Poetry #too.

I haven't posted any work here for a while, so here's a taster of what I've been up to. These are all poems written to be left on people's myspace pages. The last one was written for the Residents.


Some Things

1. A cat-flap: Fashioned from hair and ham.
2. A hat-flap: Fashioned from tripe and gunk.
3. A bat-flap: Fashioned from bells and oil.
4. A sausage.
5. A sausage.
6. A sausage.
7. A sausage.
8. A mat-flap: Fashioned from chunks and slunky.
9. A vat-flap: Fashioned from scritt and lips.
10. A gnat-flap: Fashioned from Bill and Mike.
11. A spat-flap: Fashioned from arms and koi.
12. A Yugoslavia.
13. A Tom Lehrer.
14. A concertina.
15. A loaf of God.
16. A sausage.
17. A sausage.
18. A cat-flap: Fashioned from previous flaps.



Well, I say Aubergine but I might mean Something Else

Nipple sent it upwards,
Nipple’s a mistake.
Nipple sings for television.
Nipple is a lake.

Aubergine is Canada.
Canada’s in France.
Aubergine is angry now,
And does a tiny dance.

Whatever It Was a Minute Ago It Isn't Now
A spluttering tribute to Ludd, mess and the fear of ear-fancies.


So yer:
Spittin’ all them wet-chinned ear-fancies through a plastic trumpet (honk thruntle yourself, Jeff),
an’
Lickin’ all them walnuts up from the inside only to be shrugged off (honk thruntle the wife n’ all),
an’
Flittin’ all them picture-pointed malapropisms for sport an’ God an’ ham (honk thruntle a cat if it comes to it).

Know what your problem is?
Yer a second-rate barrow-brained spatula carcass, Jeff, and I don’t care who knows it. Not even the wife.
Yer feet are stuck sideways in yer titillated storage jar of slapdash familiarity frogs and the only person dim enough to notice is me and a passing hand-bogus Dudley platoon (and they’re mostly in it for dirty prints and the occasional half-curtained sub-general chipolata).

Hat hat, you see what that, eh? String that in a nest of newsreaders and yer asking for trouble (let alone a new suit).

Yet yer:
Stickin’ all them leg-cornered ear-fancies off through a plastic strumpet (honk thruntle till it bursts, Jeff, honk thruntle all the way to the bank you f**ker),
an’
Flippin’ all them spill-bellied quail extractors hugely only to be slugged off (honk thruntle with a bleedin’ kettle on yer face, THAT’S IT, LAUGH WHY DON’T YER?)
an'
Grittin’ all them nightly carrotine bilge-diffusers for thought an’ cod an’ ham (honk thruntle like a right f**kin’ spool of cress, Jeff, that’s the way to do it).

Know what your problem is?
Yer sinkin’ in a crate of creamy head-wash an’ my crank’s not gonna ‘elp yer when yer moon’s all dangled.
Yer dallyin’ with gravy spokes and only a bouncin’ syphilis’d do that.

Hat hat, ya see what that, eh?  Yer dead, ya f**kin’ cardboard dingo.


Gizzus a hug.
(Ya t**t.)



Bungee Brick

Bungee brick is wet for tick and thirst it burst and spooned in minor.
Socking sick, his only trick when worst it cursed and crooned angina.
Lally lally understated all that was particularly.
Bally bally dislocated all that was a neck.
(Off).

Bilge

Sucked like a Pope hump ninety nightly quite severely under-par in a keg protractor under-par in a leg.
f**ked like a soap pump ninety nightly quite severely under-par in a dreg extractor under-par in a leg.

I wash my feet in a glass of Lucozade.
I wash my face in a paper cone of squash.
I wash my feet in a tub of formic acid.
I wash my face in a paper cone of squash.

f**ked like a hope jump ninety nightly quite severely under-par in a dreg protractor under-par in a leg.
Sucked like a rope thump ninety nightly quite serverely under-par in a keg extractor under-par in a leg.


Teaching Your Grandmother To Pluck Eggs

Lily spit to zimmer nicely:
Harold musn’t know.
Lemual touch inside a fruit,
(expecting it to grow).

Tit.

Trust me, I shall. I have no "off" switch.

Imagined Ocean of Golden Waves

Ode to Charles Fourier

I slit a sheet
A sheet I slit
Upon that slitted sheet I sit

That was a famous poem I learned in Grade 8. Now try saying it really fast.

asuma wrote: Haha, I like it.

    
If you were refering to my poem, which I think you were, you must then know who Fourier was. He was an impractical fruitcake.

Death. It will get us all.

The End.

"Without Seafood
i'm like Fish
without water"

Here are lyrics from a song I wrote back in the mid-80s

F.O.S (Failure of Success)

Rhythms in the night
Its the pulse of the dark
Nocturnal dreams
Make a live, distinctive bark
Between the sharpened sounds
There's a hum which never ends
Listen, there's a message in the pattern
That it sends.

Living one life
Just for monetary gains.
Ignoring the clock
And feeling all the pain
Prizes of glory
Ferrari in the drive
Working all night
Forget 9 to 5.

Where's your life?
Don't you see it passing by?
You never even heard
Your own child's cry.
So maybe when you're grasping
For your last breath.
At such an early age
You realized your death.

Edited by Rust - November 09 2006 at 03:20