You fix me with the good eye that your missus didn't stab:
It's slightly bluer than the other one.
I would escape. Your hand weighs on my shoulder like a slab:
You roar, "Have one more drink before you're done".
Not that I was going anywhere just yet at all:
I've only been inside this pub three hours.
I say I'll buy the round but you shout "Ballix, it's my call!",
and you order two good stouts and double Powers.
You poke at someone's gut as they sit meekly at the bar:
"Hey, Tony! Did yez know ye're gettin' fat?
Yez used t' be a streak o' piss, as thin as this cigar!
How did yez get as feckin' big as that?"
And Tony doesn't answer, he just juts his chin a bit
and nods to me "Now HE'S the feckin' lump!"
It's true: I spy your belly in the mirror. It would sit
Your pints of Guinness flat down on its bump.
And when you get your pints you want a top up for the two:
"Ye've robbed me half a glassful on each one!"
The barman eyes your bad eye and he glowers, free from view,
"I'll kick your feckin' arse before I'm done".
I say, I'm fine. You interject. "You're NOT that feckin' fine!
If I let them get away with liberties
They'd have their greedy fingers on each hard earned quid that's mine,
And yours, as well. Don't grant them feckers ease."
And as you wave your hands about to demonstrate your point
You knock your Guinness down in Tony's lap.
Now, Tony starts to rise up. Broken glass rings through the joint:
"Ye feckin' ass. Ye're gonna get a slap".
You run straight out the frontdoor of the bar, your heaving gut
All wobbling, your pockets spilling change.
I watch you out the door: You head into the Thug and Mutt
When you think that you're unseen and out of range.
* * * * * *
Yes. That's how I remember you. The pubs you drank in then
Have gone all brass and Bud, all happy hours
And cocktail townies. Gone are your whole kind of drinking men
Who'd spill a pint in verse-inspiring showers.
That's how the sky fills the graves up around here.
That's how the night is so black but so clear.
That's how you tire from watching for thunder.
That's how the day's just as long as the year.
That's how an author dismisses his story.
That's how a talker halts, with his mouth dry.
That's how a lover grows silent and weary.
That's how a poet dies: Wanting to die.
Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots That's how the sky fills the graves up around here.
That's how the night is so black but so clear.
That's how you tire from watching for thunder.
That's how the day's just as long as the year.
That's how an author dismisses his story.
That's how a talker halts, with his mouth dry.
That's how a lover grows silent and weary.
That's how a poet dies: Wanting to die.
Shadows know beneath the willow bough
How all this cold ground, closed out from the day
was where the sun and rain laid deepest. Oh,
Shadows know how growth's shade brings decay.
If you give bootlaces to some people,
Some day they're going to want your legs
Because they can't see that their own would be better:
If they knocked them into shape;
if they wanted to run away from their own machine-gun fire.
I'm tired of carrying my wagon about the battleground
Giving free wares to the wounded of war.
I have a simple heart and no need to keep on this business
of handing out my last bandages to people who have their own
and know how to put them on.
They'll plunder the wagon when I'm gone but I'm taking my store first.
They'll make a raft of the tailboard and pretend the sand's an ocean
Sailing them into more romantic miseries. They'll make a shroud
of the wagonhood, or blinkers to fit around the sun.
But I know, somehow, they will never have call for the wheels.
Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots You fix me with the good eye that your missus didn't stab:
It's slightly bluer than the other one.
I would escape. Your hand weighs on my shoulder like a slab:
You roar, "Have one more drink before you're done".
Not that I was going anywhere just yet at all:
I've only been inside this pub three hours.
I say I'll buy the round but you shout "Ballix, it's my call!",
and you order two good stouts and double Powers.
You poke at someone's gut as they sit meekly at the bar:
"Hey, Tony! Did yez know ye're gettin' fat?
Yez used t' be a streak o' piss, as thin as this cigar!
