Ophelia's Nun

FinsburyParkCarrots

Zebedee heard Zacchary intoning in the bath,
"Aooooooo-aaa-aaargh, aoooooooo-aaa-aaaargh, Oh Guarder of The Path,
Whither goes thou, and must I guard The Path for now
To wisdom, by myself? Ohhhh Path of Desert Sand, I know
Each grain contains the misery of one unhappy God
and we must walk on glassy pain to know the Truth. I could
guard the path forever; that sad honour would be mine."
Zeb roared, "Get out that feckin' bath! It's nearly half-past nine!

Come on! Out the bath! I need to get to clean me teeth.
I'm going to a party and the theme is 'Coral Reef'.
There's lots of pretty wimmins there and plenty algave juice.
The tiles are cracked or dropping off from suffering your voice."
He banged upon the bathroom door and rattled at the handle.
"Come on, you poet's arse, you can blow that holy candle,
that you've put down on the toilet seat, out now. And pull that plug out!
And take those poet's pubes out of the bath, you holy braggart!"

All across the suburbs, poet-brothers rage like this:
One moaning with wet-wrinkled toes, the other seeking bliss
By readying his senses for a sensual excess.
The poetry's to see yourself within their witlessness.
All across the world, will poet-brothers argue thus;
For nothing more than doggerel, there has to be this fuss
to be the greater poet, though no audience is there
To praise them. Ah, this household scene. I think we'll leave it there.

FinsburyParkCarrots

It is an old conceit, but it is lost
on sermonising preachers of dark hearts;
the jester's heart is always broken most
deeply. In his subrole to the parts

of foolish king and cruel daughter; in
his night carousing and devising how
to mock Malvolio, he has seen within
the folly of ambition, playing now

The tragedy of comedy. And yet
another laughter rises from his deep
heart of revelation and regret
And balms the soul of poetry like sleep.

This is the freest pulse of worded joy:
The will to entertain an aching friend
with lines of light, to make a toy
of trouble and put restlessness at end.

FinsburyParkCarrots

You're up and fit for work at half past five
After the most refreshing sleep; you make
the finest tea of any man alive
and cook yourself a mighty feast, a rake
of sausages, the finest butcher's meat;
Then you get your flask prepared, and make
more tea from breaktime. Then you eat
your grub, and read the morning paper for a bit.
Then you stand and stretch, and get the green
bodywarmer on. By God, You're mighty fit
for nearly eighty, boy. I've never seen
a fella like you, never fazed one bit
By early starts and heavy grafting. Dad:
You're the greatest man we've ever had.

Buru

Originally posted by PastaNazi
kitchen lights star out



nice, fins

I was just about to say the same thing!

Buru

Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots
You're up and fit for work at half past five
After the most refreshing sleep; you make
the finest tea of any man alive
and cook yourself a mighty feast, a rake
of sausages, the finest butcher's meat;
Then you get your flask prepared, and make
more tea from breaktime. Then you eat
your grub, and read the morning paper for a bit.
Then you stand and stretch, and get the green
bodywarmer on. By God, You're mighty fit
for nearly eighty, boy. I've never seen
a fella like you, never fazed one bit
By early starts and heavy grafting. Dad:
You're the greatest man we've ever had.

pst... Father's day is tomorrow
lovely sentiment

FinsburyParkCarrots

Well, I love the old fella. Simple as that.

dyaogirl

Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots
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.

You are so loved.

As raised voices of ancestral song
flow through my blood, my being
responds in harmonic unity
to the wonder of you.

You are loved by all
that they are
in timeless accordance.

FinsburyParkCarrots

Thank you, my love.

FinsburyParkCarrots

Friday. City dog track. Terraces
of concrete steps, down. Bookies in a row,
with placard names, like "Johnny Pegasus",
take big rolls of twenties, making show
of fat gold rings and bracelets, and cigars;
one shouts, "six to four". Some little bloke
with sideburns like Lambretta handlebars
is betting on a dog called "Wicked Joke."

