"oxford" poems
Many people write a "bucket list" of things they want to do before they die. Now in my 80th year, I don't have the time or the energy to do things that others might aim for, but I have during my life visited many places, seen many things, and enjoyed many experiences that I would have been sorry to miss. There have also been some events that I would have preferred not to experience, but which have enriched my life in different ways, and which I remember with a kind of sad affection.
Some of these are very personal to me, and would not be interesting to most people, but read the note if you wonder why I chose them.
Here then is what I might call
My Reverse Bucket List
Towns and cities – architecture & atmosphere
Barcelona, Spain
Venice, Italy
Oxford, England
Jerusalem, Israel
Luxor, Egypt
Varanasi, India
Hiroshima, Japan
Pompeii, Italy
Other locations
Galápagos islands, Ecuador
Great Barrier Reef, Australia
North Woolwich, London
Churches
St Paul's Cathedral, London
Sagrada Familia, Barcelona
Coventry Cathedral
Córdoba Cathedral, Spain
Blue Mosque, Istanbul
Other structures
Taj Mahal, Agra
Auschwitz concentration camp, Poland
Royal Festival Hall, London
London underground system (because it was the first, and I rode it for a long time). Also the more splendid underground railways of Mexico City and Moscow.
Avebury Ring, Wiltshire, England (the largest prehistoric stone circle in the world, and much more primitive than Stonehenge)
Bayeux Tapestry
"Angel of the North" statue, Gateshead, England
"Christ the Redeemer" statue, Rio, Brazil
Events
Messiah at Royal Festival Hall, Feb 1959, with the girl later to be my wife
St John's night, Spain, early 1990s (?)
Death and funeral of Diana, Princess of Wales, Aug 1997
Oberammergau passion play, 2010
Destruction of World Trade Centre, Sept 2001
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 9:16 AM UTC
The only proper way to be a conversationalist is to convince yourself that you’re boring. If you can strip back the hard shell of the ego, and look down on yourself from the eyes of an apathetic God, you will likely (and hopefully) see just how boring you really are. It isn’t a sin to be boring, in fact there are many advantages to honest self-depreciation.
The main advantage, is the way you approach a conversation. “Interesting” people find it difficult to silence the affected score-keeper that dominates their internal dialogue and ruins any chance of an honest and engaged conversation. It is the voice that reminds you to show interest with your body language, and keep a dumb happy gaze laser pointed into their eyes. This dialogue is obsessed with authenticity and genuine conversation, and therefore a natural sociopath.
Luckily, you are the stunning definition of boredom, an extracted dictionary cut-out of un-interesting, and nobody could possibly give a rats-ass what you have to think—least of all the Voice that controls the inner-dialogue. That Voice has packed it up to find a more interesting vessel…maybe the person standing across from you in conversation.
Because you are so boring, and they are the Oxford personification of intellect and fascination, you should pay careful attention to what they say—no time to worry about how they’re perceiving your reaction to whatever it is they’re saying. You are too busy to notice what sort of body language you may or may not be using to validate their half of the conversation. Instead, your time is spent carefully hanging on their every word, digesting it and projecting the whole bit into a colourful scene in your imagination. Instead, you’re too lost in the excitement of their infinitely more interesting life and impossible wealth of knowledge offered to you with each word that they speak. Instead, you are actually listening to the words that come out of their mouth and not the ones that speak to you from the inside of your own mind.
This is what it means to be in conversation. This was the point of our social nature. And in a world of needy social-media junkies grabbing at the cuffs of potential ‘followers’ and ‘likes’ and trendy passer-by’s, the last thing anyone needs is the high-pitched whine of another “interesting” millennial.
Lucky for you, you boring sack of yawning sloths, that you aren’t interesting too.
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 6:13 PM UTC
Oxymoron
Oxford *****
Oxford-y *****
Moronesque
Marked on *****
Boron *****
Down on the floor on
Do the dinosaur-on
*****
Water pour on
Out the door on
Oh baby
Give me more on
Adore on
Implore on
Slam a door on a
*****
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 7:55 AM UTC
i've moved past my belief
in the Christian trinity...
for me...
the meditation stands
on the pivot of
the following translation
the hexagon,
start of david -
which translates
as the Holy Ghost -
which denotes
a congregation...
the pentagon?
of the befitting analogy
to the five senses...
the "son of man" -
or simply...
the myopia of man
having to excavate
the sixth sense
using telescopes,
microscopes, the like...
and, finally?
on a hand of five extensions,
there are four...
the square...
