Who's the crazy bearded old man
Sweeping up the leaves outside?
Who's the crazy bearded old man
Sweeping up the leaves outside?
He's been there since you wrote out your sermon
Roping off each tree that's died.
There's dust that flies inside a lightblade
It's landing all about your room.
There's dust that flies inside a lightblade
It's landing all about your room.
There's dust, and there's an old man outside
Laughing at you with his broom.
There's horses standing sturdy sixstrong
They crave the weight they work to share
The old man's horses stand up sixstrong
They want your weight they work to share
The churchbell cries to toll an old song
The Light comes, taking you nowhere.
i want to talk with you all night about everything i could ever think of including the colours of thoughts and the texture of an idea-the scent of something remembered or the sound of the first front door we can recall.
i know you'd let me paint your face and dress you up as i wished-like a big dolly that i could do anything i wanted with.
then you'd help me memorize the poem you wrote on my back upside down and backwards while i chanted<om mani padme hum>buzzing in my chest.
living within the moment-to-moment and resting when i must like a cat in the sun is all new to me.
but i want to learn more and do more and feel more than i ever have NOW.
i'd read to you from my own book and you'd want to hear my voice forever because the sound of it is like water running over small pebbles to your ear.
you won't even care what i say or sing
you just want me to fill your aurifices with anything sweet delicious sensuous smellicious like cinnamon or vanilla whipped cream loving and colourful toys.
lookkkkk what you've done to me.
see how you've spoiled me for anyone else.
and i'll feed you naked with symphonic grand music shaking the room-liberating idea germs with every mouthful/kiss/mouthful/kiss
i-n-s-p-i-r-a-t-i-o-n has defiled me this sunniest of days.
oh happy rape.
Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots I once saw a squirrel
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.
It only takes a well-timed cosmic sneeze
From her, and she will blow out and away
The tomes that men with tunnel heart disease
Will squeeze out of their fingers day by day;
and in fact her spaces between sneezes
are where the molecules of image gather
into inspiration's deepest breezes.
Sneeze me, breeze me with celestial weather!
Where the mockingbird glides over oilseed
And the fatty flies splatter their eggs
There's a river of lilies and slowweed
and water that sneaks through the dregs.
And it's here you should please your beloved:
climb down on the bank with your fork
and your waders, and clear out the unmoved
mass of reeds. Break sweat in work
and show your love how you can make
the water rush through for the charge
of flash greens of the windwinging drake
freewheeling the dambreaking surge.
Please, please be sure
to please your lover. Do. Be.
Doobeedoobeedoo.
Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots Vaccination marks, signed noble birth
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.
Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots The trick is to take the mundane
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.
Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots Where the mockingbird glides over oilseed
And the fatty flies splatter their eggs
There's a river of lilies and slowweed
and water that sneaks through the dregs.
And it's here you should please your beloved:
climb down on the bank with your fork
and your waders, and clear out the unmoved
mass of reeds. Break sweat in work
and show your love how you can make
the water rush through for the charge
of flash greens of the windwinging drake
freewheeling the dambreaking surge.
Please, please be sure
to please your lover. Do. Be.
Doobeedoobeedoo.
This is a bunch of amazing stuff!!
Speaking of stuff,,,,
I was WONDERING where my stash went!
YOU must have it!:D
Great writing Finsbury
Be kind, man
Don't be mankind. ~Captain Beefheart
__________________________________
ahhness, no you: you're the pretty one ! the one who spins
moonbeams into madness that's spiced and sensual YES and we/girl knights of the empire, shall intercept with greenglossed girdles....and jealousies, at bay--Inspiration's deep withinness,
and with gentle bow, I say, tippingly:
Thankyou. Thankyou once and spun-sat, thankyou once again.
Matchmaker madeyou a jewel, dreamed you a dream and now we are three dreaming and four/then more. Circle unto circle,
if you're up it tightens and widens at the base. It's cruel, this month!! So much verging (and never enough privacy)--to blossom accurately in sweet rain and verities of whispered love!!!
No, you're the maestro, the finesser of gemstones' refractive perfume....the light that draws,
thick velvet curtains, mathematical flirtations, brightredorange
Italian walls, crumbling and beautiful.
