sasha, i think that is very very good x

i'm listening to pagan poetry. oh björk, how we love thee.

quote:

---

Originally posted by: chemicalfears
"
ooo, i thoruoghly reccommend the Sandman comics by Neil Gaiman to ALL of you...catalyst for a lot of things I already thought, and exceptionally well written.
"

---

I second that recommendation. Also, anyone vaguely pissed off with life and relationships might want to check out 'Kill Your Boyfriend written' by Grant Morrison.

And loved your poem as well, Sash. Sometimes spontaneous poems can be the best type.

yeah, im on number 7 of the Sandman comics, I LOOOOVE them!

and yes, I've read Johnny the Homicidal Maniac comics, in the Director's Cut edition. i thought it was fantastic, dark and sick, but gooood.

me
xxx

I vaguely knows about Sandman comics. I know Neil Gaiman writes it. What is the story 'bout?

Good Omens by Terry Pratchet and Neil Gaiman is awesome!

Mmm... Neil Gaiman.

Um, this thread has wandered off topic. As usual. Maybe I should write a poem?

You shudda put that photo in the "Hot or Not" thread Alice so we could all tell you how much he mings!

That was quite beautiful, Sash.

xx

thankyou =)

i'm glad you liked it. the Sandman comics are inspiring me a lot at the moment, getting me thinking.

glad you like it, like i said.

me
xxx

Yet another poem!



Never drown in Worcester sauce -
it's the stickiest kind of death.

Keep a bubble of soap left
for when you're ninety and cranky.

Then you can swallow your pride
and see your life with all its rights and wrongs -
the view from the hills is such a gospel.

Don't throw yourself off a cliff -
the open air doesn't deserve your sacrifice.

A chariot will pick you up at your doorstep some day
when your voice is just strong enough to say 'I love you'.

Until then
let the cards slide off the table
and learn the choreographies of life.

Maybe tomorrow you won't need your umbrella.
The rain will wash your body effortlessly -
and you won't mind.

i love your poetry alberto, especially that you managed to get worcester sauce into a poem without it sounding the least bit daft!!

come now,
sing of love
and cheese!
bring your children,
feast with music!

see the breeze?
whisper twice, and
he'll do a jig -
two smiles a dance!

lift your skirts,
leave your shirts,
braid your hair
but don't forget -
that

most of all
the piper's call,
and bonfire's light
must come before
the banquet!

sing and play,
play and sing,
here's a penny
for your dreams tomorrow;
doesn't the air smell so sweet?

me
xxx

Amniotic
You are
shivering, enfeebled but bold, new, encased in. . .
something wet. . .
in � vinegar? Oil?
Formaldehyde?
It binds you about the waist, holds out your arms,
moistens your ball-bearing eyes, floods your pinprick nostrils,
and - while you are learning to swim and be liquid - it
keeps you here;
it keeps you;
it keeps you waiting, growing, changing,
but always
it keeps you here;
safe, wet, waiting, growing, changing,
and here.


-- Edited by falafel at 15:20, 2005-05-10

quote:

---

Originally posted by: indie_hunk
"Alby, I liked your poem. I think you are quite eloquent!"

---

Thanks, hun. But which one of the whole lot do you mean? :oP

Er... Scary, Dave. :oP

That was nice, Sash, but I'm still in love with your Long March poem. There is something about poetry and home that moves me very much. It probably is because I'm so far away from home!

Here come two poems. The first one is a bit angry, and the second one is not at all like myself, so read it bearing in mind it's very tongue-in-cheek. It's dedicated to a very special poet and an injured bike!


They think they can measure me
with a straight ruler,
attempting to divide me
into boxes of cardboard
and paper.

But I'm hard to tune.
My arms rise like spikes
and consume the wallpaper
with the smash of hammers.

No-one knows my bonfire,
the corner of my eye where
caught between palicades
my heartbeat burns
like an estampede.

Through a desert my breath
seeks a rope to tie my hopes to -
blinded by the claustrophobia
of ships looking for a harbour that
for once
isn't made of stainless steel.

I'm not made of hay,
of pretty words, not even
of flesh.

I'm made of shaking soil,
of moving mountains spitting
irreverent words coated with muslin.

I'm hard to embrace.
My small chest as big as
the ecuator ascends and
descends, fuming like a
wolf's breath at midnight.

They want to paint me blue
and embroider my face
with pink butterflies.

But I can't wait to tear
my eyelashes out to make them
see my eyes more clearly.

Look inside me -
come in for tea -
but never expect to trace your footsteps
back out.

Stay in the sun -
it's much warmer there.
Behind my thick door
you'll only find layers of disgust,
the trail of nails
and torn wallpaper,

exhilarating -
exhaling.

____


I eat men
(To Sylvia)

When I wake up in the morning
I check the men-traps in my house
to find my juicy breakfast.

After leaving the house,
full up and content, I sell
encyclopedias to handsome strangers.

In the library
I'm the queen of the lavatories
parading my penis between cubicles.

At midday hunger finds me
and my mouth chews on
the nearest neck in sight.

Afternoons are the sweetest time of day.
Out in the sunshine, unawares,
my pray lie with their arms bare.

In the evening pepper and salt
for the round and fleshy lips
of my kidnapped birthday present.

By night I always fast,
(astonishing, I know!)
anticipating the morning glory.

Vixen by day, nun by night
I eat my way through life
always searching for the perfect bite.





-- Edited by AlbyFC at 11:00, 2005-05-12

-- Edited by AlbyFC at 11:01, 2005-05-12

Waiting

standing on the shore
head in the clouds
long summer eve'nings
stay lost and found

watching the low tide
waiting for you
finding reality
alone in truth

standing on the edge
waiting to fall
holding back the river
waiting for war

Dave likes wanking
And also banking
But mainly wanking
While he's banking

o how anon doth rail and claw
with its wit and its charm;
one could almost pray the
little thing would never come to harm!

but o what poison 'neath a mask
may everyday yet lurk,
when rhyming poorly (and I hear, sorely)
appeareth its only perk.

still be not harsh, for time may tell
who this anonymous seemeth to be -
and remember friends, on you depends
whether it hath wit like thee.

me
xxx

-- Edited by chemicalfears at 19:52, 2005-05-12

That pleasure, sir, would not be thine,
but finds its base in me, for I recall
from distant pasts a long-held memory;

"Books of myth to us do whisper
of poets who could burn and blister,
blind the gaze and near death bring
the lowliest beggar, priest or king."

Texts do further make the claim
that Celts once roamed the land,
upon which a blessing was bestowed
by the Gods' immortal hands.

This blessing long and wide was
brought upon the Druids' heads,
wherein did dwell the Holy Flame,
whereout, tore men to shreds.

So be not happy nor be sad
for this I yet believe,
whomsoever poetic ire doth raise
will burn and scald and bleed.

me
xxx

-- Edited by chemicalfears at 20:08, 2005-05-12

quote:

---

Originally posted by: indie_hunk
"

The third one. Probably because I've been traveling all my life."

---

And all you want is a cuppatea? ;o)

Thanks, Nic! :o)

Sash, I love your poems which don't rhyme and the ones which do! And what a good job you do at replying to witticisms.

Phil, if you don't post another poem in less than a week I'll scream. ;o)

beautiful poem dave

You guys are so articulate! I'm bloody hopless.
Well done!