JedocIn the scupperswith the staggers and jagsRegistered Userregular
edited May 2010
Part two of our ongoing series on Silverstein's filthy poems about the devil.
Billy, Scuzzy, and God
It's the Nashville Country Corner, all the low are getting high.
And Billy tells his tale again to anyone who'll buy.
With waving arms and rolling eyes, he screams to the drunken throng,
"I've whipped the Devil and lived through Hell, now who's gonna sing my song?"
Then from the shadows comes an oily voice, "Hey, kid, I like your moves."
And out of the back slides a little wizened cat with brown-and -white perforated wing-tip shoes.
"Sleezo's the name," the little man says, "but I'm Scuzzy to my friends.
And I think I got a little business proposition you just might be interested in."
"Scuzzy Sleezo hisself," Billy Markham says. "Man, you're a legend in these woods.
You never cut the Devil down, but you done damn near as good.
Why, since I been old enough to jack, I been hearin' your greasy name.
It's an honor to meet an all-star Scuzz. Just where you settin' up your game?"
"No more games for me," says Scuzzy. "I'm too old and too slow for the pace,
So I'm the world's greatest hustler's agent now and, Billy, I been studyin' your case.
I seen your first match with the Devil," says Scuzz, "it was a Volkswagen/Mack truck collision,
And your second shot, well, you showed me a lot, but you got burned by a hometown decision.
And I says to myself, 'He can go all the way, with the proper guidance, of course.
He's got the heart, and with a few more smarts, he'd be an irresistible force.'
Yeah, I can teach you the tricks and show you the shticks, just like a hustler's training camp.
And I'll bring you on slow -- then a prelim or so -- then -- Powee! -- a shot at the Champ."
"The Champ?" says Billy Markham. "Now, who in God's name is that?"
"Why, God Himself," says Scuzzy Sleezo. "You know anybody more champ than that?"
"Hey, a match with God?" Billy Markham gasps. "And what would be the purse?"
"Why, a place in heaven, of course," says Scuzz, "'stead of livin' this Nashville curse.
But I'll drive you like a wagon, son, and I'll sweat you like a Turk,
All for fifty percent of the take -- now, shake, and let's get to work."
Now the scene shifts to the funky pool hall known as the Crystal Cue
And the time is three months later, and the smoke is thick and blue,
And the emerald cloth is stained with tears and blood and ketchup spots,
As a fat old man with a dirty white beard stands practicin' three-cushion shots.
"Hey, what are we doin' here?" says Billy to Scuzz. "I been taught and I been trained,
And I don't need no more prelims, I am primed for the Big, Big Game."
"Well, son," says the old man, sinkin' the four, "why don't you pick yourself out a cue, and. . . ."
"Hey, Santa Claus," Billy Markham snaps back, "wasn't nobody talkin' to you."
"Um. . .if you look close," whispers Scuzzy to Bill, "you'll see his cue is a lightnin' rod,
And he ain't no Santa, and he ain't Fat Daddy. . .you just showed your ass to God."
"Well, hey, excuse me, Lord," says Bill, "I didn't mean to be uncool,
But it sure can shake a fellah's faith to find God hustling pool."
"Well, where you expect to find me," says God, "on a throne with cherubs round?
Well, I do that five days and nights a week, and on the sixth night. . .I get down."
"And on the seventh night I suppose you rest?" says Billy Markham with a grin.
"Never you mind about the seventh night," says God. "Besides, that lady's just a friend.
Anyway, you didn't come here just to drag my image down."
"You're right 'bout that, Lord," Billy says. "I come to take your crown."
"Beg pardon, Lord," says Scuzzy Sleezo, "I don't mean no disrespect,
But when you're dealing with my boy, don't speak to him direct. I'm his agent and consultant, Scuzzy Sleezo is the name,
Premier Promotional Artist's Representative of the whole street-hustlin' game.
Cardsharps, loan sharks, pimps, punks and car parks, I've handled the best of the lot,
And my new boy here, he just whipped the Devil -- now we're lookin' for a title shot."
"Beat the Devil, you say?" laughs God. "Well, I take my hat off to him.
Let him hang up his mouth and pick out a cue and he'll get the shot that's due him.
Any game he names -- any table he's able -- any price he can afford."
"Straight pool for Heaven," says Billy Markham.
"Straight pool it is," says the Lord.
Crack! Billy Markham wins the break and busts 'em cool and clean.
The five ball falls, he sinks the seven, and then drops the 13.
He makes the nine, comes off the cushion and puts the six away,
Bags the three and the eight on a triple combination and wins the first game on a smooth massé.
He takes the next game, the next and the next, and when he does finally miss,
He dusts the blue off his hands, and his game score stands at 1376.
"Well, my turn at last," says the Lord, chalkin' up. "Son, you sure shoot a wicked stick.
I'll need some luck to beat a run like that; that is, without resorting to miracles or tricks."
"Hey, trick and be damned," Billy Markham laughs. "Tonight I'm as hot as flame.
So I laugh at your tricks -- and I sneer at your stick -- and I take your name in vain."
"Oooh", goes the crowd that's been gathering around. "Oooh", goes the rack boy in wonder.
"Oooh", says Scuzzy Sleezo, "I think you just made a slight tactical blunder."
"Oooh", says God, "you shouldn't have said that, son, you shouldn't have said that at all!"
And his cue cracks out like a thunderbolt spittin' a flamin' ball.
It sinks everything on the table, then it zooms up off the green,
Through the dirty window with a crash of glass and into the wind like a woman's scream,
Out of the pool hall, up through the skies, the cue ball gleams and swirls,
Bustin' in and out of every pool game in the world.
It strikes on every table, it crashes every rack,
And every pool ball in creation comes rebounding back!
Back through the window they tumble and crash, down through the ceiling they spin.
A million balls rain down on the table and every one goes in.
"Now, there", says Scuzzy Sleezo, "is a shot you don't see every day.
Lord, you should have an agent to handle your press and build up the class of your play.
My partnership with this sucker here has come to a termination.
But God and Scuzzy Sleezo? Hey, that would be a combination."
Meanwhile, the cue ball flyin' back last, like a sputterin' fizzlin' rocket, Goes weaving dizzily down the cushion and -- plunk! -- falls right in the pocket. "Scratch!" says Billy Markham. "And you said you could shoot!"
"Scratch!" murmurs the crowd of hangers and hustlers. "At last we have seen it all.
"Scratch!" mutters the Lord. "I guess I put a little too much English on the ball,
Just another imperfection, I never get it quite on the button.
Tell you what, son, I'll spot you three million balls and play you one more double or nothin'."
"Double what?" says Billy Markham. "I already whipped you like a child,
And I won my seat in Heaven, now I'm gonna set in it awhile."
"Hit-and-run -- chickenshit," sneers God. "You said you was the best.
Turns out you're just a get-lucky-play-it-safe pussy like all the rest."
"Whoa-whoa", says Billy. "There's somethin' in that voice I know quite well."
And he reaches out and yanks off God's white beard -- and there stands the Devil himself!
"You said you was God", Billy Markham cries. "You conned me and hustled me, too!"
"I am God -- sometimes -- and sometimes I'm the Devil, good and bad, just like you.
I'm everything and everyone in perfect combination,
And everybody but you knows that there ain't no separation.
But go ahead," sighs God, scribbling something down. "Give this note to the angel on the wall,
And you sit up there 'n' plunk your harp.
Hey, anybody want to shoot some eight ball?"
And cold and white and tremblin', Billy walks out into the night,
Where a golden staircase stretches all the way to paradise.
And he grips the glitterin' balustrade and begins his grand ascent.
"Just a minute, good buddy", yells Scuzzy Sleezo. "How about my fifty percent?
I helped you win the champeenship -- and you wouldn't do ol' Scuzzy wrong,
And since the purse is a seat in Heaven, you just gotta take me along."
"Just one minute", says Billy Markham. "There's something weird going on in this game.
All the voices that I'm hearin' start to soundin' just the same."
And he rips off Scuzzy Sleezo's face and the Devil's standing there.
"Good God," yells Billy Markham, "are you -- are you everywhere?"
"Yes, I am," the Devil says. "And don't look so damn surprised.
I thought you could smuggle me into Heaven wearing my Sleezy disguise.
'Course, I could've walked in as Jehovah, but it just wouldn't have been the same,
But you and your corny Dick Tracy bit -- you had to go ruin my fantasy game.
Go on, climb up your golden stairs, enjoy your paradise,
But don't rip off your own face, Bill -- or you might get a shockin' surprise."
Then up, up the golden stairway Billy Markham dizzily winds his way,
And high, high above him, he can hear his own songs bein' played,
And down, down below, hear Scuzzy Sleezo curse his name,
To the click-click-click of the pool balls
As God hustles another game.
Billy Markham's Descent
Billy Markham sits on an unwashed cloud, his hair is matted and mussed,
His dusty wings have been cast aside and his harp strings have gone to rust.
There's dirt beneath his fingernails and a glazed look in his eyes
As he sits like a burned-out acid freak and stares across the skies.
They had bathed his body in milk and myrrh; they had robed him in silver gowns;
They had straightened his warp in his guitar neck, and gave him a golden crown;
They had set him a place at the table of joy and the fountain of knowledge, as well,
But he searches the heavens with haunted eyes -- for his mind still walks through Hell.
His thoughts are down in that nether world, in that burning fiery rain.
His thoughts are with his momma, how he longs to soothe her pain.
His thoughts are with his little girl, how he'd love to ease her cryin'.
His thoughts are with his own true love, how he'd love to bust her spine.
So late that night, while the heavenly harps play In the Sweet Bye and Bye,
Billy Markham reaches the silken rope that hangs down from the sky.
He has stripped himself of his crown and robes; he has clutched the silken cord;
He has swung him down without a sound, so's not to wake the Lord.
