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Eating at the corner of the world

And seeing only the sinnews of life

Like crumbs from large loaves

No longer living

No longer awash with the smiles

Before people were shot for smiling.

Eating at the corner of the world

Saying only the names of the dead

And then just with our eyes

As they move from photograph to photograph.

In the few hours of light

We bury dead dreams, dead hopes and dead bodies,

The latter wrapped in

The corner of their world

From now to forever.

---

Jacques du Lumière

_________________________

Soldiers are dipped

Into the boiled egg of the world

And eaten by death.

But death is not evil

Only those who kill are evil,

They will never break the bread

With the yolk of Jesus Christ

No matter what the priests and generals

May ever say.

---

Jacques du Lumière

___________________________

We see it in the rainshine

The elephant in the boatyard

As the corn spins

In a deathly silence.

No one feels like singing

Since snails climbed the mountains

And humans ate humans

As fish ate fish.

---

Jacques du Lumière

___________________________

Like a breath of fresh sand

We tumble down the hill

Some into nettles

Some onto landmines.

Children pick up deadly bombs

Designed as pretty toys

And sold by the good o' USA

To help a president

To remain in office.

Like a mouth full of cold-dust

We tumble down the hill

Not even thinking what may lie

At the foot of it.

Barbed wire or psycho-soldiers

May lay in wait for us

To finish off us who

Had tried to escape down the hill,

More people to die

For the good o' USA.

---

Jacques du Lumière
______________________________
Reading (Advanced copy) "My Trade: A short history of journalism" by Andrew Marr.

Text la pipa.

___________

I am learning Spanish.

Because I am learning Spanish. I will only talk Spanish at work.

No one knows what I am talking about, and I am very angry with their ignorance, everyone should know that el verano means summer, and el teril is the place where bulls are kept until they are needed for the fight, I'll hace la una paja over their falos if they do not answer in Spanish, the maricons that they are!

I have few friends at work, one is a Chinese chappie who plays with his glass-eye all day long at his workstation. This poor geezer doesn't realise that I am talking Spanish, he thinks, when I am saying "por favor!" (with the reverse ! in) that I am talking Welsh. All this Chinaman keeps saying to me is "yes, yes, very sad, very, very sad," over and over as he rolls his glass-eye from one side of the bench to the other. I wish he will say it in Spanish, because I no longer habla English.

I am not alone in this, my Scottish foreman will only speak to us in German, and shouts Die Schlampes. sich einen runterholen! at us. I wish he wouldn't, fancy talking to us in German, when we can't speak it! I tell you, the man is la tapette!

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Text Susan

He took a blank piece of paper and named it Susan.

And for the rest of his life, Susan followed him around everywhere, blowing in the wind & every now & then slapping him in the face so he'd fall off his bike or smash his car, and as he then lay there in a daze, he could see the paper dance with glee.

But there was never a finer piece of paper in the whole of Christendom, upon the whole of the seven seas, known to the ancient pillars of man.

People had tried to copy him, and they took sheets of paper and named them the most beautiful names they could think of.

But no piece of paper upon this planet was the same as Susan, the other blank sheets drifted outside with their owners, but in minutes they will end up on the park's bonfire, or the park-keepers spiky thingie, or in the mouths of park benches.

There was never any like Susan, a piece of paper that never tore or stained or yellowed or got uncrisp or dirty or drunk, a piece of paper that followed its owner everywhere, stopping anyone else from ever loving him.

After his third girl-friend had died in mysterious circumstances, he realised he would never be allowed to replace the piece of paper that he had called Susan; so he rolled Susan up and stuck it into his pocket.

Now if you ever see a man with a piece of paper in his pocket, ask him if its Susan, you may be making an old man very happy.

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

Text 817

________

He could not understand it, the last 17 mornings he had travelled on bus fleet number 817, despite there being 19 other buses on the route, and 17 times on the way home, it was fleet number 817. Eery, the other morning he saw bus number 813 drawing away, he ran like mad, and to his delight he boarded it, but the bus then stalled, and he and the other passengers had to get on the bus behind, yup, fleet number 817.

On Monday Evening he had just missed fleet number 817, and he felt relieved, he did not care how long he had to wait for the next bus, it was 86 minutes, the buses route is 86 minutes long...

