I only recognise you
disappearing through a corner
I know the back of that body well.
Impossible concern
for the state in my absence
all leaving entails.
I've rarely seen you
coming on intently
perhaps the angle's never right.
I'll jostle for position
as iron lines my jaws
it appears that (well) I never tried.
And furnished in thought
we're like forms for filling
you move closer to the drink you've bought.
I'm tired already
you barely even know
my direction home is steady.
Thursday, 3 June 2010
Thursday, 22 April 2010
Yet she's stood
A cactus sits within an intricately decorated pot,
Alone on the windowsill,
Un-noticed as the door closes again.
The early-evening sun plays on his face,
Masked by a glistening beard,
Washed by tears.
Sat, back toward breakwater awash with moss,
Throwing stones to make waves.
Yet she’s stood.
Facing out at the window pane,
Eyes crossing paths with the sun, producing
The shadow of a flower on
Collar bones to break a hundred hearts.
A.T.
Alone on the windowsill,
Un-noticed as the door closes again.
The early-evening sun plays on his face,
Masked by a glistening beard,
Washed by tears.
Sat, back toward breakwater awash with moss,
Throwing stones to make waves.
Yet she’s stood.
Facing out at the window pane,
Eyes crossing paths with the sun, producing
The shadow of a flower on
Collar bones to break a hundred hearts.
A.T.
Friday, 2 April 2010
The Human Problem
One day the last person in the world rang her up and said it's time to deal with the human problem. She let her mouth open at the experience of the external voice, no more the vibrating rise out of her belly and throat but the sounding out of another.
It was then she drew several leaves with her black marker pen out of nervous procrastination all over the tablecloth. It took her a series of crated days to respond, and when she did so, the hour found her withdrawn and ill.
Coming over sloping greens outside sun-beaten business schools teaching the post-crunch methods, already drunk two cans of ginger beer, she hesitated by the ice cream kiosk and observed the dusty Italian with the dripping Jewish nose serving choate children two 99's costing £3 each, melting chocolate sauce creeping onto their baby lamb fingers and getting everywhere.
She wouldn't let it be dealt with, not by him, whom upon reflection she now regarded servile and pernicious.
Next day he rings again and they talk, but not about the pressing issue. They have tea over the phone, she studies a photo of Dennis Wilson as they talk and fantasizes the voice belongs to it. They go onto nature, public and private, as breath becomes more and more casual, and she's onto pouring boiling water into her third cup of now tasteless tea; she doesn't even know the shape of his mouth, or even the height of the man!
And on their fifth conversation he tells her again that it's time to deal with the human problem. Of all the words she may have responded with, of every word in English, French and the languages of Southern America, she could only articulate the quiet puff of two lips sealed very shut for a long time as they open suddenly, dry and cracking.
o.w.
It was then she drew several leaves with her black marker pen out of nervous procrastination all over the tablecloth. It took her a series of crated days to respond, and when she did so, the hour found her withdrawn and ill.
Coming over sloping greens outside sun-beaten business schools teaching the post-crunch methods, already drunk two cans of ginger beer, she hesitated by the ice cream kiosk and observed the dusty Italian with the dripping Jewish nose serving choate children two 99's costing £3 each, melting chocolate sauce creeping onto their baby lamb fingers and getting everywhere.
She wouldn't let it be dealt with, not by him, whom upon reflection she now regarded servile and pernicious.
Next day he rings again and they talk, but not about the pressing issue. They have tea over the phone, she studies a photo of Dennis Wilson as they talk and fantasizes the voice belongs to it. They go onto nature, public and private, as breath becomes more and more casual, and she's onto pouring boiling water into her third cup of now tasteless tea; she doesn't even know the shape of his mouth, or even the height of the man!
And on their fifth conversation he tells her again that it's time to deal with the human problem. Of all the words she may have responded with, of every word in English, French and the languages of Southern America, she could only articulate the quiet puff of two lips sealed very shut for a long time as they open suddenly, dry and cracking.
o.w.
Wednesday, 31 March 2010
Lost weekend
Another lonely night in a lowly cabin,
Eyes waxen in the candlelight –
Overlooking charts and plotting.
