Ophelia's Nun

FinsburyParkCarrots

Now, back to the present: it's for a young lady who had a little cold the other day.



Wiley had a little cough,
It wriggled and it tickled.
She said, "Oh Mom, I'm feelin' rough!
I'd like my tonsils pickled!"
Mommy cuddled her all day
and played her Eddie Vedder
and Wiley was soon heard to say,
"I'm feelin' so much better!"

Who says, I don't do "soppy"?

dreamncolor

wow - finsbury - you ARE most *impressive*. lol.

FinsburyParkCarrots

Yup. "Big thread......" er...

Anyway, enough of that! Thanks for coming on!

FinsburyParkCarrots

(Er... for anyone reading this next week, that's a reference to another thread and its discussion of guys with big poetry threads! LOL!)

tenaciousA

and gals with big poetry threads...

pouty beds...


ok... sorry... i'll go now

dreamncolor

sorry - i just couldnt resist. i will not drag down your lovely poetry thread with smarm - no worries. well done in any case finsbury.

FinsburyParkCarrots

You couldn't bring this thread down! Thank you for coming to see it. Well, this end of it. I know it's, er, big ....

tenaciousA

don't ever ask a man how big anything is


liked the lyric up there, fins
though i can imagine it might've been a mouthfull to sing...



oh, god... i said mouthful, didn't I
conflasticate my 2-track mind

FinsburyParkCarrots

A beggar woman rams a supermarket with two mad, eyedarting, mouthfoaming dogs, half lurcher, half doberman maybe: Dogs that gnash sunfrenzied snarls, knifeshining glares and finalising snaps of smashing teeth. Her hounds back the store's two security guards into corners and she runs the length of the store, hurriedly snatching up at random orange juice, flour, batteries, disinfectant from other peoples' baskets and trolleys. But when she makes it back to the door and runs out unstopped, she halts and calls her dogs. The beasts splutter, spit, and writhe in murderous, lustful paroxysms of devouring menace, and they each climb up the quivering legs of a guard, ready to eat their flesh, and greedly eviscerate them at the slightest flinch. But they won't come back to her. She screams at them. Please! Come! A crowd gathers in the supermarket entrance, not apprehending her, just watching. The dogs are relentless. They don't even turn their heads to her. She begs someone to to call the police.

Buru

Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots
A beggar woman rams a supermarket with two mad, eyedarting, mouthfoaming dogs, half lurcher, half doberman maybe: Dogs that gnash sunfrenzied snarls, knifeshining glares and finalising snaps of smashing teeth. Her hounds back the store's two security guards into corners and she runs the length of the store, hurriedly snatching up at random orange juice, flour, batteries, disinfectant from other peoples' baskets and trolleys. But when she makes it back to the door and runs out unstopped, she halts and calls her dogs. The beasts splutter, spit, and writhe in murderous, lustful paroxysms of devouring menace, and they each climb up the quivering legs of a guard, ready to eat their flesh, and greedly eviscerate them at the slightest flinch. But they won't come back to her. She screams at them. Please! Come! A crowd gathers in the supermarket entrance, not apprehending her, just watching. The dogs are relentless. They don't even turn their heads to her. She begs someone to to call the police.

:eek:
scary dogs.... I dog bit me once, since then I have utmost distrust for stray dogs, street dogs.... not lost dogs, those I love

FinsburyParkCarrots

The beggar woman wasn't concerned about the guards being attacked. She was very vocal about the fact that what bothered her was that the dogs wouldn't obey her when she told them to come to her. Having lost control of them, she wanted the police to take them. She didn't even seem to care about what happened to herself when the police arrived. Her authority had gone.

FinsburyParkCarrots

He would unpick the weave's red narrative
of his teeth-gnashing mouth; my tearing nails
that cut his leering jowls; his eyes a live
red death stuck in my face; my wails
stopped by his fist inside my mouth. We'll now
make flame of that dark act, dear Procne; Yes,
you have read my tapestry; we'll show
In newfound song how brother Tereus
defiled me, then knife-sliced my tongue clean out
back to the bloodied roots. We'll feed his son
Itys to him, cooked on his plate, each gout
of his own lifeblood greedily drunk down.
The gods will make us birds to sing our tale.
You, a swallow. I, a nightingale.

FinsburyParkCarrots

Anyone not familiar with the old story of Philomel should consult Ovid's "Metamorphoses" for further reading. The Philomel tale is one of the canonical myths of Classical civilisation. This is just my take on it.

FinsburyParkCarrots

I wrote this song lyric. Yup. Here's another archive one. Well, the Philomel poem was written this afternoon!

The song is played in the DADGAD tuning, in D, if anyone's interested. It went on my little CD demo a few years back.

"Westgate to the Grey"

Spooning the cream from your little white bowl
Hunched over frail in your oversize shawl
You're glancing at me with those old prefab eyes
As you ask about dances they're doing these days
I don't know:
From Westgate to the Grey
I only know what you play
I only see what you show

Glottal stop: headbowed: weighing the air
And making me squint through the weight of your stare:
You've got down the timing: you're making the play
and giving me room so I know what to say
But I don't know:
From Westgate to the Grey
I only know what you play
I only see what you show

Fireworks: kids on the pavement outside:
I can't drink this coffee (That's a face I've to hide):
Five day return and it's too late to ride:
You ask me to stay and there's those friends I've defied
I DON'T KNOW
From Westgate to the Grey
I only know what you play.
I only see what you show.

tenaciousA

Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots
He would unpick the weave's red narrative
of his teeth-gnashing mouth; my tearing nails
that cut his leering jowls; his eyes a live
red death stuck in my face; my wails
stopped by his fist inside my mouth. We'll now
make flame of that dark act, dear Procne; Yes,
you have read my tapestry; we'll show
In newfound song how brother Tereus
defiled me, then knife-sliced my tongue clean out
back to the bloodied roots. We'll feed his son
Itys to him, cooked on his plate, each gout
of his own lifeblood greedily drunk down.
The gods will make us birds to sing our tale.
You, a swallow. I, a nightingale.

phantasmagorical

FunkeR

This is a big thread.


What's it about?

FinsburyParkCarrots

Originally posted by tenaciousA
phantasmagorical

Thanks, TenA. That was this afternoon's effort! By the way, I got to the library this evening, to a nice secluded spot at the back of the study area, but someone behind me was eating out of a series of enormous packets of those Dorito-like thingies, and these bloody things stank, and all I could hear was this crunch crunch munch chew crunch crackle kapow crunch etc, as if the bloke was eating coal for his lunch. After an hour of listening to and smelling every rotten flavour of these things under the sun getting mashed and crunched, I turned around to tell this personage to shut the fakk up ... but it was the librarian on their tea break. Corruption at the heart of power, eh? Well, I came home, to see you all.

FinsburyParkCarrots

Originally posted by FunkeR
This is a big thread.


What's it about?

The big R. The jaded attempt at laconism. What is that about?

FunkeR

Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots
The big R. The attempt at laconism. The propensity to bore. What is that about?

You lost me after "the".

FinsburyParkCarrots

Originally posted by FunkeR
You lost me after "the".

Good.