"normans" poems
oh such few words are minded,
no bravery apart
from the homosexuals
as skeletons in the chronicles of Narnia
being discovered among
the skeletons of tyrannosaurus rex
making a bed with its wheelchair able
paws - and the flag of the Cymru
fire-breathing turtles before excavation
and the myths of the mandarin too;
now tell me the sub-human plot with the
Normans when the anglo-sax reigned
to teach me to unlearn english
to avoid assimilation,
like you taught your former colonial subjects
to integrate and to alievate keeping assimilation:
which you taught to unlearn the mother's
tongue and learn a discrimination
against furthering the multi-cultural project...
which you taught to integrate and
keep at loss a sacred soul of never assimilating
akin to jew...integrate i must,
assimilate i care not for should i be totally
albino or asserting bleached with peace:
albino oder beteuern gebleicht mit frieden.
integrate i must to utilise the coinage
but to assimilate i must turn into a reggae african
with roots in the Caribbean than the Ivory Coast...
and god willing i will not claim to be
an arab's brother to settle karma over
uplifting the curse over Mecca with ibn Saud's
clock-tower; burn!!!
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 11:07 PM UTC
Golden sand tickling your toes
Pebbles gleaming, glistening, slushing
When the tide comes back to shore.
Sand dunes hiding wildlife,
Multitudes of migratory birds,
Safely returning every year to
This beautiful, marshy paradise.
Skies so orange, pink and red,
An artists palette of natural art
Greet you at sunrise and sunset.
***** kippers, cod and plaice
Shrimps, cockles and whelks,
Mushy, minty peas and chips,
The show at the end of the pier.
The lifeboats and their hardy crew
Risking their lives to save others,
When visitors run into trouble
At the mercy of the cold North Sea.
Crumbling coastlines, cliff walks
And nature reserves full of the
Scent of wild garlic and herbs,
Norfolk lavender. Steam engines,
Fishing boats, river boats,
Paddling boats and cycles
Take you on journeys
Around the Broads or
Past the famous Castles.
Tigers and leopards peer
Through the bars of their
Zoo homes by the sea.
Easterly winds that bite your
Fingers as they whistle and
Howl through the City.
Guest houses closed for
The winter as you stroll
The lonely promenades
Breathing in the air.
Queen Bodicea, Normans,
Vikings and Romans all
Marched through this
Historical landscape
And yet we remain
Stalwart and strong
Proud of our heritage,
Our roots, our birthplace
There's only one place
Better than Norfolk,
And that's the
Beautiful Ozarks.
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 6:56 PM UTC
paris...
no american in sight, or how i just see utopia...
songs on the steps of sacré-cœur, kissing
an american girl, then cheese and wine
next to the Eiffel tower, laughing, joking, trailing
and tailing off with talk of nabokov,
the nightclub scene with ping-pong ecstasy dances,
youth, youth, youth,
of youth that congregated once in those places,
parisian girls congregating for a game french hushes
with the chinese whispers and anglo comic charades
learned from the conquering normans...
paris back then, what wouldn't i have given for it,
but i learned of starving north,
where lecture upon lecture repeated david hume,
and i said:
it's the 21st century after all!
make edinburgh the new paris!
oh paris, but paris stay intact,
with the eiffel tower in my palm,
where all love met no love
but love met love all the more fictive,
written with a million reincarnations
that once told a tale of warring fractions known
as factions,
and it was told so: paris of my past where
i walked the streets with the compass height
ordaining coordinates that the tower was
to thus learn:
in times of panicky sentencing est mort,
people congregate in hawkish gaze
at monuments of their bone and marrow
turned into cement and irons of scaffold,
and there they congregate to ogle a new hope
when encouraged by a new fascination
of those that are less amazed by the phonetic
simplicity of animals than those who keep them.
oh paris, how i too wished things would have
remained a truer you begging truancy
from international press coverage,
how that one summer i became embedded
in taking to sleep on rock that felt like
woollen napkins filled with duck quills.
and in the memoriam altar two boys played
this song: as entombed by the title.
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 8:46 PM UTC
Mr Finn wrote
on the blackboard
about 1066.
I sat watching
what he wrote
in his neat hand.