Thinning hair combed back toward a weathered neck, itself
Reaching from a white collar
Heavily patterned with salt and faded lipstick.
A wife and children left behind –
Two buoys, bobbing,
Eager of his return…
But!
Another woman’s current;
She, in a blue-green dress, floating in dance
Him, racing over her
Dreams carried on the whispering wind
Filling welcoming sails, taken as a tonic
A towering Spinnaker, up and yonder;
Distant
There is little time to think big of much else,
Is the company of the sea enough to an Island?
A.T.
Eyes waxen in the candlelight –
Overlooking charts and plotting.
Thinning hair combed back toward a weathered neck, itself
Reaching from a white collar
Heavily patterned with salt and faded lipstick.
A wife and children left behind –
Two buoys, bobbing,
Eager of his return…
But!
Another woman’s current;
She, in a blue-green dress, floating in dance
Him, racing over her
Dreams carried on the whispering wind
Filling welcoming sails, taken as a tonic
A towering Spinnaker, up and yonder;
Distant
There is little time to think big of much else,
Is the company of the sea enough to an Island?
A.T.
Sunday, 28 March 2010
A room with a (re)view
Joseph Dunn
w/ Danny Brooks on Drums
The Chichester Inn
22/03/10
Voices at a murmur, soft, but continuing. They are trying to speak to one another, but stand underwater and incoherent. Finally they find themselves rushing from behind the onlooker, trying to catch up.
In front, above the rippling water, on the raw, earthen shore, stands Joseph Dunn. With little movement he works away, calling tradition to aid him. With a new tool comes a new dimension; a drum adding the heartbeat for the soul of the voice. Cymbals treading water, gently splashing in the River Adur, like children enjoying their last moments before the sun’s descent. Then, across from the bank, in the lowly fields swoops strings caressed. Complete, it is nurtured to form rich speeches before battle; before the shot of the snare, before the rising notes flying from six bows of Nomads, before the swooping call of the man who stands before them, all in a gaze.
Below, quietly, the audience float in the beauty of his sound.
Adam Thomas
w/ Danny Brooks on Drums
The Chichester Inn
22/03/10
Voices at a murmur, soft, but continuing. They are trying to speak to one another, but stand underwater and incoherent. Finally they find themselves rushing from behind the onlooker, trying to catch up.
In front, above the rippling water, on the raw, earthen shore, stands Joseph Dunn. With little movement he works away, calling tradition to aid him. With a new tool comes a new dimension; a drum adding the heartbeat for the soul of the voice. Cymbals treading water, gently splashing in the River Adur, like children enjoying their last moments before the sun’s descent. Then, across from the bank, in the lowly fields swoops strings caressed. Complete, it is nurtured to form rich speeches before battle; before the shot of the snare, before the rising notes flying from six bows of Nomads, before the swooping call of the man who stands before them, all in a gaze.
Below, quietly, the audience float in the beauty of his sound.
Adam Thomas
Monday, 22 March 2010
To be lost (in the Garden of Earthly Delights)
As lids close against lights on distant shores,
Wrinkles stretched to a blink.
A whimper against ill-fitting shoes and staggering,
Across the grass to nowhere... anywhere.
Seven bags held close by various limbs, weight down his thoughts,
Revolving around the battle with the day (the biting wind)
Clothes discoloured and worn, threads torn (chewed at)
And he, only an apprentice of age,
Vexed with problems too deep to tell,
If, I, you, and we - from anyone any answer on him would likely befell?
And then he stopped in front of me,
And I could do nothing but stare.
A.T.
Wrinkles stretched to a blink.
A whimper against ill-fitting shoes and staggering,
Across the grass to nowhere... anywhere.
Seven bags held close by various limbs, weight down his thoughts,
Revolving around the battle with the day (the biting wind)
Clothes discoloured and worn, threads torn (chewed at)
And he, only an apprentice of age,
Vexed with problems too deep to tell,
If, I, you, and we - from anyone any answer on him would likely befell?
And then he stopped in front of me,
And I could do nothing but stare.
A.T.
Through the lips of the watering can
My promise to you -
Watered by many tears,
To grow to fruition,
Dizzy-heights
Then we will lie back, rested.
