"I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine and rage the likes of which you would not believe. If I cannot satisfy the one, I will indulge the other."
― Mary Shelley, Frankenstein
Tuesday 25 October 2011
The Monster (image)
"I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine and rage the likes of which you would not believe. If I cannot satisfy the one, I will indulge the other."
― Mary Shelley, Frankenstein
Mr Poe and Mr Lovecraft (image)
Mr. Lovecraft to Mr Poe: My dear Edgar, I'm as disappointed as you are, but nothing seems to be happening!
Based on two of my favourite horror writers.
Count to Ten
Then your eyes clouded over,
And you shed a tear.
I told a terrible joke.
You smiled, we laughed.
I held you close,
Your hair a burgundy perfume.
You whispered a shiver down my spine.
I will close my eyes and count to ten.
If you are still here then,
I will believe this dream.
And you shed a tear.
I told a terrible joke.
You smiled, we laughed.
I held you close,
Your hair a burgundy perfume.
You whispered a shiver down my spine.
I will close my eyes and count to ten.
If you are still here then,
I will believe this dream.
In Memoriam
i pick up the flowers and i
bring them to my face and i
inhale and, there is
no scent of roses. or pink and white
carnations. thank you mother
they are … appropriate
They all agreed,
Hand on heart and heads held high,
To a man
That he was a decent enough guy
And that given half a chance
He would, sooner or late,
Have had his life
In some kind of shape.
The general consensus he
"wouldhavebeengreatbutwasgoodanyway"
Too bad he didn’t see the car
Coming towards him.
Too bad he didn’t see
What was coming to him
Until it was too late.
What a waste.
That’s what they said.
But when backs were turned,
They stuck the knives in,
(Like voodoo dolls
Like pincushions)
Withdrew the bloodied blades,
Staring, entranced, as
Red stained starched white
Like voodoo
it is difficult to write with your
hands in a coffin and.
six feet, under so I talk
with the pen of another.
send them home mother
they only came for the party
bring them to my face and i
inhale and, there is
no scent of roses. or pink and white
carnations. thank you mother
they are … appropriate
They all agreed,
Hand on heart and heads held high,
To a man
That he was a decent enough guy
And that given half a chance
He would, sooner or late,
Have had his life
In some kind of shape.
The general consensus he
"wouldhavebeengreatbutwasgoodanyway"
Too bad he didn’t see the car
Coming towards him.
Too bad he didn’t see
What was coming to him
Until it was too late.
What a waste.
That’s what they said.
But when backs were turned,
They stuck the knives in,
(Like voodoo dolls
Like pincushions)
Withdrew the bloodied blades,
Staring, entranced, as
Red stained starched white
Like voodoo
it is difficult to write with your
hands in a coffin and.
six feet, under so I talk
with the pen of another.
send them home mother
they only came for the party
No Place for the Poet
‘No place here for the poet,’ cried the crowd.
‘We have our tin gods and our transient things:
‘What need we of soliloquies,
‘And songs that speak to the soul?
‘We are told how to feel and to follow.’
‘No place here for the poet,” cried the money-lenders.
‘We have but one God in Mammon
‘We are the cult of the coin,
‘And demand only the sacrifice of the heart
‘We cannot sell the lines you pen.’
‘No place here for the poet,’ cried the warriors.
‘We unleashed a monster to catch a monster
‘In the name of the Good and the Just
‘Now we struggle to recage It:
‘We cared too much and paid the price.’
‘No place here for the poet,’ spoke the silent masses.
‘Our emotions sealed our fate.
‘Now, we have castrated our feelings:
‘Now, we are all synonymous.
‘We neither care nor uncare and want for nothing more.”
In the dust of the last day
In the echo of a billion souls
As the last fire embered on the hill
They sat and wept and called for what was lost
And cried: “Where is the poet
“To hold his dark mirror up to us
So that we might see ourselves clearly?”
Yet the poet sang no more.
‘We have our tin gods and our transient things:
‘What need we of soliloquies,
‘And songs that speak to the soul?
‘We are told how to feel and to follow.’
‘No place here for the poet,” cried the money-lenders.
‘We have but one God in Mammon
‘We are the cult of the coin,
‘And demand only the sacrifice of the heart
‘We cannot sell the lines you pen.’
‘No place here for the poet,’ cried the warriors.
‘We unleashed a monster to catch a monster
‘In the name of the Good and the Just
‘Now we struggle to recage It:
‘We cared too much and paid the price.’
‘No place here for the poet,’ spoke the silent masses.
‘Our emotions sealed our fate.
‘Now, we have castrated our feelings:
‘Now, we are all synonymous.
‘We neither care nor uncare and want for nothing more.”
In the dust of the last day
In the echo of a billion souls
As the last fire embered on the hill
They sat and wept and called for what was lost
And cried: “Where is the poet
“To hold his dark mirror up to us
So that we might see ourselves clearly?”
