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raven simone Jan 2013
jamie taught us salt,
nigella, the art of the beef stew
cake boss, the art of chocolate fondant,
the mafia
so rich and chewy
mafia,
the true american dream
richness and trophies and abraham
the mob engulfs the flames of life.
Nigel asleep in his room
sound, it wakes him
Nigel, he says
remember the naked chef
remember him
forever
Nigel goes downstairs
pours a glass of milk
grabs a cupcake
one boxed
he cries a tear of shame
as he remembers
Jamie Oliver
his queen
his Kingsley
his Oakley
his larry
his life
was a box of chocolate
he grabbed the caramel
but was greedy and seized the brie also
it was a sad day
as Nigel fell
off the cliff of life
into a hovel of doom...
the mob,
Nigel,
all attached
no way out
**Brie
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2019
.and what if the referendum was secured, by the single vote, if it was predicated on: only and only if, there's a 60% consensus... the current debate is taken place, because the consensus is, extremely marginal... we're talking about fringe politics, outlier political opinions... the the remain vote is argued with the same verocity as the leave vote... for the benefit of outlier opinions... if only there was a predicate: it will be passed... as long as there's a 10% difference between the votes... 51.9% for leave to 48.1% for remain, of the country having voted... if only the whole point of voting, was akin to the "ancient" enforced tactic of drafting men to serve in the army... 67.7% voting areas voting to leave... 32.3% voting to remain... yeah... the "obscure" parts of england... with scotland, clearly being an anomaly with regards to "obscure" rural regions... should the argument come: concentration of power, in urban babylons.

someone should, really, really try to remaster
that vague piece of work

                       that pristine rhythm
    section: notably on the song bite now bite
from the album
          eat your heart out -
                              by... a belgian band:
of all bands... it had to be, belgian...
  ******* choccies (KLINIK) -
   oh look, an intra-racial slur...
                                                     chocolatiers...
because what would be fun:
  if language was plain, safe,
                                                      in vitro:
and not the islam to the individual -
   whenever: i, am to submit,
                     to the language of the other?
well obviously malice is reserved
for something else, but not for breathing,
thinking or feeling,
   or for that matter:
     the "problem" of idle hands...
itchy hands...
               i guess some of the throng,
of the volk: chatter chatter chatter...
    bite... chew... but then forget to
swallow... (sow s-, s-, swo-, swo-...
'the **** an A charge in, eh?
                                     i guess, that's how).

but no one
likes to see
narrow
verse
likening it
to the Milan
fashion
show
catwalk

                               and all those poems
that look like this:

|begins here


               (no
      move-
                                 -ment
                 in
               between)


|ends here:

|zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
|zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
|zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
|­zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
|can anyone please tell me...
   why zee / zed:
              is a conotation
                        depicting the process of sleep?

and all this nonsense:
                   england is spelled with
a capital: who says it's anywhere but london?
E this, E that,
    E sat on a wall
       and...
                    didn't fall accidently...
i know a rat when i see one...
   Nigel, Nigel (see... capital N,
implies emphasis, like italics or a colon
does)
       Nigel... can you please bring back
your fwend, Dawid?
                     just a few questions...
2 and a half 'ears lay'ter...
   and... no end in sight...
to those loitering... shuffling their feet...
how many votes do you actually need...
when there was only one
                     for die volk
- and i have to admit...
       it was close...
                roughly                      51 to 49...
i know why they voted leave...
           because of the people who poured
in, most, probably momentarily
back in 2004...
                              the people who were
taught two, of 20th century's prime lessons,
by foreign entities...
               arbeit macht frei
               und?
                        communism.

         so no laid-back work ethic coming
with the windrush, was there?
                    conflict of interests...
**** it, if i were strapped to a caribbean
island, i'd have a laid back work ethic:
                             ka-reeb-ib-ean.

yet still this whole blah blah debate...
          like... let's forget the good friday
agreement...
   but finally...
            we can have the old terrorists back...
so...
            maybe the IRA will
                  out-compete the jihadis?
or at least scare them?
  or... dunno...
                                            ol' Jack...
ol' Jackie boy'o will: simply...        unravel?
am i rooting for it to happen?
no...
                            but it would suggest
that i'm rooting for being part of
                a historical event,
                            like the treaty of versailles...
or the weimar rep.,
                            and i was the voice
on the bottom,
               sifting through
                     eclectic ambitions to find:
culture that will never become
mainstream...
                                           almost
forever destined for the: archaic archive,
now forever the footstuff
                            of the gargantuan a.i.:
alternatively known as a.i.p.:
                   artificial intelligence purgatory.

- hey, i can't compete,
    i'm just a kid that forgot to bring
his crayons, and instead brought
   some matchsticks and toothpicks.

if only: 2 years prior to the referendum
they had a plan...
   but they thought they could do
a joker trick,
         so there you have it: agent of chaos...
agent of chaos says:
  people, 1 vote, politicians?
         an infinite number of votes by
the looks of it...
                  voting is not reserved
for the people, de facto,
                       given:
we now have a strange despot on our
hands... der volk...
                    what a strange monster...
was i leave or remain?
   neither, considering that i ended up
drinking to stay somewhat sane
for the past... oh... 10 years...
    on debit...
                well... why would i even
consider drinking into the excesses of
phantasmagoria              on credit?
that would be stupid, as stupid didn't.

in summary: to minor points...
    i can understand why people don't like
poetry...
                                                 porcelain...
or the fact that their everyday language
is already peppered with poetic techniques...
figuratively speaking...
                   akin to:
   where does the technique of poetry
end, and the comedy begin?
                     yeah, that: "not literally" part?

who would mind:
   it's not an elitist "thing" to like or dislike
a medium...
                 i like the "breathing" space in
the optics... of... the never to be seen
                              literary paragraph...
i like cascades...
                         paragraphs are sometimes
a strain on the eyes...
like watching really fast cars
zoom past you on a very small race-track...
**** just gets dizzy...

.......................................................­........ (click)
.........................................................­........ (click)
.........................................................­.......... (click) etc.

hence?
           well on the up-side...
once you've read some magnum opus...
say... the cantos...
    for some strange reason...
you can sit back, listen to some choccie
music from the underground...
open the book...
   and just stare at the poetry...
    without having to reread anything...
a bit like...
                  a painting...

                                    sure as **** you
can't do that with a novel,
      with its rigid, cluster-**** of a descriptive
paragraph: she said, he said,
then another descriptive paragraph:
he said, she said...

               as much as i love novels...
  give me a poetics of a framework of freedom,
or a philosophical monologue
    by some helmut
    (german) - oh look...
     another intra-racial slur...
    helmuty: germans...
                  derived from?
              helmut kohl -
                    german chancellor 1982 - 1998;