The Battle of Hastings
was underlined
in red chalk.
I'd been
to Hastings once
with my grandparents
sat on the beach
with bucket and *****
and ice cream
the hot
orange sun
in the sky.
King Harold
got an arrow
in his eye
the teacher
had written.
I tried to imagine that
bad enough getting
a fly in the eye
or piece of grit
but an arrow
O ****
I mused.
William the Conqueror
won the battle
brought the Normans
with him I read.
Dennis next to me
whispered there are
some Normans
up our street
tough buggers
he said.
One of the sisters
is on the game
my mother said
Dennis informed.
I tried to guess
the game
that sister played
but gave up
maybe rounders
or netball
I mused.
The teacher stood
by the blackboard
and talked
about the battle
the weapons used
the numbers killed
and what
happened after.
Dennis talked on
in an undertone
of the Norman mother
slept apparently
with her husband's
brother.
Apr 9, 2017
Apr 9, 2017 at 10:04 AM UTC
A street, ruined by Council workers
Never to be repaired.
A church, the dominion and focal point
Where only Satanists laid claim.
Two shops, one sold rancid
The other, overpriced.
Five hundred people, bored and doomed
Loyalists, who took pride in their version
Of Pandemonium, of Lucifer's funhouse
Of this cesspool of glorified
Rubble, this wasteland
Where only those who had given up,
Or that knew they would die
Slowly and agonisingly should, or could survive.
One castle, where brave Normans
Would frown and disown such a place,
And leave, rather than stay in such a disgrace.
To this place and it's inmate's I say
"you are nothing if not ordinary".
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 4:16 PM UTC
take money out of the equation, and sack all the waiters and return to tribalism, the former statement of non-intellectual socialism, the sort of inherent: in us there is a togetherness, no more service from strangers in the hierarchy of enriching a piece of metal or a wavy rectangle of paper with “necessary” symbolism of authority of the status quo... but that’s not going to happen... the pickpocket picts are no more... the normalising normans glared at the hastings pinnacle and integrated with the saxon women... the saracens became surnames in poland... actually that last one is very true... a branch of my family has the surname saracen.
so i’m reading this article
and i’m hardly debasing myself,
it’s not that i’m referring
to sartre’s negation of certain things
whether animate and essential or
inanimate and existential... in that formula:
i deny therefore i am... because i can’t deny my existence...
and 2000 years down the line i’ll be pitchfork
argument in an atheist’s mouth anyway (nothing is certain in the realm of cognition, hence the cartesian invocation of doubt),
it's not like i'm referring to inappropriate pronoun usage...
so **** a doodle do... twang the strings on the mandolin...
i’m referring to this classical reference of the shy literary figure
unable to spark conversation with strangers...
god, i really love strangers, and talking to them!
why? there is no personal history, there’s no past,
there are no reference points... it’s just the moment and nothing else,
the perfect anonymity project...
not the matrix philosophy (easily invoked because
it has a flimsy plot-line and loads of images...
just what the doctor ordered for the english speaking masses
with a very naked orthography - i.e. if it’s on the internet
it’s not “real life...” as is this computer i’m using
it’s not even here!)
of using the deep web to join the rats and etc.;
i love talking to strangers, i can forget myself
and enter the realm of discretion about how within randomisation
of eggshell, yoke and cockroach there’s also the randomisation
of the interactants to balance out the need for a theological unit, god...
it’s great... it’s like... it’s like... life.
defining the genre of biography proper? never backtrack...
always sidetrack... i can’t be bothered living a life with cocktail parties
and romps and romantic comedies to look forward to
once all the animalism becomes domesticated and a
gym-session complaints column in a newspaper.
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 7:54 PM UTC
The armies gathered on the vast expanse, poised for battle. Shields were raised, and the blades of their swords glistened in the morning sun. Led by the knights of Arthur's table, they would be invincible, to fight for king and country..........so we thought. After all, it seemed like every country, mostly Normans and Saxons, wanted to kick Britain's ass.(and still do).
