To – And For – The Greats …

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Tired – but sleep evades me tonight

Even though my body flip-flops

At every thought of movement

Flaked bones – my own – surrender; well

Before they receive mental commands

Sinews, aching activity’s

Deterrent, refuse point-blank – resign

Their instinctual call to motion

 

Carried beyond rested-lock-down

Exhaustion completes its cycle

Of denial – in detriment

Toward my wilful intention

And: ready to commune – in heart

Elements of yore, long foretold

Gems sighted entrenched amongst those songs

Written by bards, once called minstrels

 

There’s so much, and yet to be found

Umpteen visions we must see dear

Life, if you should only hold and

Mollycoddle me – in such ways

That my mind would , simply, walk ‘mongst

Those truly greats – yes!  Like Jesus

Find time to talk with those greater

Greats long gone by, who made that walk

Didst actually fly beyond

Realms of time’s make-believe that thought

Brings alive – and every day

Conceive in reams of truth, much more

Than which meek souls adore in

Hallowed sounds unrealized before

But after hapless, scribbling youth …

Foucault’s Premonition …

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We must align political

Economic and social confines

To allow recognition, of

Postmodernity’s speculative

Arena and our effusive

Non-binding acclimatization

It’s not difficult to recognize

This Postmodern condition and its

Effectual technology

Systematically changing lives

 

Miniaturised pocket vessel-

Cum-digital signal converters

Designed to irreversibly

Alter stagnant futures, reversing

Deficits, lost to time-motion

Synthesized relativity

Blow maladjusted realities

Somewhat contradicting The Real

Hotter than petroleum-drizzled

Flames, licking mattresses piled atop

Wooden bedframes; desires burn

Inside palpitating breastplates

 

Weighted down balloons – in turn – jostle

Like rippling inverted body-quakes

Balanced -rigidly symmetrical

With wobbly bumpers, sliding

Up and down, swaying side-to-side

Liquid streams spout stinging, acidic

Feathery, powdered airwave-mist

Rapidly bouncing around social

Media platforms – spread worldwide

Hyped-up, high, on neon frontiers

 

Truth broke honest similarity

Absolutely – digging deep graves

Fostered behind deceptive screens

Beholden to benign keyboard

Abused, as dishonest couriers

 

Body Beautiful …

 

Look!  Because I’m watching you hard

Coca cola bottled-shaped, well nice

Beautiful!  And food for any yard

Shapely body, built to entice

Everything fit and proper – Kriss!

Perfectly formed bouncing titty

And bumper – full one-hundred, sheer bliss

Ultimate dream, and; me want some gritty

 

My mind’s tied-up in bondage-sphere

Crushed like ice, and made to wither

Obscene vision bristling clear

Illumined silhouette – yes!  Consider

Bent-over-forwards, legs apart – splayed

Back-shot position – yes!  I want

A piece – of your glistening swathe’s

Moistened dribble making me pant

 

 

When Sentiments speak reality …..

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“…You are a doctor to many, but an angel you have been to me who encouraged, cared, and healed my pain, and a light you made me see. I am sad that you are no longer my doc but am glad that you are my friend. And I hope we can keep in touch until the very end…”

via A Lunch with a Gift. — Musings of PuppyDoc

Brokeback Intention …..

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So much depends on intimate

Obfuscation – little to do

About actual concern with

Personal welfare, or intent

Affiliated to what is

Right – oftentimes described as red mist

More-so, when clouded vision-fused

Anxiety becomes acute

 

There is deep insincerity

Casually lurking, below

Psychic indifference much too

Adept at deceiving others

Like errant personality’s

Hidden psychotic episodes

Brought into play, when frayed tempers

Decide to come, to the party

 

Though, purposely, not invited

Because – obviously – based on past

Behaviour, anger is far

From ideal company during

Leisure time, or relaxation

Amongst happy-go-lucky friends

Especially, when enjoying

Social bouts, drinking and dancing

 

It’s hard getting comfortable

Everyone feels edgy – soon as

belligerence enters and starts

Alcohol-laced conversation

Terse and abrupt – situations

Sink to unmanageable, then

Tension becomes unbearable

People secretly begin leaving

 

Exasperation looks over

Stooped shoulders in disappointment

As they trundle through exit doors

Fully convinced, a: good outing

Has been irreparably spoiled

By insipid, usual suspects

Who invariably gate-crash

What would, otherwise, have been good times …..

