of other people on the site, you know things that show whatelse they do, i've been coming to the discussion site hoping to read new material, but nothing , so i thought 'why not'? hope i'm not being presumptious?

here is something of mine, i've done this before (it also happens to be the only one i seem able to memorise)


THE SCORE

If I found another’s underwear
Stuck in the corner of your bed
I would smell it to know how deep
Your orgasm was

If I found another’s lipstick
Smeared on the sleeve of your shirt
I would feel it to know how hard
You were kissed

If I found another’s picture
Hidden in the corner of your purse
I would draw it to know
What the attraction is

But if

If I found a receipt for that shirt
From Debenhams’ for her
I would feed you poison
As you return from her place
And let her go to prison on my behalf

Here's one I wrote, its not the best in the world but here it is.


Theres something about Ronald, That jumped up little clown
When ever I eat his burgers, they never stay down
You animal rights activists can relax 'cos I'm telling you now
I know whats in them burgers and its not part of a cow
When you learn the secret I'm sure you'll scream
When you find out that for years, you've been eating human beings
He lures victims to his lair using his cartoony clown image
And then slices them into pieces before storing them in his fridge
He then plays the innocent happy clown routine on your television
And bribes kids with with cheap plastic toys to minimise suspicions
He disguises the meat using dyes and strange pastes
And smothers the burgers with ketchups to try and alter the taste
He then serves the remains to children in between a sessame seeded bun
And watching the unassuming canables eating the evidence is where he gets his fun
So now you know the truth I bet its hard to swallow
But even if you try to act, any victiory will be hollow
Because even if he gets sued in court
His revolting burgers will still be bought
And if you, dear reader, try to take direct action against him
I can almost guarantee that you'll be his next victim
And no-one will notice when you've died
And been served up with some salad on the side
But if you really want to know how to bring Mcdonalds down
Stay away from Ronald- That jumped up, man eating clown

oh alright then:

I changed the world through poetry
I wanted to make people think
To think about some damned fool war or other
Or injustices out on the street
So the world was changed: having one more poem
And proportionately less ink

My poem changed a society
By stirring their hearts and their minds
Their idiot war seemed to live in them no more
Streets were swept clean of tramps
And the world could ignore this one more poem
As though it was totally blind

I struck at the hearts of capitalists
My words were like daggers of gilt
Ornaments all of them laid on a shelf somewhere
Neither looked at nor read
And the world changed slow: geological ages
Enfossiled my pages in silt

The world righted, I put down my pen
And looked at the earth I had changed
I had banished the beasts that haunt we angry men
To darker realms. But then…
People who read it simply shrugged
But I’d had my unread say.

I get a lot of stick for my style of Poetry "Drop the Keats" and "Old fashioned" but I like it - am I really doing the wrong thing? Comments please - here's one of my "Drop the Keats" Poems.

Unspoken Words

Oh, she of such little eyes,
Writes words with tears
And dries them with sighs.
Her pen trembles on the page,
Seeking words to express
Feelings that feed a crying rage.
The pen falls softly from her hand; no more.
And crumpled paper casts down feelings
To join the others on the floor.
Flesh cleaves black, brown or white; you’re dead.
No clothes when the unborn die; no more than
A coffin makes a comfy bed.
Sometimes, their time, when they die
Tears speak louder than words
And I sit by.

Things to do in Blackpool when you’re bored

You can wander down the main street and talk to drunken loons
You can walk past birthday parties and pop all their balloons
You can browse the seafront stall and buy cheap novelties and tat
You can write LY’s on the adverbs on the Kiss me quick hats
You can use the pay telescopes to look out at the bay
I see no casino as Lord Nelson might say

here is an anti valentine one! I'm in a vehement mood.

Love is mush
Love is waiting by the telephone
For that elusive phone call
Praying that February is your month
And valentine your day
It is epileptic emotions run entirely by
Circumstances dictated by another
It is the eternal search for ‘the one’
You are another’s use.
Love is slavery
It is losing the power of self-control
Turning into a
‘Yes dear, no dear, I only live to please dear’ android
It is dreaming of being an equal
Yet becoming under, submerged by that desperate need
To be owned, to belong to another
Love is dominion
Enslaved with recycled cardboard chains
Shackled with roses
Kept sublime with wine and a little sex
Enough to keep pliant.
Love is boring
It is comfortable fat, sitting in front of the TV
Having curry for dinner again
Trudging upstairs and falling into
Cuddle and sleep.
Love is bad
It is tears, called by many names
Heartbreak patched up with chocolate and untrue apologies
A secret open yearn for a ring
To seal the destiny as lost.
Love is…bah! I don’t want!

MISS GHOST HUNTER DUNN
or ODE TO MOST HAUNTED
(after John Betjeman)

Miss Ghost Hunter Dunn, Miss Ghost Hunter Dunn,
Livid and clammy, deprived of the sun
What strenuous astrals you chased after tea,
Roving the battlements with ghoul and banshee.

Night vision, night vigil, oh ghost-hunter ploy!
Test objects positioned: some coins and a toy,
Visual evidence? Ambivalent. Sparse.
Spoon-and-stone throwing; a spark from a vase.

With bright thermal image, and E.M.F. spike
Anomalies register mainly on mic;
Your webcams and sensors just add to the fun,
Ghosts hide from your prying, Miss Ghost Hunter Dunn!

Moxy

And now to spoil the nice poetry...

The Chat Show

I ran over my granddaughter
I slept with a cat
I live a normal life but you can't be bothered with that
I slept with the vicker
I'm really a man!
I just wanna get fame any way that I can
The baby's not your's
This hairs not mine
I'm really a mass murderer
I should be doing time
But I'm not
Instead I'm on your TV screen
Telling you things that are normally obscene
Fifteen minutes of fame
I'm all you can see
On your telly program
Look at me, look at me, look at me, me, me!
Who do you blame when you see my face?
Parents? Society? Or you?
For been sucked into this e in the first place
For fifteen minutes I'm the star of the chat show
Then I'm laughed at for the rest of my life, where ever I go

I like your
--style, Cayn
--emotional wile, Abi
--billious smile, DG
--rhyming guile, Gary

Love can be so many things, but it has one underlying emotion- pain.

Abuse



You took me like pieces of barbecued beef
Slapped me within the thighs of your bread
Plunged your salami in
Squeezed your mustard on my weakened, marinated flesh
Clamped me tight between your fleshy hands and bit
I oozed and fought in rebellion
Toughened gristle hiding within your teeth
Trying to prove a point
There are many ways to have a woman, my man
But me and
I’m not telling.

You took me like slivers of onion rings
Crushed me within the creases of your grater
Stirred your pickle in
Drizzled your olive oil on my roughened, coarse skin
I clumped together, refusing to blend
Denying you the mix you desired
Maybe I would be left alone
Surviving this night, to escape perhaps and
Me finding help
Tell all.

BIRDSONG

This is for the vulture
Flying low scavenging for food
Brother, don’t blame him
Another’s death is his feast
For without he would die.

This is for the eagle
Flying strong hunting prey
It is not his fault
Another’s carelessness is his triumph
There is no mercy for the foolish

This is for the hawk
Flying in search for that gaol
Be not annoyed, my brother
Your straying chickens fill his beak
Insufficient red dye is no good excuse

This is for all birds strong and wild
Yours is the wicked beak, the sharp talon
Strong birds, strong lives
Reflecting the ways of men
May I never be found weak.

Oh, Abi, your images are immensely powerful. Here's a rather daft poem about men, written last night in response to yours.

CLICK
Click, click, click like a sewing machine
Her perfect men in matt or sheen
Adjust their dress, rejoin the scene
Re-order drinks: a shot, a stein.
Their top lips make a mezzanine
Where kisses form and stars careen.

Her gaze falls on the bonafide
Peter Goatherds to her Heidi
Stable hands to groom her Bridey
Compact body types and tidy--
Contstant hearts on Life's slip-slidey
But who to pick to walk beside she?

Why thanks Moxy. Grateful for the comment. Here's one I'm using at the Love v Lust tour going on now, many people say this is their favorite from the stuff i do. still on the theme of emotions.

Under sheet Wishes


I wish I could take

Your smell and bottle it
To inhale at times of sensual loneliness
Drag it deep within me
Till it explodes in ecstatic raptures

Your taste and freeze it
To lick in secret relish
Suck till it swells
Fills and overwhelms

Your touch and frame it
To feel when that sacred thing
Comes moving slowly over me
Driving wild till I shudder in a sheen

Your laughter and record it
To play over again, an echo
Of your essence, your being
Which makes me, be

Your eyes and on a mirror, fix
That every time I looked
At myself, I would see the way
You look at me and ignite

Your whole frame and hold tight
Forever and ever
To feel the electric and burst
Into appreciative sparks

I wish I could take you
Forever

only wrote this one today and not entirely happy with it, but...

Romance is alive, and it’s murdering love.

I would give you the rainbows from the sky
if they weren’t just spectral illusions.
I’d bestow all the stars upon you as gifts
were it not for the nuclear fusion.
I would give you things that could never exist
if they formed a subset of all that there is.
I would give make you a brooch out of all that I am
were it too to form part of that Venn diagram.
But, instead, we will sit and play silly games:
you will throw me the odd coquettish glance;
I will wring my hands and wish you weren’t there
Because you set too much store by romance.
And the game will be that you seem to want me
but need me to perform some knight-errant’s task
that I don’t want to do because I’m unsure of you,
whereas you want me but require me to ask,
and will judge me, despite the obvious fact
that it’s something you yourself couldn’t do,
and would mean about as much as the promise I made
about taking rainbows from the heavens above.
But, neither will ask as we both are entrenched
whereupon, such rules abnegate any love.
So, I pray for the day that romance is dead
when we’ll all dance about on its grave.

Well DG, call me an auld cynic, but it punches my buttons, however be careful about falling for that "why don't men show their emotions more often and talk about how they feel", it's quite possibly going to be used in evidence against you when you're least expecting it, or be interpreted as a sign of weakness, once the novelty's worn off.

You said Stop
I said Go
You said Yes
I said No
You said suck
I said blow
You fought the tide
I embraced the flow
You want to cluck
I want to crow
We can't agree
On what to grow,
You say now
I say not yet
It's tough being half
of a rhyming couplet

Grove Madan

One can never know what goes on in the mind of a man. There never seems to be enough co ordinates between their thoughts and actions! And with the whole 'idea' that they are ruled by the contents of their pants and not their heads, that would seem quite right. (accuse me of generalisation, if you will, I'm just quoting the common consensus)
Therefore the whole mechanics of the 'who, what, where and how' ( I presume, y'all know that a wise man never asks a woman 'why?') is something that needs fine application to be able to get anywhere in a relationship. And as I'm not the best when it comes to that (I only talk the talk ok, never been able to walk it) I leave it at this

It is an abyss
This thing we call us
You not understanding me
I not reading you right
We come together, we fall
You rise, I crawl
We both speaking
Neither heard
We could be registered members
of confused dot com
I'm reaching out but can't see
Your fine form of telepathy
You say my words aren't plain
they have more than they say
I wish your yea
would be yea
So indeed, my nay would be
as it says
But we'll keep second guessing
wanting to know, though not revealing
It is indeed an abyss
This thing called us

Random Persons’ Day Greeting.

You wait each day at the bus stop.
You ride your bike up my street.
I wanted to get you a gift
but don’t know what you like
or what interests you
so I bought you this folded cardboard
to show how little you mean to me
and humans like and demand empty gestures.
If I didn’t see you at the bus stop
or riding your bike up my street
and someone told me you’d died
I ‘d struggle for something to say
and look down at my feet.
I’d be moved to raise my eyebrows;
that’s what you mean to me.
The greeting reads Happy random persons’ day.
Next year I will get you a gift -
something like one unpaired shoe
or maybe eleven red roses.
I don’t know what you like
and wouldn’t ever want to.
I’ll get you a map of a desert,
to show how little I know of you,
and a card saying happy random persons’ day.

Heres one I wrote for St Georges Day but unfortunatly forgot about.