And down he winds through the perfumed air, down through the marshmallow clouds,
And he hangs for a while o'er the rooftops of earth, lookin' down at the scurrying crowds.
Then down through a manhole still clutching the rope, to a stench that he knows quite well.
"Neath the sewers of the street, till he feels his feet touch the shit-mucked shores of Hell.
He has scaled the crusted, rusted gates, he has thrown a bone to the Hounds.
He has floated the putrid river Styx, still down and further down.
Down past the gluttons, the dealers and pimps, down past the murderer's cage,
Down past the rock stars searching in vain for their names on the Cashbox page.
Down past the door of the Merchants of War, past the Puritan's slop-filled bin.
Past the Bigot's hive, till at last he arrives, at the pit marked BLAMELESS SINS.
He has found the vat where his momma boils; he has lifted her gently from the deep.
He has found the grate where his little girl burns;
he has raised her and soothed her and rocked her to sleep.
he has found the pit where his sweetheart sleeps; he has spit on the fire where she lay.
He has cursed her as a whore of Hell; he has cursed and turned away.
"From this day", says Billy, "I place my faith only in mother and child,
And never again will I look for love in a bitch's cum-stained smile."
Then up, back up the rope he climbs, up through the sufferin' swarms,
Past the clutching hands and the pitiful screams with his two precious loves in his arms.
Just one more pull -- just one more pull -- then free forever from Hell,
Just one more pull then -- "Hello, Billy!" -- and there stands the Devil himself!
And now he wears his crimson robes and his horns are buttered bright,
And blood oozes through his white-linen gloves and his skin glows red in the night.
And his tail coils tight like an oily snake and the Hell-fires flash from his eyes,
On those craggy rocks, he stands and blocks the way to paradise.
"Well, what have we here", the Devil says, "in my domain of sin?
In all my years as Prince of the Dark, it's the first case of somebody breakin' in.
And of all the daredevil darin' dudes, well, who should the hero be?
But my old friend Billy Markham -- who once made a punk out of me.
I heard you was in Heaven, Billy, fuckin' angels all day long,
What's a matter -- wouldn't that heavenly choir sing none of your raunchy songs?
Or maybe it's the thought of the loves you sold and you couldn't live with the shame.
Or maybe, like every other loser, you just can't stay 'way from the game.
You write your songs about standin' strong, you sing about bein' free,
But like a pussy-whipped fool who keeps on bitchin'
'bout his lover, you keep bitchin' but comin' back to me.
You made me the laughingstock of Hell and the whole world laughed with you,
Now here you come crashin' my party again; now tell me, just who's devilin' who?
Now, I didn't invite you down here, Bill, and nobody twisted your arm,
But you're back down here on my turf now, down here where it's cozy and warm.
So no more dice and no more games and no more jive stories to tell,
Just the Devil and a man with some souls in his hand hangin' 'tween Heaven and Hell.
But what is this?" the Devil says. "Only two souls you've set free?
You seem to forgot and left one behind; now, who could that one be?
Could it be your own true love, the one with the angel's smile?
The one you curse with each bitter breath 'cause she played with the Devil awhile?
You call yourself free?" the Devil laughs. "Why, you prudish, uptight schmuck,
You'd leave your sweet love burn in Hell for one harmless little suck.
What would you rather she had done, leaped in the boiling manure . . .
So's you could keep your fantasy of someone sweet and pure?
She saved her ass -- and so would you -- but still you curse her name.
Shit, you'd suck a million dicks to escape one childbirth pain."
"Hey, it's easy to talk to savin' ass", says Billy, "forgiveness is easy to say,
But when the shame burns worse than Hades' fires -- how do you talk that away?"
"Shame?" laughs the Devil. "She's only a woman -- she did what she had to do,
And right or wrong, she needs no curse from the hypocrite lame like you. . .
She shall rule with me in this Kingdom of Flame, she shall sit next to me on my throne,
While you live with the truth -- that the Devil's heart has more pity than your own."
"Hey, wait a minute", say Billy Markham. "I can't believe what you just said,
You givin' me this whole philosophy shit just 'cause you like the way she gave you head.
Why, you poor closet romantic, that chick was suckin' for her life.
Just wait see what kinda head you get after you make her your wife."
"In Hell", shouts the Devil, "that's blasphemy! I should burn you to dust where you stand,
But the venom you're carryin' in your heart, that's torture enough for any man.
So get your ass up that silken rope, climb back to your promised land,
And hold your illusions of momma and daughter tight in your sweatin' hand.
But you'll see that they're just bitches like she, and you'll scream when you find it's true,
But stay up there and scream to God -- Hell's gates are closed to you."
And Billy Markham, clutching his loves, climbs upward toward the skies,
And is it the sharp night wind that brings the tears to Billy's eyes?
Or is it the swirling sulphur smoke or the bright glare of the sun?
Or is it the sound of the wedding feast that the demons below have begun?
As the Devil, he sits with his betrothed and they pledge their love in the steam,
While halfway up the silken cord,
Billy Markham screams!
Billy Markham's Wedding
The trumpets of Hell have sounded the word like a screeching clarion call.
The trumpets of Hell have sounded the word and the word has been heard by all.
The trumpets of Hell have sounded the word and it reaches the heavenly skies,
Come angels, come demons, come half-breeds, too, the Devil is taking a bride.
And out of the Pearly Gates they come in a file two by two,
For when the Devil takes a bride, there's none that dares refuse.
And Jesus himself, he leads the way down through the starless night,
With Virgin Mary at his left side and Joseph on his right.
And then comes Adam and then comes Eve and saints move close behind
And all the gentle and all the good, in an endless column they wind.
Down, down to the pits of Hell, down from the heavens they sift
Like fallen stars to a blood-red sea, each bearing the Devil a gift.
The strong and the brave, the halt and the lame, the deaf and the blind and the dumb,
And last of all comes Billy Markham, cursing the night as he comes.
Hell's halls are decked with ribbons of red, the feast has been prepared,
And Devil and bride sit side by side in skull-and-crossbone chairs,
And the Devil grins as his guests file in, for he is master now,
And one by one they enter his realm -- and one by one they bow,
And the Devil whispers, "Thank the Lord," and swells his chest with pride
As they mouth their blessings and place their gifts at the feet of the Devil's bride.
Lucrezia Borgia has made the punch of strychnine, wine and gin,
And Judas has set the supper table on hallowed, bloody linen.
The feast is a human barbecue and the sauce is beriberi
Flavored with gore from the burning hordes and cooked by Typhoid Mary.
And everyone drinks of the bubblin' brew and off come the masks of virtue and sin,
And the Devil beams proud on the well-mixed crowd and cries, "Let the revels begin!"
And the walls that separate Heaven and Hell crack and crumble away,
And the Devil laughs and waves his tail and Hell's band begins to play.
There is Nero, madly fiddlin' his fiddle and Gabriel on horn,
And the Black Bitch of Buchenwald beating her drum, and Arthur Rank bangin' his gong,
And Marie Laveau, she plays her bones and Yorick, he plays his,
And Hank plays guitar with three strings broke, and that's what Hell really is.
And Janis and Elvis and Jimi and Cass, they're up there singin' the blues,
And Adolf Hitler and Joan of Arc start doin' the boogaloo.
Then Carry nation, she starts to strip and everyone applauds,
Except Lady Macbeth, who's givin' some head to Leonardo da Vinci and Santa Claus.
And the Marquis de Sade does a promenade, laughing and cracking his whips,
And Marilyn Monroe does a coochie show and Eve starts shaking her hips.
And Sarah Bernhardt and Jessie James, they're taking dirty photos,
While out in the foyer, Richard the Third is comparing his hump with Quasimodo's.
And bare-ass naked on the balustrade sits Edgar Allan Poe
Posing for a two-dollar caricature by Michelangelo.
And Gypsy Rose Lee jumps on Francis Scott Key, and does a quick trick with her fan,
While Ivan the Terrible's trying to get into Virgin Mary's pants.
Henry the Eighth, he screams, "More food, more music, more wine, more wives,"
While Lizzie Borden and Jack the Ripper, they're out on the terrace comparing knives.
Lenny Bruce, he moons the crowd while swinging from the ceiling,
And Jesus and Judas have one more drink just to show there's no hard feelings.
Then Catherine the Great, she's givin' her number to the horse of Paul Revere,
While Don Juan's whisperin' love and lust into Helen Keller's ear.
And General Grant, he's playing backgammon in the corner with Robert E. Lee,
While Freud and Rasputin are arguing pussy with Attila the Hun and Socrates.
And John Wilkes Booth, he's havin' a toot, and J. Edgar Hoover's in drag,
While Amelia Earhart is talkin' to Lindbergh, 'bout splittin' a five-cent bag,
And Mary Baker Eddy's drunk and tellin' dirty jokes,
And Fatty Arbuckle's shoutin', "Hey, anybody got another coke?"
And Alice Toklas and Gertrude Stein are gigglin' behind the door,
While the Daughters of Lot are yellin', "Hey, Pop, let's do just once more."
And Florence Nightingale's offerin' a beer to the Man in the Iron Mask,
While Plato's shovin' cashew nuts up Marco Polo's ass,
And Billy Sunday and Mary Magdalene announce they're goin' steady,
And Abel and Cain form a daisy chain with Jeanette MacDonald and Nelson Eddy.
Then Doctor Faust snorts too much coke and punches out Errol Flynn
Over some 13-year-old girl that they're both interested in.
And Nero's laughin' as he sets fire to Mata Hari's hair,
While Oscar Wilde says to Billy the Kid, "Hey, Kid, let me show you round upstairs."
And the Devil, he drinks his boiling blood and glances side to side,
From the eyes of Billy Markham to the eyes of his own sweet bride.
