like me in the picture like me a little baby look at no one in particular avoid faces and faces where's this escalator the one so they say speaks there are no movies just movies i like a lot of things wakeful vaseline and official orifice mouths on posters mouths on separate what sea is this really in three persons lil red tonkas vs. lil red corvettes
eyeful joyful!!! a number one numbing noise rot me to sound be mine forever sound down to a murmur sounds like trousers feel this kiss me like i'm stranded irreverent no no dear traveler mystic listener continental breakfast we are the eyeful joyful our disc contains wicked and so much more order one about me and i'll ask so you'll tell us more about sorcery
Dawn's an advert for sunrise, copy of will, mind pour, tame of process and nature; her show will drain liquid man for disposable cups of recyclable heat, kept in tube warm rows stacked vertical that move in tilt noble curves, and deport through his person her weight.
Champion belt thinkers, perceive and taste her needle, found by chance in vast haystacks of binary optical data bits, when light touch's swoosh in trickling dance make fingertips jive and dig her location.
Dawn fans morph in a mass of electron and sub particle continuum switch code, toll in life's quantum the condomic bell, sounding her one name - humanity, ooohing, aarghing and praying to art.
Reality becomes her servant, proves she lies true; that fiction is existence and our dreams but the kind her dazzle mutes, shatters, exploding to soul shards which slip below the love for god's absolute cold constant zero of absence we sense, tense, bend and be when she's shaping us.
Oh ineffable beauty, identity's docket; please go, to return with her bold outline, but delineate what form she will appear in as me. Recognised by you, will I arrive pressed with all the right ink in the rubber stamp light of her sheen?
Thank you very much for your kind words. Born both a bard and full time wandering bore, with 24 hours of piss poor play in the day with which to entertain, these words are most welcome.
Watch out for Mr Incredible, a Dublin poet who works in the genre of gangsta rap and can genuinely extemporise. Our poetry gang has moved venues to Dorans in Temple Bar so cum on down, Tuesday nights and lets get jiggy wiv it
Morgan SLIPS tireless cHesire SKie is uniquef lengthen verbs associated disorders fiscQl tics slippage death of the author parvinder/rococco/baroque/ persephone leaf'outs ff off the scarp rummaging in fat hands of turneresque - jerusalem - ah ah Turneresque qu'est ce que ma cherie sJKies immor immor etc etc immor fatality
This is my poem of daylight. My homespun mimicry of daylight. This equivalent of shoreline touches up my daylight. This daylight.
By itself daylight's mere background, as a music. The integrity of ripe green grass and rain upon it becomes punctuation. If I loved myself I would be here now, not making an excuse for being somewhere else. It makes a difference that I'm here.
Today I am in love with you. I have a calendar replete with days exactly like today. When it is time to go home, I go home to you.
When inside, there is no reminiscing about sunlight. It is outside warming land. The light is present just before it disappears. What replaces light is its opposing quiet.
This is how I learn to breathe. I teach myself. I am happy that I teach myself and learn. I am happy to be breathing in your company.
In your company I am most myself. In my long dreams I come home to you. In the daylight you and I become equivalent. In this everlasting poem of daylight.
I'm not the one I used to be The eight' day of the week Calls to be explored Look at me I'm feminine I bear a promise Of things to come I bear a promise For females Who look at me Calling to be explored On the eight' day of the week But I'm not the one I used to be
A market townland is where my intellect was sharpened
A flat body of farmland fringed by Liverpool's urban cloak tinging the Lancashire twang
which can thicken immediately; the voice tweaked for the speaker to sound like a spud tame lame brained div trained from birth to be a fully labotamised half cocked bog trotting dick head or a knob who sounds like a tit
gifted at carrot plucking and swede, leek and beetroot munching in mud covered rust bucket caravans
where dreams of getting bladdered in the plough, the Shoe, the Lion, the Queens or the Cricks play on a loop until pay day when wages are blown on ale and Ethel Austin wellies worn in the rakish manner of a hip Wigan pig shit shovellor out on the piss.
But living in this linguistaically liminal hinterland isn't all spuds and dunderheads. The liquid nature of the lingo means scouse tones can also be freely spouted
and the slow baked brain vacant bleat of a sheep fiddling field lover instantly switch to the city witted jive talk of a street slick trackie clad bling king giving it the big one about buying a knock off helicopter to go clubbing in London with.
Scallijah, I did use BLOGGER to do the audio, and it's free. Just look up "audioblogger" on GOOGLE or in BLOGGER's help. It's so easy, you'll be amazed.
An Irish Poetry Knobhead Squad was out in force last night, prowling a gallery of art, puffed up in an all weather jacket the operative felt unable to remove, due to her unhygienic state. For the last forty-eight hours, "Dick" (lurking undercover in the guise of a balding white-slum male officer agent on duty for the Global Poetry Coalition's Intelligence and Enforcements Agency) has been sporting a dress and calling himself "Doreen", fully equipped to capture and extol the showtime vibes crucial for honest poesie to thrive, and; he as a she had a right old dust up of things
So much so that the muse whose balance weights his reality - in the critical pieces of incisive reportage Mr Misery has been contracted to produce - is no longer writing for us at the moment and arrangements have been agreed with an alternative member of staff which are now in effect.
