There once was a scientist named Kelly Whose name was made famous quite quickly He spoke on the radio About WMDs, you know But then he was found dead in on a hilly

In childhood's realm, young Barrymore did dwell, A world apart, where trials and hardships swelled. No tender hands to guide him on life's path, Alone he wandered, facing nature's wrath. With naught but strength and grit as his allies, He forged ahead beneath the open skies. No sheltered haven, no familial care, Yet in his heart, a fire burned, aware. Through solitary hours, his spirit grew, A resilient bloom, steadfast and true. He learned to navigate life's turbulent tide, As independence became his faithful guide. In iambic pentameter's rhythmic sway, The tale of Barrymore's youth takes its play. A child untamed, but with a noble flame, He braved the storms, each challenge he overcame. Though trials marked his path in early years, His spirit soared above all doubts and fears. In each footfall, a tale of strength untold, A young soul destined to break the mold. So let us ponder, in poetic rhyme, The resilience of Barrymore's early time. A child of fortitude, his own beacon bright, Who forged a path, defying starless night.

In the spotlight's gaze, Michael Barrymore stood, A figure of laughter, a king of the hood. With charm and wit, he graced the TV screen, A maestro of entertainment, a living dream. His laughter contagious, a gift he shared, A jester of joy, he truly cared. From game shows to variety, his talents unfurled, Delighting audiences, across the wide world. But shadows cast their veil on his life, As troubles emerged, piercing like a knife. Adversity struck, tarnishing his name, A fall from grace, a tarnished flame. Yet through it all, a flicker remains, A man of resilience, enduring the strains. For in his heart, redemption may reside, A chance for renewal, a rising tide. Let us remember the laughter he brought, The moments of mirth, the battles fought. For within every soul, there lies a tale, Of triumph and struggle, of strength that won't fail. So, let us reflect on Michael's journey untold, With empathy and compassion, let our hearts unfold. For amidst the highs and lows that he's seen, Michael Barrymore, a complex human being.

So it goes, dear listener, that among the myriad of things that sets man apart from his animal counterparts is the gift of gab and the mastery of language. To be a man is to be a creature of speech and discourse. The art of conversation holds a significant role in our lives. It can ease our sorrows and afflictions, amplify our delights and jubilations, and enhance our understanding of the world. Indeed, conversation is a powerful tool that allows us to convey our thoughts, emotions, and experiences with great significance. It is a valuable vehicle that propels us forward on our journey of self-discovery and communal growth.

Garth meets a priest. Public transport drama. Garth and his friend have a difference of opinion. Exploring the SUBconscious Other things

Your face did not rot like the others—the co-pilot,    for example, I saw him yesterday. His face is corn- mush: his wife and daughter,    the poor ignorant people, stare as if he will compose soon. He was more wronged than Job.    But your face did not rot like the others—it grew dark, and hard like ebony; the features progressed in their distinction. If I could cajole you to come back for an evening,    down from your compulsive orbiting, I would touch you,    read your face as Dallas,    your hoodlum gunner, now, with the blistered eyes, reads    his braille editions. I would touch your face as a disinterested scholar touches an original page.    However frightening, I would    discover you, and I would not turn you in; I would not make    you face your wife, or Dallas,    or the co-pilot, Jim. You could return to your crazy    orbiting, and I would not try    to fully understand what it means to you. All I know    is this: when I see you,    as I have seen you at least once every year of my life,    spin across the wilds of the sky    like a tiny, African god, I feel dead. I feel as if I were    the residue of a stranger’s life,    that I should pursue you. My head cocked toward the sky,    I cannot get off the ground,    and, you, passing over again, fast, perfect, and unwilling    to tell me that you are doing    well, or that it was mistake that placed you in that world, and me in this; or that misfortune    placed these worlds in us.

Love me, use me, Never let me go. Quench this unbearable thirst, this fire in my soul. ... Use me, hate me, ravage me, destroy me, As long as in the end you promise to hold me in your arms and love me. ... Grab my neck and pull my hair only keens and moans will be gotten from there. ... Stroke me like a harp, pluck me like a live wire string. Tighten me up, and snap me so I scream. ... Fill me, tempt me, push me, pull me. Throw me to the bed and make me sing ... Hold me down and shatter me, Pick me apart, and rebuild me made just for you. ... You met me a cracked photo frame empty and useless, Now fixed, filled full with only your image. ... Please don't leave me I promise to obey! Hold me apart so my pieces don't stray, Here in you arms Sir forever I will stay.