Hand, in, hand,
Forever.
A.T.
Watered by many tears,
To grow to fruition,
Dizzy-heights
Then we will lie back, rested.
Hand, in, hand,
Forever.
A.T.
Saturday, 6 February 2010
And again the tiresome pall
That jumped you going to some setting
You've seen the rest played out
In the reflection in the water before you
Dust breaks in the constant now
Handles this like a faded palimpsest
She asked you goodnight
And told you how you were
A tragic kind of effort at being holy
Was the shaking cross in their hands
Rabid storm of which will never cease
You on your humble jetty making sense of life
You've asked the setting shaking dust
Handles effort like a rabid storm in their hands.
o.wilks
That jumped you going to some setting
You've seen the rest played out
In the reflection in the water before you
Dust breaks in the constant now
Handles this like a faded palimpsest
She asked you goodnight
And told you how you were
A tragic kind of effort at being holy
Was the shaking cross in their hands
Rabid storm of which will never cease
You on your humble jetty making sense of life
You've asked the setting shaking dust
Handles effort like a rabid storm in their hands.
o.wilks
kind model
I see you see no puncture in me
(You're an eggshell I think, or I think you're the perfect shape of trust)
you're not misguided in that,
for one pollutes the other with all the mind's eye cares
to project onto them.
We don't need to stare around
at the barren; not when you've all the fullness there
in that heart-nest of yours, that timid lacuna
swelling with a searching that's pure and all corruption's cure.
(You're an eggshell I think, or I think you're the perfect shape of trust)
you're not misguided in that,
for one pollutes the other with all the mind's eye cares
to project onto them.
We don't need to stare around
at the barren; not when you've all the fullness there
in that heart-nest of yours, that timid lacuna
swelling with a searching that's pure and all corruption's cure.
Sunday, 31 January 2010
Ucheobi (My Window)
A Portrait of the view from my window and it's metamorphosis over the past decade and a half I have been fanscinated by it.
My window is a perch from which I watch daisy mangroves envelope a lonely
back-alley
And the plodding tragi-comedy of an everlong skirmish 'tween the wilting sublimity of God and himself;
Last year,
I saw His attentions turn and slowly spurn, greenly and gracefully, onto a carpark, which, in it's adjacency, had caus'd offence;
His wrinkled genitals all seaweed khaki and mottled and matted brown and thorny like
A crown he must have borrowed from himself or taken from the shelf to scare me
A few miles up and a good while back.
And fast like snapping lute-strings chas'd Spring and Sun and a garb of flowers
An alb of blossom white, a stole of lilly pink
I watch'd, undistracted by the textural paean of black-birds in song, while
His pretty creepers sunk (and still sink)
under the tread of van-wheels
Still attempting to swallow and reclaim - with justice glowing in every petal -
that little scarr'd car park that looks far less than half His age
while six wooden fences carve plots of sad land per diem
for lodgers uninterested in the mania of clashing dukes on the battle-stage
behind and beneath.
It took near a decade but my gaze
Still lingers, dry, through my window
Flickering -
Anxious for the next fight.
D.B.B
My window is a perch from which I watch daisy mangroves envelope a lonely
back-alley
And the plodding tragi-comedy of an everlong skirmish 'tween the wilting sublimity of God and himself;
Last year,
I saw His attentions turn and slowly spurn, greenly and gracefully, onto a carpark, which, in it's adjacency, had caus'd offence;
His wrinkled genitals all seaweed khaki and mottled and matted brown and thorny like
A crown he must have borrowed from himself or taken from the shelf to scare me
A few miles up and a good while back.
And fast like snapping lute-strings chas'd Spring and Sun and a garb of flowers
An alb of blossom white, a stole of lilly pink
I watch'd, undistracted by the textural paean of black-birds in song, while
His pretty creepers sunk (and still sink)
under the tread of van-wheels
Still attempting to swallow and reclaim - with justice glowing in every petal -
that little scarr'd car park that looks far less than half His age
while six wooden fences carve plots of sad land per diem
for lodgers uninterested in the mania of clashing dukes on the battle-stage
behind and beneath.
It took near a decade but my gaze
Still lingers, dry, through my window
Flickering -
Anxious for the next fight.