ah... what an enriching experience.
Paul Hardwick Feb 2016
YOU can not make yours eyes
see around the hill
or even corners
but in my dream world
Nigel the Man can
for he sees all things day or night
he sees darkness he sees light
and I've even heard can smell light
if it's there, he will, have been
he will have seen
he maybe can taste it
he sees things that will really blow your mind dear
yes Nigel is the man that can
but Nigel is a man hard to find
for you see
he's blind.
Treat for you all----How do you like them cookies
dip them in the milk of life  LoVe    P@ul  ***.
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
12 Monkeys
17 Girls
127 Hours
2 Days in New York 2012
2 Days in Paris 2010
2001 A Space Odyssey
360
A Beautiful Mind
A Bridge Too Far
A Few Good Men
A Single Man
A Perfect Getaway
A Serbian Film
A Very Long Engagement
A.I.
Absolute Power
Adaptation
Airborne
Air Force One
Airplane 1
Airplane 2
Albert Nobbs
Alex Cross
Alpha Dog
American Beauty
American Gangster
Amorres Perros
Amour
Anchorman
Andy Warhol's Bad 1977
Andy Warhol's ******* 1964
Andy Warhol's Eat 1964
Animal Kingdom
Annie Hall
Anti-Christ
Apocalypse Now Redux
Apollo 13
Arachnophobia
Apt Pupil
Armageddon
Babel
Backdraft
Bad Company
Bad Education
Badlands 1973
Barton Fink
Basquiat
Before Night Falls
Being Flynn
Beneath Hill 60
Beyond the Black Rainbow
Billy Madison
Biutiful - Spanish
Blade 1
Blade 2
Blade 3
Blade Runner Final Cut
Blades of Glory
Blood Work
Blue Valentine
Breach
Broken Arrow
Born on the Fourth of July
Boyz in the Hood
Bullet
Bulworth
Brothers
Caddyshack 1 & 2
Career Opportunities
Carlos The Jackal The Movie
Carne by Gaspar Noe - French
Cashback
CB4
Charlie Wilson's War
Chelsea Girls 1966
Cherry
Chinatown
Ciao Manhattan ft. Edie Sedgewick 1972
Cinema Paradiso
City of God
Clear and Present Danger
Closely Watched Trains - Czech
Contact
Corpse Bride
Courage Under Fire
Crazy Stupid Love
Dark Shadows
Dave 1993
Daybreakers
Days of Heaven
Dazed and Confused
Dead Presidents
Defiance
Desperately Seeking Susan
Despicable Me
Detachment
Die Hard Quadrilogy
**** Tracy
***** Harry
Django Unchained
Dogtooth - Greek
Dogville
Doubt
Dracula, Bram Stoker's
Dragonheart
Dream House
Drive
Drop Zone
Dumbo
Dune Extended Edition
Ears Open, Eyeballs Click
Easier With Practice
Easy Rider 1969
Edward Scissorhands
Empire of the Sun
Encino Man
Enter the Void by Gaspar Noe
Eraser 1999
Eyes Wide Shut 1999
Face Off 1997
Fallen
Fantastic Mr. Fox
Fast Times at Ridgemont High
Fight Club
Fill the Void
Fish Tank
Fitzcarraldo
Five Minutes in Heaven
Flickan 2009 - Swedish
Flubber 1997
Folks!
Forbidden Planet 1956
Fracture
Friday 1995
Friday After Next 2002
Frost Nixon
******* Amal - Swedish
Full Metal Jacket
Funny Farm 1988
Funny Games
Fur- An Imaginary Portrait of Diane Arbus
G.I. Jane
G.I. Joe Retaliation
Gangs of New York
Gangster Squad
Garden State
Get Rich or Die Tryin'
Ghostbusters 1
Girlfriend
Girl, Interrupted
Glengarry Glen Ross
Gomorra - Italian
Great Expectations 1998
Greenberg
Grindhouse Death Proof
Grindhouse Planet Terror
Groundhog Day 1993
Grumpy Old Men
Grumpier Old Men
Gummo
Gus Van Sant's Last Days
Half Nelson
Hannibal
Havoc
Haywire
Heartbreak Ridge
Heat
Hell on the Pacific 1986
Hesher
Hitchcock
Holy Rollers
Hook
Honey I Shrunk the Kids
Hyde Park on Hudson
I Am Curious Blue
I Am Curious Yellow
I Heart Huckabees
I Stand Alone by Gaspar Noe - French
If Looks Could **** 1991
I'm Not There
In Bruges
In The Line of Fire
Inglorious Basterds
Inland Empire
Innerspace 1987
Innocence
Interview With the Vampire
Jacob's Ladder
James Bond - Diamonds Are Forever 1971
James Bond - From Russia With Love 1963
James Bond - Goldfinger 1964
James Bond - Never Say Never Again 1983
James Bond - On Her Majesty's Secret Service 1969
James Bond - Thunderball 1965
James Bon - You Only Live Twice 1967
Jane Eyre
Jeremiah Johnson 1972
JFK
Joe Versus the Volcano
Johnny English 2
Julien Donkey-Boy
Juno
Just Cause
Kapringen aka A Hijacking - Icelandic
Ken Park
Killing Season
Killing Them Softly
Kindergarten Cop
Kingpin
Koyaanisqatsi
Krippendorf's Tribe
Kiss the Girls
La Vie En Rose
Last Night
Last of the Dogmen
Leon: The Professional
Leonard Pt. 6
Les Miserables
Lie With Me
Life of Pi
Lincoln
Lions For Lambs
Little Children
Lord of the Rings Trilogy BR Extended
Lord of War
Lost Highway
Love and Other Drugs
Love in the Time of Cholera
Love Liza
Lovers of the Arctic Circle
Mad Max 1979
Mad Max 2 1981
Mad Max 3 1985
Major Payne
Malcolm X
Man on Fire
Manhunter
Maverick 1994
Meet Joe Black
Melancholia
Menace II Society DIrector's Cut 1993
Mesrine 1 Killer Instinct - French
Mesrine 2 Public Enemy - French
Milk
Minority Report
Mission Impossible Ghost Protocol
Mister Lonely
Money Train
Moonrise Kingdom
Moulin Rouge
Mr. and Mrs. Smith
****** By Numbers
Munich
My Sassy Girl 2008
Naqoyqatsi Life As War
National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation
National Treasure Book of Secrets
Never Cry Wolf
Never Let Me Go
New Jack City
New York I Love You
Night on Earth 1991 - Italian
Nixon
Not Fade Away
Notes on a Scandal
O Brother, Where Art Thou
October Sky
Olympus Has Fallen
Ondskan - Swedish
One False Move
Out of Africa
Outbreak
Palmetto
Paris Texas Criterion 1984
Passenger 57
Paths of Glory 1957
Perfect Sense
Peter Pan
Philadelphia 1993
Pinocchio
Pirate Radio
Platoon 1986
Pleasantville
*******
Project X 1987
Proof
Quiz Show
Rabbits
Revolver
Robocop Trilogy
Robot and Frank
Rolling Stone's Gimme Shelter
Romance and Cigarettes
Romeo and Juliet 1996
Sahara
Saving Private Ryan
Schindler's List
Searching For Bobby Fischer
Secretary, The
Seven Years in Tibet
Sgt. Bilko
Shame 2011
Shine
Shooter
Shopgirl
Sid and Nancy
Sin City
Sky Captain and The World of Tomorrow
Skyfall
Slackers
Sleepers
Sleeping Beauty 1959
Sleeping Beauty 2011
Sleepy Hollow
Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs
Somewhere
South Central
Sphere
Spread
Spy Game
Stand Up Guys
Stay
Summer Hours - French
Sweeney Todd - The Demon Barber of Fleet Street
Synecdoche, NY
Syriana
Talk To Her - Habla Con Ella
Taken 1 & 2
Takers
****
Taxidermia
Tetro
Thank You For Smoking
That Thing You Do!
The Adjustment Bureau
The Age of Innocence by Martin Scorcese 1993
The Bad Lieutenant - Port of Call New Orleans 2009
The Basketball Diaries
The Beach 2000
The Believer
The Beverly Hillbillies
The Black Dahlia
The Blue Lagoon 1980
The Book of Eli
The Boxer
The Constant Gardner
The Conversation
The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
The Darjeeling Limited
The Dark Knight
The Dark Knight Rises
The Day of the Jackal
The Diving Bell and the Butterfly
The Fifth Element
The Flock
The Flowers of War
The Fountain
The Getaway
The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo 2011
The Golden Compass
The Good Shepherd
The Good The Bad and The Ugly
The Goonies
The Green Mile
The Grey
The Help
The Hudsucker Proxy
The Hurricane
The Hurt Locker
The Ice Storm
The Ides of March
The Illusionist
The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus
The Impossible
The Informers
The Invasion
The Iron Lady
The Island of Dr. Moreau
The Jackal
The ****
The Killer Inside Me
The Kingdom
The Legend of Bagger Vance
The Lost Boys
The Lost Boys The Tribe
The Lost Boys Thirst
The Machinist
The Mask
The Man Who Fell to Earth 1976
The Master
The Mechanic
The Money Pit
The Naked Gun 1
The Naked Gun 2
The Naked Gun 3
The New World
The Pelican Brief
The Place Beyond the Pines
The Prestige
The Queen
The Raven
The Reader
The Red Balloon
The Right Stuff
The Road
The Rock
The Rocketeer
The Rules of Attraction
The *** Diary
The Saint
The Shawshank Redemption
The Silence of the Lambs
The Skin I Live In - Mexican
The Soloist
The Talented Mr. Ripley
The Thin Red Line
The Town
Transformers Trilogy
The Tree of Life
Tron Legacy 2010
The United States of Leland
The Usual Suspects
The Way Back
There Will Be Blood
There's Something About Mary
Three Days of the Condor
Three Kings
Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy
To the Wonder
To Rome With Love