The jolt that comes to bones inside a tumbled streetcar   is what the painter considers as she strokes her- self into story. There is less to the jolt that   comes as he shuts his eyes before the monitor, save   what he imagines—a lightning bolt, a god tapping the shoulder. He imagines the sky swelling   with ceiling fans or the guano of extinct birds,   a jolt riding from his shoulder blades to his eyelids, dropping with roller   coaster clacks to his fingers. Here, he dreams of Frida   Kahlo. Here, he says, let me spread my flesh out like a table linen, let my bones be silver that touches,   making, again, that clack. My skull will be a glass,   set properly, I have class enough. What jolt is it to chew over class, his body set before him as   a reader sips (perhaps) a glass of something heady? We give   books spines, we break them. The table will have its legs, its head. The body is upon us. Does the table have   a stomach? Is it simply there to bear our hunger   without its own, like a eunuch bathing a stripper? What is the poet without eyes or ears—reading, listening? He is   a platform—a place to set, that to set it with. And if this is   all, what will he do when the reader finishes a glass, rises from the poet’s head, and passes   into the city? Covered with a linen, he is waiting for   something to spill, perhaps a girl in Mexico rolling her ankle in a street-   car.  

I took my life and threw it on the skip,Reckoning the next-door neighbours wouldn’t mindIf my life hitched a lift to the council tipWith their dry rot and rubble. What you find With skips is – the whole community joins in.Old mattresses appear, doors kind of driftAlong with all that won’t fit in the binAnd what the bin-men can’t be fished to shift. I threw away my life, and there it layAnd grew quite sodden. `What a dreadful shame,’Clucked some old bag and sucked her teeth: ‘The wayThe young these days … no values … me, I blame…’ But I blamed no one. Quality controlHad loused it up, and that was that.‘Nough said. I couldn’t stick at home. I took a strollAnd passed the skip, and left my life for dead. Without my life, the beer was just as foul,The landlord still as filthy as his wife,The chicken in the basket was an owl,And no one said: `Ee, Jim-lad, whur’s thee life?’ Well, I got back that night the worse for wear,But still just capable of single vision ;Looked in the skip; my life – it wasn’t there!Some bugger’d nicked it – without my permission. Okay, so I got angry and beganTo shout, and woke the street. Okay. Okay!And I was sick all down the neighbour’s van.And I disgraced myself on the par-kay. And then … you know how if you’ve had a fewYou’ll wake at dawn, all healthy, like sea breezes,Raring to go, and thinking: `Clever you!You’ve got away with it.’ And then, oh Jesus, It hits you. Well, that morning, just at sixI woke, got up and looked down at the skip.There lay my life, still sodden, on the bricks;There lay my poor old life, arse over tip. Or was it mine? Still dressed, I went downstairsAnd took a long cool look. The truth was dawning.Someone had just exchanged my life for theirs.Poor fool, I thought – I should have left a warning. Some bastard saw my life and thought it nicerThan what he had. Yet what he’d had seemed fine.He’d never caught his fingers in the slicerThe way I’d managed in that life of mine. His life lay glistening in the rain, neglected,Yet still a decent, an authentic life.Some people I can think of, I reflectedWould take that thing as soon as you’d say Knife. It seemed a shame to miss a chance like that.I brought the life in, dried it by the stove.It looked so fetching, stretched out on the mat.I tried it on. It fitted, like a glove. And now, when some local bat drops off the twigAnd new folk take the house, and pull up floorsAnd knock down walls and hire some kind of bigContainer (say, a skip) for their old doors, I’ll watch it like a hawk, and every dayI’ll make at least – oh – half a dozen trips.I’ve furnished an existence in that way.You’d not believe the things you find on skips

Breaktime, I'll write something for you Breakfast or lunch, I think of you Birds outside the window, chirp at me Birds of the same feather, follow me Be it short or long, poem I write you Braided or craze, your hair, I describe you Below or over my head I scribble for you Beaten or scrambled egg, I'll fry for you Better late than never Bread or butter I will serve you ever Brevity in my poems I pen so tender Bending or standing, I'll never surrender Bright or dim lights will aid my bleary eyes Blunder or sentimental, my heart for you never die