Yet the poet sang no more.
Mr Bob's Curiosity Shoppe.
I
"Just call me Bob", he said
Showing his big toothy-wide grin.
"No need to stand on ceremony, now, is there?"
And because I were only six,
And didn't know what he meant,
And because his twisted, knotted, brown hand
Were almost as big as me whole head
I just nodded,
Poppin' me gum.
But he were still older than me - an adult -
So I called him Mr.
Mr. Bob.
The big old brass bell
Twinkled,
And deposited its notes around the room.
Some fell behind the counter
Or hid on the shelves
And hung around
Just
A bit
Longer.
I used to go there after school
If I couldn't be bothered kickin' the ball around,
Or if Davey forgot the ball;
Or when it were raining
I'd hopscotch the mud-puddles in the lane,
Weave down the road,
To Mr. Bob's Curiosity Shoppe.
The sign in the window said:
EVERYTHING YOU NEVER THOUGHT YOU'D WANT
but he also sold everythin' you'd ever really need,
Though I never understood,
Not then.
But I'd let the bell twinkle
Pretty much every night, all the same,
And go in an' examine
Mr. Bob's curiosities.
I remember the tiger rug
I remember the stuffed swan
And the brass bedwarmer.
I can still see the rows upon rows
Upon rows of little
Coloured
Bottles
Sittin' next to the patient Toby jugs on the shelves
- I swear one winked at me once -
Or under the counter.
No labels.
No prices.
No customers -
Eitherway, none that I ever saw.
I told him that once, an' he said;
"If I can have just one customer go away satisfied
Then this business is a worthwhile affair."
I never understood that, neither,
But it were warm in there when it were cold outside
So I stayed.
II
I got home late one night when it were dark.
Mum were throwin' pots an' pans at Dad.
Dad hid behind the kitchen table.
I ran upstairs an' cried myself to sleep.
When I got up the next day
Mum had gone to her cleaning job
And Dad had no work on again
So he sat in the armchair,
Faggin' away,
And readin' yesterday's newspaper.
On the way to school I passed the shop.
It were closed, but I backtracked
And tried the handle,
All the same.
It opened.
Wading through the ever present sea
Of stale smoke and spices,
Musk, mug and mildew
To the counter.
No one there, but a scrap of paper:
Dear William,
I am sorry I can't help you.
I can't sell you what they need.
Tell them to look for themselves.
Mr. Bob.
But I scanned the rows of bottles all the same.
What was I looking for?
- A stray label where there had been none before?
- Love?
- Emotion?
- Compassion?
III
I told Dad about Mr Bob's Curiosity Shoppe that night.
He just grunted he'd never heard of it
But I weren't surprised much.
He never left the armchair, nowadays.
You can't find what you don't want to look for, I guess.
IV
A year later, when I were seven
Mum left Dad
After he beat her.
She didn't say goodbye.
Dad and I drifted further apart,
As I grew up,
And he grew old.
I still saw Mr Bob a lot.
He gave me a bottle once it had a label on it:
COURAGE
He said he'd given some to a lion once,
But I didn't really believe him.
The contents tasted bittersweet,
But he said it were natural.
I kept the bottle,
But I can't find it now.
V
When Dad died
Mr. Bob came to the funeral.
Aunt Elsie held the wake
But we slipped off early,
Back to the shop.
He gave me my second, and last, bottle,
A red one. With a label.
(I scanned the shelf. None of them had any labels.)
It read: TO MEND A BROKEN HEART.
It were salty, like tears,
With just a hint of strawberry.
Or mint.
Or lime cordial.
When I fell asleep,
Exhausted,
Mr. Bob carried me back to my aunt's house in his arms.
VI
I had to live with Aunt Elsie
And when she moved, I moved.
I never saw Mr. Bob again.
I went back there, last year
But couldn't find the shop.
No empty window.
No 'Closed Down' sign.
No door.
Or did I get the wrong street?
Time plays tricks with the tracks of your mind.
I just wanted to tell him.
Tell him that I'm older, wiser.
Tell him I have found someone of my own.
Tell him all the things I wanted to say,
All the thoughts that my littleboy mouth and mind
Couldn't form.
Tell him I would put the world on hold for this person.
Tell him that I know the truth now:
That the best way to mend a broken heart
Is never to break it in the first place.
I never did find Mr. Bob's Curiosity Shoppe,
But every night
I will visit him once again in my memories.
Just to remember.
"Just call me Bob", he said
Showing his big toothy-wide grin.
"No need to stand on ceremony, now, is there?"
And because I were only six,
And didn't know what he meant,
And because his twisted, knotted, brown hand
Were almost as big as me whole head
I just nodded,
Poppin' me gum.
But he were still older than me - an adult -
So I called him Mr.
Mr. Bob.
The big old brass bell
Twinkled,
And deposited its notes around the room.