Tombstone
Total Recall 1990
Trainspotting
Trash Humpers
True Lies
Two Lovers
Two Weeks in September(Brigette Bardot) 1967
Tyrannosaur
Unbreakable
Uncle Buck
Unforgiven
Unleashed
Unstoppable
V for Vendetta
Varsity Blues
Vertigo
Vicky Christina Barcelona
Videodrome
Virtuosity
Wag the Dog
Wake Up Ron Burgundy The Lost Movie
Walkabout
Wall Street 1987
Wall Street 2010
Wanderlust
Water World
Wayne's World 1 & 2
We Are The Night
War Witch
We Need to Talk About Kevin
Weekend by Jean-Luc Godard - French
Weekend 2011
West of Memphis
What Doesn't **** You
What's Eating Gilbert Grape
When Harry Met Sally
Where the Wild Things Are
White House Down
White Material Criterion 2009
White Oleander
Who is Harry Nilsson?
Wolf 1992
Womb
You Will Meet a Tall Dark Stranger
Zardoz 1974


Documentaries & Music Videos


BBC - Life in Cold Blood
BBC - Planet Earth
BBC - Rolling Stones Crossfire Hurricane
BBC - Great Bear Steakout
BBC - Ice Age Giants
BBC - Insect Worlds
BBC - Life on Earth 1979
BBC - Lost Cities of the Ancients
BBC - Operation Snow Tiger
BBC - Penguins: Spy in the Huddle
BBC - Polar Bear: Spy on the Ice
BBC - Richard Hammond's Miracles of Nature
BBC - The Life of Birds
BBC - Wonders of Life
David Blaine Collection
**** Proenke Collection - Alone and Solitude, The Frozen North
Encounters at the End of the World 2007
Nanook of the North
National Geographic Wild Kingdom of the Oceans Giants of the Deep: Whales
Shine A Light - The Rolling Stones
Vladimir Horowitz - Der Ietzte Romantiker
Vladimir Horowitz - Live in Vienna 1987
Vladimir Horowitz - The 1968 TV Concert
Whale Adventure with Nigel Marvin
Charles Smith Apr 2015
The Politician Nigel Farage,
Fancied a saucy massage,
He had quite a shock,
As she couldn't see his ****.
Which she claimed "Was a mere mirage."

JWS
raven simone Jan 2013
I'm the real Chuck Bass
I am Nigel Barker
****,
Noted
Fashion Photographer.
i engulf all men, women and children with my succulent odour
especially when i use the flames of the baldinator.
it makes me bolder... and balder
Baldness is my strength, chutzpah, and truth.
Smize all you like Tyra
I will always come out on top.
I have
the passion,
the power,
the Porsche.
model ******* work for this, for me.
My scalp illuminates the night
leading me up and along the path of the nigh.
Serena van der Woodsen your Pantene waves of glory
will fall victim to my patent shine
now let me beam fiercely
*PERFECTION
raven simone Feb 2013
the hombre he stares
out into the dessert
before this,
he saw an ocean
filled with the unknown, the undiscovered, the possibilities
now as he stares out
do the grains off dry hibiscus plant inspire him
nay
the bleak never ending dunes of powder
time
went by
so quickly now he feel trapped
like Nigel
within his own window,
passing the time as his ear grows smaller
and fonder
of his toad
garamy
he no longer works his biceps as he pours his chai tea
into the mug of destiny
of
fate
of life
of
lust
the barren wasteland of the city
bleak and passing without him
without Nigel
goes by with the plumage
the crest of the soul
drift further and further from consciousness
living on the edge no life, no warts, no brownies
nought but Nigel
Nigel Morgan Dec 2012
‘This is a pleasure. A composer in our midst, and you’re seeing Plas Brondanw at its June best.’ Amabel strides across the lawn from house to the table Sally has laid for tea. Tea for three in the almost shade of the vast plain tree, and nearly the height of the house. Look up into its branches. It is convalescing after major surgery, ropes and bindings still in place.
 
Yes, I am certainly seeing this Welsh manor house, the home of the William-Ellis family for four hundred years, on a day of days. The mountains that ring this estate seem to take the sky blue into themselves. They look almost fragile in the heat.
 
‘Nigel, you’re here?’ Clough appears next. He sounds surprised, as though the journey across Snowdonia was trepidatious adventure. ‘Of course you are, and on this glorious day. Glorious, glorious. You’ve walked up from below perhaps? Of course, of course. Did you detour to the ruin? You must. We’ll walk down after tea.’
 
And he flicks the tails of his russet brown frock coat behind him and sits on the marble bench beside Amabel. She is a little frail at 85, but the twinkling eyes hardly leave my face. Clough is checking the garden for birds. A yellowhammer swoops up from the lower garden and is gone. He gestures as though miming its flight. There are curious bird-like calls from the house. Amabel turns house-ward.
 
‘Our parrots,’ she says with a girlish smile.
 
‘Your letter was so sweet you know.’ She continues. ‘Fancy composing a piece about our village. We’ve had a film, that TV series, so many books, and now music. So exciting. And when do we hear this?’
 
I explain that the BBC will be filming and recording next month, but tomorrow David will appear with his double bass, a cameraman and a sound recordist to ‘do’ the cadenzas in some of the more intriguing locations. And he will come here to see how it sounds in the ‘vale’.
 
‘Are we doing luncheon for the BBC men? They are all men I suppose? When we were on Gardeners’ World it was all gals with clipboards and dark glasses, and it was raining for heaven’s sake. They had no idea about the right shoes, except that Alys person who interviewed me and was so lovely about the topiary and the fireman’s room. Now she wore a sensible skirt and the kind of sandals I wear in the garden. Of course we had to go to Mary’s house to see the thing as you know Clough won’t have a television in the house.’
 
‘I loath the sound of it from a distance. There’s nothing worse that hearing disembodied voices and music. Why do they have to put music with everything? I won’t go near a shop if there’s that canned music about.’
 
‘But surely it was TV’s The Prisoner that put the place on the map,’ I venture to suggest.
 
‘Oh yes, yes, but the mess, and all those Japanese descending on us with questions we simply couldn’t answer. I have to this day no i------de-------a-------‘, he stretches this word like a piece of elastic as far as it might go before breaking in two, ‘ simply no I------de------a------ what the whole thing was about.’ He pauses to take a tea cup freshly poured by Amabel. ‘Patrick was a dear though, and stayed with us of course. He loved the light of the place and would get up before dawn to watch the sun rise over the mountains at the back of us.’
 
‘But I digress. Music, music, yes music . . . ‘ Amabel takes his lead
 
‘We’ve had concerts before at P. outside in the formal gardens by AJ’s studio.’ She has placed her hands on her green velvet skirt and leans forward purposefully. ‘He had musicians about all the time and used to play the piano himself vigorously in the early hours of the morning. Showing off to those models that used to appear. I remember walking past his studio early one morning and there he was asleep on the floor with two of them . . .’
 
