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Damien Kelly - Dead Kelly & Other Rants
Fast making a reputation for himself as one of Liverpool’s most talented up n’ coming poets, 35 year old Damien Kelly has a unique style all of his own.
Bending words and sentences into unusual shapes and gifted with a streetwise delivery that transforms the written word into an often surreal scouse stream of consciousness, Damien’s poetry deals with big themes; personal identity, political corruption, human nature and the city of Liverpool and its people. Yet, he does so in a thought provoking yet humorous manner, always providing unusual and unpredictable perspectives on everyday life and his own personal demons.
Although Damien has been writing poetry for over ten years, it is only recently that he’s been performing his work, recently blowing away the audience at the Dead Good Poets Society. With his constantly inventive turn of phrase and deep scouse delivery, Damien is a breath of fresh air in a city that claims to have poetry in its blood, yet seems unable to break free from the shackles of the sixties.
Damien Kelly is a truly modern poet, using the REAL language of Liverpool to describe universal truths.
Catch Damien at Dead Good Poets @ Everyman Bistro, Liverpool (1st Wed of month next one 5th December) or visit his site :
The garden of our city is undergoing regeneration
Just like any farmer’s land undergoes crop rotation
You have to burn off the scrub for cultured cultivation
Weeds and obstructions will get in the way of proper propagation
Is Liverpool’s bed well mulched for the dawn of Octo-Centenery?
Have we done enough to rid ourselves from the sceptical scenery?
It’s not enough to just have an exhaustive itinery
Fertile ground, nice arrangement, well looked after, elementary
I hope these new gardeners are better than the last lot
I mean how can fruit and veg be so shit when you have the best plot?
I thought we’d rid ourselves in the 80s of greenfly and blot
Time is now, new everything, so the vegetables are good enough for the pot
I just want a nice, well presented, productive patch
Manchester has done it for years, let’s see if Merseyside can match
Of course there’s life there, if only the surface we scratch
Just a matter of how many raindrops and how much sunlight we catch
What will happen to bounty from these scouse seeds?
Wait and see what happens to product and what this greenery feeds
Will never be a country garden, will always be a few weeds
Let’s see what becomes of harvest, I wonder if our blossom bleeds
No good having trees scraping the sky if only the tallest can reach the fruit
The fruit has to be accessible, right down to the root
Too many outsiders have eloped with Liverpool’s laboured loot
Let’s see how good we look in our 800th birthday suit.
A Tale Of Two Cities
Have just re-acclimatised from State of New York
Akin the scousers in every way but talk
Other cities are chalkboard, our cities are the chalk
Other cities have limps, we walks the walk
Breadth of a hair between New York and ourself
A case of knowing where you sit, instead of being put on a shelf
Dually gargantuan personalities, no comparison to an elf
Concern about us, instead of concern of one’s self
I was feeling at home within a few hours
Instead of feeling that I came down with the last showers
A proper handshake and smile like ceremonial Hawaiian flowers
Mano a mano, no tourist nor mention of the towers
We’re inextricably linked, cerebrally twinned
All aggression and angst comprehensively binned
Both worldly cities, they did explode, we did rescind
Both our town’s faces reddened by the same Atlantic wind
For we both know we are unofficial capitols of our nation
The New York of the 80s, this New York is no relation
Liverpool will do same, our city has been on a 30 year vacation
Lib dems are our Guiliani shed coat of abomination
Instead of purgatory, our self-imposed sedation
Liverpool city is a world brand but we don’t know our station
It’s promotion with a new manager, no more relegation
The seeds are sown, we’ve got the greenhouse, let’s see some propagation
Overhead railway, Birkenhead Park and concrete and steel construction, it’s off us they learned
They did learn off us but showed us how it’s earned
Liverpool doesn’t gamble in case of fingers get burned
The boat of backwardness should be upturned
This city I hail from has universal appeal
Instead of waiting for hand which Westminster does deal
This imaginary act of Parliament we should repeal
When it came to push, New York roared, we did squeal
The only reason that I write is because I do feel
The fluidity of Liverpool’s blood did sadly congeal
The festering has stopped, it’s time to heal
We’re tired of snacking, let’s have the meal
When faced with media broadside we did not kneel
Cos we’re versatile scousers best thing since wheel
We would be at altitude if we were on even keel
No two-facedness or one-upmanship, just belief in what is real
To myself, no-one has ever been any snider
I was bold and malicious, yet I couldn’t make cider
Difference between Damien and his potential, like Les Dawson, could not be wider
So I harped on of my history
And became hysterical, heretical, hideous hider
I orienteer, I know the terrain, had a map yet still got lost
I’m going to my own embassy, to place an embargo with two fingers crossed
I will beat my damaging demeanour, I will challenge my cost
You could set your watch by my frequent, frivolous frost
How you stand out, is only what our schizoid embellism embossed
Akin to vegetables in a salad bowl, and what extent they’ve been tossed
The ladder of my life, every rung was meticulously mossed
Nastrovia! Skol! Bottoms up! Cheers and fucking Prost!
But I’m not bitter, I could be a lot worse than I am
For, like a magician, abracadabra, deh deh but couldn’t remember shazam
Miss Marple is only a backwards Spanish guy called El Pram
Nearly fooled yous, only me in my life, that aint no scam
Do you not see, I told Mr Warburton to get into bread
Mr McDougal only made flour till I introduced him to Father Ted
But I never flew or flourished, I strolled upon street cred
Never thought of what I spoke, thought of only what they said
You see, I need me like a cavernous hole in the head
I still believe in fraternity, the cause for which I’ve bled
Me and myself, not married, sort of whimsically wed
I walked uncharted path, where others fear to tread
Decapitation, le guillotine, off with his head
I need to examine why I chose famine and never got fed
I wear a thick jersey in the Mersey, should’ve been shorts in the Med
I am my own outlaw, last name Kelly, first name Dead.
Loneliness Of The Long Distance Hurdler
Overcame the first obstacle, finished the course
The biggest fence to come, should I jump like a horse?
The fence by Beecher’s, called ‘keeping a job’
The next fence is called ’keeping a few bob’
I’ve surprised everyone who knows me, especially me
No more getting through windows, finally used key
I was an ocean going liner who never smelled the sea
In the court of under-achievers, ignorance was my plea
I’ll let dust settle, see what comes out of the wash
Maybe I’ll stop writing this literary cosh
Do my house up, two fingers to nouveau posh
Just do 9 to 5 and sack bevy and beak, bish, bash, bosh
For I was an eagle who was scared of heights
I was Robin Hood without a pair of tights
I was a tourist who never saw the sights
I used to be Dracula but couldn’t hack the nights
On the horizon I can see the dawn
I finally realised on what day I’m born
Into the fields I go, to get some corn
I‘ve trod the trodden path, my shoes are worn
I hope this is the final self-berating poem
Two years down the line lad, I’ll show ’em
No more holes in my kecks, I’ve learned to sew ’em
No more living in a bedsit, time to make a home
One more fence in life I portray
What will one do with all his pay?
Will I be missioned up, the same old way?
Fuckin’ trippin’ aren’t yer, no way Jose!
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