Ophelia's Nun

olderman

FinsburyParkCarrots wrote:

Anyone want to do the Numbers Stations exercise?

I'm game. What is the Numbers Stations exercise?

FinsburyParkCarrots

olderman wrote:

I'm game. What is the Numbers Stations exercise?

Just up, a couple of posts on this page.

FinsburyParkCarrots

The similarity of cobblestones to spuds
was always in his mind. Especially these ones,
ringed, holed, wear blighted, dust jacketed
like the book of a staple life. Ah, a student’s town.

New ideas cloistered in medieval buildings.
Radicality in tweed, breath in a blighted skin
of ornate dust. He shovelled the trench in the quad
cursing the piebald faced masonic foreman

who'd ordered him to keep the cobblestones intact
as he scratched out the side of the trench, past
the first clog of black mud to a shallow of brick,
red peering. Head down in the black funk of the bog

at home he'd dug blighted furrows, and found slugs
as big as spuds, spuds as slack as slugs,
one September in Roscommon, under birdwhirl.
Now he dug trenches in an English college grounds

for information cables, he not able to wheel his barrow
over the hallowed green sanctioned for The Fellows
(sightless immortals stooping with rictus grins
like those of feudal barons claiming all a harvest for themselves).

Digging the shallows, he scratched at a bone of ants:
a stench of lime! A foul deed done before, here
in the shadows of staircases and clocks at ten to three.
The bones perhaps were his, and he was his ghost

digging his own ambition, the farmer's son in England,
grown weary and of age among September spuds,
ringed, holed, wear blighted, dust jacketed
like the book of a living death, of a staple life.

FinsburyParkCarrots

Fahy Armada

Ox-bow lake, calf bestraddled,
evidencing juncus, nardus, festuca,
red and turgid rivulets.

Bogflood.

You were the fort of pine for the Burkes
in Grace's castle, embayed,
when La Rata Encoronada ran aground,
that September.

Wahlenbergia hederacea,
Salix atrocinerea,
these exotic strands bent to river oblivion
are de Leiva's men,
camped in the Doona wood
awaiting the Santa Ana
and passage to an Antrim drowning
Away from Lucan's cull.

The woods are down, the plains are flooded,
La Rata is seen at low tide
In shifting sand
Two hundred yards out now
and the blackred ditches here
bleed young men hacked before shipsail
by Bingham's sword

(ambitious courtly steel
For Faery Queene Cynthia,
Custodian of souls).

Bogflood, tideblood.
All about Jack Daly's grazing lands.
And the waters past Blackrock
swirl, deadglutted to the North.

Fahy. It means "a playing field."

olderman

is good finsbury. i've read at the blissweave forum

your poems of england's fields are very intriguing

thanks

and

Cheers!!

Being Enlightened

FinsburyParkCarrots wrote:

The similarity of cobblestones to spuds
was always in his mind. Especially these ones,
ringed, holed, wear blighted, dust jacketed
like the book of a staple life. Ah, a student’s town.

New ideas cloistered in medieval buildings.
Radicality in tweed, breath in a blighted skin
of ornate dust. He shovelled the trench in the quad
cursing the piebald faced masonic foreman

who'd ordered him to keep the cobblestones intact
as he scratched out the side of the trench, past
the first clog of black mud to a shallow of brick,
red peering. Head down in the black funk of the bog

at home he'd dug blighted furrows, and found slugs
as big as spuds, spuds as slack as slugs,
one September in Roscommon, under birdwhirl.
Now he dug trenches in an English college grounds

for information cables, he not able to wheel his barrow
over the hallowed green sanctioned for The Fellows
(sightless immortals stooping with rictus grins
like those of feudal barons claiming all a harvest for themselves).

Digging the shallows, he scratched at a bone of ants:
a stench of lime! A foul deed done before, here
in the shadows of staircases and clocks at ten to three.
The bones perhaps were his, and he was his ghost

digging his own ambition, the farmer's son in England,
grown weary and of age among September spuds,
ringed, holed, wear blighted, dust jacketed
like the book of a living death, of a staple life.

I really enjoyed this one, Fins! And I liked the creepy turn it took, "the bones perhaps were his, and he was his ghost"--LOVE THAT! As usual, your works are amazing. It's nice to see a new thread dedicated to Ophelia's Nun....and now I'm thinking, "Get thee to a nunnery!"

FinsburyParkCarrots

Well, maybe we should give that nun some further adventures. Zeb and Zak too!

FinsburyParkCarrots

This is an old Zeb and Zak feature from a couple of Christmasses ago. I'll write some new stuff.

