"surrey" poems
Like some goofy lisp.
Like left over from Surrey to Essex.
Lycan, Omish, with some Roudy Rawdy Piper.
Like a WWE event, no ropes in the ring and a whole
bunch of cheerios.
It sounded like chweer wee ohs.
I got England to laugh out loud.
We were all laying on the floor hoping
fuhat bassthard would gooh on a diet.
Like Van Gogh and his buddy whats his...
knuck knuck. Painting pictures of Marshall
Islanders for a vote or veto. Paul Goin and Vincent
Van Gogh sharing a lisp.
Sthounds like..... Ah gawd!
Shut up you sobbing limp noodle.
Try writing something we all can laugh at.
Humor me Socrates with Albert Einstein.
E equals MC squared.
One part energy, a mass constantly squared.
Cheerio old chaps.
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 10:45 AM UTC
At the heights of a Surrey valley
is where I stand alone.
The clouds roll in with attempted suppression,
wuthering, as one may say.
Yet they succeed and I do not.
All this vacantness on the moors,
in turn: suffocation.
All this gale of violence and madness,
not a single shiver,
but a private, intense burning sensation.
Would it set fire to the moors, the libraries,
and the red curtain theatre?
Or would it melt the defendant themselves?
I wish for the former,
yet I am already melting.
I put my hand on the gnomon-less sundial,
and still I stand alone
drunk on the all-consuming emotions
inflicted by these brick walls
or rather the crowds of unpredictability within them.
Apr 20, 2022
Apr 20, 2022 at 7:42 PM UTC
Rainwalking
black umbrella, dark as the sky,
over head clouds moving slowly by,
dropping misty curtains as they go,
unveiling what my four eyes see
ahead, beyond the spots.
sidewalk walking,
glass topped bus stop,
straight ahead and slightly left,
blue sky tarp,
covers two shopping carts,
mirrored squares decorate the front,
hiding more belongings,
bust show your expression
if you dare look, yourself,
in the eye as you are judging him,
homeless, and using,
a corner of a bus stop as a storage depot,
temporary,
until a complaint, brings the transit police,
and a pickup to steal it all away,
oh and they brought their tazer, "just in case..."
"next stop, 94A and King George Boulevard,
Surrey Memorial Hospital"
©DWE012014
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 10:38 PM UTC
Some of you go so far as to disclaim any ability to find you, but I've got you.
(sonnet #MMDCCXCV)
Dare claim your writing does not breathe a strain
Of your dear essence: to be fooled. Thereby
Petrarca's soul distills its fervour aye;
And Wyatt cool good sense; while Surrey feign
With mildest touch and Spenser's pure refrain,
Sweet Shakespeare beauing hearts, dare cry
Amain. From Milton's kingly strength's reply
To Wordsworth's cold hauteur, yea come again?
Twas Samuel Taylor Coleridge roused me
To think afresh, his lively fancy through
Each line with his impress. From Shelley's plea
To Keats' indulgence, Missus Browning's blue
Yet mystic charm, don't think all cannot see.
You don't know me? But ah, I do know you.
31Aug13b
Sep 12, 2016
Sep 12, 2016 at 7:40 PM UTC
Come to think of it, Garrison Keillor reads poetry like he'd feign be Bukowski or something.
(sonnets #MMMMMCCCXXXII and MMMMMCCCXXXIII)
I
Bukowski. If I'd known--and there must trail
Off seeking an excuse to bother hence
With aught. Nor should I have writ these his sense
Of our supposed age could acknowledge bail
For, since his voice kills any spirit's frail
Hope of existance, while he coughs from thence
To fiercely say the madness dictates whence
As chopped, clipped phrases whereby he'd prevail.
And Shelley, who saw further than now's poor
Horizon, said art veils her glass whilst through
The centries curs as ole Bukowski tour--
To vanish, sans a note. Yet here all who
Aspire think vile is tops, our work as twere
In vain and refuse. Cuz such never knew.
II
Lo, ****** Surrey, Wyatt, and aught hence
Who bowed themselves to Petrarch's mincing scale,
Yes, "polished our erst homely," ruder tale
Of lines and poetry, whose manners thence
Became refined thus as we yielded, whence
Far more rebelled than dared submit, t'assail
What set us 'part from beasts as if in frail
Excuse to cavil suited their intents.
