"corfu" poems
a beaten man bleeds, but lives boldly
trees, leaves and ****** skin diseases : before we bleed, we scream
i’ve screamed; we bleed; i’ve done it all and we’re here together
in sickness, i have seen the wall of sound that frightens me
in health, i’ve heard the yelps of a beautiful young dog with coins for eyes and golden silk for a coat
in insanity, i’ve found myself, twisted, i know, but i am lying there; content
in life, i am everything all of the time
in death, i’ve seen the truth
in venice, my gondola has spilled over into a stream of consciousness which i have not known of
in paris, i’ve slept at the bottom of the seine
in corfu, i’ve basked in warmth and love
in moscow, i’ve seen a man’s heart and a woman’s soul be married
in the church, i have loved, bled and screamed
my hunger has not been satiated; bolder now, i’ve been louder
in a quiet field; i’ll lie with you; i’ll bleed you dry; i’ll replenish you; i’ll love you; i’ll write our life stories on the surrounding woods
i’m beginning again; i’m burning fuel to start the end of my consumptive nature
i digress, i digress, i aggresively digress
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 5:56 PM UTC
I cant wait to speak to you now
To see your face
Your my home
Your what i know
And when i said i hated you
It wasnt true
But i do hate what youve done to me
I hate that i love you
A little bit
A lot
Now
Now when i feel crazy
And then actually
Then when i said i hated you, cos i was crazy, cos i love you, and thats what this love has done to me, made me crazy, an thats what i hate.
Oh and now
Because your away and i cant see you and feel you and make you laugh, i really want to make you laugh
And see your smile
And taste your lips
And make you ***
I fantasise daily
About how im gonna tie you up and make you *** the night you get back
In reality il probably be shy
But i have friends, i have hobbies, i have important **** to do for **** sake
But im sitting here, missing you
Writing this
Recording shows and films on the box for us to watch together when you get back
The notebook
We have to watch the notebook
And im fine
Dont get me wrong im fine, i get to sleep okay
And im chillin, seein people, might see matt this week, talking to didi an toe, seeing family
Im fine, please dont get a big ego
But im just not
Home
Im not tingly
Or excited
I cant explain it
I dont have you
I dont have you in my arms an sometimes that makes me sad
And then i start thinking about all the things that iv done wrong
And all these great things im gonna do when ur back
I am, im going to appreciate you more
And im going to play cool a bit more
Dont know how im gonna do both
But i am
Im gonna appreciate you because i want to,
Because i look back on this short time weve been together and so many things that you have done for me make me smile, make me so grateful and make me so happy. Like the cash machine one :) and staying at my house when i was at work, and being patient when i dont know what to wear(corfu and tims)
And all this makes me think, **** What have i ever done for this boy
He is amazing and he loves me, **** knows why but he does and its insane
Oh and then im gonna play it cool, thats right
Im gonna play it cool because i dont want to ruin it
I dont want to show too much
Of my feelings of absolute passionate never-before-felt-like-this love!
And i dont want those nice things you do to stop
I dont want you to stop trying
Because its boring
Because you know youve got me
Got me ignoring other guys texts
Got me thinking about no one else but you
Got me absorbed in you
Got me missing you like crazy, writing stupid love notes at midnight, drinking rose on my own, when i havnt seen you for a mere two weeks
That kindov got me
Thats what you cant know
So im gonna miss you
But then im gonna see you
Soon
Soon im gonna wrap my whole body around yours like a vice
I wanna jump on you, i wanna run an jump when i see you like we used to do in the corridor of galbraith
Even tho i know im so heavy
You dont act like i am
And i wanna bury my head deep in your neck and kiss it
And now i cant write anymore
Cos its too much
So il watch kardashians
Take my mind of you
Not long now and il be home
I mean, you'll be home.