D.B.B
There's music in my bones
The Backbone Flute
by Vladimir Mayakovsky
translated from the Russian by Andrey Kneller
Prologue
For all of you,
Whom I've admired or still am admiring,
Hidden like icons in the cave of the soul,
Like a goblet of wine at a festive gathering,
I shall raise my heavy, verse-brimming skull.
More and more often, I'm wondering-
Why shouldn't I place
The period of a bullet at the end of my stanza?
Today,
Just in case,
I am giving my final, farewell concert.
Memory!
Gather into the brain's auditorium
The bottomless lines of those who are dear to me.
From eye to eye, pour mirth into all of them.
Light up the night with the by-gone festivity.
From body to body, pour the joyous mood.
Let no man forget this night.
Listen to me, I will play the flute.
On my backbone tonight.
by Vladimir Mayakovsky
translated from the Russian by Andrey Kneller
Prologue
For all of you,
Whom I've admired or still am admiring,
Hidden like icons in the cave of the soul,
Like a goblet of wine at a festive gathering,
I shall raise my heavy, verse-brimming skull.
More and more often, I'm wondering-
Why shouldn't I place
The period of a bullet at the end of my stanza?
Today,
Just in case,
I am giving my final, farewell concert.
Memory!
Gather into the brain's auditorium
The bottomless lines of those who are dear to me.
From eye to eye, pour mirth into all of them.
Light up the night with the by-gone festivity.
From body to body, pour the joyous mood.
Let no man forget this night.
Listen to me, I will play the flute.
On my backbone tonight.
Tuesday, 12 January 2010
One Of Us Cannot Be Wrong
I lit a thin green candle, to make you jealous of me.
But the room just filled up with mosquitos,
they heard that my body was free.
Then I took the dust of a long sleepless night
and I put it in your little shoe.
And then I confess that I tortured the dress
that you wore for the world to look through.
I showed my heart to the doctor: he said I just have to quit.
Then he wrote himself a prescription,
and your name was mentioned in it!
Then he locked himself in a library shelf
with the details of our honeymoon,
and I hear from the nurse that he's gotten much worse
and his practice is all in a ruin.
I heard of a saint who had loved you,
so I studied all night in his school.
He taught that the duty of lovers
is to tarnish the golden rule.
And just when I was sure that his teachings were pure
he drowned himself in the pool.
His body is gone but back here on the lawn
his spirit continues to drool.
Leonard Cohen
Wednesday, 6 January 2010
Distance ever closer
The days are in no sudden rush,
Dazed waiting; heartstrings resonating
Outstretched hands enveloped by shadow,
This beauty inducing blindness
The sad eyes, they speak volumes,
Accented in a second language:
“Chérie, tu as tout mon cœur,
Pour aujourd’hui et toujours”
The remaining petal explained your feelings
As I walked on in realisation -
You are a dream more real awake,
A promise with feelings in reflection.
For my love, Emma Platt
By Adam Thomas
08/12/09
Dazed waiting; heartstrings resonating
Outstretched hands enveloped by shadow,
This beauty inducing blindness
The sad eyes, they speak volumes,
Accented in a second language:
“Chérie, tu as tout mon cœur,
Pour aujourd’hui et toujours”
The remaining petal explained your feelings
As I walked on in realisation -
You are a dream more real awake,
A promise with feelings in reflection.
For my love, Emma Platt
By Adam Thomas
08/12/09
Monday, 4 January 2010
When You Are Old by W.B. Yeats
I came across this today and immediately thought it magnificent:
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face a mid a crowd of stars.
W.B. Yeats
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face a mid a crowd of stars.
W.B. Yeats
The Deep Past
When I look into the deep past,
Is it a pool of scorched grass that
Peers at me through the looking-glass?
Is it the doorway to some outside room,
Where every hand I've shook is castrated
And given its own private nook?
Does the little light pierce a foot in Brazil?
How to tell if the time gone hates the time come?
Long vault and sharp retract, a glance back,
Where rocket-heads flame and the vast list
Of names wave me away with their
Double-barrel wrists.
How to tell if the I gone hates the me now?