How did yez get as feckin' big as that?"
And Tony doesn't answer, he just juts his chin a bit
and nods to me "Now HE'S the feckin' lump!"
It's true: I spy your belly in the mirror. It would sit
Your pints of Guinness flat down on its bump.
And when you get your pints you want a top up for the two:
"Ye've robbed me half a glassful on each one!"
The barman eyes your bad eye and he glowers, free from view,
"I'll kick your feckin' arse before I'm done".
I say, I'm fine. You interject. "You're NOT that feckin' fine!
If I let them get away with liberties
They'd have their greedy fingers on each hard earned quid that's mine,
And yours, as well. Don't grant them feckers ease."
And as you wave your hands about to demonstrate your point
You knock your Guinness down in Tony's lap.
Now, Tony starts to rise up. Broken glass rings through the joint:
"Ye feckin' ass. Ye're gonna get a slap".
You run straight out the frontdoor of the bar, your heaving gut
All wobbling, your pockets spilling change.
I watch you out the door: You head into the Thug and Mutt
When you think that you're unseen and out of range.
* * * * * *
Yes. That's how I remember you. The pubs you drank in then
Have gone all brass and Bud, all happy hours
And cocktail townies. Gone are your whole kind of drinking men
Who'd spill a pint in verse-inspiring showers.
*cheers*
nice writtings as always Fc
~~dont mind yer make up, just make up yer mind~~
~~its better to be hated for who you are than be loved for who you are not~~
Do I really fit in here,
in this placeless virtual space?
You see, I'm a bloke with two arms and two legs
and I live in an actual place
called Cambridge, England. I'm just a bloke
and my name is Richard. I'm bearded,
and I write to bring love, not to goad or provoke
and I hope that my verse is well worded
Enough to make something constructive of time
That you spend as you scroll down the page.
But sometimes I think that my comical rhyme
Isn't hip with the usual rage.
I want to sit down at the Cam today
when I get a chance, on some old bench
that looks out at the river. In the way
of food I'll have some oranges for lunch,
perhaps. Now, as I sit down there
I want to try to get the sploshing sound
of flowing river water locked in here
(points to head). I want the pound
of oars from rowing boats to part my lines
of verse, like punctuation. And I want
to let in simple sunlight, through the round
vowel sounds or ciphers that I like to plant
About my lines. I'll make sure, all the while,
To sound my poem, free of bloated Style.
CLOV (fixed gaze, tonelessly, towards auditorium):
They said to me, That's love, yes, yes, not a doubt, now you see how---
HAMM:
Articulate!
CLOV (as before):
How easy it is. They said to me, That's friendship, yes, yes, no question, you've found it. They said to me, Here's the place, stop, raise your head and look at all that beauty. That order! They said to me, Come now, you're not a brute beast, think upon these things and you'll see how all becomes clear. And simple! They said to me, What skilled attention they get, all these dying of their wounds.
HAMM:
Enough!
CLOV (as before):
I say to myself--- sometimes, Clov, you must learn to suffer better than that if you want them to weary of punishing you--- one day. I say to myself--- sometimes, Clov, you must be better than that if you want them to let you go--- one day. But I feel too old, and too far, to form new habits. Good, it'll never end, I'll never go.
(Pause.)
Then one day, suddenly, it ends, it changes, I don't understand, it dies, or it's me, I don't understand that either. I ask the words that remain--- sleeping, waking, morning, evening. They have nothing to say.
(Pause.)
I open the door of the cell and go. I am so bowed I only see my feet, if I open my eyes, and between my legs a little trail of black dust. I say to myself that the earth is extinguished, though I never saw it lit.
(Pause.)
It's easy going.
(Pause.)
When I fall I'll weep for happiness.
(Pause. He goes towards door.)
On Raglan Road on an autumn day I met her first and knew
That her dark hair would weave a snare that I might one day rue;
I saw the danger, yet I walked along the enchanted way,
And I said, let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawning of the day.
