Dec 2015
and i smiled into my father’s face and eyes
when i wrote this, and he set off to work
and i set off to bed to sleep off
having fed the hangover to appear by noon of what i thought
to be the next day... :)
indeed i did feel lazy being a poet and not being a
journalist. and i know the dead poets' society
still lives on! it still lives on! even though he was an actor,
the dead poets' society still lives on!
but i still have my father's strength at 6am as a roofer
than the weakness of a poet at 6am in wish to be
a roofer - most of the agonies of man are explained by the strenghts / “apathies” of animals... who share none of our sensible inquests of the new arrival proclaimed as lord of mannor but the corner stone / messiah of our turnip pyramid constructed by eager termites... we have none of such composure between mammal and lizard... we then in pretence rule animal with man’s fake prosthetic heart as heart of hierarchy and as above? when with as an above no above we dare believe in, surely?! of what heart does serve and of what heart could serve, only the sensual it does, serve, and no other in the realm of the heart’s intent to think exchange heart for mind and allow mind the feeling enclosure of not thinking. what then? i mind my poetry is weakened such and such takes of what could never be mistook: but you know how a masculine profession was mistook for a feminine one? it only took a mother and a builder to say they differed: the builder’s mother said the hammer in sense, while the mother’s sunday am simply said, the nails frequent the builder’s hammer less than my son’s tears my husband’s eyes, even thought that thety do.... as i too wish robin williams was my english teacher... but... really... wasn’t #hatealcoholicsmuk -
but then i heard soulfly's tribe:
your tribe our tribe!
your life our life!
your god our god!
your tribe our tribe!
amazon mea culpa mea crux mea ego!*
it’s a shame most of our lives are lived only to anticipate
a said impromptu:
mr. johnny mayfair..
king’s cross the doors are parting
hence you depart;
and so much of life was,
missing the mongol tribe
that would have replaced flatmoor st.
and would have done so with a good intention
and a happy face of he who was a member of...
the mongol tribe... rather than the boredom of
flatmoor st. making it worth a wrinkle to age to 80
and only remember life as having played chess.
when i wrote this, and he set off to work
and i set off to bed to sleep off
having fed the hangover to appear by noon of what i thought
to be the next day... :)
indeed i did feel lazy being a poet and not being a
journalist. and i know the dead poets' society
still lives on! it still lives on! even though he was an actor,
the dead poets' society still lives on!
but i still have my father's strength at 6am as a roofer
than the weakness of a poet at 6am in wish to be
a roofer - most of the agonies of man are explained by the strenghts / “apathies” of animals... who share none of our sensible inquests of the new arrival proclaimed as lord of mannor but the corner stone / messiah of our turnip pyramid constructed by eager termites... we have none of such composure between mammal and lizard... we then in pretence rule animal with man’s fake prosthetic heart as heart of hierarchy and as above? when with as an above no above we dare believe in, surely?! of what heart does serve and of what heart could serve, only the sensual it does, serve, and no other in the realm of the heart’s intent to think exchange heart for mind and allow mind the feeling enclosure of not thinking. what then? i mind my poetry is weakened such and such takes of what could never be mistook: but you know how a masculine profession was mistook for a feminine one? it only took a mother and a builder to say they differed: the builder’s mother said the hammer in sense, while the mother’s sunday am simply said, the nails frequent the builder’s hammer less than my son’s tears my husband’s eyes, even thought that thety do.... as i too wish robin williams was my english teacher... but... really... wasn’t #hatealcoholicsmuk -
but then i heard soulfly's tribe:
your tribe our tribe!
your life our life!
your god our god!
your tribe our tribe!
amazon mea culpa mea crux mea ego!*
it’s a shame most of our lives are lived only to anticipate
a said impromptu:
mr. johnny mayfair..
king’s cross the doors are parting
hence you depart;
and so much of life was,
missing the mongol tribe
that would have replaced flatmoor st.
and would have done so with a good intention
and a happy face of he who was a member of...
the mongol tribe... rather than the boredom of
flatmoor st. making it worth a wrinkle to age to 80
and only remember life as having played chess.
