Originally posted by corduroy_vedder erm yeh...*nods in agreement*
Ah, but with what, Young Grasshopper-nephewmelad? The words I used, or the truth they purported to convey?; for as Derrida reckoned, "Zerrrr eeees nozzeeng outzide erv zeee texxxxt" and, that being so, my words only related to each other as words, and meant nothing ... unless they connoted for you a kind of negative capability in their nonsensicality ...
"Ask me any question"
Said the hippo to the snake,
As he sweated like a piston
Rolling in his muddy lake.
"Asssk you any quessstion?"
Hissed the snake up on the bank.
"Yes, ask me any question",
Said the hippo, "And be frank".
"Yesssss. Who won the Tour de Franccccce
In nineteen sssssixxxxxty-sssssixxxx"?",
The snake asked, darting like a lance
his tongue, in testy flicks.
"Lucien Aimar came first;
Janssen finished second....
... Eating grass sure builds your thirst",
the wise old hippo reckoned.
Stourbridge Common ponies, owned by Fen
travellers, chew vaguely at the light
meadow grass. A head lifts now and then
and eyes roll sideways, whitepaned by a bright
fish-mirror glimmer from the stream
riverward, as rowers sharply push
their boat, a black dot on the steely gleam
across an eye, another speck in rush.
These vagrant animals, left here these ten
days, chew gravely at the yellow-thin
meadow grass. Tails swish upward when
the wind suggests a fly. Time roars within
their poised, unblinking eyes. Old bones know
Few shadows from new trees await them now.
It's that sideways stare, as if they're busting their eyestrings to swivel them the full ninety. Horses' eyes are so huge and brown and reflective, and everything's in them. I mean everything.
A collaborative, total improv? Sure thing, I'll start:
Breakfast-time. Ernest Smedgley's vertebrae creaked like parsimonious church mice as he stooped in his frayed navy blue cardigan and paisley pyjamas over the dining room table. His glassy white hands shook musically like travellers' maracas as they negotiated to pour a cracking pink pot of tea into a mug for his elderly sister Doris, who was vacantly sitting in her terylene nightgown, thermal mauve stockings and teddy bear slippers, humming gummily a snatch of Bless Your Beautiful Hide. As Ernest poured, brown steaming tea splashed and flashed on the lacy teacloth. Ernest thought the pattern resembled Old Mister Grisler from Crank Street - before they knocked it down for the supermarket - with his three legged terrier Archibald.
"Oooh, Doris, look what I just made. It's old Mr Grisler!"
Your turn ...
EDIT: Forgot what I came here to edit. Keep it rolling!
Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots Do you ever get up in December
at blacktangled five o'clock
when winds howl a gallowside timbre,
bansheeing you to your work?
Do you ever line up with the others,
For graft on the new motorway,
Cursing God under cigarette smothers
As you queue for the van and the day?
Do you queue for the motorway daywork
and hope you'll be picked for the job?
Do you flinch till you're sick to your stomach?
Do you twist at your ulcer's next stab?
Do you climb in the van when you're prodded
And sit in the back with the rest
Not caring till dawn where you're headed
But dreaming of dreams that you've lost?
Does the dawn light up grey? Does the frost keep?
Is the foreman longcoated and flushed?
Are his eyes set to trip up your footstep
As he rankles you (redfaced and rushed,
and shovelling clumsily, shaking
as shudders of blood in your head
feed into your dreaming-in-waking
the nightmare of working while dead)?
Does the barrow wheel give when you're loaded
and balancing ballast and sand?
Do you laugh when you're Paddied and goaded
For letting the grips slip your hand?
Do you bend and backfill ducted trenches
to show you're as good as each man?
Do you carry huge sacks, on your haunches,
just to prove than an immigrant can?
One day, for sure, we'll be the pioneers.
The ghettoed days look out to fenced off years.
Brilliant!
A song and tribute for the sacrifices of past, present, and future generations.