Clough smiles and laughs, laughs and smiles at a memory from the late 1920s.
 
‘Everyone thought we were completely mad to do the village.’ He leans back against the gentle curve of the balustrade, and closes his eyes for a moment. ‘Completely mad.’
 
It’s cool under the tree, but where the sunlight strays through my hand seems to gather freckles by the minute. I am enjoying the second slice of Mary’s Bara Brith. ‘It’s the marmalade,’ says Amabel, realising my delight in the texture and taste, ‘Clough brought the recipe back from Ceylon and I’ve taught all my cooks to make it. Of course, Mary isn’t a cook, she’s everything. A wonder, but you’ll discover this later at dinner. You are staying? And you’re going to play too?’
 
I’m certainly going to play in the drawing room studio on the third floor. It’s distractingly full of paintings by ‘friends’ – Duncan Grant, Mondrian, Augustus John, Patrick Heron, Winifred Nicholson (she so loved the garden but would bring that awful Raine woman with her). There’s  Clough’s architectural watercolours (now collectors want these things I used to wiz off for clients – stupid prices – just wish I’d kept more behind before giving them to the AA – (The Architectural Association ed.) And so many books, first editions everywhere. Photographs of Amabel’s flying saucer investigations occupy a shelf along with her many books on fairy tales and four novels, a batch of biographies and pictures of the two girls Susan and Charlotte as teenagers. Susan’s pottery features prominently. There’s a Panda skin from Luchan under the piano.
 
These two eighty somethings have been working since 8.0am. ‘We don’t bother with lunch.’ Amabel is reviewing the latest Ursula le Guin. ‘I stayed with her in Oregon last May. A lovely little house by the sea. Such a darling, and what a gardener! She creates all the ideas for her books in her garden. I so wish I could, but there’s just too much to distract me. Gardening is a serious business because although Jane comes over from Corrieg and says no to this and no to that and I have to stand my corner,  I have to concentrate and go to my books. Did you know the RHS voted this one of the ten most significant gardens in the UK? But look, there’s no one here today except you!’
 
No one but me. And tea is over. ‘A little rest before your endeavours perhaps,’ says Clough, probably anxious to get back to letter to Kenzo Piano.
 
‘Now let’s go and say hello to the fireman,’ says Amabel who takes my arm. And so we walk through the topiary to her favourite ‘room’,  a water feature with the fireman on his column (mid pond). ‘In memory of the great fire, ‘ she says. ‘He keeps a keen eye on the building now.’ He is a two-foot cherub with a hose and wearing a fireman’s helmet.
 
The pond reflects the column and the fireman looks down on us as we gaze into the pool. ‘Health, ‘ she says, ‘We keep a keen eye on it.’
 
The parrots are singing wildly. I didn’t realise they sang. I thought they squawked.
 
‘Will they sing when I play?’ I ask.
 
‘Undoubtedly,’ Amabel says with her girlish smile and squeezes my arm.
This is a piece of fantasy. Clough and Amabel Williams-Ellis created the Italianate village of Portmeirion in North Wales. I visited their beautiful home and garden ten miles away at Brondanw in Snowdonia and found myself imagining this story. Such is the power of place to sometimes conjure up those who make it so.
Nigel Morgan Aug 2013
Today we shall have the naming of parts. How the opening of that poem by Henry Reed caught his present thoughts; that banal naming of parts of a soldier’s rifle set against the delicate colours and textures of the gardens outside the lecture room. *Japonica glistening like coral  . . . branches holding their silent eloquent gestures . . . bees fumbling the flowers. It was the wrong season for this so affecting poem – the spring was not being eased as here, in quite a different garden, summer was easing itself out towards autumn, but it caught him, as a poem sometimes would.

He had taken a detour through the gardens to the studio where in half an hour his students would gather. He intended to name the very parts of rhythm and help them become aware of their personal knowledge and relationship with this most fundamental of musical elements, the most connected with the body.

He had arranged to have a percussionist in on the class, a player he admired (he had to admit) for the way this musician had dealt with a once-witnessed on-stage accident that he’d brought it into his poem sequence Lemon on Pewter. They had been in Cambridge to celebrate her birthday and just off the train had hurried their way through the bicycled streets to the college where he had once taught, and to a lunchtime concert in a theatre where he had so often performed himself.

Smash! the percussionist wipes his hands and grabs another bottle before the music escapes checking his fingers for cuts and kicking the broken glass from his feet It was a brilliant though unplanned moment we all agreed and will remember this concert always for that particular accidental smile-inducing sharp intake of breath moment when with a Fanta bottle in each hand there was a joyful hit and scrape guiro-like on the serrated edges a no-holes barred full-on sounding out of glass on glass and you just loved it when he drank the juice and fluting blew across the bottle’s mouth

And having thought himself back to those twenty-four hours in Cambridge the delights of the morning garden aflame with colour and texture were as nothing beside his vivid memory of that so precious time with her. The images and the very physical moments of that interval away and together flooded over him, and he had to stop to close his eyes because the images and moments were so very real and he was trembling . . . what was it about their love that kept doing this to him? Just this morning he had sat on the edge of his bed, and in the still darkness his imagination seemed to bring her to him, the warmth and scent of her as she slept face down into a pillow, the touch of her hair in his face as he would bend over her to kiss her ear and move his hand across the contours of her body, but without touching, a kind of air-lovers movement, a kiss of no-touch. But today, he reminded himself, we have the naming of parts . . .

He was going to tackle not just rhythm but the role of percussion. There was a week’s work here. He had just one day. And the students had one day to create a short ‘poem for percussion’ to be performed and recorded at the end of the afternoon class. In his own music he considered the element of percussion as an ever-present challenge. He had only met it by adopting a very particular strategy. He regarded its presence in a score as a kind of continuo element and thus giving the player some freedom in the choice of instruments and execution. He wanted percussion to be ‘a part’ of equal stature with the rest of the musical texture and not a series of disparate accents, emphases and colours. In other words rhythm itself was his first consideration, and all the rest followed. He thought with amusement of his son playing Vaughan-Williams The Lark Ascending and the single stroke of a triangle that constituted his percussion part. For him, so few composers could ‘do it’ with percussion. He had assembled for today a booklet of extracts of those who could: Stravinsky’s Soldier’s Tale (inevitably), Berio’s Cummings songs, George Perle’s Sextet, Living Toys by Tom Ades, his own Flights for violin and percussionist. He felt diffident about the latter, but he had the video of those gliders and he’d play the second movement What is the Colour of the Wind?

In the studio the percussionist and a group of student helpers were assembling the ‘kits’ they’d agreed on. The loose-limbed movements of such players always fascinated him. It was as though whatever they might be doing they were still playing – driving a car? He suddenly thought he might not take a lift from a percussionist.

On the grand piano there was, thankfully, a large pile of the special manuscript paper he favoured when writing for percussion, an A3 sheet with wider stave lines. Standing at the piano he pulled a sheet from the pile and he got out his pen. He wrote on the shiny black lid with a fluency that surprised him: a toccata-like passage based on the binary rhythms he intended to introduce to his class. He’d thought about making this piece whilst lying in bed the previous night, before sleep had taken him into a series of comforting dreams. He knew he must be careful to avoid any awkward crossings of sticks.

The music was devoid of any accents or dynamics, indeed any performance instructions. It was solely rhythm. He then composed a passage that had no rhythm, only performance instructions, dynamics, articulations such as tremolo and trills and a play of accents, but no rhythmic symbols. He then went to the photocopier in the corridor and made a batch of copies of both scores. As the machine whirred away he thought he might call her before his class began, just to hear her soft voice say ‘hello’ in that dear way she so often said it, the way that seem to melt him, and had been his undoing . . .

