Is it Paul Shelly?
Ozmandias was some boy all the say, he would have been unbeatable on the INTERNET.
"The Winter Commute"
by Iron Moth (2015)
Driving sheets of freezing rain come sideways yet again;
December and its short, dark days - winter you cruel bitch.
Enough of desks and hiding behind printers
Clutch my coat and run to the station
Cars splashing water, rotten leaves stuck to the pavement
Force me to run like a freak, leaping left, slipping right.
The train - it truly disgusts me. What a collection of cunts.
I know one person - my neighbour. A prick.
I’d rather site beside the tramp. At least he’d be genuine.
“Is that seat taken?” Yes - I’m keeping it for Henry Kissinger.
He also travels to Port Laoise, don’t you know.
Jesus - that tramp is very smelly. Possibly dog shit, poor guy.
Looking out the window, at nothing but reflected faces of passengers.
Glum, buried in laptops, phones and avoiding conversation.
The relief when I get to the car. It feels like an escape,
As I start the engine and blast the air to de-mist.
The smell of dog shit starts to waft - I look down, slowly, in anticipation.
It wasn’t leaves I skidded on. Who’s the smelly tramp now?
“The truth is like poetry. And most people fucking hate poetry.”
Overheard in a Washington D.C. bar by Michael Lewis, author of The Big Short
yer man @ball ox was a smashing poet back in the day
Conversation with Jeanne
by Czeslaw Milosz
Let us not talk philosophy, drop it, Jeanne.
So many words, so much paper, who can stand it.
I told you the truth about my distancing myself.
I’ve stopped worrying about my misshapen life.
It was no better and no worse than the usual human tragedies.
For over thirty years we have been waging our dispute
As we do now, on the island under the skies of the tropics.
We flee a downpour, in an instant the bright sun again,
And I grow dumb, dazzled by the emerald essence of the leaves.
We submerge in foam at the line of the surf,
We swim far, to where the horizon is a tangle of banana bush,
With little windmills of palms.
And I am under accusation: That I am not up to my oeuvre,
That I do not demand enough from myself,
As I could have learned from Karl Jaspers,
That my scorn for the opinions of this age grows slack.
I roll on a wave and look at white clouds.
You are right, Jeanne, I don’t know how to care about the salvation of my soul.
Some are called, others manage as well as they can.
I accept it, what has befallen me is just.
I don’t pretend to the dignity of a wise old age.
Untranslatable into words, I chose my home in what is now,
In things of this world, which exist and, for that reason, delight us:
Nakedness of women on the beach, coppery cones of their breasts,
Hibiscus, alamanda, a red lily, devouring
With my eyes, lips, tongue, the guava juice, the juice of la prune de Cythère,
Rum with ice and syrup, lianas-orchids
In a rain forest, where trees stand on the stilts of their roots.
Death, you say, mine and yours, closer and closer,
We suffered and this poor earth was not enough.
The purple-black earth of vegetable gardens
Will be here, either looked at or not.
The sea, as today, will breathe from its depths.
Growing small, I disappear in the immense, more and more free.
That doesn’t rhyme. Fuck off with yourself.
I think oul’ Jeanne should run as far away from that gobshite as possible, the poor girl.
Incy wincy spider
Climbed up the water spout.
Down came the rain
And washed poor Incy out.
Up came the sun
And dried up all the rain.
And Incy Wincy spider
Climbed up the spout again.
Out came the sun, Rod. Not up. The poem isn’t about daybreak, it’s about a shower of rain.
Roses are red
Violets are blue.
HBV is a big stupid fucking cunt.
Here you go. These boys have an album of yeats set to music
Liamo does 1916 well…even sitting beside that lickspittle Geldoff… I missed the show, was it any good?
What do you think yourself Choco? Any show involving/featuring that cunt Geldof is to be avoided.
You ought to know that by now.
Depends on the neighbours