On Grafton Street in November we tripped lightly along the ledge
Of the deep ravine where can be seen the worth of passion's pledge,
The Queen of Hearts still making tarts and I not making hay -
O I loved too much and by such and such is happiness thrown away.
I gave her gifts of the mind I gave her the secret sign that's known
To the artists who have known the true gods of sound and stone
And word and tint. I did not stint for I gave her poems to say.
With her own name there and her own dark hair like clouds over fields of May
On a quiet street where old ghosts meet I see her walking now
Away from me so hurriedly my reason must allow
That I had wooed not as I should a creature made of clay -
When the angel woos the clay he'd lose his wings at the dawn of day.
Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots I want to sit down at the Cam today
when I get a chance, on some old bench
that looks out at the river. In the way
of food I'll have some oranges for lunch,
perhaps. Now, as I sit down there
I want to try to get the sploshing sound
of flowing river water locked in here
(points to head). I want the pound
of oars from rowing boats to part my lines
of verse, like punctuation. And I want
to let in simple sunlight, through the round
vowel sounds or ciphers that I like to plant
About my lines. I'll make sure, all the while,
To sound my poem, free of bloated Style.
and coasting by
on stroke
the sound of twenty men
clapping oar to water sliced
sluiced,
and yet still flowing
we nod to that man on the bench
seeking peace
within
Here's the one card you can't return:
See me deal it just for you.
Throw it back again but you will learn:
You get this card and then you're through.
Nine of diamonds
Nine of diamonds
From the green
and to the blue
You saw the ethic of a sacred code
Then tried to break the good in two.
You have the card: you'd better pay it heed:
You've brought the death-hounds into view.
Nine of diamonds
Nine of diamonds
From the green man to the blue.
Hadn't you better run now?
Your face is too known to be loved.
And wouldn't you say you've been wrong now?
My curse writes, you'll never be saved...
as long as you're here.....
(instrumental break)
Can't you just sense the change now?
Each molecule starting to die?
Wouldn't you say you've been wrong, now?
The last retribution's in play.
So, what do you say?
NINE OF DIAMONDS FOR YOU
NINE OF DIAMONDS FOR YOU
NINE OF DIAMONDS FOR YOU
NINE OF DIAMONDS FOR YOU
My dead fathers will tighten their skulls at the jaws
and their hollows of eyes will blaze with the sight of won wars
and my dead mothers will rise from their graves at the sea
and pick up their scythes to stand in an army for me
and all our long centuries' curses that cannot rebound
Will stain the long grass once again on our old battleground.
Crisp, brittle morning frost, fast glazing, white-
furs a cloakgrey beard. A dissident.
Snow beats upon his gulagged limbs. His light
shuffle on the prison yard's half-meant
to slight the guards who watch for gravity;
for slouch; for concrete footscrapes, digging low
For death. And in the sharp activity
of mirror-eyes beneath a heightened brow,
Open as a rainfilled gravepit, you
will note this dissident absorbing each
greywire barb garotting at the blue,
choked December skyline. He will reach
out beyond Siberia with these
images, and show the State's disease.
Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots Crisp, brittle morning frost, fast glazing, white-
furs a cloakgrey beard. A dissident.
Snow beats upon his gulagged limbs. His light
shuffle on the prison yard's half-meant
to slight the guards who watch for gravity;
for slouch; for concrete footscrapes, digging low
For death. And in the sharp activity
of mirror-eyes beneath a heightened brow,
Open as a rainfilled gravepit, you
will note this dissident absorbing each
greywire barb garotting at the blue,
choked December skyline. He will reach
out beyond Siberia with these
images, and show the State's disease.
how do u do it fins??
ur such a delite for this board.........for this world
soo much life and exuberance (in a respectful way)
even to glum and dire situations
ur writing gifts are a yummy treat
I want the pound
of oars from rowing boats to part my lines
of verse, like punctuation. And I want
to let in simple sunlight, through the round
vowel sounds or ciphers that I like to plant
About my lines. I'll make sure, all the while,
To sound my poem, free of bloated Style.
a writer writing about writing style and breathing life into words... I love this!!!