And when I look into the deep past,
It'll remain deep and passed.
O.Wilks
Is it a pool of scorched grass that
Peers at me through the looking-glass?
Is it the doorway to some outside room,
Where every hand I've shook is castrated
And given its own private nook?
Does the little light pierce a foot in Brazil?
How to tell if the time gone hates the time come?
Long vault and sharp retract, a glance back,
Where rocket-heads flame and the vast list
Of names wave me away with their
Double-barrel wrists.
How to tell if the I gone hates the me now?
And when I look into the deep past,
It'll remain deep and passed.
O.Wilks
The Overload
A Terrible Signal
Too Weak To Even Recognize
A Gentle Collapsing
The Removal Of The Insides
I'm Touched By Your Pleas
I Value These Moments
We're Older Than We Realize
...In Someone's Eyes
A Frequent Returning
And Leaving Unnoticed
A Condition Of Mercy
A Change In The Weather
A View To Remember
The Center Is Missing
They Question How The Future Lies
...In Someone's Eyes
The Gentle Collapsing
Of Every Surface
We Travel On The Quiet Road
...The Overload
By David Byne
Too Weak To Even Recognize
A Gentle Collapsing
The Removal Of The Insides
I'm Touched By Your Pleas
I Value These Moments
We're Older Than We Realize
...In Someone's Eyes
A Frequent Returning
And Leaving Unnoticed
A Condition Of Mercy
A Change In The Weather
A View To Remember
The Center Is Missing
They Question How The Future Lies
...In Someone's Eyes
The Gentle Collapsing
Of Every Surface
We Travel On The Quiet Road
...The Overload
By David Byne
Friday, 18 December 2009
Wednesday, 16 December 2009
Pantomime in the soil
They cut me free from the past, that crowd of voices, and enticed me wonderfully into the warm present. Amid tall and unfurnished grassblades, I sensed a swirling resonance of the sanguine which day-to-day forgets me. A perfect interval between the movement of their lips (soft, scented) and their unfurling melodies:
- Come, lie here, so I can flatter and decide, placate and confide, twirl nothing in my fingers in the peripherals of your eyes. Free the jocundity from your belly and adopt the speech of someone ready; I have palms soft to the touch, pleasing stream-like arms, a woodland of a womb, and hair that dances in the wind.
O.Wilks
- Come, lie here, so I can flatter and decide, placate and confide, twirl nothing in my fingers in the peripherals of your eyes. Free the jocundity from your belly and adopt the speech of someone ready; I have palms soft to the touch, pleasing stream-like arms, a woodland of a womb, and hair that dances in the wind.
O.Wilks
Monday, 14 December 2009
The Kingfisher
A kingfisher darts downward, fervently, across the twilight canvas. Smooth muscles and pure instinct cause few waves to be created as he poaches his third meal today. Whacked against the perch, the powerless minnow withers into non-existence - much like my dreams being descaled indoors by the weary fishwife at the dining table.
Adam Thomas
Adam Thomas
Tuesday, 8 December 2009
Introduction to the book 'If this is a man'
Voi che vivete sicuri You who live safe
Nelle vostre tiepide case In your warm houses,
voi che trovate tornando a sera You who find warm food
Il cibo caldo e visi amici And friendly faces when you return home.
Considerate se questo è un uomo Consider if this is a man
Che lavora nel fango Who works in mud,
Che non conosce pace Who knows no peace,
Che lotta per mezzo pane Who fights for a crust of bread,
Che muore per un sì o per un no. Who dies by a yes or a no.
Considerate se questa è una donna Consider if this is a woman
Senza capelli e senza nome Without hair, without name,
Senza più forza di ricordare Without the strength to remember,
Vuoti gli occhi e freddo il grembo Empty are her eyes, cold her womb,
Come una rana d'inverno. Like a frog in winter.
Meditate che questo è stato Never forget that this has happened.
Vi comando queste parole. Remember these words.
Scolpitele nel vostro cuore Engrave them in your hearts,
Stando in casa andando per via When at home or in the street,
Coricandovi alzandovi When lying down, when getting up.
Ripetetele ai vostri figli. Repeat them to your children.