 

 

Buying Into Purgatory ….

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Nightmarish existence, living

Psychotic subsistence – cloaked in

Surreptitious surrounds, hell’s drug-abused

Clowns and sucking every penny

Out of food for children’s bellies

Sickness un-minded: lost, undecided

Anything for a stone, and those

Dirty dogs cajole – control: fillies

Suck bone – on a roll, as their dwindling

Bag is sold, to Daddies of the

Arena – who only smoke grade

Sensimillia; money thrives

Satyrs wilfully waste sad lives

 

See addicts trapped in traumatic

Cul-de-sacs , without ways or means

How, to secure adequate escape

Huddled under dark, covered night

As artificial, as curtains tight

Locked in perpetual, miasmic

Crack-lairs – sweaty, freebase trap-house dens

Demons at home – in place – their cocooned

Space, betrothed to a breed of fiends

Single-mindedly intentioned

Attuned to pipe, and survival

 

Sardines with crackers, late midnight

Hours – hunger’s bitches cling on

Syringed wrists sport scabby pus-holes

Tightly twist – eyes blurred, run water

Clouded acetylene mist; wet

Sodden, rouge cheeks glint reflected

Beams – surreal streaks redeem – jetting

Milky streams and absolutely

Devastated, burdened self-neglect

 

Wasted lives under psychotic drives

Intestinal twitches grip rolling

Bilious bellies, convulsing

Rapidly retching spasms, spurting

Slimy, sluiced, dribbling saliva

Mouth-corners unconsciously leak spit

Battered lips betray filthy habits

Aligned cash vessels – ruled by devils

Under Crack-cocaine spell, living hell

Minions of far distant drug cartels …

 

Poetry Walk …..

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Used to ramble, bus-ing areas

Personally considered remote

Expanses – usually plush, lush

Blanketed green crowned with tall trees

And, the obligatory bodied

Water hopefully, bears wildlife

Socially convenient deemed

Also, highly appropriate

 

Woods, almost annexed to parkland

Added independence, which helps

Enthuse isolated solitude

Quirky-feeling self-confidence

Quietly exhibits control

Squirrels hide – play one-sided games

Quickly disappear, when acute

Interest stops all movement and

As a flash, soon gone – far distant

Fixed stares survey home territory

 

In dense, solitary, vacuum-filled

Nothing-laced silence, I would write

Without thinking, and my flow is

Incredible – Poesy unleashed ….

Furiously painting image

Speckled emotional outbursts

Slyly goading invisible eyes

Through sexily promiscuous doors

Tabooed since childhood – all the more

Accessible, now; zip lazily

Slides over heaving, slippery mounds

Made so much, more difficult when

Frantic – deep breaths suck, rise and fall

Swollen, hard – adrenaline coursed blood

 

 

 

From: ‘To the Po.  June, 2nd. 1819 ….’

… What if thy deep and ample stream should be

A mirror of my heart, where she may read

The thousand thoughts I now betray to thee

Wild as thy wave and headlong as thy speed?

What do I say?  ‘a mirror of my heart’?

Are not thy waters sweeping, dark, and strong,

Such as my feelings were and are, thou art,

And such as thou art were my passions long

Time may have somewhat tamed them, not forever

Thou overflow’st thy banks, and not for aye

The bosom overboils, congenial River!

Thy floods subside, and mine have sunk away

But left long wrecks behind us, yet again

Borne on our old career unchanged we move;

Thou to tendest wildly to the wilder main

And I to loving one I should not love

The current I hold will sweep beneath

Her palace walls, and murmur at her feet,

Her eyes will look on thee, when she shall breathe

The twilight air unchained from Summer’s heat

By: George Gordon: Lord Byron

 

When I Met Ursula …..

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So hear how I start this thing now

Never easy to converse freestyle

Like Spirit, sweetest word just flow

And brings home forgotten exile …

 

Made a second visit to Arvon

Personal throes – in sonnet writing

At work, on: ‘Your Sonnet’ and my one

Tipped the verge – when they got exciting

Second day in I’m well, and truly

Stuck – met her at lunch, and explained

“I’ll have a nap – then come and see me.”

I had to run because it rained

 

Her billet was flowery, and fresh

had tea, she said – I remember

‘We mustn’t forget our crèche.’

