Month: October 2004

  • A few years ago I was given only months to live, and I was in such pain that I cried out for death.

    Yet still I wrote, and here are three of the poems I wrote then, when I thought each poem would be my very last.



    ______________________________________



    Pain After Pain After Pain.

    _______________________



    More pain than I can stand

    Hits me every now and then,

    I try not to scream out loud,

    I try not to die.



    But the pain shoots down me

    Like a bolt of lightning,

    And I curse the very day

    That I was born.



    Welcome to stroke-land my friend,

    Welcome to the old, the near-dead.

    I can’t re-marry or even have a close friend

    For it’ll scare the shit out of them

    To lie next to me in the night

    When a spasm occurs.



    Only poetry keeps me going

    Not only by writing it, but by reading it too.



    Only poetry keeps me from going insane

    When it’s pain after pain after pain

    After pain after pain

    After pain.



    —

    Terry Cuthbert 1996.



    __________________



    When I die, please don’t

    Carve my name out in stone,

    Not in marble

    Nor in bone.



    Just remember my poetry

    And then learn why

    The reason that I lived

    The reason that I died.



    Just copy my poetry

    Out in books

    Even if I’m the first to admit

    That it sucks.



    The words alone

    I leave behind

    From a broken body

    And a broken mind.



    I will die soon

    I feel it in me

    But I need no tears

    I need no sympathy.



    Just save my poems

    And them alone

    And never see my name

    Carved out in stone.



    Bury me in a field

    Forget the place

    Forget that I was part

    Of the human race.



    Just save my poems

    That’s all I ask

    That can not be such

    A difficult task.



    And when I die

    Let my poems live on

    Not under my name

    But under “anon”.



    Goodbye now

    And thank you my friend

    For ever and ever

    In time without end.



    —

    Terry Cuthbert.



    __________________



    “I am killing myself tomorrow”

    ___________________________

    No more tears on an empty beerglass,

    No more lonely walks home,

    No more sad bedsit telly,

    No more looking out the window

    On happy people below.



    For I am killing myself tomorrow,

    Across the streets of hawthorn and car-tin

    Catching the pale sun of dandelion dawn,

    I shall spread myself,

    Mouth full of stones,

    Hide my face in a light-blue sky,

    My grease-hair on a bed of white clover

    As my testament to those who brought me

    Chunks of this selfish world.

    I am killing myself tomorrow.



    For risk of foolishness

    I shall do it quickly and without silly drama,

    I won’t be leaving a note or a poem

    Denouncing all who have given me death

    And cursing them into shame.

    Who can I leave a note to in this wilderness of lies?



    My only friends are the tarmac and the dosses of grass,

    A bottle of low-proof whisky tucked inside my old coat

    And the long knife of cold winter.

    It was not always this way,

    This sorrow in my life, no, once I was happy

    A head full of laughter under brickwork of youth.



    Too long has the church clock struck misery,

    The shops been full of unattainable goods,

    Too long has bramble stung my outstretched arms,

    Like a scarecrow, or a child feeding pigeons,

    Too long has fungi closed my eyes.



    Don’t try to convince me that the stars are mine,

    Because the litter-bin of my mind has choked on such lies.

    Don’t say that someday someone might put glass in my windows

    Where there are now rusty bars,

    My garage is full of such failed dreams.



    I am killing myself tomorrow,

    You will find me dead in a copse,

    So farewell,

    And do not phone me on my mobile

    For it shall ring no more.



    —

    Terry Cuthbert.

     

    ——————————

    To cheer you all up a little, here is a piece by Sophie Lucy Morgan about Bonfire Night in the UK.

     

    —-


    (From) Sophie’s own protected blog.



    All week, fireworks have been going off, upseting my cat Sooty. Sooty loves being outside normly, unless it’s raining or cold. Now he just runs outside and goes to the toilet and runs back in again.

    Guy Fawkes-night is soon, I don’t like hollawein, I think it’s silly but I love Guy Fawkes night every year cos granpee has a BIG bonnfire and LOTS of fireworks.

