Wise Street Rap Vs. Gentle Rhyme
By Jonoboyle
Inspired by Joely.
Fired by unethical industry and politics.
For Gaia and my poor children.
Published by The Multicolour Press London
First Edition
ISBN 13: 978-1-910082-02-7 (PDF edition)
© JonoBoyle 2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission
from this author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts may be used, provided that full and clear credit is
given to JonoBoyle 2013, with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.
Cover by Aznamusnart Ideealpascolo
Books and Verses:
I: Broken Kerbs
Graffiti-d
Private Sector Jobs
Just Say No To Capitalist Pitfalls
Young Lad
Warning To Young Brian
Pére Lachaise
Fight A Bad Day
In my mirror
Analogies for life
II: Systemic Nature
Hum Like The Earth Ft Schumann Resonance (7.83Hz)
She's So Subtle
Apollo With Me, On A Day Off In July
Change So Sudden
A Chilly Spring
This Year's Daffs
Irish Embroidery
Some Help With Ageing
III: Fired
Shared Accommodation
Passing Charlton Village: The Woolwich Road, Summer 2013
The Fall Of Our Hero
Tra To My First Muse
Day Two
National Indoctrination
English Culture
A Heresy
IV: Cradling Hope
Is that a letter?
Yang and Yin
The Stranger
Some Strangers Secret
Debbie and My First Love
Loving Insecurity
My Long Apology
La Benediction de Nuit
The author
I: Broken Kerbs
Private Sector Jobs
Try being usual, okay if you are thick.
Follow managers and fools over their candle-light sticks:
Make components for bombs?
Or fat-fast burgers?
Clean up streets, form junk, put acid on young gums?
Convince the bent widow about saving to die?
Fire fuels fast, and throw them away-able?
Consume choice with chemicals like, uncontrollable?
O volatile industrial please us employ...
...waste little expenditures for us to enjoy!
Young Lad
When the one you love; your loved one,
coos to you with soft smac sounds;
his thoughts free amid comfy concerns;
skitting momentary directions towards some sun.
You will gently recoil and hug your replies.
You will touch the ceiling with both eyes.
You will wonder of a tomorrow, without whys.
You will hope, beyond belief, for soft miracles.
~~~~~
II: Systemic Nature
She's So Subtle
So Subtle she weaves, and spins her domagne.
Fine strands strung together, for her to contain.
She scrabbles in circles, to spell out her name.
She catches her meal, and begins her short reign.
Scurrying along silk strings, such revival!
Yesterday's synthesis, was rain-soaked liable!
Her spiralling strands spell out her survival!
This graceful design, her attempt has no rival!
So Subtle, she's strong, and dreams just to sit,
in stillness and warmth, whilst waiting for the flit,
of a hapless, or honeyed, fly of no wit,
that shortly shall stop - beating its bit.
Why, Subtle she binds her lunch by the feet
This majesty, her art, solely for to eat!
A thousand strings shining silver - so neat.
Surrounding her shape, trap kaleidoscopic meat.
Some Help With Ageing
It’s a shame as you flop back so very tired,
with worry that you no longer feel inspired;
because your happy grace and visionary charms,
should assure you that you’re still as admired
as you first held the world between two tender palms.
None can slow the spinning of unrelenting spheres,
or control the passing of so many short years;
but sweetness and kind shall adorn the soft place,
that smiles with world wisdom and bids off young fears such homely a beauty will ever caress your pure face
~~~~~
III: Fired
Shared Accommodation
‘Oi keep it down mate!
I got work tomorrow an' the hour's late;
I've been tidying the house all day,
'cos of your stinking DNA.
Clean up your hair and toothpaste spit,
and wipe the bowl after you shit.
Remember if you respect yourself
then you will the others' health.
I don’t want your cold sores
or marks off your dirty paws,
all over my bubbly bath; please
cover that gob before you cough!
I dare not mention the kitchen mess
that causes us so much stress,
your food splashes and stale crumbs,
left behind while you scratch your bum.
I’ll see you tomorrow with a scowl of a face
nothing against your breed or your race.
Its just that we are sick of this kind
of selfishness and cynical mind.’
Passing Charlton Village: The Woolwich Road, Summer 2013.
Around you today lie crimson wreaths.
Red on grey. Rain, rekindling my grief.
No cousin, my brothers, but a generation' hand,
I offer, as you hide behind wet bags of sand.
My balmy palm, cross time; with wonder.
