There is a pattern for all the punks stapled to fat they chew.
And a pattern for the bears, obliterating any beehive.
A pattern for honey-lovers, fingers dripping with amber.
A pattern for yuppies, calling greasy take-aways in their Porsches.
The pattern I have is simple peacock feathers.
They layer one another,
Producing a distinct mazey track
That leads back along each shaft, waving
Across the wall to the window
Like a rolling field of wheat.
Each purple eye stares back,
Intent on piercing my body
To read my inner thoughts.
These patterns all amount to nothing.
When you've stacked everything against
The wall only see a callous blast of wind
Scatter and shatter it all across the yard,
You know that it wasn't worth the effort
And it'll not be worth any more effort
To re-stack them, only to watch them tumble once more.
I think it must be time to close the pages of this book -
Let the author finish the last chapter before tearfully
Wishing all the characters of this grand, sublime pantomime
Farewell, Au Revoir, Auf Wiedersehen, Goodbye.
John Lydon, English singer, songwriter and musician, was born today in 1956.
They definitely made some special pies - 47 varieties.
I saw them piled up on the stalls as I shuffled past
With the mob to watch the action.
I stood aloof in the throng,
The air a heady mix of
Body odour, lavender and decay.
We stood waiting in the muddy trench for
Almost two hours before the sledge appeared,
But a man cried out that it felt more like twelve years.
The body swayed for four lilting hours
Before they slashed him down
For decapitation with eight stuttering strokes.
The crowd bayed as his crown was parted from
The gruesome shrunken shoulders.
I was close enough to feel the draft of the axe splitting his neck.
Before I could vomit the cracking of
The pointed pole piercing his pate ushered from
The gallows like a door gently opening.
And it was over, before I could enjoy it.
Another 47 types of pie would be eaten
Before his body went missing in the pit.
The Poem Engine
Load it up with the sack of letter
Fresh from recycled dictionaries.
It chews 'em up into their parts,
Like a child devouring candy.
The fuel is human nature
Firing the grimy engine of creation,
Which can usually be found
Seeping from the pores of the poor.
Flip the switch and power her up,
Her rumble is more than I can bear,
As she combines the harvest of definition
Into treacle and vinegar on bitter parchment.
The product is rolled and hung out to dry
For the quality inspector to scrutinise.
Each simile and metaphor is polished to shine
Like a glimmer of hope for a prize.
Edward Lear, English artist, illustrator, musician, author and poet, died on this day in 1888.
there's a feeling there
it's stuck in my wrist
so I slice it off
and it flipped up to my throat
I wrung it out
and it slipped to my tummy
I struck it again
it bounced to my head
I shot a load
and smothered my canvass
dead and red
Jackson Pollock, American abstract expressionist painter, was born today in 1912.
W. B. Yeats, Irish Nobel Prize winning poet, died on this day in 1939.
At the back an old, sly aristocrat Egyptian pussycat sat.
In quietus did he sit, hiding from all the crimes he used to commit.
He wasn't much to look at. Often he splat, fell flat, coughed and spat,
And as he coughed he did transmit
A very sad, half-chewed blue tit.
And that blue tit did sit then flit from tit-for-tat upon a bit
Half-chewed by a fat fruit bat hanging from an old black hard hat
That sat askew upon the head of a noisome shrew misfit.
Looking mad, the blue tit pecked a bad bit of bat
Just below his would-be arm-pit which made him quit and admit
It was that sly Egyptian pussycat plopping upon the mat a pat.
And, as if to submit, he coughed again and did emit
Upon that mat a great big, brown and stinking shit.
Cradle rockers, pebble dashed and rocky,
Climbing mountains, vaulting them and dropping.
Breaking down in clearings, without stopping,
Seeking deadbeat sessions near Milwaukee.
Empty pool halls wringing with depression,
Kicking heelers, wheeling fortune's framework
Clanking, chirping, volumes churning clockwork,
Power focused feeling fuel obsession.
Only one on twilit journey whining
Fostered rapid whitened skin and blisters
Blocking sights and sound out from the shining
Fearful tainted moments with his sisters.
Those days they spent in shared retreating fear
Have haunted them down splinted paths unclear.
Paul Newman, American actor, film director, producer and businessman, was born today in 1925.
Eddie Van Halen, Dutch-American musician, songwriter and producer, was born today in 1955.
so, let's study him then get to know him better than he does
let's set up in the bushes outside his home like a gang of twitching man-watchers we'll scribble data into our favourite leather-bound notebooks our study will include all his habits we'll count how many times he visits his mother note down whether he chooses latte or cappuccino is his preference "Friends" or "Frazier" our sample will be empirical and scientific our method will be methodical and deliberate the purpose is always the same can he be hurt can I be hurt are we hurting each other I already know the answers I watch him all the same
That so much is required
By so many, with such entitlement
That could bypass the normality,
No one could plan. Look hard,
Understanding. Look, really hard.
Weed emerges and then crack,
Widening the gap between each end of the street.
The pipelines may keep the masses happy
Pumping down the messages. The message
That we should march happily into war.
Although I walk in that shadowy vale, I'm not alone.
Meet me again for tea and cake somewhere in
The middle. Right there, where thought meets
Vision, behind the eyes, behind the eyes.
Meet me for tea and cake, again, in the
Centre of our churning machinery
Tick, tick, ticking. Click, click,
Clicking. I'm the menagerie.
A loose connection sparking
From neuron to neutron,
Vision to division,
Across to the cross
The Ode to William Kydd
He was born for rolling waves fair,
That sullen child of Dundee street.
He riled Andrew beyond compare
With night time secretive retreat.
They chased him far and wide in fear,
His coffers growing thick from trade,
And lost it all to looting peer
Who robbed him blind and without a blade.
Abandoned by his crew at night
He fled to Carib island bright.
He sailed to Bellomont in Mass
To dodge his mutinous old crew
And ended locked up with his lass
With raving, twisted smile askew.
Dispatched to English trial and jail
Kidd hoped for kinder patrons there.
He floated hope to no avail
And swung to death in Wapping square.
Our Kydd was gibbeted for show,
Deterring would-be pirate foe.
William Kidd, Scottish sailor and pirate, was (probably) born today in 1655.
Lord Byron, English poet, peer and politician, was born today in 1788.