Tannoy. Hare is running. Wire hum.
A rabbit toy. A whirr. Steel traps flip up.
Six hounds streak out. Sand flies. Fee fi, foe fum,
Dogs smell the bloodless prize. Some lanky pup
with forelegs billy-whizzing nears the lead,
Paws pushing forward, tongue stuck out on end,
in a coat of zebra stripes, his head
darting on and craning at the bend -

This is the fast approach of "Wicked Joke",
Ripping, speeding on! "Get on, my son!,
Get on, my Cocker!", croaks out Little Bloke,
sand in his throat, his left hand gripping on
his betting slip, and Wicked Joke breaks through
The sea of heads and paws and barks and roars
and yelps and leads in lengths and lengths and "OOOO!,
MY BEAUTY, YES!", he takes the line and soars

past the photo flash! Oh, see that hound,
He's won but he keeps going round and round!

FinsburyParkCarrots

Cap'ns Log. July the Tenth. Eighteen Ninety-Four.
The "Stoney Ed" has been nine months at sea.
We've noticed that our casks of IPA are gettin' sour,
an' all we have to drink is Ceylon tea.
The crew is getting thirsty. The crew is getting mad.
The crew is sayin' they won't do no work.
If we don't hit some land before next Tuesday, all that bad
Temperedness will drive 'em all beserk ...

___

Cap'ns Log. July the Twenty First. And not a sign
of land for miles. Just ocean, dark and deep.
Out 'ere the nightfall comes and cloaks us black, at half-past-nine.
The silence of the waters makes ye creep.
All you hear upon the deck is groanin' in the dark:
The crew is goin' crazy for some beer.
But then! Good Gracious God! You hear that gruntin', sqwawkin' bark??!!!!
That seabark in the water???? Drawing near??????

Good lord!!!! The Three-Head Sea Gorilla Pig of Skubidu
Is whippin' its scaled tail upon the prow!!!
Oh! Screams of men! Man overboard! Foam splashin' all the crew!!!!
Oh!!! Merciful Creator!!! Save us now...
Oh!!!! Thankee, Lord!!!! The Eight-Arse Sheep of Southeast Shaggadee
Descends with wings of golden shiny sheen:
The sheep bears down his fangs upon the monster of the sea:
and no more is the Sea Pig ever seen.

And suddenly a rain of beer comes pourin' through the night,
Five point two percent in eh bee vee,
An' each man grabs a bucket to catch all the beer in sight
And roars "Goddamn and blast all Ceylon Tea,
This is the stuff of men!" I retire to my cabin,
To my lady of the lovely lotus thong,
Whom I rescued from the palace of some grandson of Aladdin:
Ah, but would mean another song.

DopeBeastie

another song, indeed

FinsburyParkCarrots

After a while, me deario. I'm writing something all about poetic language, for college.

DopeBeastie

college...


pfft!




:P

FinsburyParkCarrots

Well, if Ed awards me the Board Honorary Professorship, I'll take that instead.

DopeBeastie

i certain he would had he the proper authority
i'd talk to kat and sea,
but you should know
the pay is probably for shit

FinsburyParkCarrots

...Anti-virus mail
ads come straight after emails
sending viruses?

olderman

ripped of from Bob Dylan.. with no apologies

Now Ophelia, she's 'neath the window
For her I feel so afraid
On her twenty-second birthday
She already is an old maid

To her, death is quite romantic
She wears an iron vest
Her profession's her religion
Her sin is her lifelessness
And though her eyes are fixed upon
Noah's great rainbow
She spends her time peeking
Into Desolation Row

FinsburyParkCarrots

I love that song.

olderman

Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots
I love that song.

when i was 14 (yea yea a long time ago!!) i sat down once with a vinyl copy and wrote down the lyrics .. had to keep picking up the stylus and replaying til i got it all down.. i love this song also

FinsburyParkCarrots

There's only one thing more spooky than people reading your thread at the same time
and that's guests reading your thread at the same time.
Especially when there are five guests reading your thread at the same time.
Five.
A man could start to get suspicious...