All 5 entries tagged Poetry

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May 03, 2010

Rhymes and own–brand lager.

~ 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.

royal oak GY


May 01, 2010

Foetal Sonnet

~ 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.

*

Saint Ange

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.

nymphetamine

"In order to know virtue, we must first acquaint ourselves with vice."


April 30, 2010

Patricia 201025

~ 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.

Patricia 201025

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

To sweeten.

I tried to write,

To explain why I was sorry

And ashamed.

But it wasn’t my fault-

When you replaced your ‘beautiful Patsy’

With the beautiful game

And we used the children as a

Go-between

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

Pym Street.

A few miles,

A gulf.

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.

On skin.

Writing on skin.

aston hall


April 29, 2010

Buteo.

~ 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.

Friday 10:30

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.

Year 11. Patto. Football.


April 27, 2010

I am writing poetry, therefore am deep and meaningful.

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...'

paul calf.

"Is it a crime to hit a student across the back of the head with a snooker ball in a sock?"


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