I love my country, to a point
I love how I can travel four miles from my home
And then walk for miles in beutiful countryside,
Without bumping into another soul
I love how after the walk
I can pop into a pub for a pint of real ale
Not the chemical piss by Carling or Calsberg
I also like the fact that I can speak my mind
On a stage, on a page, in a bar, where ever
Without getting my head kicked in,
Well, not too much anyway.
I like freedom of choice
So I like how after a night out
I can choose between Fish and Chips
A curry, or a chillie burger.
Though theres not really much of a choice
As, well, I hate chips
And the curry around here is far too runny for human consumption
So its normally the burger that I choose
So today, I'll celebrate St Georges Day
In my own way,
I'll have a few beers
And chat to my mates
Like I do every other day
Because theres some things in this country
That I'm not proud of
I don't particulary like the police force
Or the Government for that matter
And no matter what happens
No ammount of bribes
Or threats of impending doom
Will ever,
And I mean ever,
Make me cheer for a bunch of over-rated no-bodies
Calling themselves the "England Football Team"
I'm sorry,
But no ammount of patriotism, no matter how strong
Can take away the fact that there crap.
I will however, enjoy walking into my local tonight
And asking the local bonehead
If he knows the his precious St George
Was actually Turkish
And if he really believes in Dragons
Because, they do really exist
Although, admittedly, They aren't the ones that Nick Tocseck writes about
But they are out there,
Theres a couple in Buckingham Palace for that matter
And one even used to be the Prime Minister
Although that one is very close to death
And when she does die, as a celebration
of another dragon laid to rest
I'll ask for Maggots One-Maggie Nil
By Attila the Stockborker to be played
On every radio station
While the Union Jack waves triumphantly in the breeze
Now that will truley be a day worth celebrating.

Written By Cayn White
On the 23rd April 2007 (St Georges Day)

Saint George just rang and dictated this, Cayn.

I am Saint George, I am sort of Greek
My poison's ouzo, my armour's teak
Don't know why England adopted me
I dollop houmos into my tea
You liberally police this Land of the Free
Your draconian immigration laws keep burning me.

Whoever DG is.
Random persons' poem thing is brill.

About stumbling on a jazz bar in Prague.

Ungalet

Lashings. We see a foetal beggar outside,
Forehead touching
The rain-soaked cobbles of Prague,
His bald patch tipping a copper plate,
Humble to the chink-chink of copper pennies.

More lashings. We use yesterday’s Times
As an umbrella of information.
Golem underfoot chases us to Ungalet,
Stumbling, we enter with ink, black ink

Stained on our hands and sodden paper on our shoulders.
A fog hits our eyes and we squint at little fires
Held, in warm fingers, glowing, lighting
Faceless shapes. We blink and we blink.

Then the noise, seemingly chaotic,
Frenzied shakes, tinkles and toots, the pull of a long trombone,
A skipping beat,
Looseness in the wrists, the gravity
Defying notes willing us to think and to think

About the intricacies.
We’re offered dark froth in glasses
And dumplings on plates, so we sit in scotch-red seating.
An electric-haired enthusiast
In the front row takes a drink, takes a drink.

His partner yawns, black caterpillars
Framing her eyes, as he nods
And applauds hypnotically, robotically. I stare
At the kink, that maddening kink

In the eyes of the players.
A bearded man approaches in an almost-clean
White shirt, tells us, “You two should have been
Here an hour and five minutes ago.”
We look at each other, eyebrows raised.
The trumpets pipe down, the piano plays
Morse code, and the lights, the hue, glows pink, glows pink.


John Togher

John Togher
you is a goooood man!
That is one smashing, atmospheric and loverly-lively piece of word-work!

ps got any more?

Oh Mother, sugar !

Mum went to sugar land
And bought Sugar mice
She cleaned my bits
Got rid of the nits
But couldn’t shake the sugar bits off
My tongue
And as though it always belong there
So started the lure and layer
Of
TEN TONS OF CAKE
AND A WHOLE LAKE FULL OF CUSTARD
LOW FAT AND TASTY
BUT FILLED FULL OF SUGAR
I COULD EAT THE ENTIRE AISLE of tescos bakery
I COULD REALLY GORGE ON THIS LIFESTYLE
OF sugar hitting JUNK FOOD

Ten tons of cake
And fresh bread baked
In store
Smells good you want more
Of bread and sugar
Sugar
Bugger me I’m trying to stay off the sugar
But in everything sugar
Temptation hugger
Ten tons of sugar
And a whole lake of custard

Sugar conspiracy
Sugar imported lunacy
Tate and Lyle the kings
Tate and Lyle temptation sings
Tate and Lyle run rings
Round other leading brands
And in our hands
The packet
From hand to basket
From bottle to casket
Impossible to walk past it
Sugar-mould and cast it
Into cubes
And mice
And mars
And naughty and nice
And monosodium rice
And candida lice
And sugar
And Tate
And Lyle
And sugar butty for the poor
And silver spoon for those who need no more
Earl grey
With sugar
Ten tons of sugar and a whole lake full of custard

Go on add!
Go on subtract it and charge more
Sugar free for me
Should have been in the first place
20 teaspoons in a bottle of coke
20 teaspoons you’re killing joke
Of cola cubes
And penny chews
Of sugar
Sugar
Give me a hit
A chewy bit
A blood sugar
Pit full of it
A raging river of the sweet stuff
Enough
Too much
Too late
Weight gain
Gateway
Safeway
Bestway cash and carry
-Tooth decay!

Yes, bloody awful tooth rot
is what we got, from
supermarket sugar
ideas.
I fear for the new recruits
-The babies born in business suits
ready to sell the sugar.

Candy and cane
It’s on sale again
In everything
In virtually everything that passes your lips
Refined
Divine treat my valentine let me dine you
on chocky treats
On my magnificent milk tray feats
Indulge !
On magnum
The sweet popping cork hit
ooooh the sexiness of it
Lick your flake
Shake your cake hole mouth
Into shape
Drizzle and drape everything in sugar
oh mother
You gave me sugar
You started it
You introduced-
then reduced
me ! an addict !
A conscript
½p chews
so easy to lose
a filling
so easy cavity drilling
denstistry cost
but they don’t mind
revenue for the dentist
profit for the perpetual
never stop it
vendors of sugar

I swear ill stop

oh mother, sugar.

Crompton 21-5-2007


CANDIDA – an organism that feeds from sugars.

Wowee! The poem's mint...cake. Or the icing on THE cake.
I've come down with poetic diabetes through reading it, and gained three pounds. It only goes to prove the power!
Do you do savoury?

Hi Moxy, thanks for that, oooh I like savoury but it's not as subversive or prolific as the sugar conspiracy. Im sure I can do a savoury one though. perhaps crisps becuase they are hard to give up. I'll try a short one on crisps then.

off to go write it back later

Peter

Ok done it.

I dedicate this poem to Moxy.
22-5-07 23:30PM

Savoury for Me - By P Crompton

Discos for breakfast
Monster munch
For lunch
All in the name of the savoury crunch
I scan packets for calories
And fall to my knees
In bizarre worship
My savories
My beloved savoury inventors

Walker, Kettle, Tescos own
Bags on the shelves and at home
Bags of crisps for rainy days
Behold the savoury inventors
The clever pub thirst creators
With KP
They got a topless bird in the seventies
And covered her with KP
Put her on a cardboard card
And stapled it with KP
behind the bar
Her hair was black
But covered her private parts
nylon knickers partial, see through, DRAT !
Fifty packets just to find that
Out
Out
Out the fat, the salt
Halt the pilgrimage to savoury invention
Issue the detention to those who stray
From diet so strict
To those who enrol or conscript
Into night time feasts on savoury
Tv dinner
Desert of crisps and snackie winners
Crunch crunch crunch
Love my crisps
Need them
Want them
Gorge them
Lick my salty savoury fingers
Still the taste lingers
From packet to packet
The industrial racket
Of crisp machinery
Working overtime in my head
Temptation led
I’m temptation, lead
I’m heavy in bed
From crisps

Savoury, the journey
Sensations
Scored by linnaker
The loveable mug face
Salt and vinegar happy man
Of savoury
Carry on counting calories
And fat
And cheese and onion and that
Flavour vile, pickled bile brand
You forgot, crinkle straight cut
Straight through Esophagus
and gut
Square and hula
The kids are cooler, sticking tongue
Through hula hole
The savoury tricks to make them enrol
In the school of salty addictive junk food
The emulsifier bad temper moods
Of hyperactive kiddies
High on E’s from the chemicals
So clever, preservative
So easy to live
On this diet of crisps.

And WOW! Pork scratching
The bar mans asking
If I want pork scratching
With or without pig hair
Stray pig hair like stray pubic stuff down there?
Urrrgh are you serious savoury vending man?
Are you trying to fatten the men
The party hens of Friday nights
The calorie counting diet delights
Of low fat crisps
Garbage
Low fat crisps Garbage
Give me a savoury hit
Full fat shed load of
It.


Go for it Moxy.

Oh Savoury Golden Wonder That Is Peter Crompton! I award you a Cheshire Salt Mine dating back to Roman Times (complete with salt-coloured Roman ghosts), I shall name a champion cheese after you -- one with a mixture of shaped, extruded corn snacks embedded in it! I award you the ENOUGH TO MAKE YOU DOWN A PINT OR TWO award for your poetic use of dehydration-inducing seasonings and condiments. And I can say it is TRUE. PETER CROMPTON CAN DO SAVOURY!!!!!!
(Oh, and you remembered the poor ladies with 50 bags of KPs stapled to them instead of a decent support bra -- very moving.)
I am utterly thrilled to have the poem dedicated to me. What a lovely thing to happen! Thank you.I shall savour it.

Thanks for the salt mine. I can use it to preserve my diet of fresh fish. (after watching some meat programmes on TV recently I'm turning veggie)

What is todays topic Moxyacetalene ?

Moxyacetalene proposes a news item -- a captive female shark in Nebraska has given birth without the aid of a bloke-shark.The baby shark's DNA is entirely a copy of the mother's. Is the Second Coming going to be closer to a replay of Jaws than might have been expected? Or a poem about the odd patches of the universe that don't have anything in them at all -- there's one called the Bootes Void. What could we load it with? Or is nothing to be admired? I'd be happy if you wanted to combine both strands there.
Now do us proud, o salt-mine-of-the-mind-owning Bard!
PS I missed the programme about supermarkets but I am veggie.

Oh! No poem yet! Oh! Tension mounts... expectations escalate!
You could always write one about styptic pencils. They're rum things.

Redundant male

The hammerhead made it real
In a self reproducing deal
With evolution
When emerged the puppies head
And although rendered dead
Awake became the male
Scared became the male
For phallic things may be no more
If female frolic becomes closed door

Did she choose?
We wonder
Was it reproduction against her will?
When absent the blocking pill
vacant a phallic fill
devoid the seed to spill

A conscious choice?
Or the obligatory and perpetual
inventor of life, Mother,
and you always thought science was –

a man !

Wont be long, Mother
Accelerate
evolve
Remove the thorn
The male that pricked your side
For the big wide world
Is a lonely place
Redundant his race
So it seems
Keep him though
To one side
For dreams may be insufficient
Once the litters born deficient
Of diversity.


24-5-07 Crompton

He shoots!He scores! Crompton is man of the match with that delivery.
Did you really stay up till gone 3am to write and post it?
Today your reward is a fully-furbished,luxury space station complete with a droid crew to whom you can dictate your poems.
And if it's any consolation, we all start off as female in the womb.

Ta ma moxy.
You mentioned the second coming , I'm sure its the rat.
think i posted at 2.am my computer clock is one hour out and two months ahead.


Here's another ANimal one (im doing an animal trilogy)


Return of the rat.

In the wheels and tunnels
You built for us
Between muck piles
And rotting husks
under lab lamps
with blunted cusps
we exist
Fed on crumbs or burned to a crisp
How could we miss
The mess of your kind

Social creatures just like you
with wire wound cages
In your faltering zoo
Captured creatures, you say advance,
the role of cosmetics
of science- its utopia stance.
lay down in beds of straw
the death needle gnaw
the endless stream of blood and gore
psycho man in white coat wants more

ANSWERS

And the public call us a dirty sort
in bins we mop you
yet probe our white fur brothers.
Call us pets – squeek dumb retort
And they vet us
so we squirm in human hands.
We are confused,
And those of us not used
Those that are brown, black and free
You will find,
Far beyond the pipers reach
In lengthy sewers with undulates
Chewing on litter and tin
dragging your ‘tetra-Pak’ crate.
Overhead
you rally for the Eco debate
you have soiled the world
and turned blue
to slate
you are grey
you washed the earthy colour away
your excrement passed our way
You washed the entire colour away
you are civilised?
Who may we ask, is the true survivor?