O vi si sfaccia la casa Or may your houses be destroyed,
La malattia vi impedisca May illness strike you down,
I vostri nati torcano il viso da voi May your offspring turn their faces from you
Nelle vostre tiepide case In your warm houses,
voi che trovate tornando a sera You who find warm food
Il cibo caldo e visi amici And friendly faces when you return home.
Considerate se questo è un uomo Consider if this is a man
Che lavora nel fango Who works in mud,
Che non conosce pace Who knows no peace,
Che lotta per mezzo pane Who fights for a crust of bread,
Che muore per un sì o per un no. Who dies by a yes or a no.
Considerate se questa è una donna Consider if this is a woman
Senza capelli e senza nome Without hair, without name,
Senza più forza di ricordare Without the strength to remember,
Vuoti gli occhi e freddo il grembo Empty are her eyes, cold her womb,
Come una rana d'inverno. Like a frog in winter.
Meditate che questo è stato Never forget that this has happened.
Vi comando queste parole. Remember these words.
Scolpitele nel vostro cuore Engrave them in your hearts,
Stando in casa andando per via When at home or in the street,
Coricandovi alzandovi When lying down, when getting up.
Ripetetele ai vostri figli. Repeat them to your children.
O vi si sfaccia la casa Or may your houses be destroyed,
La malattia vi impedisca May illness strike you down,
I vostri nati torcano il viso da voi May your offspring turn their faces from you
Monday, 7 December 2009
VII.i. Florence (An Experiment in Parataxis)
VII.
i/iv
and though no delight is she to behold -
cold metal shackles shift below
black velvet wrapping;
dynamos of African ivory and regal gold -
bright rings encircl'ng oblivion -
deep holes symmetric'ly punch'd on a slanted sheet -
tar trickl'ng behind a gaze beautiful enough to
melt my prickled lashes like chick'n spines in broth -
suh - suh - SUH - SUH - shh-ee creeps,
crippledly -
higgledy - piggledy
earthly -
unknowingly - towards that dry knoll
(with a point of a rustic thumb and forefinger; artlessly slim hands - hers, handguns) when the bell tolls and pilgrimage will cease and start and she will begin again -
a little dumber and half as dark.
---
and me?
emasculated - born still - castrated - circulation constipated by choked-up mule blood -
I need only learn her silent dogma -
ancient Gamachean wisdom -
that black mama's creed -
theologian medicine to piss and bleed that colourless poison out -
osmosis on it's head through language and
paraphrased for ease.
D.B.B
For a Poet
I have wrapped my dreams in a silken cloth,
And laid them away in a box of gold;
Where long will cling the lips of the moth,
I have wrapped my dreams in a silken cloth;
I hide no hate; I am not even wroth
Who found earth's breath so keen and cold;
I have wrapped my dreams in a silken cloth,
And laid them away in a box of gold.
For A Lady
She even thinks that up in heaven
Her class lies late and snores
While poor black cherubs rise at seven
To do celestial chores.
by Countée Cullen (1903-1946)
Nervously emitted from a blue sky mind,
Baby put across the third point not feeling inclined.
Delivered noiselessly, secrets as clear as cloud,
And glamorous kindness in ammunition,
Certain words not to be said aloud,
Dreamt ideas bereft of fruition.
Magnanimously admitted on paper and signed,
The first two points told unreservedly combined.
Without fear, just clear and concise,
Joined intrinsically over imaginary borders,
What is said now reiterated twice,
Two hearts united as love hoarders.
Adam Thomas
i/iv
and though no delight is she to behold -
cold metal shackles shift below
dynamos of African ivory and regal gold -
bright rings encircl'ng oblivion -
deep holes symmetric'ly punch'd on a slanted sheet -
tar trickl'ng behind a gaze beautiful enough to
melt my prickled lashes like chick'n spines in broth -
suh - suh - SUH - SUH - shh-ee creeps,
crippledly -
higgledy - piggledy
earthly -
unknowingly - towards that dry knoll
(with a point of a rustic thumb and forefinger; artlessly slim hands - hers, handguns) when the bell tolls and pilgrimage will cease and start and she will begin again -
a little dumber and half as dark.