    He tells me fireworks were better when he were a lad, they had jumping-jacks and so on. Today its just rockits and roman candels.

    Nanny says granpee is just a big kid but then nanny does stovies and roast chestnuts (not conkers) and so on, especcly if its not raining. Last year on the saterday, when it always is, it rained and I had my sparkers on the Sabbath, though granpee said that Jesus would have loved them and have rote a pallable about them.

    My American on-line friend, Faith;  who is 11 had never heard of our Bonfire Night, so here are 2 links.









    Sophie Lucy Morgan, aged nine.


    (Note Sophie and her blog are fiction)

     

    Ps Winter time starts tomorrow. last year I told the Sarah-birds to put the clocks back and they told me it wasn’t they who stole them!

  • (For Luke Robbins, b/d 23.02.99)

    ______________________________





    As she held







    Her still-born child







    In the middle of a dream,







    She held back the tears







    So as not to disturb







    That beautiful dead face.







    —

    Lord Pineapple



    _______________

    To a mentally-retarded cousin at Christmas.





    Your 21st Christmas

    Falls on you

    Like a silent dream

    That never awakens.





    The dawn sivers

    On a magic morning

    You can’t understand,

    You, eternally six.





    Pleased you can spell your name,

    Sorry you wet the bed the night before.

    Looking for toys at the age

    Other girls are getting married.





    You go running downstairs

    With your new dolly

    To switch on the fairy-lights

    Although it is only 4a.m.





    The world awaits for you

    But you (forever a child of Jesus)

    Shall never find it.



    —

    Lord Pineapple



    _______________

    A Poem To Sleep.

    ________________



    Soft sleep

    Yellow dream

    Of night-flowers

    Open in neoned yawns

    Like purple stars.





    The eyes of a mammal

    Laughs in the mist

    Talks about songs

    On the by-pass tigers

    Of their obsessive way

    To maul & destroy.





    And I shake myself,

    Let my two-ton eyes

    Wrap themselves

    In the summer grass;

    And start to fear

    The finger-clouds

    Strangling the sky

    In oncoming water.





    But I try to sleep

    Rough and cold,

    Think about the lot

    Of us poor sods

    And why we bothered

    To come at all





    To this green

    And unpleasent land.



    —

    Lord Pineapple  (After a poem by  Victor Hugo)



    __________________________________________



    Silent Graves.

    _____________



    In the end

    Silence.

    Cool trees on cold rocks

    Darts of sunlight

    The frost.





    In the end

    Where we planned

    Where our children laughed

    At the eternity of it all,

    Is the silence

    Of a slow stream

    Inbetween the stone graves

    Of a yesterday.





    In the end

    Round about where

    A beginning came:

    Remains the footsteps

    Of my crying

    And the bitter taste

    Of being alone

    In a thousand dreams…





    All around:

    A silence.



    —

    Lord Pineapple



    ______________

    Andy & the Lion.

    _______________



    I told Androcles not to wait up for me

    As I will be gone some time.





    And I was.





    It is hard for a lion

    To get a decent feed in a city

    Without eating human beings.





    Even God understands that.



    —

    Lord Pineapple



    ______________

    “The Bones.”

    ____________



    My adult daughter was crying today,

    For when planting flowers, she had dug up a pile of bones

    And she had remembered that they were of the kitten

    She had buried as a child,

    After it had been ran over

    Outside our house.



    “I had forgotten all about it, dad”

    She says softly:

    I put the kettle on to brew her a cuppa

    As the flower seeds blew away, forgotten in the breeze.



    Later, we reburied the bones together,

    And made a small cross out of the sunset

    And our silent hands.



    —

    Lord Pineapple



    _____________

    “Medusa”

    __________



    One night alone

    With Medusa,

    And already a statue

    Looking out to sea.



    It took more than a look,

    I’ll grant you that,

    Her powers are fading

    After all these years.



    But stone I am

    And stone I will be:

    Until wind and rain

    And time

    Shall endeth me.