And with your society
Don’t think you’re the only sophisticates
Don’t think we’ve forgot
about turning tide
or crashing gates
of tomorrows celebrations
down at Huntington
your knowledge, vital now, to keep us out
For nature
gave us nibbling teeth
and your metal doors
we crawl beneath.
And your poisons-
Laughable, you fuck.
We evolved beyond that
Oh sure many died
And sure your labs tried
To perfect it
Look around
We are winning
The drains are brimming with us

You say it so many times

We are only 20ft away now.

(Crompton 2007)

And the rats have it: I saw some some in central Manchester, near bins at UMIST off Whitworth Street about a month ago. I had some as 'pets' -- friends -- rescued from labs (also a guinea pig rescued from a university lab where animals tend to be killed if no one is around to take care of them over the holidays.) I do love the details in your poems-- wonderful language, too. Rats provoke such strong emotions... so very similar to humans in their responses to stress,social pressure, survival, aggression, affection. I also got to know a rat rather well when I was doing a degree in pyschology -- we did the classic stimulus/response experiments -- all kind/gentle and involving treats for the pressing of a bar (we called the Rat Mr Spotty-Bar (his fur had glorious auburn spots),he was so used to psychology students he used to go straight to the bar and press it without us inducting him into the experiment. He was very soft and became our mascot,and was given early retirment and taken home by the technician.
What prompted you to write an animal trilogy?
You prize this evening is a cold-fusion sun lamp!

Wow Interesting Rat stories. Great to hear they rescued the lab rat.

The problem with cold fusion is they will prob make a cold fusion bomb before a sun lamp and blow up the planet.

I could do with a cold fusion cordless soldering iron as i keep melting the lead on my 240v AC 25W Antex. (I dont use the stand , well I lost it) Actually I don't use the wet sponge tip cleaner either I use my combat pants that see no combat.Hopefully I'll upgrade to some navy blue snicker work pants soon, mind you mox, I must not cleanthe iron tip on those beauties, Snickers really make some great work gear, just check the snickers web site. :-)

this thread is for poems so we best be careful to ensure plenty are posted, looks like I'll have to write some scince ones now .

I started my ANimal trilogy because of a programme I saw on TV to do with farm animals. It was called 'the lie of the land'

off to write , then bed.

The Restaurant daydream

In the name of the meat trade
animals fall under stainless blade
manic meatworkers
Battle hardened
desensitised
they feed us
carcass, rump and fat free rind
Lost
Fridays nights bump and grind
plugging ears
the screaming din
the animal world they share in
Mass meals
Destined for the diner
the wheelie bin
the abattoir
sodium
my mental scar
Salt in the wound
It’s gone too far
microwave convenience
automatic
drive through, meal in a car.

the man with the prod in his hand
immune to the cattle undignified
a final stand
a wash from his head
His pretty swirls of red
pool on the tiles
stain his bed
It’s a nightmare
daydream
end of a shift
antiseptic
hand cream

my restaurant trance
his electric gun
the seat of my pants
penned in animals anxious of death
Wishing them free.
too late
To loose the cold
the galvanised gate
continued silence
silent regret
I waste time to forget
the weaker high protein path
Stabbing and prodding the food on my plate
I am awake
I am what I hate.

Peter Crompton
Written April 2002, Tube train, Brixton, South London.

My inner refuge and the Fear of the bomb

Someone at school said they’re creeping up
And there’s a leaflet about war underneath a cup
In dads room
But I haven’t the nerve to ask him
What protect and survive means
For a child of 13
It could almost mean
Anything
The imagination of a child
Runs amok and wild
As the fear of the bomb is compiled
In everything he reads.
The fallout warnings
The run up to War

“Now is the time to start thinking about building your inner refuge.

When you air attack warning
You and your family must take cover at once.
Do not go out of doors.
If you are caught in the open lie down.
...and now hear is a reminder about fallout warnings -
When fallout is expected you will hear 3 bangs in quick succession
Or you may hear 3 whistles
All of these types of sound indicate that fallout is expected.

And now here is the all clear warning……………”


I wanted to write a letter to Gorbachov
Asking him to back off
And not to bomb our house
I wanted to tell him I had a baby sister here
And that the fear
Of his bombs
Is making me cry at night.

But I never did
Write it
I just hid
Under covers
Under duvets
Clutching blankets
In the vein hope it may wash away
Curiosity killed me more than anything
And I sneaked into library’s reading nuclear books
In secret
In my own secret fear
I read of radiation
And fallout dust
I started to distrust
Everything
on the news
all the things about Greenham Common
and cruise
And every siren and alarm
Was a call to arms in my mind
To nuclear arms

Night time was the hardest
That’s when they said they’re coming
When its dark
Creeping
Screaming
Whooshing rockets
Silence, no silence is the worst
You cant hear them falling
And any clap of thunder
Any bright flash makes you wonder
If that’s the bomb
“mum are they coming”
“no love, go to sleep”

Armed with my nuclear arsenal of knowledge
I made myself sick, I couldn’t sleep
And I confided in no one
I suffered alone
Petrified of fallout zones
And clicking tones on the telephone
That meant secret signals to world war 3
I started breathing heavy
one night

And the knowledge seeped in
And nothing could block these thoughts of War
Like fallout they penetrated the wall , the floor
The massive concrete door I built
Inside my head

They said it will never happen
The Russians aren’t coming
Its 1983 the Russians aren’t coming
Go to sleep
Siren, fallout
Thatcher’s going on about something
Downstairs
The telly downstairs, mum….
I don’t understand her
She seems mean and cold
When she talks of war
I hold
My own hand
When bombs start falling on Lego-land
Super bright super white flash
My curtains melted and turned to ash
And the secret stash beneath my bed
Provisions of food like the leaflet said
All melted
And my family all seemed to half turn
And fall
And then there was a huge hole in the wall
And then, I think my arms were burned
And then I forgot al I learned

I looked straight into the blast.

Kiss Me Quick ( I glanced you on a Fairground ride)

Your rainbow colour
Reduced to grey
A palette of flavour
Has gone and strayed
her sweet little teeth
Have gone and paid
A skinny price of dipping
flipping sugar
early grave

Why is it we misbehave?
What deep rooted dissatisfaction
oh the vices that we crave !

the Anger, the sugar, the smoking

-The acid is choking
My throat
The McDonald’s burp
From diet coke
Filled with ice cubes
Aspartame and ice
Chicken fried rice
Anything to take her away

Faster, from me, why time you swine !

Instant fix
easy licks
Fairground floss and candy dicks
I want to measure
Your spare tyre treasure
Not treasure your measure
Kiss me quick, I close my eyes
what time can do.
It’s outrageous

Ah, be not afeared, Mr Blackburn, if you check an earlier mailing you'll see that Peter won some dictation-taking droids. These droids are Poetry Industry Service Standard (warning - do not abbreviate) and have passed a punishing creative stamina test, rather like the pivoting buttock rollers that test the durability of chairs and sofas. They can take on any Muse locked into permanent output.

Hey Jo (good opening for a song, that) you seem to have known the same rat as me! Spotty Bar ap Spotty Dafyd ap Gwilym to give him his Crufts pedigree name (he was mistaken for a dog and purchased by Pavlova who thought Swan Lake was about swimming rescue dogs -- or maybe a canine swimming formation team in all-over swimming caps -- and when she found it was just swans, she gave the rat/dog to Pavlov who looked just like Pavlova but instead of a chunk of his X chromosme being missing to create the XY of maleness as opposed to the XX of femaleness and cross stitch, he had an 'a' missing off his numberplate) and Pavlov thought he was working with a dog and got miffed when Spotty Bar went 'eek' instead of 'woof' and wouldn't drool when he heard a bull with a ring, and then the Russians launched Spotty Bar into space under the gnome de plum 'Laika' -- but I digress). Are you trying to analyse (aka pigeonhole aka cramp the earwigs of) Mr Crompton? Or what? And everyone round here has a mule. It's what we use instead of money. If you need change out of a mule you get rats and satsumas. And, of course pips. You can make armour for rats out of the peel with a little use of imagery. Oh zesty like a lamb to the slamb. Goodnight sweet wince. wow look at me I'm standing on my head mom -- see wow mom wow mom wow mom

'X chromosme' in previous statement should be 'X chromosome' but some of its genetic material had wandered. Is it any wonder? NO! They don't make maps that small.

this is my last reply on this thread for a while.

Jo I presume you mean my Mule as in the Vodka (Moscow Mule) I have written about that in the alcopop poem and also in one called 'thru alcohol'

and also of course the famous piece of industrial revolution piece of machinery that hardly inspires me to write a poem !
perhaps if I go check it out in the science museum

see you in a few weeks

I am not a Slycodilist. The human sikey is not my domain. I am a wereperson...aka a wolf all month until the full moon when I transform into a human and am allowed back onto chairs and seats tested by mechanical bots. I thank you. Sweet Pea this day is long.

The Naked lie

You're born naked
But so quick to cover the private parts
Through the hands of parents the process starts
And layers on layers
Surround the heart
And mind
Mother is only being kind though
Under her wing the feelings grow
And attachment sings
A clinging song
Feeling naked suddenly
Feels wrong.
For naked and exposed
To the jaunts and jibes of the fully clothed
The older than
Better than
Bullies of the schoolyard
They try and take the small boy apart
And with the feathered wing gone
those who should protect
neglect, its wrong, and they stand you up
Teachers In the classroom scene
plant paranoid seeds in your fertile dreams
Of success
Yes
Being naked and uncovered
Is the best way to be discovered
But how
When the pain eats and pickles the skin
When it knocks on the winter evenings
And pushes snow upon your door
you need your fiery furnaces to roar
To melt the ice and water pour
The tears will roll but freeze before
The icy hand can close the drawer on
The lapping waters of salty shores

It’s only sleeping sand in my eyes
I am not crying.

And you!
With words that hurt they strip you back
They pick and pack and laugh and smack
And smart and crack the jokes
And split the yokes, you hide beneath your crispy shell
You tried to stop the burning hell fires
They lit inside your sole
your eyes have sunk like coal
Black on white snow
As though once virginal
Yes clean and white the delight of your mother’s eye
she let those buggers pry
To prize the lid so desperately denied protection
You lied because you have too
Lie about your feelings, I do.
Leeches lying screeching preaches out
And your catharsis in poem can only clout
Whilst those clobbering in they belt it out
The shouting shelling prying spout
Of words that hurt
And strip you back
They lack sensitivity and passion
They fashion themselves upon their own inner fear
Instilled by generations
Abuse is clear.
That’s why you have layers of clothes
That’s why some choose to sleep with hoes
Because feelings hurt like hell
And making love, the uncomfortable smell of passion
Where loving feelings drag and draw and grate and grab grind and you can’t mastermind them
Fragmentation
Naked they stripped us back
Abusers, bullies fat faced laughing knock on his skull
he’s nothing but a skeleton
yet he hurts
And yet they all hurt
damaged, impoverished
famished of feeling
we have to close them down
up down
Bipolar- the frown
is your fault!
-that fear of being exposed
I dare not look into your eyes
For naked windows, the eyeball unkind
Curse you to see that!
The naked lie.


Peter Crompton 18th June 2007

(Thanks to James Hartnell and Dave Meegan for your advice and support on developing new angles)

There is too much surreal nonsense going on here. It's time to send in the 'Semantic Police' to beat those consonants to a blue and bloody mess. Any vowels will be gathered seperately and questioned about the 'Great Vowel Misconception'.
Now I'm here, be aware both 'Which' and 'That' are still missing from their respective family home. And finally the road that leads behind the sausage factory...wait a minute, there you are you little conjunction you, hiding in front of my
behind take that (SLAP) and that (KICK) arrrggghhhhh, they're everwhere...
Carry on young Crompton, Moxy.

Hello Thomas Fiddle-De-Dee!