By tonight he had had enough, he went to the bus stop, and there it was, waiting for him, bus number 817. He ignored the bus, 35 minutes later both he and the bus were still there.

In the end the driver of fleet number 817, (the drivers have not always been the same person) asked him if he wanted the bus or not.

He decided to walk.

He was in hospital for three weeks. Eye-witnesses said that although the woman driver tried to control the bus, fleet number 817 had a mind of its own. No one else was the slightest bit hurt as the bus ran into him.

He remember the bus laughing at him...

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

Text Liquorice

____________

A bad freak of a day, wham! It falls into a bandaged omnibus "No Griffres de prise directe" The sign said as it passed a charabanc that has been turned into a tramerator. "Did youl sit thy griving test duck?" I asked the tram-driver (still in nappies by the way) "This looks good" he said, and Jenna Bush knocked back her hash-gin and growled "Who you looking at buster?" before opening her legs to Billy Graham who said, "Make my day punk!" (But that's enough quotes from the internet).

Beyond the star is a simple man, but il lui echappe des indiscretions, that Sandra was anyone's after one drink, and that was only a coffee. they say she was a prim child, but at 15 she had her first sex, and has had thousands of men since and she is still only 15, In the doughnut position, she puked all over Slim Thorne who then called a dustbin a plate-moustache.

And we left them there, Sandra and Slim, hope like wallpaper torn from the back of a dying octopus, but yesterday Shirley had her hands on her hips and snapped "this is the second time this week you're been late to finish work, so please go home and play tennis with your kites!"

When bumblebees are bugs and iron are men, then take out your glass-ear for some damned computer shoot-up your arm full of bytes. Cowcumber-flavoured crisps "Mes vetements de tous les jours" he smiled, showing his bikini to all the male dogs and hoping they'll be turned on.

Call the clothes-pegs, its said they have been slowly taking over the uk government, five of Tony Blairs ministers are already clothes-pegs, three plastic, one wooden and one made out of liquorice pudding.

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Text "Fairies"

____________

I believe in fairies, you-know, those things that potter around at the bottom of my garden. I love the fairies, because of the kind & wonderful things that they do, like leave a penny under my pillow everytime I go for a filling. I like the way they clear the weeds away from the shed.

When my Mummy was alive, she used to tell me I would never find a nice girl whilst I keep talking about fairies. I don't know what she meant, because when I get frustrated, I do something naughty with my hand, & I feel the fairies are helping me to be happy, & Mummy liked me to be happy. I remember just before my thirty-fifth birthday, Mummy said to me "As long as you are happy being a fairy". (That was when that man, dressed up as an angel, put his wee-wee up my bottom, and Mummy saw it.) So she must have realised I love these little ladies very much.

One day, I know the fairies are going to take me to Heaven, meanwhile, I dance with them among the mushrooms. I leave the wicked telly switched off all the time now, it is only full of nasty men & rude women. Instead I sit in the shed & read stories to the fairies, sometimes they give me a nice kiss.

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Text Lepordesy

______________

I walk around Huddersfield all day lad, covered in old sheet like, royt, & carrying flippin' bell. DONG! I'm, a , um Whatheycalledsarah? a leopard? Sometimes I sit in the Cuthbert Centre with a chipped wooden bowl in front of me, & I'm crying, like. Anyroad, I mix with crowds & I'm crying, UNCLEAN! UNCLEAN! & I'm crying out t' folk to help me, holding one finger out sheet, saying other fingers 1 nay none. But ot'er day this here copper like, made me take off sheet, but when he found me stark-bollock naked, oh fuck this yorkshire lark! & toadmarched me dressed to police station, I kept shouting: KEEP AWAY FROM ME! UNCLEAN! UNCLEAN!They threw me into a cell, because I had a sty on my eye, and thought I had Lepordesy.So I was back at the Cuthbert Centre For The Sarahs: and making pots of dosh, three heads on one body chum! I can change the hour! I can use the computer to pop out anywhere as a stupid man, that was that day's diary. & they are putting a tenner in my chipped bowl whenever I ring my bell just so I will not touch them...

" Here," one old gal just said to me, Take a bloody bath! That should been green NO! (Cheeky lass! I showered last year!) Done it!

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

My First Ever Text.

