All 5 entries tagged Poetry
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May 03, 2010
~ I'm childish, and like re-writing things. I should either dedicate this to Grimsby, or to Kerry Katona. I'm not sure which is worse...
There Was An Old Woman Who Lived In A Shoe
There was an old woman who lived in a shoe
She had so many kids; she didn’t know what to do.
She suspected at least twelve different dads,
The lack of child maintenance sent her quite mad.
She fed them on ‘Iceland’ family bags
And when they played up, she burnt them with fags.
But when the kid’s wounds were spotted at school
In came social services, out went her rule.
Although she’s in prison, each night she thanks God
She doesn’t have to deal with those twelve little sods.
May 01, 2010
~ A sonnet, with a painfully forced rhyme scheme. I've also had to put in little asterisks inbetween stanzas on account of this formatting being evil.
As oppoed to e loving, gushing, or even vaguely sensitive ode, this is based on a work by one of my favourite nutters, The Marquis de Sade. So yes, here's my adaptation of 'Philosophy in the Bedroom', with pretty much all of the smut taken out. Sorry.
As summer fades with its own inertia, deaf Gods breed and grow.
Dead husks of tracts scream into time the greatest folly of human reason.
When the fallen sing with hollow breaths, and we reap what they sow,
The first begotten of the dead sets our minds ablaze with talk of treason.
Tear down the seven stars and engage the prophets in libertine games,
As they deafen us with a seraphim dirge
That burns our ears and casts our virtue to the flames.
Dolmance prepared our burial chamber and all our souls did purge
As we blissfully scream Golgotha lullabies to blackened mud.
We drown the frail child in blasphemous rhymes
Until our saviour’s tears taste of wine and wormwood,
As we seek absolution, then repeat our crimes.
We waltz until Saint Peter’s gates do slam
And we meet once more as fragrant Krakow Lambs.
"In order to know virtue, we must first acquaint ourselves with vice."
April 30, 2010
~ A writing task that grew... briefly. And then was promptly forgotten about. It's not creative, i'm just re-telling facts that are a little too close to home. Names and locations haven't been changed. I'm lazy.
Another poem. I'm sick of this already. Actually, i'm not sure if it's the poems, or the fact that i'm sat here eating honey in the dead of night.
At the asylum,
Bricks and mortar are
Our great divide
The shadow in the teapot
Sneers back at me from bitter tannins
“pour out the tea”
Pour out your sins with a lump of sugar
I tried to write,
To explain why I was sorry
But it wasn’t my fault-
When you replaced your ‘beautiful Patsy’
With the beautiful game
And we used the children as a
I knew we were strangers
Just sharing a bed.
I only ever liked you when you were drunk,
When gin became your cologne
And your smell lingered on our bedsheets-
Remember? Egyptian cotton, top of the range.
When you left,
I covered them with snaking lines of flowers and vines
To make a tablecloth
For afternoon tea.
When the children faded,
And you hid my pills in a packet of Marlboro
To stop me climbing the walls,
You found me in the basement
Scaling the floor.
They said you drank to drown your sorrows,
But you almost drowned me too.
Now the ink won’t stop bleeding,
However loud I scream.
The paper deafens me,
And I know it wouldn’t cover the distance.
Porchester Road to
A few miles,
The words would arrive stale.
In time, I’ll pour it all out
On warm, soft parchment
Smelling of gin and cheap fags.
On your veins, on your eyes, on your hands,
On your skin.
Writing on skin.
April 29, 2010
~ In order to keep this blog semi-active at the very least, here's some rather old, painful poetry.
~ Loss can make people drink, over-eat, harm themselves, or others, or just waste away. Me? I massacre the English language in a vaguely verse-like form. Oh well, it kept me occupied. I wrote this quite a while back, in late September. It was the first poetry i'd written in years.
Also, this poem. It's all true. every word. I don't think the memory of that crow will ever leave me.
When they played Aerosmith
At your funeral
We tried to smile
As your photo
Danced with the vibrations
Of that bloody guitar solo.
We stared and waited
For that same stupid grin
When we’d forgive the big joke
And go back to yours
To act like kids
And whinge about school.
But you made the vicar cry
And we all held it together
For your mother
But when that crow came
And sang to silence
No-one dare breathe.
April 27, 2010
Haiku #1: Failure
WILL BE HERE AFTER SUBMISSION N'STUFF HAS HAD IT.
UGH, WAHEY PLAGIARISM THREATS!
And to finish, a quote from the wonderful Miss Josie Long. I feel it sums up my approach to this art form perfectly.
...'at that time, I went to see a performance poet who I found really inspiring, which is a shock because obviously, normally I would despise performance poetry with the level of hatred that's appropriate. Which is, if you don't know, ALL THE HATRED YOU HAVE IN YOUR HEART...'
"Is it a crime to hit a student across the back of the head with a snooker ball in a sock?"