That which you complain about so precariously and in tuneless tunnels ( I refer to your nostrils, siree) and the companion distress you claim to bear (much crunching behind the cow shed of compromise) is not worth the two turnips it is semaphored with. I refer you to an unsubstantiated claim that all vowels are laminated so any spills can be easily denied, and all consonants are inclined to steal vowels from other words and turn them upside down, before abandoning them like bollards in the margins. You have disturbed my equator with your pinchbeck poncho of glib. My answer will arrive after a delay of ten. Yours ever spiralling diamante mixer, Moxy

I don’t understand what you mean.
If you are saying I have made grammatical errors in the poems
then my reply is

Im sure I have
The fact that I may make those mistakes to me is not as important as not actually posting the work in the first place.
Sometimes (and perhaps its wrong to do this but.) I will type the poem straight into the comment box as I suddenly feel the need to write a poetic response, this often leads to it not being vetted etc.

however for me , personally If I did not do this and had to stop and think of grammar immediately at the time of the inspiration, then I would loose the stream ...

I don’t understand what you mean by nonsense though.

I posted poems becuase ABi said 'it would be nice to read works'

maybe I'm not writing works then.

Nonsense, to me is pretentious un-inspired overblown crap from people who buy their imaginations from too many poetry books. Intelligent non-sense is fun. Thick non-sense sends me to slee e e

I cant believe how many times I curse myself for getting involved in forums and the like.

I would rather just know who people are and talk to them face to face.

Wonder where I can post some poems and get some feedback?

Good idea that, have a forum and get sensible feedback or at least intelligent and witty response that continues to inspire, like my rapport with Moxy.

Peter - you begin your reply, "I don't understand what you mean..." perhaps you should have left it at that, which would have given me the opportunity to 'explain'.
I opened the very first line of my very first 'post' with the word 'nonsense'. This word, that you appear to be uncomfortable with, was not intended to cause either you or 'Moxy' any offence. I too am new to this posting 'lark', and with hindsight I have interrupted a thread with an inappropriate posting, or an appropriate posting but at the wrong time or in the wrong place.
It was intended as a joke! I did not realise that my name would sign as 'Thomas Dee' and not the name that is now featured on the site.
I was at the Howcroft on Sunday and watched your spellbinding performance. I was at the Octogan the week before, and saw you give another fine performance.
I complimented you on your work which ,having now read more, still leaves me breathless. (I am old-ish).
However, there are more than one definition for the word 'nonsense' than the familiar 'words that make no sense'.
but I feel that it makes no difference.
Your reply has tempered my enthusiasm for 'discussion threads'. I'll leave you and M to it.

Hello Thomas Dee,
Please stay and play!

I am not offended -- blue buckets of mango swamps! I always reply in twirls, Mr Dee. And tra la las. Here. Have a cup of tea. And a spoon the size of enormity. My wombat weeps for your dismay.

A custodian of an emotional marsupial deserves correspondance - in any language. Hello Moxy.

Hello Mr Dee! Did you know Dante Gabriel Rosetti (Rosseti? Rossetti? RoseYeti? My spellcheck is still in bed after a heavy night -- it came in at 7 tonnes of darkness per cubic dog) had a pet wombat? Edward Lear drew a very funny/poignant cartoon about DGB's sadness over its death. Wombats should be celebrated. Hooray! And honoured (come back, Wombat, the sword's only ceremonial.) So, what's on your poetic itinerary today?

Hello Mr THomas Dee

Please accept my apology for the mis-understanding

It's based upon bad expierence and I should have taken the more usual benefit of the doubt

I humbly apologise and ask that the tempering of the posting be re fortified

I hope I can explain myself when I see you

Peter

please, the thread is for everyone we welcome you

Once again a humble apology, I must try and not get paranoid.

y i k e s

Never mind bleeding wombats what about armadillos? Them varmints has taken over me socks drawer and are now sporting spats!

As this day has entered my stage I choose to stroke it with the phalanges of my golden gauntlets. Their gilt edge fingers of suspicion, lying next to the rule of thumbs are massaging my sciolist scalp. I hear the fettered crocodiles sitting in stagnant chilled waters, the dragonflies that carry reason, are doomed. Perdition can wait, as he always will, in the flute like reeds of my hygroscopic mind.Until his manifestation, let me await my poetic trial. I am dressed accordingly. Chlamys, Crocs, with a lead trilbee. Will this suit?

Sir Thomas a Dee, thou art thrillingly befitted. Now may we lay upon thee thy inflatable whelks and apogees of lolling stirrups wrought of the finest indigo waffles and tradesmen. Though hast wrastled umberdumberly thy biscuit plight before Popeye and yielded they liege-upon-crisppacket. Thou art hoist three cranes high to the welkin and they edges be pinched with snorkels of faery gossamer betide the workings of all grass stains. May you hi hither and thither like unto the hurly voltage bolt that do rend golfers betwixt the sand bunker and the mosh pit. Arise thou pin and henceforward chip champion!

I appologise in advance for this poem I'm about to post, but I saw the words "Surreal nonsense" and thought I'd inject a bit of my own surreal nonsense into the proceedings.

Royal Game
Cayn White

I have to warn yer
She's on the street corner
Dressed in skintight leather
Dressed for your pleasure
You may question what I've seen
You may even call me obscene
but that lass asking if you want business
is really queen elizabeth
Yes, the Queen is on the game
Has she any shame?
She says "Does one want one?"
For gods sake, wheres her pride gone?
She toys with your emotions
And profits from your perversions
She takes the cash in hand
Then lies back and thinks of england
She says when she gets dressed
"You only get the best from Queen Bess"
Now one may not be amused
About the methods that she's used
THey say its no way to live
But it helps to feed the corgis
And she hates doing it you know
But it keeps her off the dole
And a lass in her position
Would hate to be in the same devision
As people like you and me
Who pays for her liberty
So its all kept quiet
In case theres a riot
Besides I dont wanna be hung
For poetic treason
So I'll end this Rhyme
About the Queens Saucy little crime
So put the thought safely out of your head
And prey that the queen isn't in your bed
And we'll all get along fine
Till the next story time!

Mr Dee Miss Moxy and Cayn cayn C

well done indeed.

Yaahr I feel the need now for the surreal
I will write a turbo powered surreal ell of a script tonight///////////

Armadillos? Did someone mention armadillos?
Have they got out again?! Drat and bothersome barnacles!!
Sorry about the socks. Taste, you see, is a matter of personal paranoia.
I hope they weren't those nylon mix type, or I'll never get my boys home. Hyperactivates them, you see.

My humble serfs. I prick my neck with honeybee glue and still the seasons fail in their solvent quest to rid me of this empty, half filled receptical of mirth and grin. My woe is compondosicated with the teeth of toothless cement mixers, that lie with their tears welling inside empty raspatillian egg shells. Insert the circle of octagonal wishes into the rhombus key of doorlock. Only then will the fruits from the vegetable patch flower into the finest and most deliberate doctrine of hairy quest. To be laboured with hirsute adventures is not for the bald hearted.

Hi thee hence, Knights of The 'Is It My Round?' A mighty dragon has been dessicating coconuts and de-balding hedgehogs so that they be mistaken for nude runcibles and taken unto the place to be flyposted and stickered and yey Banksied, thus raising them unto a monetary evaluation that they be nicked. Hi thee unto the designated wandering place and there apply thyself to the geological survey using thy trusted theramon and eschewing thy treacherous theodolite. Then onwards to Dingalingadorium for thy repast of shunted sheep twills and addered blebs.

Princess Rhetorical is incarcerated in the land of manifesto
I seek tutelage to return this halcyon land filled with the air of carbonated bubbles and dancing vipers to its former future. I seek through blind bends, and enchanted woods that never will, through underground mountains and the coal seems of notwotit. I will walk through the parched sea bed of juiceiness to challenge the genuine imposter of my heart. Rapsodomancy will serve in this quest, that my serfs is where the beggining will end.

Oyey Oyey Oyey...
Rumplestiltskin is my name: silverskin pickles is my other name, what I done by deed poll. Tapioca and HGV licences be my twin engines. I am currently sewing acrylic doll hair into my skin to give me that teddy bear look. Away, knave, and navigate thy notion. Goodnight sweet wince.

I know you are Lavinia tomorrow.

Well, I know you are Back From Cracow Today.

I am reading works.

I am working reeds. I have already woven a coracle and lined it with retired Ascot hats. I am eating Nice biscuits whilst afloat. I have styled my hair using liquid nitrogen so instead of hair extensions I have wraith like coils of mist and ruddy great icicles. I am accompanied -- flotilla wise -- by a soloist in a tube. It's a new kind of single use submersible. It works on the principle of toothpaste tubes, the end slowly rolls up and extrudes the occupant. The banks of the river are lined with books. You only get an educated fish hereabouts.

I am never going to take part in a fish slam. With all those books they've got the scales would be against me.

Worst thing about a fish slam is being held in the keep nets till the points are counted. Then it's the blow to the back of the head. But a well-read fish is still all gill and no book mark.

'Read' is the new 'Blue'.
Those rolling stones that spoil the broth - too many cooks that always have the last laugh...

How about a Reads Under The Beds reading club? You subscribe and promise that you will only read the recommended tome underneath the bed by torchlight. Instead of Bling let's have Blibary -- whopping big books fastened round the neck? Paperback riders -- cars adjusted so their windscreen wipers and hydraulics turn pages? Rolling stones? Let's get along up Everest with sacks full of books and let's throw them down -- creating a book avalanche! Let's go up snowy mountains with sticky letters from the local stationers and cover the snow with literacy. Don't plain ski, make a caterpillar tread of rubber library stamps and leave 'return by' dates in our trail! Well, that's what I'd impliment if Gordon Brown offered me a job.

The brain.The biggest sexual organ.

The Organ. The Mighty Wurlitzer.

The Mighty Peter Crompton

Will you give a job to Gordon Brown please Moxy.

I would, Malcolm, but the man can't produce any quality references.

Gordon Brown was the subject of 'The Stranglers' 1982 hit record;
"Gordon Brown Lecturer's son,
lays me down with my wife he runs
throughout the fight , no need to bite
never a frown with Gordon Brown".

Anyone,or anything, loosely associated with The Stranglers will always get my foot.

(Lyrics reproduced by kind permission of Mr Plage - Rizer)

Hi Thomas, I just going to pop another poem on to get those feelings a flowin'. Hope you are well today.and ma Moxy.



Take my hand

When once two people met
In a hazy Smokey silhouette
The public house
The meeting ground
The private yet open
Spaces
The exchange of glances
And words
Such apparent perfection
Is interred
And taken away
that night
Organic and bold
Love grows
With the luscious leaves
And chlorophyll cloves
So happy to shine
Under cotton throws
Perhaps passion lasts forever
And times patter arrests
With the dipping and curling of toes
And emotion engaged to the happy
The petals no longer closed
This flower you picked for me
For the pair, together
Lay roots
And further reach the shoots of love
Into the ceiling of blue
And canopy above
Where once the unmet
Tried hard to forget
The feeling of being alone
And love shall run now, amok
And joy shall hang
And the hands of the clock
For time is a friend
And decay is to block
Old age the gift the furious flock
A fleece on which to weave
A permanent knot
Together
Yet heather so fussy to flower
And old oak so long to tower
And ruby the mark
The wonderful hour
This couple survived
Whilst others devoured
some blister and weep.
under sun rays so tragically deep
For even light can expose,
The cracks in the clothes
where once stood the rose
the smell and the glows of colour
so sudden the happy
precious feeling halts
the wilted and lame
expose the faults
Struggling, subtle
These people are vines
powerful
Knotted, twisting
Persistent
so intertwined
So brave
to resist
amazing
shining
As though bullet-proof
Such determination
When many facades boarded
many intentions hoarded
behind
Windows shuttered
meaningless words now uttered
In heat
Yet still awake
beneath sheets
They face another day
I can offer only my admiration
For white knuckle hands
So slightly damp,
in hers
Clasped in desperation,
For the last time,
We Walk corridors.
amazing memories we close down
These rotting hallways are tragic.
They scare us
And the sun is black
And theres mould on our backs
Where once the dew drops of sweat
And yet
They still love.



For Roz

26-6-2007

Unmistakable. Your unique eye is, shall we say, very perceptive. I can actually 'hear' you reading it aloud.
Bravura.

Here is a more sobering one...



Killer Cars

The cars which envelop our being are
corpuscles that flow in a blood of traffic.
They oxygenate our life and suffocate the earth.
They promote visits to faraway fields
and the Grandma who waves goodbye.

Hidden inside are those toxic drivers,
the few who drink and laugh or smile.
The leukaemia inside a Nation’s blood
that creates the cancer of remorse.

