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Ophelia's Nun
FinsburyParkCarrots
Seattle, WA Posts: 12,223
Ophelia's nun runs the chessboard
clutching a red tomato
away from the banjaxed penguins
with pages of the Revelations curling about them
breezesounded conches
in a whirling blossom storm
perspectives bulbous
show earth like a green breast
and the mother grows tomatoes
and tells the nun to run
blushfaced, flappedyhabitted
out to the left of the frame
into a world where Queen Anne's ghost
is drinking Queen Anne whiskey
in the Queen Anne bar
where dogs are cats on the college lawn
and where bekilted men with impossible beards of ginger
toss cabers into dancing mountains of purple and red
and Ophelia's nun sits down
under the shade of a topiary pig
and smells the colours, tastes the shapes
and bites into her red tomato
joyously alligning the seeds on her lip
and giggling
giggling at the penguins in pursuit,
forever in the wrong direction.
clutching a red tomato
away from the banjaxed penguins
with pages of the Revelations curling about them
breezesounded conches
in a whirling blossom storm
perspectives bulbous
show earth like a green breast
and the mother grows tomatoes
and tells the nun to run
blushfaced, flappedyhabitted
out to the left of the frame
into a world where Queen Anne's ghost
is drinking Queen Anne whiskey
in the Queen Anne bar
where dogs are cats on the college lawn
and where bekilted men with impossible beards of ginger
toss cabers into dancing mountains of purple and red
and Ophelia's nun sits down
under the shade of a topiary pig
and smells the colours, tastes the shapes
and bites into her red tomato
joyously alligning the seeds on her lip
and giggling
giggling at the penguins in pursuit,
forever in the wrong direction.
Post edited by Unknown User on
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Comments
welcome to the world of "finsbury"
its a great one
he takes u to some really amazing places
and as always very well written
this bright red scream
is not what it may seem
i'm not crying for attention
don't even want to mention
you see, can't even seem to speak
so i create this scarlet shriek
hot blood runs red
to cool my head
it don't last long
and i know it's wrong
the pain it returns
o fuck, and it burns
the fear, the shame, the guilt, the hurt
can drain it all with one crimson spurt
then the ritual, to clean, to dress
and back it comes, this jailor's stress
cycle of violence
just doesn't make sense
hurts people i love
below and above
i do try to hide what's festering inside
but the blood on the wall
tells everyone all
man i thought was a friend
said "you're a bore, this must end"
so it was that i flew
to the Hell that i knew
they call it bathroom
to me it's my doom
my razors i missed
so i punched with my fist
the pain i can stand
is done with my hand
trouble is my head's
made me emotionally dead
stabbed me to the hilt
with shame and with guilt
push away those who care
'cause to love, i don't dare
need to punish myself
and damage my health
'cause the thing i hate most
is my body, my host
brought up to be taught
that i'm worth no good thoughts
"you're ugly and stupid, you're fat and you're dumb"
"shall break your spirit, keep you under my thumb"
she once did relate
with a look of pure hate
that if i'd been aborted
the world would be sorted
to her i had one use
a child to take abuse
the taunts and the blows
and she's the only one who knows
exactly what went on
see, my memory's gone
i remember a scared, hurting child
possibly defiled
at seven years old
i was told
that the pain and the blood
was the start of womanhood
as far as i've seen
there's a month in between
i didn't remember
'til last september
a splash of rose in a night
a six year gap?don't sound right
and why did my mind
take so long to find?
and why only part?
would the truth break my heart?
i have fears that i clutch
yet i'm too scared to touch
are these hidden traumas
the cause of all my dramas?
yet more reasons for self hate?
useless and pathetic, cait
and so i cut and hit and burn
lessons in life? i'll never learn
i befriend all the users
suck it up to the abusers
and when i'm spent, and all is done
i turn around and they are gone
and so the cycle starts again
the hate, disgust, the shame, the pain
and god, i wish it were a dream
but here we are the bright red scream
cicatrice...july 6,2003
and hell's afraid i'll take over"
fear of death is gain
scratching the walls of my glass coffin,scraping, raping my nails on the glass on the bottom..is there no end? when will this end? if i was u, i'd fucking hate me too
rock bottom's safest place to be..
..you can't fall any further
life aint a bitch..it's jeffrey dahmer
on St James's Park
under a tree
munching a quarter of hash.