Some fell behind the counter
Or hid on the shelves
And hung around
Just
A bit
Longer.
I used to go there after school
If I couldn't be bothered kickin' the ball around,
Or if Davey forgot the ball;
Or when it were raining
I'd hopscotch the mud-puddles in the lane,
Weave down the road,
To Mr. Bob's Curiosity Shoppe.
The sign in the window said:
EVERYTHING YOU NEVER THOUGHT YOU'D WANT
but he also sold everythin' you'd ever really need,
Though I never understood,
Not then.
But I'd let the bell twinkle
Pretty much every night, all the same,
And go in an' examine
Mr. Bob's curiosities.
I remember the tiger rug
I remember the stuffed swan
And the brass bedwarmer.
I can still see the rows upon rows
Upon rows of little
Coloured
Bottles
Sittin' next to the patient Toby jugs on the shelves
- I swear one winked at me once -
Or under the counter.
No labels.
No prices.
No customers -
Eitherway, none that I ever saw.
I told him that once, an' he said;
"If I can have just one customer go away satisfied
Then this business is a worthwhile affair."
I never understood that, neither,
But it were warm in there when it were cold outside
So I stayed.
II
I got home late one night when it were dark.
Mum were throwin' pots an' pans at Dad.
Dad hid behind the kitchen table.
I ran upstairs an' cried myself to sleep.
When I got up the next day
Mum had gone to her cleaning job
And Dad had no work on again
So he sat in the armchair,
Faggin' away,
And readin' yesterday's newspaper.
On the way to school I passed the shop.
It were closed, but I backtracked
And tried the handle,
All the same.
It opened.
Wading through the ever present sea
Of stale smoke and spices,
Musk, mug and mildew
To the counter.
No one there, but a scrap of paper:
Dear William,
I am sorry I can't help you.
I can't sell you what they need.
Tell them to look for themselves.
Mr. Bob.
But I scanned the rows of bottles all the same.
What was I looking for?
- A stray label where there had been none before?
- Love?
- Emotion?
- Compassion?
III
I told Dad about Mr Bob's Curiosity Shoppe that night.
He just grunted he'd never heard of it
But I weren't surprised much.
He never left the armchair, nowadays.
You can't find what you don't want to look for, I guess.
IV
A year later, when I were seven
Mum left Dad
After he beat her.
She didn't say goodbye.
Dad and I drifted further apart,
As I grew up,
And he grew old.
I still saw Mr Bob a lot.
He gave me a bottle once it had a label on it:
COURAGE
He said he'd given some to a lion once,
But I didn't really believe him.
The contents tasted bittersweet,
But he said it were natural.
I kept the bottle,
But I can't find it now.
V
When Dad died
Mr. Bob came to the funeral.
Aunt Elsie held the wake
But we slipped off early,
Back to the shop.
He gave me my second, and last, bottle,
A red one. With a label.
(I scanned the shelf. None of them had any labels.)
It read: TO MEND A BROKEN HEART.
It were salty, like tears,
With just a hint of strawberry.
Or mint.
Or lime cordial.
When I fell asleep,
Exhausted,
Mr. Bob carried me back to my aunt's house in his arms.
VI
I had to live with Aunt Elsie
And when she moved, I moved.
I never saw Mr. Bob again.
I went back there, last year
But couldn't find the shop.
No empty window.
No 'Closed Down' sign.
No door.
Or did I get the wrong street?
Time plays tricks with the tracks of your mind.
I just wanted to tell him.
Tell him that I'm older, wiser.
Tell him I have found someone of my own.
Tell him all the things I wanted to say,
All the thoughts that my littleboy mouth and mind
Couldn't form.
Tell him I would put the world on hold for this person.
Tell him that I know the truth now:
That the best way to mend a broken heart
Is never to break it in the first place.
I never did find Mr. Bob's Curiosity Shoppe,
But every night
I will visit him once again in my memories.
Just to remember.
Tuesday 18 October 2011
The Hatter (image)
The Hatter was the first to break the silence. `What day of the month is it?' he said, turning to Alice: he had taken his watch out of his pocket, and was looking at it uneasily, shaking it every now and then, and holding it to his ear.
Alice considered a little, and then said `The fourth.'
`Two days wrong!' sighed the Hatter. `I told you butter wouldn't suit the works!' he added looking angrily at the March Hare.
`It was the best butter,' the March Hare meekly replied.
`Yes, but some crumbs must have got in as well,' the Hatter grumbled: `you shouldn't have put it in with the bread-knife.'
The Caterpillar (image)
The Caterpillar and Alice looked at each other for some time in silence: at last the Caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth, and addressed her in a languid, sleepy voice.
`Who are you?' said the Caterpillar.
This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation. Alice replied, rather shyly, `I--I hardly know, sir, just at present-- at least I know who I was when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then.'
`What do you mean by that?' said the Caterpillar sternly. `Explain yourself!'
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)