PRESENTER: Hello, good morning and welcome to a special Christmas edition of The Squid In Your Fridge. Today we discuss diversity of festive celebration over this holiday season, and interview two brothers who in the course of this yuletide will be honouring their own respective saturnalian practices. We go live to 98, The Larches, Wagtail Crescent, Sidcup, where the Squid is interviewing brothers Zeb and Zak Zeboogle at their home, to ask how they acknowledge and accommodate each others' festive customs.

(Cut to living room scene)

SQUID: So, brothers, tell me: Why is there a curtain partitioning you off from one another, across the middle of the room?

ZAK: Ask Zeb. It's this belief of his that he's made up. Cabovus. It involves getting up first thing in the morning and playing this Sammy Hagar album at full volume, Ten Thirteen, making all these vroom vroom noises, and wearing this false blonde perm wig and a spandex jump suit. He's got this mantra, "Ah'm a reeeeed rockaaaaaa yaaaaaaaa, c'mon lit's git dahn an' have a parrrrrrtttay" and from behind the curtain I can hear people, I swear I can, laughing and shouting "Rawwwwwwk Zebbie bayyyyby", and really, sometimes it gets pretty noisy. Red Rocking I ask you.

SQUID (to Zeb): And what do you say to these charges, Zebedee? Nice jump suit by the way.

ZEB (dancing): Forevvvah in blue agave dreeeeams, dude, we's rawwkin' dah house. Allow me to introduce Raquel - she's a deeply beautiful person from Miami Beach, Florida, we met when me and the boys wuzz jus' roundin' up our last reunion tour ...

RAQUEL (to Squid): Hiiii honey! Aren't you just an adorable lil' Squiddy Widdy? Yaaa. I've known Zebby here since he played that last Van Halen tribute thang down at the Palm Beach Boogie Palace Garden House Hotel Shack place. Ah tell yizz, the joint wuzz jumpin'.

SQUID: Er, I'm sure it was.

ZEB: And this is Conquista, from Mexico City. She doesn't speak much but maaaaan, she daaaaances sweetly.

SQUID: Well hellooooo, Conquista! (To Zeb) Now, Zebedee --

ZEB: Yassss, hit it, brother --

SQUID: Some people might say your particular festival is a little riotous and not in keeping with what others see as a time for quiet, reflective contemplation --

ZEB: Awwwww, like gitt wid duh scene, man. Check out the festival that Zak's got going on. Greyvius. He's wearing a grey shirt, grey trousers, grey socks, grey slippers, grey woollen fingerless gloves, grey nosehair and maaaan, grey tinted spectacles. Probably grey long johns too. But maaaaan, the worst of it is, he keeps this whole danged thang goin' all year long, writin' poetry about hail knows what.

SQUID: Yes, I confess it is a little drab.

ZAK: Only a little? Oh, I must be failing in my mission to abstain from all semblance of appearing interesting ... Yea, I must endeavour to write a poem that conveys absolute absence of vitality, of levity, of humanity ... now, let me see ... let me intone a new composition, an incantation to a discarded fish and chip wrapper... "Verily thus the ink runneth where rain stains the tall/ biro scrawl on the chip packet, one large chips, one small/ and verily thus are my days, blown about the street/ like the grey, forgotten chip packet, underneath your feet". No! I've failed again! There's too much rhyme, metre, rhythm, bounce! I need something that flatlines as a consummate expression of Greyviusness!!! I've got it!!!! "Durrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr, / durrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr,/ durrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr"!!! Yesss. I think I just might be onto something --

SQUID: Hey, Zeb!

ZEB: Yep?!!

SQUID:Open the curtain a sec. I'm coming in with you lot!!!!! Squid's gonna parttttayyyyyy!!!! I'm a Cabovus convert!!!! Let's have a liddle Van Halen twiddlin' goin' on ... Squiddy's feelin' like eruptin' on duh dancefloor!!! Hey, Conquista, the lady who says nothing, you have beautiful eyes. Let's dance and work dat thang!!!! Yeah baby!!! It's a Cabovus miracle, that's right!!! Who needs Greyvius!!!! Let's git down!!!! Yaaaaaaaaaaaa, "Happy birthdayyyyyyyy tooooooooo yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa, uhhh huhhh!!! Rawwwwwkin' dis half of duh living room!!!!!!!!"

ZAK: Durrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr......

ZEB: Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.......

ZAK: Durrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.........

ZEB: Rawwwwwwwwwkkkkin!!!!!!!!!.......

ZAK: Durrrrrrrr durrrrrrrrr durrrrrrrrrrr......

SQUID: And from all of us here at 98 The Larches, Wagtail Crescent, may we wish you.....

ALL: A VERY HAPPY CABOGREYVIUS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

dyaogirl

Yaaaaaaaaaaaaay!!!!!