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 8:49 PM UTC
i'm bored of love, and bored of loving you, equating it all with cats and Carthage... whatever... something meowed something stressed a sound requiring a human artefact; yawn.
a six pack never made a difference
anyway, tiresome Ibiza
either; so fatty ooh ooh
and the required hash tag
worth of Soho,
so the **** fits a king-sized bed
puff-up of cushions.
well, let's face it, a completely detached,
Sri Lanka
Orff Corfu, twang twang Haiti!
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 11:01 PM UTC
i guess darwinism
originated
on the islands
of gallapagos,
turtle turtle turtle ********
but not on syracuse
or cyprus or corfu
watching mortality
when watching ***** develop
into arthritis and ****
Dec 31, 2015
Dec 31, 2015 at 11:19 PM UTC
There was an Old Man of Corfu,
Who never knew what he should do;
So he rushed up and down,
Till the sun made him brown,
That bewildered Old Man of Corfu.
1.7k
ᚠ Φ
F
Θ ᚦ
no explanations
exist within a geometry outside
the circle, only architecture, sole,
yet the sole geometry of architecture
is an encircling, a lifting,
and had i wrote my poetry
in the comfort of rising beyond Marx
is socio-political schematic i would,
but i rather talk to scaffolders than to poets,
i'd rip my heart through enough thin
veil to prove it so that i shared an entombing of lips
wholly bodied with one! i rather!
care for this ******* Parisian princess
in your divorce as best you can...
i kept a cat for seven years before my neighbour
decided it was time to ***** affection
to an animal neither tilling for ably feeding
to instead choose his daughter as my wife:
i rejected feeling no compass of conversation...
the cat died, i went into the graveyard and dug
a gravestone out and buried my cat in
the moonlight: don't ever come across me and my pet!
you killed half the intelligence that was me!
**** you! humanity engaging with humanity
it plagiarises as itself an ownership to suit puppet
strings like it might tailoring,
POLAND ****** EUROPE!
POLAND ****** EUROPE!
POST COLONIAL NATIONS SEEK NEW *******
TO CRAFT THE LOST COTTON BUDS INTO
GRANULE CEMENT SET! POLAND ******
EUROPE! POLAND ****** EUROPE!
POLAND ****** EUROPE! POLAND ****** EUROPE!
MAMA RUSSIA! PAPA PRUSSIA! HOSANNA! HOSANNA!
LAUREL LEAFS AS I SAT ON THEM! THE CROWN
OF KING TU-154...
ROMANIA DONKEY DON QUIXOTE!
WHOOP WHOOP! WHOOP WHOOP GREK IZLAND
CORFU! then the postman comes with my jealousy
as within reach of hope to attain old age...
(snigger)... i hope i don't... i want million
dollar baby's truth to wake me.
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 8:04 PM UTC
I watch you watch me.
Your staring blue-green eyes
Like a summer Corfu sea
laugh as the seagull cries
Wishing things could be.
We know that it's too soon
And now it is too late
Since we met in early bloom
Not worried about fate.
But now we realize
How perfect we both could be
And in dismayed surprise
How much we need to see.
And so we love in silence
Our wings willingly clipped
Pausing any violence
Our hearts so clearly stripped.
One day one must leave
To live our youths away
And I will only grieve
Seeing our time decay.
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 12:02 PM UTC
[A child of indeterminate sex--either a delicate-featured boy or a tomboy-ish girl--, 9 or 10 years old, enters the chamber where the United States Council of Artists is meeting.]
"Is this the United States Council of Artists?"
[The Chairman of the Council responds:] "Yes. Who are you?"
"That doesn't matter. Are all the high arts present? Poetry, Music, the Visual Arts?"
"Yes. . . . There are people from all the various arts here. . . ."
"The Hour of your Doom is upon you."
"What do you mean?"
"You've failed to create with feeling.
Nuclear angst no longer excuses you.
Moral uncertainty, the dissolution of society,
no longer excuses you.
The 'Death of God' no longer excuses you.
Human beings have not changed.
We are not the hollow men.