Suffusing. Say it again, the good story, the beautiful girl with goldenbrown hair. Carve her name in the same night: with me now: She lives, and because of this, we have known love.
All I have, to the pairbond of limitless possibilities: This then
is in-spiration, the spires of inward breathing (fair hope, sparkled dusted in first, yes, pinkgold dawn). Thankyou for swirltipped rambles and flapdoodlings, too
never enough!!but all, all is contained in love. Spin until the dreams cave in. Tsunami out into evening, be happy oh you're
BEAUTIFUL !!! YOU SHINE!!! thankyou for all good breath, happybirthday, wayyy
I shall tell you of the girl with goldenbrown hair.
She is the light in Newton's room.
She is Degas's dancing Beauty.
She is the serendipitous harmonic, knowing all tones,
made by an arco viola.
She is the ease of shooting buds,
And she is bankside honeysuckle
windkissed in AprilMay.
She is Woman, woman-symbol, a jewel
and the reality of touch;
the kiss of fingertips to lips,
And the warmth of a cradled head to a loving breast.
Cabo Wabo bottle colormatchin'
(Turquoise golden green),
Julie's paintin' up her kitchen
as a vitalogic scene
Of the sun upon Mount Rainier
and noon by Puget Sound
There's not a mind that's brainier
Than Julie's, when she's bound
By emeraldic dreaming
of a ship on blissward seas.
She has her homestead gleaming
Cabo Wabo lovin' ease.
You're not unusual flowers,
sophisticated flora,
The one coiling spring of adversity,
The bloom of the slightly ugly exceptional
marking you out for the beauty of singularity.
You haven't grown upwards and outwards
out of a vulnerable quirkiness.
Your heads aren't bowed with the weight of what you claim
to be the burden of life in your sinewy shoots.
Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots Cabo Wabo bottle colormatchin'
(Turquoise golden green),
Julie's paintin' up her kitchen
as a vitalogic scene
Of the sun upon Mount Rainier
and noon by Puget Sound
There's not a mind that's brainier
Than Julie's, when she's bound
By emeraldic dreaming
of a ship on blissward seas.
She has her homestead gleaming
Cabo Wabo lovin' ease.
I can just see Sir Philip Sidney in a poet's retreat
having invented the word "Conversation"
suffering the visionary in the loin cloth and the thousandyard stare
I can just see Shakespeare
giving up his Avon speculations, his handy bits of real estate
and his love of merlot and pickled herrings
to worship some insufferable dullard with a Koresh twitch
going all Bagwan Roshneesh on the only cushion in the tent
I really can see so clearly Wordsworth giving up his solitary walks
to talk to a bunch of eejits about how great it is being a bunch of eejits
and is that Philip Larkin I see unclipping those bicycle clips from his trousers
and loosening his beads
to join the teepee? To quote the great man himself, "Is it fuck"?
But that is Yeats I see going into the poet's commune?
Yes,
yes,
it is,
it is,
yes.
Part Three: Don't follow leaders, and watch the parking meters"
I drink my Merlot
with a shot of Tequila Telescopic visions of guardian angels
Paint pictures of stars
Their Distortions of light
Shine on dimly lit paths
Hey, another shot perhaps
I strain and grope for the bridge to heaven
Oh, but for those dimly lit stars
The heavens unfold into wordless nothings
Knowingly I knock the scope to the ground
Yet, here it is
It’s not them never was
It’s me
I’m reflected in those countless the grains of sand
Illuminating perfection on this beautiful beach
My tangerine toes buried in it’s warmth
I radiate sun and shape the stars
Death is not the bridge to heaven
As I tune in and drink my Merlot
with a shot of Tequila
Forever in Blue Agave Dreams
'..... 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
Comments
Sweeping up the leaves outside?
Who's the crazy bearded old man
Sweeping up the leaves outside?
He's been there since you wrote out your sermon
Roping off each tree that's died.
There's dust that flies inside a lightblade
It's landing all about your room.
There's dust that flies inside a lightblade
It's landing all about your room.
There's dust, and there's an old man outside
Laughing at you with his broom.