Y H
⠁⠑ read clockwise
like English traffic
H W on a roundabout.
which? denotes the father...
if the Hebrews "think" they
can hide their vowels?
the Latin answer is...
to interpolate Braille into
their language...
and Emperor Nero would have
appreciated it...
whether with, or without
the Byzantine propaganda machinery
of the nevus testamentum...
and it wasn't a propagandist
piece?
how much longer did the eastern
Empire, outlive the Western
empire, when the onslaught
by the Ottoman's reached
Constantinople?!
the Greek were craving
a cultural revival!
they believed the Romans
to have origins in Troy!
they plaid the weakest cultural
card of Judaism,
revamping it into Christianity...
hell... that's what i believe...
and i'm not about to meet
a Jehovah's Witness propagandist,
or some aged Pakistani
citing the Quran on a park
bench...
or some Scientologist
on Oxford St. with his wacky
machine...
or some pseudo Hare Krishna
monk with a book about
some guru, pushing it like
marijuana...
to change my mind on what
i'm digesting!
plus?
⠽ ⠓
Æ ( read anti-clockwise)
⠓ ⠺
fits in perfectly into the Adam
and Eve narrative -
as with all mythology -
given the extent of time...
nuance, metaphor...
abbreviation...
ars poetica!
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 8:32 PM UTC
En l’an trentiesme do mon aage
Que toutes mes hontes j’ay beues…
Pipit sate upright in her chair
Some distance from where I was sitting;
Views of the Oxford Colleges
Lay on the table, with the knitting.
Daguerreotypes and silhouettes,
Her grandfather and great great aunts,
Supported on the mantelpiece
An Invitation to the Dance.
. . . . .
I shall not want Honour in Heaven
For I shall meet Sir Philip Sidney
And have talk with Coriolanus
And other heroes of that kidney.
I shall not want Capital in Heaven
For I shall meet Sir Alfred Mond.
We two shall lie together, lapt
In a five per cent. Exchequer Bond.
I shall not want Society in Heaven,
Lucretia Borgia shall be my Bride;
Her anecdotes will be more amusing
Than Pipit’s experience could provide.
I shall not want Pipit in Heaven:
Madame Blavatsky will instruct me
In the Seven Sacred Trances;
Piccarda de Donati will conduct me.
. . . . .
But where is the penny world I bought
To eat with Pipit behind the screen?
The red-eyed scavengers are creeping
From Kentish Town and Golder’s Green;
Where are the eagles and the trumpets?
Buried beneath some snow-deep Alps.
Over buttered scones and crumpets
Weeping, weeping multitudes
Droop in a hundred A.B.C.’s
10.6k
Yesterday
Was in the ecstasy
Of realizing that
We were
Those two
On earth
Who liked bitter gourd curry
Cooked with coconut milk ….
Remember?
Think it was
In the sixth life.
We were
Two nascent bitter guards
On the pandal
Spread in the northern corner
Of the farmland
Belonging to a grandmother
In a village in Mississippi
Who used to attend to the orchards
Sitting in a wheelchair.
We had
Watched earth
And peeked
At the sky
Hanging from the same stalk
The scar left
From your tight clasp on my thigh
Scared
After spotting a double tailed pest
Is still there.
The pleasure of that pain
Makes me tearful now.
I am like the faces
In the house of deceased
Sobbing
At times
Bursting into tears
The next moment
Holding back
After a while.
Sometimes
I am all the faces
In the house of the dead
Tears have
Nothing to do with them.
Sometimes
The wedding house
Will laugh and laugh
Till its cheeks hurt.
Just like you.
My dear bitter guard,
When will we
Go back to that
Pandal in Mississippi
Where we had pulsated
From a single stalk?
Aren’t we the ones
To offer obsequies
To that grandmother
Who looked after us
With pots
Of wholehearted love?
Translator - Shyma P
Shyma P : Works in Payyanur College, Payyanur. Translator and film critic. Has translated poems and articles in Malayalam Literary Survey, The Oxford India Anthology of Malayalam Dalit Literature, online magazines like Gulmohar, Readleaf Poetry as well as scripts and subtitles for short films.
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 8:43 PM UTC
My 2 Cents
“the advocacy of women’s rights on the grounds of political, social, and economic equality to men.”