Then the music comes to a screechin' halt and the revelers freeze where they stand
As Billy Markham approaches the throne and says, "May I have this dance?"
"Can this be Billy Markham", sneers the Devil, "who loves only the chaste and the pure?
No, Billy wouldn't bow and kiss the hand of a woman he once called whore.
But whoever this poor, lonely wretch may be, it is my wedding whim,
That no man be refused this day -- step down, darlin', and dance with him."
The Devil grins and waves his hand, the music starts gentle and warm,
As the lady nervously steps from her throne into Billy Markham's arms.
And the guests all snicker and snigger and wait, and they watch the dancers' eyes,
As round and round the floor they swirl 'tween Hell and paradise.
"Oh, baby doll", whispers Billy Markham, "I have done you an awful wrong,
And to show how rotten low I feel, I even wrote about it in a song.
I never should've called you a scuzzy whore -- I never should've spit on your bed,
And I never should've left you to burn here in Hell just 'cause you give the Devil some head.
But if there's any hellish and heavenly way that I can make it right,
If it costs my balls, over Hades' walls, I'll get you away tonight."
And the lady smiles a wanton smile, as round and round the room they swing.
And she whispers low in Billy's ear. . . "There is one little thing. . ."
Now the hall is empty, the guests are gone, and there on the rusted throne,
Hand in hand in golden bands, the Devil and bride sit alone.
And the Devil stretches and yawns and grins, "It has been quite a day.
Now I guess it's time to seal our love in the usual mortal way."
And the Devil strips off his crimson cloak, and he casts his pitchfork aside,
And he frees his oily two-pronged tail, and waits to take his bride.
And his true love lifts her wedding dress up over her angel's head
And hand in hand they make their way to the Devil's firery bed.
And her upturned breasts glow warm in the fire
And her legs are shapely and slim
And for the very first time since time began, the Devil feels passion in him.
"Now for the moment of truth", he whispers. "My love, my queen, my choice."
"I love you, too, motherfucker", she laughs -- in Billy Markham's voice.
And the Devil leaps up and howls so loud that the fires of Hell blow cold.
"Ain't no big deal", says Billy's voice. "While we was dancing, we swapped souls.
Now she's up in Heaven singin' my songs and wearin' my body, too,
Safe forever in the arms of the Lord, while I'm down here in the arms of you."
"Why, you crawlin' crud", the Devil cries, "I'll teach you to fuck with my brain.
I'll give you a child who weighs ninety-five pounds, you talk about screamin' pain!"
"Hold on", says Billy Markham, "I will be your wife only in name --
You come near me with that double-pronged dick and I'll rip it right off your frame."
"Not so loud", the Devil whispers. "If Hell learns what's been done,
They'll laugh me off this golden throne and damn me to kingdom come.
And you -- you've given me my true love's body with a hustler's soul inside.
You know more of torture than I've ever dreamed -- you're fit to be my bride."
"Well, don't take it so hard", Billy Markham says. "You know things could be lots worse.
Havin' her soul in my body -- now, that would be a curse.
But you and me, we got lots in common, we both like to shoot the shit, And we both like to joke and we both like to smoke and we both like to gamble a bit,
And that could be the makin's for a happy marriage, and since neither of us ever gonna die,
Well, we might as well start the honeymoon -- you wanna cut the cards or should I?"
Now, the wedding night is a hundred years past and their garments have rotted to rags.
But face to face they sit in the flames, dealing five-card stud and one-eyed jacks.
And sometimes they play pinochle, sometimes they play gin,
And sometimes the Devil rakes in the pots, and sometimes the lady wins,
And sometimes they just sit and reminisce of the night when they first were wed.
From dawn to dawn the game goes on. . .They never go to bed.
Each morning you’re waiting
My clothing, on a chair
For me to fill you
With my vanity, my love
My hope, my body
I hardly
Have gotten out of sleep
I say goodbye to the water
I enter into your sleeves
My legs look for
The hollowness of your legs
And so embraced
By your tireless faithfulness
I go out to walk in the grass
I enter into poetry
I look through windows
At things
Men, women,
Deeds and struggles
Keep forming me
Keep coming against me
Laboring with my hands
Opening my eyes
Using up my mouth
And so,
Clothing,
I also keep forming you
Poking out your elbows
Snapping your threads
And so your life grows
Into the image of my life.
In the wind
You ripple and rustle
As if you were my soul.
In bad minutes
You stick
To my bones
Empty, through the night
Darkness, sleep
Populate with their fantasies
Your wings and mine.
I ask
If one day
A bullet
From the enemy
Might leave a spot of my blood on you
And then
You would die with me
Or maybe
It won’t all be
So dramatic
But simple
And you’ll just get feeble,
Clothing,
Growing old
With me, with my body
And together
We will enter
The earth.
That’s why
Every day
I greet you
With reverence and then
You embrace me and I forget you
Because we are just one
And we’ll keep going on together
Against the wind, in the night
The streets, or the struggle
One single body
May be, may be, some time will be immobile.
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
Reach me down my Tycho Brahe, I would know him when we meet,
When I share my later science, sitting humbly at his feet;
He may know the law of all things, yet be ignorant of how
We are working to completion, working on from then to now.
Pray remember that I leave you all my theory complete,
Lacking only certain data for your adding, as is meet,
And remember men will scorn it, 'tis original and true,
And the obloquy of newness may fall bitterly on you.
But, my pupil, as my pupil you have learned the worth of scorn,
You have laughed with me at pity, we have joyed to be forlorn,
What for us are all distractions of men's fellowship and smiles;
What for us the Goddess Pleasure with her meretricious smiles!
You may tell that German College that their honor comes too late,
But they must not waste repentance on the grizzly savant's fate.
Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light;
I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.
I would really like the last two lines as a quatrain on my tombstone. Also pepperoni and cheese.
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
I can't read this without hearing it in the thick Scottish brogue of that actor in Four Weddings and a Funeral.
Mystral721 on
"Little baby Cthulhu hopping through the forest, picking up the field mice and Sucking Out Their Souls"
I never understood poetry. I just don't get it. My brain doesn't work that way.
man I can understand not understanding some/most poetry (like the wasteland and such) I don't agree, but I understand, understand?
but, how can you not comprehend at least some poetry, such as the one by Dylan Thomas in the OP. That is incomprehensible!
here it is again for easy reading
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
I mean, goddamn, that's some powerful work, and pretty straightforward too.
Sucede que me canso de ser hombre.
Sucede que entro en las sastrerías y en los cines
marchito, impenetrable, como un cisne de fieltro
Navegando en un agua de origen y ceniza.
El olor de las peluquerías me hace llorar a gritos.
Sólo quiero un descanso de piedras o de lana,
sólo quiero no ver establecimientos ni jardines,
ni mercaderías, ni anteojos, ni ascensores.
Sucede que me canso de mis pies y mis uñas
y mi pelo y mi sombra.
Sucede que me canso de ser hombre.
Sin embargo sería delicioso
asustar a un notario con un lirio cortado
o dar muerte a una monja con un golpe de oreja.
Sería bello
ir por las calles con un cuchillo verde
y dando gritos hasta morir de frío
No quiero seguir siendo raíz en las tinieblas,
vacilante, extendido, tiritando de sueño,
hacia abajo, en las tapias mojadas de la tierra,
absorbiendo y pensando, comiendo cada día.
No quiero para mí tantas desgracias.
No quiero continuar de raíz y de tumba,
de subterráneo solo, de bodega con muertos
ateridos, muriéndome de pena.
Por eso el día lunes arde como el petróleo
cuando me ve llegar con mi cara de cárcel,
y aúlla en su transcurso como una rueda herida,
y da pasos de sangre caliente hacia la noche.
Y me empuja a ciertos rincones, a ciertas casas húmedas,
a hospitales donde los huesos salen por la ventana,
a ciertas zapaterías con olor a vinagre,
a calles espantosas como grietas.
Hay pájaros de color de azufre y horribles intestinos
colgando de las puertas de las casas que odio,
hay dentaduras olvidadas en una cafetera,
hay espejos
que debieran haber llorado de vergüenza y espanto,
hay paraguas en todas partes, y venenos, y ombligos.
Yo paseo con calma, con ojos, con zapatos,
con furia, con olvido,
paso, cruzo oficinas y tiendas de ortopedia,
y patios donde hay ropas colgadas de un alambre:
calzoncillos, toallas y camisas que lloran
lentas lágrimas sucias.
It so happens I am sick of being a man.
And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie
houses
dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt
steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.
The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse
sobs.
The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool.
The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens,
no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators.
It so happens that I am sick of my feet and my nails
and my hair and my shadow.
It so happens I am sick of being a man.
Still it would be marvelous
to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily,
or kill a nun with a blow on the ear.
It would be great
to go through the streets with a green knife
letting out yells until I died of the cold.
I don't want to go on being a root in the dark,
insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep,
going on down, into the moist guts of the earth,
taking in and thinking, eating every day.
I don't want so much misery.
I don't want to go on as a root and a tomb,
alone under the ground, a warehouse with corpses,
half frozen, dying of grief.
That's why Monday, when it sees me coming
with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline,
and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel,
and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the
night.
And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist
houses,
into hospitals where the bones fly out the window,
into shoeshops that smell like vinegar,
and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin.
There are sulphur-colored birds, and hideous intestines
hanging over the doors of houses that I hate,
and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot,
there are mirrors
that ought to have wept from shame and terror,
there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical
cords.