I saw him again,
the same squirrel,
about half an hour later,
head bobbing,
smiling to himself,
letting his tail swish about him
as he went up to say Hi
to all the lovers in the grass
making daisy chains
and doing frisky things under the August sun
of a London afternoon.
I saw him meet his friend the pigeon
whose eyes looked pretty glazed too
and I saw him go over to the pigeon
and I swear this to this day
He said
"Hey pigeon
Hey man
These tourists are beautiful
They leave presents for us, man"
and the pigeon said
"Yeah, goddamn... makes ya wanna fly"
and the squirrel said
"Yeahhh, I know how you feel, pigeon"
and he patted the pigeon's tail
"Heyyy, yeahhh, hey pigeon mannn, cool"
And he bobbled off over to Buckingham Palace
to ask the hotdog sellers outside
what munchees they had
for a supersonic squirrel
from Deltos Alpha Zeta.
predawn birdsong
the pulse
gathering
dawn's pink breast rising
in cloudsearing gold
You are
my first taste of a strawberry's
electric
shiver in delicious dreams of June
You are my blissweave
a jewelled wave
in meadowed sunlight
You are the kiss
that in the mystery of touch
Unbuttons the cloak to my heart
You are all
Rise beautiful jewel
Rise as dawn for all.
wow cicatrice...
this poem has a brutal feel to it
and really fast paced
stoned squirrels and pigeons!!
what is the world coming to?
Stuck his arse on
the prong of a weathervane
His hopes were all stunted
For the prong was half blunted
But he wasn't the type to complain.
upon the foundling's arm; those welted feet
that hardly walked a step upon the earth
speak of dungeoned years, though. Sure, the beat
of sticks have pummelled at the thighs
to make them puce and broken. When we squeeze
Upon his sores he makes no sound, no ragged sighs
or faces pain might make. We might seize
His collar, ask his name, but still the stare
within the blue sees past us: when the flame
is passed before his eyes, we take care
to coax his gaze to follow. But the same
Far distant look from those pale jewels of his
Sees through our time of fraught contigencies.
But when's he handed paper and a quill
the grunting mute will move with grace his hand,
and roll the quill till looping cyphers fill
the page. A name, now. "Kaspar Hauser". And
as if by some compulsion, staring farther
Out, he chimes these lonely words, slowspoken:
"I want to be a rider like my father."
He shuts his eyes. Our light is streaked and broken.
The prison tower's deeper from inside
Than walks around the outside might allow.
The eyes flick open, blazing with a wide
and wordless soul's incomparable glow.
We see the way the space is, and we bow.
Here, silence roars a soul no word can know.
Gonna fukkin' drive all night looooong
Up dah highway of lurrrrrrrve like a milkgoat
Wid mah bottles clinkin' out mah song
Jinglejangledejonggggg
You can't catch up wid me, speedcats,
Ah'm dah stellar superhighway Sublime
in mah floater of flamin' exceeeeedance
an' mah cartons of pasteurised prime
(Had tah git dat tah rhyme)
An'
Fukk fukk fukk fukk fukk
I'm Joyrider in a milkfloat
Oi oi oi oi oi oi
Ah got orange cartons too
Uhh uhh uhh uhh uhh
She burns the night like a patrol boat
Burnin' dah night
all night long
just like luuurve
yass like lurrve
in mah milkfloat of luuurve
gotta burn dah milk baby
Gotta churn it up
WWWWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWW!!!!!!
(guitar solo)
An'
Fukk fukk fukk fukk fukkkkkkkk
etc etc
Here's to the recusant true to his word
Here's to the soldier who waits in the mud
Here's to the worker who grafts till there's blood
Here's to the lovers who give without snags
Here's to the climbers of hills without crags
Here's to the watchers of stars, never praised
And here's to new poets, where truth's been erased.
up 'til today, the only other person who read that was my ex (now friend), it was good to get an un biased view. and fast, brutal and in your face was the aim. so, thank you,oh first critic of mine.
it would just be nice if everybody's autobiographical writings were about fluffy kittens and pretty flowers. boring, yes, but...
and hell's afraid i'll take over"
fear of death is gain
scratching the walls of my glass coffin,scraping, raping my nails on the glass on the bottom..is there no end? when will this end? if i was u, i'd fucking hate me too
rock bottom's safest place to be..
..you can't fall any further
life aint a bitch..it's jeffrey dahmer
Finsbury
Take the treebranch one up from old Sweeney.
