholes?
I mean obviously Edison was, and no doubt
There was malice behind Thomas the Tank Engine's smug grin,
But I wonder if it is a scientific certainty, or just dumb luck?
Needless to say I packed my bags in my head
And applied for the trabajo.
New start. New beginning. Old cliché.
And inevitable rejection -
One I didn't see due to my
Rebounded energy to avoid failure.
The repetitive nature of life's cycle is somewhat nauseating.
What kind of sadist designed this ride?
I wonder if his name was Thomas too?
Ah well, I've nothing better to do. "Another go, please."

And Death Shall Have No Dominion
And death shall have no dominion.
Dead mean naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
Under the windings of the sea
They lying long shall not die windily;
Twisting on racks when sinews give way,
Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;
Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
Split all ends up they shan't crack;
And death shall have no dominion.
And Death Shall Have No Dominion


And death shall have no dominion.
No more may gulls cry at their ears
Or waves break loud on the seashores;
Where blew a flower may a flower no more
Lift its head to the blows of the rain;
Through they be mad and dead as nails,
Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,
And death shall have no dominion.

Old gentle vague dark sea
stars uncoffined above
my drummer grave
blind of age,
meet Mr. Numb Feelgood
he is dying - chasing smoke,  
following a blind parade
wanderin’ anywhere forked like Yes
at every dusty, homely, strange-eyed landmark
until driven deep down dead

Dear old diamonds,
my sleepy southern song spell fades ,
my past was a young clown
dancing, swingin' my magic heels
raging and cursing death’s grip on time

Now, I feel that morning’s fierce burn
vanishing into a tambourine memory
and I’m caught madly dreaming
against the ragged anywhere
to return green tomorrow

Unraveling
Like a thread from my sweater got caught in a door a few city blocks back
And I can't relax
Everything I've ever built is about to come crashing down
Threads of deceit into a woven tapestry that depicts me as someone other than who I am
A man I've never met yet
And it sends shivers down my spine

Objects in life they call to me, To tell their story that eyes can’t see. Feelings too, ooh how the heart bleed, A long silent travel of a tumble ****. Treasures and trinkets, Gods creatures and land, When pen meet paper there’s never a plan. Shall I shock, or keep safe, with words of charm, Be political, maybe cynical to all those that harm. Bring some light to a soul, Too dim to let go. Or inspire a dream with a promise to uphold, Or an adventure…exciting With all the things that unfold. All the time they scream At poor ole me, To be the first acknowledged By these ABC’s. In Ink, lead or computer screen.

By: Anthony BamBam!! Thomas aka God’s Monsta -

Said The Raven
To The Raven
Which Raven are you?


I said The Raven
Am The Raven
Of Samuel Taylor Coleridge.


And I said The Raven
Am The Raven
Of Edgar Allan Poe.


Apparently there's a rave on -
Shall we go?


Yes - let us go then you and I
As the evening is spread out
Against the sky.


But not like a patient
Etherised upon a table.


Let us like Thunderbirds
Not gentle go into this dark night.


So dressed in sable
White gloves
And whistles
They went on their way -
Not looking forward
To conversations about
Michelangelo at all.


For as we all know
Old age should rave and burn
At close of day.
And not just fizzle out.


More big shout...........................................


And rave until you fall.

I wonder if when Thomas Jefferson scrawled out the Declaration he could see the world that I have come to know.

I wonder if he would understand the nation that would blossom from under his inflammatory words.

Would he know that the world would never be so simple as black and white if only because a racial lawsuit might come from it?

Would he see the world burn up in a digital fire that no nostalgia would ever be able to quench?

Would he know the society that would simultaneously spew rantings of "You're special" and "You are never going to be right enough to live here"?

How about that war that taught the people that it's okay to hate those who fight so that you can love another day?

Or even the world that has severed so deeply within its own walls that you can only hold on to you hearts and hope that might not be severed too?

I wonder what this man could have been declaring so seriously that he would send men to war for it, just to have the papers he and his dear friends were writing on be the shield that politicians might use to prevent their fallout.

Freedom is not objective. And Subjectively speaking, this freedom we've been given comes with about ten thousand terms and conditions that none of us are going to read anyway because this is Amurica and we don't do that here.