    —

    Lord Pineapple



    ______________



    The Firemen: 9/11

    _________________



    Sometimes going off to work

    Does not mean going home from work,



    And who would have thought

    That your very last words

    Would be through a mobile phone?



    Who can imagine the shock

    Of knowing you are going to die



    When you have dedicated your life

    To saving others?



    Of entering a building

    And never leaving it again



    And all because of some cause

    that you didn’t give a fuck for?



    —

    Lord Pineapple

  • Another poet for you now, one that is constantly pissed off with life.



    Tiffy (real name “Taffy”) was born in Mountain Ash in Wales and now owns a pub “The Dog & Duck” just north of London, where she is slowly drinking herself to death.

     

    __________

     

     

     


    After two hours at the window,

    Her coat on, her bag ready…





    She had looked at me and said

    “Doesn’t daddy love me any more?”





    I took her to town

    And she saw you there

    In a strange car

    With a strange woman.





    She never mentioned you again

    Until today

    When you came for her

    And she was not in.

     

    _________

     

     

     


    “Some Fell On Thorns”

    ___________________



    My eyes are not the flowers

    Of Spring anymore.

    It is cold.





    My face is hid in powder

    Of prolonged youth.





    I long once more

    For that whistle.

    That leer…





    Yet I once hated those men

    Undressing each whispering flesh.





    All icy lovers do now

    Is talk of the past.





    I look in vain

    For that sudden movement

    Of excitement

    In their eyes,

    When I sit, legs wide

    Across to them.





    Now it is a cough

    An embarrassed look-away.





    So I hitch down my dress

    And stare out of the window.





    It too, is old

    And full of strange dust.

     

    ___________

     

     

     


    “Rhondda Dawn.”





    Winter haze

    Into the dawn

    Our eyes walk

    Ice-fingers pointing

    To the smeared white

    Around sunrise hills

    To the silhoutte fern

    And heavy black rocks.



    “Here is our home”

    You say, your cold tears

    Breaking the dust-breath

    Onto the lorry road.



    I laugh at your sentiment,

    And you seeing no rusting mines

    No broken voices of coal-dust men

    No lost bones from songless chapels.



    Yesterday,

    There was no dawn

    Only black rain

    From freezing of winter

    Only the soot

    From your midnight cough.

     

    ______

     

     


    Marry a man with a hobby,

    He might be boring at times

    But at least he goes out by himself

    And leaves you alone.





    And a man with a hobby

    Will never hit you

    For he will be too afraid that you will retalate

    And destroy his life’s work.





    Marry a man with a hobby,

    Be it collecting things or watching things or building things,

    You can’t go far wrong

    And it’s better than a man

    Who hangs around the home

    Who comes home drunk every night

    Or abuses the kids.





    And every now and then, buy him something,

    If only a book -

    And make him think you love his hobby,

    And he’ll do anything you want him to do

    For a whole week!

    __________

     

     

     


    “Hero Of Fear”

    ___________



    (When the vicar of Eyam,  Charles Mompesson moved to the living of Eaking in Nottinghamshire, his reward for fame was that his new Parishiners shunned him, and forced him to live in a hut in Rufford Park, because they thought he still carried the plague-germs.)





    Carrying dead memories

    From lead-mine ghosts.





    Mompesson prays in a hut

    Far from the rain of Cucklet Delf.





    He had saved Derbyshire

    From a box of clothes





    Only to be shunned

    Like well-vinegar

    By the people of Eakring.





    He lives now for God

    Alone.





    And sings from a grave

    Of sorrow





    To Catherine,

    His late wife,

    And to the children he had blessed

    Before lowering them

    Into the sad ground.





    He had become a hero

    Of fear.  

    ————–

    All poems by Tiffy Witherington.

     

    (Ps I like writing fiction and I like writing poetry, so I love writing fictional poetry!)

  • My new computer won’t start. A CD is stuck


    FIXED IT THANKS TO ICQ TO MY SON IN DERBYSHIRE!


    I could allegorize: And then did.


    ————


    Mummy buried my goldfish yesterday,


    It was floating on top of the bowl


    “It’s dead” Mummy said, I cried “I know”


    And that is really all I want to say.