When Bryan Anthony picked up a great
fivehundredweight with his bare hands,
over his head while never breaking sweat,
and placed it on his shoulders, nine good friends
watched that wiry man of five foot eight
take the boulder square upon his back
and walk across Doona with all the sleight
of step of someone carrying a sack
of air, toward the plot he'd dug as base
foundations for his farmhouse. Then he took
it off his back himself, his arms relaxed, his face
not even red. His friends could only look
at him and marvel at the single mind
That drove the body on. I'll strive, in kind.
Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots My blind tongue
knows of the stag cry
the windroar of mountaincaves
the nightslaves to winterchill
the killers on the pilgrim road
and the seers who died with the bracken turning red
and my blind tongue
speaks of the young sun
and gods in each birdflight
and it tears up an old heart
and it's courted a dead soul
and it's scolded wild eyes
danced for new days
and best cursed the joys that fled
and cursed them dead
and my tongue tells of woods before they fell
and my tongue speaks the old tongue for me still
and my blind tongue
once tasted a corpsehair
and scared off a mad cur
and started an enterprise for quislings,
sizzling
now in the beautiful hell I helped them down to
(ha ha)
and my blind tongue
has rested on the old stone
the foam of the first sea
the breadth of the country
hill to glen
and then
my tongue became the landbridge
that first brought you here
and my tongue fashioned tinker
fashioned whore
and my blind tongue was every crowd in prayer
and my blind tongue
sang for the springlarch
and sang for mad Sweeny
and told where the birds swam
and followed sounds
everyeveryeverytime the churchbell
rang to me
my calling
my dumb calling
profound
my blind tongue
my blind tongue
* * * * * * *
(PS... there's music to that )
*wants to here the music*
great lyrics FC!
~~dont mind yer make up, just make up yer mind~~
~~its better to be hated for who you are than be loved for who you are not~~
Comments
Yeah, but he couldn't go "invisible" behind the curtain links, eh?
Lovelovelove
That reminds me of a play that builds up to a graveyard scene. Let me go dig.
http://www.virginiafairchild.com/Mine-web.jpg
It's slightly bluer than the other one.
I would escape. Your hand weighs on my shoulder like a slab:
You roar, "Have one more drink before you're done".
Not that I was going anywhere just yet at all:
I've only been inside this pub three hours.
I say I'll buy the round but you shout "Ballix, it's my call!",
and you order two good stouts and double Powers.
You poke at someone's gut as they sit meekly at the bar:
"Hey, Tony! Did yez know ye're gettin' fat?
Yez used t' be a streak o' piss, as thin as this cigar!
How did yez get as feckin' big as that?"
And Tony doesn't answer, he just juts his chin a bit
and nods to me "Now HE'S the feckin' lump!"
It's true: I spy your belly in the mirror. It would sit
Your pints of Guinness flat down on its bump.
And when you get your pints you want a top up for the two:
"Ye've robbed me half a glassful on each one!"
The barman eyes your bad eye and he glowers, free from view,
"I'll kick your feckin' arse before I'm done".
I say, I'm fine. You interject. "You're NOT that feckin' fine!
If I let them get away with liberties
They'd have their greedy fingers on each hard earned quid that's mine,
And yours, as well. Don't grant them feckers ease."
And as you wave your hands about to demonstrate your point
You knock your Guinness down in Tony's lap.
Now, Tony starts to rise up. Broken glass rings through the joint:
"Ye feckin' ass. Ye're gonna get a slap".
You run straight out the frontdoor of the bar, your heaving gut
All wobbling, your pockets spilling change.
