Saturday 26 February 2011

Panhandle: extract from Chapter 9 of MakerMeeter

extract from MakerMeeter; GKnapton

Panhandle

Pan was a bin dipper.

He loved watching old films about the California Gold Rush of 1849 where three generations of entire families upped sticks and trekked for days across the American plains, leaving everything behind. A sign hung on the outside of the door of the old house simply read "Gone west".

Those guys were able to simply re-write their lives from the bottom up. Down to every last detail. No fear. As brave as children, only adults.

Men, women and children would shovel dirt out of the ground onto a sieve pan and then finger through it for the prize that made it all worthwhile. It was a feast or famine game. You either struck gold or starved to death.

Pan liked the images of those early slag heaps. The residue of panning for gold.

When the gold ran out the temptation just ran on and on. Afterall, no one knew it had run out. They didn't have the technology we possess today. The only way you knew the gold had gone was to keep panning.

When they were sure the area was "dry" they'd pick a new spot and start all over. And years later, decades later, ever since, new jacks have been panning for glory in vain.

The vainglory of a shiny metal never seemed so apparent.

Pan loved the story of the panners.

A hundred and fifty years later a guy from England went to Cally to prospect. Everyone was in stitches. Ridiculing him. Like, yeah you're really gonna strike it lucky when the whole world and his mum have come up dry ever since those Wild West boys downed tools and beat a hasty retreat back to civilisation all those years ago.

There's no where left to prospect!

But this guy had a plan. You see, everyone prior had been panning with their hands, not with their heads.

He quickly came back laden with gold. He didn't even have to work too hard to reach it. Literally a millionaire a hundred times over, virtually over night.

See, nobody thought to pan the slag heaps of the first arrivals. Until now. It turns out that in times of plenty, we throw away an awful lot of good stuff. Stuff which, in harder times, wouldn't ever be thrown out in the first place. That goes for life in general not just gold prospectors.

This new guy's panning slag and coming up trumps. All you need is the brains and the audacity. Think first, go searching second. It seems everyone else forgot the first step and just went searching blind. But as Pan often said "there's none so blind as the man that will not see".

In this case, no one saw the sheer value in the rubbish of their predecessors. Go dipping your fingers through the rubbish of your contemporaries and you'll look crazy. You may even be a little crazy. Yet go dipping through the bins of yesteryear and you're a clever man. You're an entrepreneur of distinction.

Pan liked this learning. He liked it a lot.

He got to thinking, and soon realised that today's gold is information. Dirt. And that with dirt, the time rule doesn't apply. But the other parallels with Cally are good. For example, people throw out "gold" in times of plenty. At other times, all that gets chucked is garbage.

Now, Pan gets to thinking a little more. The way he sees it, the only people who live permanently in the good times are the rich and famous. So you can bet that the rich and famous are always creating slag heaps of significant value. Or you might say, whereas the average guys bin is just full of rubbish, the bins of the rich and famous will be full of dirt. And dirt is gold, since gold is dirt, in today's parlance.

Pan was a bin dipper. And I bet when you read that sentence right now you're feeling entirely different about Pan than when you read that sentence at the top of this chapter.

You see, that's what I like to call "perception deficit". There's a country mile between the way you see things and the way things are.

And that's just the way things are.

Thursday 24 February 2011

Whilst Walking Through the Fields in May


Whilst walking through the fields in May

The fields of misty morning dew

I saw the sunlight paint the sky

A light and lazy pastel blue

I heard the birds, the singing birds

Break out in flight across the dawn

Above the trees all gold and green

Just as the day began to yawn



I heard the paddle-patted splash of Oxford city boating crew

I heard the chimes of village church bells

Drowning under chimes anew

I saw the mist, the sinking mist

Upon the meadows, rich and deep

I spied the puff of clouds

Through which the morning heat began to seep



I felt the breeze, the dancing breeze

Give early temperance to the balm

I let the hazy spires beyond

Envelop me in summer calm

I heard the din, the hollow din

of morning shoppers leaving cars

I saw men fishing on the banks

With boxes, rods and open jars



I walked from dawn right through 'til dusk

Ten miles a stretch, not looking back

A pen, a camera, flask and fruit

A copy of Schott's Almanac

At last the sun fell through the skies

My vision stuttered to a creep

And for my prize, the longing sighs

I heard the fields fall asleep



G Knapton

(Copyright)

Tuesday 22 February 2011

Love Songs in Age


I'm a child
I'm a boy
I'm a grown-ups toy
I'm a thing to be seen, never heard

I'm a school-yard bully
I'm Mulder to your Scully
I'm a homework star
I'm a nerd

I'm a teenage terror
I'm a syntax error
I'm a last minute winner
I'm a fan

I'm a library book wizard
I'm a north coast blizzard
I'm an adolescent half-grown man