________________

One morning I came down and found a hand on the doormat. "Damn it!" I thought, as I swung on the lightcord, "my letterbox has bit off another postman's hand!

I have started selling odd gloves to the GPO, and I had an irate father after me, you see, we have this free newspaper, not "news" as much as "gimme! gimme!" but anyroad, his eleven year old son was delivering these newspapers, and he hadn't heard about my strong letterbox, so he went home crying, sans hand. I am not a kinky person, but his hand has pride of place in my collection, along side my grandfather's hand and a neighbour's cock. How the latter got into my letterbox, I don't know, but some people round here are very strange.

Everytime I take a girl home, after shagging her, I get her to put her hand into my letterbox, but there is no sudden snap, and no scream, perhaps my letterbox is queer, I had better not tell the GPO or else I'll get no more hands! Maybe I ought to get a quack-doctor to see to my door, cos it's unhinged (in one way).

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

Text Royal Lemington Spa.

_______________________

I am lost in the thick fog, I can't see a thing, not the early-morning double-decker buses, nor the frozen cobwebs that are supposed to look like lace but looks more like broken cut-glass.

The trees feel like stone as I barge my way through the dead park, the slashings of light must be cars running me over. Every now & then I feel a bang on my chest, and I knock my head on a hard surface, it happens soon after those flashing lights, so I stumble onto a pavement or fall onto a metal street pole. Someone screams as they are sucked into a hole. I hide from the roar of metal and I feel blood scratch down my cheeks.

It is as if everybody has gone nearly blind, the mist is so thick. This is Royal Lemington Spa, and the river underneath sends out white spirits that howl over the G.G. buses and flying milkmen arms, and the constant crying of lost people being sucked into holes.

Everytime the fog drops in this town this happens, and it lasts for days. Later on people clean up the mess and have masses for the vanished ones, and they all blame Global Warming, and it is true, Mr. Warming is a very bad egg.

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Text "Samaritan"

_______________

I am one of those sort of people whom everyone & everybody pours their heart out to, on buses, in bus-queues, outside shops, in pubs...Always there is someone or somebody who comes up to me & tells me their life-history of unmitigated gloom.

I went to bingo the other night, but I never finished a single game, because all of the time, this old lady was bemoaning how her husband was a cripple, & how she never won anything "Unlike that old bag who's bleedin' havin' it off with the manager!" & how the bailifs called round the last night to take away their telly, her husband's only comfort, & how their bed was given to them by "Sally's army".

I tried the pictures, & blow me, if this old man doesn't plonk himself down next to me to tell me how his children wasted money on records & trashy clothes, & how they ignored him & swore at him after he had brought them up single-handed after the tragic death of their mother in a car accident a few years back, & how his ungrateful kids had sold their mother's jewelery to buy drugs...

So it goes on, I am thinking of of wearing a badge with the word "Samaritan" on it. I am becoming very depressed myself. I am also becoming very poor, because I find myself giving to every "ill-lucker" twenty quid.

I have become so depressed at the way people eat their hearts out to me, I have began to stop people in the street, just to tell them what a fool I've been all my life.

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

(From "100 Texts") (some up-dated!)

Published under the name of "Horace Smith Esquire".
When you lose things, it is a natural reaction for people to believe you had never owned them in the first place.

I once wrote poems in French, but like a lot of my abilities, I lost it with my stroke.

Here are five poems I have had published in France, in French, but now only survive in English.

They are "by" Jacques du Lumière.

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

Our children's faces

Are seen only as reflections

In some dark, polluted pond;

Forever crying, their eyes

Penetratrating our horror,

Pleading for us to hold them

Once more in our arms;

Kiss once more their

Dead cheeks, and tell them

We still love them.

Forever they look up

To us, from rivers, from

Lakes, from natural mirrors

Of water. They ask us not to

Forget them...

Nor shall we ever.

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

Our children's children

Are all we sing for

In these black fields

Of loneliness.

They are all that matter now

We realise,

As we carry our little bundles

Onto the edge of eternity

Each one of us remembering

How beautiful death can be

To a dying man.

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

You were part of something

I never wanted,

Part of someone

I never met

Snapping into life's jig-saw.

I saw you before,

You were never there

Never in the day

Of white snow,

Never in the language

You said you spoke

Never in the lips

Of the shadows,

Never in icicles

From my eyes;

Never, never, never

Wanting you.