He said the "mountaintop" was mine as twere
T'enjoy, but if I wanted friends maunt do,
As they all wallowed in the mud, each boor
Disgusted save by filthy scents. Sans clue
Of our high calling meant to raise th'obscure
Light for our fellow man, ye can't, who knew.
24Dec15c,d
Aug 17, 2016
Aug 17, 2016 at 9:18 PM UTC
DECADENCE PERVERSE
July 9, 2003 – Walton on Thames, Surrey
Everyone talks
And experiences
And experiments
And gets confused
Depressed
And anxious
People fearful
With multiple ****** partners
While a baby is alone
Crying nowhere
As people smoke their drugs
And laugh
And they start to go
Nowhere
Some doing business
And living out empty lives
In a souless planet
Christ!
I am really surprised by all of you people
Asking and questioning the same questions
Again and again and more
“Is there life out there?”
“Is there life in this universe?”
“Are we all alone?”
You keep on repeating your questions
And I ask you:
“Is there any life here on earth?”
I see a young girl suffering from torment
And hearing sorrow
Being riddled throughout her fragile mind
Is this, then, your civilization?
People!
You gamblers and prostitutes
Fraudsters and women beaters
Compulsive liars and addicts
Rich criminals, poor criminals
Slithering through your pointless slimy days
That we all know where it’s all ending
Christ!
But one baby’s life
Is never pointless!
I tell you so..
Dec 23, 2009
Dec 23, 2009 at 6:55 AM UTC
Yesterday for my birthday,
I started off
with a bottle of wine...
I took the train
into town...
I had half a bitter
at the Cafe de Piaf
in Waterloo...
I went to work
for a couple of hours or so;
I had a pint after work;
I went for an audition;
after the audition,
I had another pint
and a half;
I had another half,
before meeting my mates,
for my b'day celebrations;
we had a pint together;
we went into
the night club,
where we had champagne
(I had three glasses);
I had a further
glass of vino,
by which time,
I was so gone
that I drew an audience
of about thirty
by performing a solo
dancing spot
in the middle
of the disco floor...
We all piled off to the pub
after that,
where I had another drink
(I can't remember
what it was)...
I then made my way home,
took the bus from Surbiton,
but ended up
in the wilds of Surrey;
I took another bus home,
and watched some telly,
and had something to eat
before crashing out...
I really, really enjoyed
the eve, but today,
I've been walking around
like a zomb;
I've had only one drink today,
an early morning
restorative effort;
I spent the day working,
then I went to a bookshop,
where, like a monk,
I go for a day's
drying out session...
Drying out is really awful;
you jump at every shadow;
you feel dizzy,
you notice everything;
very often,
I don't follow through.
Jul 25, 2015
Jul 25, 2015 at 7:32 AM UTC
I always make friends with homeless people. Maybe it’s the *** stained teeth and friendly personalities that draws me too them. When I’m in town you can find me with laughing people, who hold nothing to their being by the end of the day. I love them. They’re so happy, grateful and remind me of everything I want to hold in my heart. They are the sun, surrounded by dark clouds but still radiating through the grey. The public of Surrey in their white designer tops and overpriced jeans will never realize this. Call me a sucker but I would give everything to these people. The friendlier they are the more they deserve it. They always seem to be the ones who have been in their situation for the longest and have tried every method of getting the necessities we indulge on. The saddest, and grittiest are usually new to their world. It’s such a cool world mind. All of them sing punk music, create such beautiful art and tell the most interesting woven stories. They are deep. Very deep. They have been to one end and back, up and down. Being surrounded by these people can be dangerous at times mind. One day I could be engulfed by a dark crowd. By dark I mean, what parents and young teens imagine when they think about going out to the grungy parts of town; the stereotypical stench of creepy men glowing with peoples fear of them. Rapists, *** traffickers, ******** drugs, drunk men breathing down your neck and pulling roughly on your arm. I’ve been kissed on the cheek by a drunken dark mess, but he soon got punched by another. They respect people consent, children and females of any age. I don’t care if it’s a sexist old age thing for men to feel protective over women. Women are the most scared when regarding this world. I was scared. It was only a kiss on the cheek but that could lead on to so much more if left to slide. That’s why he got punched. You don’t cross boundaries. It’s the same with any person; have or have not. At the end of the day, I find the characters with scruffy attire and a perfume of **** cigarettes and beer more comforting and safer than those who breed Topshop, Topman, Hollister Apple and Urban Outfitters. I am the kid all parents would fear to let out on their own. And they should. I’m going to get myself in trouble one day, talking to strangers and hanging around gritty areas alone. But it’s better than when I used to shoplift. And anyway…I feel a lot happier after I hang round these people.