When his class had assembled (and the percussionist and his students had disappeared pro tem) he began immediately, and without any formal introduction, to write the first four 4-bit binary rhythms on the chalkboard, and asked them to complete it. This mystified a few but most got the idea (and by now there was a generous sharing between members of the class), so soon each student had the sixteen rhythms in front of them.

‘Label these rhythms with symbols a to p’, he said, ‘and then write out the letters of your full name. If there’s a letter there that goes beyond p create another list from q to z. You can now generate a rhythmic sequence using what mathematicians call a function-machine. Nigel would be:

x x = x     x = = =      = x x =      = x x x      x = x x

Write your rhythm out and then score it for 4 drums – two congas, two bongos.’

His notion was always to keep his class relentlessly occupied. If a student finished a task ahead of others he or she would find further instructions had appeared on the flip chart board.  Audition –in your head - these rhythms at high speed, at a really quick tempo. Now slow them right down. Experiment with shifting tempos, download a metronome app on your smart phone, score the rhythms for three clapping performers, and so on.

And soon it was performance time and the difficulties and awkwardness of the following day were forgotten as nearly everyone made it out front to perform their binary rhythmic pieces, and perform them with much laughter, but with flair and élan also. The room rang with the clapping of hands.

The percussionist appeared and after a brief introduction – in which the Fanta bottle incident was mentioned - composer and performer played together *****’s Clapping Music before a welcome break was taken.
Nigel Finn Dec 2015
Sometimes, when I'm trying
To pretend everything's alright,
Though, inside, I'm dying,
Someone sees my inner plight;

"Nigel...Are you crying?"

I manage to hold in the tears,
As if I thought their release,
Would spread the subject of my fears,
That will not leave me in peace.

That's why, when I'm sighing,
I will not confide in you-
When I feel like dying,
I'm afraid you'd feel it too.

"Nigel, please stop crying."

If I stop the pain from spreading,
By keeping it all within,
Then there's not a tear worth shedding.
"Are you crying Mr Finn?"

"No. I am not crying."
RH 78 Dec 2014
Nigel the soldier
Shoulders big as boulders
Up over the top
Tried not to stop
Tripped on some wire
Dodged all gun fire
Jumped back up again
Then it started to rain
Got to the other side
In one giant stride
Took some enemy out
They began to shout
Nowhere else to go
In a place he didn't know
Nigel the brave
Resting forever in an unmarked grave
Wonder down Mayfair on a busy afternoon
There in all its beauty lies a shop
Where succulent pastries are served
And cakes that ooze the simple delights of life
Established in 1854 and a survivor of two world wars
A national treasure never honoured
It leaves a lasting taste
The owner is a little Italian gent
Named Romeo which is quite quaint
A ***** named Nigel sits underneath the window
Begging for food or some change
And this is where the magic takes place
Cause Romeo truly shows his heart
When he gives Nigel a large sticky eclair
He then tends to his customers modestly
The police never move the man named Nigel
Cause Romeo wants the sign of the times to stay
Not to be moved from under the window
Of his Old Cake Shop in the heart of busy Mayfair
Toxic yeti Dec 2018
There in 1932
A semi poor mountaineer
Charles Nigel
From Britain
Came to climb
The tallest.
But ended up falling in love with a beautiful local girl
A Sherpani
Who’s name meant Poppy
He callled her Poppy
Though Poppy was ment for another
For the first while
They had to keep love a secret
Until she told her parents
Who disowned her
He even though he was a drinking man
He always loved and loyal to
Her
When he couldn’t find her
On night
He flew into a rage
When she came back
He slapped her
And they fought
He became more controlling
And abusive
Leaving the poor girl
Alone
As he went to drink.
One night he found his love
Poisoned her self
To death
While carrying their love child.
Then
Only then that he felt remorse
And love again.
Paul Butters Dec 2022
Steve Green (with extra verses)
Stephen Green
Who knows where he’s been?
Out on that bike
Sometimes taking a hike.
Loves Rugby League and ale
And Cider by the pale.

Ryan Jagger
Look at Ryan Jagger
Dancing with a swagger.
Full of jokes and taking the ****
Pours a beer-glass very quick.

Charles Lumley
Charles Lumley’s on full throttle:
He’s the owner of “Message in a Bottle”.
Stacks cans and bottles with precision
Never afraid to make a decision.

Jenny
You just can’t beat that lovely Jenny
She surely is worth every penny.
Hearing music, she has to dance
Enchanting with that cheeky glance.

Nigel
Doing his crossword, there is Nigel!
He knows everything from here to Rigel.
Need a proof-reader? He’s your man.
Want it in Latin? Nigel can.
Nuff Fer Now

Paul Butters

© PB 28\12\2022.
Love a Clerihew. So here's a few... ;)
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
god... i can't believe i'm making comments
about this...
but i am.... i'm drunk and rowdy,
not sober & sane reality makes
point at this point...
        in ref. to cheryl tweedy...
"mum shaming"?!
                           not being able to breast
feed in public?
          these critics...
they are not inclined to make a fetish
out out lactating females?
  no? none of these ******* never had
the fetish quest of desiring to drink
milk from the **** of the mother,
so they would not become jealous over
the baby? no? so they jumped head-strong
into the latex gimp-suit fetish?!
handy...
        why would i mind some rat
of a leader worth the vermin of a party
known as the UKIP not bail out?
over a cleavage frenzy?!
             sure sure... **** things up...
bail out... and then jump ****...
good tactic...
                much applause...
******* wankers...
                      i did make one mistake
in my life... believing a 19 year old
Russian girl... to stick to her guns...
and take the ******* contraceptive pills
she promised to take...
i still don't know whether she was...
whatever the hell she was aiming at...
******? i don't mind the rubber...
i'd like some more...
in a latex suit, preferably...
i can't, lie...
   ms. amber is doing the polygraph
"thing" again...
                             i'll lie when i'm
not having fun, then i'm not telling
the truth...
  huh? which milk?
goats' milk... Behemoth's mother
good ****, counters every superseding
cover version of... cow...
              goats' cheese over feta...
you name it... goat has it covered...
creamy yum-yum...
            why would i lie to  begin
with? lying is a focus for serving
an imbalance for both the rhythm
and the tempo...
                              just play me some
drum & bass (base... might as well
throw this one in... bāß)...
i actually hope more mothers
feed in public...
hell... more cleavage...
like... an aversion to seeing a niqab
20 seconds later...
         what?!
thank god some people in Europe
still persist with donning their
sanity kippahs...
         what would the western world
do without them?!
     frown?
            or convert?
         i have actually found an escape
route from the excesses of
*******... the potential bound
to the inanimate picture of a revealing
posit of a cleavage...
   basically a woman donning
an *** on her chest...
and her ******* where her *** ought
to be...
      like fine art...
                     no no no, no thank you
Ms. Frankenstein, i'm not into
your ******- *******...
          but a woman breast-feeding
in public?
                     what's the problem?
you jealous that you're not suckling?
i bet that's it... ha ha...
that must be it...
   not playing out your fetish...
but i mean... like foreplay...
*****-******* and what not...
again... the sunday times
style supplement...
        the life of dolly column...
topic? relaxation...
         how do you guys relax...
one reply reads...
    oral ***; it's the only thing that works.
boyfriends should be incentive-
(please revise the adverb)
           to do it, government- (again...
-ally what?)
well... well well well...
you know what?!
you really wanna know? or are you
just kidding...
all that foreplay begot me thinking...
how about i... play milking
the cow?
       why should the baby
only **** on the ****?
         ooh... double-whammy-mummy
fetish... imploding spiral!
ooh! double-whammy-mummy!
**** that fetish outstretch of
                   role-play *******...
when lactating... let me suckle...
i want to erase the fact that i was
child in the minds of my mother and
father...
i want to be conscious of being
an infant...
                          i want to see
what it feels like to suckle at what...
my father did in a counter
variation of the biological function...
what? Nigel: Nigh-Gel ain't so hot
now... is he?
                      if i was going to father
a child... i'd like to taste what
the child was having...
so we're not competing for
first spot of: mummy's littler helper.
          