This year a comrade fell, just yonder;
Your plights, your lives were not taken in vain;
We give thanks that we can hurry safe in the rain.
I reflect in this minute, to pass you by,
that scurrying to work, we all wonder, why?
That statue of remorse stretches your dignities tall.
As we skirt lych-fountain, St Luke’s' tower and wall.
Well, next summer will beckon the centenary year,
for poor man's plight, will we shed many a tear,
for the dawning of your inglorious destruction?
So king's empires could boast proud mal - faction.
~~~~~
IV: Cradling Hope
Some Strangers Secret
Hallo again, how do you do?
I also knew so little about you,
because, too trembling to ask
I'd stand stock still, when you passed,
shimmering, and painting my view.
As uncommon blank thoughts go,
mine went here to; and fro';
around such colours, exquisitely drawn,
on that varied light of your form.
Still, within me, words wouldn't flow.
So, unrelenting, determinedly, I went
to challenge my life so hell bent,
on thinking sideways with swirls
inspired by this pattern, of the girl
whose aura some heaven had sent.
Debbie and My First Love
We spoke, today the day before Mum’s day,
so I wrote for you this; this homage, this epitaph, it’s just a bit like our mixed up legends.
Tonight, I tried to eat with the beat, but just choked up with grief
as Debbie was crying in unison, her inner city blues,
I was 9 maybe 10, alone, afraid again.
I was the youngest back then. Big sisters were fighting;
there were bad boys and fiends, keeping my poor brother aloof;
they were untouchable, not lovable.
All drinking, some were stoned; it seemed,
they just jest, and that all seriousness was lost,
to my Mum they were pests.
So depressed, she struggled, sadly, and strong,
while remembering the Dad who we’d lost; was Mum.
Marie, your young Mum had a young son; and a baby at breast, and
she'd moved in and set up with Basil - a more normal nest.
I liked it, so sunny, and the best was your Mum, so funky and young;
the pictures were cool, all colours with rock stars, and the furnish was hip.
The troubles before were punks;
all pins and drunks, they had made sure the first place
was a horrible mess. Your Nan was convinced the blame lay with Dawn.
Trailer like trash and your Mum's young son - was well lost,
and became a hell of a pain, dangerous to himself
and to me, he was; the poor thing.
Yet my Mum and my sister’s, Basil and that,
at times would sit down, to cuddle the baby and chat .
I was taught to sit calm to feed him, I did.
The hush, it was strange, for a few hours at least,
they all had shut up and talked softly again;
like being a strong family, it seemed.
Heaven for me, was Marie, your mums' flat,
with Basil, son and baby, and that.
It was funny how your Mum would skit; so scared of mine, my Mum, that is;
but she found that if she talked with me for a bit,
about life and what’s it, that my Mum,
your Nan, would just sit; and not be such a crit’.
Alone all I was, at 9 maybe 10, just Debbie for a friend,
all blond like me sis’, all caring and smiles;
and too cheeky for words.
Her looks were like…wow. Both they were 'phew'.
Debbie’s wise words cried through red lips, sang out dreamily and free,
and about other things, so I did dream; it was good,
it was like being with me sis’, in the flat that was sunny, and hip,
to a 9 or 10 year old lad, she was all that there was,
a role idyll, no model; and twisted, just a bit.
~~~~~
The author
I am inspired by all things creative; moreover literary, but above all historical, and more
precisely the wisdom dug from the traditions of ancient Greece, Rome, and other remarkable
civilisations which laid the foundations for our modern world. I graduated from Keele
University with Classical Studies and History B.A. (hons.), in 2000. I am a strong believer in
the Gaia Hypothesis of Professor James Lovelock. I have had many occupations, none of
which I have truly loved.
I shall release my second work: Fables of Freedom, in early 2014. This is a series of short
stories to entertain and inform, they are the basis of my life's philosophies and interests. They
are personal accounts of the years I spent developing as a young man; after discovering to my
dismay that my apprenticeship at 17 had me assist in manufacturing components for an
unnecessary armament' industry. I found this to be firmly against all I believed in. It has
galvanised a life of political and social interaction, with the desire to learn and to pass on
knowledge and wisdom, indeed, now-days, to a youth bedazzled by technology, mind
controlling advertising, and undefined politics. Like any new generation you are struggling for
acceptance and direction. After these works I shall, happily, concentrate on my life's ambition
of penning dramatic and historical novels.