Finsbury in New Poetry Thread Shock: Sensational Proof!! (see pages 67, 94, 108ff)
FinsburyParkCarrots
Posts: 12,223
Actually, not really. I thought I'd pull this poem out of my big thread, and dedicate it to all us big thread-ers here.
Love
Finsbury.
The Thread Monster
I am the Thread Monster.
I start like a little worm, a germ,
a wriggling idea,
a little squiggle of life
in the rainy bog of the Word Farm.
Everybody comes to see me,
They like the shine of my skin
Gleaming in the sun
and they pat me, "Pretty little thread,
zippy little fella, though a bit funny-looking,"
and they pick me up
and take me to rich ground
cupped in the hands of praise.
But when they lay me down
They notice I am a little heavier
than when they had first held me.
I'm a bit corpulent, protracted,
extending with the odd wart,
the odd septic hair
and sceptic's muscle flinch,
and ridges of bulge and then more ridges,
inscribed with the wrinkles of indulgent feasting
on the fat of Word Land:
"Page 1, Page 2, Page 3".
I get bigger,
and b-i-g-g-e-r,
and B-I-G-G-E-R ...
Oh, and there are arms popping out now,
arms and legs with craters on the skin,
fists and satchel feet,
corn armour (corn amour!),
writing on the body the love of battle
with all the poor little wrigglers on the prairie.
But one day
from the great farm porch,
Great Farmer Versey is going to wonder
about the drought
and he's going to say,
"That little wriggler started off cute,
and he caught folks' attention
But he just got too goddam big
and he's drinking all the words up.
He's too big for the other threads
and I can't slim him down.
I guess I'll just have to shoot him."
So I'm just going to have to face it.
I should have known that small is beautiful.
I am the Thread Monster.
Love
Finsbury.
The Thread Monster
I am the Thread Monster.
I start like a little worm, a germ,
a wriggling idea,
a little squiggle of life
in the rainy bog of the Word Farm.
Everybody comes to see me,
They like the shine of my skin
Gleaming in the sun
and they pat me, "Pretty little thread,
zippy little fella, though a bit funny-looking,"
and they pick me up
and take me to rich ground
cupped in the hands of praise.
But when they lay me down
They notice I am a little heavier
than when they had first held me.
I'm a bit corpulent, protracted,
extending with the odd wart,
the odd septic hair
and sceptic's muscle flinch,
and ridges of bulge and then more ridges,
inscribed with the wrinkles of indulgent feasting
on the fat of Word Land:
"Page 1, Page 2, Page 3".
I get bigger,
and b-i-g-g-e-r,
and B-I-G-G-E-R ...
Oh, and there are arms popping out now,
arms and legs with craters on the skin,
fists and satchel feet,
corn armour (corn amour!),
writing on the body the love of battle
with all the poor little wrigglers on the prairie.
But one day
from the great farm porch,
Great Farmer Versey is going to wonder
about the drought
and he's going to say,
"That little wriggler started off cute,
and he caught folks' attention
But he just got too goddam big
and he's drinking all the words up.
He's too big for the other threads
and I can't slim him down.
I guess I'll just have to shoot him."
So I'm just going to have to face it.
I should have known that small is beautiful.
I am the Thread Monster.
Post edited by Unknown User on
0
Comments
i've no idea to which you refer.... :P
however... mr. side? did you see this???
Should have done. It's on the big thread.
MORAL: No-one can be bothered to read a big thread LMAO
We will git BIGGER, ah tell yiz, an' "Poems by Pasta Nazi" and "Written" and "Ophelia's Nun" and "Setaside's Poetry" will fight it out on top of the world like those giant cats and dogs who drank the plant food in the Tex Avery cartoon... and we'll forget what we were writing for.... and... and... and.....
Oh, I love you all.
... a moment?
i doubt that a true writer could forget...
and you know, we love you too
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.