+++  DAVID JURE  is the nom de plume of my good friend DAVID BURKE, or as he is sometimes known, John David Burke, poet, actor, cineaste, mental health patients’ advocate and a former Concerned Citizens’ Coalition candidate.  David is the author of a number of poetry chapbooks, including ‘Various Means of Escape,’ ‘Merlin’s Millenium’ and ‘Dazed and Confused,’ most of which are produced with the able computer handiwork of Louise Beinhaur of Wordworks.    He has a new big book of poetry in the making with Louise.  +++   Here is a new poem on blue-lined writing paper, neatly typed up on an old typewriter, as is the wont of David Jure, with the occasional typo fixed in blue ink, and the following scribbled at the top: ‘Jan 23rd. David Jure 220-2354.’  David intended to read this poem to those attending the Robbie Burns thing at the James Bay Book store last night, but we decided to take our tea instead here at our Hartnell-Keough Rockland aerie as his back was killing him.   After giving him a cup of tea and a couple of painkillers, he seemed to relax and he read it aloud to me.  Impressed and privileged, I gathered my courage before driving him home, to ask if I could borrow it to post here.  I suspected that this was his only copy.  Graciously, he gave me the envelope, inside of which was this poem on three sheets of lined paper, about fifty lines per page…I will have to add my own eliptical dots to the ends of his lines, as I fear that the Weirdpress computer blogging programme that we use here does not seem to allow for paragraph indentation, or spacing, or the peculiar word arrangement that DAVID JURE uses in his original typewritten copy.   I have also taken some liberties with David Jure’s punctuation and spelling where the errors seem unintentional, but where the orthography is merely weird and idiosyncratic, I leave it as is.  - CCC WE BLOG Editor, Goyo de la Rosa  +++  One hundred and fifty lines – an odyssey …  shakespeare in his thieving murderous way … stealing lines from Marlowe and everyone in sight ….  you would think that a man that wealthy would …  have more scruples … and was that word in evidence … he had a vocab of 24,000 words … which was prodigious … liked to love gorgeous bankside babes … had a fondness for tobacco … and was a good father … but after that we know absolutely nothing. … perhaps this mystery is a cachet….? …  how can I foster this mystery … Viktoria’s finest … seer in search of…… comfortable shoes … lover of hookers and booze … descended from robert the bruise … capable of knocking out a play in 24 hours … and once clocked at twenty eight miles an hour … beside the Uplands bus … breathing heavy on the flowers … as the quest for fame sours… … I retreat … I backpeddle … I lie on the bed waiting … for the magic phone to ring … but Trevor Nunntheless the words flow … and I prove inimicable in my incensed way … no nearer royalty than a beggar … but prodded by excellence … and proud of my rings and voices and trappings… … back to the theatre or forward into canlit … the big tit … charles tidler lorna crozier and roy green …  I yam in excellent company … however the pain … mounts … shoulders and neck not worth writing … hame aboot and ernie hemmingways letters on sale … at Sorensens for five dollars. … I demurred and drank my rum. … David Jones … welsh wonderkind… … my potent friends … its overwhelming to the new girl on the block … a brief pause… … gregory hartnell … parapundit … master blogger … labours long without this week getting his … pikture in the paper …. calls the mayors office to task on everything … and beetles around town in little blue car… …  The Viktoria police have been called again … and again on their brutal and rude behaviour … has stephen harper been notified … that five police cars show up to check out a stolen bicycle … Willow Kinlock handcuffered and tethered to a cell door … for five hours …what kind of a world are we living in … kindly Paul Battershill on suspension … perhaps he didn’t get the message across to his merry men.. … I have been in handcuffs a dozen times… … The secret is to relax and let the imperative observant mind … takeover … drink it all it in and don’t get upset … life is a grand adventure … a grand for thy avenger …. sold a book today to John Dobbs … son of legend Kildare dobbs … at the james bay coffee company.. … Shakespeare left a million words behind … with the redoutable smith corona I can do better … waiting for a redhead in a tight sweater … it’s no secret Im the biggest womanizer in the city … without a gal on the go I feel veritably shitty … a fan of beauty bright and the showcase sexy bits … culturally and rock and roll viktoria is the pits… …  the author spends too much money on cabs and lives the high life … still a big fan of the wind in the willows … and casual sex … wrote to beckett (sam) and got a reply … one grey day in the summer of seventy three … reading all of proust and feeling vaguely … depressed and compressed… … harold pinter … alone on the planet … having a pinter … david jure hovelist still gets calls from collection … agencies … gives them their pound of grief …. william shakspere poet and playwrite … had his financial griefs … all of london a giant dungheap smelt to the high heavens … with what the horses left in the street ….  plaintive wiccatoria … sweet smelling … but pushes its dung into the straight … in spite of the waging raging grannies…. …  Barak Obama smoker controversy man …  running for president … God speed. …  sam beckett …  warrior and saint … stabbed by a pimp in a paris suburb …was so kind as to visit the man in … jail … and see if he was alright… …  the coffee stained manuscripts of a seasoned mature author… veteran of a thousand treasons … that ass…. I wont speak to him ….  the pains taken and the insults given … on the street by the market on yeats some street person … called me a fat bastard and threatened physical violence. … I quoted ts eliot and zoomed away to private school …  golden threads and the intimations of childhood … molten pity and a new ditty … . if I could escape; gwen stephanie ….  funny how the radio grows and grows on one … as one gets older and milder and internally wilder …  soon to be in a wheelchair on the creaky … careworn streets of okey dokey bay …  I set the bed on fire with candles … at 3am one morning … and slept on … the chard remains … and now when coming … up in the elevator … sniff for burning pots in the hallways … and in respect … of the coldness and the brutal snobbery … I have experienced in the building … I am inclined to think … let her burn ….  oh for soho in the sixties … toronto in the seventies … and san francisco in the eighties ….   the world is too much with us …  al quaeda cells training in afghanistan … and paksitan … smoke that hashish … and are told that when they die they … go to heaven … and are promised seven virgins … I could use one now … how difficult it is to meet a tall beautiful … woman in insensate cromwellian wiccatoria …  i despair …..  and it turns into a bitterness about Hollywood north … car chases and explosions … cliff hangers.. …  meanwhile amazing poet Paul Burnside sleeps outside … with racoons … writes about irish goblins and heathrow accidents … never asks for help … found in Mcdonalds eating a meagre muffin and coffee … I ask you … what is wrong with the just society….  +++