I was seven years old, as best I can remember. The 'vast expanse' was our backyard in that cul-de-sac in Corpus Christi, Texas, back in the 1940's. With 16 kids on that short block, it didn't take long to organize armies in order to re-enact the movie we saw earlier at the Saturday Morning Matinee at the then Ayers Theatre, whether it be about knights of the realm, or a Roy Rogers western.
Bless those days before televsion took its unyielding hold. A time when we could let our imaginations run rampant, making up our own scenarios, emulating our movie heroes, and there were many, and most of all, "playing outside," something we don't see much of......... anymore.
No one ever got hurt in those weekend battles. Of course, mom and dad, along with the other parents on that block kept the 'silent' watch on us, intervening only if they felt it was getting too loud or rough. I sit here, in my chair, recallng my dad saying, "At least, if we can hear them, we know where they are."
Our shields and swords were mostly made from poster and cardboard, sometimes rolled up newspapers.
copyright: r.riddle 11-17-2016
Nov 18, 2016
Nov 18, 2016 at 8:28 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
Benny held
his conker
from old string
Derek aimed
at it with
his conker
then brought his
down with speed
whacked Benny's
conker in
a wide arc
twirling round
Benny's hand
has it spilt?
Derek asked
Benny looked
at his brown
conker no
it's ok
Benny said
my go now
Derek held
his conker
from new string
Benny aimed
and whacked it
into two
and it flew
to the ground
that was my
fiftenner
Derek said
he picked up
the pieces
and walked off
Benny watched
him go off
and put his
conker in
his pocket
and walked back
into school
as the bell
was ringing
for lessons
history
with Mr Finn
The Normans
William
the wild eyed
Conqueror
just like him.
Mar 13, 2017
Mar 13, 2017 at 4:53 AM UTC
i haven't wrote to you in awhile. actually I don't think you ever wrote me back or maybe you did and i never got it. maybe that guy i saw getting coffee the other day somehow got his hands on it. we haven't talked to each other in awhile either so let me clue you in really quick. i just started doing this thing by myself where i see people on the street and i come up with stories about them. this guy was named Norman. Norman had problems internally that he never really talked about but when things went bad Norman would flirt with his coworkers even though he knew he had someone at home to come to. Norman would only do it every blue moon and the second he did he instantly thought to himself that this was worst idea ever so he would sweep it under the table and pretend it didn't happen. one day Normans wife found out and things hit the fan. instead of trying to fix it Norman went and messed even more things up. he started drinking. he spent all his money. he said every bad thing about the person he loved with all his heart. Norman ****** up and ****** up even more. Norman didn't know what to do. Norman couldn't sleep. the only thing he could do was get coffee at his wife's favorite coffee shop when no one else was around. he couldn't go out on dates. he couldn't stop comparing everyone to her. he couldn't stop crying. Norman kept saying sorry and he still saying sorry. actually I'm not even entirely sure Norman got your letter because i never did. you see, I lied no one was there when i got coffee. the place was empty. i got your favorite coffee though. i really hope you write me back. hell i hope I send this to you. i think Normans getting better. not really. I'm not entirely sure. i just think he's starting to realize that not a lot things matter since his wife isn't around anymore. he wants to cannonball into her life like she did his but I'm not sure that'll work. Norman is very unhappy but he's trying. he's working at least. he's not really sleeping as much anymore but that's okay because that gives him more time to work. maybe he should relax though. i don't know the guy isn't even real.
love, N
Jan 6, 2017
Jan 6, 2017 at 1:33 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Coffee Shop Darwinians
“We’ll set a fine, new, well-oiled machine in place
of the old one and this time we’ll put the Normans
into it instead. That’s what justice means, isn’t it?”
-Saxon Monk in Becket
No, of course it didn’t have to happen
We’re not campus coffee shop Darwinians
Determined that five innocents needed to die
Within the gears of our new, well-oiled machine
And that more should come, chanting “O Machine!” 1
“Follow the Science!” and “Learn. To. Code!”
As they sacrifice themselves to a Tweeter-sanctioned
Infestation of Manifest Destiny
And I’ve got a feeling, as you might agree:
No one on either side quotes Dostoyevsky
1 “The Machine Stops,” E. M. Forster
Jan 18, 2021
Jan 18, 2021 at 8:59 AM UTC