The whisper of spoken word
from families that will never forget.
Bullet shaped cars are loaded with reminders
from a gun barrel of memories.
Stirring thought of how those cars
murdered an Uncle – and how they killed a friend.

Hi Thomas,
nice work.


yes so easy to forget
the fragility of the skinned steel
casket
on wheels
the impact when marrow bone revealed
in cracking limbs
and oblivious
onward
we drive these things.

I am being forced by the wardens to write a play today, but will post a poem or two here this very 'eve.

Here's a small poem of a type known, affectionately, as a 'glitch.'

Petrol Moon

Having hinted He was not long for this earth,
his disciples ran a donkey derby to raise funds.
So tonight, thanks to public generosity,
Jesus is swimming with dolphins.

Hello Mr Dee --

The Stranglers also wrote a song about one of Bob Geldof's daughters, 'Peaches,' with the lines 'Where the media reaches, there goes Geldof's Peaches....' And The Stranglers also dedicated an album to newly converted buddhist rats, 'Ratus Go-Veggiecus.' And then there was the anthem for Raymond Brigg's 'The Snowman' which was pipped by 'Walking In The Air,' -- 'Snowmore Heroes Sure to Thaw.'

You're right, though, I can never hear 'Golden Brown' without replacing the lyrics with Rory Bremner's 'Gordon Brown' version! It's just so damned apposite.

Ha ha, I'm watching the Stranglers when they play Homfirth, I shall have to request them versions!

Yes, please do. Requests are always THE most requested request at any requesite Stranglers gig.
The Chiddingford Chokers - Men of poetic substance and Men in Black. God bless The Stranglers and all those who sail through their music.

Get a grip of yourself!

We could go on all day (and all of the night) name dropping the songs they have done!

Here's a poem written right now so here goes.

it's called:
RESURGAM

My therapist shuffled my chakras
Like they were drink coasters

Now my father's spine leaves the same tread
As that car of mine

And I had theramons installed as burglar alarms.
It spooks fellons because it responds in kind to their every move
and not just generally.

I have woken with a birthmark. It looks like another face
And is slightly to the right of mine.

Cake.
Left for one moment unattended.
I returned to find someone had covered it in grafitti.

Spatial awareness -- accidentally modified by doing origami.

Oh yes, I only purchase products that promise to mess me up.

*******************
This bit isn't a poem.
I did write something that was a bit sad about cars but the big end went on it.

Thomas and Peter your works are powerful and tender.

Cayn, your words and poems are dynamic and dapper.

A. Daftie, your words and comments are critical croutons.

meanwhile, I dither at the zither.

TA MA MOX


our bitterness is tethered
in sober times
our dialogue is calm
with well spoken lines
of the everyday
and frustration is buried
like the sun hides the grey
but temptation the sin
the vodka the gin
the crushed grape, the everything
this sharp tongue of alcohol
can threaten to reveal
those things we wish we never feel
but alas
there they lie


Pete x

mox

the big ends fail if you lose ya oil

the crank needs the case
the end needs the big
and jacob needs his fig
for relief
of clogging gears

As I speak, I am standing on the wing of a vintage Sopwith Camel flying through clouds of meloncholic droplets. My flying goggles repel those incessant floating words that would otherwise bring tears to my unguarded eyes.
Leave me to wallow in my present state of morose, allow my fettered smiles to bathe in this clean air. My sense of chuckle is watching from the ground, waving as I fly past, and grinning as I begin the 'loop da loob da loop da loob'. Now I am into the heavens - what's this?' ...a parachute...!


one thousand...'

two thousand...
three thousand...
pull...

it's not a parachute...it's a poem. Look!

Heroes

Through a cataract of net
curtain he is staring.
Entombed within brick and age, a
Father struggles with a fading mind.

On the dark mantle rests a sepia past
inside fading gilt edged frames.
Over which hangs an image, a
smiling face inside the flowered wall.
Watching over a parent, with
a two dimensional concern.
The rhythm of a beating timepiece
the countdown to a turning page.
Answers and his questions
left to rot inside a home.

Outside, Policemen walk and
all is well with the world.

..................................................

Run! Meloncholy - arrrrgggghhhhh.

the cateract of the net curtain



fantastic imagary!

wow

Melt once more

If lips shape the words of love
then wait
For remains my heart the sooted grate
Of hurt
Its too soon
Too close
an overdose you show to me
a fluent stream
a delicacy
Of passionate words
But it hurts
You the expert
So gracefully flirt in ease
readily weak at the knees
But please, just slow
I know that’s stemming the tide
I know, you know, I hide
feelings
they’re hard to find
the place where they should reside
is hollow
for now
For new love
And the peaceful dove of silence
Is all I need
I don’t feed on anything
Hollow is the sound
When your fleshy lobe is to the ground of my heart
I have to start somewhere
And time its sweeping hands
Should clear a space
With hope
Make barren lands
Fertile again
Lets start as friends.
these eyes have no focus
and swelling feelings can only soak us
so closed my stable door
silent the raging roar of passion
the flushed face turned ashen
entombed with emotion
the double edged friend
the heart and mind its stalking ground
a courting cobbled comfort sound
with feet firm in sinking sand
its in my eyes and shaking stand
before you
wax is the heart
lyrical the start to melting wings
falling down and all it brings
to recover from that one truly
sings success
and yes
im melting.

A sorrowful, beautiful poem, Pete. Some poems reflect a particular time of night or day -- there was a medieval belief that each of the hours was watched over either by a particular birthsign (as were parts of the body) -- and an earlier belief in each hour being the provenance of a god or godess, each offering a set of possibilities. If you ran countertto the complexion/intent of that hour and its guardian, whatever you did would be thwarted. It's a strange thing but some few people -- you seem to have true gift for it -- locate the time of the poem's creation in the atmosphere created by your words. It's tangible. It adds immense and intense power to the piece. Wonderful!

And Thomas -- what a private, poignant, sad poem about being entombed in age. Melancholy drifts through it. The harsh brick and the failing fragile flesh and the net curtain almost seeming like the thin divide between life and death. But that divide, although thin, is accepted as a fierce force (Dylan Thomas's 'Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night' spring to mind). Is it based on someone? It has the feel of being sparked by observation of someone who it is impossible, now, to be close to -- that thing that age does to some people -- they become remote, isolated in spirit. Oh but it's a beautiful contemplatative piece. And the 'This Is Not A Parachute' poem -- glorious, deft, witty and flying high on life. Thoroughly fab is all I can say.

Here's my piece which has zero emotion in it! Well, it's dealing with Daleks.

I AM A DALEK VOICE COACH

I am a Dalek voice coach.
'EX-TER-MEEE-NATE,' I enunciate
'And when you're zapped it's 'ouch' not 'oach.'

Mox davros knows stavros from Greece I think he also has lessons in post alcohol calming sessions and dalek therapy.
do daleks dream of tenants and sheep?

--------


The blades are long now
And around my shoes
Cover the leather and plastic soles
In green
the mean machinery of a modern century
unaffordable goals of modern living
may I present
a Pebbledash grave
A bastion of the thoughts
Those misbehave
When transfixed in an early grave I’m caught
Sixty feet high
And feeling rather under
With flower box precarious
And level with the thunder
Rolling sounds of pea soup sky
So impossible to plunder
For this ceiling holds nothing but damp
And layers above
On cold rails comes cramp
In muscles tiring this afternoon
Tired from the spinning spoon
From mixing
Self baking money saving
Transfixing
The hypnotic trance
My star shape cutters
Chipped china plate
Uncomfortable sirens that only grate
The senses
And on my feet for hours
Tired leather and plastic soles
a mind a swirl in the glassy bowls
Of compounds flowery and white
This high rising council housing
This high rise design
Pretends
Its not listening
it’s alive im sure of it
sure that the bricks
Rock under quickning breeze
Its hapless struggle its branchless trees
Knuckles white its railings try
To hold me
But vertical bars, reminders
The prison of the mind
Rambling thoughts
But focused
My view this cityscape
with building scars desolate
caesarean this consulate
maybe then we can escape
once again the lift is late
my man made of cold plate
and steel
always smells and always feels wrong
feeling devoid, a wall, vandal proof; a camera catatonic
yet alive
eating into my spine as he drives
away
sublimed tired and mute
shopping bag tired
and resoulte
on malfunction
our push button panel
frayed wires ripped like shotgun shoots
of crawling weeds
red and yellow its live wire feed
desitute
a dying floral tribute
from the vandals
the urine trailblazing with handles
sprayed from aerosol
from cold can frosty cortisol
from blood and fear and masticating xylitol
I think I prefer the cold mans eyes
Don’t blame this pair that I despise.
for paring is what we do
When lift finally takes weight
From staircase shoes
From cold concrete steps
Splashed in the blue
Faded scheme
Of the virgin and new
The 60s tower block affordable view
Battling on are nature’s seeds
Pitched against the asphalt greed
Of inner city men
The hen pecked pseudo wrens
With post work lips embracing
Dips into wine bars
In performance cars
Oblivious
But I can see you from here
A microdot, visible
Concrete rot visible
From here
Crumbling
My suited man listen to me
You architect
designer
theres nothing finer
Than being free.

he guys and gals where are you?

---------------------------------------------------

the return

Stepping forward from platform mist
emerged
the sun kissed
Skin of foreign shores
the outstretched arms
held once more
she had returned.

The squeeze, the embrace
Was curiously laced
With a laziness
He sensed a latent thought
In her
Waltzing off the perfect pair
a hasty retreat on platform stairs.
The rhythm of heels on stone,
quickened.
Clenching hands show the bones,
of anxious, sweating dewy palms.
This textbook case, a set of psalms,
the furtive glance and words of arms
Something’s wrong.

The closing distance, is not that far
From station foyer
To motor car
Tenser now the nervous bra,
adjustment, this contortionist moves
the damage distance can do
Decay devoured my gifts to you
The letters ink, a fade so slight
the gripping pen, clasped with might
my force of love
I wrote to her

Why stray from the tightly entwined?
what gulf finds work for hungry minds?
Starved of attention
mans rubbing hands
in the wings
he’s closer to
beautiful things
Like her.

The suspicion, the division
twinkle shall come to deny
what object shone in her eye
that night.
me or him
And so
the end of the journey
the lifetime
short, across a car park
of all places
there’s never the right time
to say it
she could never meet my eye
and just then, cold and from a fading sky,
A drop of rain said
It was over.

Hello Pete - well, I'm still here. I've been reading your works and I have questions. Are they recent works or is there a history with them? Do you achieve your best 'results' writing the poems in their entirity, or over a period of time. I'm just fascinated by your unique style and subsequent vocal delivery.
My particular melancholic seam is fairly thick and being mined with a toffee hammer. So I'm pretty sure that my next works will have a familiar feel to them.
We usually take inspiration from everything that we are receptive to and that which leaves an indelible mark.
Without sounding too 'ahhh lovey' - I do enjoy your work. Keep on...

Hi Thomas
what you said means a great deal to me.
It is so kind and encouraging and its special to me that someoen has taken the time to enjoy and share in what I have written.

I thank you from my heart for what you have said. I also thank your understanding and forgiveness for my post of stupid reaction when you where only making a joke. This troubles me a great deal becuase I never want to hurt anyone. I hope we can meet and I can explain.

please some more thomas dee writings!
your posting made me upset but in a nice way as you said such kind things.

so i have written this it is dedicated to you, but is about my cat.


---------------------------------------------------

MISSING IN ACTION

When you put all of your love into something
And it leaves
What do you do?
Where do you put your arms?
What item do you clench tight?
For comfort
For love and expression
What impression this object shall leave
And how long the nights shall grieve
To bring it back
The object of desire
The object retired
To hopefully better worlds
maybe THIS was the best life
What then, lies beyond?
Is it circular,
Revolving,
Evolving ?
Or ultimate?
My heart is my consulate
For my missing friend
I pace the room
And In wild throws
I’m abandoned
Anger
why,taken from me
What right for you to fade
Tight the memory
Hollow the grave
For now
I cannot bury
Without a body of love
I cannot pray to the ceiling above
For you are only missing
In the hopeful mind
A hope the healer for clinging on kinds
Like me
Clinging
Fingernails clawing at precipice edge
Refuse to release
The slippery sledge
For far the journey will fall
Pathetic am I for tears I will trawl
When vacant the ducts the finger tips scrawl
When cold in the heart your feathery shawl
In photographed frames
the memories call
epitaphs are silent
and all of this talk
this spirtual thing
times healing of hearts
the necessary thing
to move on
but............
the pressure and passion
this vessel,
this stashing of feeling
For something buried
And missing-
I miss you my missing one
Vacant the light where torches shone
And total love
Is totally gone
What on earth am I going to do
God I’m missing you.
And do and you and do and you and do and you and do you
Miss me in passed over worlds?