    —


    Sophie Lucy Morgan (aged nine.)


    _________________________


    I am part of yesterday,

    I am not of tomorrow.



    I am of what I was,

    I will never be what I could be,

    I can only be within the past

    There is no future for me.



    I am what I was,

    There can be no other way,

    I can not be anything but

    What I was when it was yesterday.



    I am not here right now,

    I am a nothing in a nowhere,

    Yesterday will be my whole life

    And tomorrow I will not be here.



    Do not worry where I have gone,

    Do not fill your heart with sorrow,

    For today I have found out at last

    I will not be here tomorrow.



    —

    The Poet Known as “Empty Chairs”


    ____________________

     


    A Funny Way To Die.



    I found myself in the soup

    Floating among the leeks,

    Trying to remember what I’d done

    In these past few weeks.



    It must have been the drugs I took

    That resigned me to this fate

    But it hardly matters anymore

    For I am on a man’s plate.



    Now I am on his spoon

    So I have to say goodbye.

    I have lived a funny life, and found

    A funnier way to die.



    —

    Three-Headed Sarahs’


  • “An English Country Church”





    When the large church door is closed, there is silence.

    One can strain one’s ears to hear any type of noise,

    At least in summer when the heaters are switched off.





    There is in a modern world, not much perfect silence,

    Jesus in the desert would today have been woken up by aircraft flying overhead.





    I light a couple of candles,

    Outside, past the one non-stained-glass window, I can see a tree blowing.





    I say a little prayer.





    It’s hard for me to kneel down these days,

    So when there are no other of God’s servants about, I stand up and say my piece,

    I am sure He will understand that I still love Him.





    I then sit down in my special chair

    And I do nothing but think.

    Not day-dream, but think

    Of all of the things that I am sure I could do better in this world.





    Sometimes visitors creep into the church as they are wont to do in England,

    Nervously, as if God is rebulking them for not entering his domain more often.

    They look at the leaflets,

    Buy a couple

    And conscientiously put the right money into the “poor-box”;

    Then they look around.





    When the visiters see me, they jump,

    And stammer as if they are intruding.

    Of course I get up and ask them where they come from, that sort of thing;

    I can play the perfect host.





    It’s funny the way they then linger,

    Scared to leave the church too quickly and thus show boredom,

    But all of the time feeling slightly uncomfortable.





    Poor things,

    Many only came into church, because after the shops and the famous cavern, there is little else to do.





     I close the door to their guilty whispers as they walk back down the path

    Past the lichen-stained crosses of Victorian England,

    Past where Wm Ogden, Mary Ogden, and all nine of their children, (the eldest living until he was ten), lay buried,

    Past the yew-tree and the chestnut and the holly…





    Then once again there is silence,

    Once again there is only the Lord and I

    In this English country church.





    —

    The Rev. Tobias Trontby.

    ____________________________

     


    To a Wake in Ireland, and I doze off.

    ______________________________



    To a wake in Ireland and I doze off

    Before realising I had better get moving again,

    So starting up my car

    I cross over the Menai Straits

    Stopping at Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwrndrobwll-llantysilogogogoch,

    Where the Women’s Institute

    Was founded in 1915.



    I went to buy some Silk Cut,

    “Welsh spoken here”

    It says above the shop,

    I speak Welsh

    Only to be served by a grumpy Englishman

    Who sniffs his head at me

    And looks at me

    As if I had spoken Urdu.



    I get back into the car,

    It’s spitting with rain,

    So I switch on the wipers

    And put some sad music on

    And light up and sigh:

    To think that this is my first trip to Ireland

    And it’s to a bloody funeral.



    I arrive in Holyhead

    To a big line of cars,

    Fumings and fumes

    And noise and frustration.



    I reach for the glove compartment

    To remember that I left the map of Dublin

    Behind the bar

    At the Dog & Duck.



    This Welshwoman living in England

    Going to a Scotsman funeral

    In Southern Ireland.



    It now rains heavy

    And the boat is late.



    —

    Tiffy Witherington.