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 3:03 PM UTC
England is waterlogged
becoming submerged
nascent Atlantis
surrendering to the tide
Sink holes in Hemel
sunk homes in Surrey
hanging railways in Devon
****** cafes by the sea
A damp apocalypse beckons
it may get wetter yet
now that rain reigns
Britain is ruled by waves
Cynthia Pauline Jones 15/2/14
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 9:06 AM UTC
“I’M THE GUILDFORD GUILDHALL CLOCK I AM!”
Oh I’ve been knocking out time now since…eh….let’s see 1683
Minutes and decades flow through me
The everlasting skies above me.
I’m iconic I am
dressed in my black and gold.
I ( if I may be so bold )
AM GUILDFORD.
The pride of Surrey.
I watch the High Street
as it runs down to that
young whippersnapper statue
THE SCHOLAR or whatever.
People congregate about the chap
eat sandwiches….listen to a busker
busk opera.
Only in Guildford!
But it’s me they look up to!
And is it time for tea?
Why so it is and. . .
citizens clatter over the cobbles.
I’m the Guildford Guildhall clock I am!
Tip! top!
Ticktock!Ticktock! Tiptop!Tip top!
TIP!!!!!!!!!!
TOP!!!!!!!!!
***
Oct 6, 2016
Oct 6, 2016 at 3:41 AM UTC
So you know I wasn’t raised in the hood,
But in a beautiful place in Surrey enclosed by woods,
Had quite a nice childhood,
Until the age of ten, everything was all good.
It all changed when my Dad went away,
Couldn’t cope with my Mums Bipolar state,
When he left I have a photo memory of that day,
‘Promise you won’t get divorced, I want you to stay’.
Then that kid had to grow up quick,
When mum had an episode, breakdown psychotic.
Held the family together through all this ****
Then lost the plot myself couldn’t handle it.
So I left home very young, let down by pen pushers.
Dumped in and out of care, social workers?
Isn’t it a wonder how I became an alcoholic toker,
Stress of my life turned me into a chain-smoking joker.
A year I slept in my bus stop,
Stealing food to survive from various shops,
Helped to sleep with prayers and alchopops,
Checked on by ‘Rosy cheeks’ the local cop.
Apr 30, 2010
Apr 30, 2010 at 2:42 AM UTC
Oklahoma City cop charged with sexually assaulting eight women
Gang of men sexually assault Vic women
Woman assaulted by five men in South Yarra lane
*Suspect arrested in ****** assault of 9-year-old Surrey girl*
These are just four headlines that pop up on Google out of ca. 95.300.000 results. Search and you will find endless proof of how when men hunt, women are always in season.
To men, women don't seem to register as human beings or as people but as prey,
as something to be
consumed
claimed
forced
butchered
and sold like meat.
Treated as objects.
like animals by the men they cried their hearts out to,
by the men who have sworn to serve and to protect,
by the men they granted the privilege of their love
by the men whom they call fatherbrotherunclecousin
Sometimes, you might wonder how the perpetrators of such savage, cold-blooded and downright ******* actions could ever claim to be human beings.
Human [adj] - sympathetic, benevolent, humane
I say bring these inhuman degenerates before a court of women.
Bring them forth, and let their victims gain satisfaction.
Let them pay the blood debts they owe, and let the women collect what they are due
Let women grin at them with mouths full of razors,
let them corrode the savage flesh of men with acid claws.
Let them swallow men whole.