And she quickly fixed them – together

We had a farsighted talk about

Poetry, ‘child in delivery,’

Even though, words from her mouth

Found myself talking to Poesy

 

She actually moved or arranged

At most, two words in each sonnet

Ultimately, it seemed so strange, a

Perpetual bee in my bonnet

… when I was leaving – on my way

back to the main building where we

Shared rooms – I thanked and heard her say

‘Ursula Fanthorpe ……..   lovely poetry

 

Arvon ’97 …..

I remember it so clearly now, she was such an accommodating elderly lady, my sonnets: ‘Your Sonnet’ and ‘My Sonnet’ were almost finished but there were unexplained instances of interrupted flow.  The way that blessed lady fixed them, and explained whilst doing so, was like the opening of a heavily vaulted door.  Her name pops up – on television, in poetry articles and magazines – even on radio, poetry programmes, …. and I always remember the invaluable experience I received, and gained, when I met Ursula Fanthorpe, The Poet ……

 

Walking walks …..

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Yes!  And we search out those wily tracks

Of famed heroes surviving thus far

Sold – into night wallpapered black

When tattooed ceilings twinkle bright stars

Lamenting tales of earthly sojourn

Stardust intricately linked to veins

Must!  satisfy celestial turn

Unperturbed by universal strain

Sing!  Soft, soothing, sweet success songs

Balanced, and sounding very strong

 

This is a cantankerous road

Can’t Be – are you – sure you’re on it

Might even – suddenly – explode

Heavy workload, always explicit

The original cornerstones

Are still undeniably here

Alliterative concern condones

Seminal quality-based sphere

Glued – assonance yields rhythmic syntax

Yes!  And we search out those wily tracks

 

So we have singers’ songs across

Poe’s vocal arena, simply

Hypno-lyrical boss controls

Have you seen her?  Somewhat, neatly

Make m’a name at the micro-spot

Have the most cl’aat!  And fling it ‘pon

Attack – remember!  ‘Chat It Well Hot,’

Blaze!  And fire wickedest shot

Topical M.C. – Come!  Fill the gap

Soun’bwoy tongue – spitting live fizz – strapped!

 

 

 

Nemesis: ….. By, George Gordon – Lord Byron….

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Nemesis …..

 

Shadow! Or Spirit

Whatever thou art,

Which still doth, inherit

The whole or part

Of the form of thy birth,

Of the mould of thy clay,

Which returned to the earth

Re-appear to the day!

Bear what thou borest

The heart and the form

And the aspect thou worest

Redeem from the worm

Appear! — Appear! —! Appear!

Who sent thee there requires thee here!

 

Byron wrote this as a connected, and centrifugal force intrinsically linked to his epic, Manfred.  Yet, taken from its original body of work … It can be seen, that ‘Nemesis’ is a perfected entity in its own right, and confidently stands alone as an artistic peace of beauty.  Of course, Byron wrote that way in order to make it so.  Those Romantics were wily, ingenious characters who wrote – incessantly – with one eye focussed on the future and, more importantly to them, future posterity.  Byron was very much unlike his contemporaries, in that he slung his gems far and wide, and didn’t so much as track, or check but just waited….. he had ultimate highs and lows, when money was frivolously plentiful and squandered as quickly, and when money was invariably tight, and he ran around squeezing those ‘well-offs’ who were near and dear to him, because, from a young age, his besotted mother doted and doled on him, to such an extent that he became accustomed to having his own way – a spoilt child…… Even down to the horrendous operations she engendered, to try and bludgeon and squeeze the clubbed foot right.  That he was a brilliant, genius of a poet – though challenged – was never in critical doubt, not after ‘English Bards and Scotch Reviewers’ which was, in actual fact, a debilitating reversal…… Spurring him on to immerse ‘Childe Harolde’ after which he exclaimed, ‘I woke up famous ….’

Representations of monarchy …

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That shooting star flying through night, with a fiery tail showering pure light. Stemming flows of astral plains, easing quietly into view. Staining shadows with starlight grains; teasing slightly, daylight’s crew. Pouring scorn on divined horoscopes, challenging every-all and sundry: magic, witchcraft, have no hope! Prepared, waiting for incendiary. Set your stall and make your play; Word, in judgment, seats each blessed day. HY.

via New Historicism: reviewing Shakespeare: — bafl ‘s arena

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