---
and me?
emasculated - born still - castrated - circulation constipated by choked-up mule blood -
ancient Gamachean wisdom -
that black mama's creed -
theologian medicine to piss and bleed that colourless poison out -
osmosis on it's head through language and
paraphrased for ease.
D.B.B
Sunday, 6 December 2009
For a Poet
I have wrapped my dreams in a silken cloth,
And laid them away in a box of gold;
Where long will cling the lips of the moth,
I have wrapped my dreams in a silken cloth;
I hide no hate; I am not even wroth
Who found earth's breath so keen and cold;
I have wrapped my dreams in a silken cloth,
And laid them away in a box of gold.
For A Lady
She even thinks that up in heaven
Her class lies late and snores
While poor black cherubs rise at seven
To do celestial chores.
by Countée Cullen (1903-1946)
Tuesday, 1 December 2009
Saturday, 28 November 2009
Three Points
Nervously emitted from a blue sky mind,
Baby put across the third point not feeling inclined.
Delivered noiselessly, secrets as clear as cloud,
And glamorous kindness in ammunition,
Certain words not to be said aloud,
Dreamt ideas bereft of fruition.
Magnanimously admitted on paper and signed,
The first two points told unreservedly combined.
Without fear, just clear and concise,
Joined intrinsically over imaginary borders,
What is said now reiterated twice,
Two hearts united as love hoarders.
Adam Thomas
Wednesday, 25 November 2009
The year in half
That winter he was constantly startled by the early advancing in of darkness, effaced day after day. It hadn't been half an afternoon yet but the space of daylight was vortex-ed by the onslaught of last night's recycled blackity. It saw him getting into cars, whirling through swing-doors, kicking at the crowd before him. It caught him on the gradual gradient up from Underground above and alongside windows and dry estates. Constantly startled because the back of summer he felt was still propped up against him. Had the stilted months between then and now really conclaved this ill-fitted winter around him? How his handsome days of length were now swallowed up by Autumn's premature, gluttonous castration; it all traveled away too easily with an indicative reticence, into a reigning winter evening. Dry-in-seconds home towels were now the washing-up cloths in the local dryer, white wine (bottles of the stuff) became cosy still rum, huddled in groups on stones- now huddled in packs around invisible cylinders in passageways (six O'clock/the burnt out ends of smoky days). He looked at the change in company around him; in awe of the subtle specter of the quotidian. Smiles like facts, snatched from the damp sand that the somnolent tide of warm months had left to fade and dry.
O.Wilks
O.Wilks
Dents
New scholar in non-aggressive shirt and cardy,
Latest Camel in a well-spoken mouth,
Outside the same building at similar hours,
Whirling mind gunned at by day-to-day diatribes
(Disguised by powerpoints and glances at the clockface),
All pale,
All huddled apart by room to think to digest it all,
Possessed of true regularity,
Reposed by near actuality,
And cursed by the common binary-
Popular and dull.
O.Wilks
Latest Camel in a well-spoken mouth,
Outside the same building at similar hours,
Whirling mind gunned at by day-to-day diatribes
(Disguised by powerpoints and glances at the clockface),
All pale,
All huddled apart by room to think to digest it all,
Possessed of true regularity,
Reposed by near actuality,
And cursed by the common binary-
Popular and dull.
O.Wilks
BNP - Barely Needed Publicity
"Representing the North West of England in the European Parliament stands the BNP (British National Party). May it just as well be the Monster Raving Looney Party, or do the BNP really have something to offer Europe? No. They don’t.
The party’s recent local election success in Barnet and other UK white-frustrated hate-pockets, coupled with the pantomime-villainesque appearance of the party’s rotund leader, Nick Griffin, on the BBC’s Question Time has given the BNP and their voters a strong, yet ill-deserved sense of political importance.
As Griffin embarrassingly chuckled his way through serious allegations on Question Time, including his own Holocaust Denial, it was clear to see that this man was in no sense a charismatic political leader. However, the show certainly grabbed the concentration of the nation with a staggering 11 million viewers.