I can only assume you died
You no longer appear
In tear sodden eyes
Just photos and clones I despise

For not being mine.



To smokie 15.37
1.7.2007


for Thomas Dee

Thomas

if I post on here with a poem it will be written that day or very recent.
So all the stuff is recent ish
I try to write one or 2 a day if the feelings are flowing.
Its important ot capture any emotion and couplet , then get it down quick and build the core poem

once thats down it can be retuned / shotrtend for a slam, re worked slightly

others can fall straight out totally pure and are never altered.

I actually find that getting involved with other poets creates loads of works! if they are inspiring to me or resonate.

I guess its like that with all art.
I am a washing machine / vend repair tecnician by day which does not really inspre much!

I also repair ice making machines!

bizarre or?

oh well.
oh and photography!

how about you

did we speak, is it you who has the son as a poet?

Sorting out old photographs prompted this...

A picture of Nan.

On the grass that never grows
under the tree that never weeps,
a gentle face that never speaks,
rest the hands that touched my face.

In the shade that will always be
on a day that will never change,
smiling eyes that always stare
rests a Mother we call ‘Nan’.

Catatonic cameras caked in cateractic cans of paint

catatonic cameras caked in cateractic cans of paint
crimson red
day glow green
with tags and handles
from the graffiti kings and queens
of the estate
state
state
the car parks in a state
the bricked up burning cars encircled by youth who celebrate
the burning chariots
the stolen from Marriott hotels
and dumped and torched
and asphalt blistered and scorched
by pitched fork tongues of daredevil
tracksuit youths who do the wrongs
he throw molotov bottles whilst chanting songs
cough on your molotov
cough on your molotov
of victory
we choke on acrid smoke whilst the v sign
is seen as a standing joke of the weak
turn it round with a curious tweak
so born the offensive gesture so to speak
us all.
And all ensuing fireball
Seen by tower blocks, encircle tall
Encapsulating the pip squeak and small
Youths in stripy tracksuit pants
Flanked by the spotted sickovants
Watching learning
These students of the modern
Age
These monkeys in a mobile cage of madness
And the gladness in the hearts of the victorious ones
Born in prams to do no wrongs
In deliquent mothering eyes
What a pretty boy
What a crossed leg girl
What pubic hair so trimmed should curl
Under the blazing heat of a wallside whirl
And up the crotch a stiff dick pearly white
Stick seaman lick and shindig and dancing kids
Near bin lids whilst scarcely hidden shadow flicks
From burning bridges and pink sick girlie clothes
The overthrows from god knows where
Discarded on the floor of a concrete layer
A busted door a wing on prayer
A crowbar got em in there
A push a kick and a hurl
Of the heaving seething masses
Like petrol bomb attacks or racist swirls
Of Day-Glo ink from canister curls
So accurate, the tagline exactly right
He’s totally thick and dimly bright
With right hand

The poor boy grew in 11th floor rooms
Tripping over mothering brooms
That threaten to sweep the flowering blooms
Of innocence
Away
Away they took it away
In a black hearse procession
The young man died
And emerged the man with feelings fried
In the flickering tongues of suicide
The cavalry attacks of the ram raid shacks
Of retail parks and melting vats of glowing cash
Back he gets his pack up when she scorns
When no attention given she yawns
So every possession pawned for crack
And in black grows crack
The pipe left black where lighter attacks
The surface that lacks the ability to reflect
Else surely he would protect himself from this
Insanity
The vanity of himself in trainers and suit
A suit of sportswear substitute
For uniform
And spawning uniforms build
The baseball caps so readily filled
With shaven cranium spitting feelings spilled
Suppressed at birth and by father killed
Rolling on, the boy has gone
On without the fuel
Where lyeth now the faltering fool
With nothing to cling
A nagging mule
With load so heavy plainly cruel
This mental baggage picked up at school
Paranoid
Devoid
Smoking
Choking on the fumes of his acrid design
You seen that road sign?
I tagged that
Brat , drat the screaming fat teacher
He tried to leach you
He wanted to preach you
His little paedophilic games
To get stiffended ip his weapon gone lame
To appease his pride from wifies shame
As she thrashes inches from his ego game
And the pair indulge in pathetic farce
Let feelings run wild and anger parse
Itself on the innocent
Innocent
The 50 cents
Grown from hate
The rappping rap put on the plate
Of mp3 to celebrate the launch of modern society
The very thing he knows he needs
So ram raids are on its society’s greed.

aka 'Ram raids are on'

Beautiful poems Pete, Thomas-- will write more tomorrow. spent the day catching stray dogs.

Just deserts from Mother Earth
by Pete Crompton


A raven pecked at baron soil
His black feathers wind ruffled
Repetitive
Pecking
But the worms had gone
And the soil vacant of activity
Lay in tragedy, still
Not even dying bugs
For the factory spills saw to it
That there lay nothing but wrong chemicals

A fish limped
On gasping gills
Keeling, unnaturally to the surface
A saddening show of desperation
Holding its breath
The factory took the oxygen away
And so foamed streams on this sunny day
When they should have ran clear

Oh dear

Dolphins jumped to farther seas
Finding fleeting sanctuary
Whilst rooted
Lay trees
Stranded for the cutting man
Hand to mouth
That cutting man
Takes his saw hand to mouth
He has children
South, in the camp
And with his wood, stems damp
From rain skies
But for this the canopy dies
Where is the sense in that?

Perhaps the capitalists love it
Perhaps the yanks should shove it
Scented loo paper
Don’t give me that
Soap from whale fat
Don’t give us that
And how about the ozone men
How about battery hens
How about pollution spreading to Scottish glens
You would think it was safe there

So here we have it
Dead soil, starved water
The unworthy daughter of Mother Nature
We are
In the name of transport, progress, the, motor car
In then name of the wheel, the invention
Lay these planets scars
And not enough are trying
Too many cast eyes, far from the crying,
Animals.

Turning page on pulp and print
In search of multimedia to splice and splint
Pieces of the narrow minds
For everything they find
Every quick media fix
All of peter andres silly tricks
All of Katy prices cosmetic kicks
Is all part of this consumer sick…
I only hope it rains long and hard
I only hope our glass cracks
And we bleed on our own shards
As we created the chemicals
the imbalance
And what of plastic boobs?
And what of fashion tubes
What say you?
If silicon leaks
Bringing cancer through
Fragile cells
Who’s crying now.

Well, that poor pecking crow
For one
His mates- the carrion birds
I heard, they heard
A change is coming
So watch when raven takes to skies
A flash of black silk,magical.
Watch
When dolphins hide
And trees defeat pesticide
And ants rise and rise and rise
And budgies commit suicide
Just to annoy us
It’s then the piper will perish
And the religion will cherish
This strange apocalypse
For man, misguided
Clutches his decree Nike e s
And leaves mother earth alone.

I do not know why I am anon below, but Agnew Bis is a product of my fevered brain. Me, Moxy. My brain.

I might get my name changed by deed poll to Anon, just think at all the royalties I'll claim from all those poems and hymns!

Anon isn't anywhere near as good a name as "Cayn!' You'd be sacrificing a mighty good monicker for dosh. Is that really what you want ;-)

I suppose if we could get editors to swap 'anon' for 'cayn't figure out who it is, folks' then that would be ideal. What do you think?

Then when they name a delicious new type of biscuit after you it will be fantastic. I can just see shelves stacked with Cayn's All Butter Crunch.

Mox

Your imagination is amazing

You Cayn't say fairer than that!

The other word is 'following' which seems to have imploded in the poem due to fatigue.

Hello A. Daftie. Also horses 'cayn-ter' and then there's that lovely pepper made from several species of Capsicum -- caynenne. Perhaps horses go faster if they're peppered?

And there's yet another word: 'dependent' which has somehow managed a sneak visit to the vowel exchange (which is a bit like the stock exchange).

Apologies. In triplicate. On a biscuit.

Oh mighty buzzards! There's also an 'ocassionaly' and it should be an 'occasionally.' What a mess. Oh my. Please help, A. Daftie! Is there not something equivalent to the Bat Signal, or Harry Potter's Death Mark that I can shine over the website to denote a request for urgent assistance?

I like that Agnew Bis. Bloody good poet.

Well done

Base Wing

No! Bloody good crane driver and his poet is great too.

Gabs Wine

He did try lion taming as a fork lift truck operative. Then he found lion tanning was lucrative.

Tan the little buggers hides I say. They deserve it. Spray tanning would probably be best. They would get all hot and bothered lying on those beds with the fluorescent tubes, because they never take their fur coats off. Probably scared that somebody would nick 'em.

By the way, Base Wing, may I pay my respects to your elevated elvers.

I have written about batik-ing lions in one of my shamblings. Got the method worked out and everything. Now it seems a shame not to.

He's the King you know. Elevated, but not dead.

Elevated but not dead: isn't that deliberated?

I've been pondering. Pondering is what happens to you when you're floundering on high eels deep in conversation with Elvers Preslaw (or Bernard as I call him 'cos I'm his mate). I've been pondering about all those calibrating bitches that have designs on getting horizontigo with gorgeous crane drivers. (Cranes are so much more beautiful than hoopoes don't you think). Rotating dogs listen to the fluted love songs hanging in the air with shit eating smiles on their faces. The dogs have hired a hoopoe surgeon to transplant a buzzard's right hemisphere into the brain of the skinny lover so that all fear of elevation leaves her and she can scoot to the aerial nest and sate her rampant desire before the envious eyes of the monitors. In explosive climax the eyes of Agnew Bis pop out and shatter the sparkling clear windows. The eyes are plucked from the air by orbiting graffitists who, seeing the error of their ways, polish their flutes pristine clean. Reflected sunlight from the fluted chimneys bakes Bisandlover in eternal embrace and they are carried from their Zoroastrian sky burial by celestial crane flies to the paradise of municipal shit free bliss.

Aaah love!

Elvers has now left the building.

Be Sawing

Ah, if only that could happen for Agnew Bis and his Belle.

Sadly, because, obviously, he is Anubis, he is waiting for her to die then the hoopoe will leave him a feather (actually, in a verse I left out, the hoopoe does leave him a feather) and then he's going to weigh his lover's heart (in a pair of scales fixed to the hook on his crane) against that feather. As Anubis was wont to do with the dead.The dogs and the bitches and the calibrations are mortality, time. Plus some other stuff but there you go.

How sad that Agnew Bis's lover's problems could not be resolved by simply having half a dog brain.

I do like your Polish smoking contest in Great World Events -- what a wheeze! It's terrific. Does she win a years supply of nicotine patches, or a statue of herself in matchsticks?

I meant was a buzzard's brain in AB's lover's head: honestly, I think, I t(r)ype, what I thunk is trashed by my fingers on the keyboard.

Then I missed the word 'what.' Honestly! I have slippage.

Are Agnew Bis and Anu Bis related? Dog walking crane drivers have a far more demanding task than heart weighers, but who gets paid most and what are the fringe beneifts like? Were all these things considered when the family made their career decisions? Or did they just stumble through life like I did?

Osi Ris

THE STORY OF AGNEW BIS

Local dogs are attached to the hook of a 70 metre crane
By their extendable leads.
Agnew Bis, the operator, with a bank of cctv monitors guiding his lever,
Gently draws them along their respective streets.
All the dogs he walks have undergone radical surgery:
Removal of the left side of their brain.
The technical term is 'hemispherectomy.'

The crane operator, Agnew Bis, occupies a cab slotted
65 metres into the sky. He says, 'Let me refresh your glass,'
Before applying a chamois to the inside of his four identical windows.
Latex coated wipers sluice the outside
Leaving a thickening cuticle of ash and particulate
Puffed from the nearby fluted steel chimney.