    ________________________


    there are 1,000 types of snow,

    we learn that fact instinctively;

    one thousand or more types of snow.



    as children growing up in the far north,

    we learn to understand the snow;

    we learn it’s ways,

    it’s funny peculiarities.



    it is as if the snow is alive

    and is a complex person

    full of hidden talents.



    it is wrong to suppose

    we have a lot of different names for the snow,

    there is no need.

    we can understand it without using words,

    for words are only made to teach meanings,

    and the meanings in the snow have no names;

    only the crisp beauty

    of the tundra silence,

    only the gentle wind

    on our loving smiles.



    —

    Ingar Gørse



    ____________________

     

     


    (Not all my poems are fiction, almost all of my Lord Pineapple poems are based on fact or self-feeling. The below is 100 percent true. I wrote it because to my delight, on the excellent www.ubu.com site, I found the very Peter Orlovsky poem that I mentioned within. (I had forgotten it’s exact lines over time.)



    RIP-OFF.



    He steals some lines from Robert Creeley

    A metaphor or two from Phil Whalen

    And brings in a bit of Basil Bunting

    And says to everyone,

    “Hey, I’ve wrote a poem!”

    It’s passable, not bad at all,

    Some people cry “it’s wonderful!” “it’s unique!”



    They put it into a book,

    And there it amazes

    Until I come along

    And feels it’s all wrong.



    “Morning again, nothing has to be done

    maybe buy a piano or make fudge”

    Line for line, the third stanza went

    Straight from a poem by Peter Orlovsky.



    I tell the poet he’s been rumbled.

    He calls me a liar,

    As does the editor of the book

    Who publishes more of Rip-off

    But no more of mine.



    How swollen-headed I would have felt

    If in those days we had the internet!



    I wonder what Rip-off is doing now

    Perhaps he’s stealing from other cons

    As he lines up in the prison yard saying

    Hey, I’ve found some snout!”



    —

    Lord Pineapple.

    _________________

     

     

     


    I am not scared of spiders

    But Mummy is.



    I tell her they are beautiful

    And that in the winter

    I see their lace-patterns on the way to school.



    I would love to have cobwebs in my room

    So I can watch the spiders,

    But Mummy said if I did that

    I’ll have to tidy up my room myself,

    And I am too lazy.



    —

    Sophie Lucy Morgan (aged nine)

    _______________________________

     

    These are the poems wrote in the past week.

     

    Not sure when I can get back to all of you, but I will. Will visit a few of you now.

     

    Terry

     

  • Some poems & prose of Sophie Lucy Morgan.



    This eternally nine-year-old had her own blog on Xanga until “she” started getting eMails from real little girls! When I did a similiar column in my newspaper it did not of course matter, anyway, if anyone had any worries they would only have to contact the paper. But the internet is different, and only an austic twit like me wouldn’t have realized that!

    _________________

    Chocolate Bird





    “Come and sing to me chocolate bird,

    Come and sing to me.

    Come and sing the songs you used to sing

    From your chocolate tree.



    Come and sing to me chocolate bird…”

    But my cry was in vain,

    The chocolate bird had melted in the sun

    And would never sing again.



    —

    Sophie Lucy Morgan, aged nine.



    __________________________

    Sats.



    I put my pen down on the table. Boy, that exam was hard! The teacher collected up our papers whilst we wiped the answers off our wrists.



    Only kidding! In fact we all sat with our arms at our side, almost too terrified not to. Little Tommy had tears in his eyes. Stupid tests, they make children like Tommy look stupid when they are not.



    When the papers were collected, we were told we could go out and play. So we put our stuff away in our bags, and none of us spoke until we were out in the playground.



    And not one of us complained that it was raining.



    —

    Sophie Lucy Morgan, aged nine.



    _________________________

    Henry.



    Nobody told me you could be as beautiful as the flowers,

    As beautiful as the leaves falling down from the trees.



    But you are beautiful, Henry,

    My sweet little goldfish.



    —

    Sophie Lucy Morgan, aged nine.



    _________________________

    If I were a tree



    If I was a tree

    Then my leaves would be

    Made out of gold.