Women are dragons, unknowingly
but when they learn of their nature - fire will erupt from their chests like cataclysms and men will be dragged into this century kicking and screaming, or they will learn not to meddle in the affairs of dragons, because thou art crunchy and good with ketchup.
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 2:21 PM UTC
Death come quick!
Come fast!
You’re so slick.
I can’t last.
Death come soon.
Please do hurry!
At noon
wheel me out in a surrey.
Death come neatly.
Come softly.
Take me completely.
Been feeling awfully.
Jan 11, 2019
Jan 11, 2019 at 6:23 AM UTC
DYSFUNCTIONING LIFE
Ayad Gharbawi
December 13, 2003 – Walton On Thames, Surrey
Passing by groaning graves
Stillness hushes now!
What once was Furious party
Lives of splendour and decadence
Now lie solemnly dead
Think, of your minds, I feel
Think, of your emotions, I feel
Where they been?
And so, think now, of where they now stand?
The severely sad
Are struggling now to cope
Fearing suicide
And yet,
Fearing life itself more
What a planet!
What a world!
Beauties of models, clubs, yachts, parties, mansions
Cripples of despised ones, hated ones, dry ones
Listening to me;
Where is all going, where is all being?
Where is it all, your civilization, you sick Humanity?
I wonder?
When we listen
To nothing
And no one
In our rage, shares our emotions raw
What then are the ‘rules’ for your life?
What are the ‘guidelines’ for your principles?
Is anyone there to tell me?
Or are we born naked here
And are we to live without reason?
Where are the Blessed ones?
Where are the just, Loving ones?
Where are the faithful, Compassionate ones?
Where are the dedicated, Faithful ones?
I’m still searching for you
Trustworthy ones
But from the rest of you all
I’m going to do one thing;
I am
Seeking to disentangle myself from you
From this filth
From myself
From my dysfunctional existences.
Dec 25, 2009
Dec 25, 2009 at 8:40 AM UTC
A woman seeks all that leaves her distraught
In pursuit of extrinsic desires anew
From a dead end grave startled she wakes
Within her eyes fate appeared to be taut
Thoughts delivered warnings in queue
Though on occasion rare she’d have spaked
Along the village nimble she scurried
In the passenger seat of a surrey
Engaged in the act never was she caught
Many a men’s heart she had toiled
Indefinite tribulation it had brought
Often formulas had been foiled
‘Tis not what she had sought
Forsaken eminence to be spoiled
May 16, 2012
May 16, 2012 at 4:21 PM UTC
Written for Mary my 85 year old mother in law who lost her husband John to cancer 10 years ago
Of long walks across Scotlands rain washed hills
Long days walking the Lakeland peaks with your dogs constant at your side
Strolling the gentle Surrey hills beneath sun dappled boughs
Accompanied by bird song music
Of days long past and memories held dear
Nov 29, 2015
Nov 29, 2015 at 5:12 PM UTC
Listen to me now and heed my voice;
I am a madman, alone, screaming in the wilderness,
but listen now.
Listen to me now, and if I say
that black is black, and white is white, and in between lies gray,
I have no choice.
Does a madman choose his words? They come to him,
the moon’s illuminations, intimations of the wind,
and he must speak.
But listen to me now, and if you hear
the tolling of the judgment bell, and if its tone is clear,
then do not tarry,
but listen, or cut off your ears, for I Am weary.
***
Published by Penny Dreadful, The HyperTexts, the Anthologise Committee and Nonsuch High School for Girls (Surrey, England)
Also published by Michael R. Burch writing as Immanuel A. Michael and Kim Cherub
Keywords/Tags: Listen, heed, prophet, crying, wilderness, voice, prophecy, black, white, gray, moon, wind, speak, speaking, speech, instruction, teaching, warning, omen, illuminations, intimations, ears, hear, judgment, bell, toll, tolling, peal, pealing, tone, I, Am
Note: The poet as a “madman, alone, screaming in the wilderness” is likened to John the Baptist, foretelling a momentous “second coming”: his own, with no other Messiah in sight.
