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"blubs" poems
I had an Indian Fakir come To stay, from Uttar Pradesh, I was doing a friend a favour, I don’t, as a rule, have guests, I couldn’t make out a single word He said, and so my friend Provided a written commentary To guide me, in the end. It seems he was naming my furniture It’s something that they do, In places that are incongruous Like the depths of Kalamazoo, And he wanted to give them English names So he asked my friend’s advice, In case I couldn’t pronounce them, Well, at least the thought was nice. My armchair became Albert And my settee Gunga Din, I suppose he thought it would be okay As it was from Kipling. The tallboy was called Gerald And the wardrobe, simply Joe, The polished table Cheryl And the kitchen one was Flo. I’m glad that he wrote them down because I can’t remember names, Just that the bed was Susan And the kitchen sink was James, Some of them were portentous like Ignatius, for the desk, While each of the kitchen chairs was given A name that ends with -este. Celeste, Impreste, Doneste and Geste And then of course, Ingeste, I couldn’t remember which was which, My friend was not impressed. We bade farewell to the Fakir And the Wardrobe flapped its doors, And rumbled out a ‘Goodbye my friend’ From between its mighty jaws. Then voices rose in a chorus from Each part of my tidy home, The names had given them each a voice, It was rowdier than Rome, The voices were accusatory Trying to lay some guilt, And Susan said of the Wardrobe, Joe, ‘He’s looking up my quilt!’ ‘How could I help it,’ Joe replied, ‘I’m at the foot of the bed, You’re flashing me with your silken sheets, It’s doing in my head!’ While Albert grumbled in voice so deep, ‘Do I have to be a chair? Each time you plonk on my tender seat I’m gasping out for air!’ Then the kitchen chairs were out of place And James was choked with suds, The carpet, name of Emily Was sick of traipsing mud. It seemed that the polished table top Was scratched, and she was mad, The desk disliked my keyboard so To each, I answered ‘Sad!’ ‘You’re going to have to get along I won’t put up with this, Until that Fakir came along This house was perfect bliss.’ I did away with their English names, Replaced them with Chinese, But they couldn’t speak a word of it So I brought them to their knees! And peace returned to Grissom Place Just as I thought it would, I made it plain to Wardrobe Joe ‘You’re just a lump of wood.’ While Susan smooths her quilt right down And tucks her sheets right in, And James just blubs, he’s full of suds As I nap on Gunga Din! David Lewis Paget
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Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 7:40 PM UTC
The Bed & the Wardrobe
I had an Indian Fakir come To stay, from Uttar Pradesh, I was doing a friend a favour, I don’t, as a rule, have guests, I couldn’t make out a single word He said, and so my friend Provided a written commentary To guide me, in the end. It seems he was naming my furniture It’s something that they do, In places that are incongruous Like the depths of Kalamazoo, And he wanted to give them English names So he asked my friend’s advice, In case I couldn’t pronounce them, Well, at least the thought was nice. My armchair became Albert And my settee Gunga Din, I suppose he thought it would be okay As it was from Kipling. The tallboy was called Gerald And the wardrobe, simply Joe, The polished table Cheryl And the kitchen one was Flo. I’m glad that he wrote them down because I can’t remember names, Just that the bed was Susan And the kitchen sink was James, Some of them were portentous like Ignatius, for the desk, While each of the kitchen chairs was given A name that ends with -este. Celeste, Impreste, Doneste and Geste And then of course, Ingeste, I couldn’t remember which was which, My friend was not impressed. We bade farewell to the Fakir And the Wardrobe flapped its doors, And rumbled out a ‘Goodbye my friend’ From between its mighty jaws. Then voices rose in a chorus from Each part of my tidy home, The names had given them each a voice, It was rowdier than Rome, The voices were accusatory Trying to lay some guilt, And Susan said of the Wardrobe, Joe, ‘He’s looking up my quilt!’ ‘How could I help it,’ Joe replied, ‘I’m at the foot of the bed, You’re flashing me with your silken sheets, It’s doing in my head!’ While Albert grumbled in voice so deep, ‘Do I have to be a chair? Each time you plonk on my tender seat I’m gasping out for air!’ Then the kitchen chairs were out of place And James was choked with suds, The carpet, name of Emily Was sick of traipsing mud. It seemed that the polished table top Was scratched, and she was mad, The desk disliked my keyboard so To each, I answered ‘Sad!’ ‘You’re going to have to get along I won’t put up with this, Until that Fakir came along This house was perfect bliss.’ I did away with their English names, Replaced them with Chinese, But they couldn’t speak a word of it So I brought them to their knees! And peace returned to Grissom Place Just as I thought it would, I made it plain to Wardrobe Joe ‘You’re just a lump of wood.’ While Susan smooths her quilt right down And tucks her sheets right in, And James just blubs, he’s full of suds As I nap on Gunga Din! David Lewis Paget
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By morning we've got cold amphibious tongues coated in blubs waiting bubble eyed. Still slimy throats up-gurgle newts and muck. Moss sprouts from our mouths and brown coated gums. Flies quivering between teeth. Lips dry as salted meat.
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Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 12:16 AM UTC
Last night's Lasagna
Hello amazing person, good day! Today's a day to rejoice and replay, the sweet melodies of symphonies dancing across the winds. And in the seas the sweet "glub blubs" of the fish and the splashing fins. It's not a day to be sad, Oh no! Yes, not a day to be grumpy and mad. It's a day to be thankful for so many things that are special about you, and sometime you'll probably agree with me too! So dance and sing, just as a bird is quite to a wing. And you'll see dear, your bright future is coming astonishingly near.
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Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 1:13 AM UTC
Good Day!
These Olive Gifts the Mediterranean wears Were far too Tasty for my Tongue to relate Yet seeing this Meat sliced and spiced with your Cares Parted portions for your Other Half belate Which, by Witness, caused my Self-Buds to droop Then plan for my own Taste beyond the Screen But how? Folly, these Ambitions I stoop Which my Long-Nosed Puppet withdrew the Mean Though, since this Built blubs my Appetite's norm Of ****** Impediments your Remark states right Consumes Activity; As I signed the Form And Smooth my Prince's Glass for your Delight. Still you saw - my hands grip this stubborn Steel Yet formed these Sinews my Ferment Mind feel.
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May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 2:14 AM UTC
SONNET TRIBUTE: LORENZA DEPEDER - VIDI