i should seriously stop reading
female columns of female orientated
supplements / magazines...
no, really...
              this is worse than ****...
then again... breast-feeding in
public?
          what could be worse...
scenes of Muslims decapitating
veterans, more roughly than
a butcher aiming at caressing
a torso of meat with a toothed knife
?
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2017
i never understood why some people are so adamant at telling others how to govern, most notably the anglophone world, as if rotherham didn't happen... tyranny this, tyranny that, it's always the opinion of safeguarding foreign investment; people never complain the illegal toys from china, because all inanimate things are always and always will be legal, but people are most of the time: deemed illegal... yes, i'm part of the integration process that failed at its most spectacular: i speak better native spreschen than the native populace, poking fun at dyslexics all the time, watch me having 'un in 'yde park: and let me tell you, if you want to read a proper book, stand over a homeless man with a sign, read it, then look at the homeless man, there's your proust in comic form.

what did costello call the italian grease-*****?
dikes, or was it guineas?
   i can't remember, i do remember that
trigger called rodney *dave
all the time
in only fools & horses -
funny that, you ever watched the box-set?
no, canned, laughter.
    a bit like the office -
     i find canned laughter intimidating,
it's like getting punched in the face,
completely disorientating -
i never seem to know when to laugh,
since i'm fed fake rolexes down hackney market...
if it's funny, i'll tell you,
  but most comedy these days is
for an audience of turkeys, force-feeding them
gags that aren't really there...
    with the amount of canned laughter
going around i'm starting to feel paranoid,
i swear i'm the only person sitting
in a room watching a "comedy" -
but in the background there's that annoying
cloud of laughter,
    i'm starting to wonder: what's more fake,
the gags, or the canned audience?
   too bad for coulrophobia -
   my first impression of the clown,
or should i say, clowns, was in a circus when
the circus still had animal performers,
   and lemonade in plastic bags...
   and me and my grandfather, leaving me
in the audience **** scared of the grandiose
persona of the crowd amused,
while he went off for a glug of ***** on the shy,
there was me, his umbrella,
   and about 10+ clowns crammed into
a fíat 126p kneading in & out of the car...
yes, that dot can change:
     raining from above:
             i did mention that hindi dress
with indicators as not sari but as sārí?
never mind.
           oh right, what was i going to say?
i'm just bored of the "n- word" controversy...
    i'm going to have to start amusing myself...
i'm going to start calling "them"... ha ha...
      nigels;
                      guess the trilling and the double
GG breastplate was too much for some
people learning to, spell...
             i like that... spot me a nigel next time
and let's keep it piquant in terms
   of pickles of the tongue;
ah, almost forgot...
   met an atheist once, who just loved christmas
carols...
    well, no, i never met him, just heard of him,
a real poppy (pop star - of the movement)...
   tell you what... if you said:
oh, i really like that da pacem domine,
  or that salve regina chant of the templars,
i'd be like: cool cool...
     me too...
                 kinda competes with the islamic
    adhan; christmas carols? not so much.
        and do we need to state afrikaan
  with those two there? yes, we know:
it's prolonged, so wouldn't it look more eloquent
in the form of: afrikān? these signs are there,
so why not use them?
          these signs are like the overt-layer
of what's already the hidden layer of vowels
in hebrew...
           the story already begins, with the conundrum
of having names for letters (rather than
syllable constructs) -
               and in hebrew that means,
oh ****... right... a gay beginning...
the two adams...
          א‎ (alef) & ע‎ (ayin) - who predate
cain & abel...
                         and this always bothered me,
two letters which are seemingly vowels, but aren't,
who's mother was kametz -
                   perhaps they are the branching
off into the construct of LΓH,
           that breaking apart of the tetragrammaton?
well, given the prefix rule in the construct
of names for letters (which the latins
barely scratch, because it's a singing language
primarily, hence the ability to convene
            upon encapsulating music in scores) -
what do you get, with the prefix rule
when you construct a word,
   being given: alpha lambda phi alpha beta eta tau?
i.e. what word do you get, when you rid
the following combination of name-to-a-letter
affix?
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2019
.sometimes it pays, to be a little bit paranoid, which implies: you're more attune to certain things...

currently, the parliament of england,
or should i say: the commons
is doing a staged coup to meßmeriße
any member of the public:
watching...

     all it takes is for the b.b.c. journo'
to talk to ol' Nigel...
   storm Nigel looks,
more or less: cucked...
   in the current common cipher
parlance...
         like a schoolboy...
eyes slightly watering,
    cordial,
                  very much: hush-hush...
we're about to see a very
impressive magic trick...

point being: i hope i'm wrong...
but what some call
the government,
and i started calling a brothel /
  fiasco...
    well...
          the no-deal brexit
is off the table...
       now there's a motion
  to ask for an extension...

an extension...
that will last until the 22nd of May...
remind me...
when do the european parliamentary
elections take place?
   23rd of May...
oh... i see...
   wanna see the poker card?

as much as i hate
      jacob rees-mogg
(in the sunday times interview,
he disclosed how
he can't boil an egg...
   and that's when my hatred
ends,
   and... pity begins)...
he is, in all honesty...
   the next alastair campbell...
i.e. the next spin-doctor...
i mean...
  rhetoric is one thing,
rhetoric in poetry is...
not what a rhetorician is
on the political level...

               from the interview
i just got spaghetti,
only now i'm untangling it...
basically...
if all goes to plan...
and the plan being:
    the anglo-ßaß don't want
a "soft" exit from the european
union, i.e. they don't
want the e.u.'s deal...
   a few clues about laws...
and how:
   well...
the european parliamentary
elections take place on the 23rd of May...
the proposed delay lasts until
the 22nd of May...
so... chances are...
   someone from England...
will be elected into european
parliament... there will be an MEP...
or at least...
that's the plan...
   to default on the exit from
the union, on the grounds
that the leaving party,
is still, somehow, represented
in the european parliament...

that's the plan,
   you can spot the schemers
right away...
   the tactic of stalling has paid off...
it's like i'm back in high-school...
i know the sort of people,
i used to talk to them
on the day of hanging in an essay...
they'd put it off,
2 weeks in advance,
until the last day / night...
and pull out an all-nighter...
drop caffeine pills
   and hand in a rushed essay...
but in this scenario:
it's not a grade B
     for making an exit...
but a grade A for making
    a referendum result being
revoked:
   on grounds of democratic
jurisprudence / law...

   unlike with the Irish...
this "2nd referendum" had to become
spaghetti tangled...
it had to have the language
of and for a people,
overtly sensitive,
   in their quest of being
the sole arbitrators of democracy...

so much for the argument:
well, but those unelected officials
in Brussels...
**** me! what about the elected
officials in London?!
it might be that i suffer
from myopia and i can't
the two apart...

    i hope i'm wrong...
but... when those chose the extension
date, from march 29th
to may 22nd...
   with the european elections
being staged on the 23rd of may...
you start to think:
   they're not going for
a straight-out 2nd referendum...
they need to cover it up
in an elaboration
of their Hydra...
      their bureaucratic intricacy weight...
paper trail...
   trial by paper...

where is Nigel the fire-*******?
Nigel the tornado?
   to me... he looks like he just
experienced sensual bliss
with some Dutch *******...
or maybe that's just me...
2 and a half years...
   and there was me,
thinking that only priests
                          were useless:
how many times will
you drill that metaphor
into the minds of people?
   any longer?
              the shittest magic trick
i've ever seen...
at least a magician can do
some sort of magic...
   2000 years later...
  and the wine is still wine...
and the bread is still bread...