Feb 28, 2020
Feb 28, 2020 at 3:28 AM UTC
The Brits are good at queueing
the Yanks are good at sueing
Italians are good at wooing
and I don't know what I'm doing
If no one tells me while I'm waiting
time waits for no man only destiny
the French are good at rugby
enthusiastic, they might even hug me
The Australians are good at everything
didn't they used to be English - sickening
the Indians are very good at curry
but now we can get it in Surrey
Terrorists are no good to man nor beast
now just tell me what you like least.
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 3:45 PM UTC
Tonight
There was only darkness
around us
There were no stars
in the sky
There were clouds
engulfing the countryside
There were thoughts
you'd said good bye
There was no moon
to lead us home
There was no light
shining through the black
There was no hope
to guide us there
And now we're never
coming back.
Jan 25, 2012
Jan 25, 2012 at 7:28 PM UTC
sitting in the laptop cubicle aboard the Queen of Surrey
a duo of older women scuttle past as I open a new document.
"blank page," the first one says.
I laugh. "Well, you've gotta start somewhere."
"Totally blank page," the second chimes in.
I chuckle again.
As they scuttle on forwards, the second, with a bruised right-eye purple and black from God-knows-what, says, "she's mean. Dont talk to her."
I laugh again and nod,
"Okay."
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 11:01 PM UTC
Christmas tiptoed light across the bare rooftop night
its presence not felt by those poor men
who knelt at the altar of sacrifice.
Down in Surrey
rich men hurry as much as
their large loads can carry and Barry,
the butcher has had such a marvelous day.
Oh yes,
Veal's a steal but for some it's not real
the most they'll be getting is
neck end of chicken.
The sharp end's always the dead end but
the point is not lost,
everything costs more than it did.
People bid on eBay for an affordable way
to celebrate but suffocate in the rush,
when
push comes to shove
there's no such thing as peace or love
it's every man for himself.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 4:40 AM UTC
The country’s broke, but we don't care;
There's opportunity out there
For the savvy billionaire.
But not for you, mate, not for you.
There is no deal, but what the hell?
For our gang things are going swell;
We have high-margin stocks to sell.
But you don't, mate, you don't.
Chaos reigns, but we won't worry.
We shift fortunes in a hurry;
Buy up mansions down in Surrey.
But you won't, mate, you won't.
Cliff edge? We take it in our stride.
We pick advisers trained to hide
Our dodgy money on the side.
But you can’t, mate, you can’t.
Our stooges in the gutter press,
Who helped to bring about this mess,
Will benefit from our largesse.
Unlike you, mate, unlike you.
The well-placed Lord, the Eton boy,
Are weapons which we will deploy
To keep at bay the hoi polloi.
That means you, mate; that means you.
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 12:03 PM UTC
No barons down in Earls court and no Surrey in the quays
the underground's a mess if names are things that please
in Raynors lane there's rain again
in Catford there are mice
in Epping it is epic and I think that's awful nice,
In Battersea there is no sea
in Clapham they don't clap
at shooters hill they don't shoot guns
and Network East's a trap.
In Stepney there are several steps
in deptford they sink under debts
nothing gets me on my way than to pass through Green lanes, Harringay, now I don't know many gays down there but I'm friends with some
up in Sloane square
no Knights in Knightsbridge anymore
no Kings at Kingly court
Bradford's not in Bingley either
neither here nor there nor in Trafalgar Square will you see any ships
But the underground's a fabulous place for going out on trips.
Aug 26, 2016
Aug 26, 2016 at 10:19 AM UTC
Let's go to England
We can take a 6 am flight and be there by 3 pm
We can see the Tower Of London and share a kiss underneath The London Eye
We can spend two weeks in Bristol crossing bridges, floating in giant balloons, riding boats and bikes and visiting Bansky's art
We can visit Shakespeare's hometown and walk the streets that once fell in love with the feet of the most romantic writer of all time
We can drink coffee and smoke cigarettes at New Forest Park and go swimming at Towans Beach
We can make our own wine in Gloucestershire and have a picnic in Cambridge
We can dance near Princess Street and go clubbing in London
We can shop at the Stratford Centre and drink tea in Oxford
We can stand in the rain in Surrey and go to concerts in Bedford
We can start over and make all of our dreams come true
Let's go to England
Jan 13, 2016
Jan 13, 2016 at 7:36 AM UTC