'..... Ah! A perfect illustration of the poststructuralist paradox. Does the signifier "Merlot" correspond with the 'truth' of the bottle I polished off last night, or do we hold in our thoughts a different "signified" of bottle-of-Merlot-ness? Perhaps we're dreaming of the same bottle!" -FinsburyParkCarrots
Aye And verilie, as instructed by my moste High Reverende Archibalde G'Nadde, I ENTERED yon theatre situated in Her Royal Highness's South Banke in ordere to reporte at a so callede "GIGGE" the debauchede carnivalle entertainmente of the new phenomenonne of "ROCKE". Presente in this sweatte fuelled venue, I witnessed all artes appertaining to the Disgracefulle ARTE of grunge musicke; in the midstes of a hoarde of raucouse groundlinges, grouped as a "pitte" of uncoothe youthes pracktisinge ye diabolickal arte of MOSHINGE, was a licentious manne MOSHINGE alsoe with themme, passinge arounde the deville's own brewe of redde wine. His name was EDWARDE of VEDDERE: His eyes rolled arounde inn his SKULLE like thatte of a manne possessed by the fervoure of Dark Artes...he sangge loudlie "It's evolutione, babeye" overre and overre as ye massed hoardes danced their ayrses offe orgiastically into ecstaticicke oblivione. I shalle be filinge my reporte to my municipalle authorities to suppresse the decadente culte of Pearle Jamme along with Mr Shakespeare's Globe theatre, the perpetuatione of brothelles, bawdie houses and bear-baitinge tentes all uppe and downe this districte
in the name of Our Blessed sovereigne
dated thisse 21st July 1598 Anno Domini.
Do you ever get up in December
at blacktangled five o'clock
when winds howl a gallowside timbre,
bansheeing you to your work?
Do you ever line up with the others,
For graft on the new motorway,
Cursing God under cigarette smothers
As you queue for the van and the day?
Do you queue for the motorway daywork
and hope you'll be picked for the job?
Do you flinch till you're sick to your stomach?
Do you twist at your ulcer's next stab?
Do you climb in the van when you're prodded
And sit in the back with the rest
Not caring till dawn where you're headed
But dreaming of dreams that you've lost?
Does the dawn light up grey? Does the frost keep?
Is the foreman longcoated and flushed?
Are his eyes set to trip up your footstep
As he rankles you (redfaced and rushed,
and shovelling clumsily, shaking
as shudders of blood in your head
feed into your dreaming-in-waking
the nightmare of working while dead)?
Does the barrow wheel give when you're loaded
and balancing ballast and sand?
Do you laugh when you're Paddied and goaded
For letting the grips slip your hand?
Do you bend and backfill ducted trenches
to show you're as good as each man?
Do you carry huge sacks, on your haunches,
just to prove than an immigrant can?
One day, for sure, we'll be the pioneers.
The ghettoed days look out to fenced off years.
this is not a poem....this is a dialogue.....
this is fukkin incredible.....this is a trip that started in southwark
and ends on noah's bark.....noah's bark......oh.....I want a candyfloss....I'm at the circus.....
....they're asking me to prove why I should be allowed to stay with my baby in Australia, because I'm mentally ill......and they think I should leave......
Originally posted by ISN this is not a poem....this is a dialogue.....
this is fukkin incredible.....this is a trip that started in southwark
and ends on noah's bark.....noah's bark......oh.....I want a candyfloss....I'm at the circus.....
....they're asking me to prove why I should be allowed to stay with my baby in Australia, because I'm mentally ill......and they think I should leave......
Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots Aye And verilie, as instructed by my moste High Reverende Archibalde G'Nadde, I ENTERED yon theatre situated in Her Royal Highness's South Banke in ordere to reporte at a so callede "GIGGE" the debauchede carnivalle entertainmente of the new phenomenonne of "ROCKE". Presente in this sweatte fuelled venue, I witnessed all artes appertaining to the Disgracefulle ARTE of grunge musicke; in the midstes of a hoarde of raucouse groundlinges, grouped as a "pitte" of uncoothe youthes pracktisinge ye diabolickal arte of MOSHINGE, was a licentious manne MOSHINGE alsoe with themme, passinge arounde the deville's own brewe of redde wine. His name was EDWARDE of VEDDERE: His eyes rolled arounde inn his SKULLE like thatte of a manne possessed by the fervoure of Dark Artes...he sangge loudlie "It's evolutione, babeye" overre and overre as ye massed hoardes danced their ayrses offe orgiastically into ecstaticicke oblivione. I shalle be filinge my reporte to my municipalle authorities to suppresse the decadente culte of Pearle Jamme along with Mr Shakespeare's Globe theatre, the perpetuatione of brothelles, bawdie houses and bear-baitinge tentes all uppe and downe this districte
in the name of Our Blessed sovereigne
dated thisse 21st July 1598 Anno Domini.
