Unpack All Your Problems on Your Facebook Page - Chris Hudson

(to the tune of “Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit Bag”)

Unpack all you troubles on your facebook page
And rave, rant and swear!
Unpack all your problems on your facebook page
And act like you don't care!
The whole world’s going to Hell in a hand cart,
So I’ll complain while I still can!
Unpack all your issues on the facebook page
And swear, swear, swear!
What’s the point in being stoical?
It won’t get you anywhere!
So, unpack all your troubles on the facebook page
And swear, swear, swear!
What’s the point in being polite?
It won’t get you anywhere!
So! Unpack all your troubles for all to see
and swear, swear , swear!

Chris Hudson

Negativity Poem - Chris Hudson

Bad People
They Swear a lot
They don’t Care a lot
They Spam a lot
They Jam a lot.
Bad People
The don’t Give a jot
They Live a-Blot
They’re Often shot
They Haven’t got.
Bad People
Smoking Pot
Shout A lot
With Junk besot
Been Here since dot
Bad People.

Chris Hudson

Loyalty - Chris Hudson

Today's poem is a "Golden Oldie" and was originally published here in November 2012

God bless...
Beautiful England
As the last living Rose
Quivers in your hand.

The grey and the damp and the filthiness of ages
Through the stinking alleys where drunken beatings rages
Past where the Thames river does flow, glistening silver and gold
That for vain dreams and frippery was hastily pawned and sold

Night falls and moon does rise on silky sliding river
Moon sliver in the moving sky watches ocean’s shimmer
The fields of corn are ripe in beautiful England
As the last living rose quivers in your hand.

Our forefather’s planned we’d never be enslaved in this land
Under yoke of foreign oppression, by another’s hand
Will our blood rise up, brothers, and cast off our shackles?
Or tolerate and suffice in raising of our hackles?

God Bless Beautiful England
As the last living Rose quivers in your hand

The chain that binds us is the boundless winding ocean
This thread that runs through us like a fuse to an explosion
Like Hugo in his exile cross the waters there that pour
Yet conversely my blood my DNA not of these shores

I live and die forever through all England’s merry lands
My undaunted never failing love for you will always stand
God Bless Beautiful England
As the last living Rose quivers in your hand.

Chris Hudson

Second Skin - Chris Hudson

Before I cast off my second skin
And let the silky darkness in
Turn off the light
And into night
Spill the day’s noise and din.

I close my eyes
Turn to the skies

I say no prayer- for the world is my prayer
I turn off the radio
Now it has nothing to say to me
I think: this day has passed in a riotous racket
Like an express train passing
It makes a lot of noise
And passes by purposelessly
In an insane journey from one place
To another exactly the same

But now I hear a different sound
The sun is rising in the East
I have not eaten, and know I am alive.

Christopher J Hudson

The Last Living Rose - Chris Hudson

God bless...
Beautiful England
As the last living Rose
Quivers in your hand.

The grey and the damp and the filthiness of ages
Through the stinking alleys where drunken beatings rages
Past where the Thames river does flow, glistening silver and gold
That for vain dreams and frippery was hastily pawned and sold

Night falls and moon does rise on silky sliding river
Moon sliver in the moving sky watches ocean’s shimmer
The fields of corn are ripe in beautiful England
As the last living rose quivers in your hand.

Our forefathers planned we’d never be enslaved in this land
Under yoke of foreign oppression, by another’s hand
Will our blood rise up, brothers, and cast off our shackles?
Or tolerate and suffice in merely raising of our hackles?

God Bless Beautiful England
As the last living Rose quivers in your hand

The chain that binds us is the boundless winding ocean
This thread that runs through us like a fuse to an explosion
Like Hugo in his exile across the waters there that pour
Yet conversely my blood my DNA not of these shores

I live and die forever through all England’s merry lands
My undaunted never failing love for you will always stand
God Bless Beautiful England
As the last living Rose quivers in your hand.

Christopher J. Hudson

Creeper - Christopher J. Hudson

Avoiding askance!
Avoiding askance!
How we avoid
The responsibilities set upon us
Sneaking up on our consciences
And whispering, “It’s okay, no one noticed.”
So we junk them
And we pile them in a pit
In our deepest darkest mind
But the rubbish
Builds up
Silently
Behind closed doors
Which bursting
EXPLODE forth and drown us
In a tide of our own vomit
What our minds could not accept
And we are carried away
On a tide of our own madness
Our everyday insanity
Paradoxes unresolved
Frustration released, anger and pain
Burying forever vestiges of humanity
Pre supposed towards insane thoughts already
Now, chaos is totality is life.