Great art
comes from the heart;
your superfluities will now depart.
"Painter! Isn't it true that the same day you started work on this [holding up a reproduction of the painting "Incongruities: White Lines, Pink Lines"] you visited a hardware store with a middle-aged clerk whose face was wonderfully sad and quizzical? That as you walked home the pattern of the sun shining through the trees onto the sidewalk was marvelously variegated?
"Composer! Tell me honestly [playing a cassette recording of "Duet in F-Minor for Flute and Woodblock"] that these rhythmless sounds move you. . . . It's made with the head, completely with the head.
"Poet! Isn't it true that you've never written any poems expressing your deepest feelings: your love of your older sister; the painful growing-apart of you and your wife leading up to your divorce; your hatred of the stuffy academics who denied you tenure; the passion you felt for that Australian girl on Corfu last summer. . . . Instead you've written these [holding up a book entitled Root Crops, No Metaphors and reading from it:]
translucent, magenta-veined root-tips
push, cell by cell, into humid grit;
dark green, dark-red-veined crowns
expand profligately sunward. . . .
"Great art
speaks to the heart;
your superfluities will now depart."
[Another Council member:] "Mr. Chairman, with all due respect to this --surprisingly eloquent-- young person, I suggest that we return to the business at hand which is" [consulting his agenda] "the allocation this fiscal year for haiku in South Dakota."
Aug 1, 2017
Aug 1, 2017 at 1:39 PM UTC
She lay next to me.
Her hair like sand
As it sifts through my hand.
The perfumes of her hair
Are coming from the sea
Out there;
Out there where the sun
Burns its ****** flame
And settles to rise
In the oceans of Michelle's eyes.
Undone
With lace and pearls she plays her little game
Teasing and taunting me with the beauty
Of her body; she embraces me with kisses as waves copulate on the sea.
©Jack Aylward
Aug 20, 2015
Aug 20, 2015 at 6:30 PM UTC
Oh, Prince Philip, you have served us for so long,
For seventy years… The Queen’s Kephas, the rock!
Sometimes it seems that you have always been here...
Like a Servant of the Monarchy, like power, like glory!
Oh, Prince Philip, the son of the Greek Corfu,
You, the Danish Hamlet, you, the brave soldier!
Today your life has died out, today you go to sleep...
So to sleep forever… with God in a permanent covenant!
Your city is crying and the rain is pouring down hard!
Sorrow on the faces of the Britons... You died during the plague,
You left like Paris, real, in the morning, in the spring...
Where are you going now? What kind of images do you see?
What is there after death? Will you reveal these secrets?
Are you taking these to the grave, for yourself, unfortunately?...
9.4.2021.,
On the day of the death of the Greek, Danish and English Prince Philip, husband of the Queen.
Apr 9, 2021
Apr 9, 2021 at 1:25 PM UTC
A trip to the Balkans
with family in tow
and Cycle Albania
to light up the show!
There was Erlis and Rimi
(and Junid to track)
an itinerary
that would not look back!
First stop, Tirana
in the downtown core
with cafes and bars
and music galore
There were hints in the air
of a Communist cast
which the vibrant city
had long moved past
A shuttle to Ohrid
and cruise of the lake
the flora and fauna
left no mistake
Lunch on the terrace
and a trip to St. Naum
the monastery
…so peaceful, and calm
We plateaued to Korçë
through a patchwork of farms
the herdsmen and sheep
held so much charm
A tour through the city
with cultural notes
the cobble stone streets
beyond reproach
A climb through the mountains
in thundering rain
to the Sotire Farm
what a lovely domain!
There were goats and donkeys
and kindly old dogs
but the favorite of all
were the scampering hogs!
We slept like babies
and left in the morn
through the high pine forest
and fields of corn
Down through the mountains
and rivers and streams
the “Presidential Descent”
was an absolute scream!
A freshly paved stretch
(roughly 17k!)
Jaglin was off
and on her way!