You were part of something

I never knew.

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

He returned alone,

And in rags

Shut himself in his hut

And spoke to no one

On that cold wet day.

Whom of us dared to ask him

Where his wife is now?

We approached his hut slowly,

To hear him crying

And making more noise

Than the rain.

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

"In the Shadow of the Abbey".

I say Lord, don't miss me

In the shadow of the abbey,

My prayers for your ark,

My enchanted chapel of nuns;

My tower room full of yellow light.

And Lord, do not get me lost

At these crossroads

Where the signpost is bent

Its fingers pointing to the four corners

Of the drunken Earth.

For when the undergrowth of night

Sob spirits from each stone, and

When death overhangs each vine;

Lord, spare me the sadness

Of the deep black pond.

You shall welcome my song

My soft words, my thoughts,

To you Lord, my Saviour;

In the shadow of the abbey,

Remember me, do not forget...

Even if the signpost is broken

And lays in the shape of a demon.

______________________________

All poems published under the hetcronym of Jacques du Lumière
New poems with two of my personæ not used in the last blog.

Mobile Love.

I heard him talk to you

On his mobile phone.

He did not know it was me

Behind the newspaper

On the number five bus.

I heard him tell you

How much you meant to him.

I could not hear your reply of course,

But he seemed pleased at what you had said.

He got off at the stop

Where I was due to enlight,

I stayed on the bus I did,

I felt that it was quite right.

I then switched off my mobile phone

And went off to the pictures alone.

It was a very long night.

---

The Poet Known As "Empty Chairs"

Where are you now,

You who is laughing on the photograph,

With a cocky smile,

and a cigarette between your fingers.

Where are you now?

Where are you now

You who is leaning on a tank

In the blazing afternoon sun

You to whom war is an adventure.

Where are you now?

Where are you now,

Proud uncle, father to my cousins,

You such a proud Frenchman

Beating back the bosch.

Where are you now?

Where are you now,

You who was lost in action,

You who never came home again

From the war to end all wars.

Where are you now?

Where are you now,

You whose body was never found

Or was buried in the mud

Along with your dreams.

Where are you now?

Aye, where are you now,

You whose memorial is but a name

Sketched on a crumbling stone,

You, the uncle I never knew.

Aye, where are you now?

---

Jacques du Lumière

________________________

see also Three_Headed_Sarahs site and their son's days at infant school (re USA kindergarden)
Coming SATURDAY: 5 poems by Jacques du Lumerie.

And my mind is of honey

And it is a bee-hive

A place full of pollen

Full of bees that swarm

In and out of the silences

As if the threads of my mind

Were a cacophony of flowers

A waterfall where I wash

Away all of my tired thoughts

And drink the nector of the clear ice-water

That flows off of the rocks

Like the strings of a harp

Full of the sounds that forget

What all but life is

And life is of course

Only something that we walk through

From what was before us

To what is after us.

And to think that it is more

Is to hide reality

Under the pool of honey-water,

And the mead of the mind.

We who sees other things,

We who hear other sounds

Are no different than those

Who live monochrome lives,

For we will die too

Forgotten by the bees

That have moved on to other nector

And water that has gone from the waterfall

And into the sea.

---

Lord Pineapple

Note: The photo is in Border's Oxford. it says on the sweat-shirt www.LordPineapple.co.uk I stopped the name though they wanted £120 to renew it, so you won't find anything there.
Another silly love poem.

And here I am

Getting on your nerves,

Trying to write a love poem

Whilst thinking of us both

As we were such a long time ago.

And there you are,

Waiting for me to come to bed,

To stop scribbling some masterpiece

Or just some journeywoman doggeral;

(-hoping for the former,

-fearing for the latter).

And here I am

Trying to write another silly love poem

About a love

That had long since dried up,

Withered under a dying sun.

---

Tiffy Witherington.

__________________

The Registry Office.

__________________

When I visit the city,

I have to pass there

The Registrar.

And often I see couples

Who have just been married in there,

Holding hands on some horrid steps

In front of the building.

I wonder to myself

How long will their marriage last.

For however much the couples may love one another;

Another love is missing.

I wonder if God would not have rather

The couples lived in sin

Than to get married in such a place

Where He would not want to go.