Christopher J. Hudson

Of Charming Monsters - Chris Hudson

Who am I?
I am the sun that shines on everyone
Lights you up from tip to toe
Tell you things, perhaps
You’d rather not know.

Who am I?
I am the water’s flow
The rivers, rain and sea
All things come together
And mingle in me
Life giving waters, soul so blue
You come to me and make me
I understand and come to you
Gently, quietly, whispering your name

Who am I?
All four corners meet in me
I’m not chained but neither am I free
My number is two which makes up three
Who am I? Riddle-de-dee

Christopher J Hudson

Travellers - Chris Hudson

Time bends
Around a miniscule finger
Dimensions bend, for the clock is round
Here we are outside time
It passes us by, a cold, hard strip, interspersed with cat’s eyes
To think is to progress, travel is relative to your state of mind
They pass us by, here by the road side
But the road was only in your mind
You overlooked the most important thing
We are here, we always have been
To travel is to live
Here we are living
By the side of the road.

Christopher J. Hudson

The King Is Dead; Long Live the King! - Chris Hudson

Just be, live, carry on, receive and give.
Is madness a reason for not knowing?
When confusion recedes like the tide
Clinging to patterns of behaviour outworn
Writing words in the shifting sands of illusion
A piece of paper signed; a life designed
Designated defunct, side by side with
The official, sponsored madness we call government
Feeble minded rulers whose lifestyle stinks
Never ending staircase of bureaucratic ink
Winks and nods, favours, bet on the odds
Never thinking, just follow orders, procedures
You ‘ordure’ to impress the boss, he couldn’t give a toss
For you or your reports, the can’ts and oughts.
We seem to have a communication problem, the system and
I try to reason but you just throw it back in my face
Or is it the dust from the last rebel you ate?
Non conformism isn’t just a game,
I’m clinging to my reasons, whilst you just moan and complain
That I can’t follow orders; well I don’t command nor obey
Try to prise my fingers from my grip on reality
What’s the future for this society, when abusers like you
Are ripping apart democracy?

Chris Hudson

The Proseman’s Guide to Writing Poetry - Chris Hudson

All lines should rhyme
Because when reading it
This saves a lot of time!

Topics should be warm and cosy
So we all know exactly what is meant
Nothing to bend th’enraptured will
But stifle with sentiment.

Jokes too are okay
As long as they
Don’t break societal convention
Preconceived clichés are so much more apt
To gain the audience’s attention

A poem can show wit and be apposite
But not be improprietous;
Indecorous behaviour
Is reserved for rioters

Whilst it is absolutely forbidden to assume
Any stance of politics or philosophy
(That is best left to the bedroom!)

To win one’s audience to one’s side
One must make no comment absurd nor snide
But levelling all experience at root
And aphorisms twee to boot

The concept of the poem should be endlessly brewed
And any fortitude or boldness eschewed
Every word pored over in minutest detail for all to see
The dead idea thence pinned to a tree

Nothing free or frivolous should blight the page
Lest the dear reader fly in a rage

With sentiments barren and mundane ideas
Nothing original should blight one’s ears

No idolatrous ideas, or tales of woe
Nor bravely how we bashed the foe

But metaphors bland and senseless dross
Lest our pals think us incongruous
Respect your reader and try to ease
Areas where he has sensibilities

The poet may pull his hair out in writing verse and rhyme
But the reader does not always have the time
To decode scrawlings of trenchant pus
These kinds of poems will not liberate us!

Christopher J. Hudson

Come Closer - Chris Hudson

You sat
Like a cat
Blue eyed and
Perfectly relaxed.
A smile contorts your face
Shapely, fair, straight speaking
Natural grace and elan, at home in its place
Please tell me, is there something you want to know?
If you love me then tell me so.
Then intention can spring out of the heart
Or if it is only lust, then we must stay apart.
Are you seeking the paragon of perfection
When you look in my direction?
Voices purr and hum in rhythmic time
Lighten your mind, let it chime
You ask me in that playful tone
If I would put you on a throne
For one of your touches
You know I’d pay the price
Launch a thousand ships
At the roll of your dice
I give you words as fine and delicate
As a patina of crushed shells upon a shingle shore
And hearts that beat together like the pounding of sea waves.
You get me excited
You make my back slip shiver
You make my senses quiver
I’m not faking, my Thundercloud!
Let me take your lightning strike!
Deafen with peals of thunder loud!