Let me start by mentioning that I don’t usually get involved with political matters, but in this case, I’d say it’s more of a basic human rights matter.
I’m a man, and I’m a feminist.
I was lucky enough to grow up in a home with three women; my mother and two older sisters. Growing up with them gave me an enormous amount of respect for women, (even though I may have lost a certain amount of socially expected masculinity along the way), and their current lives continue to increase my respect for the opposite gender.
My oldest sister is leaving to study abroad at Oxford in less than a week to major in philosophy. Philosophy. She also graduated high school with a 4.0 and was involved in power lifting competitions and is enlisted in ROTC. Simply put, she’s an animal. She’s worked hard her entire life and I’d hate to see a world that put that hard work to waste.
My other sister is working three jobs to pay her way through college and is planning to major in psychology. I’m always envious of her work ethic and level of commitment to not only her education, but to her friends and family as well.
My mother has been my backbone since I was a child. She was always the one I turned to in times of trouble, and continues to be. She works hard everyday, while going through mentally straining marriage problems, and comes home and still asks me about my day. She has given me nothing but unconditional love for my entire existence.
For these reasons, it boggles my mind why anyone would ever be anti-feminism. I am genuinely confused as to why, because their bodies are different, women get less privileges, respect, opportunities, and even money. I just don’t get it.
I am also disgusted that women are seen by most men as walking ****** organs. l will admit genuine guilt to using the number scale to “rate” women. It’s something I grew up with, but now it sickens me. Assigning a number to a woman based on your misguided views on how she should look, whether you would **** her, is something I find repulsive. There’s nothing wrong with admiring the opposite *** but no one gives a **** about your stupid opinion, especially the woman.
I hope someday if I ever have a daughter that she will have the privilege of living in a country of gender equality, tolerance, and open-mindedness.
Anyway, I just wanted to put my two cents in.
I am a man.
I am a feminist.
Peace.
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 9:46 PM UTC
~ ~ (on front of envelope)
La lettre que voici, ô bon facteur,
Portez-la jusqu'à la ville de NICE,
Aux ALPES-MARITIMES (06).
Donnez-la, s'il vous plaît, au Receveur
Des Postes, au bureau de NOTRE DAME.
(Son nom? C'est MONSIEUR LUCIEN COQUELLE.
Faut-il vraiment que je vous le rappelle?)
Cette lettre est pour lui et pour sa femme.
I won't lead English postmen such a dance;
Just speed this letter on its way to FRANCE.
Sender's address you'll find on the reverse.
~ ~ (and on the back)
At Number 7 in St Swithun's Road,
Kennington, Oxford, there is the abode
Of me, Paul Hansford, writer of this verse.
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
For non-speakers of French, the first bit goes approximately -
"Dear Postman, Please take this letter to the town of Nice, in the département of Alpes-Maritimes, and give it to the postmaster at the Notre-Dame office. (His name? It's Lucien Coquelle. Do I really need to remind you?) This letter is for him and his wife."
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 3:23 PM UTC
If Nigeria was a book,
It will be as big as an oxford English dictionary
Cause, our problems alone will be too many to write down
There won’t be any table of contents
Just like that old song goes, “everywhere jaga jaga”.
If Nigeria was a book,
Readers will never be leaders
Instead, they become cheerleaders when it’s election season flaunting brooms and umbrellas over their heads.
If Nigeria was a book,
The book itself will be imported
Each word will be written in red
If you get to read in between the lines you will find corruption on every single page.
If Nigeria was a book,
You wouldn’t want to read it, you would say “nothing come out”
But yet
The book defines us
It is our home
It is our pride
Our remedy is still in the book.
Fortune Maine
Nov 23, 2018
Nov 23, 2018 at 7:11 AM UTC
This isn't the freedom I want to call freedom...
because this freedom isn't the freedom our great freedom fighters died for in the Years of apartheid.
This freedom is not the same freedom the generation of 1985 wished for and and dreamed of...
freedom died along with our long gone heroes,Nelson Mandela, Walter susilu and Solomon.it died with our young brothers and sisters in sharpville!
it isn't freedom if we are still afraid to walk out of our houses at 6am
it is not freedom if we can't let go of what the white men did to our black men and woman
this freedom isn't the freedom defined in Oxford dictionaries....
children are free to smoke
men are free to ****
woman are free sell their bodies
and we yet we are free?
this freedom isn't free!
we are not free because we are racist
we are selfish
we are foolish
we lack knowledge and we are full of ignorance!
we are not free,this isn't the time to celebrate freedom but to fight for the freedom we've lost.