   or at least: this is me...
having just started watching
vikings episode 1 - 4 of season 1...
listening to biodrive: psychopath...
i hope i'm wrong...
     i really really do.
I self-indulged—
For me a rare
Lapse, an unexpected
Slide to materialism.
Repenting already,
My selfishness.
I bought myself
Internet Radio.
How could I resist?
E-Tail has made it so easy.
GOTO Amazon Electronics.
•Amazon.com: Electronicswww.amazon.com/electronics-store/b?ie=UTF8... Amazon.com, Inc. Online shopping from a great selection at Electronics Store. ... Electronics. Shop for TV & Video, ... Featured Offers in Electronics ... Electronics Categories • ($“Ka-Ching! Ka-Ching!$ Ads in the middle of the freaking poem!”)
The omnipresent marketplace:
Shop at home in your pajamas,
Pay for it with keystrokes,
Go back to sleep.
FOR SALE:  Hail to thee,
Oh bittersweet Credo of Capitalism!
I finally broke down,
Accepting the fact that
RADIO: once a wireless marvel;
Now, a fading media option,
Its broadcast range
Not only shrunk, but
Signal reception, downright poor.
So, I finally broke down
Bought a radio that actually works.
So what I want to know
Is NPR so full of itself that
They go so far to find some
British-accent guy to read
Sports summaries?
I am listening to some
Pompous Pommy poofter,
At KBOS, Boston, Massachusetts,
Nigel Longshanks, himself,
Recapping “The Run for the Roses,”
Kentucky Derby homestretch,
Missed NBA semi-final foul shot &
The freakish mojo comeback of
Yankee Baseball Bad Boy: A-ROD.
Ryan O'Leary Mar 2019
If Brexit was a card game,
cutting would permitted,
but, only after the deal, in
case the joker was trumps!
Anton Snert May 2020
Brexit. Exit. There ain’t no turning back
Tear down the flag of Europe and hoist the Union Jack.
Throw out all the migrants, lock the borders down
Fill in the channel tunnel and watch the desperate drown

Brexit. Exit. We don’t need the EU
Krauts & Frogs & Belgians, telling us what to do.
Boris & his cronies are planning out our fate
You know that we can trust them to make our country great

Brexit. Exit what was that you say?
The interest rates are rising and you’ve had a cut in pay?
No-one wants to buy our goods the Pound falls through the floor
Boris has gone missing & Nigel’s locked his door

Brexit. Exit. Is this not what you planned?
Fighting with each other for this green and pleasant land?
Well there’s nothing left to fight for, our country’s turned to *****
As the last one leaves ‘Great Britain’ will you please turn off the light..
raven simone Feb 2013
on top of the world
the veritable top
staring down at the others
climbing to the top of the stars
and call on nigel
who didn't believe in you
and call him his best pastry
burnt
a crispy blackened burn
not a heavenly, crackly, toasted burn
a burn that seeps to your core and throughly
blackens all other senses
cutting them off
leaving you with only a sense of deepening despair
as you consciously realize that
you've fallen up the stairs to the top
and are falling down
away from the stars
toward the mud
quite literally... nigel
Jenny Gordon Mar 2018
So there.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMVI)


Yes, fire.  We plunked down on the fur rug thence
Afore her fireplace, and I in betrayl
Neglected to erm, lose me on its hale
And licking flames, e'en that romance' pretense
Was blind to--wherefore? Sandwiched for intents
Twixt two guy friends, I was too dull t'avail
Me even there, yea lost myself in pale
'Scuse in auld lines to Nigel, like's good sense.
Now Sunday watches diesel trucks roar fer
Sweet hours through lonesome country roads 'neath blue
Skies nary cloud is but a ghost in, poor
As saying.  I told a friend I'm as a melon you
Cleaned out, sans Mum, and what as twere
Is left?  LORD, give me Thy fruit.  And kids too?

11Mar18b
*bangs table like a kiddo:  I want marriage and to have babies!* funny how that hits a brick wall and I must look like some danged bulldog at this rate.
nick armbrister Jul 2020
She squirmed and wriggled in absolute anticipation, just loving it, eagerly ready for what would come, love making in the most special and intimate way. Slowly Nigel moved his fingers up and down Stacy’s pussyanthamicatrical, enjoying the tightness of the plastic

though she was moist in her nose. The material of her ******* was soaked by dryness, science reversal. Part of her skirt would be but that didn’t matter. Soon she would be naked, not needing any

second skin to hide her beauty; that was left to her third. They had no secrets or inhibitions. Except skin.
Jane Doe Dec 2013
Nigel had said a lot that day, he spoke of old love and Jesus and other such fun and ****** things, he swore only once, and the lines from the poem stuck out like bright pink bubble gum on the soul of a black shoe, special lines.
Sunday was a long day, I didn't think anything would come of it but he still made me nervous.
We went to the skate park and he sat across from me and we were together and talking about the terrible person who had broken his heart, and how he never really loved her, he loved the idea of her.
I thought of how dumb it was to think you were in love with someone and then only like them for who they seem to be.
The windswept us under a skate jump and we just sat away from it all tucked away, then it started, he was annoying,
His hands found my extremely ticklish sides and he wouldn't let them go. At one point I tried to get out and he pulled me
Onto his lap, I was sitting on him and every inch of my body was screaming about something, about how much I loved this man and
How on Monday nothing would change and we would just go back to being friends, then he grabbed me and we found ourselves cuddling
Out of the wind and my lips were too close to his I opened them as if to prelude to a kiss, that day he had been licking his bottom lip
Lip which was a sign that he wanted to kiss someone, My lips parted and I spoke the line that reminded me of everything I wanted,
"I wanna kiss you like a traffic jam."
He smiled and laughed without moving his head back, "I wanna kiss you so badly, I am willing to chop of my own head and throw it at your lips"
I taunted him, my nerves tingling. This was wrong, or was it... it felt to good to be wrong,
And yet...I challenged him.
"Bring it."
And then we were kissing.
A story about how my ex and I got back together a few years ago, we've broken up since then but this story still makes me smile, we're quite close friends now. :)
Toxic yeti Dec 2018
Poppy
Fell in love with a clean shaven
Yet scruffy looking
Blonde man
Who went by the name
Charles Nigel
Though she was
Meant for a monk.
She was fascinated with the blonde mountaineer.
Even though he drank and cursed
They fell in love
With eachother
But when her bleeding stopped
Poppy told her parents
About the love affair
She was banished
She found a rundown house and brought her lover to.
As a home
And
As a love nest.
Everything was going well
Until he
Slapped her
Though they loved eachother
Dearly
Poppy was abused and controlled
She thought
He lover become a monster
One night while
He drank
She couldn’t
Take
The loneliness
Anymore
She took some poisonous herbs
And
She died in sadness.
Poppy and her unborn child
Were reborn
Repeatedly.
Seeking justice.
Terry Collett Sep 2013
The road up from the farm
the smell of cattle
the sound of them
calling across the fields

and you and Jane
having helped
weigh milk
and feed the cows

took a steady walk
up towards the Downs
the sky blue
the clouds white

the trees
above your heads
crows and rooks
calling downwards

you are doing well
Jane said
for a London boy
anyone would have thought

you've been a country boy
all your life
you smiled
well I just get stuck in

you said
when you haven't got
any cinemas or shops
near by you have to find

some way
to occupy your brain
I've even taken up
bird watching

with a cheap book
I picked up in town
when the bus
took us there last week

she looked happy
her dark eyes
lit up by
the sunlight

her dark hair
well brushed
reflected
the light of sun

she wore that blue dress
with the solitary flower
(the one her gran
had bought)

you liked the way
she walked beside you
the calm manner
as if she'd known you

all her life
I heard you got in a fight
at school on your first day
she said out of the blue

yes
you said
in the greenhouse
with Nigel

he said he didn't like Londoners
and I said too bad
he pushed me
and I socked him

and there it was
but you're friends now?
she asked
o yes after that

we got along ok
you said
what didn't he like
about Londoners?