Chris Hudson

‘Crow’- Magnon - Chris Hudson

Shining bright over Moytura
A glistening sea of spears and blades
In the dark, denizens illuminate
Their caverns by the flames of many torches
While druids hatch dragon’s eggs on Phoenix’s fire
And Willow the Wisp nestles in the willow
The Goddess Kali dancing on the skulls of her enemies
Birch and broom in furious dancing duet
The Fire-Witch laughed when we raided our foes

As the Great Inventor sent forth his magic
The Serpent Queen was singing in her bower
The Hunter stalked the Plain of Wonder, club in hand
Tumuli where thousands of warriors lay sleeping
Their serried ranks lined up beneath the soil
A lone eagle surveying the hills and valleys from afar
Where is the hero who will put paid to the shining Beast?
Whose eyes slay the darkness, whose breath
Is melting the swelter out of the land?
Whose paw-prints excavate oceans?

Alas! The broom, anemones, roses and trefoil are blighted
And our hero’s mind is distracted by the Beast’s unblinking lids
His spear is pinned to the earth by ivy and convolvulus
In his idleness his convulsions pierce the earth, itching
Who can heal him from his perturbed faculties?
Where is the blacksmith who can forge a weapon
To penetrate the Beast’s armour?
The blandness, the corruption boils over in his mind
The Song holds him motionless, feeble yet so strong
He sees a rustling cloud, vapours hissing in the sun
Whilst the earth groans in agony and volcanoes roar

Chris Hudson

Thought - Chris Hudson

Lesioned temporal thought lobes
Spasms of time, infinitely long
Infinitely short
Nuclear armaments internalised
Miniature implosions of worlds vapourise
What could be but never will
Complete sensory white-outs
Sears and sterilizes nerve endings
Will never be the same …
Will never be whole ..
Can not be again
White on black, black on white
All the while a frazzling smell
Burning, burning
Lightning to excise you.

Chris Hudson

When We First Heard the News - Chris Hudson

We heard it on the Beeb, it was no freebie
This news so sad, that the mother of our monarch
Was deceased. She went in her sleep, for,
She’d had a good life.
Seen so many changes, lived through two World Wars
Of all the good work she’s done we heard the reports
And of the illness which finally carried her off.
It was a surprise, we were kept in suspense
Until finally from their archive the words came across
It was quite a shock, unexpected and sudden
We wondered how this could affect the government system?
We were always so fond of her hats with their fruit
The Nation was aware of the tension between riches and paupers
The Church to test its mettle, the armed forces to embattle
Will coats of arms change and family trees alter?
Will prisoners at her pleasure wonder about the future?
Families in her employ draw curtains and ponder?
Will we look back on her years as a Golden Age
From our far distant future or projects of grandeur
Destined to falter; do her children now mourn
Like mere mortals, with tears of blue blood?
The ranks will salute her, all the flowers bow down to her
As her soul walks into the ether
Will some African mother give birth and re-incarnate her?
Will gods new and old berate her or bless her?
She was buried with great pomp and splendour
Rest In Peace, the Queen Mother.