---

The Reverand Tobias Trontby.
____________________________

Reading (on-line) http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Main_Page

The_Clowne_from_Clown has a piece about Toby and Tiffy.
On the eighth of September is my birthday, I thought running up to it I'll put down ten of my favt poems wrote since my last birthday.

So here goes (in no real order) 10 of the best. (Any you would have prefered?)

______________________

I was once a snowdrop

Once a daffodil

Once the moon

Once the stars.

There was no slash, no gash

That did not reach the sea

That did not call my name

Over and over and over.

When the battle against the demons is won

When the evil in the spirit is destroyed

And when those who kill for country, god or greed are no more...

Then again I'll be your snowdrop

Your daffodil, your moon;

Again I shall be the stars

That call out your name

Over and over and over.

---

Ingar Gørse

____________________

St. Cuthbert's, Edinburgh.

_______________________

Sitting i' the graveyaird

Alang wi' the deid,

Armed wi' a buik

That I yet haen't reid.

Leuking at aal the nature

I'm hunkering here amang,

An' wonnering why I'm dying

Wi' mi poems syne unsang.

-----
Wee Duncan D.

______________________

"A Most Peculiar Man"

____________________

When I'm in my silent world

There is a song

That I feel I am at one with

And which has inspired my poetry

More than any other song.

It is "A Most Peculiar Man"

By Simon and Garfunkel.

That could have been me

If no one had cared

Back in the 'fifties

When they had wanted to put me

Into a mental institute

Just because I had no empathy

And was autistic.

I could have been the one

With no friends,

And the one

Who seldom spoke

So no one spoke to me

A most peculiar man

In Clowne Town.

"Poor thing" they would have tutted

As I muttered to the post office

To get my allowance.

"He shouldn't be living up there by himself"

They would have said

As I shuffled home singing

"A most peculiar man".

It could have been me

If no one had cared,

But some teachers,

Some social workers,

And some doctors;

Spoke up for me

And kept me sane

If ever down,

If ever among the low

Of a sink-school.

This is for them,

To the ones who cared,

The ones who gave me life

When others wanted

Just to destroy me.

This is to them,

And to empathy

Pouring out of my silent world:

A most peculiar man.

---

Lord Pineapple

____________________

"In the cemetery"

_______________

blowing over

her lowered coffin:

spring blossom.

"she would have loved that"

whispered her son.

---

The Rev. Tobias Trontby

________________________

"Goodbye Old World"

_____________________

"Goodbye old world" the old man cheered

As his grasping children mentally jeered

"You will never get a penny from me,

I'm giving nothing to you three;

And when I've gone how you will grieve

When not a fucking penny shall you receive!

I've given it all to "Children In Need"

They'll deserve it more than thy,

and whilst you rot through your broken greed

Ten thousand children will not die".

---

By the ghost of "Lord Muck"

_____________________

"She's Coming Home"

__________________

And don't you get the feeling

That she's coming home?

I mean after all this time

She's actually coming home?

Her quarter of the planet is dead, for God's sake,

Where else has she to go?

She'll come with some lame excuse,

But you'll welcome her,

I'm sure you will.

She's coming home I tell you!

Hold your wet little-finger to the wind,

And you will feel her there,

Touching you with her gentle light,

And begging for forgiveness.

She's coming home, damn you!

At least tidy up this place, it's a shithole!

She won't want to come back to

Rubbish on the floor!

She's coming home at last,

And here she is now,

Here is her cool white stone upon your face,

Here is her light shining deep into your eyes.

And so you look up at the moon

And you thank her for coming home to you.

---

Lord Pineapple

_____________________

Mummy wrote on my banana

Not to forget to bring

My PE kit home

With "PS I love you!"

I kept the banana skin

Until it went all black

Then I cried.

---

Sophie Lucy Morgan

_____________________

Margaritæ Sorori

_______________

Will they come for your soul my dear,

After all of this time,

Will they come for your soul Margaritæ,

And for your spirit, and rob us all

Of the love you felt for us?

Will they come regretfully,

And with tender touch,

To guide you into heaven,

Until you are all in our past?

Margaritæ Sorori,

Will they come for you at last

And ease your burning memory,

So much that has been lost

With the rotting of your brain?

