As croquet continued in utter decorum.
The break down and shot were observed
In disgust from the window above.
Even though no one could see this watcher,
They watched all the same.
As dinner was taken in civilized state,
The poured white and carved beef
Are witnessed from the corner
In silent vigil and verdict.
Their ill observance and outrage
Sentenced in the shade.
As the mother, intoxicated,
Ascended the swimming stairs,
The anger conjured
The power, the energy,
And a movement beneath her
And sagacity sang.
Sister smiled in the shadow
As her new spirit was claimed
When mother clattered down
Those stone steps to station
In death at the foot of her
Arrogance, her wickedness.
Her habit flowed as she
Shamed the astral mother,
The newest spectral addition
Kept by the judge, jury and
Of the old rectory.
Harry Price, British psychic researcher, paranormal investigator and author, who famously investigated Borley Rectory, in Essex, died today in 1948.
I've not eaten today
I decided that nothing would taste nice
Everything in the cupboard looked fine
But I just wasn't interested
I couldn't see anything
Nothing caught my eye
And I have a wandering eye
Not unlike the rest of me
I'm a wanderer through and through
I wandered up to the post office
I wandered up to the corner shop
I managed to get some food
I managed to get some milk
I put it in the fridge
And watched it go sour
I left it there so long
I could no longer pour it
It was thicker than my neck
It was thicker than a plank of wood
It was thicker than a red house brick
It was thicker than another brick in the Berlin wall
I felt like a brick
I could be used to build a wall
Probably a wall of ignorance
Or an Iron Curtain
I always thought I was well read
I read a lot of stuff
Most of it was boring
In one eye out the other
I read newspapers
I read comics
I read magazines
I read "Harry Potter"
I read "Lord of the Rings"
I read "Horrible Histories"
I read something by Virginia Woolf
And I saw a movie about her once
I wouldn't watch it again
It was shit
I watched Paul
I don't like films about Beatles
I don't like films
I prefer the television
I think that's all I need
I eat that stuff up
I'll eat it all day long
Until I'm full of it.
out of sight an idle cat rolls in the dust pawing at a wind framed seed pod it feels the sun fountain drench it in pixel-points rendering it statuesque another scene lit in midday spotlight the cat flicks its tail to displace a pesky fly intent on bother the clapper board drops on the next take a stretch the cat lengthens itself arching its back flexing its claws it patrols the bedding and retreats to the cool shadows of the Azalea out of sight
Frank O’Hara, American writer, poet and art critic, was born today in 1926.
Gilgamesh arrived, with style and one thumb hooked in his buckle.
He rode the Black Bull of God, like it were a white stallion. They were bound
To notice him, and they did. But they were confused. They stood in their queue
In total shock, scarred, but seemingly expecting him and his entourage. His set
Of Queens: Enkidu, the gorgeous Eunuch, and Humbaba, stylist and patient,
Still healing from being loved too much. Their goal was to tip
This place. Unsettle the red neck mob without so much as a tip
As a thank you. This mob didn't say please, but they soon begin to buckle
Under their combined sparkle. Gilgamesh just needed to be patient.
He made the mob understand that they couldn't be bound
By the Boss's rules anymore. "Gay! Be Gay, my friends! Set
Yourselves free. Never wait for His cue."
But not everyone wanted change. One ran into the bar, picked up a cue
As a weapon and began to sharpen the tip.
His spear. His dangerous manhood, provoked and set
With a mighty shaft. He waited, one thumb hooked into his buckle.
And then he realised. He'd already been beaten and bound
To the want of Gilgamesh and his group of queers. A patient
Man emerged from the halls of God with black and white surmon. A patient
Man, with black patent leather shoes shining, white collar, looking for his cue
To begin his long wordy speech about being bound
To the service of God. Gilgamesh came. His fist releasing his tip
Into the empty bowl of plenty. The priest smiled and his resolve buckled
To greed as quickly as an equatorial sun set.
But Gilgamesh wasn't done. He wanted the full set!
He'd got the mob, and now he had the patient
Man. He'd turned them. Outed them. Now he wanted the Boss to buckle.
To bend to his way of thinking. To turn him would be his cue
To move on with his pride. His rainbow band. So they all set
Off to the rim of the mount. They climbed. They felt homeward bound
It seemed. But the Boss was waiting and it was they who were bound
And gagged. Now, they were his. Subdued and dominated. Set
For a fate unknown but perhaps welcome. The Boss took Gilgamesh's head. "A tip,
Gilgamesh", said the Boss. "You will not find a more patient
Being than I. I was there at the beginning, waiting in that queue.