I watch you out the door: You head into the Thug and Mutt
When you think that you're unseen and out of range.
* * * * * *
Yes. That's how I remember you. The pubs you drank in then
Have gone all brass and Bud, all happy hours
And cocktail townies. Gone are your whole kind of drinking men
Who'd spill a pint in verse-inspiring showers.
That's how the night is so black but so clear.
That's how you tire from watching for thunder.
That's how the day's just as long as the year.
That's how an author dismisses his story.
That's how a talker halts, with his mouth dry.
That's how a lover grows silent and weary.
That's how a poet dies: Wanting to die.
very nice!
loved the tone in this
How all this cold ground, closed out from the day
was where the sun and rain laid deepest. Oh,
Shadows know how growth's shade brings decay.
Some day they're going to want your legs
Because they can't see that their own would be better:
If they knocked them into shape;
if they wanted to run away from their own machine-gun fire.
I'm tired of carrying my wagon about the battleground
Giving free wares to the wounded of war.
I have a simple heart and no need to keep on this business
of handing out my last bandages to people who have their own
and know how to put them on.
They'll plunder the wagon when I'm gone but I'm taking my store first.
They'll make a raft of the tailboard and pretend the sand's an ocean
Sailing them into more romantic miseries. They'll make a shroud
of the wagonhood, or blinkers to fit around the sun.
But I know, somehow, they will never have call for the wheels.
I feel primed in a good summer day oh
a good summer day oh the dayglow my dyaogirl
Strength in soft beauty is just so absolutely attractive.
*cheers*
nice writtings as always Fc
~~its better to be hated for who you are than be loved for who you are not~~
F.ZAPPA
Thanks, anOmis.
in this placeless virtual space?
You see, I'm a bloke with two arms and two legs
and I live in an actual place
called Cambridge, England. I'm just a bloke
and my name is Richard. I'm bearded,
and I write to bring love, not to goad or provoke
and I hope that my verse is well worded
Enough to make something constructive of time
That you spend as you scroll down the page.
But sometimes I think that my comical rhyme
Isn't hip with the usual rage.
when I get a chance, on some old bench
that looks out at the river. In the way
of food I'll have some oranges for lunch,
perhaps. Now, as I sit down there
I want to try to get the sploshing sound
of flowing river water locked in here
(points to head). I want the pound
of oars from rowing boats to part my lines
of verse, like punctuation. And I want
to let in simple sunlight, through the round
vowel sounds or ciphers that I like to plant
About my lines. I'll make sure, all the while,
To sound my poem, free of bloated Style.
They said to me, That's love, yes, yes, not a doubt, now you see how---
HAMM:
Articulate!
CLOV (as before):
How easy it is. They said to me, That's friendship, yes, yes, no question, you've found it. They said to me, Here's the place, stop, raise your head and look at all that beauty. That order! They said to me, Come now, you're not a brute beast, think upon these things and you'll see how all becomes clear. And simple! They said to me, What skilled attention they get, all these dying of their wounds.
HAMM:
Enough!
CLOV (as before):
I say to myself--- sometimes, Clov, you must learn to suffer better than that if you want them to weary of punishing you--- one day. I say to myself--- sometimes, Clov, you must be better than that if you want them to let you go--- one day. But I feel too old, and too far, to form new habits. Good, it'll never end, I'll never go.
(Pause.)
Then one day, suddenly, it ends, it changes, I don't understand, it dies, or it's me, I don't understand that either. I ask the words that remain--- sleeping, waking, morning, evening. They have nothing to say.
(Pause.)
I open the door of the cell and go. I am so bowed I only see my feet, if I open my eyes, and between my legs a little trail of black dust. I say to myself that the earth is extinguished, though I never saw it lit.
(Pause.)
It's easy going.
(Pause.)
When I fall I'll weep for happiness.