We loved you so much my dear,

And remember you as you were,

A lady singing daisy-pies,

A mother, a queen, a goddess.

Will they come for you and rob us,

We whom you no longer know,

We who you helped in so many ways,

And gave so much kindness to?

Margaritæ Sorori,

Let us pack away the books that you

No longer understand,

The food you can no longer eat,

The thoughts you no longer have.

Let us pack them all away, and ask

For the angels to give you

As you gave all of us,

Love and heart and happiness,

And a key to your mind.

---

The Rev. Tobias Trontby

______________________

"A Love Greater Than Sex"

________________________

I remember him

calling me

across these white sands

"Marie! Marie! Amour de Marie!"

He cried in our love.

That was before I had lost his child,

and was told that I could have no more.

He first started to hit me

the day I came out of hospital.

I was ill,

and had forgotten the meat in the oven.

Of course, I remember later

that he went into the kitchen twice

for bottles of wine.

He must have smelt the burning

but did not tell me

as I sat there,

folding up the baby clothes

to give to my brother's wife

for their third.

Yet long after he had gone to jail

I used to come here

to the white sands

to where he once loved me

in a love beyond everything

a love greater than sex.

On these sands

where

he said he loved me

and loved the baby

inside of me.

---

Marie St. Denis

_________________

"The Star"

And you are up there with the best,

And you receive your prize and you grin,

You give a speech that offends no one

And thank everyone else for your win.

You bow as you step off the stage

And the cameras flash in style,

As you walk back to your seat

With your five-year old smile.

"Did I do ok Mummy?" you ask

As tears roll down my face

"Of course you did darling, thou were grand,

The best in the place."

"I want to be a star Mummy,

Not the sort that twinkle in the sky

But someone that will make you laugh

And also make you cry."

I put the little soul to bed,

His prize is upon the wall

He will always be my little star

The brightest of them all.

---

Tiffy Witherington.

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SEE A daily blog from The Three-Headed Goliaths' ( Three_Headed_Sarahs ) "School Daze" What's it like to join an infant class as it's only alien pupil. Will contain laughter, surrealism and more than a touch of heartbreaking.

The_Clowne_from_Clown has something up about my first personas.
The Truther

All my life my father

Would lie to me.

He always lied to me,

But it wasn't personal

He'd lie to my mother too.

Having no empathy,

I did not realise;

Nor would I believe

That my father could lie to me.

So I grew up believing

That the liar spoke the truth.

So I don't tell lies,

Not lies that'll hurt anyone,

Not lies that do not belong

Inside somebody's heart.

The son of a liar

Should speak the truth.

And that is no lie.

---

Terry Cuthbert
La Gioconda

She smiles as she begs,

But do not ever

Take that smile wrong.

Some people see her smile as a smerk,

Others as a hidden bliss,

Some thing she had just puffed on a reefer

But they are all wrong,

Her smile is one of hopelessness.

She has sold everything but her body

And that is not for sale

Though it's been taken from her more than once

Against her will.

Once by an arresting policeman.

"People do not come to Paris" someone said

"Just to see you beg."

But that someone did not offer help.

She was given a flat once,

But it was so lonely for her

She missed the sun on the Seine

The voices in her head.

There was a child once,

Her sister is bringing it up,

She has a photo of it somewhere upon her,

and for a few francs she will show you it.

Then her smile will warm her face

And remind you

That she is a real person

Not just shite on the street.

The other day a man gave her several francs

Felt sorry for her it seems,

She took it to a shop to buy some food

The shop-keeper kept the money

And would not feed her.

That night she went back

And smashed the shop window,

Two days later she was floating on the river

With her throat cut.

Somewhere under the bridges

She still sits there smiling,

It's just it's harder to see her

Now that her body has gone.

---

Marie St. Denis

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For those old and mature enough, The_Immortal_Bob_Smartass has a poem up also
Ghost

You always wished for ghosts

Didn't you?

Every time you entered an old building

You yearned for it to be haunted.

When you was young

You ran from room to room

In such old places,

Hoping to be scared

By a chain of rattling mail.

Now I wonder if you are here with me

Trying to be seen,

Hoping I will feel your presence

Each time I look

At the empty chair

Where you once sat

Dreaming of ghosts.

---

Lord Pineapple.

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