There's horses standing sturdy sixstrong
They crave the weight they work to share
The old man's horses stand up sixstrong
They want your weight they work to share
The churchbell cries to toll an old song
The Light comes, taking you nowhere.
And ears like curtain sashes
and they wear these yellow suits and tricorn hats
They've got clogs with lacy buckles
And long tights with hairy freckles
and they wear their pinky beards in purple plaits
and they live on fetuccini
and this soup that's very greeny
but always with a fork, not with a spoon
and that's the truth, my deary
to your very clever query
of what the folks are like up on the moon.
i know you'd let me paint your face and dress you up as i wished-like a big dolly that i could do anything i wanted with.
then you'd help me memorize the poem you wrote on my back upside down and backwards while i chanted<om mani padme hum>buzzing in my chest.
living within the moment-to-moment and resting when i must like a cat in the sun is all new to me.
but i want to learn more and do more and feel more than i ever have NOW.
i'd read to you from my own book and you'd want to hear my voice forever because the sound of it is like water running over small pebbles to your ear.
you won't even care what i say or sing
you just want me to fill your aurifices with anything sweet delicious sensuous smellicious like cinnamon or vanilla whipped cream loving and colourful toys.
lookkkkk what you've done to me.
see how you've spoiled me for anyone else.
and i'll feed you naked with symphonic grand music shaking the room-liberating idea germs with every mouthful/kiss/mouthful/kiss
i-n-s-p-i-r-a-t-i-o-n has defiled me this sunniest of days.
oh happy rape.
omg he saw me!!
great writings finsbury...keep posting!!! *hugs*
That's a golden bird.
There's a river crossing
in a simple word.
Here's a willow leaning,
Lapping on a stream.
There's a queenbee keening
in an easy dream.
Noon's sun flutters, singing
"Winging butterfly".
Riverboats come bringing
mythgleams to the eye.
Here's my song of summer.
It's a song of now.
Simply, it's a shimmer
of the river's sparkleglow.
From her, and she will blow out and away
The tomes that men with tunnel heart disease
Will squeeze out of their fingers day by day;
and in fact her spaces between sneezes
are where the molecules of image gather
into inspiration's deepest breezes.
Sneeze me, breeze me with celestial weather!
And the fatty flies splatter their eggs
There's a river of lilies and slowweed
and water that sneaks through the dregs.
And it's here you should please your beloved:
climb down on the bank with your fork
and your waders, and clear out the unmoved
mass of reeds. Break sweat in work
and show your love how you can make
the water rush through for the charge
of flash greens of the windwinging drake
freewheeling the dambreaking surge.
Please, please be sure
to please your lover. Do. Be.
Doobeedoobeedoo.
beautifully written
LOVE the last line
you are absolutely right
This is a bunch of amazing stuff!!
Speaking of stuff,,,,
I was WONDERING where my stash went!
YOU must have it!:D
Great writing Finsbury
Don't be mankind. ~Captain Beefheart
__________________________________
moonbeams into madness that's spiced and sensual YES and we/girl knights of the empire, shall intercept with greenglossed girdles....and jealousies, at bay--Inspiration's deep withinness,
and with gentle bow, I say, tippingly:
Thankyou. Thankyou once and spun-sat, thankyou once again.
Matchmaker madeyou a jewel, dreamed you a dream and now we are three dreaming and four/then more. Circle unto circle,
if you're up it tightens and widens at the base. It's cruel, this month!! So much verging (and never enough privacy)--to blossom accurately in sweet rain and verities of whispered love!!!
No, you're the maestro, the finesser of gemstones' refractive perfume....the light that draws,
thick velvet curtains, mathematical flirtations, brightredorange
Italian walls, crumbling and beautiful.
Suffusing. Say it again, the good story, the beautiful girl with goldenbrown hair. Carve her name in the same night: with me now: She lives, and because of this, we have known love.
All I have, to the pairbond of limitless possibilities: This then
is in-spiration, the spires of inward breathing (fair hope, sparkled dusted in first, yes, pinkgold dawn). Thankyou for swirltipped rambles and flapdoodlings, too
never enough!!but all, all is contained in love. Spin until the dreams cave in. Tsunami out into evening, be happy oh you're
BEAUTIFUL !!! YOU SHINE!!! thankyou for all good breath, happybirthday, wayyy
She is the light in Newton's room.
