*Poor Old John Patrick Robbins.
I’m not sure what he’s done.
When I dropped in at Hello today,
I was very badly stunned.
For I looked high and low,
for the wordsmith’s rambling rants.
A punctuation free zone.
References to spandex pants.
Free the Hello One!
Oh Eliot, hear my cries.
Without that crazy son of a *****
we will lack so many highs.
Tales of madness and mayhem;
poems on self-destruct.
A comedian in a little black hat;
a master of disorderly conduct.
I know he’s learnt his lesson.
I am sure he’d play the game.
A model pupil in class,
poetry being his aim.
On my knees I beg,
to the higher laws above.
Hang on in there Gonzo!
This is one poet,
We surely cannot give up.*
Oct 31, 2010
Oct 31, 2010 at 8:03 AM UTC
*I keep the treasure guarded,
in the fortress of my mind.
Shrouded from on-lookers;
protected from prying eyes.
It is not just an image,
or a photo,
so sublime.
It is a casket full of wonderment;
a jewel of womankind.
It evokes a feeling from me:
Rawness,
un-refined.
And it leads me to a place,
that others would gladly die,
to find.
I am humble in its presence,
and would never question the design,
for the treasure that I hold so dear,
is the thought that you are mine.*
Oct 9, 2010
Oct 9, 2010 at 4:09 AM UTC
*It resembles a snowy mountain range
That white crumpled sheet
Elegant in its simplicity
A Realistic model
Of peaks and valleys
In my admiration
Of this honest
Piece of art
Artistry spawned from life itself
Dexterity by the cosmos
I nearly miss it
The truth
The veracity of the exhibit
The message
I stop
I study
I look deeper
A torrent of understanding
Pours down my soul
The last morsels of dignity
Greedily gobbled up
By my awkward gaze
A piece of art
Lays still on that hospital bed
Alone*
Oct 6, 2010
Oct 6, 2010 at 12:50 PM UTC
*This started dec 2009/ a lifetime ago/ shortly after the titanic sank
And when I first read it I liked it/ hated it/ didn’t get it
But after all this time/ mental torture/ self-indulgence
I can’t help but think/ worry/ be extremely concerned
That you may be slightly shut off/ un-hinged/ locked in a secure unit
How long will this poem haunt me/ entertain me/ **** me off
Will it still be here at christmas 2010/ christmas 2011/ the second coming
And how many times do you tweet this poem/ take your medication/ look at it adoringly
To keep it where it belongs/ as the thorn in my side/ on a poetry list for ever
Did you know that you have no comments/ 2 comments/ 101 comments
And you have replied to all of them/ 1 of them/ none of them
Which could be viewed as bashful/ egotistical/ down right ******* rude
For the sake of me/ the human race/ your psychiatrist
Make it stop please/ pretty please/ pretty ******* please with cherries on
(delete as appropriate, preferably the poem!)*
Aug 31, 2010
Aug 31, 2010 at 11:15 AM UTC
*... so you see, if I hadn't trod in that dog ****
none of this would have happened!*
Aug 30, 2010
Aug 30, 2010 at 9:12 AM UTC
Yes ok, so I had to dress up as a nun!
Me, Jack and Bathsheba in a film about
Spiderman, and dedicated to Chris Smith.
Why?
Not sure really, except Chris likes spiderman I suppose.
Anyway, enjoy.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S6slctF2Ato
Aug 14, 2010
Aug 14, 2010 at 12:01 PM UTC
I fell off this ******* planet a long time ago!
Jul 2, 2010
Jul 2, 2010 at 11:31 AM UTC
*My head swells,
with the words of wisdom,
implanted into my Cerebral Cortex.
Security Level:
Administrator.
The signal:
Never interrupted.
My hair;
my face;
my clothes.
My principal behaviour,
controlled.
My…
Volition;
Desire;
selection…
foretold,
by the scriptures of the box,
and the writings on the wall.
Ipods;
ipads;
mobile phones.
I need a new three piece suite,
so I’ve been told.
My head continues to swell,
to a monumental size,
and I feel my feet lift from the earth,
gently,
so gently…
lifting me to the skies.
As I float with acquiescence surrender,
over the roof tops of consumption,
I gaze at all the shadows;
their cadaverous minds.
Poor souls.
I continue on my journey;
my pilgrimage of enlightenment;
my odyssey of comprehension;
my voyage of realization.
Many miles pass,
and my head declines in size.
I start to lose altitude;
and I debark...
safe,
but with cleansed mind.
The view is humbling,
and as I look down,
I behold a flower.
I sit beside it.
I admire it.
A true example,
of Design.*
Jun 25, 2010
Jun 25, 2010 at 6:01 AM UTC
*Pretentious words of wisdom from Golden Ratio:
There
is
no
'But'
in
'Apology'.*
Jun 25, 2010
Jun 25, 2010 at 2:08 AM UTC
*Sitting in abeyance.
My life on perpetual hold;
the cold air forcing me to hunch up for warmth.
Another cigarette...
I ****** the packet lovingly,
opening and closing the lid,
spinning and revolving the box like a precious stone.
I think about my father.
Memories,
scrambling for admission,
into my hall of fame.
The bad ones,
constantly slashing,
constantly stabbing.
The jagged blade of guilt.
He could be difficult,
but my desperation for acceptance,
made me difficult too.
Tears fighting for freedom,
I shield my face by running my fingers through my hair;
cigarette still in hand.
I return to the ward.
I reflect on my father’s now non cognizant state,
and although disturbing,
I also find it calming and absolute,
for he is safe in the labyrinth of his mind,
and nothing can hurt him.
I hold his hand,
and with a final last gasp of inevitability,
he is gone.
Gone.
As I sit back,
in my plastic chair,
my lugubrious acceptance is numbing.
But there is another feeling;
one that is so refreshing;
so alien;
so…
shiny and clean.
it smashes through my self-induced sedation like a sledge hammer:
Liberation.*
Jun 20, 2010
Jun 20, 2010 at 1:35 AM UTC