Chris Hudson

The Behemoth of the Deeps - Chris Hudson

Temples of the briny, star-encrusted cave mouths
Realms of razorwire around the sacred sacrosanct abomination
Hallowed ground where now fireweed and poppies
Abound in profusion, the smell of charred metal
And periwinkle and pea-vine flower, udder-like blooming
Where bikers in lace up leather stood in silent surrender
A fell beast had been slain; ‘twas a passage of violence
Innocent choir boy and riddled hag, dishcloth disdainful
Even your own creditors didn’t recognise you, platroon
The “Beast With Two Fronts”, abhor-front and degrade-front
This Narcissus of mine impersonates, blasé and glib
No bouncing bomb of the autumn adage, out of style
Out of fashion, no blues cruise vision revamp,
Spread eagled of the craggy peaks, no shrimp’s water
Of the fecund folio, a folly of fellatio, “So used”,
To hold back a voyeuristic legion, offspring of the cloven goat
Too many stories from the inky black gloaming, to roam is sublime
To pour one’s innards out over a lacklustre page
The toil of kings and slaves, a niggardly “pension”
Martlet, ringing in his hammer-blown ears
Men of high repute dancing dalliance with speckled prows
Whatever was first so to church in wrinkled innosense
Spread her balm all about in mottled radiance
At birth of calf the probe, so strange, muttering,
“Where’s the other one?” all spoke as one, forgot grace,
“Okay coitus breath, where’s the tub-thumper?”
Cock-fenced a thousand, was wrung and spurned,
Spurred and pricked, branded and broiled
Bailed to the hundreds, nines and fives,
Neutered and impotent, they can use their milk-sop to pander
Skin-traders, epitomes of the knackers’ yards
Incubus and succubus, only pit my unicorn’s horn
The law is perverted, progenitors for eternal conflict
Kingdom’s came and went, rulers wax and wane
Can Willow’s Whisp guide frail Gran thru’ the forest?
Wake up! Yon hills that have hived many an inventor
Grizzled Knight of the icy wastes, hunter opalescent eyed
A humble fisherman, investiture of millpond
Frontiersman and anniversary epitomaker
To roost where the burning wagon wheels rock

Chris Hudson

Dread Squabble, Reed Warble, Creed Scrawled - Chris Hudson

Crucifixes watched over in threshold experiential, tracing every motion before
Like a quivering muscle that neurons refuse to fire, yet expanding delight
Earth wanderers and reed-weed squanderers, tumbled into town
These needed seeds nighted in splendiferous oblivion
Delighted by time’s inversion learned anew every day
Trammels thought in delimited channels
Brain train hacked occluded declaration, neurologistically deconstructing daydreams
Absurd ideologies fall like overblown fruit, seeds transplanted, uprooted and broadcast,
Finite images of the image makers, poking phallus fun at springtime orgies
Flower-bedecked and dew-spangled, erotic interchange of entwined intertextuality
Barely making sense, incensed and incense, under the wheel and oiled and spieled
Neutered newspeak in pallid, rendered refraction
Oiled dealing wheels, bought another’s head, state died in transitory moment of people’s faith,
Between world and art, moving grooving shimmer flesh swaying
In dances of flesh in melatrope miasmed slaughtering blues, knives flashing in rows
On spinning mechanisms exempt from tests loosened and chosen, blue light caromed
From tin can reflect justice done and scripture revealed, explored depths of mystery
Returned to report back, for all those out on the byways and tracks
Who aren’t building a state of derision from the sweat of other people’s backs
Water milky with human kindness, browned with blood, blackened with impossible age.
See! The light of day, beyond the Caucasus, futurologists mimed
Haloed with dreams, flaying the broken edges of reality in distortion field
Friends’ mouths agape, beat through the thoroughfare, transition from feeble to hopeful
Green again, at last relax! Introspection, interjected and rejected on primal grounds
In rational board games, traverse expand from ego-nest-egg of decimated perceptions
Black and white on the greedy grasping rapacious, sickened continuum, blackened and charred,
Into a whisper spiral shell of thought regaled by sad drama of unfolding episode
Panegyric, lyrical wax and wane, weapons of war stored carefully away, time bomb future
Letters and truth from the all-seeing cries of possession, lend me time and release me with letters
Gatherings, emotion of life, futuristic explanation, escapades of love, enraptured with bliss
Pre-rational soul scape, immutable and whole, growth from the heart
Lands not splintered and cracked by nuclear attack.
Dwelling, noble mind, etchings and craft, gently looped structure with chinks of light
Filled in with mosses and rocks, underground hideaway, warm cosy den,
Lime light rebounds and surrounds, in head room I am loose, I choose, sacred space
Unbuttoned, chilled out, unbounded in the breeze of time, contemplating unrealised things
Silent stage of body space, trained in mime, no cracked egg shells to dispel
Spring of consciousness revealed, ideals, crouched to the centre, flimsy transparent shield
Of other’s confusion, envelope of sound reflects and rebounds, mildly in tension
Reverberate well oiled drum, living skin, not dumb.
Cannot undo what has been done, instant glimmer and flitter, sparrow’s song
Lunched on the pogrom of incantatory psalm, turn innocence outward into love projection
Momentary stasis blockading incredulity, we are alive!
Not nonplussed by our beauty, we wear it with pride
Transcended template into our space.