Following a period of post-operative convalescence,
All the dogs routinely stockpile detritus,
Storing it between gum and cheek.
By the end of their walk, their jaws are swollen beyond recognition.
Some owners have fitted the dogs with wicker panniers
And taught them to distribute their finds first to the right,
Then to the left.
The council is now considering payment of a small fee
In recognition of the dogs' assistance in the fight against fouling --
If a dog dungs, the succeeding post-operative dog
Will always gather it up.
This is a fully realised urban ecological cycle.

The hollow in their canine skulls is quickly filled
With an expanded right hemisphere.
The new brain tissue is smooth
With the grey matter like the flush of growth following a razor.

For the past month, Agnew Bis has watched the dogs
Calibrating lamp posts and post boxes with their urine,
Organising a pissing rota that has the tallest breeds visiting first
And then allowing an interval of time to pass
So a visible residue is established,
Before the next dogs piss.
Each successive dog is smaller than his predecessor.
Bitches have created a rota that spirals outwards
From a hub.

Exactly why the dogs and bitches require
A means of measurement is unclear.
However, Agnew Bis has observed a physiological change
In their hind paws. The pads have fused, the digits have elongated.
They more and more resemble human feet.
Agnew Bis recalls having read that Julius Caesar's favourite horse
Had feet identical to its rider.

A bird, possibly a hoopoe, regularly visits the derrick
And inches down the gantry,
Liming it with the precision of a groundsman or groundswoman
Defining a pitch.

Following the removal of a tumour,
Inside the skull of Agnew Bis
Is the surgically transplanted left hemisphere
Of a German Shepherd Dog.
After his operation, he was sent to puppy school.

The crane is also a Foucault’s pendulum
The dependant chain registers the earth's rotation
And swings in a broad figure of eight
Which Agnew Bis has to correct before the dogs he walks
Are coerced into unfamiliar routes by physics.

Occasionally, he is buzzed by hang gliding graffiti artists.
They have tagged the fluted steel chimney.
Agnew Bis fights them off with a high power water gun
Filled with bacterially ravaged eye drops.
Despite their protective goggles,
The hang gliding graffiti artists plunge to earth
With severe conjunctivitis.

Agnew Bis sleeps in the cab of his crane
Wrapped in 5 layers of medical examination-table paper.
His vitrine is the waning moon.

20 metres below him
His lover is frozen with vertigo inside the hooped access ladder.
Her increasingly skeletonized form feeds the ideal of industrial beauty.

At night Agnew Bis uses the crane's hook
To ease the factories and houses
From their foundations, lifting one edge,
Letting the hoopoe in.

Then he listens to what remains of his lover's heartbeat
Crawling slowly through the metal.

Hi Osi Ris -- all I can say is 'Is Is make Osi Ris live!' which she did even after he had been chopped into incalculable pieces. That was some good glue they had in Old Egypt -- like Aral Dite or Uhu Ra (Ltnt)
Agnew Bis is The Guardian's spelling, of course. Agnew Bis was sent on a government sponsored course where he could either have become part of an elite team that chase after rogue vehicles, snapping (not sniping) at their tyres, or he could have been in the equally elite SpecOps ballistic retrieval corps, where anything travelling between 0.0001 metres to 3 metres off the ground at speeds up to 100kph would be brought down clamped between their teeth -- the corps sometimes being leased out to rugby teams and private estate shooting parties and frisbee comps.

Tout In Common

Crickey, what's this, another pome? Well, almost...

GEORGE PURPOSE

George plays the weather at poker:
he has an earth-spirit guardian in the form of a mouse dropping
that he keeps in his wallet.
He works in an aeronautical engine factory
on a secret project to develop the first spontaneous combustion engine.
His wife, Mori, works part-time as overseer in a tranquiliser dart factory.

George can’t remember getting married
or ever having seen his wedding photo album.
And, sometimes he suffers from
spontaneous images of the night sky,
Then flashbacks from his day job intrude,
he watches himself testing and refining the prototype spontaneous combustion engine, wheeling out the specialised cannon,
loading it with dead animals encased in polystyrene pods,
then firing the cannon into the gyrating propellers to imitate bird strike,
elephant strike, bison strike, giraffe strike –
most animals and birds accidentally succumb to the terrible suction of a jet engine on a runway somewhere in the world.
Sometimes George and his colleagues are joined by a funeral party
because factory workers are encouraged to bequeath their bodies to imitate human strike – and a hymn is sung as the ex factory hand,
in a brass handled polystyrene pod,
is sent on their final flight.
These tests are crucial.
The engine must continue to work despite any accidental intake of biological matter.

Yes, one night three years ago
George Purpose found himself playing poker with the Weather.
The Weather is not a pathetic fallacy,
but an intelligent being endowed with freewill and a somewhat
spiteful nature.
The Weather just happened to knock on the Purpose’s front door.
George invited him in, sat him down, and then played him for a modest heatwave
as his wife, oblivious to the world-changing events happening in her own home,
jumped around on an electronic dance mat in the room next door.
George lost and the Northern hemisphere ran on its default setting for a month:
baseline temperature, nominal humidity, a sun that rose and sank like the marker on a fairground ‘test your strength’ meter.

On a day when The Weather was due round but fortunately cancelled,
George’s voice was kidnapped on his way to work.
At the same moment, Mori, his wife, was paying next door’s children
to dig a bore hole in the front garden as a birthday present for George.

That night tranquilizer darts ended up mixed with the local darts’ teams’ own flights
In the pub at the end of the road.
Mayhem ensued until they all succumbed to the powerful drug.
Tiptoeing over the recumbent players,
George found himself sharing a table with Pie, the mathematical constant.
After a couple of beers, Pie claimed to have instigated the circle-breeding programme that saved them from extinction.
He showed George a compass and whispered,
‘Artificial insemination.’
So George opened his wallet and showed Pie his mouse dropping.
‘Earth Spirit Guardian,’ he scribbled on a piece of paper by way of reply.
Both sipped their drinks and faced away,
Incredulous.

Mercy bowcoop Two Ting Car Moon
Thesaurus are Taurus.
Aussies for Cuassies, of courses.
The dart in the foot incident -- well, it was a sport's injury. Isn't darts played at the Olympics?
I am delighted George's purpose was of interest. I also baked some sponge cakes.
Elvers Self-Service Caf
Moxeeeeeeeee

Purpose is purrfikt. &*@king brilliant Mox.

Once again, thank you Merry Generous Colonel Saunders. Crickey. Blimey. Flipping. Heck. But, after all, it's just a pome!
I had a good giggle over George Porpoise -- Mike, you obviously had a good night out and then you appear to have returned to your keyboard and 'channelled' (as Colin Fry would say) my great great aunt. She had a thing about porpoises, always called a frying pan a skillet, she hailed from Leicester, and she left me her pair of electric warming boots. I kid you not. Did she happen to say anything else? Also, she spoke little else but 'word salads' -- amazing riffs, hypnotic to listen to --for the last few months of her life. Spooky or what?

PARA LINGERIE
I needed to know what to do in an emergency
So I bought a nursing bra.
I was disappointed to find that the cups opened
But had no compartments for basic first aid supplies.
I wore it continuously for three weeks
And still had no greater medical competence.

I realised I'd rushed the process
So I bought a training bra. I've worn it for three days
And... nothing.
But that's all right.
I think it's between semesters.

Hello Boys!

Well now that's a Wonder. I thought that I should buy a bar too, but I was already too much into my cups so I just nippled round to the jug and bottle so that I could keep abreast of my needs without exposing myself to more public titilation.

A Lech

Yes! the raunchy 'hello Boys'
if we had girls like that, paranoid would we be to get them back should bra adverts call to foreign shores...and hence todays offerings poet lovers.........here we go...........



Dear restitution

Stepping forward from platform mist
emerged the one he missed
the sun kissed
Skin of foreign shores
The tanned legged lioness roars
And in collision
their outstretched arms
held once more

she had returned.

The squeeze, the embrace
Was curiously laced
With a laziness
He sensed a latent thought
In her
Waltzing off the precarious pair
a hasty retreat to platform stairs.
The racket and rhythm of heels on stone,
quickened.
Clenching hands show the bones,
of anxious, sweating dewy palms.
the furtive glance and words of arms
Something’s wrong.

closing distance, its not that far
From station foyer
To motor car
Tenser now the nervous bra,
adjustment, this contortionist moves
the damage distance can do
Decay devoured my gifts to you
my letters ink, the fade so slight
the gripping pen, clasped with might
my force of love
welcome dear restitution.

Why stray from the tightly entwined?
what gulf finds work for hungry minds?
Starved of attention
Another mans rubbing hands
in the wings
I bet he was closer to
beautiful things
Like her.

The suspicion, the division
twinkle shall come to deny
what object really shone in her eye
that night.
me or him
And so, it seems
the end of the journey
the lifetime
potentially short, across a car park
of all places
there’s never the right time
to say it
she could never meet my eye
and just then, cold and from a fading sky,
A drop of rain said
It was over.

Or was it


Once such full and perfect creatures
With glossy fur and fantastic features
The mirror in each, our tigers eye
The glossy fur our grooming pride
Our courting crests on swirling tides
Of seas so warm we should reside
Beneath
But now
The gritted teeth and tongues stab from raging throats
Matted the our fur synthetic the coat
And gorging on complaints the rhetoric gloats
Unknown to us, the antidotes
Of dying passion
The antidote for the un synchronised
The inharmonious throws of the bed clothes
The crashing plates and stubbing paws and toes
And on and on it goes

Stop

Look at me

Taken that broken glass, sit down
Now energy expended and tension released
All things unsaid, the confessional priest
I am for you
As you are for me
The perfect creatures were supposed to be
In outward eyes our loving disguise,
Fools.
But beneath the surface
Schools the shadowy shoals of the unsaid
I want to prove them wrong
Let’s show them!
It’s a new day.
Lets give them a nightingale song.
Lets show the bond is strong
And forgiveness sings forever
Long
Together
Welcome dear restitution.

Very nice.

I wonder if those tanned lions have visible bikini lines?

aha the vbl , hmm well those spiders legs are powder kegs for some.

Hello Mr Saunders! How are you? I was not sure if you were captured on film at the White hart? I always try and put a name to the faces if Paul does not........speaking of cameras....



Cruel camera

Funny how a picture fades so fast
Digital the uninvited
When we cemented love
years ago
yesterday I held
Her
But with curling edges
Today comes
the gasping print
by chance discarded
by chance rediscovered
in the leaves of your favourite book
I hold the photograph
A water wall of emotion
Contained in ink
Your smile in the snapshot
Makes me think
Of the Forgotten
Freeze frame the passing of time
Encapsulated in pigments
I adored
Cruel dust settled, your face, beauty
wiped off with trembling hand
eyes come alive
And I kissed your smile
Its been so long dear yesterday
And how quickly this express train shot
Through stations of markers
The event s in my life
With arms are too weak
For fleeting feelings bleak
To halt
Our sweet love turned to salt
Give me bitterness
Ill trade you loneliness
For no one replaces
And tragic the passing
Others followed with verbal lashing
Gone so quickly the unfair comparisons
They never deserved
But such the strength of love
Even in a photograph the power
To shove aside the encroaching tide
Of healing
I appeal and I’m appealing
Come back
Fill the black with colour
Again, smile and burn the freezing walls
For fire is a friendly thing
When harnessed her reins
Passionate games, trivial drops of rain
It was warmer with you.
I want cessation not the revelation
Of turned pages
stacked In layers preserved
The photo book interred
The remains of love

In time these frames insignificant
But in love the glad, full recipricents
Were we
For love fills heart and soul
the brief visits
Or long term goals
Of lovers
And cruel the cameras eye sometimes
For the permanent reminders
Of lives passed by.

No, I am innocent. I wasn't there and I have an alibi.

I am back again -- hello, chums!

Hi Moxy
You've been away many hours but you are always in our hearts!

I have performed this one before - but I doubt anybody here will know it. Anyway, a lot of people say this is their favourite poem of mine.

'Those who are born to shine'

Soothing melodies fill the room
As the pianist plays a pleasing tune
Everyone focus their attention on him
He plays away, their souls sucked in
Those who are born to shine

A warrior ever so righteous and bold
Bows before his king
Pledging eternity’s loyal service
His honour to uphold
Those who are born to shine

Standing there upon the stage
The axe-man wielding his blazing babe
Playing chords that cut through the air
Like a lightning lit thunderstorm
Those who are born to shine

The sports hero swelling with pride
As he steps out from his space in line
Receives a medal laden with gold
As he reaches out, his life to hold
Those who are born to shine

Sitting alone ideas in my head
Writing them down before I forget
Standing before an adoring crowd
As they absorb my work, my thoughts, I’m proud
I was born to shine

Hi Scion, Decent poem, you certainly look ready to shine, I think other regulars and the returned Moxy will agree

My only problem is theres no mention of biscuits :(

Hello Pete -- yes, welcome sweet restitution! Terrific, emotional rollercoasters, roaring riffs and cataclysmic cadences: power-packing poems that thrill the mind and shake the senses. As always!