-27thApril2016.
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 4:07 PM UTC
The literati are moaning
about the crowning
of a comical smiley-face
with tears of joy
springing from its eyes
as Oxford Dictionaries 2015
"Word of the Year"
it's historic
indicative of a generation
raised on media shorthand
though some people think
the distillation of thought
to acronyms, symbols, emoji
is a bad thing too
but in these icons
heavy black heart
face throwing a kiss
reversed hand with middle finger extended
even the simple : )
I see emotion
stripped bare
the whole gorgeous
heart-rending, horrible
hateful range of it
illustrating the dark
and light
of who we are
as a human race
So I say hail and welcome
to the "tears of joy" emoji
may his vivid counterpoint
shine around the world
eclipsing all the words
we've learned this year
for hate.
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 11:29 AM UTC
The clock gets me.
It comes to me in the middle of the night
Pulls back the sheets and says, "Hey fucko."
Then it lifts open my sobby wet sand-encrusted lids,
It knows when I'm trying at sleep, pumping quarters
Like I was swallowing yawns, sometimes I try to squint
Harder and take a dream to the next level, whatever
The next level is. It's like Friday night when I wanted to go
Out to do something, whatever something is.
Because I know that if I don't I'll miss that thing that's so
Important that if I were to miss it the clock wouldn't come for me
Again.
And on Tuesday's when I'm knotting a dream around 2 o' clock
In the morning, my web-footed adventure, say, killing your
Boyfriend, say
Fighting the Nazis, say,
Rediscovering that you sent nudie pics to
That rando guy we met in that club that lives
in Prague-
I throw the clock at the ******* wall.
Because who knows, I make the bed wrong
Or maybe I don't cook right, or look right, or
Smile the right way at the right
Time. And you start thinking that I have to die.
The bane of my existence is an imagined feat in your
Walnut-sized brain, slowly numbing us while we're
Supposed to be, say
Listening to the rich, Oxford voice of
David Attenborough.
Instead you're thumbing through that index
of CVS cashiers, just trying to find a scruffy face
To flip your digits to, your homemade justification. It becomes
A feat, an unjust cause of mine to
Get it right, that imaginative and artificial bit you've
Been sewing up Monday twilight.
That's when I go out and jaw your sister, somewhere between
A smirk on your face and a bit of anger at the end of your sentences.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 3:19 PM UTC
High on the O2:
Red Rossopomodoro, Wagamama,
and on the bus shelter, Marc Jacobs,
and again higher,
Habitat,
then Metroline moves past.
It's the 113
to Oxford Circus,
and the 13 to Victoria:
Thrilla Lives On,
shouts the slogan,
while National Express has
All Set For Take-Off.
They're gone...
It calms
empties,
nothing much
just the red lidless eyes
of cars
two, three, four dozen pairs
hover
over the asphalt road.
Where...
where am I?
Ahhh, yeah,
in the Oriental Star,
the road seen from a table and stool,
waiting
for food.
Where have I hailed from?
My lover's womb.
No, no
NOT THAT!
The North Star, yes:
A pub on the Finchley Road,
Where Tottenham beat Liverpool 4-1
A pyrrhic victory!
Over a couple of beers.
Warm years, and tears.
A sense of place,
a home, a nest,
Receding in the traffic
Of a busy road,
Waiting on noodles.
Nov 10, 2017
Nov 10, 2017 at 6:15 PM UTC
grow a beard...
buy a jazz double-bass...
start stroking it...
attempt to look
pensive...
and then write some
Cockney
comedy... and?
**** Oxford.
**** 'em good;
can't be,
******* arsed...
where's a *******
jazz double bass
the kind i need to stand up
to play?!
where?!
gone, "nowhere"...
Achilles would sooner
find a tortoise,
you ******* half-whit
bull bullock base catcher...
yummy yummy...
no ******* double whammy
if there ain't
a greasy dough nnnnnnnn
in my mouth oozing a squid's
mating call...
from the Jules Verne estimate
of how...
big the ******* could become...
oh please...
**** is a conjunction
word...
akin to and...
spew effect,
regurgitation, founded upon...
so...
so... farting in a public place
is less offensive than
uttering a word of oath?!