(Pause. He goes towards door.)
http://samuel-beckett.net/endgame.html
"I'll never be your feast of learning:
I'm a stupid fuck, I don't know nuthin';
All I want is to drink, maybe with one other person."
(Air: The Dawning of The Day)
On Raglan Road on an autumn day I met her first and knew
That her dark hair would weave a snare that I might one day rue;
I saw the danger, yet I walked along the enchanted way,
And I said, let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawning of the day.
On Grafton Street in November we tripped lightly along the ledge
Of the deep ravine where can be seen the worth of passion's pledge,
The Queen of Hearts still making tarts and I not making hay -
O I loved too much and by such and such is happiness thrown away.
I gave her gifts of the mind I gave her the secret sign that's known
To the artists who have known the true gods of sound and stone
And word and tint. I did not stint for I gave her poems to say.
With her own name there and her own dark hair like clouds over fields of May
On a quiet street where old ghosts meet I see her walking now
Away from me so hurriedly my reason must allow
That I had wooed not as I should a creature made of clay -
When the angel woos the clay he'd lose his wings at the dawn of day.
and coasting by
on stroke
the sound of twenty men
clapping oar to water sliced
sluiced,
and yet still flowing
we nod to that man on the bench
seeking peace
within
Here's the one card you can't return:
See me deal it just for you.
Throw it back again but you will learn:
You get this card and then you're through.
Nine of diamonds
Nine of diamonds
From the green
and to the blue
You saw the ethic of a sacred code
Then tried to break the good in two.
You have the card: you'd better pay it heed:
You've brought the death-hounds into view.
Nine of diamonds
Nine of diamonds
From the green man to the blue.
Hadn't you better run now?
Your face is too known to be loved.
And wouldn't you say you've been wrong now?
My curse writes, you'll never be saved...
as long as you're here.....
(instrumental break)
Can't you just sense the change now?
Each molecule starting to die?
Wouldn't you say you've been wrong, now?
The last retribution's in play.
So, what do you say?
NINE OF DIAMONDS FOR YOU
NINE OF DIAMONDS FOR YOU
NINE OF DIAMONDS FOR YOU
NINE OF DIAMONDS FOR YOU
and their hollows of eyes will blaze with the sight of won wars
and my dead mothers will rise from their graves at the sea
and pick up their scythes to stand in an army for me
and all our long centuries' curses that cannot rebound
Will stain the long grass once again on our old battleground.
furs a cloakgrey beard. A dissident.
Snow beats upon his gulagged limbs. His light
shuffle on the prison yard's half-meant
to slight the guards who watch for gravity;
for slouch; for concrete footscrapes, digging low
For death. And in the sharp activity
of mirror-eyes beneath a heightened brow,
Open as a rainfilled gravepit, you
will note this dissident absorbing each
greywire barb garotting at the blue,
choked December skyline. He will reach
out beyond Siberia with these
images, and show the State's disease.
ur such a delite for this board.........for this world
soo much life and exuberance (in a respectful way)
even to glum and dire situations
ur writing gifts are a yummy treat
lot's of life in that dissident
of oars from rowing boats to part my lines
of verse, like punctuation. And I want
to let in simple sunlight, through the round
vowel sounds or ciphers that I like to plant
About my lines. I'll make sure, all the while,
To sound my poem, free of bloated Style.
a writer writing about writing style and breathing life into words... I love this!!!
fivehundredweight with his bare hands,
over his head while never breaking sweat,
and placed it on his shoulders, nine good friends
watched that wiry man of five foot eight
take the boulder square upon his back
and walk across Doona with all the sleight
of step of someone carrying a sack
of air, toward the plot he'd dug as base
foundations for his farmhouse. Then he took
it off his back himself, his arms relaxed, his face
not even red. His friends could only look
at him and marvel at the single mind
That drove the body on. I'll strive, in kind.
*wants to here the music*
great lyrics FC!
~~its better to be hated for who you are than be loved for who you are not~~
F.ZAPPA