I'm a gent
I'm a lover
I am weak, dear brother
I'm a stand-up comic
I'm free

I'm wrong when I am right
I'm a night club fight
I'm whoever in the world I wanna be

Book pages flutter
I'm the bread for your butter
I'm a bank of knowledge
I'm a sage

I'm the truth
Unwise
I'm the fire in my eyes
I'm me, according to my age

I'm a rapper
I'm a beast
I'm a big meat feast
I'm the PTO footer on your page

My mistakes are my mud
But I'm bad turned good
I'm the sum of all my wisdom times age

I'm a thorn to your thistle
You'll jump when I whistle
To the men in the middle
I'm the chief

I'm mental when I'm mean
I'm the ghost in the machine
I'm a chav
I'm a runner
I'm a thief

I'm Leeds
I'm Manc
I'm a septic tank
I'm a gay white nigger
I'm a fly

On the wall of your life
I'm a real house-wife
I'm my days on the planet gone by

I'm solid
I'm a rock
I'm a loud ticking clock
I'm the truth in the mirror
I am rage

I'm a saint
I'm a sinner
I'm a Booker prize winner
I'm the story, according to my age

I am old
I am weak
Now I think before I speak
I'm a bottle of vintage wine

I'm a dream
I'm a vision
I'm a head-on collision
Driving slowly down the sands of time

I'm dying in my sleep
I'm the castle and the keep
I'm no longer the big man on the stage

I have been what I have been
According to my scene
And according, forever, to my age


gknapton

Monday 21 February 2011

Extract from the Good Book

Jeremiah 5:21-25

21 Hear this, you foolish and senseless people,
who have eyes but do not see,
who have ears but do not hear:
22 Should you not fear me?
Should you not tremble in my presence?
I made the sand a boundary for the sea,
an everlasting barrier it cannot cross.
The waves may roll, but they cannot prevail;
they may roar, but they cannot cross it.
23 But these people have stubborn and rebellious hearts;
they have turned aside and gone away.
24 They do not say to themselves,
‘Let us fear the LORD our God,
who gives autumn and spring rains in season,
who assures us of the regular weeks of harvest.’
25 Your wrongdoings have kept these away;
your sins have deprived you of good.

Tuesday 15 February 2011

Lessons In Money Get Taught

Things that are good for the soul come freely
Things that are bad get bought
Lessons in life are incremental
Lessons in money get taught

Throw-away wealth gets stacked up hourly
Valuable trust takes time
Get hooked on a life of hard endeavour
Chill out on a life of crime

Silly little things are valued highly
Stuff that you covet is not
How many times you get what you want
Comes down to the decimal dot

Trodden-on poor get ripped off royally
Decadent rich get paid
Pretty young girls get confidence crises
Ugly old men get laid

Time flies by for the people who need more
Life stands still for the bored
Sensible men die young from cancer
Old men live by the sword

Day follows night and the world keeps spinning
It’s a non-stop repetitive blast
It doesn’t make sense
Don’t lose
Keep winning
Just get all your lessons in fast

Monday 14 February 2011

Take Me To The Marble Street Cut


from the Spit Mancunia collection

.........

by the born-again tellers and the charity sellers

in the midst of the retail throng

by the water-fight ferals

and the chavs, jons and beryls

to the beat of the brass band gong


there's a dainty little nook

you can spot it if you look

tucked in by the ATM queues

betwixt stores multi-decker

there's an alley way Mecca

running west from the Tram Stop News


I don't think I'm being silly

looking down on Piccadilly

as a circus full of mis-fits en masse

and it goes without saying

it's a price worth paying

to escape off down the Marble Street pass


where the dole queue wizards eye the

sales-desk lizards

and silence feels a light-year hence

when the benefits mullahs

are spouting as much bull as ever

oh for a break in the fence!



with the bags getting heavy

now the shops have nicked their levy

and my wallet makes the options slam shut

it's a joy

it's a blessing

like a low-cal dressing

oh take me to the Marble Street cut


roll up! roll over

kill me now

make it over

these mall-stretch maggots turn my gut

this shopping lark is wrecked

my kingdom to eject

my kingdom for the Marble Street cut


it's oh so un-British

when the Stretford skittish

and the Moss Side mothers are afoot

and I'm praying on high

to the big man in the sky

"Lord, deliver me to Marble Street cut"


what can one feel but derision

for this Arndale "vision"

that turns people into eaters

and rash ?