I loved watching you with your thumb hooked in your buckle
And I love you here, bound like an unconscious patient.
And I'm all set to take back my bull and add you to my queue,
Waiting, waiting for my tip, and then I'll hook you in my buckle."
I swear I can't take another day as a slave
And I run around with a cross and turn
All the undead back into the grave
Perhaps defiance makes us all brave
The obscene pictures that are hard to discern.
I swear I can't take another day as a slave
Give me just once more day as a knave
And I'll give you grounds to feel concern
For all the undead back in the grave.
What will you do with the freedom you crave?
Publish more material to burn?
I swear I can't take another day as a slave.
When will we turn the new wave?
I don't think we will ever learn
About all the undead back in the grave.
When I howl out loud, will Jesus save?
Will he give me the information I yearn?
I swear I can't take another day as a slave,
I'll join all the undead back in the grave.
I never managed to reach escape velocity.
I was permanently in orbit, right to the end.
I circled the drain of the reality seemingly ad infinitum.
I joined the space junk clutter.
I eventually managed to grapple my pen.
I composed upon the card a cute collection of couplets.
I composed continually while curving constantly.
I curled conceptually and contracted.
I receded before, to earliest, and even then before that.
I became before
I was what was and what will be
I was were, could and should.
I forgot beyond timing
I attuned into astral form
I attenuated the multi-verse versions
We vibrated, synchronised, transcended.
Harry Houdini, Hungarian-born American escapologist and illusionist, was born today in 1874.
Jules Verne, French novelist, poet and playwright, died today in 1905.
Fresh days onwards?
Each one could be better than those that came before.
If you believe in such stuff.
This could indicate some kind of journey.
Travel. Putting one foot ahead. One best foot forward.
It's stupid really.
We could sing a song.
Tell a joke. Here's one I made earlier.
A teardrop shaped sculpture.
It's raining now.
The rain falls in waves tousled by the gusting wind
And splatters upon my window.
I look closer to see the characteristic
Pulp of sleet. A winter's mocking moment:
A walk into a cold wood at night.
Alone, now? I prick my ear.
I sense the distant crunch of wolf tracks
As they hunger after my scent.
They circle closer, closer, closer,
Nipping at my heels, sapping my strength,
Wanting to feast upon my liver.
Awake! Coinciding with the thunder!
A nightmare, maybe, but the open wound across my belly
Maybe I should sing, laugh, make some crap.
Maybe I should wave my hands in an empty space
In front of the green screen.
Maybe I could predict the weather,
Divine the changing seasons.
Maybe I could be the hunting wolf. Join their pack.
Then, the night would give me purpose.
They would give me purpose.
Purpose would give me purpose.
Barry Cryer, English writer, comedian, actor and legend, was born today in 1935.
Damon Albarn, English musician, singer and songwriter, was born today in 1968.
Gail Porter, Scottish television presenter, model and actress, was born today in 1971.
In the ripple of an arm I mime the future:
The stars are our highway.
I twist appropriately to angle like a nacelle
And surf the caps of engineer's wet dreams.
As silent as the void I now mime,
My imitation so clear, Rarotonga was green.
Still as the mill pond, waiting to fall to the grind,
Turning so solid for flour, forge and star-base.
In this story I lie and lean against a transparent force-field:
Magnetic, disruptive, phased and transported.
Light frames her red hair as she goes "on air". Card shown to star who saw red on the pitch. Sky at night glows bright in the red sun's glare. Sail full, the yacht cuts through red sea course switch. Blood flows, the keen red blade makes a life terse. Flag flown in pride, shows red Ken might be right. Dress flows in the breeze as her red lips purse. Cross aids those in need with the red plague blight. Rag to a bull's red eyes, horns raised in rage. Wine slurped down by red nosed drunks on soft plage.
The changing seen may bring the world some ease
But also cause unbalancing insight.
As people feel the vague threat of disease
They hide away to shun the crippling blight.
So watch the Lords, as they exert their might,
And curb our freedom with their strict new laws
That aim to slow the spread of this wry plight,
Let's ensure they yield the grip of their claws.
That change can twist the meaning of the clause
And mean what once was clear is now obscure.
Be vigilant behind the truth and cause.
Be strong to make our world become secure.
The change within is seen by all without
And puts to death the clouding sense of doubt.