I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes,
my rage, forgetting everything,
I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic
shops,
and courtyards with washing hanging from the line:
underwear, towels and shirts from which slow
dirty tears are falling.
either anyone lived in a pretty how town or Buffalo Bill are my favorite cummings
Buffalo Bill's
defunct
who used to
ride a watersmooth-silver
stallion
and break onetwothreefourfive pigeonsjustlikethat
Jesus
he was a handsome man
and what i want to know is
how do you like your blueeyed boy
Mister Death
and then I like Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, but I bet it's been posted by now
AMP'd on
[SIGPIC][/SIGPIC]
0
SheriResident FlufferMy Living RoomRegistered Userregular
edited May 2010
Honestly
Excluding a few exceptions that I am absolutely crazy about (e.e. cummings, obviously)
whenever I read poetry my eyes mostly just gloss over and I tune out
some say we should keep personal remorse from the
poem,
stay abstract, and there is some reason in this,
but jezus;
twelve poems gone and I don't keep carbons and you have
my
paintings too, my best ones; its stifling:
are you trying to crush me out like the rest of them?
why didn't you take my money? they usually do
from the sleeping drunken pants sick in the corner.
next time take my left arm or a fifty
but not my poems:
I'm not Shakespeare
but sometime simply
there won't be any more, abstract or otherwise;
there'll always be money and whores and drunkards
down to the last bomb,
but as God said,
crossing his legs,
I see where I have made plenty of poets
but not so very much
poetry.
Trying to protect his students' innocence
he told them the Ice Age was really just
the Chilly Age, a period of a million years
when everyone had to wear sweaters.
And the Stone Age became the Gravel Age,
named after the long driveways of the time.
The Spanish Inquisition was nothing more
than an outbreak of questions such as
"How far is it from here to Madrid?"
"What do you call the matador's hat?"
The War of the Roses took place in a garden,
and the Enola Gay dropped one tiny atom on Japan.
The children would leave his classroom
for the playground to torment the weak
and the smart,
mussing up their hair and breaking their glasses,
While he gathered up his notes and walked home
past flower beds and white picket fences,
wondering if they would believe that soldiers
in the Boer War told long, rambling stories
designed to make the enemy nod off.
Oh, you reminded me that I wanted to post this for all the Frost-haters
The Silken Tent by Robert Frost
She is as in a field a silken tent
At midday when the sunny summer breeze
Has dried the dew and all its ropes relent,
So that in guys it gently sways at ease,
And its supporting central cedar pole,
That is its pinnacle to heavenward
And signifies the sureness of the soul,
Seems to owe naught to any single cord,
But strictly held by none, is loosely bound
By countless silken ties of love and thought
To every thing on earth the compass round,
And only by one's going slightly taut
In the capriciousness of summer air
Is of the slightlest bondage made aware.
I've known rivers:
I've known rivers ancient as the world and older than the
flow of human blood in human veins.
My soul has grown deep like the rivers.
I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young.
I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.
I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.
I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln
went down to New Orleans, and I've seen its muddy
bosom turn all golden in the sunset.
I've known rivers:
Ancient, dusky rivers.
My soul has grown deep like the rivers.
--
and
--
an untitled poem by Nicanor Parra
MY CORPSE and I
understand each other marvelously
my corpse asks me: do you believe in God?
and I respond with a hearty NO
my corpse asks: do you believe in the government?
and I respond with the hammer and sickle
my corpse asks: do you believe in the police?
and I respond with a punch in the face
then he gets up out of his coffin
and we go arm in arm to the altar
God has pity on kindergarten children.
He has less pity on school children.
And on grownups he has no pity at all,
he leaves them alone,
and sometimes they must crawl on all fours
in the burning sand
to reach the first-aid station
covered with blood
But perhaps he will watch over true lovers
and have mercy on them and shelter them
like a tree over the old man
sleeping on the public bench.
YOU may talk o' gin an' beer
When you're quartered safe out 'ere,
An' you're sent to penny-fights an' Aldershot it;
But if it comes to slaughter
You will do your work on water, 5
An' you'll lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got it.
Now in Injia's sunny clime,
Where I used to spend my time
A-servin' of 'Er Majesty the Queen,
Of all them black-faced crew 10
The finest man I knew
Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din.
It was "Din! Din! Din!
You limping lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din!
Hi! slippy hitherao! 15
Water, get it! Panee lao!
You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din!"
The uniform 'e wore
Was nothin' much before,
An' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind, 20
For a twisty piece o' rag
An' a goatskin water-bag
Was all the field-equipment 'e could find.
When the sweatin' troop-train lay
In a sidin' through the day, 25
Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl,
We shouted "Harry By!"
Till our throats were bricky-dry,
Then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e couldn't serve us all.
It was "Din! Din! Din! 30
You 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been?
You put some juldee in it,
Or I'll marrow you this minute,
If you don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!"
'E would dot an' carry one 35
Till the longest day was done,
An' 'e didn't seem to know the use o' fear.
If we charged or broke or cut,
You could bet your bloomin' nut,
'E'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear. 40
With 'is mussick on 'is back,
'E would skip with our attack,
An' watch us till the bugles made "Retire."
An' for all 'is dirty 'ide,
'E was white, clear white, inside 45
When 'e went to tend the wounded under fire!
It was "Din! Din! Din!"
With the bullets kickin' dust-spots on the green.
When the cartridges ran out,
You could 'ear the front-files shout: 50
"Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!"
I sha'n't forgit the night
When I dropped be'ind the fight
With a bullet where my belt-plate should 'a' been.
I was chokin' mad with thirst, 55
An' the man that spied me first
Was our good old grinnin', gruntin' Gunga Din.
'E lifted up my 'ead,
An' 'e plugged me where I bled,
An' 'e guv me 'arf-a-pint o' water—green; 60
It was crawlin' an' it stunk,
But of all the drinks I've drunk,
I'm gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.
It was "Din! Din! Din!
'Ere's a beggar with a bullet through 'is spleen; 65
'E's chawin' up the ground an' 'e's kickin' all around:
For Gawd's sake, git the water, Gunga Din!"
'E carried me away
To where a dooli lay,
An' a bullet come an' drilled the beggar clean. 70
'E put me safe inside,
An' just before 'e died:
"I 'ope you liked your drink," sez Gunga Din.
So I'll meet 'im later on
In the place where 'e is gone— 75
Where it's always double drill and no canteen;
'E'll be squattin' on the coals
Givin' drink to pore damned souls,
An' I'll get a swig in Hell from Gunga Din!
Din! Din! Din! 80
You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!
Tho' I've belted you an' flayed you,
By the livin' Gawd that made you,
You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!
Zombiemambo on
0
The GeekOh-Two Crew, OmeganautRegistered User, ClubPAregular
Sucede que me canso de ser hombre.
Sucede que entro en las sastrerías y en los cines
marchito, impenetrable, como un cisne de fieltro
Navegando en un agua de origen y ceniza.
El olor de las peluquerías me hace llorar a gritos.
Sólo quiero un descanso de piedras o de lana,
sólo quiero no ver establecimientos ni jardines,
ni mercaderías, ni anteojos, ni ascensores.
Sucede que me canso de mis pies y mis uñas
y mi pelo y mi sombra.
Sucede que me canso de ser hombre.
Sin embargo sería delicioso
asustar a un notario con un lirio cortado
o dar muerte a una monja con un golpe de oreja.
Sería bello
ir por las calles con un cuchillo verde
y dando gritos hasta morir de frío
No quiero seguir siendo raíz en las tinieblas,
vacilante, extendido, tiritando de sueño,
hacia abajo, en las tapias mojadas de la tierra,
absorbiendo y pensando, comiendo cada día.
No quiero para mí tantas desgracias.
No quiero continuar de raíz y de tumba,
de subterráneo solo, de bodega con muertos
ateridos, muriéndome de pena.
Por eso el día lunes arde como el petróleo
cuando me ve llegar con mi cara de cárcel,
y aúlla en su transcurso como una rueda herida,
y da pasos de sangre caliente hacia la noche.
Y me empuja a ciertos rincones, a ciertas casas húmedas,
a hospitales donde los huesos salen por la ventana,
a ciertas zapaterías con olor a vinagre,
a calles espantosas como grietas.
Hay pájaros de color de azufre y horribles intestinos
colgando de las puertas de las casas que odio,
hay dentaduras olvidadas en una cafetera,
hay espejos
que debieran haber llorado de vergüenza y espanto,
hay paraguas en todas partes, y venenos, y ombligos.
Yo paseo con calma, con ojos, con zapatos,
con furia, con olvido,
paso, cruzo oficinas y tiendas de ortopedia,
y patios donde hay ropas colgadas de un alambre:
calzoncillos, toallas y camisas que lloran
lentas lágrimas sucias.
It so happens I am sick of being a man.
And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie
houses
dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt
steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.
The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse
sobs.
The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool.
The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens,
no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators.
It so happens that I am sick of my feet and my nails
and my hair and my shadow.
It so happens I am sick of being a man.
Still it would be marvelous
to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily,
or kill a nun with a blow on the ear.
It would be great
to go through the streets with a green knife
letting out yells until I died of the cold.
I don't want to go on being a root in the dark,
insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep,
going on down, into the moist guts of the earth,
taking in and thinking, eating every day.
I don't want so much misery.
I don't want to go on as a root and a tomb,
alone under the ground, a warehouse with corpses,
half frozen, dying of grief.
That's why Monday, when it sees me coming
with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline,
and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel,
and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the
night.
And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist
houses,
into hospitals where the bones fly out the window,
into shoeshops that smell like vinegar,
and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin.
There are sulphur-colored birds, and hideous intestines
hanging over the doors of houses that I hate,
and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot,
there are mirrors
that ought to have wept from shame and terror,
there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical
cords.
I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes,
my rage, forgetting everything,
I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic
shops,
and courtyards with washing hanging from the line:
underwear, towels and shirts from which slow
dirty tears are falling.
You and me and Pablo, babe.