From his appearance on Question Time, it struck me that he was a man, fully aware that his beliefs and ‘morals’ were flawed, yet in a hyper-antagonistic manner found great pleasure in the controversy surrounding his views, and also the media frenzy that had arisen. Perhaps this was a pseudo-shambolic tactic pre-planned by Griffin for his appearance on the centre stage? Or was he really no better than a teenage boy reluctant to admit an obvious defeat?
Two things were particularly disturbing in the aftermath of Griffin’s Question Time appearance; firstly the percentage of young people who previously had never heard of the BNP who now knew who they were and what dreadful things they stood for, whom I believe were previously better off, and secondly, more disturbingly, the small fraction of young social-networkers that emerged feeling the BNP ‘weren’t that bad’ and that now felt no shame publicly admitting this.
Now, I’m not for one minute suggesting that changing your Facebook status to “I don’t mind the BNP” is an automatic swastika in the ballot box for the BNP come the next general election, or am I? After all the immense popularity of television shows such as Never Mind the Buzzcocks and Mock the Week, which are primarily targeted at a younger audience, prove perfectly that the most popular comedy is controversial. This mainstream contro-comedy and general rebellion against forced political-correctness is worrying as a small fraction of young, possibly first time voters, of whom have yet to acquire any interest national politics and affair, may see the ultra-controversial aspect of voting BNP as a good joke. The pure notoriety of the party itself, much expanded by recent press, provides a potent chamber of opportunity for a possible anti-political uprising.
It would be trivial to suggest our nation is on the precipice of the rebirth of Hitler, or that the Queen in future may end her annual speech with a palm-down fascist salute to an Aryan horizon. Yet, it’s important to observe the infiltration of such a party into the minds and thoughts of our nation, and maybe we should pay attention to 1930’s Germany- also in a time of recession, and we must learn from their mistakes, and trust in each other, to incinerate the hate and racism that is growing within."
-
a Big Bastard
The party’s recent local election success in Barnet and other UK white-frustrated hate-pockets, coupled with the pantomime-villainesque appearance of the party’s rotund leader, Nick Griffin, on the BBC’s Question Time has given the BNP and their voters a strong, yet ill-deserved sense of political importance.
As Griffin embarrassingly chuckled his way through serious allegations on Question Time, including his own Holocaust Denial, it was clear to see that this man was in no sense a charismatic political leader. However, the show certainly grabbed the concentration of the nation with a staggering 11 million viewers.
From his appearance on Question Time, it struck me that he was a man, fully aware that his beliefs and ‘morals’ were flawed, yet in a hyper-antagonistic manner found great pleasure in the controversy surrounding his views, and also the media frenzy that had arisen. Perhaps this was a pseudo-shambolic tactic pre-planned by Griffin for his appearance on the centre stage? Or was he really no better than a teenage boy reluctant to admit an obvious defeat?
Two things were particularly disturbing in the aftermath of Griffin’s Question Time appearance; firstly the percentage of young people who previously had never heard of the BNP who now knew who they were and what dreadful things they stood for, whom I believe were previously better off, and secondly, more disturbingly, the small fraction of young social-networkers that emerged feeling the BNP ‘weren’t that bad’ and that now felt no shame publicly admitting this.
Now, I’m not for one minute suggesting that changing your Facebook status to “I don’t mind the BNP” is an automatic swastika in the ballot box for the BNP come the next general election, or am I? After all the immense popularity of television shows such as Never Mind the Buzzcocks and Mock the Week, which are primarily targeted at a younger audience, prove perfectly that the most popular comedy is controversial. This mainstream contro-comedy and general rebellion against forced political-correctness is worrying as a small fraction of young, possibly first time voters, of whom have yet to acquire any interest national politics and affair, may see the ultra-controversial aspect of voting BNP as a good joke. The pure notoriety of the party itself, much expanded by recent press, provides a potent chamber of opportunity for a possible anti-political uprising.
It would be trivial to suggest our nation is on the precipice of the rebirth of Hitler, or that the Queen in future may end her annual speech with a palm-down fascist salute to an Aryan horizon. Yet, it’s important to observe the infiltration of such a party into the minds and thoughts of our nation, and maybe we should pay attention to 1930’s Germany- also in a time of recession, and we must learn from their mistakes, and trust in each other, to incinerate the hate and racism that is growing within."
-
a Big Bastard
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