"anglican" poems
The professions of our leaders are paraded across longitudinal and latitudinal vistas. However, I have to ask: Whatever happened to the possession of that which is professed in our contemporary shell of delusion?
A princess may depart from her Celtic docks in order to sail back to her Anglican roots; and the fabric of high society may display an appealing veneer which covers explicit nakedness in the name of mass psychology.
So, my articulate propagate of conformity, I urge you to don the profound tuxedo at your avoidant desire. But please do not seek for me to enter into the denial of our core identity.
For those who are willing to rock this boat of ludicrous salesmanship, I raise my glass to testicular rectitude which transcends gender stereotypes.
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 9:55 PM UTC
It dons a hat of seeming sophistication, in the manner of a Boston gangster where cross-cultural expressions gather at Gaelic mouse-traps of East Coast dominance.
It is a heritage, my friend.
There is sophistication around Italian restaurants, and I have no regrets. Yet, I must say, that I have experienced minimal fun amidst this political Anglican black-comedy where integrity is often confused with connected colours of red, white and blue, and the colours of green white and gold.
This is a picture of illegitimate power, where brethren gnash their intellectual mandibles and covet recognition at the price of their very soul.
Delusional quests for superiority remind me of downward spiralling staircases with blazing torches, where the echoes of scorching souls can be heard to resound throughout professional circles.
As I carry this blazing torch through spiritual levels of command, I ask the question: whatever happened to humanity?
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 10:23 PM UTC
Carrickfergus (1937) - poem by Louis Macneice.
I was born in Belfast between the mountain and the gantries
To the hooting of lost sirens and the clang of trams;
Thence to Smoky Carrick in County Antrim
Where the bottle-neck harbour collects the mud which jams
The little boats beneath the Norman castle,
The pier shining with lumps of crystal salt;
The Scotch quarter was a line of residential houses
But the Irish quarter was a slum for the blind and halt.
The brook ran yellow from the factory stinking of chlorine,
The yarn mill called it's funeral cry at noon;
Our lights looked over the lough to the lights of Bangor
Under the peacock aura of a drowning moon.
The Norman walled this town against the country
To stop his ears to the yelping of his slave
And built a church in the form of a cross but denoting
The list of Christ on the cross in the angle of the nave.
I was the rectors son, born to the Anglican order,
Banned for ever from the candles of the Irish poor;
The Chichesters knelt in marble at the end of a transept
With ruffs about their necks, their portion sure.
The war came and a huge camp of soldiers
Grew from the ground in sight of our house with long
Dummies hanging from gibbets for bayonet practice
And the sentry's challenge echoing all day long;
A Yorkshire terrier ran in and out by the gate-lodge
Barred to civilians, yapping as if taking affront;
Marching at ease and singing 'Who Killed **** Robin?'
The troops went out by the lodge and off to the Front.
The steamer was camouflaged that took me to England-
Sweat and khaki in the Carlisle train;
I thought that the war would last for ever and sugar
be always rationed and that never again
Would the weekly papers not have photos of sandbags
And my governess not make bandages from moss
And people not have maps above the fireplace
With flags on pins moving across and across-
Across the hawthorn hedge the noise of bugles,
Flares across the night,
Somewhere on the lough was a prison ship for Germans,
A cage across their sight.
I went to school in Dorset, the world of parents
Contracted into a puppet world of sons
Far from the mill girls, the smell of porter, the salt-mines
And the soldiers with their guns.
Louis Macneice
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 8:54 AM UTC
Satanic anthems are bold, as they carry their message across undefined boundaries where infinity spreads her wanton features across the generations of history.
Boston reminds me of my historical roots, where Anglican tragedy submits her fornications in submissive rebellion.
With this in mind, let us use our fallible wills to travel together, across astral vistas where timeless plantations of hallucinogenic acceptance join hands around the mistress of the dark and her tantalising secretions.
Can we please communicate into the depths of the dawn in our debaucheries?
Feel the rhythm of unspeakable energies, as the pulse ripples through your eternal lusts.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 12:33 AM UTC
Once, a young fresher was reading the rules, and was more than perplexed at the place where they state
"All undergraduates, if they are Anglicans, must be in chapel each Sunday at eight."
Wracking his brains, he began a small rumour that spread through the town on the weekdays that followed; he
was not an Anglican, nor Nonconformist; his faith and religion was mere Heliolatry.
Saturday evening, our hero retired with a smile on his face and his bin at his door,
only to wake to a thunderous hammering, made by the porter, next morning at four.
Ah, how a little lie, told with great frequency, gains repercussions that no-one expects!