NotASenator on
0
Foolproofthats what my hearts becomein that place you dare not look staring back at youRegistered Userregular
It's no go the merrygoround, it's no go the rickshaw,
All we want is a limousine and a ticket for the peepshow.
Their knickers are made of crêpe-de-chine, their shoes are made of python,
Their halls are lined with tiger rugs and their walls with heads of bison.
John MacDonald found a corpse, put it under the sofa,
Waited till it came to life and hit it with a poker,
Sold its eyes for souvenirs, sold its blood for whiskey,
Kept its bones for dumb-bells to use when he was fifty.
It's no go the Yogi-Man, it's no go Blavatsky,
All we want is a bank balance and a bit of skirt in a taxi.
Annie MacDougall went to milk, caught her foot in the heather,
Woke to hear a dance record playing of Old Vienna.
It's no go your maidenheads, it's no go your culture,
All we want is a Dunlop tyre and the devil mend the puncture.
The Laird o' Phelps spent Hogmanay declaring he was sober,
Counted his feet to prove the fact and found he had one foot over.
Mrs Carmichael had her fifth, looked at the job with repulsion,
Said to the midwife 'Take it away; I'm through with overproduction'.
It's no go the gossip column, it's no go the Ceilidh,
All we want is a mother's help and a sugar-stick for the baby.
Willie Murray cut his thumb, couldn't count the damage,
Took the hide of an Ayrshire cow and used it for a bandage.
His brother caught three hundred cran when the seas were lavish,
Threw the bleeders back in the sea and went upon the parish.
It's no go the Herring Board, it's no go the Bible,
All we want is a packet of fags when our hands are idle.
It's no go the picture palace, it's no go the stadium,
It's no go the country cot with a pot of pink geraniums,
It's no go the Government grants, it's no go the elections,
Sit on your arse for fifty years and hang your hat on a pension.
It's no go my honey love, it's no go my poppet;
Work your hands from day to day, the winds will blow the profit.
The glass is falling hour by hour, the glass will fall for ever,
But if you break the bloody glass you won't hold up the weather.
"When first under fire an' you're wishful to duck,
Don't look nor take 'eed at the man that is struck,
Be thankful you're livin', and trust to your luck
And march to your front like a soldier.
Front, front, front like a soldier
If your officer's dead and the sergeants look white,
Remember it's ruin to run from a fight:
So take open order, lie down, and sit tight,
And wait for supports like a soldier.
Wait, wait, wait like a soldier
When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains,
And the women come out to cut up what remains,
Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
An' go to your Gawd like a soldier."
Hobnail on
Broke as fuck in the style of the times. Gratitude is all that can return on your generosity.
In the sky there is nobody asleep. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is asleep.
The creatures of the moon sniff and prowl about their cabins.
The living iguanas will come and bite the men who do not dream,
and the man who rushes out with his spirit broken will meet on the
street corner
the unbelievable alligator quiet beneath the tender protest of the
stars.
Nobody is asleep on earth. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is asleep.
In a graveyard far off there is a corpse
who has moaned for three years
because of a dry countryside on his knee;
and that boy they buried this morning cried so much
it was necessary to call out the dogs to keep him quiet.
Life is not a dream. Careful! Careful! Careful!
We fall down the stairs in order to eat the moist earth
or we climb to the knife edge of the snow with the voices of the dead
dahlias.
But forgetfulness does not exist, dreams do not exist;
flesh exists. Kisses tie our mouths
in a thicket of new veins,
and whoever his pain pains will feel that pain forever
and whoever is afraid of death will carry it on his shoulders.
One day
the horses will live in the saloons
and the enraged ants
will throw themselves on the yellow skies that take refuge in the
eyes of cows.
Another day
we will watch the preserved butterflies rise from the dead
and still walking through a country of gray sponges and silent boats
we will watch our ring flash and roses spring from our tongue.
Careful! Be careful! Be careful!
The men who still have marks of the claw and the thunderstorm,
and that boy who cries because he has never heard of the invention
of the bridge,
or that dead man who possesses now only his head and a shoe,
we must carry them to the wall where the iguanas and the snakes
are waiting,
where the bear's teeth are waiting,
where the mummified hand of the boy is waiting,
and the hair of the camel stands on end with a violent blue shudder.
Nobody is sleeping in the sky. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is sleeping.
If someone does close his eyes,
a whip, boys, a whip!
Let there be a landscape of open eyes
and bitter wounds on fire.
No one is sleeping in this world. No one, no one.
I have said it before.
No one is sleeping.
But if someone grows too much moss on his temples during the
night,
open the stage trapdoors so he can see in the moonlight
the lying goblets, and the poison, and the skull of the theaters.
The dews drop slowly and dreams gather: unknown spears
Suddenly hurtle before my dream-awakened eyes,
And then the clash of fallen horsemen and the cries
Of unknown perishing armies beat about my ears.
We who still labour by the cromlech on the shore,
The grey caim on the hill, when day sinks drowned in dew,
Being weary of the world's empires, bow down to you.
Master of the still stars and of the flaming door.
-William Butler Yeats
Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,
But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.
Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;
For though from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crossed the bar.
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
'Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns' he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
'Forward, the Light Brigade!'
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the soldiers knew
Some one had blunder'd:
Their's not to make reply,
Their's not to reason why,
Their's but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.
Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turned in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre-stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.
When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wonder'd.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!
two of my favorites
hell probably some of the only poetry that i know of
Dead Legend on
diablo III - beardsnbeer#1508 Mechwarrior Online - Rusty Bock
0
PharezonStruggle is an illusion.Victory is in the Qun.Registered Userregular
"When first under fire an' you're wishful to duck,
Don't look nor take 'eed at the man that is struck,
Be thankful you're livin', and trust to your luck
And march to your front like a soldier.
Front, front, front like a soldier
If your officer's dead and the sergeants look white,
Remember it's ruin to run from a fight:
So take open order, lie down, and sit tight,
And wait for supports like a soldier.
Wait, wait, wait like a soldier
When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains,
And the women come out to cut up what remains,
Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
An' go to your Gawd like a soldier."
I'm ashamed of you for not posting the entire thing.
Posts
It's the Nashville Country Corner, all the low are getting high.
And Billy tells his tale again to anyone who'll buy.
With waving arms and rolling eyes, he screams to the drunken throng,
"I've whipped the Devil and lived through Hell, now who's gonna sing my song?"
Then from the shadows comes an oily voice, "Hey, kid, I like your moves."
And out of the back slides a little wizened cat with brown-and -white perforated wing-tip shoes.
"Sleezo's the name," the little man says, "but I'm Scuzzy to my friends.
And I think I got a little business proposition you just might be interested in."
"Scuzzy Sleezo hisself," Billy Markham says. "Man, you're a legend in these woods.
You never cut the Devil down, but you done damn near as good.
Why, since I been old enough to jack, I been hearin' your greasy name.
It's an honor to meet an all-star Scuzz. Just where you settin' up your game?"
"No more games for me," says Scuzzy. "I'm too old and too slow for the pace,
So I'm the world's greatest hustler's agent now and, Billy, I been studyin' your case.
I seen your first match with the Devil," says Scuzz, "it was a Volkswagen/Mack truck collision,
And your second shot, well, you showed me a lot, but you got burned by a hometown decision.
And I says to myself, 'He can go all the way, with the proper guidance, of course.
He's got the heart, and with a few more smarts, he'd be an irresistible force.'
Yeah, I can teach you the tricks and show you the shticks, just like a hustler's training camp.
And I'll bring you on slow -- then a prelim or so -- then -- Powee! -- a shot at the Champ."
"The Champ?" says Billy Markham. "Now, who in God's name is that?"
"Why, God Himself," says Scuzzy Sleezo. "You know anybody more champ than that?"
"Hey, a match with God?" Billy Markham gasps. "And what would be the purse?"
"Why, a place in heaven, of course," says Scuzz, "'stead of livin' this Nashville curse.
But I'll drive you like a wagon, son, and I'll sweat you like a Turk,
All for fifty percent of the take -- now, shake, and let's get to work."
Now the scene shifts to the funky pool hall known as the Crystal Cue
And the time is three months later, and the smoke is thick and blue,
And the emerald cloth is stained with tears and blood and ketchup spots,
As a fat old man with a dirty white beard stands practicin' three-cushion shots.
"Hey, what are we doin' here?" says Billy to Scuzz. "I been taught and I been trained,
And I don't need no more prelims, I am primed for the Big, Big Game."
"Well, son," says the old man, sinkin' the four, "why don't you pick yourself out a cue, and. . . ."
"Hey, Santa Claus," Billy Markham snaps back, "wasn't nobody talkin' to you."
"Um. . .if you look close," whispers Scuzzy to Bill, "you'll see his cue is a lightnin' rod,
And he ain't no Santa, and he ain't Fat Daddy. . .you just showed your ass to God."
"Well, hey, excuse me, Lord," says Bill, "I didn't mean to be uncool,
But it sure can shake a fellah's faith to find God hustling pool."
"Well, where you expect to find me," says God, "on a throne with cherubs round?
Well, I do that five days and nights a week, and on the sixth night. . .I get down."
"And on the seventh night I suppose you rest?" says Billy Markham with a grin.
"Never you mind about the seventh night," says God. "Besides, that lady's just a friend.
Anyway, you didn't come here just to drag my image down."
"You're right 'bout that, Lord," Billy says. "I come to take your crown."
"Beg pardon, Lord," says Scuzzy Sleezo, "I don't mean no disrespect,
But when you're dealing with my boy, don't speak to him direct. I'm his agent and consultant, Scuzzy Sleezo is the name,
Premier Promotional Artist's Representative of the whole street-hustlin' game.
Cardsharps, loan sharks, pimps, punks and car parks, I've handled the best of the lot,
And my new boy here, he just whipped the Devil -- now we're lookin' for a title shot."
