Category Archives: Books

Murder

I twist the knife, I take your life.

Someone said I should write a book with murder and violence in it.

Is this it, wait a minute.

The corpse beneath the stairs begins to smell.

Bloody Hell!

If that’s what you want read the news, listen and look.

That’s not my book.

Serial killing starts with one.

Make it up yourself, have fun.

You could produce a best seller.

Bring back Joseph Heller.

I thought of calling this Murder Story, but did not.

I could have, but I lost the plot.

How about The Dog That Did Not Bark?

That’s been done, or Murder in Noah’s Ark?

Something to read in the park.

After dark.

Tich Ennis

3rd November, 2018

Poems

Poems don’t need to rhyme but they can all the same, sometime.

Once upon a time they used to scan.

Mine do, I’m your man.

Any old thing is not poetry, at least not to me.

I am a poet, you see.

I believe words mean what they say, if you don’t believe that, go away.

Since when has image meant more than reality, that does not make sense to me.

I enjoy a good cup of tea.

Give me a wild flower, take away the weed.

Is it for this I learned to read?

Tich Ennis

23rd October, 2018

Christ Talks

Passerby: Hi Christ. Someone said you are the son of God. What are you doing here?

Christ: I’m flogging bibles.

Passerby: They haven’t been written yet. Aren’t you being a bit premature?

Christ: A bit previous. A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.

Passerby: I’ll put my name down for one.

Christ: Sign here. A first edition is a good investment. You could flog it at Sotheby’s.

Passerby: If I’m around that long. Is it readable?

Christ: It took ten years to write and would probably take the same amount of time to read.

Passerby: That’s very funny.

Christ: Not if you wrote the book.

Passerby: It will give people something to swear on and at and throw at people, anyway.

Christ: A best seller.

Passerby: And I thought you were just a waste of space.

Christ: Wait for the Hollywood epic.

Passerby: You’ve seen the film, now read the book.

Christ: Dance to the musical.

Passerby: You are a man before your time.

Christ: A man out of time.

Passerby: Whatever that means.

Christ: Gutenberg, thou should’st be living at this hour.

Passerby: I’ll wait for the audio version.

Christ: That’s me. Born before TV.

Passerby: If you had an air to that you could sing it.

Christ: I’ll be on my way.

Passerby: Mine too.

Christ: It’s a rocky road.

Passerby: You can say that again.

Christ: And again and again and again.

Passerby: Where does this road lead?

Christ: Where indeed.

Passerby: You’re a bit of a poet.

Christ: Don’t I know it.

Passerby: Sayonara, Japanese for goodbye.

Christ: Au revoir, until we meet again.

(Both figures depart. The End.)

Tich Ennis

26th July, 2018

 

My Dead Brother

Me: What did you think when you died and found there is an afterlife after all?

He: I was pleasantly surprised.

Me: I’m glad you’re there, I thought you might be a figment of my imagination.

He: I am.

Me: Have you met Plato and Aristotle and people like that? Have they a lot to say for themselves?

He: They said it already.

Me: You said meaning is a construct people try to put on things. What does that mean?

He: You’re too clever by half.

Me: Compare me with Einstein.

He: He’s only trotting after you.

Me: You said you always knew you would have to die sometime.

He: I was right.

Me: You said I am a machine. Am I artificially intelligent?

He: Not very.

Me: Helena said the good thing about dying is you don’t have to learn any new gadgets. The world is afflicted with gadgetomania.

He: You can have too much of a good thing.

Me: A poet said these words, half in love with easeful death. Also, intimations of mortality. You had those. How are your faculties?

He: Alive and kicking.

Me: Who said, all I know is I know nothing? The one who drank hemlock.

He: Ask God or Google. Google is quicker.

Me: You’re dead right. Rest in pieces.

He: The only letters I have after my name are R.I.P.

Me: Rip van Winkle. Is this enough to be going on with?

He: More than enough. See you shortly.

Me: I’m in no hurry.

He: You never were. What’s new?

 

Tich Ennis

21st June, 2018

Mad Book

My brother is writing a book, the maddest ever made.

In this idyllic glade.

When people don’t understand something they say it must be art.

A million for a bad photocopy, where do you start?

People pay a fortune for rubbish, that’s not art, that’s fashion, a fickle jade.

A mistake a person made.

So my brother could present his book as art, its not science, sure as Hell.

Would you fall for it?

Oh well.

Tich Ennis

28th May, 2018

Goodbye Fantasy

I haven’t written for a while, now I do, maybe raise a smile.

I must justify my existence for what it worth, here on Earth.

Apparently all is fantasy, illusion, may I dispel confusion.

It sure is realistic as Hell, oh well.

Reality is the essence of the real, the real thing is how you feel.

My life progresses on from day to day, I have not gone away.

I hope to cross my bridges as they come and go, today a stranger said hello.

He asked had I sold any books, I said no one has any money.

He thought that was funny.

This poem arrives at no conclusion.

Free us from delusion.

Tich Ennis

1st February, 2018

To Belle Gibson, Australia, fantasy cancer con artist

Fantasy And Reality

I am considering entering the digital world, publishing digitally, the real world having failed me miserably. I view the digital world with some revulsion for not being the real thing. I am real and live in reality, literally and metaphorically.   Those who live in the digital world wouldn’t know reality if it bit them in the you know where.   Fantasy addicts everyone. Clinics for their treatment have been set up in South Korea, or try Lourdes.

So why enter this fantastical phantasmagoria, the enemy of flesh and blood, mania itself, home of addicts, fantasists and deluded self- made fools, to coin a phrase?   To rescue them from their delusion and myself from misery.   Bring sanity to the mad house.   Set my people free.

In the real world books are made of paper, see them, feel them, smell them, drop them on your toe and know they’re there. Not so in the virtual world.   The Library of Congress in your hand but nothing in reality.   Suppose a power failure, what then? Does madness ensue? Lost without your phone.   Curl up with a book, a real book. Kiss a real girl.

So I too enter the mad house for I hope a short stay.   To visit those who fly from reality, fear it, hate it, ignore it and treat it as not existing. I know the feeling, c’est la grande illusion.   Brush up your French.

My purpose is nothing less than to bring reality to life.   The virtual world is a stepping stone to the real thing, a stone’s throw away as you might say, not to put words in your mouth.   Step one: the virtual world. Step two: the real world. When I find the key to the virtual world. So I must approach the drug peddlers.

Everyone and his aunt describes themself as a writer or author today because they live in the virtual world publishing their work there, but who buys? Almost no one. Who gets rich? The digital media barons, the drug peddlers.   You might as well scrawl on a wall.

So I will enter the world of the deluded, the fantasists, because I have nowhere else to go. The real world does not want me or my wares. It having been taken over by fantasy.   I enter your world in a reverse take over bid.   When? When I get around to it. I act the madman with an aching heart so as to conform but it is only an act. I hate myself for doing it.   But do it I will.

I am no conceptual artist. I believe in the realisation of concepts and many other things which appear to have been forgotten in this age of fantasy. Fantasy is fake reality.   Ideally I exist in both worlds, I and my work. Until the real thing comes along.

So I shall be coming soon to a device near you.  Don’t say you weren’t warned.

Tich Ennis

19th January, 2018