**** me...
more ****
less ***** images...
i guess that's how you
habitually attack Christian
h'america...
**** **** **** and impose
a curb of a ***** show me the puppies
kitchen ***** Kentucky style
****
******* wankers...
dreaming up some ****
in long lost Cockney rhyming
slang for some:
willkommen zu verirrt amstetten...
....................
...................................
..............
................
SCHMILE...
boorish ******* gnomes dancing
the leprechaun gamblers' dance...
skivvy *************
sure...
censor the words...
but god forbid you censor
showing all the *******
because... if you do?
guess what...
i might forget my farming impulse...
of imagining a
a cleavage to also imply
a pork buttocks...
funny...
how a show of cleavage is synonymous
with a show of pork
buttocks...
and then i begin thinking of
milking...
which throws a ***** **** out
with the baby and the bathwater
and... i'm shinging...
what's that name of the place?!
New Orleans!
yeah...
like some minstrel in that
part of the world that
part of the world that's
a ********
what?!
you spew on me...
i spew on you...
we can at least exchange...
what we "love" about each other...
but i implore!
i implore!
visit Warsaw!
alone... no, not with other people...
ah-loan - a-l-o-n-e....
i'll be your companion,
when you peer at your shadow,
and attempt, to pretend,
to disappear.
Sep 11, 2018
Sep 11, 2018 at 8:48 PM UTC
If you were literature
I'd tattoo you all over me
and let you seep through my skin
filling my veins with your words.
There are a lot of pieces that make up the English language:
capitals, semicolons, that ******* Oxford comma
but you,
you give english a definition.
Love, when you speak to me
I see the word bubbles levitating above your head
pinning down each sentence with fragments of your voice
your lips form stories,
the kind I actually like reading
the poems that leave me wanting more
and trust me
I DO WANT MORE.
But I'm Dr. Suess
and you are Shakespear.
I'm sorry, I'm not what you deserve
that my lines are crooked
and pages wrinkled
that you deserve heavenly white sheets
to share the curvature of your letters with
If only I could hold the spiral notebook that is you
caress your leather cover
I would whisper all the definitions
inscribed in my brain associated with your existence,
trying to untangle the string of words you knotted.
But reality isn't written.
I cannot serenade you with my words
you will forever be on top of this modern caste system
and there are no ladders
how can I talk to you at a football game
when you're the one on the field
that today is survival of the fittest,
if someone were to take you into their arms
it would boost their reputation,
but you are not my reputation
You are the language I want to speak
You are the lyrics to every song
You are all my favorite words.
And yes, I may just be the
routinely period at the end of your sentences
and the chances of being with you shouldn't even be considered
"chances"
but since someone such as you exists,
I can promise.
I can promise you
all these imperfect sweet nothings
until my pen runs out of ink.
Always.
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 11:58 PM UTC
I once was told
In Broooklyn New York
I had a lackadaisical attitude.
It was the first time I was hearing
That whimsical adjective !
So lackadaisical I was !
Looked like an illness
The way they said it
It seemed I could contaminate.
So I stopped a few seconds to think and dissect the word
Lackadaisical
I lacked a daisy somewhere !
Sounded like I lacked a fuse in my brain !
Next thing I know I was checking the word
In my reminiscences of the Oxford English Dictionary
Or may be it was Webster's
And it said in black and white ferns I lacked purpose
I wasn't properly lazy, I just lacked directions
I lacked enthusiasm, stamina
I was devoid of zest
I was blasé
Insouciant
Careless.
Translated into more French I was nonchalant and better said
Jemenfoutiste.
It was during an encounter group
And they threw that lackadaisical attitude ******** to my face
And guess what i did ?!
I just kept on smiling
Jemenfoutiste to the extreme.
And they kept saying
See what I mean, you 're so ******* lackadaisical , man !
You're so pathetic ! You're so apathetic !
It was Winter in America like Gil Scott-Heron would say
And it felt so good, so warm,
As far as I could see,
To be called lackadaisical
And not laconical.
I not only lacked a daisy
I lacked a bunch of tropical flowers indeed !
Like bouganvillea, orchid or hibiscus
Anthurium, jasmine or bromeliad
I lacked sun and sea
Strange as it was
Even though I was near Atlantic Avenue, Coney Island
So I was lackaseacal and lackasuncal
But what I didn't lack was ants in my pants
And until today they make me dance
My forever lackadaisical dance.