    Made out of gold,

    With plenty of diamonds

    And branches of silk.



    And I’ll be in the garden all day

    Just making people very happy



    I’ll make you happy



    —

    Sophie Lucy Morgan.



    ___________________

    Bubbles



    My cat is scared

    of the bubble-maker,



    and when I blow bubbles,

    it runs off and hides;



    and for simply ages afterwards

    it hisses at me.



    Funny cat!



    —

    Sophie Lucy Morgan, aged nine.



    ______________________



    This is the last little sausage

    Left upon my plate.

    I did have four of them,

    But three I’ve gone and ate.



    Now I’ve eaten my last little sausage,

    I ate it with some sauce.

    And I’m sitting here just waiting

    To eat my final course.



    —

    Sophie Lucy Morgan, aged nine.

    _________________________________


    Also up are the following sites: Three_Headed_Sarahs  including when they took me to Ozzieland. This site is NOT for the under 18ings and nice elderly ladies.


    And The_Clowne_from_Clown Which as always contains the truth of my life, what makes me tick, what makes me sick and what makes me a prick.


     


    Ps Amazon has no videos/dvds of purely British TV shows. But I am watching “The Clangers” and “Bagpuss” If you are such geeks that you have so much time to waste, check them out on google. eg http://www.clangers.co.uk/  and http://www.smallfilms.co.uk/bagpuss/



  • Hoots Mon Laddie, this personea is the one I used when I took part in the Edinburgh Festival two years running.


    Sorry if Wee Duncan is hard going, but that’s Scotland for you. I bet Graham Evil speaks like this.


    ——————-


    “if only ah cud be a poet awl oo’ the time!” Rabbie Burns.



    I cud ha’ wrut

    A bonnie poem

    This morning,

    If only I had a pen.





    If only I had a way

    O’ gitting a pen

    There an’ then





    Then I cud ha’ wrut

    A bonnie poem

    This morning,

    If I hadna job tae dae.





    I stood ahim

    The Second Provost

    Who stood ahim

    The First…





    An I had nae way

    O’ gitting a pen

    When this morning

    I stood sae prood





    An’ we aal bowed

    Tae a better Scotland!





    I drink oon tha’!

    —

    Wee Duncan D.

     

    ———————

     


    “Death o’ the Wifie” 

    _________________



    In the end 

    We dinna e’en gi’ her a grave, 

    Jus’ a few ashes 

    Tae scatter oaf the sea 

    By Cramond Island. 





    I no canna gae near the place 

    I’ the wee cawd air, 

    Tha’ only I noo breathe 





    an nay her.

     

    —

    Wee Duncan D.

     

     

    _______________

     

     


    Nessie.

    _______



    Ha’ I seen the Loch Ness Moonster?

    Only when I’m drunk,

    Tha’ nay mean laddie

    Tha’ I call it bunk!



    There must he something there,

    There’s nae fire wi’oot fire (as they sai)

    An there’s a wheen 

    That sees the moonster e’ery day!



    He feeds the moonster on stovies

    It catches them quite smart,

    Tis frae a dog, they sai,

    Tha’ it learnt this noble art.



    The Nessie is nae there fae scientists

    They canna see the damned thing,

    But it’s said the wee bairns call it

    By the shake o’ a bell, ding-ding.



    A friendly beastie is the moonster

    “Charlie” is noo it’s wee name,

    I never myself fed auld Nessie

    Which I think is a crying shame.



    As I’ve said, I’ve seen the thing

    When steaming oon mi wai hame

    Nessie is grey an ha’ luminious eyes

    An looks like the Greenwich dame.

    (copywright of The Douglas Clan. (true!)

     

    —

    Wee Duncan D.

     

     

    _______________

     


    Lines fae mi father.

    _________________



    An’ the train tha’ ha’ clanged it’s wey frae coal truck tae coal truck is gane,

    An we may nay see it’s likes again.

    They let the grass grow there father, aye,

    Grass an silence under the silent sky.