"Dawn's almost here, sir, the Chaplain expects you; go down to Main Court and you'll pay your respects."
Jun 21, 2010
Jun 21, 2010 at 9:24 AM UTC
Anglican death drips her intoxicating pronouncements around the squares, whilst obscure gossip prevails in the forests of Massachusetts.
Give me some bread whilst I stir this cauldron of distorted communications.
Will you please explore my future epitaph, and guard against the myriads of undertakers who seek to raise the chalice of dark and oratory expression?
Let us travel together, as we have already channelled the wisdom of the ages.
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 2:58 PM UTC
she brings him tea,
a piece of cheese late morn
for he has been toiling since dawn
his plane shaving the wood reverently
the old oak speaking, though not complaining,
in a language the man does not understand
a coughing code for loss, forbearance, acceptance,
redemption, he hopes, for the boys keep coming…
first from Ypres, the Verdun,
now the Marne
before, he heaved hewn planks
for the hopeful homes, built their pantries
to be filled with the bread, the kind milk
now the sawn boards are for those who once
watched his labors, but no longer hear the simple
sounds of sanding, sawing
or anything at all
most of the lads do not come home,
their souls and bodies left to rot on the blood sullied grass
or buried shallow, naked in the French soil, but all get a fine coffin
thanks to the carpenter’s wife, whose babe was the first to fall,
who demands for them all, a holy horizontal home to be built
and, empty or not, placed gently in Anglican ground
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 2:30 PM UTC
I am Sarah Malcolm -
yes, the one they call the Irish Laundress
and the jury found me guilty of the murders
(the Infamous Murderess)
of Mrs Lydia Duncomb,
Mrs Harrison and the servant Ann Price
in Mrs Lydia’s chamber
at the Inns of Court in the Temple;
and the jury only needed 15 minutes
and there was disbelief when I admitted to robbery
but not ******
and there was disgust
when I said the blood on my clothing was my own menstrual blood
and not the blood of Ann Price:
I had broken a taboo in talking of menstrual blood
for, as they say,
only loose and the not so virtuous women speak that way
and of course even after the judgement
I have been deemed even more guilty
for I am of a different Communion
of the Catholic faith, not Anglican -
just as the Ordinary, James Guthrie described me
in instructing me here at Newgate on the Christian faith;
and I have earned the name now of many
as the evil, barbaric, and stubborn woman
And now Mr Hogarth sketches and paints
that you might have a view of me;
and the appointed date is 7 March 1733
when I will be executed...
and these lines I add to the picture
that you might remember me
Jan 28, 2012
Jan 28, 2012 at 5:29 AM UTC
Can you hear the wheels of the carriage, as they hasten along the stony tracks of Anglican countryside?
Oh, deviant highwaymen, you are concealed by damp foliage, and I have not yet reduced the heat.
I fully appreciate those discussions where connection to other realms freely occurs without inhibition.
Oh protector of the commonwealth, I long for your parliamentary executions.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 11:21 PM UTC
Philanthropic gesticulations are an evident dismissal of Anglican legends.
In this Northern hemisphere, we are unified on the verge of an axial tilt, whilst equestrian ladies in jodhpurs of champagne delicacy seek profanities beyond the confines of social respectability.
Let us sit under the wise branches of the oak tree in nocturnal dimensions of Newtonian questionability, and broaden our horizons as we contemplate our ancestors.
Listen to the bubbling brook as she whispers timeless stories of enchantment.
Oh, bearer of liberated pain, I resent fox-hunting.
The rooster always crows at dawn.
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 10:35 PM UTC
i'll let you on a little secret... spaniards are gigolos to the slavs... cheap-shit, chinese rolex beauties, which is why the english are prone to vacate there: oiling up to get a quicker suntan than an essex lass turning orange-brown in the space of a weekend's session at a u.v. parlour.
westerners define western slav as cleaner material,
if not simply the plumbers and electricians,
got a blocked toilet? get a pole
to unblock it. but you see... the thing is...
the slavs see the spaniards as
euro-trash... cheap-shit-cancerous-suntan...
spaniards are cheap **** to the slavs...
western european nations (excluding
the germans) invokes a sense of self-worth
that, like a tapeworm feeds of the slavs migrating
without colonising... when the western
powers migrated and colonised,
never really preparing themselves for jihadis,
st. john the decapitating tyrant spoke to st. george's
dragon with a cockney accent:
oi bruv bruv up up mate! score us an eight's worth
of 20 quid!
so while the high tier of europe speaking deutsche anglican
rather than deutsche swiss keep time and
penny flip: carnal heterosexual or just plain ****
the slavs mock the same tier with a choice
of holiday resorts exploited... next to the fake suntan...
because spaniards are like albanians for the slavs...
oiled up cheap-shit material for even cheaper literature
of the handsome, blue eyed, dark haired (well oiled)
stranger... selling pomegranates... that a fair maiden
might succumb to... selling her virginity the fiftieth time.