Aug 27, 2019
Aug 27, 2019 at 12:59 AM UTC
They’re recruiting me
MI6
And the CIA
Land sakes alive
Dual citizenship
No hindrance to me
Helps to have a major in Slavic languages
And an Oxford degree
How they latched on to me
I don’t really know
That Dad worked at
Arlington might have put them in the know
Interesting life choices being offered
Investment banking has its rewards
That’s on the table
I’m inclined to VC
I could have a capital time
Avoid DC and endless bureaucracy
See the world
It’s nice to be wanted
I feel like the girl everyone wants to dance with
I’m still at the prom
I’ll ask my parents
I know they’ll have thoughts
Oct 21, 2018
Oct 21, 2018 at 10:55 AM UTC
My dad dug his foot into my back like a shovel breaking soil.
If I do enough push ups, can I put a smile on your face.
If I move the earth for you, will meteors stop me.
I carried sparklers in my hands while cannon-kisses erupted in the sky,
and my cousin swore that I'd hurt myself.
But I explained to him that history repeats itself,
and that my hurt is unavoidable.
Like the hug of a grieving grandmother,
and the staring off into space,
as her tears stain my white oxford lie.
There's no way to get out of this place.
Finding new ways to live in death.
I don't want to be cool. I don't want to be cool.
And her fingers left a ******* on my back.
And my mouth melted onto hers.
I love her until my eyes **** in sleep.
And it's deep. And it's deep.
The swirl of the ceiling sank down
like a child being drowned by his mother.
And I missed my brother, and I missed it all.
I don't want to be cool. I don't want to be cool.
No, not anymore.
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 11:49 PM UTC
*Perched upon the peasant’s altar
Anomalous, conglomerate, anorexic, and onyx
The concubine’s cake with the Oxford comma,
Communal and picked and eaten at by little birds
Nominal trauma oozes visceral
****** and break
Sever and break
Steep walls of amorphous clay
Congeal to the walls of the willow
Exquisite and infinite, infidel
Flight
****** Lo, light of my life,
Long hair dripping with whiskey*
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 12:11 AM UTC
This town is famous
for pretty faces,
broken legs,
and misplaced names--
A sentence penned,
An Oxford comma
dangling off the edge of pages,
setting off appositive phrases,
lighting fuses--accidental--
phasing out of view and staging
tactical retreats
The winds of February mark off
intersections
Dow & Broadway
Midnight laughs echo off stratos
then fall back--
snowstorms at midday.
Caught in the rain on Sunday evening
this place don't stay awake so late.
Except, perhaps, for pretty faces,
misplaced names, or broken legs--
But forget the Oxford comma
retreating, drenched, off of the page.
Mar 4, 2013
Mar 4, 2013 at 3:42 PM UTC
Charge forth into Dis-topi
Ah, City of Kanye-esque antics and Oxford commas looking for lovers
Bliss-ful dive and conquer in Shakespearean soliloquies thus
Learned to romance on the breast of Juliet and *** ******** despite plaque
Toe the line, Lady Macbeth, let your murderous rhythm sing harmonic
Matthew 18 rendition on the dias of Gatsby, 1920
Thousand and fifteen we still age inappropriate
Lee, Spike jump rage against God Hates **** yet black lives live without crack
******* Kublai Khan to the sanctified Amazons.
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 9:49 AM UTC
I met an artist yesterday,
sat in solitary silence,
In the shadowy corner of an affluent bar.
And cloaked he was,
by babble of students,
Boasting of wealth and test results.
molested In the attire of a catholic school,
His cigarettes born from bible pages;
and -- Inebriated from the blood of Christ --
surrounded by empty glass apostles,
He paints the papers,
In a masterful stroke --
Of pointilistic precision --
In a viscous hash oil
That he had melted on a crucifix.
The artist drunk, and drunk
He drowned himself,
Deafened by his liver
Drowning in a sea of expensive whiskey --
It was a miracle that he could walk on it.
And began to rack
the coke he'd wrapped
in a losing lottery ticket --
In plain sight of those
'sophisticated' enough
To use a bathroom cubicle.
And hoovered the diamond shards into his nostril,
Through a rolled up scrap of paper --
A letter for an Oxford Interview
he could not afford to get to.