"Beat the Devil, you say?" laughs God. "Well, I take my hat off to him.
Let him hang up his mouth and pick out a cue and he'll get the shot that's due him.
Any game he names -- any table he's able -- any price he can afford."
"Straight pool for Heaven," says Billy Markham.
"Straight pool it is," says the Lord.
Crack! Billy Markham wins the break and busts 'em cool and clean.
The five ball falls, he sinks the seven, and then drops the 13.
He makes the nine, comes off the cushion and puts the six away,
Bags the three and the eight on a triple combination and wins the first game on a smooth massé.
He takes the next game, the next and the next, and when he does finally miss,
He dusts the blue off his hands, and his game score stands at 1376.
"Well, my turn at last," says the Lord, chalkin' up. "Son, you sure shoot a wicked stick.
I'll need some luck to beat a run like that; that is, without resorting to miracles or tricks."
"Hey, trick and be damned," Billy Markham laughs. "Tonight I'm as hot as flame.
So I laugh at your tricks -- and I sneer at your stick -- and I take your name in vain."
"Oooh", goes the crowd that's been gathering around. "Oooh", goes the rack boy in wonder.
"Oooh", says Scuzzy Sleezo, "I think you just made a slight tactical blunder."
"Oooh", says God, "you shouldn't have said that, son, you shouldn't have said that at all!"
And his cue cracks out like a thunderbolt spittin' a flamin' ball.
It sinks everything on the table, then it zooms up off the green,
Through the dirty window with a crash of glass and into the wind like a woman's scream,
Out of the pool hall, up through the skies, the cue ball gleams and swirls,
Bustin' in and out of every pool game in the world.
It strikes on every table, it crashes every rack,
And every pool ball in creation comes rebounding back!
Back through the window they tumble and crash, down through the ceiling they spin.
A million balls rain down on the table and every one goes in.
"Now, there", says Scuzzy Sleezo, "is a shot you don't see every day.
Lord, you should have an agent to handle your press and build up the class of your play.
My partnership with this sucker here has come to a termination.
But God and Scuzzy Sleezo? Hey, that would be a combination."
Meanwhile, the cue ball flyin' back last, like a sputterin' fizzlin' rocket, Goes weaving dizzily down the cushion and -- plunk! -- falls right in the pocket. "Scratch!" says Billy Markham. "And you said you could shoot!"
"Scratch!" murmurs the crowd of hangers and hustlers. "At last we have seen it all.
"Scratch!" mutters the Lord. "I guess I put a little too much English on the ball,
Just another imperfection, I never get it quite on the button.
Tell you what, son, I'll spot you three million balls and play you one more double or nothin'."
"Double what?" says Billy Markham. "I already whipped you like a child,
And I won my seat in Heaven, now I'm gonna set in it awhile."
"Hit-and-run -- chickenshit," sneers God. "You said you was the best.
Turns out you're just a get-lucky-play-it-safe pussy like all the rest."
"Whoa-whoa", says Billy. "There's somethin' in that voice I know quite well."
And he reaches out and yanks off God's white beard -- and there stands the Devil himself!
"You said you was God", Billy Markham cries. "You conned me and hustled me, too!"
"I am God -- sometimes -- and sometimes I'm the Devil, good and bad, just like you.
I'm everything and everyone in perfect combination,
And everybody but you knows that there ain't no separation.
But go ahead," sighs God, scribbling something down. "Give this note to the angel on the wall,
And you sit up there 'n' plunk your harp.
Hey, anybody want to shoot some eight ball?"
And cold and white and tremblin', Billy walks out into the night,
Where a golden staircase stretches all the way to paradise.
And he grips the glitterin' balustrade and begins his grand ascent.
"Just a minute, good buddy", yells Scuzzy Sleezo. "How about my fifty percent?
I helped you win the champeenship -- and you wouldn't do ol' Scuzzy wrong,
And since the purse is a seat in Heaven, you just gotta take me along."
"Just one minute", says Billy Markham. "There's something weird going on in this game.
All the voices that I'm hearin' start to soundin' just the same."
And he rips off Scuzzy Sleezo's face and the Devil's standing there.
"Good God," yells Billy Markham, "are you -- are you everywhere?"
"Yes, I am," the Devil says. "And don't look so damn surprised.
I thought you could smuggle me into Heaven wearing my Sleezy disguise.
'Course, I could've walked in as Jehovah, but it just wouldn't have been the same,
But you and your corny Dick Tracy bit -- you had to go ruin my fantasy game.
Go on, climb up your golden stairs, enjoy your paradise,
But don't rip off your own face, Bill -- or you might get a shockin' surprise."
Then up, up the golden stairway Billy Markham dizzily winds his way,
And high, high above him, he can hear his own songs bein' played,
And down, down below, hear Scuzzy Sleezo curse his name,
To the click-click-click of the pool balls
As God hustles another game.
Billy Markham's Descent
Billy Markham sits on an unwashed cloud, his hair is matted and mussed,
His dusty wings have been cast aside and his harp strings have gone to rust.
There's dirt beneath his fingernails and a glazed look in his eyes
As he sits like a burned-out acid freak and stares across the skies.
They had bathed his body in milk and myrrh; they had robed him in silver gowns;
They had straightened his warp in his guitar neck, and gave him a golden crown;
They had set him a place at the table of joy and the fountain of knowledge, as well,
But he searches the heavens with haunted eyes -- for his mind still walks through Hell.
His thoughts are down in that nether world, in that burning fiery rain.
His thoughts are with his momma, how he longs to soothe her pain.
His thoughts are with his little girl, how he'd love to ease her cryin'.
His thoughts are with his own true love, how he'd love to bust her spine.
So late that night, while the heavenly harps play In the Sweet Bye and Bye,
Billy Markham reaches the silken rope that hangs down from the sky.
He has stripped himself of his crown and robes; he has clutched the silken cord;
He has swung him down without a sound, so's not to wake the Lord.
And down he winds through the perfumed air, down through the marshmallow clouds,
And he hangs for a while o'er the rooftops of earth, lookin' down at the scurrying crowds.
Then down through a manhole still clutching the rope, to a stench that he knows quite well.
"Neath the sewers of the street, till he feels his feet touch the shit-mucked shores of Hell.
He has scaled the crusted, rusted gates, he has thrown a bone to the Hounds.
He has floated the putrid river Styx, still down and further down.
Down past the gluttons, the dealers and pimps, down past the murderer's cage,
Down past the rock stars searching in vain for their names on the Cashbox page.
Down past the door of the Merchants of War, past the Puritan's slop-filled bin.
Past the Bigot's hive, till at last he arrives, at the pit marked BLAMELESS SINS.
He has found the vat where his momma boils; he has lifted her gently from the deep.
He has found the grate where his little girl burns;
he has raised her and soothed her and rocked her to sleep.
he has found the pit where his sweetheart sleeps; he has spit on the fire where she lay.
He has cursed her as a whore of Hell; he has cursed and turned away.
"From this day", says Billy, "I place my faith only in mother and child,
And never again will I look for love in a bitch's cum-stained smile."
Then up, back up the rope he climbs, up through the sufferin' swarms,
Past the clutching hands and the pitiful screams with his two precious loves in his arms.
Just one more pull -- just one more pull -- then free forever from Hell,
Just one more pull then -- "Hello, Billy!" -- and there stands the Devil himself!
And now he wears his crimson robes and his horns are buttered bright,
And blood oozes through his white-linen gloves and his skin glows red in the night.
And his tail coils tight like an oily snake and the Hell-fires flash from his eyes,
On those craggy rocks, he stands and blocks the way to paradise.
"Well, what have we here", the Devil says, "in my domain of sin?
In all my years as Prince of the Dark, it's the first case of somebody breakin' in.
And of all the daredevil darin' dudes, well, who should the hero be?
But my old friend Billy Markham -- who once made a punk out of me.
I heard you was in Heaven, Billy, fuckin' angels all day long,
What's a matter -- wouldn't that heavenly choir sing none of your raunchy songs?
Or maybe it's the thought of the loves you sold and you couldn't live with the shame.
Or maybe, like every other loser, you just can't stay 'way from the game.
You write your songs about standin' strong, you sing about bein' free,
But like a pussy-whipped fool who keeps on bitchin'
'bout his lover, you keep bitchin' but comin' back to me.
You made me the laughingstock of Hell and the whole world laughed with you,
Now here you come crashin' my party again; now tell me, just who's devilin' who?
Now, I didn't invite you down here, Bill, and nobody twisted your arm,
But you're back down here on my turf now, down here where it's cozy and warm.
So no more dice and no more games and no more jive stories to tell,
Just the Devil and a man with some souls in his hand hangin' 'tween Heaven and Hell.
But what is this?" the Devil says. "Only two souls you've set free?
You seem to forgot and left one behind; now, who could that one be?
Could it be your own true love, the one with the angel's smile?
The one you curse with each bitter breath 'cause she played with the Devil awhile?
You call yourself free?" the Devil laughs. "Why, you prudish, uptight schmuck,
You'd leave your sweet love burn in Hell for one harmless little suck.
What would you rather she had done, leaped in the boiling manure . . .
So's you could keep your fantasy of someone sweet and pure?
She saved her ass -- and so would you -- but still you curse her name.
Shit, you'd suck a million dicks to escape one childbirth pain."
"Hey, it's easy to talk to savin' ass", says Billy, "forgiveness is easy to say,
But when the shame burns worse than Hades' fires -- how do you talk that away?"
"Shame?" laughs the Devil. "She's only a woman -- she did what she had to do,
And right or wrong, she needs no curse from the hypocrite lame like you. . .
She shall rule with me in this Kingdom of Flame, she shall sit next to me on my throne,
While you live with the truth -- that the Devil's heart has more pity than your own."