Chris Hudson

I Was A Rasta - Chris Hudson

I was a Rasta, a Taoist, Zen, Christian, Buddhist, Pagan
Homeless, poor, yet wealthy and landed
My forebears knew Christ, yet the horned god
And the void were more to my taste
Experiences received, lived and believed
Dogma unearthed, I came, I saw yet was unheard
And unsung, senses burned
And clung to one word
Unfolded karmic ritual of soul
The astral path my one and only goal
Once imprisoned in electric cell of force-field
In a static hell smothered in If-words of doubt
My entire being vibrating to the call of the crystal
My universe within forced out
Seed of all life, put my enemies to route
At last to fall, and break my path
Between gates of logic, ether-breeze
Bust open all doors, for I reached into the womb of earth
Where I beheld all fruits of wisdom and worth
The ancient shrine stood yet undefiled
A sight all too glad for longing eyes!
Blistered by such radiant smiles
Eyes flutter, hearts pound, hands that
Are likened as to butterflies
From what befalls of time and the
Nexus of an aggregate of chance and twisted fate
This hand that stayed to reach the sky
From these clouds heaven’s bolt alighted
Carried from the hole cold blasted and blighted
Airy hail which pounded in the place
Where wealth is not measured by weight or rod
Where sun shines on rich and poor alike
I was touched by the hand of God
He showed me, in a dream
He left his mark, told me I was to be a poet
(Please do not kick this poor sod,
For I do try not to show it.)
Hark! Cracks at the gates of dawn!
Has the Golden Horn yet sounded?

Chris Hudson

Anger Revolves The Heart T’entrap - Chris Hudson

Anger revolves the heart t’entrap
Tethers the mind by ties of time
White tides flow out and in
And vain pride fumbles, pries and tries
Peace resolves, sets you on the track
The path you follow complies
With sublime will and origin
Need to question, wonder why
Push, pull, forwards and back
Clock hands revolve, time lies
Sense allows no rest, begin again
A shallow course to ply
Karma will again reply
To your dharmic questioning
Sense cannot descry nor reason ponder why
Intense circles describe the sunny sky
Let thought on raven’s wing fly
Go afar! Go afar! And circle around
Spread the message of knowledge new found
And purge the enemy, anger from thy heart
Let peace and love grow, sow seeds
In thy heart, sprout peace and love
In this, thy hallowed ground, make a new start.

Chris Hudson

When God Drops His Crumbs - Chris Hudson

When God drops his crumbs
Into our muddling pool of reality
They tumble to earth
Will they breed new humans sprouting from that ancient turf?
Will the millennium spell the end to poetry
That man no longer requires to be free;
Life’s summary written, “Oh!”, “Agh!”;
Will our dates ever be the same again;
Will a meteor smash into the biosphere;
Or a squaddie press the wrong button
Causing tidal wave, earthquake famine, death and fear;
Will there be scientific innovation
At last to feed every nation?

Chris Hudson

Evidently Donkey Town - Chris Hudson

The bloney traffic’s bloney slow
Everywhere you bloney go
The bloney Social’s bloney tight
The thugs in pubs all love to fight

The bloney Government is run
By bloney crooks who read the Sun
The bloney kids drop bloney trash
Everywhere they spend their cash

The bloney banks are bloney broke
The bloney sponsor’s had a stroke
It make the Bailiff bloney frown
Evidently Donkey Town!

The bloney Kev’s drive fancy cars
In your face stub out cigars
The bloney poor are bloney thieves
It bloney beggars bloney belief

The bloney Queen’s our bloney Crown
It bloney gets you bloney down
The bloney preists are bloney gay
It bloney rains day after day

The red tape’s bloney cracking down
All over bloney Donkey Town!

There’s nothing to bloney do
My bloney mobile’s screaming blue
Everything’s bloney status quo
The internet is bloney slow

The local stars are bloney creeps
The hymns they sing are bloney cheap
The local cop’s a bloney clown
This is bloney Donkey Town!

The politicians bloney whine
They haven’t got the bloney time
The bloney Doctor’s making out
He’s bloney dubbed-up some poor lout

There’s bloney alkies on the street
They’re bloney spitting at your feet
The bloney tip is bloney full
The bloney youth are on the pull

The bloney right to bloney choose?!
Which way you turn you bloney lose
The Teach can’t tell a verb from noun
EVIDENTLY DONKEY TOWN.

Chris Hudson