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 6:13 PM UTC
I’m indebted to the Oxford Dictionary of Quotations, 4th Edition 1996
**Ab Imo Pectore
A**b imo pectore,
Blandae mendacia linguae,
Cadit quaestio,
Desunt cetera.
E*st modus in rebus.
Faber est quisque fortunae suae,
Gigni de nihilo nihilum, in nihilum nil posse reverti.
Hic finis fandi,
Interdum stultus bene loquitur?
Jacta interdum est alea,
Labuntur et imputantur.
Magni nominis umbra,
Nec scire fas est omnia,
Omne crede diem tibi diluxisse supremun,
Pallida mors aequo pulsat pauperum tabernas regumque turres;
Quid rides, mutato nominee de te fibula narrator,
Res ipsa loquitur.
Solvitur ambulando…
Tempora mutantur, nos et matamur in illis.
Urbi et orbi,
Vestigia nulla retrorsum.*
From The Bottom Of The Heart
From the bottom of the heart, the falsehoods of a smooth tongue,
The question drops, the rest is wanting.
There is a balance in all things, every man is the creator of his own fate.
From nothing, nothing can come, into nothing, nothing can return.
Let there be an end to talking, for who can tell when a fool speaks the truth?
The die is sometimes already cast,
A moment comes and goes, and is laid to our account.
From the smallest shadow to the mightiest name,
No one can claim to know all things,
I believe that every day that dawns may be my last,
Pale death knocks impartially at both poor and rich men’s houses;
Don’t laugh, change the name and the story is yours,
It’s so obvious, it speaks for itself.
As the concept of motion is proven by walking…
So in time all things change, as we must, in time, all change.
And to all the world,
There’s no turning back.
Ab Imo Pectore / From The Bottom Of The Heart
Ab imo pectore,
From the bottom of the heart,
Blandae mendacia linguae,
The falsehoods of a smooth tongue,
Cadit quaestio,
The question drops,
Desunt cetera.
The rest is found wanting.
Est modus in rebus,
There is a balance in all things,
Faber est quisque fortunae suae.
Every man is the creator of his own fate.
Gigni de nihilo nihilum, in nihilum nil posse reverti.
From nothing, nothing can come, into nothing, nothing can return.
Hic finis fandi,
Let there be an end to talking,
Interdum stultus bene loquitur?
For who can tell when a fool speaks the truth?
Jacta interdum est alea.
The die is sometimes already cast,
Labuntur et imputantur.
A moment comes and goes, and is laid to our account.
Magni nominis umbra,
From the smallest shadow to the mightiest name,
Nec scire fas est omnia,
No one can claim to know all things,
Omne crede diem tibi diluxisse supremun,
I believe that every day that dawns may be my last,
Pallida mors aequo pulsat pauperum tabernas regumque turres;
Pale death knocks impartially at both poor man and rich men’s houses;
Quid rides, mutato nominee de te fibula narrator,
Don’t laugh, change the name and the story is yours,
Res ipsa loquitur.
It’s so obvious, that it speaks for itself.
Solvitur ambulando…
As the concept of motion is proven by walking…
Tempora mutantur, nos et matamur in illis.
So in time all things change, as we must, in time, all change.
Urbi et orbi,
And to all the world,
Vestigia nulla retrorsum.
There’s no turning back.
r10.1
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 6:41 PM UTC
painted frowns on the sunday town
peddling backwards on the underground
sinking slander
thunder-strikes that planned her
slap up shower towel
bloom-faced scowl
kissing kissing kissing i turn my eyes down
beautiful sunlight
road sign canvas
hunger and caffeine fix
walking towards to busier stores
oxford street in the middle of october
remembering my birthday wasn't just for me
relaxing on the submarine
escalator down blue and brown
blue change to black
southern bound
dishwasher sandwich
tea cup bandage
the simple and effective afternoon
bound by thought posts
wandering from my host
tormenting and enlightening
silence and the noise she keeps
playground heartattack
softly spoken words are back
forget to smile on sunday
higher in the afternoon
monday brings a chorus swoon
bluejay on the roof above
sinking in slumber of my forgotten ...
what you did is yesterday
let go of that and this moment underway
forgive forgive forgive and sigh
smile upstairs and wave yourself bye
all i want is to see is myself through my mothers eyes
Feb 14, 2012
Feb 14, 2012 at 5:42 PM UTC