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!"
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
I say what I want, when I want. It's freedom of fucking speech.
Sperm, It's in you to give.
I used to have something to say... now I'm just a caricature of who I was... it's sad, that the one piece of me I wanted for you, is nothing but a misrepresentation of everything I am.
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.
Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots The big R. The attempt at laconism. The propensity to bore. What is that about?
You lost me after "the".
I say what I want, when I want. It's freedom of fucking speech.
Sperm, It's in you to give.
I used to have something to say... now I'm just a caricature of who I was... it's sad, that the one piece of me I wanted for you, is nothing but a misrepresentation of everything I am.
Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots 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.
she's prolly on a low carb diet
and eating pork rinds
He had a brick head, it was bald, it was dented.
He dared you to hit it, you even consented.
His forehead was furrowed, not by indecision
But by a big boot from a warden, in prison.
His nose spread flat out, like a steak in the butchers.
His cheek was knife-scarred; it had never had stiches.
His neck was all scrawny, tattooed with a spider.
His unknuckled hands gripped a can of warm cider.
He sat on the bench by the bridge on the river.
He liked to get students with lobs of saliva.
He'd stay, shouting out at the thick riverflow, or
grey- dappling rainclouds. "Whaddoo I know, uh?"
He looked like Montaigne in that funny old painting.
Sometimes, if you heard past the raving and ranting
He'd roar from his bench with his can or his bottle,
He was that philosopher, going full throttle.
There's cider unbought in the store's frosty cooler.
The bench has been claimed by a lesser old drooler.
The students aren't gobbed on, the river runs faster
Perhaps there's some spirit there, giving it lustre.
Do you wake? Do you blink? Do you stretch in arousal?
Draw back the curtains? Give light good perusal?
Head for the kitchen? Yawn loudly? Feel lino
beneath your cold feet? Take the bottle of vino
you finished last night, to line up in the passage
outside the back door? Fry bacon and sausage?
Make tea with the teabag left in for good measure?
Are you feeling your belly warmed up with good pleasure?
Or do you survive in some deep inner cosmos,
That doesn't have turkey and pudding at Christmas,
or bathrooms, or clippers for toenails, or Colgate?
Are you Ideal Text and are we just the Vulgate?
I reckon you could yet consider the priesthood,
As Jupiter's Priestess, of course, for you sure would
need to be different. Well, You join the Deep Thinkers.
I'll eat my breakfast and laugh at your blinkers.
If this thread was Elvis
would it be that Fat 'n' Sweaty Guy,
or more that Aloha from Hawaii Fella,
ridin' the galactic telecast,
all Proud Mary and flares
before the cheeseburgers kicked
into play?
Comments
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"?
Anyway, enough of that! Thanks for coming on!
pouty beds...
ok... sorry... i'll go now
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
scary dogs.... I dog bit me once, since then I have utmost distrust for stray dogs, street dogs.... not lost dogs, those I love
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.
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.
What's it about?
Sperm, It's in you to give.
I used to have something to say... now I'm just a caricature of who I was... it's sad, that the one piece of me I wanted for you, is nothing but a misrepresentation of everything I am.
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.
The big R. The jaded attempt at laconism. What is that about?
You lost me after "the".
Sperm, It's in you to give.
I used to have something to say... now I'm just a caricature of who I was... it's sad, that the one piece of me I wanted for you, is nothing but a misrepresentation of everything I am.
Good.
as per websters.com
terse = Brief and to the point; effectively concise
she's prolly on a low carb diet
and eating pork rinds
PUKE!
Dang-dang-DAAAAAANGGG!!!!!!!!!!
you guys LET men run libraries over there?
wtfiuwt???
He dared you to hit it, you even consented.
His forehead was furrowed, not by indecision
But by a big boot from a warden, in prison.
His nose spread flat out, like a steak in the butchers.
His cheek was knife-scarred; it had never had stiches.
His neck was all scrawny, tattooed with a spider.
His unknuckled hands gripped a can of warm cider.
He sat on the bench by the bridge on the river.
He liked to get students with lobs of saliva.
He'd stay, shouting out at the thick riverflow, or
grey- dappling rainclouds. "Whaddoo I know, uh?"
He looked like Montaigne in that funny old painting.
Sometimes, if you heard past the raving and ranting
He'd roar from his bench with his can or his bottle,
He was that philosopher, going full throttle.
There's cider unbought in the store's frosty cooler.
The bench has been claimed by a lesser old drooler.
The students aren't gobbed on, the river runs faster
Perhaps there's some spirit there, giving it lustre.
Draw back the curtains? Give light good perusal?
Head for the kitchen? Yawn loudly? Feel lino
beneath your cold feet? Take the bottle of vino
you finished last night, to line up in the passage
outside the back door? Fry bacon and sausage?
Make tea with the teabag left in for good measure?
Are you feeling your belly warmed up with good pleasure?
Or do you survive in some deep inner cosmos,
That doesn't have turkey and pudding at Christmas,
or bathrooms, or clippers for toenails, or Colgate?
Are you Ideal Text and are we just the Vulgate?
I reckon you could yet consider the priesthood,
As Jupiter's Priestess, of course, for you sure would
need to be different. Well, You join the Deep Thinkers.
I'll eat my breakfast and laugh at your blinkers.
nice
would it be that Fat 'n' Sweaty Guy,
or more that Aloha from Hawaii Fella,
ridin' the galactic telecast,
all Proud Mary and flares
before the cheeseburgers kicked
into play?
you know, elvis was
a constant work of progress
viva la finsbury
From Las Finsos ...
Las Finsos basement ...