Giggling hysterically!!!!!! You so funny, Finsy! GMFAO!
Forget your perfect offering, there is a crack in everything, that's how the light gets in. - Leonard Cohen
endlessly polyglottal full-throttle
Playing a dance
of each nuance
or trace
of a place
That a word has made
its skipping-glade
To buckleap laughingly
and weepingly willowwailingly
trippingly in thriving contradiction
of plural diction
on the multitongue-tongue
all at once
like
atoms
neurons
wobbling molecules
whizzing in infinite combinations
of pulse
and speed
fusing refusing confusing
expectation
genre
and that thing called commonsense
In wordweaves both comic and tragic
historico-romantico-prefabico
Polonius a-gogo
....they're asking me to prove why I should be allowed to stay with my baby in Australia, because I'm mentally ill......and they think I should leave......
A winning word dies like a carrion fly
Fatted with blood that it sucked from the eye
of an empire builder. Words of defeat
Fly faster, live longer. Failure's great!
too easily appeased
by words of lazy leisure
I read that you're displeased
and find it 'gainst my pleasure
I see that you have noted
the timbre of the seizure
and duly have devoted
to say something that please her...
defeat is but a notion
and flies so easy swatted
let's take it to a motion
you win....I am besotted
....they're asking me to prove why I should be allowed to stay with my baby in Australia, because I'm mentally ill......and they think I should leave......
I changed the poem a bit but, true to the notion of Bakhtinian dialogics I thought I'd leave the early version intact and post here the revised version, so the two versions can, er, chat.
Imagine an utterance
dialogic
eternally internally
clustering but uncluttering sense
making
magic
in space
polyglottal
playing a dance
of each nuance
or trace
of a place
That a word has made
its skipping-glade
buckleaping laughingly
and weepingly willowwailingly
and trippingly in thriving contradiction
of plural diction
on the multitongued-tongue
dazzling sense
like
atoms
neurons
wobbling molecules
whizzing in infinite combinations
of pulse
and speed
fusing refusing confusing
expectation and genre
and
imagine how
that thing called commonsense
that great
wordtotem
signifer
of
great
stable
cultural
totality
Professor Snickerdoodle from the Institute of Cheam
Has synthesised a potion in his tubes
He's worked for twenty years inside his lab to make this cream
And says it's quite the best thing to grow boobs
He's hoping soon to sell it to the doubleyou-aitch-oh
And I have to whisper now, 'tween you and me,
He's tried it on himself and by his profile you will know
He makes a lovely forty-four dee dee.
Comments
Ah, but with what, Young Grasshopper-nephewmelad? The words I used, or the truth they purported to convey?; for as Derrida reckoned, "Zerrrr eeees nozzeeng outzide erv zeee texxxxt" and, that being so, my words only related to each other as words, and meant nothing ... unless they connoted for you a kind of negative capability in their nonsensicality ...
Said the hippo to the snake,
As he sweated like a piston
Rolling in his muddy lake.
"Asssk you any quessstion?"
Hissed the snake up on the bank.
"Yes, ask me any question",
Said the hippo, "And be frank".
"Yesssss. Who won the Tour de Franccccce
In nineteen sssssixxxxxty-sssssixxxx"?",
The snake asked, darting like a lance
his tongue, in testy flicks.
"Lucien Aimar came first;
Janssen finished second....
... Eating grass sure builds your thirst",
the wise old hippo reckoned.
so... yahoo...
and whatnot
lovely little thing for rarghraurgh (sp?)... busy as usual, I see?
travellers, chew vaguely at the light
meadow grass. A head lifts now and then
and eyes roll sideways, whitepaned by a bright
fish-mirror glimmer from the stream
riverward, as rowers sharply push
their boat, a black dot on the steely gleam
across an eye, another speck in rush.
These vagrant animals, left here these ten
days, chew gravely at the yellow-thin
meadow grass. Tails swish upward when
the wind suggests a fly. Time roars within
their poised, unblinking eyes. Old bones know
Few shadows from new trees await them now.
digging the "time roars in their unblinking eye"...
a fascinating catch in word, there, fins... bravo
Thank you, Pasta.
i get you... definitely
my assistant's back... you wanna write something with me?