And Shining Scion -- firecracker words, a wicked anthem, beguiling and uplifting and thoughtful; metrical might and thematic thrills about toughing the world out, staying true and, ultimately, triumphing. It reads like a quest. Superb!

Now, Cayn, where's your poem? No biscuits until a poem appears, I'm afraid. And, I've got a packet each of Fruit Jaspers, Hobnobs, chocolate shortcake and some of those ones with chunks of choclate and macadam nuts in -- the cookie style ones -- all on offer as soon as you come up with the poetical goods. Okay?

Errrm, this is a new one about Seal Clubbing then...

It's Canada on a Friday night
The seals get together everything is allright
They full their blubber with lots of grub
And make there way down to the night club
Dressed to kill in pvc
Silly hats and a daft goatee
Get a stamp upon their fur
And break out into a drunken slur
Lights are flashing
The seals start dashing
Round and round
Their feet rarely touch the ground
The spirits are flowing
Whistles are blowing
A great night to be had
they're surely mad
But as is the seals curse
Things go bad and then get worse
As the youngest thinks he's a man with his fake id
And tries to get his hands on some LSD
He has a bit and can't stop grinning
Say's he'll leave the room once it stops spinning
He collapses outside in a heap on the floor
Swimming in his vomit, head feeling sore
Its a sad fate that is disgustingly fatal
Seal Clubbing, its here and its real

A seal rave, a sicking-up seal, an off-his-head seal, and the acid snow. Wow! This is pure Cayn, funny, turning expectations over, creating glorious mayhem, roaringly crazily joyously depicting wild life having wild times! It zips along, leading you into a hot strobe world were the seals themselves melt the ice. Guess there's plenty of places for them to chill out! Big fun! Big biscuits! Which sort would you like? Guess they can do the big fish and the little fish hand movements with their flippers or with real fish!

I might have to start reviewing these reviews as they're getting better than my poems lol!
As for the biscuit, would asking for a "Club" be a bit insensitive?

You can have a Club biscuit, a whole pack. It's totally appropriate! And horrible! Now, which sort? The ones with raisins in or the orange ones or... ? You've cheered me up, Cayn, once again. Thank you.

Orange ones! I can't stand raisins in chocolate- ewww!

Pete -- I meant to say it's a really haunting line: 'digital the uninvited.' It's stuck in my synapses. You always create amazing phrases. Memorable. Somehow that's just haunted me this evening.

You can have orange Club Biscuits -- of course! They're great, aren't they? Really crisp, munchy crunchy biscuits. Oh what a glory biscuits are. I've always had a fondness for shortcake.

Yeah, Shortcakes great but it can stick to the roof of your mouth, not a good snack to have when your meant to be talking!

Argh I've just though of another two lines for the seal poem, don't you just hate it when that happens!

Shortcakes are no good for dunking, either! Brandy snaps are great, but no good for dunking. Biscotti are perfect. They're just stale old biscuits, really! Anyway, enough about biscuits, put the two missing seal clubbing lines up -- we need to see the complete poem!

Hello my Mox
thanks for your power house words


Cayn! I know what you mnean about coming up with other lines later! Like the seal poem, I got a seal one somewhere goona go find it........it was years ago i wrote when those bad men came back club in hand.

sick. they are cruel and sick.

Ma Mox !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

ta ta ta for the digital uninvited

When it comes down to actual people clubbing seals, well theres nothing funny about that kind of cruelty. I just like taking things from another perspective!
Can't wait to read you poem!

The other two lines come before the last two and are.
"And as is often the token
The seal now becomes broken"

OH MY GOD!

BISCUITS

CHOCO LEIBINEZ - milk not dark !!!! dont dare say you like the dark ones.

such a fine line.............

dunk a twix, nibble of the caramel then dunk the revelaed shortbread

fig rolls, just embrace them, open yourself up to the fig roll.
club orange - go for it boys and girls, I agree

hob nob, sure thang baby!

too many
i am a biscuit expert but have had to retire since the appearance of a roll of fat, its provin difficult to shift so the biscuits are first on the hit list


ok cayn, ill go find the seal thing

its just an angry rant good fun to perform though

The powahv the bsct has been awfn lauded by ths pohht, viz inter al. et seq :

he’s getting over it
wait a bit
lowered kit
halfwit
double knit armpit faglit unfit
look at her working it looking fit dress slit:
‘Take me to your bedsit? Biscuit? Risk it? Rarebit? Pomfrit?
Twiglet? Niblet? Titbit? Wotsit? Wiggle it a little bit?’

Liked that James.

I have got on my Bis Kit.
Got Agnew Bis with a slam dunk.
The feather weight Anu Bis
was easy.

Dogspot

for cayne

a good way to enjoy this poem is to see it performed, I have posted it on youtube.

Its gonna be edited down but this was the original and (added to) version


its not idle banter
that’s ringing out
but rather something much more disturbing
something truly hurting
for the people that care
animals are dying
again
and crisp whites
are becoming fiery reds
the uneasiness
of snow tainted with blood
from the manic mans club
is from the seals that push and shove
away from him
once they realise
he is the enemy
one looks on in awe
one clenches ones jaw
and writhes on the couch in disgust
and once again we mistrust
those elected to protect us
how can that man club that seal
how can that government justify this yield
of fur fields
and snow laden icy killing grounds
icebergs should not echo bone breaking sounds

but rather
of mother nature at her best
puppy seals call and pass the test
of survival
perfect survival with natural rivals of nature
but when the bearded man comes
spattered in blood he gets his kicks
from flicks of batons and hooky tricks
spikes and rifles
gory trifles he lays out
and slabs of ice not even a shout of protest
for who can hear in this wasteland

he’s got a revving snowbike
makes him feel big like
gets him around fast like
its all petrol like
all Day-Glo like
does his ego like
picks his nose like
short circuit
a devolution
the fuckers mute to sea pollution
and oil rigs
and whale killing shin dig dances
who got the biggest catch
what liile hook unlatched
in his sadistic mind
does expect me to stand down
the only thing that keeps him alive is the fact
I cant reach him to drive a fuckin pick
Through his heart
The meaty bearded fat fucking fart
Get filled up fiery feelings of fleeting
Fleeing furry things
On ice
I put my feelings on ice
Ill embed woodlice in his wooden brain
Ill make him feel pain
You bastard
You sick little scroting bastard
I’m gonna grab your throat and thrust you face first
Flat into the rotting flesh of last weeks kill
I’m gonna spill my own blood
When head but you you
Shit on my shoes
You wipe and use
Seal fur abuse
Abuser you fat fuckin abuser
You fucking evolution loser
You missing link you feet dragging sweating stink of a man
I hate you
I hate you
and until those men leave
ill never be at peace
mad faced snow scrubbers
fuckers
quick seal hide!
i fuckin cant face it.
And the government?
shudden meant
should not meant
money spent?
asia sent
ambassadors
there
to buy fur
and thats why its happening
not for cod fattening
ignore ice melting
ignore seal feelings felting
stupid government
stupid bearded clubbing killers
stupid fuckin sucicide drillers
ice hole drilling fuckers
snow bike revving insane lookers
i hope someone clubs you to death.
you callous cullers
you ego tripping testosterone pullers
of hate cords
im not a violent man
but I want to smash your cranium
I will close my eyes when I do it
I saw an horrifc sea of blood
Red
The waves actually broke waves of blood
The ultimate insult to mother nature
To taint her aqua blues
With the scarlet hues of a puppys blood
You are not but should
Ashamed
Your penis is lame
In your woman games
It’s the only explanation
And yes ill strike at your sexual jugular
That’s how you do it to get kicks
Out of flicks of your hooks
Your clubs
Desperate I am
Stuck on the sofa
Miles away
My teeth grit
My eyes shut tight
But the microseconds of vision
Were enough to see
The strike the blow
On the puppy’s brain
Your sick games have started
And for South Gorgia
I want to gorge you
My teeth may they become razor incisors
May my rage become a visor over your vision
My the fragments of glass from this exploding television
Embed in your anus
I smashed my telly because of you
You bearded clubbers
You rubber lovers
Waterproof waders
Feeling faders
For living things
What pocesseth you
Where sleepeth you
What woman possible hold you
In forgiving arms
Lest not forget your bearded charms
Your evil eyes
The buzzing flies
Of your carcass
May you rot my bearded one
May your burn a hole in the ice
And descended into natures fiery hell
May the devil prong your arsehole
May your guts be removed and spill
And roll all stringy like
All sticky like
All intestine like
Your insides
Your insides
What is on your inside
I will lobotomise you
I will put your brain on a bench and slice it
May I carve you
May your aroma make this kitchen rejoice
In burning flesh
No better than you am I
Infectious is your callous uncaring
You are a whore
A whore for gore
I saw you half turn
When an inquisitive paw
Touched your leg
Seconds before you broke the puppy jaw
And guffaw
Did you in your metal tent
Your gay metal tent you closet killing fuck up
How dare you remove a living thing
In the name of cod fattening
Your filth rings out
And mute people shout loud in living rooms
People drop sweeping brooms in awe
When ion corner of eye duth telly roar
A message of insanity
Canada you enemy
Canada you host to scenic beauty
And government cutie killers

May you all rot

just back from my dad's -- heavy tough day, it would have been my mum's birthday, so I will write biscuits and dogspots tomorrow. Sweet dreams everyone.

Hello Cayn, Pete, Malcolm, James and all other Biscuiteers!
Just written a biscuit poem....

ALL AT SEA BISCUITS
I am an all butter Schopenhauerian
Bludgeoned by handshakes
Baked in the stentorian
Kinship structures between juntas,
In the heat of De-regulo flashbacks

the keynote cholesterol speech on my wrapper
is written in Enochian

My hand-applied apricot glaze
Is the Windshield of Debt

I am the official Debunker’s dunker
They dip me and quote Alien abduction
is the adult equivalent of The Borrowers
Unquote

The way the sea seems all Celtic knots and kung fu
Once you’ve fallen in
And the fish come at you like crayons
And the waves are just Luna Lordosis
And soup is something water does for a hobby
And

At the factory
the metal beater
repetitively
folds my batter into the lotus position
before
a semi automatic, called Playboy, loaded with clips of vine fruit
Fires with an atonal kerpow

Kerpow
The retort replays every bite.
You call it 'crispy.'

Hi everyone, how are you all? Here's one of my favourite poems. I intend to turn it into a song within the next couple of months :-)
The folks at wirral ode show seem to like this one :-)

Silence

Not a single soul shall cry for me
Nor weep at my demise,
No tear shall ever wet the cheek
Of those who smirk, behind laughing eyes
All that did contort my life
Did together concede my fate,
Voiceless whispers swiftly say
This lost boy left us forever today
Silence is all to be heard here now
Naught but the fantastic still
Remember me for the good
The imaginary life that we created
Masquerading as what we were not
To fulfil our dreams of peace
Well, sometimes we just can’t have the hope
That love is all we see,
We cant pretend forever
That this life could easily be
Perfection.
I leave this world with memories
Of me and my infinite scars
They’ll all be crying a tearless cry
As I remind them who they are
And what they did to me
As I walk into the silence
Not even a whimper all around
I see you kneeling beside me
On this damned blackish night
Regretting all you ever did
As you place the whitest flower upon me
Then tell me that you care
Underneath my glowing star.
I’m sorry…

Apologies for hiatus -- had to gang awa and feed ma ane corvie, Anne Bow -- but Malcolm, dappled Anu Biscs -- no doubt good for a dog's dentition, too! Being a prankster, I once recreated some canopic jars which I then decorated with dogfood labels. I also have a full size papier mache replica of an Egyptian sarcophagus. I am convinced that the false, stylized chin beards sported by the average pharoah were, in actual fact, a form of biscuit with icing decoration, like an early form of iced gem.

crumbs.

Well that really takes the biscuit.