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 12:25 PM UTC
/ you sure that there's an actual vinyl
revival?
it's stirr-frying my testicles
back in england
and vinyl is on the comeback?!
**** yeah!
i tried interpreting an ancient egyptian
concept of a fanning / ***** police
for days on end...
newspaper? no...
saturday nespaper magazine?
no...
c.d.?!
no...
impromptu napkin
"loophole"?
nope...
vinyl?!
oh **** me!
i own a vinyl sgt. peppers'...
don't really want to listen to it...
but, vinyl, within
the framework of a revival?!
july sunday pants...
you can fan me back and
forth, back and forth that
elongated into circular *******
liquorice...
finally! vinayl has a secondary,
degenerate purpose...
fanning equippment!
spread the air...
unless you're me
lodging a ******** imitation of
a ******** with
ice-cubes dangling in front of a fan:
spreading nothing,
but hot air...
honest to god, in this weather:
the beatles' vinyl?
means as much crock-shit
as i'd really love for a
nefertiti:
"woof"...
or a...
wave of air...
a bellowing bull
with rotten breath...
but at least we found out that
vinyl is useful afterall...
way past the newspaper...
or a pigeon flapping,
or the comment section
that's coorporate...
vinyl?
perfect flapping equipment!
disperses the air...
like sinatra disperses
bad singers...
drunk and...
'opely 'opefully on to "it".
is that like: the dead come (back)...
and then we hit karma redemption
with reincarnation?!
limited contra dough-dough-deep
state affairs?!
new delhi ***
new york?!
no wonder i can't stop laughing
as if that could even be translated into
slavic languages!
you pompous
anglican-integrated-inbred...
****** english women...
you?! you?! you?! you want
to dictate, rules for me?!
****** now i want
to fight your side's resemblance of goliath!
i've petted an alsatian and a dobberman
up to the age of 8...
i think i'll manage...
shit-fisting your granny's egotism
rooting for: ahmed no. 1.
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 9:53 AM UTC
Come in! Come in! Enter into the viral abyss of the ages.
Give thanks to the astrological signs in the name of the ancient wisdom of the oak tree.
Smouldering coals convey their warm and glowing connectedness in a medieval village, whilst the screeching owl swoops into the lofty turret of the olde English churchyard.
Will you pay homage to the proclaimed majesty of Anglican monarchy? Dare you submit your soul to the authority of King Henry VIII in the guise of what is deemed to be Catholicism? Listen: Thatch your roof my naïve friend of putrid beauty – the real plague is already upon us. Can’t you feel the tangible octaves of the harpsichord?
The rhythm of midnight will never deplete in her resounding cries throughout the universe.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 3:45 PM UTC
A universe that breathes its natural joy,
through geysers, and the summer sprinkling
of sugar atop burning crimson oranges.
Which finds necessitude,
in orbits of tender frequency.
Which finds contempt:
in vacuous headlands
and marshes filled with spider's legs.
Which seeks unity:
by golden dusty saturation
and celestial chapels
strewn with haunted bursts
from depressed musical chimneys.
Where I am,
futilely seeking to dethrone myself.
["Your mothers and your fathers,"
said he, at the AA meeting beneath
the musty and deserted Anglican church.
"Where the rooms and the furniture breathes
a sigh of relief as you enter.
Where your bodies succumb
to violent pangs of movement,
movement that is nothing other
than the tides of the ocean
and the tautness of a kite string by the shore.
Where three hundred white silken dancers
trot in flowing garments
Dutch windmills to catch the wind
and flow closer to omnipotence."
Before him, a child sadly sings.]
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 1:26 AM UTC
I lied about so much and in such a shortspace of
time that I should probably begin
with the circumstances of my birth.
There were three grainy home movies in existence
that captured the
unbelievable incident on camera.
A soft mewling sound was found to be issuing
from the manger
at the centre
of a school nativity play.
So that's me, then. The baby-saviour whose sudden
appearance was not recognised as a miracle by the State.
My origins are disputed and there are
some schools of thought that consider me prop-made-flesh.
Others are rooted in more digestibly Anglican ways of thinking;
degenerates made me, degenerates left me.
god he saved me how about that?
I remember my home phone number
from a house we left when I was 5 years old,
but there's sadly a decent chance I can't remember your name.
you finish your drink in a vicious way,
as if you hate it.