A guesthouse for lunch
in the village of Benje
the evening’s Raki
would have its revenge!
To the sanctuary pools
(across the Ottoman bridge)
the healing and soothing
of miracle ridge
Into the valley
and over the gorge
to Gjirokastër
where roots were forged
Alleys and walk ways
and tight quiet streets
castles and churches
that met no defeat
A storybook city
with an historic past
we savored the buildings
and white wall cast
Off to Sarandë
…the Ionian coast!
a rustic old ferry
and ruins, with ghosts
The site of Butrint
“...from a world gone by”
we travelled in time
with a lullaby
Corfu at a distance
Himarë in reach
we swam in the ocean
and drank on the beach
Himarë to Vlorë
a spectacular day!
7 turns to the top
what a view of the bay!
Hairpins and kickbacks
so tranquilly warm
“...*the thighs are burning
like a lightning storm*!”
Lunch at the peak
and down to Vlorë
picking up speed
and a mighty roar!
Winds off the shoreline
sun at a high
the smells and sounds
as seabirds fly
The final stretch
with the finish in view
we crossed the line
…The Peloton Crew!
Sep 11, 2022
Sep 11, 2022 at 11:54 AM UTC
She ambles, cautious, methodical
(In her world, there is no time and place
For something so frivolous as traipsing)
Through narrow and informal trails which criss-cross
The slump-shouldered hills above town,
Thick pine stands obscuring the abandoned woolen mill,
The ungainly pock-marks of the abandoned quarries below.
She is in love (but coyly, chastely) with the mountain laurel,
Unremarkable and unprepossessing in its pallidity,
Demure foil for the hawkweed, the Indian paintbrush,
The resigned counterpoint without which
The beautiful may claim no more than some vague quality,
Some ethereal, gauzy notion which sets them apart.
She has no pretensions concerning her own self
(Plain as the dirt on Bootjack Hill, she reckons,
Although she entertains the odd fanciful notion:
Small hotels in Corfu, out-of-the-way Parisian nightspots,
Tete-a-tetes with second sons of some minor baroness)
And she contents herself with the occasional ramble over the knolls,
Meandering silently among the ubiquitous tiny flowers,
Joining them in understated and minor communion,
The mute and muted envy of the canvas
Toward the bright and showy pigments of the palette.
Dec 28, 2016
Dec 28, 2016 at 9:37 AM UTC
The sun and the sea
I float above care
Corfu and his beauty
Captivated.
The moon and the stars
Fill me with more
Than what I was
Left with.
How I could die
Breathe or cease
It's all a confusion
But here on the island
I can live.
Life and his chaos
Drive me to ends
And bellends to meet
Ends meet.
But I can breathe
Glad to be relieved.
The stars hold me
And the sun wakes me.
Sep 13, 2017
Sep 13, 2017 at 3:02 PM UTC
I've finished your portrait;
You
are a glass of water
upon the windowsill, distorting
my view of the tired street below —
Refreshing, but,
it's the same view
really.
I need a new window.
Feb 2, 2020
Feb 2, 2020 at 6:05 PM UTC
Xavier
was the posh kid
in the top steam
at high school.
His girlfriend
was a dream
brain dream
night dream
wet dream.
He talked to me
about knives
a Waffen SS one
brought back
by his old man
from WW2.
A Japanese
curved one
and a flick knife
his cousin
gave him
from some hood
in the City
and others
I forgot as soon
as he said.
Have you
any knives?
he asked.
Just a penknife
I said
what's your
girlfriend's name?
He gazed at me
Penelope
he replied
we live close by
and go to the same
tennis club
and last month
went on holiday
to Corfu
with our parents
of course.
I didn't doubt
one moment
the parents
would be around.
He walked off
with a chump
named Giles.
But his girlfriend
shared my dreams
day and night
dry and wet
and no parents
about
in my dreams
of me
and Penelope.
Jun 16, 2017
Jun 16, 2017 at 2:19 PM UTC