"Hey, wait a minute", say Billy Markham. "I can't believe what you just said,
You givin' me this whole philosophy shit just 'cause you like the way she gave you head.
Why, you poor closet romantic, that chick was suckin' for her life.
Just wait see what kinda head you get after you make her your wife."
"In Hell", shouts the Devil, "that's blasphemy! I should burn you to dust where you stand,
But the venom you're carryin' in your heart, that's torture enough for any man.
So get your ass up that silken rope, climb back to your promised land,
And hold your illusions of momma and daughter tight in your sweatin' hand.
But you'll see that they're just bitches like she, and you'll scream when you find it's true,
But stay up there and scream to God -- Hell's gates are closed to you."
And Billy Markham, clutching his loves, climbs upward toward the skies,
And is it the sharp night wind that brings the tears to Billy's eyes?
Or is it the swirling sulphur smoke or the bright glare of the sun?
Or is it the sound of the wedding feast that the demons below have begun?
As the Devil, he sits with his betrothed and they pledge their love in the steam,
While halfway up the silken cord,
Billy Markham screams!
Billy Markham's Wedding
The trumpets of Hell have sounded the word like a screeching clarion call.
The trumpets of Hell have sounded the word and the word has been heard by all.
The trumpets of Hell have sounded the word and it reaches the heavenly skies,
Come angels, come demons, come half-breeds, too, the Devil is taking a bride.
And out of the Pearly Gates they come in a file two by two,
For when the Devil takes a bride, there's none that dares refuse.
And Jesus himself, he leads the way down through the starless night,
With Virgin Mary at his left side and Joseph on his right.
And then comes Adam and then comes Eve and saints move close behind
And all the gentle and all the good, in an endless column they wind.
Down, down to the pits of Hell, down from the heavens they sift
Like fallen stars to a blood-red sea, each bearing the Devil a gift.
The strong and the brave, the halt and the lame, the deaf and the blind and the dumb,
And last of all comes Billy Markham, cursing the night as he comes.
Hell's halls are decked with ribbons of red, the feast has been prepared,
And Devil and bride sit side by side in skull-and-crossbone chairs,
And the Devil grins as his guests file in, for he is master now,
And one by one they enter his realm -- and one by one they bow,
And the Devil whispers, "Thank the Lord," and swells his chest with pride
As they mouth their blessings and place their gifts at the feet of the Devil's bride.
Lucrezia Borgia has made the punch of strychnine, wine and gin,
And Judas has set the supper table on hallowed, bloody linen.
The feast is a human barbecue and the sauce is beriberi
Flavored with gore from the burning hordes and cooked by Typhoid Mary.
And everyone drinks of the bubblin' brew and off come the masks of virtue and sin,
And the Devil beams proud on the well-mixed crowd and cries, "Let the revels begin!"
And the walls that separate Heaven and Hell crack and crumble away,
And the Devil laughs and waves his tail and Hell's band begins to play.
There is Nero, madly fiddlin' his fiddle and Gabriel on horn,
And the Black Bitch of Buchenwald beating her drum, and Arthur Rank bangin' his gong,
And Marie Laveau, she plays her bones and Yorick, he plays his,
And Hank plays guitar with three strings broke, and that's what Hell really is.
And Janis and Elvis and Jimi and Cass, they're up there singin' the blues,
And Adolf Hitler and Joan of Arc start doin' the boogaloo.
Then Carry nation, she starts to strip and everyone applauds,
Except Lady Macbeth, who's givin' some head to Leonardo da Vinci and Santa Claus.
And the Marquis de Sade does a promenade, laughing and cracking his whips,
And Marilyn Monroe does a coochie show and Eve starts shaking her hips.
And Sarah Bernhardt and Jessie James, they're taking dirty photos,
While out in the foyer, Richard the Third is comparing his hump with Quasimodo's.
And bare-ass naked on the balustrade sits Edgar Allan Poe
Posing for a two-dollar caricature by Michelangelo.
And Gypsy Rose Lee jumps on Francis Scott Key, and does a quick trick with her fan,
While Ivan the Terrible's trying to get into Virgin Mary's pants.
Henry the Eighth, he screams, "More food, more music, more wine, more wives,"
While Lizzie Borden and Jack the Ripper, they're out on the terrace comparing knives.
Lenny Bruce, he moons the crowd while swinging from the ceiling,
And Jesus and Judas have one more drink just to show there's no hard feelings.
Then Catherine the Great, she's givin' her number to the horse of Paul Revere,
While Don Juan's whisperin' love and lust into Helen Keller's ear.
And General Grant, he's playing backgammon in the corner with Robert E. Lee,
While Freud and Rasputin are arguing pussy with Attila the Hun and Socrates.
And John Wilkes Booth, he's havin' a toot, and J. Edgar Hoover's in drag,
While Amelia Earhart is talkin' to Lindbergh, 'bout splittin' a five-cent bag,
And Mary Baker Eddy's drunk and tellin' dirty jokes,
And Fatty Arbuckle's shoutin', "Hey, anybody got another coke?"
And Alice Toklas and Gertrude Stein are gigglin' behind the door,
While the Daughters of Lot are yellin', "Hey, Pop, let's do just once more."
And Florence Nightingale's offerin' a beer to the Man in the Iron Mask,
While Plato's shovin' cashew nuts up Marco Polo's ass,
And Billy Sunday and Mary Magdalene announce they're goin' steady,
And Abel and Cain form a daisy chain with Jeanette MacDonald and Nelson Eddy.
Then Doctor Faust snorts too much coke and punches out Errol Flynn
Over some 13-year-old girl that they're both interested in.
And Nero's laughin' as he sets fire to Mata Hari's hair,
While Oscar Wilde says to Billy the Kid, "Hey, Kid, let me show you round upstairs."
And the Devil, he drinks his boiling blood and glances side to side,
From the eyes of Billy Markham to the eyes of his own sweet bride.
Then the music comes to a screechin' halt and the revelers freeze where they stand
As Billy Markham approaches the throne and says, "May I have this dance?"
"Can this be Billy Markham", sneers the Devil, "who loves only the chaste and the pure?
No, Billy wouldn't bow and kiss the hand of a woman he once called whore.
But whoever this poor, lonely wretch may be, it is my wedding whim,
That no man be refused this day -- step down, darlin', and dance with him."
The Devil grins and waves his hand, the music starts gentle and warm,
As the lady nervously steps from her throne into Billy Markham's arms.
And the guests all snicker and snigger and wait, and they watch the dancers' eyes,
As round and round the floor they swirl 'tween Hell and paradise.
"Oh, baby doll", whispers Billy Markham, "I have done you an awful wrong,
And to show how rotten low I feel, I even wrote about it in a song.
I never should've called you a scuzzy whore -- I never should've spit on your bed,
And I never should've left you to burn here in Hell just 'cause you give the Devil some head.
But if there's any hellish and heavenly way that I can make it right,
If it costs my balls, over Hades' walls, I'll get you away tonight."
And the lady smiles a wanton smile, as round and round the room they swing.
And she whispers low in Billy's ear. . . "There is one little thing. . ."
Now the hall is empty, the guests are gone, and there on the rusted throne,
Hand in hand in golden bands, the Devil and bride sit alone.
And the Devil stretches and yawns and grins, "It has been quite a day.
Now I guess it's time to seal our love in the usual mortal way."
And the Devil strips off his crimson cloak, and he casts his pitchfork aside,
And he frees his oily two-pronged tail, and waits to take his bride.
And his true love lifts her wedding dress up over her angel's head
And hand in hand they make their way to the Devil's firery bed.
And her upturned breasts glow warm in the fire
And her legs are shapely and slim
And for the very first time since time began, the Devil feels passion in him.
"Now for the moment of truth", he whispers. "My love, my queen, my choice."
"I love you, too, motherfucker", she laughs -- in Billy Markham's voice.
And the Devil leaps up and howls so loud that the fires of Hell blow cold.
"Ain't no big deal", says Billy's voice. "While we was dancing, we swapped souls.
Now she's up in Heaven singin' my songs and wearin' my body, too,
Safe forever in the arms of the Lord, while I'm down here in the arms of you."
"Why, you crawlin' crud", the Devil cries, "I'll teach you to fuck with my brain.
I'll give you a child who weighs ninety-five pounds, you talk about screamin' pain!"
"Hold on", says Billy Markham, "I will be your wife only in name --
You come near me with that double-pronged dick and I'll rip it right off your frame."
"Not so loud", the Devil whispers. "If Hell learns what's been done,
They'll laugh me off this golden throne and damn me to kingdom come.
And you -- you've given me my true love's body with a hustler's soul inside.
You know more of torture than I've ever dreamed -- you're fit to be my bride."
"Well, don't take it so hard", Billy Markham says. "You know things could be lots worse.
Havin' her soul in my body -- now, that would be a curse.
But you and me, we got lots in common, we both like to shoot the shit, And we both like to joke and we both like to smoke and we both like to gamble a bit,
And that could be the makin's for a happy marriage, and since neither of us ever gonna die,
Well, we might as well start the honeymoon -- you wanna cut the cards or should I?"
Now, the wedding night is a hundred years past and their garments have rotted to rags.
But face to face they sit in the flames, dealing five-card stud and one-eyed jacks.
And sometimes they play pinochle, sometimes they play gin,
And sometimes the Devil rakes in the pots, and sometimes the lady wins,
And sometimes they just sit and reminisce of the night when they first were wed.
From dawn to dawn the game goes on. . .They never go to bed.
Thank you and goodnight! Tip your waitress.
I'm not sure how this makes me feel.
<3<3
I would really like the last two lines as a quatrain on my tombstone. Also pepperoni and cheese.