    It’s a field o’ emptiness but fae us auld,

    An’ where the line once were it noo blaws cald.

    Ye worked in these yards didnae ye, mi dad,

    Worked there gin retirement frae a wee lad.



    Noo the yard is nae mair, it’s noo lang syne,

    As is mi memory of ye, father o’ mine.

    They are shunting in heaven dad, aye it’s true,

    An ye are working up there fae the good o’ Crewe.





    (note: Crewe was the h/q of dad’s lonely Scottish yard.)



    —

    Wee Duncan D.

     

     

    ________________

     


    I took the granweans tae see Bannockburn

    Telling them this is there history and tha’ they mus learn;

    But they nae saw any use 

    In seeing the prood stature o’ oor Bruce.



    “Ach, canna we nae gang tae the toon?”

    They blethered as I were oon aboot the 24th o’ June,

    An I hae tae buy them some stoopid shite

    Frae the visitor centre. Ach, it nae fecking richt.



    Is tha’ wha’ aal modern bairns are like

    Alwais reedy tae mak a fecking fyke?

    Fae Scotland they nay gie a hoot

    An donna care wha’ their country is all aboot.

    —

    Wee Duncan D.

     

    ___________________

     

     


    BRIDGE ACROSS THE SILVERY FORTH.

    ______________________________



    Ah, sweet road-bridge across the Silvery Forth!

    Ye love taking aal o’ the motorway traffic way up north,

    An ye made it tha’ much easier tae gang fae a spin

    Tae the country town of Dunfermline.



    But traffic goes two ways we ha’ tae admit,

    An the road brings tae the capital, the parliament shit,

    Aal those fat MP’s who are as bonnie

    As a tramp’s cock in a rubber johnny.



    An the road taeks the soft English upper-crust

    With aal their strange bottom-obsessed lust,

    Up tae the Highlands fae their shoot,

    Killing oor burds like the’ once pinched oor loot.



    This may be, but the road bridge is still as pretty

    As anything ye may find in Edinburgh’s city,

    And it’s a proud Scotsman who goes forth

    Tae drive o’er the bridge o’er the Silvery Forth.

    —

    Wee Duncan D.

     

     

    poem on The_Clowne_from_Clown site. Also, Friday, a REAL blog in the true sense. A rarity for me, not sure if I’ll keep it up, all comments will this time be directed here. I have time to keep up all my blogs but not answer everyone’s comments on them all!

    Sunday night: Sophie Lucy Morgan.

  • It is time for my most infamous creation to show off their poems. They Never Forgive, they Never Forget, they Never Apologize, and they Never Regret. And they don’t DO “nice”. It is of course your friends and mine.


    The Three-Headed Sarahs’


    —————————————————————


    The Death Of Margaret O’Malley



    She jumped into the water

    “And why not?” she thought.



    “Why not drown meself

    And do an end to all the pain?”



    “Why not drown meself?”

    She did the holy cross.



    She repeated this again to herself

    As she jumped into the river.



    But she did not drown.







    The crocodile saw to that.



    —

    Three Headed Sarahs’

    ———————————————————

     

     

    Their next poem is their entry to Little Egypt’s poetical challange.

     


    At my local.

    ___________



    “See the heart on the bar-floor, and the brains beside it? See them my friend? They were mine.”



    I looked at the man in the pub and groaned, why did I have to attract all of the mad people in this bloody city?



    “See the soul hung up there with the shorts-bottles, that was mine too my friend, that was mine.” The man supped his beer.



    “They were mine, the arms of the bar-stools, mine, the eyes on the dimple mugs, mine. Funny that, I did not expect death to be like this”.



    I looked at the couple at the next table and shugged my shoulders, they smiled back.



    I looked at the mad-man. “Can I get your round?” I asked him, he shook his head, but the wife of the couple smiled. “That’s jolly decent of you, a gin & tonic and a pint of Fosters”.



    Wondering if I was dreaming, I bought three drinks, and noticed that my mad friend had gone. “That’s a relief!” I said to the husband. “Pardon?” he asked.



    “That loonie, glad he’s gone!” “Who is gone?” asked the wife. “The man at my table” I smiled.



