Ophelia's Nun
Comments
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Car chase! Car chase! Car chase down the cul de sac!
The fuckas in the baseball caps
who all look like Eminem
when he was five
spliffed up in de mobile
wid de luminous turbo
they don't know
ha ha
ha ha
oh lord
this road ain't goin' nowhere!
There's a green park wid some trees an stuff
and the street goes round like an unlucky horseshoe
and there's only one way back out
Where de cops is waitin'
quietly readin' the papers
an' pickin' de noses
an' askin' about swappin' shifts sometime later in de week
an' this is better than walkin' the Lake District for inspiration
this is better than Dallas!
Just gotta
Just gotta see
How it ends0 -
Wooow.... your words amaze me time after time.
Your the king of "Poetry, Prose, Music & Art"
Salute !!!!may we all stay most human and most alive0 -
'Tis cassia who will always reign supreme,
her spectacular quinkology rising up through the very earth
intercepting the computer cable
and squigglifying the modem
pulsingeffervescingorangeyness
spinningexcitationalwheemorphs
{{{{{{{{{like this}}}}}}}}}
{{{{{{{{{{{wheee}}}}}}}}}}}
and giving me the feeling to write.
Cassia's my boardidol, you know!0 -
Goodnight, goodnight and may the low
delicious bodylight in glow
of your fair lover, moonthralled now
Entrance where dreams are honey slow.0 -
Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots
Goodnight, goodnight and may the low
delicious bodylight in glow
of your fair lover, moonthralled now
Entrance where dreams are honey slow.
finsbury..you're deliciously bonkers
and i love you for it:D"heaven doesn't want me
and hell's afraid i'll take over"
fear of death is gain
scratching the walls of my glass coffin,scraping, raping my nails on the glass on the bottom..is there no end? when will this end? if i was u, i'd fucking hate me too
rock bottom's safest place to be..
..you can't fall any further
life aint a bitch..it's jeffrey dahmer0 -
The seas are turning turquoise now
The reds are turning strawberry
And fingertips have dented the relief along the Himalayas
and someone's carefully sellotaped along the equator
and it still likes to take you to Leningrad
and hey!, here's the Kinshasa of Mobutu se se Seku
(with his ocelot hat
decimating insurgents by gun in the dungeons
while Ali and Foreman fight above them)
and that's Idi's Kampala for that matter
and Betty Ford's drinking in that Washington there
and Ed is yet to get his first surfing suit in Evanston
and I'm in my pushchair in Cambridge
counting abacus beads right there where my finger points now
with the box wireless on Listen With Mother
and this globe deserves a spin
this 12" stereo globe of 1974
that I got at the car boot sale
wheeee spin it baby
I think I can hear "Kung Fu Fighting".....0 -
When time is suddenly at hand
back by dope demand
you need to find a way
to fill that blank hole
so don't delay
lets loose all controle0 -
I once lysergically perceived lemons in sunglasses in spaceships flying about Sunderland city centre, trying to attack the Giant Doughnut dragon who lived on the tower of St Peter's Church.
I never touched that sheeeeet again.0 -
I once was a fab five freddy cat that couldn't land on all fours so the nines lives counted down quickly0
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It's not inside the self-help books you buy
It's not achieved through therapies you try
It isn't in your pay or in your drive
and it doesn't come from fighting to survive
That isn't you
You'll never see
what it ever really means to be
It's in a dream
it's in a sound
That can never reach your ground
It's out of hand, my friend
It's out of hand, my friend
It doesn't come from teaching me your song
It doesn't stand beside your right or wrong
It doesn't come from wars that last a year
and it knows you can't get freedom to appear
When that's not you
If you can't find
The true magic, you're denying with your mind
It's in a dream
It's in a sound
That you can never comprehend
It's out of hand, my friend
It's out of hand
It's out of hand
You'll never get near
Never get near to see
It's out of hand
It's out of hand
Believe me
Believe me now.0 -
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.0 -
They've got umbrella shaped moustaches
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.0 -
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.0 -
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.
omg he saw me!!
great writings finsbury...keep posting!!! *hugs*0 -
This is apple blossom.
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.0 -
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!0 -
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.0 -
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.
beautifully written
LOVE the last liney la banda de Guille... cuando toca?0 -
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.
you are absolutely righty la banda de Guille... cuando toca?0 -
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 FinsburyBe kind, man
Don't be mankind. ~Captain Beefheart
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