Let's hear it for Zeb and Zak! Encore!!!!

Gotta luv dos guysss!

*clap* *clap* *clap*

:D:D:D

Being Enlightened

Hee Hee!!! Man, that's funny! Especially Zebby ole boy rawkin' out to Van Halen, Sammy Hagar style in his half of the living room!! LOL!

Personally, I prefer Davey Lee (gimme some a dat Yankee Rose, sweet cheeks), but to each his own!

FinsburyParkCarrots

Here! I just wrote this right now. It's inspired by the weather.

ZAK: “Death grey swathes of cloud veil lay
Their weight upon the day;
Oh sun, don’t come this way to play!
I’m whey-faced, yay, and fey.”


ZEB: Waheyyy!
Soooooo gaaaaaayyy!


ZAK: Shut up, oik! You’re messin’ wid me aura.
I’ve channelling here, like Derek Acorah.
I’m trying to write about the weather,
Thinking up some wise and clever
Words. So could you cut it, mate?

ZEB: Ain’t it a bastard, spring’s so late?
Usually, in March, I get the garden
Ready, and I make a start on
Barbecuin’, stove an’ bricks
An’ chicken’, and I get some chicks
An’ get ‘em dancing’ on tequila!
This feckin’ snow’s a partayyy killer!!
Will this winter never end
For me to have away my end
With Pammy Sue and Peggy Mary
(even if they’re rather hairy)?

ZAK: No, I need the snow in April!
Misery’s my sacred, staple
Diet for a poet’s toil!

ZEB: I like my wimmins on the boil.
In bikinis, lookin’ mighty!
Sun and swimming’ pools, alrighty!

ZAK: This weather’s what you just deserve.
Zeb, you are a shallow perv.

ZEB: Kinder words were never spoken.
Hey Zak! I think the clouds have broken!
You can write dem winter odes
But I’m a gonna get me loads
Of ladies on the patio.
Pass the ‘phone an’ watch me go!!!!!
Come on Zak, cut out that act
Of actin’ deep, it is a fact
You’ll go all cross eyed, lookin’ starey!
---- Ah! Hello! Is that Peggy Mary?

ZAK: Dammit, now my S-A-D,
The iceberg of my poetry
Is thawing from a grey to blue.
Hey, what’s up wid Pammy Sue?
All this talk of girls and garden
Has given me a great big har--

ZEB: That’s the spirit, Zakky Boy!
Poetry’s a useless toy
For men who want to get their fun!

ZAK: Rawwk, mudderfuggs! Bring on the sun!!!!!!!

dyaogirl

Let’s Go! Go! Daddy-O! Daddy-O!

Firin’ up the bar-bee in the rain!
This spring’s gonna be fantastically
passionately and wildly insane!!

Zeb’s got sunshine and tekee--laaa on dah brain!!!!!!!!!!

:D:D:D:D:D

Being Enlightened

dyaogirl wrote:

Let’s Go! Go! Daddy-O! Daddy-O!

Firin’ up the bar-bee in the rain!
This spring’s gonna be fantastically
passionately and wildly insane!!

Zeb’s got sunshine and tekee--laaa on dah brain!!!!!!!!!!

:D:D:D:D:D

Tekee-laaa sunrises on dah pat-ee-oh, a charcoaled schmorgishborg on dah bar-bee, ladies in tiger lilly sun dresses an' aqua-marine bikini's dancing the grey right out of the winter's chill and brining on syrupy sunshine smiles...and what is this??? Zak's thinking like a tree! Sounds like it's time to do some gardening, a humina humina! Good on ya, Zak-a-ree! Hee Hee!

So much fun!

Ali

[Bite me,
Love me,
Let It be,
Doctors fuck me,
In a tree]

So you say you're special,
loving kind.
I search it.Ya know.Really do.
You're breath,
it smells so...so...so....armored.
I gave the soldier a flower.
I watched a man die,
No, that was a lie.
I watch him die,everyday.
Just turn on the TV and you'll see a massacre.
If we didn't carry our own weapons,
where would we be?
Don't fists provide fury,
and hearts provide love?
A kinda "mix" of the two.
You're going about the fight
the wrong or right way.
Reversal.Double negatives.Psychology.
Dreams mean nothing.Visions everything.
A lost pain of a friend,
and I'm dreaming of peace with Richard,
and a trip to see the ocean...
For it happened today;
A ghost whispered,smell of sweat
sold and bottled in a plastic,
unrecyclable cup for too expesive of a price
with some myrhh jsu to keep you in the game.
Yea,you can sarcatically play,but,
you'll [only get caught.]

[Statement:adev]

Cheers an a fag....finnsy....:)