I just take it on the chin

this bargain base bin

is material acquisition-soaked trash


I would miss it should I blink

and yet within a wink

I am lost to the tabloid splut

and there's no one else around

on this tranquil hallowed ground

in the freedom of the Marble Street cut


don't serve shop porridge

when a little local knowledge

will jolt you from the cattle-mart rut

take heed

take your time

never waste away in line

just take off down the Marble Street cut


gknapton
copyright

Saturday 5 February 2011

texted mobile rapping - a log

texted mobile rapping between Ross Purchase & Gary Knapton in 2011: turned-based word association and singles;


I saw Quentin Tarantino read a copy of the Beano

in a Manchester casino with his chips on number three

I said “Comics come in handy

I myself prefer the Dandy

It’s a cracking little fly swat and can also kill a bee”.


Tarantino lost his chips and so was gouging salsa dips

that had been spiked with Esso four star from a well in Aberdeen once it got

smuggled in as cargo by a speeding Greta Garbo

and the Dangermouse voice-over guy who fancies Gary Breen


Gary Breen was doubled over in a crack house down in Dover

after four long lines of charlie and a big bowl of ice cream

R2D2’s squeaking catalized his ears to leaking

as he sped off on his Harley like his hero Barry Sheen

…...........


A Jew from Nova Scotia ate some meat that wasn’t Kosher

so he dipped his face in razor blades and severed half his tongue

then took a direct flight to Aston

broke his leg and got a cast on

after saving first half penalties from cup-tied Ashley Young


Ashley Young looked in the mirror

staring back he saw Godzilla eating tubes of polyfilla

after several vats of rum

the scoffing and the drinking and the thoughts the beast was thinking

started poor old Ashley shrinking to the size of Tom Thumb


Tom Thumb was in the shower humming songs like Fight The Power

when an infrastructure black-out pitched his bathroom into dark so then he

started touring Texas in a beige Toyota Lexus

and enrolled to do a PHD with Dr Miriam Stark


Miriam Stark was learning about butter and how churning

pulls ingredients together and allows the mix to set.

Armed with her new knowledge that she gained from Salford College

she skipped to have a butter scone with best friend Boba Fett


Postman Pat and Boba got geared up in Paul Smith clobber

proper sinking pints of Guinness watching Skins re-runs on Sky and big style

pigging on a hot cross bun when copperhead Anne Robinson

yelled “Boba, with six votes, you are the weakest link. Goodbye!”

…......

I’ve been flying round the quays with home-made jet packs on my knees

and I’ve got all the other joggers looking up at me in awe

so if I make it to the Odeon from my Abito podium

in eighteen seconds flat I’ll catch directors cuts of Saw

............

Lennie Godber playing Judo beating Reverend Green from Cluedo

who had teamed up with the keyboard man from Ocean Colour Scene.

He’d just been sacked before the break up and was

doing hair & make-up for a lady boy who looked like

Helen Mirren in The Queen.

...........


type-pad rhythm sent to Staurt Lovegrove in 2005/2006 and again between Ross Purchase and I in 2011;
........

texted mobile rapping is a symptom of the century

like London-style androgeny and mid-week lotto wins

apply the birch then go to church

was how our rich ancestral heritage

made off with all the potency of decadent sins

......


i'm downing Stella with a fella who thinks

Dont Look Back in Anger was an A. LLoyd Webber musical that closed in '93

and starred Si Cowell in a towel

and a geezer from New Delhi who was once banged up for mincing

like a killer queen bee

.....


I saw Bill Gates at Brighton station camping off like Larry Grayson

with a facial-pierced up skin-head of a bloke who was his bird

I said "hey, d'ya need a hand Bill ?"

but he fell into the landfill with his

flabbergasted boyfriend screaming "Microsoft Word!!!"

.....


us local Preston villagers are nowt but rape n pillagers

we're slicing up the sea front

it's a game of cat and mouse

with the police units still tagging us and

national press still slagging us

we're dancing with the Brighton lads to mega-hard house


.....


that ain't rapping that's phone-key tapping

now i'm blowing up your mouth i'm like something else

i'm getting silly like Billy Jean King

my rap's frilly

and I'm snorting as i'm walking eating tuna melts


.....


i'm sat with Paddy the Jihadi and three bombers from the Palestine

they're sinking jugs of hot mulled wine and kneeling down on felt and

praying frantically to Mecca

dulcet tones of Carol Decker mean his iPod wire

is wrapped around his dynamite belt


.....


i'm well bushed up like Skippy

and my head is pretty flippy

one mo I'm having breakfast in a cafe with Mum

next, I'm flying over Preston

on an old spaghetti Western coloured log

with Charlton Heston

on a banging bass drum


.....


submissive is the man. pester!

i'm floating i'm in Manchester

the ganja boat at fourth canal still bangs out afro weed

it's good it's bad it's filthy trippy

i'm in rainbow playing zippy

i'm the old man in the village on a wrap of bad speed

....

