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Monday, April 20, 2015
Michael Rosen: Our gods: 'the city' and 'the markets': I love the way in which commentators and experts say the words 'the city' and 'the markets'. They aren't given to us as ...
sketched by dweller at 3:42 pm0 comments
If the wurlitzer played a moan alone by Rigsby,
If latitudes could be plucked by a pilotless jet plane,
If weddings and funerals were served up together on stormy Mondays,
If bucolic windmill sighs and slow mo recordings of buds opening were
last night of the prom show stoppers,
If memories of drifting fingers through ink black water and watching mesmeric phosphorescent trails could
be revived like a favourite play,
Then virtue would lay an unbreakable egg,
Then earth beams and girders would untangle and sing,
Then buff musclebound worms would fight the blackbird's beak,
Then wigwams and teepees would fly in to restore order,
Then Robert Maxwell would sip soup aboard a floating mirage.
Or perhaps a robin's nest would host Felicity Kendall's giggle.
sketched by dweller at 10:25 pm0 comments
So the first page of a new book…
Was ist los?
Deep fried and in the vein of murphy’s magical pig.
He wandered left right left.
Sheba purred and swam the breast stroke.
Kalamazoo in plimpsoles.
Mother did you hear they dropped the frogs?
Unt zertanks shall roll vonce again across the plain.
Hey buddy, I don’t like your jazz hands.
Put on these black lady muslim gloves.
I’m swaying side to side like a Latina groove.
Bottoms up, my beauty.
Hair like a badger.
That new labour dominatrix look.
You know the one
Beside the point. Carry on nurses.
Unglue the dressing.
Put down the up and sideways graft the sloppy bawbag meat.
Air hair lair.
My larynx performed with the footlights.
She went all squiffy.
Ooh no, robbed by a ghastly crack head again.
But that’s okay because there are large scale sandwiches in an upscale neighbourhood and jolly old Freddie will be ever so chummy.
The Icelandic warbles in a chill fm stylee about frozen fish, space dust and liquidised pixie glands.
Everything changes but knowing that won’t relieve your security anxiety.
Heaven knows we’re all Eastenders now.
Play the piana, the old Joanna – chompy stompy plinky plonk owz about that then me old kipper?
Enough you wurzel, turf off the hedgehog breath.
sketched by dweller at 8:19 pm0 comments
Never surrender said Paisley,
The pope is the devil so he is
Merry Christmas Mister Lawrence
Pillboxes made from pixels
The bleeping of the zx days
The cup that runneth over
No time for egghead ways of lateral thinking
And I still haven’t found Wembley Stadium
Those deaths so distant
South Africa tyres on fire
Looks funny – not real
But drama, plays Singing Detectives
That’s real, oh no the boy saw his mum
Doing it in the bushes!
Is my mum doing it with the window cleaner?
Is my dad doing it with that woman?
Worse than tv deaths.
In fact U2 and CND and Amnesty were cool ,
Lets make this world a better place,
Peter Gabriel hugging Kate
I can relate
Can I get in between you
And have a little cry too?
But Thatch man
Thatcher woah and Tebbit and Northern Ireland, its ok because here is Ben Elton and he is gonna hug us and that cup of tea and chocolate biscuit with a cat purring on your lap feels all good again.
All curled up and safe once more.
Before “going to the pub”
But there is a party, and there is cider now
And maybe smoke a tiny bit of hash if you’re lucky.
Girls, yeah, but only for your friends, cause you are weird, and they sense that.
Oh well, but I’m reasonably good at maths.
O-level not A-level so much.
But I stepped out of the hatch, like that heavy metal musician who fell out of the coach when he mistook the fire exit for the toilet.
Now I’m here in front of a screen.
In some stranger’s house.
Gathering memories together and snuggling up inside them.
The 1980s – looks like the silvery paper from the inside of a packet of fags.
Sniff it. You can almost step back.
sketched by dweller at 7:46 pm0 comments
little old dandy randy
take me to Gerome
in the rough grass
hen party necklaces
foo yung egg slicer
lips of red nausea
follow me in the darkness
break the glass
I’m not in love oh no
Trippy so trippy
Leashed and tethered
Cress in a small plastic tray
Recorder class behind glass bricks
Have faith in the lack of time
It all ended and began
So luck and sorrow
And gloves and scarves
Toast the dawn
Stretch and avoid
The nagging doubts
Bollocks I was wrong
Need to blind some horses
Shout and curse
Push boulders from a cliff
Writhe in a hysterical naked fit
Hammer the earth with a fist
A primal scream
Warble lips um ga ga bumbly boo
Grab at woolly woolly things
That tree loves me
That soil really cherishes me
Oh yes it is true
It cannot be denied
Yes the branches and leaves
sketched by dweller at 7:10 pm0 comments
Choose your side
Aye or nay
Tufts of war
A frightened arc
Master and slave
My face painted blue
A table leg in a placcy bag
String vest philosopher
sketched by dweller at 10:13 pm0 comments
Exhausted itchy eyes
Been pumping it
Back on top
I’m here for you
You are all around
Bumping hanging sitting round bottoming
Wrinkled beards and big finger rings on the sunny bench
Where Tennents Super sits proudly in distinguished blue
Need a top up
Eyes glide past racks of coloured fruit and veg
Dreams like this at age seven
2001 Jupiter flight over infinite perspective lego landscapes
Ever evolving and randomly propagating
This high street yeah
You can sing its song
Voice your thoughts aloud to an Irish folk tune
Do its memory justice
Leprefuckinggamblingchauns on the window of
What was Biddy Mulligans
Now a Ladbrokes for broke lads
I get my morning bananas from a bowl
In front of me the men and women get blue bags
Filled with cans of brew
Breakfast with a bang
I get served ahead of them, give the worker his healthy fruit
You wasters can wait, show the worker some respect.
the cry on the street today is not spare change please - it is a desperate "buy me some fooood!" #London
sketched by dweller at 10:50 pm0 comments Waiting for Godden: Poem / The Back Of The Internet
this is a pretty cool poem y'all
sketched by dweller at 10:08 pm0 comments
I have my own voice
Just the juster just person
My bloody valentine
The knackers yard
In the tube tunnel
At the leather chair the gentleman’s bottom
Sits firm in suited hem
Squeak lean fart sigh
Guilty my lady
Killer my gentleman
Not so fast he is clean cut
Not shaggy but muscular
Jesus and the de’il
Will he won’t he
Shall not argh there is a wasp in my hair
Aargh it is down my neck
Aargh strip off my shirt
Flail my arms
Got to kill that wasp
Where is it?
Must be here?
I am stung
Am I not?
The smell of petrol
Phones all out of battery
Oil rigs and bunny hops and
The big whale
Banged up on that island
Should have died there
I’m not afraid
I got my gangster glock
Shiver me timbers
That’s not cricket
Oh sure, just an orange juice for me
We’re in love
Fucking love her love her
Love her bitch bitch
I own this woman
My own love this tight
Bitch she’s mine
I’m not afraid
Got my gangster piece
She knows it
My bitch in the wooden house
The grass outside
The oil tanker
Get some air
She’ll be right
Gonna be sick
Wait no I didn’t
It was them
I’m not scared
Just a kid
I’d be right
It’d be ok
sketched by dweller at 7:13 pm0 comments
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