Or, give me a shovel or give me a pen
and I will dig deeper than Heaney.
But I'll make of my time what it takes to make wonder -
Some heavenglimpse! Sweating and toiling,
or raving and burning, I'll work to make thunder
for harvests droughtplundered and failing.
Feel free to write whatever you like on dah thread!!!!!!
Love
Fins
And turn it all into high art,
to write without style. Make it plain
And resist the impulse of the heart
To epicise feelings, when what
Is epic in art is the way
You capture the crux of the flat
Hand to mouth gist of your day.
Objective correlatives, right?
Show, don't just state what you feel.
For the emptiest statements that blight
art are those that demand and appeal
to barometise pain, prairie wide:
"It's as wide and more deep than your load."
Take a walk for ideas. Go outside
and find history, space and a code
for experience, then. Get in sync
with the myths of those others who ride
on the mangy mule, bearing the stink
of its rotting flanks, barely in stride
through the desert of soul for a life.
The knack of conveying inside
Is not just by taking a knife
And spilling your guts on the page.
No-one cares about that, once it's done.
Find an argot for joy and for rage
That's not merely written for one.
" 'That man deserves penal servitude, in my opinion,' perused John. 'I'm not sure it isn't my duty to offer him a couple of hundred a year on condition that he writes no more.' "
The fuckas in the baseball caps
who all look like Eminem
when he was five
spliffed up in de mobile
wid de luminous turbo
they don't know
ha ha
ha ha
oh lord
this road ain't goin' nowhere!
There's a green park wid some trees an stuff
and the street goes round like an unlucky horseshoe
and there's only one way back out
Where de cops is waitin'
quietly readin' the papers
an' pickin' de noses
an' askin' about swappin' shifts sometime later in de week
an' this is better than walkin' the Lake District for inspiration
this is better than Dallas!
Just gotta
Just gotta see
How it ends
Your the king of "Poetry, Prose, Music & Art"
Salute !!!!
her spectacular quinkology rising up through the very earth
intercepting the computer cable
and squigglifying the modem
pulsingeffervescingorangeyness
spinningexcitationalwheemorphs
{{{{{{{{{like this}}}}}}}}}
{{{{{{{{{{{wheee}}}}}}}}}}}
and giving me the feeling to write.
Cassia's my boardidol, you know!
delicious bodylight in glow
of your fair lover, moonthralled now
Entrance where dreams are honey slow.
finsbury..you're deliciously bonkers
and i love you for it:D
and hell's afraid i'll take over"
fear of death is gain
scratching the walls of my glass coffin,scraping, raping my nails on the glass on the bottom..is there no end? when will this end? if i was u, i'd fucking hate me too
rock bottom's safest place to be..
..you can't fall any further
life aint a bitch..it's jeffrey dahmer
The reds are turning strawberry
And fingertips have dented the relief along the Himalayas
and someone's carefully sellotaped along the equator
and it still likes to take you to Leningrad
and hey!, here's the Kinshasa of Mobutu se se Seku
(with his ocelot hat
decimating insurgents by gun in the dungeons
while Ali and Foreman fight above them)
and that's Idi's Kampala for that matter
and Betty Ford's drinking in that Washington there
and Ed is yet to get his first surfing suit in Evanston
and I'm in my pushchair in Cambridge
counting abacus beads right there where my finger points now
with the box wireless on Listen With Mother
and this globe deserves a spin
this 12" stereo globe of 1974
that I got at the car boot sale
wheeee spin it baby
I think I can hear "Kung Fu Fighting".....
back by dope demand
you need to find a way
to fill that blank hole
so don't delay
lets loose all controle
I never touched that sheeeeet again.
It's not achieved through therapies you try
It isn't in your pay or in your drive
and it doesn't come from fighting to survive
That isn't you
You'll never see
what it ever really means to be
It's in a dream
it's in a sound
That can never reach your ground
It's out of hand, my friend
It's out of hand, my friend
It doesn't come from teaching me your song
It doesn't stand beside your right or wrong
It doesn't come from wars that last a year
and it knows you can't get freedom to appear
When that's not you
If you can't find
The true magic, you're denying with your mind
It's in a dream
It's in a sound
That you can never comprehend
It's out of hand, my friend
It's out of hand
It's out of hand
You'll never get near
Never get near to see
It's out of hand
It's out of hand
Believe me
Believe me now.