I can't read this without hearing it in the thick Scottish brogue of that actor in Four Weddings and a Funeral.
http://www.logicalcreativity.com/jon/plush/01.html
man I can understand not understanding some/most poetry (like the wasteland and such) I don't agree, but I understand, understand?
but, how can you not comprehend at least some poetry, such as the one by Dylan Thomas in the OP. That is incomprehensible!
here it is again for easy reading
I mean, goddamn, that's some powerful work, and pretty straightforward too.
I also love walking around, spoiler'd cause it's longer. I do not like the english translation nearly as much but it's still good.
biiig winner
I have to read The Waste Land next week, so that should be fun
and then I like Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, but I bet it's been posted by now
Excluding a few exceptions that I am absolutely crazy about (e.e. cummings, obviously)
whenever I read poetry my eyes mostly just gloss over and I tune out
Even if I don't want to, I can't seem to help it.
Sheri Baldwin Photography | Facebook | Twitter | Etsy Shop | BUY ME STUFF (updated for 2014!)
To The Whore Who Took My Poems
some say we should keep personal remorse from the
poem,
stay abstract, and there is some reason in this,
but jezus;
twelve poems gone and I don't keep carbons and you have
my
paintings too, my best ones; its stifling:
are you trying to crush me out like the rest of them?
why didn't you take my money? they usually do
from the sleeping drunken pants sick in the corner.
next time take my left arm or a fifty
but not my poems:
I'm not Shakespeare
but sometime simply
there won't be any more, abstract or otherwise;
there'll always be money and whores and drunkards
down to the last bomb,
but as God said,
crossing his legs,
I see where I have made plenty of poets
but not so very much
poetry.
Charles Bukowski
by Sylvia Plath
God knows how our neighbor managed to breed
His great sow:
Whatever his shrewd secret, he kept it hid
In the same way
He kept the sow--impounded from public stare,
Prize ribbon and pig show.
But one dusk our questions commended us to a tour
Through his lantern-lit
Maze of barns to the lintel of the sunk sty door
To gape at it:
This was no rose-and-larkspurred china suckling
With a penny slot
For thrift children, nor dolt pig ripe for heckling,
About to be
Glorified for prime flesh and golden crackling
In a parsley halo;
Nor even one of the common barnyard sows,
Mire-smirched, blowzy,
Maunching thistle and knotweed on her snout-
cruise--
Bloat tun of milk
On the move, hedged by a litter of feat-foot ninnies
Shrilling her hulk
To halt for a swig at the pink teats. No. This vast
Brobdingnag bulk
Of a sow lounged belly-bedded on that black
compost,
Fat-rutted eyes
Dream-filmed. What a vision of ancient hoghood
must
Thus wholly engross
The great grandam!--our marvel blazoned a knight,
Helmed, in cuirass,
Unhorsed and shredded in the grove of combat
By a grisly-bristled
Boar, fabulous enough to straddle that sow's heat.
But our farmer whistled,
Then, with a jocular fist thwacked the barrel nape,
And the green-copse-castled
Pig hove, letting legend like dried mud drop,
Slowly, grunt
On grunt, up in the flickering light to shape
A monument
Prodigious in gluttonies as that hog whose want
Made lean Lent
Of kitchen slops and, stomaching no constraint,
Proceeded to swill
The seven troughed seas and every earthquaking
continent.
it was called The Locomotive Sloth, and it began like this:
Trying to protect his students' innocence
he told them the Ice Age was really just
the Chilly Age, a period of a million years
when everyone had to wear sweaters.
And the Stone Age became the Gravel Age,
named after the long driveways of the time.
The Spanish Inquisition was nothing more
than an outbreak of questions such as
"How far is it from here to Madrid?"
"What do you call the matador's hat?"
The War of the Roses took place in a garden,
and the Enola Gay dropped one tiny atom on Japan.
The children would leave his classroom
for the playground to torment the weak
and the smart,
mussing up their hair and breaking their glasses,
While he gathered up his notes and walked home
past flower beds and white picket fences,
wondering if they would believe that soldiers
in the Boer War told long, rambling stories
designed to make the enemy nod off.
Also Poe and Nietzsche wrote some cool stuff.
The Silken Tent by Robert Frost
She is as in a field a silken tent
At midday when the sunny summer breeze
Has dried the dew and all its ropes relent,
So that in guys it gently sways at ease,
And its supporting central cedar pole,
That is its pinnacle to heavenward
And signifies the sureness of the soul,
Seems to owe naught to any single cord,
But strictly held by none, is loosely bound
By countless silken ties of love and thought
To every thing on earth the compass round,
And only by one's going slightly taut
In the capriciousness of summer air
Is of the slightlest bondage made aware.
by Langston Hughes
I've known rivers:
I've known rivers ancient as the world and older than the
flow of human blood in human veins.
My soul has grown deep like the rivers.
I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young.
I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.
I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.
I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln
went down to New Orleans, and I've seen its muddy
bosom turn all golden in the sunset.
I've known rivers:
Ancient, dusky rivers.
My soul has grown deep like the rivers.
--
and
--
an untitled poem by Nicanor Parra
MY CORPSE and I
understand each other marvelously
my corpse asks me: do you believe in God?
and I respond with a hearty NO
my corpse asks: do you believe in the government?
and I respond with the hammer and sickle
my corpse asks: do you believe in the police?
and I respond with a punch in the face
then he gets up out of his coffin
and we go arm in arm to the altar
"God Has Pity On Kindergarten Children"
God has pity on kindergarten children.
He has less pity on school children.
And on grownups he has no pity at all,
he leaves them alone,
and sometimes they must crawl on all fours
in the burning sand
to reach the first-aid station
covered with blood
But perhaps he will watch over true lovers
and have mercy on them and shelter them
like a tree over the old man
sleeping on the public bench.
When you're quartered safe out 'ere,
An' you're sent to penny-fights an' Aldershot it;
But if it comes to slaughter
You will do your work on water, 5
An' you'll lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got it.
Now in Injia's sunny clime,
Where I used to spend my time
A-servin' of 'Er Majesty the Queen,
Of all them black-faced crew 10
The finest man I knew
Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din.
It was "Din! Din! Din!
You limping lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din!
Hi! slippy hitherao! 15
Water, get it! Panee lao!
You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din!"
The uniform 'e wore
Was nothin' much before,
An' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind, 20
For a twisty piece o' rag
An' a goatskin water-bag
Was all the field-equipment 'e could find.
When the sweatin' troop-train lay
In a sidin' through the day, 25
Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl,
We shouted "Harry By!"
Till our throats were bricky-dry,
Then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e couldn't serve us all.
It was "Din! Din! Din! 30
You 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been?
You put some juldee in it,
Or I'll marrow you this minute,
If you don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!"
'E would dot an' carry one 35
Till the longest day was done,
An' 'e didn't seem to know the use o' fear.
If we charged or broke or cut,
You could bet your bloomin' nut,
'E'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear. 40
With 'is mussick on 'is back,
'E would skip with our attack,
An' watch us till the bugles made "Retire."
An' for all 'is dirty 'ide,
'E was white, clear white, inside 45
When 'e went to tend the wounded under fire!
It was "Din! Din! Din!"
With the bullets kickin' dust-spots on the green.
When the cartridges ran out,
You could 'ear the front-files shout: 50
"Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!"
I sha'n't forgit the night
When I dropped be'ind the fight
With a bullet where my belt-plate should 'a' been.
I was chokin' mad with thirst, 55
An' the man that spied me first
Was our good old grinnin', gruntin' Gunga Din.
'E lifted up my 'ead,
An' 'e plugged me where I bled,
An' 'e guv me 'arf-a-pint o' water—green; 60
It was crawlin' an' it stunk,
But of all the drinks I've drunk,
I'm gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.
It was "Din! Din! Din!
'Ere's a beggar with a bullet through 'is spleen; 65
'E's chawin' up the ground an' 'e's kickin' all around:
For Gawd's sake, git the water, Gunga Din!"
'E carried me away
To where a dooli lay,
An' a bullet come an' drilled the beggar clean. 70
'E put me safe inside,
An' just before 'e died:
"I 'ope you liked your drink," sez Gunga Din.
So I'll meet 'im later on
In the place where 'e is gone— 75
Where it's always double drill and no canteen;
'E'll be squattin' on the coals
Givin' drink to pore damned souls,
An' I'll get a swig in Hell from Gunga Din!
Din! Din! Din! 80
You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!
Tho' I've belted you an' flayed you,
By the livin' Gawd that made you,
You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!
hee hee Sheri is crazy about cummings
You and me and Pablo, babe.
Poe got paid by the word like Lovecraft or Dickens otherwise they might have been even greater.
Bukowski is best read at the top of your lungs while drunk. You should try it, seriously.
Lovecraft was pretty awesome also, and yes you make a very good point.
I'm not especially good at reading drunk, but will have to try that sometime!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EGT2S97wyzc
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UJwmpmZytGg
Don't look nor take 'eed at the man that is struck,
Be thankful you're livin', and trust to your luck
And march to your front like a soldier.
Front, front, front like a soldier
If your officer's dead and the sergeants look white,
Remember it's ruin to run from a fight:
So take open order, lie down, and sit tight,
And wait for supports like a soldier.
Wait, wait, wait like a soldier
When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains,
And the women come out to cut up what remains,
Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
An' go to your Gawd like a soldier."
https://www.paypal.me/hobnailtaylor
So, I'm going to try something different instead
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=laIy1PgcVnA
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bEWT6pdjON8
Suddenly hurtle before my dream-awakened eyes,
And then the clash of fallen horsemen and the cries
Of unknown perishing armies beat about my ears.
We who still labour by the cromlech on the shore,
The grey caim on the hill, when day sinks drowned in dew,
Being weary of the world's empires, bow down to you.
Master of the still stars and of the flaming door.
-William Butler Yeats
two of my favorites
hell probably some of the only poetry that i know of
I'm ashamed of you for not posting the entire thing.