She is Degas's dancing Beauty.
She is the serendipitous harmonic, knowing all tones,
made by an arco viola.
She is the ease of shooting buds,
And she is bankside honeysuckle
windkissed in AprilMay.
She is Woman, woman-symbol, a jewel
and the reality of touch;
the kiss of fingertips to lips,
And the warmth of a cradled head to a loving breast.
(Turquoise golden green),
Julie's paintin' up her kitchen
as a vitalogic scene
Of the sun upon Mount Rainier
and noon by Puget Sound
There's not a mind that's brainier
Than Julie's, when she's bound
By emeraldic dreaming
of a ship on blissward seas.
She has her homestead gleaming
Cabo Wabo lovin' ease.
star touch
Recuperative magic
across space
my love
thank you for all you are
ditch drinker
it was not the dreeeeeenk
from deee deeetch
Mayhappppp
It was deeee kebaaaaaaabbb
Anyway, I got food poisoning of some sort and was really sick for about two days, but I'm feeling a bit better. Thanks, PastaNazi!
and plz keep in mind that i read all the poems posted here...
FPC& his friends..u take my breath away!
~~its better to be hated for who you are than be loved for who you are not~~
F.ZAPPA
sophisticated flora,
The one coiling spring of adversity,
The bloom of the slightly ugly exceptional
marking you out for the beauty of singularity.
You haven't grown upwards and outwards
out of a vulnerable quirkiness.
Your heads aren't bowed with the weight of what you claim
to be the burden of life in your sinewy shoots.
You're weeds,
muscly,
packed,
incestuous,
inexorable,
pushingpushingpushing
clamouring
choking the ground.
But then, you would have it otherwise.
vitalogic????
Is that even a word?
:(
glad you're feeling better now
Nasty Keebabs
Nasty keebabs made Finsy sick
He rolled in beds for days,
And cursed his feeding ways
While praying for the end of it
That awful pain of whirling motion
Left him with no other option
Than visits to the bathroom to and fro
Look at him! Watch him go
On and on
And on he goes
Look at that, it just came out
Are those...are those toes?
Nasty nasty keebabs
Maybe Dirty Frank prepared them.
I can laugh now.... but ....
phew
PS Satan invented the suppository.
having invented the word "Conversation"
suffering the visionary in the loin cloth and the thousandyard stare
I can just see Shakespeare
giving up his Avon speculations, his handy bits of real estate
and his love of merlot and pickled herrings
to worship some insufferable dullard with a Koresh twitch
going all Bagwan Roshneesh on the only cushion in the tent
I really can see so clearly Wordsworth giving up his solitary walks
to talk to a bunch of eejits about how great it is being a bunch of eejits
and is that Philip Larkin I see unclipping those bicycle clips from his trousers
and loosening his beads
to join the teepee? To quote the great man himself, "Is it fuck"?
But that is Yeats I see going into the poet's commune?
Yes,
yes,
it is,
it is,
yes.
After all, he joined the fascists, the buffoon.
If I sound like crashing spanners:
When you say you're wonder's warlock,
You talk plural of the bollock.
Brought to you by lovely dyao...
I drink my Merlot
with a shot of Tequila
Telescopic visions of guardian angels
Paint pictures of stars
Their Distortions of light
Shine on dimly lit paths
Hey, another shot perhaps
I strain and grope for the bridge to heaven
Oh, but for those dimly lit stars
The heavens unfold into wordless nothings
Knowingly I knock the scope to the ground
Yet, here it is
It’s not them never was
It’s me
I’m reflected in those countless the grains of sand
Illuminating perfection on this beautiful beach
My tangerine toes buried in it’s warmth
I radiate sun and shape the stars
Death is not the bridge to heaven
As I tune in and drink my Merlot
with a shot of Tequila
Forever in Blue Agave Dreams
outside the teepee
and I will love you forever.
You're enough to make me halloooo
your name
to all the birds above me
and get backing from Eddie Vedder.