"cnut" poems
each schoolboy used to know the saw
laid deep in tracts of Danish lore
Forkbeards pious son and heir
Cnut the great, konungr,
his throne set to the boiling awe
somewhere along a Hampshire shore
but was it somewhat further north
he faced down scorned Ægir’s bore
his person kissed by Trisantona
upon her banks at Gainsborough
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 7:54 AM UTC
*then you walk into the same forest,
and patiently sit,
until three owls congregate in
a trinity of call to a unison of a bell-ring
chime for the ear,
before the one-headed Cerberus appears
of the north of Gaelic folklore
chasing a rabbit into deeper shadow;
then you alone will challenge death's
sabbath each and every sabbath after
for years to come.*
but indeed we move with shadow
as body in the fathom of night,
in darkening of an opened eye
peering, to an illumination of
a closed eye darting...
but indeed we move as grey
between slacked dissection of white
into spectrum of rose, daffodil or sky...
we move as the grey
as the white equivalent in the dark:
the moonlit aluminium of faked ageing...
ascribe then a poem to an epic
of literature... care to dwarf origins? consent then,
and conscription to vox supra omni,
if not *vox *** ultra*;
the last time i heard of a psychiatrist
i spoke of drinking in Bower Wood...
at night... and spoke of reading Kierkegaard,
as speaking of a rebirth of Cnut...
there it ended, the modern inquisition
of desirable fact... in the lit safety of
unused scissors or syringes...
there was talk of drinking and the dark wood,
which drove away all hopes of exercising medication:
for the dark woods were the required medicament,
and the spawn of all congregating shadows
into a single headed Cerberus chasing a hare
from the many congregating, to parallel my nervy
silence of sight and such subsequent record.
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 8:52 PM UTC
if you're asking me to be subhuman
give me a plot-line, i'd find one among the Zimbabweans
a minute later, but give me a plot-line,
i just want to know the hierarchy from now on...
a Dutch spat in a Polish girl's face...
give me the ******* plot-line! or is this one of those moments
where you say: ja zapomnieć mówienia po polsku.
oh, you're one of those hybrids?!
should have told me sooner!
how's the Sunday roast treating you?
it's a bit dry, i admit, typical Pole-lack...
fights for independence from the Rus and the Prus
and then gets **** with the **** that pays him...
like some Chilean **** of a fake shaman,
or some Afro, gets ****** on all fours
for posterity being the reasonable standard...
has no pride, no ulterior motive, just sits there
expecting relief without working for it,
what a lucky bunch of beetroots, chequers in cheek,
rosy, the next flush of hope in casual conversation
estimating the standards of non-racial involvement
inside post-Saxony is Ulster -
they really want retards and are anti-bilingual,
the same plague that met the Normans, the Cnut
brigadiers, they want inbreeding, but as the ladies
say: better Paki-pickup-grooming than a white
boy fanciful of romance... ain't that a pretty sight...
had to revolve upon the thick-skinned ones...
the ones who would't sue...
but with us Russia... ***** whipped by Jews and
cinnamon skinned ones are we? ***** - you said it,
i'm reaffirming;
you could have been colonial with them -
i won't let your colonial subjects turn colonial on me!
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 10:16 PM UTC
motłoch: meaning rabble, disfranchised mob -
the affix -ch, denoted as a hark -
motłoch etymology isn't a history:
młot = hammer
Loch, i gather means congregation,
Haggis or czarna kiszka...
(blackened intestines)...
there be i to befriend
a Malcolm or a Macbeth -
there i interim dwell:
abiding i, Cnut of the north,
or as some care to say
escaping the ᚠ (the Iron hur!),
there be lots chosen and every
turn at a choice a roundabout
with ᚠᚨᚱ - ᛝᛟᚱᛞ -
far njord or
njordé - variant softening of consonants
heading toward variant of theta / phi;
sigma and south
enigma and epsilon and east,
westward and Y....
there we were confidants in
absolved stresses, and there once more:
revisionists, mavericks,
befriending
frying, flying,
flay thru the fathom -
or the she sells sea shells on the sea shore
θought: φaθom? luckily it wasn't
****** nor condor;
but enough diatribe wording to make lecherous
scavengers congregate and feast.
numb numb nibble nibble, pecking yum;
i always loved hyenas,
i ascribed foxes to be akin to them,
less grey and more orange...
but the laughter twinned them together:
and the night really belonged to them,
and i belonged with the night.
Oct 15, 2016
Oct 15, 2016 at 6:07 PM UTC
i say better than's god,
i say one is
demanding alm
and that be cleft,
and to queue....
you have no heratfelt marrow
to be called a bone!
as i do, resting: an engraved to a tomb,
you were but a womb to my
liking worth: a worth a living heart.
you are nothing and as such...
the few.
nord vind:
forlatevære...
just be: let be...
gråsol skygge -
innhøsting. Cnut fathom scoot!
knew ur boghdan mein noot!
graeme revell... the film blow...
and then you die....
or you so hope to do so...
with the violins and etc.
Jan 19, 2017
Jan 19, 2017 at 10:21 PM UTC
What a Cnut! (13)
Lazy river bends twist through ages past.
scoring dark foreboding lines between the course
and curse. Forgotten pits, tombs long and vast
bear pain. This sufferance an ancient source
behind whose name, Ozymandias, who?
Forgotten one, with statuette and dust;
With little plot of land presenting; cue
besotted fans and weeping stands and rust
-ed crimson stains. Pyramids worn and sunned.
Grizzled maws gnaw foxholes. Anxious shadows
creep, kettling the dreams of untold freedom
long since sold. The sons of emp-ires fade.
Mocking wizened worries and wet laird Cnut,
who knocking heads with entropy slumbers cut.
Feb 16, 2018
Feb 16, 2018 at 8:47 AM UTC