Sep 12, 2016
Sep 12, 2016 at 11:59 AM UTC
───────────────▄▄───▐█
───▄▄▄───▄██▄──█▀───█─▄
─▄██▀█▌─██▄▄──▐█▀▄─▐█▀
▐█▀▀▌───▄▀▌─▌─█─▌──▌─▌
▌▀▄─▐──▀▄─▐▄─▐▄▐▄─▐▄─▐▄
Jane of the Jungle (she’s all good)
charmed our world as Darwin’s daughter.
Anglican primates notwithstood,
her leaky theories held some water.
Streams of ngombe, sacred cows
were celebrated. What were these
to which the simian cosmos bows?
Irrelevant hypotheses.
Selecting great apes (naturally)
Miss Misanthrope researched, with love;
her theories, stated factually,
were hailed as truth from God above.
Hoping for reason, shadowing Man
the graybeards came for tempting fruit
unaware of their part in the plan:
to be used, like tools (but more hirsute).
Termites on a slender stalk
delighted hungry primate souls.
Her ripe bananas were the talk
of primatological controls.
peeling off; mzungu starkness
starred the Tanzanian night.
Chimping out, she lit the darkness
claiming scientific right.
Sweating out the Tarzan fever,
naming names while hugging apes
let us, laughing, love and leave her
to her anthropoid escapes.
Apr 8, 2017
Apr 8, 2017 at 9:18 AM UTC
Longing for the kiss of bitter reality,
Much of bare humane nature has been deprived of mentality.
Though the holy reputation,
The Anglican halls fill with the souls of the unwanted and unloved.
Much atonement to be done,
All in the name of Himself.
Said a few prayers amidst this deadly nightshade,
filled with poison,
But blessed with beauty and rage.
Shaking the wings of their terrible youth,
we strayed from the heavens above.
Mistaking pain for love,
masochists,
with the love for such *******
all alone in our dark paradise.
Whilst we knew that the “happy ending” that love promised
is likely to never be fulfilled,
We went in search of the rich wine that intoxicates us,
the empty pitcher.
After searching for our angel for decades, we finally
stumbled upon him,
He helped us to unfurl our wings and guided us, the devils,
to soar high into the heavens in ourselves,
Constantly reminding us,
that the devil,
was once an angel too.
Dec 29, 2020
Dec 29, 2020 at 2:20 AM UTC
I can feel the wails of ancient ghosts, as their rancid breath slithers past my historical and misty perceptions.
The highlands have a story to tell, so please attend the ceilidh.
Anglican troops have brought violence through those who are possessed by the spirit of treason.
Therefore, let us now make haste to the dance and travel together beyond timeless rails, where austere mist hangs in the air like a Celtic obituary.
Can we at least discuss this repetitive yet hypnotic sound of linear rage?
My motives are sincere.
I am related to the True North, and I appreciate the resonating pulse of your entity.
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 12:00 AM UTC
Welcome to this friendly desert community
Take in the fresh hazelnut smell
As you get lost in this mystifyingly beautiful town
Do you dare go to the library to learn about our history
Written by lizards and cuttlefish?
Listen to the larks as they scream
Lurking in the trees
Don't be fooled by Robert
Who sends out anglican pheromones
Put the halters on top of deers
To stop their egalitarian anarchist ways
The hardware's lasers signal the feral dogs
To howl into the vacuum of nothingness
Sep 17, 2016
Sep 17, 2016 at 8:30 PM UTC
Where Is The Third Way?
'the real Protestant sort
we'll line up the Anglocatholics and take them to the port.
Off to Rome
heave **
or back to the college class,
to conceive another insincere theology,
insincere Anglican
or at least half and half?
© S. Wesley Mcgranor
12/16/7
Feb 12, 2021
Feb 12, 2021 at 11:23 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
Dispatches for the Colonial Office
Who Now Will Read Paradise Lost With Us?
In Memory of Robert Fluornoy Conn
Attorney, scholar, eccentric, friend
With loss of Eden, till one greater Man
Restore us, and regain the blissful seat,
Sing heavenly muse…
Paradise Lost I.4-6
A Methodist, a Catholic, and an Anglican
Did not walk into a bar – they brought their own Scotch
“I don’t do funerals anymore”
He said to me a few weeks ago
Creaky and old in the late winter cold -
He can’t get out of this one today
We read Milton together when we were young
A year of Thursday nights with whisky and pipes
In Tod’s old office away from some women
Who disapproved of tobacco, books, and thought
Now far along Bilbo’s road they both have gone
And we are left in company with good stout friends
But still somehow
Alone
Mar 18, 2025
Mar 18, 2025 at 7:46 AM UTC