The role of author exploring where language may lead has been handed over to the mind of MC Megagag Lovidia Yeats,
who wields through mechanical pencil to keyboard what thoughts within her allotted span will breathe or sneeze in print towards unmarked borders winding through the breeze unchecked
to a point of light calculation - now gadget measured - but once a knowledge vast generations of ancients guarded in the temples of their gods.
On the cusp of getting brought within a complex of arbiters whose practice of symbol ritual, truth and belief
takes place continuously here at the Helicon Height HQ of Dublin Quays
I urge you drop in, turn on and tune out. For a strange thing is afoot in the world of verse, and the art-hewn bulliten board is straining under the leish of trivia and tremendously important developments in the world of Irish poetry and, as one night's tale can be told as anothers let me recount how
In concrete sea beneath some steps a shorebound salmon listens to nuts talk of fish who swim through blather squalls
and an audience of water falling sedate as its force lifts bouyant affirmnational rites.
Elsewhere a lone headlamp collides with alert rabbit-like eyes, alive but
unable to hop through space unexpected, bouncy pressing, real or merge in absent disconnection unspotted heard tasted or told,
the animal sticks up a paw to cut figures through air searching for a centre-point of dawn's eternal love
in the flame of life timelessly tick tocking homeward to a cool faced glow where modernity's edge
sits atop of nature kip grim unable to hide or stop from flopping completely as frozen shatters of tap run meek clop beat bop bleats chip silent from the clock.
the leg before 15 pissing 13-19 that was imported with the keyboard, Christian djclamant a beer realised the fight the wounds of big suns a subject a force under a idea that marmonnements, they postpone the connection, more genuine than this, a bank with Jeanne, the disposal refourbie, and the total dark ine, wherefore the fears they were declared here a machine, a bet, calming down additional religion, WYZRY YTZXYTTNS SZRT, Or WZSTNS, PLTPSURZNX RZSZRULTS XROPNS
it declares nasties 17, selected, it interfered these sectors that are placed bad, a illness in the fog of friends, the choices of excitations ng 13-19 poy ejsi'hci me to pliktrolo'gjo, Christian djclamant mja mpy'ra pragmatopoj'isan ton agw'na oj traymatjsmoj' twn mega'lwn i'ljwn e'na ce'ma mja dy'nami ka'tw apo' mja jde'a o'tj ta marmonnements, anava'lloyn ti sy'ndesi, pjo' alicjni' apo' ayto', mja tra'peza me Jeanne, ti dja'cesi refourbie, kaj to synoljko' skota'dj toy ine, wherefore oj fo'voj dilw'cikan edw' mja mihani', e'na stoj'hima, mja iremw'ntas pro'sceti criskej'a, WYZRY YTZXYTTNS SZRT, I' WZSTNS, PLTPSURZNX RZSZRULTS XROPNS dilw'nej nasties 17, epjlegme'nos, parene'vale aytoy's toys tomej's poy topocetoy'ntaj a'shima, mja asce'neja stin omj'hli twn fj'lwn, oj epjloge's twn djege'rsewn, klj'sejs steney'ej, a bank with Jeanne, mood refourbie, and the total darkness of the ine, wherefore fears were declared here a machine, a bet, a calming additional religion, WYZRY YTZXYTTNS SZRT, OR WZSTNS, PLTPSURZNX RZSZRULTS XROPNS declares nasties of 17, chosen, inserted these sectors badly placed, a disease in fog of friends, the choices of excitations, slopes of narrows i, in existing coatings of fixed glance of worms attached: straggaljsme'nos in order to it modifies ł ər ṭəḍ ṣ ṭ ⁿ c ṣṭōrʸ ⁿṭ ṣʸ əⁿəm əṣ ō ṭḥə ōł cə łłəv ṭ ⁿġ ṣṭr cṭrəṣ ʸəṭ it is absent at the duration of centres of children or hobbies in the schools it dines her making elegance of madnesses consequently, barriers of cover a usual grease the existence extended boys and the women of father it induces the expensive or cancelled fresh shoes that: , destroying in the huh numbers, extract from connecions unenormous stena'zontas,
private of timetables of blows culivate it boils that had fun, aerjwcoy'menoy plane in air, firmament, and escapes
Thanks for finishing this off. I hadn't realized, by the way, how distorted my link in the chain had become in this cached version. Here's wishing David Nemeth a good trip wherever he goes!
you know i was thinking pop art the day before i did this, maybe even a little Hank III, gotta get back to the (those) thunder storms in west texas and the nightly display south of roswell of meteor showers...
(3) Comments:
cheers, harry
cheers, harry
Post a Comment