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johnny solstice Jun 2019
Eck Ramsay, a retired underwire manufacturer,
bought a boil in the bag cod slice at his local Spar shop.
Upon removal of its cardboard outer garments
he was surprised to find it contained a small book.
The book titled the Plaice of Cod
(a philosophical treatise on theology)
contained many essays on the ancient rites of summer,
several of which were wildly inaccurate
and a few that were accurately wild.
In the appendix there were twenty-three songs
attributed to a medieval troubadour,
who led a travelling medicine show called the Rollwrong Stones.
William Lancaster Blake built himself a chocolate castle
on a hollow hill and sold it to his mate Bill,
a scribbler of worthy words who wrote of the hills and lakes
and how long it takes for the ghosts of soldiers to cross the fells especially when led by centaurs.
Self-proclaimed king, My Other Pen drags on,
took to haranguing passers-by with tales of dancing seals
and Jewish fiddlers who wouldn’t play marriages on the Sabbath, and how the wedding guests always got ******.

Stan Tony and Drew made up the crew
which some say numbered sixty-nine
or seventy-two, but no-one could swear
how many were there especially
on the Whispering Nights……… when nothing seemed right
and the cattle lowed on their knees.
And the slightest breeze on a pewter plate
would vanish the seed that couldn’t be seen,
and dreamers would dream
of jumping through flames
that carried the names
of those who were soon to be dead.

Goats head soup
with yarrow root
was served to the guests …..whose favourite request
was Wort of Sacred Johnny,
they'd dance all night …..till the Isis light
sent the Oak root bones …..scurrying home
to the place where the days are shorter.
When the dew on the grass  …..comes to pass
and the herbs have been nailed to the doorway,
when the heron's been kissed…and all are well dressed
and the False ones only moved slightly
the cuckoos will sing. "a new day I bring"
and the treetops will shake with the dancers
the day is but done and the Knights just begun
to get a little bit longer.
   But stranger than this was the wish of the dish that had it away with the spoon. "hey.. kat play that fiddle"
And riddle me no riddle
I need to get high as the moon….
"which moon?" enquired the hare "Kieth or the very Reverent moon?"
"Oh either will do…. Their just different shoes
to the ones I'm currently wearing"
and with no more ado…… Stan Tony and Drew
the Stones roadie crew
for the next seven years
their horses drank tears
and everyone's fears
were fried up for breakfast
with marmalade toast
two sausage
and beans
eggs over easy
rashers done crispy
a fried slice or two
and a teapot of glue
to ensure it stuck to the belly.

The mushrooms of course enjoyed these proceedings to such an extent that they were inspired to compose poems praising the nights adventures, these were subsequently published in the society pages of the Lost and Found trade journal.
Nis Jun 2018
"Tu ignorancia es un monte de leones, Stanton"
                                                        ­                                       -García Lorca

Juntos para morir,
separados para vivir.

Como un manantial de loros te canto, Stanton
no se quien eres pero nunca nos encontraremos
cual cima de hipopótamos, cual valle de elefantes.

Podría seguir, seguir con mi orografía animal, Stanton.
Sentirme una Lorca envalentonada,
envalentonada como un monte de leones.
Pero no lo soy.

Sólo soy un intento de física,
un intento de poetisa,
un intento de mujer,
un intento de persona.
Un intento.

Reímos juntos aquel día,
aún hoy lloramos separadas.

Y este poema se torna pensamientos no ligados.
nuca lo estuvieron.
Mi ignorancia siempre fue un monte de leones.
Y mis pensamientos se tornan contra mí una vez más.

Contra mi cuerpo: mi archienemigo,
tantas veces te he escrito para herirte,
tantas veces te he herido para herirte.
Mi odio hacia ti es una riada de cuervos.

Contra mi mente: falsa amiga,
tantas veces te he usado para servirme
tantas veces me has herido al servirme.
Mi rencor hacia ti es un acantilado de ratas.

Y sí, este poema es una excusa para alabar el citado verso,
pero entre verso y verso se cuela mi odio,
cual filtro de lemures, cual escurridero de serpientes.
Mi odio por todo, mi odio por nada.

Y aquí termina mi canto, diciéndote una vez más, Stanton.
Tu ignorancia es un monte de leones.


                                   "Your ignorance is a mountain of lions, Stanton"
                                                        ­                                       -García Lorca

Together dying,
apart living.

Like a spring of parrots I sing to you, Stanton
I don't know who you are but we'll never meet
like peak of hippopotamus, like valley of elephants.

I could continue, continue with my animal orography, Stanton.
Feeling myself an encouraged Lorca,
encouraged like a mountain of lions.
But I'm not one.

I'm only an attempt of a physic,
an attempt of a poet,
an attempt of a woman,
an attempt of a person.
An attempt.

We laughed together that day,
even today we cry alone.

This poem turns itself thoughts not linked.
They never were.
My ignorance has always been a mountain of lions.
And my thoughts turn against me once again.

Against my body: my archenemy,
so many times I have written to harm you,
so many times I have harmed you tu harm you.
My hatred towards you is a stream of raven.

Against my mind: false friend,
so many times I have used you to serve me,
so many times you have harmed you to serve me.
Mi resentment towards you is a cliff of rats.

And yes, this poem is an excuse tu praise the mentioned verse,
but between verse and verse my hatred creeps in,
like filter of lemures, like sink of snakes.
My hatred towards everything, my hatred towards nothing.

And here my singing ends, telling you once again, Stanton.
Your ignorance is a mountain of lions.
Más que un poema, pensamientos poco relacionados inspirados por el verso de Lorca en "Poeta en New York"
More than a poem, thoughts with little connection inspired by the verse from "Pote in New York" by Lorca

— The End —