Between Ross Purchase and I in 2011;

....


Friends of Isaac Newton sat round talking to a toucan

on the vanishing of Lucan and the way things used to be.

I'm observing all these misfits with their coffee and their biscuits

and it seems amongst their favourites is a crunchy Rich Tea!


I'm sat with Jedward, Noel Coward, Cher, JR and Russell Howard,

Tim Brooke-Taylor, Lester Piggott and that bird who works with Jo.

We're playing bingo, speaking Latin, sending Morse code to Mike Gatting

who got blitzed last night in Wetherspoons with Tore Andre Flo


Leeds fan Gary Knapton in a Rolls Royce parked in Clapton

wearing purple crotchless panties and a peek-a-boo bra

sat there dreaming of the old days slipping back into his old ways

and remembering his anger at the sale of Cantona!


your next door neighbour Hector is a Nazi Hannibal Lecter

who's been turning all the women into human organ toast

and so my spine received a shiver when Camilla lost her liver

and it hit the Quay House specials board as Danish Sunday roast


I'm down in Joseph Fritzl's cellar tied to MP David Mellor

and our bodies move in tandem as we try to fray the knot

Will I ever leave this basement ?

Am I Joseph's new replacement ?

And I'm lost in my confusion in a land that time forgot!


I made my hair look pretty and went up to Shopping City

there's a two-for-one on Kevlar vests at Poundland in the mall

then descended on The Emirates with other Leeds degenerates

and pulverized the North Bank with a bullet-proof ball


My next door neighbour Brian came round snarling like a lion

I was blasting out Kasabian and banging on the wall

I said "I think you'd better leave it, mate. It's 5pm it isn't late

I'll smash your two front teeth in son you're riding for a fall!"


Read All About It! Shaun Ryder formed a band called Manc Al Qaeda

playing Wrote For Luck in Ordsall with his drug-fuelled dosser chums

believing he can get to heaven if he does a 9/11

flying Semtex Subway sandwiches into the Salford slums


to be continued....



Wednesday 2 February 2011

Danegeld


The stone age brought the farmers

And the bronze age brought the miners

And the iron age fashionistas wore fine clothes and pierced their skins

Then the Pictish were in Pictland

And the Scotti were the Irish

Add the Celtic and the Gaels

You've got the British for their sins



But the Romans then invaded

And their soldiers came from Belgium

And from Holland and Bulgaria and eastward all around

They spoke Latin and were literate

Eleven kings surrendered

But the queen of old East Anglia burnt London to the ground



They built roads and walls and left

And then the immigrants from Germany

Moved in and pushed the British to the west

And to the north

Their German name was "English" and they

Took over the south and called it England

It's a tribal mess

The Scotti then came forth



They took slaves from way up north and called it "Scotland"

After Ireland

While the English called the British "Wealhish" pushing them out west

And the Wealhish are the Welsh which just means "foreigner" in Saxon

But still no one managed to work out which tribe of all is best



Then the Vikings came from Denmark and took York, Lincoln and Dublin

And the English who were beaten paid them Danegeld as a bribe

And the Vikings looked quite handy

'Til the Normans beat the Anglo-Danish army

Down in Hastings

So we add another tribe



But the island is quite small and now the Welsh and Celts are westward

And the Scottish are up north above the British in the hills

Who are out west from the Vikings

Who sit north over the English

Who are learning to act "Norman"

Because Norman pays the bills



But King Richard is a Frenchman

And the Stewarts are all Scottish

And the monarchy is German

From Victoria to George

It's ironic

Although "English" is a German word

It's meaningless

There's no identity from the word "English" you can forge



We English are the foreigners who kicked out all the locals

Since we really have no homeland like the pre-Ben-Gurion Jews

We even colonised the British

We're a fake, a fraud, an image

When an Englishman shouts "cobblers"

It's because he stole your shoes



When the English talk "indigenous" it's lack of education

It's the Daily Sport / Big Brother-soaked up slothful planted seed

They won't look into the mirror 'cause the mirror shines the truth right back

They won't pick up the books 'cause you need self-respect to read



The English claiming England

Is like Ireland claiming Scotland

Or the Danish charging Danegeld for the last one thousand years

When Nick Griffin talks of "races"

It's not sadness it's hilarity

Why most of us with half a brain are rolling round in tears.

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