    “But” cried the woman, “You have been by yourself all night!”



    Leaving the pub later, I tripped over a man’s severed head. 

    —

    Three-Headed Sarahs’

     

    ——————————————

     

     


    Song in the style of Noel Coward.



    “Don’t give a man a blow-job when he’s driving,

    He might crash into the back of a truck;

    And it’ll be a shame to lose your life dear,

    Just because of a suck.



    Don’t give a man a blow-job when he’s driving,

    He might crash going around the bend;

    I did that to my dear husband

    And now I’m in heaven my friend.”



    —

    The ghost of Ada Warwick.



    (as told to the Three-Headed Sarahs’

    —————————

  • Poems Of Ingar Gørse

     

    “Beautiful Little Flower”
    ______________________



    beautiful little flower,

    but always alone,

    spending her days

    dreaming about men

    that she will never embrace;

    for the years now make

    unkind lines on her face.





    she watches babies grow,

    children dancing outside her flat;

    as untouchable as the music,

    as silent as the snow.





    always in love, but never loved,

    she hides behind the alter of fear,

    and she watches her dreams crumble

    and turn into tears.





    the wind laughs all around her

    mocking her aching bones,

    beautiful little flower,

    she’s always so alone.


    _____________________

     

     


    (Untitled)

    ________


     

    i want the moon

    to dance for you





    to glitter in the lakes

    of your brown eyes.





    i know i can do it,

    i know i can teach the moon

    i have done it before

    when i was a child.





    i went to where the mountains gathered

    and i went and spoke

    the language of the trolls





    and the moon smiled at me

    and it danced for me





    like it will dance for you

    my little one.





    ah, my little one

    with skin as white

    as the rays of the moon





    your smile dances too,

    you, my own little moon.

    ____________________

     

     

     


    “The Man of Ice”

    _______________



    in his white gloves

    the smile melts

    as if it was made of snow.



    out onto the ice

    his excuses fall,

    frozen ideas. hated by us all.



    the tutting nod

    on his great fat head

    sways to and fro like an englishman’s.



    even a troll will be

    more understanding to us

    than this cold man of ice.



    the man of ice

    shakes hands with a german officer,

    which is why



    he does not love us.



    we can not pay nearly enough

    for him to be

    upon our side.



    a shot rings out

    through the air,

    as we run the man of ice



    laughs.



    “it will be a cold summer throughout Norway”

    says all,



    all but the man of ice.


    ____________________

     

     

     


    (Untitled)

    ________



    she is softly turning in her sleep

    whilst inside her head, fires rage

    demons scream out for her soul

    and her little ones lie snapped

    on metal prongs.





    and yet you would not think it so

    to see her soft face there,

    to hear her gentle snore

    and to touch her small hands.





    but oh, i know it is so,

    because i too dream of those demons

    the demons that i saw only yesterday

    moving quietly up the mountain.

    __________________________

     

     

    (Untitled)

     


    we dance in no moonlight,

    when the clouds are thick

    and where our shadows do not exist.



    we dance in the fields,

    as we collect the eggs,

    and the shadows are so thin

    that we women can not see them.



    we dance in the kitchens

    we dance with our babies,

    we dance where the shadows

    are light and fresh.



    for when the men wake,

    angry and bitter,

    they will beat us women hard



    for having shadows of our own.


    _________________________

     

     

     


    “The Infinitive Horizon”

    ______________________

    (“The horizon of Norway never sleeps” Ibson.)



    where the horizon

    is a mirage,

    a shimmering cloud

    of either snow or insects,



    and where i take

    my child to bathe

    in hot steaming waters,

    or to play

    in the ice-mirrors

    of twisting trolls…



    that is where i call heaven,

    that is where i want to be

    when i pass breathing

    and perhaps thinking…



    let me go there

    to where the eyes strain to see,

    and where you can never touch

    and never reach out to…



    let me be

    always looking upon this world

    of blue and green and white,

    the world where i was born

    and where i shall die.

    ——————————

    Ingar Gørse