she asked
he said his parents
said Londoners smelt
and had fleas

and so forth
she frowned  
where did they get
that idea?

they had evacuees
during the War apparently
you said
you reached the hollow tree

by the side
of the track
up the Downs
and entered in

and sat on the ledge
this she called
her secret hideout
few people know it's here

she said
I used to come here
and sit and think
she added

you thought
of the last time
you'd come here
it had rained

and you had run in
out of the downpour
and she had kissed you
and then sat back

surprised by what
she had done
and you both sat there
in silence

until she spoke casually
about the church nearby
and how small it was
and how you both must

go there sometime
there was no rain this time
she sat there
next to you

looking at you uncertain
can I kiss you?
you asked
she looked away

and downwards
then nodded
and lifted her face to you
your lips touched

and you kissed
it was a long kiss
eyes closed
hands touching

bodies near
then you both
broke away
we mustn't tell anyone

she said
we're only 13
and they wouldn't understand
of course not

you said
my lips are sealed
she smelt of apples
her eyes

were searching you
her hand
still touched yours
I'll show you

where the sheep wool
gets stuck
on the barbed wire
at the top

she said
and so you climbed
out the hollow tree
back on the dry

mud track
the rooks above you
the sunlight
on your back.
david badgerow Nov 2011
I had died
my friends had me buried
nine feet underground
in Australia
and they drank to my memory under the Sun.

Nigel was a hired hand
he dug my grave carefully
he talks with an accent and a cigarette
he toils under the Sun for three long days
silver tools chinking away at the hard desert rock.

I took a long ride on the Flying Spoon
up and around the lover's moon
and finally I've come to rest
in this spot under the Sun
nine feet underground
in Australia.
Gabriel Bonney Sep 2019
Nigel seems to be a bit too prideful
I’m afraid he’s the champion
Of this game I’m playing in
I oblige to Nige, and in him I take pride
I try to defy the lies I buy
But with what I’ve become
I’m afriad he’s already won
And there’s nothing that can be done
This is how it is when Nigel takes over. It’s obviously not a good place to be in, letting the bad parts of you tear you down, so let’s try to fight our “Nige”es.

These aren’t in any specific order. Just ideas I’m trying to share
Nigel Finn Nov 2018
Perhaps I am an evil man,
Perhaps I am; I cannot tell;
I try to do the best I can,
But know I do not do it well.

Perhaps there is a space for me
In some unknown corner of hell,
Where hope reigns for eternity,
And nothing ever breaks its spell.

For hope is, when all's said and done,
The worst of things a man can suffer;
It keeps us traipsing, one by one,
From one disaster to another.

Perhaps it's best to just give up;
Immerse myself in a life of sin,
Drink good wine, and raise a cup
To my worst enemy- Nigel Finn.
"Hope, in reality, is the worst of all evils because it prolongs the torment of man"- Nietzsche
Nigel Obiya Jan 2013
And then I saw her
And she was beautiful
Stunning
Smiling
Graceful
And all I kept telling myself was ‘Nigel, do be cool…’
But it was too much and left me a little bit awkward
Like the new kid in school
She spoke with such ease… like she had no idea how amazing she was
I highly suspect that this was because
She knew
And was just basking in the moment
And there I was, calm and collected… on the outside
Mushy and melted… on the inside
I find myself still thinking about her a day later
How can someone be so enchanting?
If she has a man… I hate him
And I hate her
The previous line is not possible though
Her whole aura catches you off guard like a sucker punch
An unexpected blow
I saw her…
And she was beautiful
And as I type this a day later
There is no doubt in my mind about the fact that I want to date her
And I will.
Yeah... so yesterday I went to apply for a new medical card and... well... there was this lady... and... argh! Words don't even do her justice... I'm a wordsmith... but even I can't describe her. I tried though.
Nigel Obiya Nov 2012
You can’t stop me
You can’t
You picked me, shook me up all over the place and attempted to drop me
You couldn't… and still can’t
I’m a genius… **** it!
Even I have tried to explain how I do this creativity thing
…I couldn't
And still can’t
You’re probably thinking “Nigel! Modesty… keep it modest!”
My reply “modesty’s overrated, I will take it there!”
“You wouldn’t!”
“Oh, but I want…”
You see, I’ve always had controversy embedded in me
Actually scratch that… one could say controversy has been me
That friend by my side, always willing to ride
Flipping off these childish fears
Reaching into my big book of bad ideas
And they had to give me this poetic skill
A blade that cuts deep… a blade that I’ve been sharpening for years
And didn't even know it
The ‘bomb’ like those Al Shabastards
Boom! Blow it
You can’t walk away from this, if you lose a limb
Yes I took it there
Like a back hand to the universe asking “who’s your ****?”
Call me daddy
Dress like a gentleman, but underneath all this
I’m simply just bad…. Buddy.
Taylor Jun 2015
Every one of the people I consider friends has taught me something worthwhile, and I want to take a minute to thank them.
To Josh, who taught me that anyone can fight for what they believe in.
To Brandon, who taught me that a smile can be the sunshine to someone's day.
To Nigel, who taught me that anyone can improve, no matter what.
To Noah, who taught me that now matter how big you are in the world, you can be kind to anyone.
To dear Holly, who taught me that every voice deserves to be heard, no matter how small.
And to Thomas. For being my best friend for so many long, happy years.
To the entire class of Lapel, 2015: Thank you.
Nigel Morgan Nov 2012
He explained to me he was a ghost,
for, as a composer, he had died years before.
He then described something of the trauma of his death.
 
It was good to discover I was not alone,
that it could happen and one might really die
​to this creative life.
 
Shall I describe something of the trauma of my dying?
I don’t think you’ll want to hear this, but I’ll tell you.
 
It’s been six months this dying;
I’m not quite dead.
I am still affected by music,
though it’s no longer my own.
If I think about this dying too much
I become distressed.
I can’t believe it’s happened.
 
The point is - if I try to compose
I am overcome with fatigue.
I can’t keep focused
on the problem of a piece
before fatigue sets in,
interrupts.
 
I should
place a line under what I’ve done.
It’s no little achievement this body of work.
Some days I like to imagine a monograph:
Nigel Morgan 
Metanoia to Sounding the Deep
(1988 – 2013).*
And what is there to say?
What aspect of musical invention
will the writer investigate and critically present?
I was once told I had
an experimental edge.
Well, what does it mean?
I’ve mined that seam;
I’ve been convinced; I’ve held the faith,
believed in what I did, the way I did it.
But faith has run its course
and every day that passes
the future retreats.
There is no music waiting in the wings.
I am tired, tired of it, tired with it all.
Jenny Gordon Mar 2019
"...nothing really matters [anymore]--"


(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCIII)


Where blue heavns softly yield to orange' detail
And robins 'gain renew dear Mavis' sense
Of April gloaming with that song fr'intents,
E'en breaking off to scold as wont, the frail
Warmth sifted out while lo, a plane t'avail
'Non passes over, sparrows gaily fence
This calm with chatter, traffic likeas thence
Wont: I would sleep; yes, laugh, in sheer betrayl.
Don't let me cull to mind what tis as twere.
Who gives a hoot tis Friday night?  I do
Not care so much if I could just, in poor
Excuse, forget, and breathe.  Pink 'gins tae woo,
Now gathring on the East, and Nigel's tour
Of music oddly plays, the Scriptures too.

22Mar19c
Oh! leave me here to fade into nothingness is it?
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oozJH6jSr2U

— The End —