Breakfast-time. Ernest Smedgley's vertebrae creaked like parsimonious church mice as he stooped in his frayed navy blue cardigan and paisley pyjamas over the dining room table. His glassy white hands shook musically like travellers' maracas as they negotiated to pour a cracking pink pot of tea into a mug for his elderly sister Doris, who was vacantly sitting in her terylene nightgown, thermal mauve stockings and teddy bear slippers, humming gummily a snatch of Bless Your Beautiful Hide. As Ernest poured, brown steaming tea splashed and flashed on the lacy teacloth. Ernest thought the pattern resembled Old Mister Grisler from Crank Street - before they knocked it down for the supermarket - with his three legged terrier Archibald.
"Oooh, Doris, look what I just made. It's old Mr Grisler!"
Your turn ...
EDIT: Forgot what I came here to edit. Keep it rolling!
i'm smiling so hard... god,
not sure where you get it
but i was all melancholy and now you've ruined it...
(thank you, bless you)
~also thank my dirty pen that I did get some of that crap out before ya got me beaming
Brilliant!
A song and tribute for the sacrifices of past, present, and future generations.
in the name of Our Blessed sovereigne
dated thisse 21st July 1598 Anno Domini.
this is not a poem....this is a dialogue.....
this is fukkin incredible.....this is a trip that started in southwark
and ends on noah's bark.....noah's bark......oh.....I want a candyfloss....I'm at the circus.....
It's a poem written as a monologue.
Giggling hysterically!!!!!!
dialogic
Their cluttered senses are eternally
making
magic
in space
endlessly polyglottal full-throttle
Playing a dance
of each nuance
or trace
of a place
That a word has made
its skipping-glade
To buckleap laughingly
and weepingly willowwailingly
trippingly in thriving contradiction
of plural diction
on the multitongue-tongue
all at once
like
atoms
neurons
wobbling molecules
whizzing in infinite combinations
of pulse
and speed
fusing refusing confusing
expectation
genre
and that thing called commonsense
In wordweaves both comic and tragic
historico-romantico-prefabico
Polonius a-gogo
and
wordtotem monoliths of great stable totality
explode
in
endless
in- ter -text
and they are
beautiful
s
u
p
e
r
n
o
v
a
e
loaded
suck
A winning word dies like a carrion fly
Fatted with blood that it sucked from the eye
of an empire builder. Words of defeat
Fly faster, live longer. Failure's great!
by words of lazy leisure
I read that you're displeased
and find it 'gainst my pleasure
I see that you have noted
the timbre of the seizure
and duly have devoted
to say something that please her...
defeat is but a notion
and flies so easy swatted
let's take it to a motion
you win....I am besotted
Imagine an utterance
dialogic
eternally internally
clustering but uncluttering sense
making
magic
in space
polyglottal
playing a dance
of each nuance
or trace
of a place
That a word has made
its skipping-glade
buckleaping laughingly
and weepingly willowwailingly
and trippingly in thriving contradiction
of plural diction
on the multitongued-tongue
dazzling sense
like
atoms
neurons
wobbling molecules
whizzing in infinite combinations
of pulse
and speed
fusing refusing confusing
expectation and genre
and
imagine how
that thing called commonsense
that great
wordtotem
signifer
of
great
stable
cultural
totality
EXPLODES
in
endless
in- ter -text
Know now
how
words
shape
space
s
u
p
e
r
n
o
v
a
e
loaded
I was just asking myself the same feckin' question.
cheesecake preferable, reckon?
snickerdoodle?
Snickerwotsit?
Professor Snickerdoodle from the Institute of Cheam
Has synthesised a potion in his tubes
He's worked for twenty years inside his lab to make this cream
And says it's quite the best thing to grow boobs
He's hoping soon to sell it to the doubleyou-aitch-oh
And I have to whisper now, 'tween you and me,
He's tried it on himself and by his profile you will know
He makes a lovely forty-four dee dee.
:eek:
it's a cookie
i require tissue for drool....
they're very VERY good
however, I tenaciously remain an A.... no double d's here (praise and glory be)
A weasel, or a stoat.