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Postby Miserable Liar » Fri Apr 13, 2007 12:40 am

Just some recent scribblings......


Behind your Eyes, A Girl is Inside

The sweet goodbye of the evening that died, the glow of the dawn,
the sunlight that bounces off of the oceans, don’t compare to the sunshine within you,
underneath the dark exterior that people think is you.

You wallow in a cave, but now I’ve found an opening,
no-one can quite understand, the beauty within,
you’ve shut them all out, and you peer through a door of rocks,
you stack them higher and higher, but somehow I got in.

A tear fell from your eyes as you looked into mine,
clearly you saw my point, although I did not explain,
you cried on my shoulder, I now see the point of your cave,
by locking them out you were protecting yourself,
and now I’ll be the armour to shield you from pain.

The Great Curves

The great curves are there,
don’t let her faults alter your perception,
good things seem to come to those who least expect them,
give her time and she make all of her own corrections,
time heals wounds, and time can fix false connections.

Amazing shape, forget the waste,
Creative mind? Not so I find.
Biding time and now’s your chance,
before you walk, take one last glance.

Though the cracks still show, you feel she is pure perfection,
if the bad over-shadows the good, you shouldn’t just stay with her,
although she stole from you and laughed, you’ll now just accept that,
think about the possible mistake, and realise you’ve just made it.

Bad marriage views, just one of her issues,
how many kids? I didn’t count,
stretch marks, all on her waist,
just see the mess you have made

Mexican Starfish


You jump in the air with your legs spread wide,
you’re so proud when they laugh, that it makes you cry,
to think you never thought you could get so high,
you’re a Mexican starfish, living a lie.

In the day you sit around and live in your sty,
you get up at noon and you don’t get why,
in truth your friends just wish that you’d die,
”then I’d be an angel, huh-huh yeah I could fly!”

Watching and waiting, your arms quickly whaling,
you lost them, you got them, you’ve stopped without failing,
they’ll catch you, they’ll catch, when they get the craving,
”a dream I once had, but now it’s slowly fading”.
Last edited by Miserable Liar on Fri Apr 13, 2007 12:46 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Postby OrwellThatEndsWell » Sat Apr 14, 2007 7:02 pm

THE TEMPERATURE HITS 30 DEGREES IN WEST SCOTLAND IN MID APRIL, AND MCKANE LOSES THE PLACE.

Self styled 'new George Orwell' admits: 'I could maybe just about have written "Homage To Catalonia", but "Nineteen Eighty Four"? That's a novel. I can't do them. That's what drives/is driving/perputually will drive me mental."

Today it has been very hot here. My old pal and collaborator (we'll call him S) came to my house and we sat in my garden and got to talking. Talking about writing. How I write and how he does it. By about 3pm it had boiled down to this: He has a flair for it and I read a book about it. He can animate things in a brilliant, engaging way and I'm just a Xerox machine.

The line of work S is in, see, requires him to write a lot of letters, which often have to be fairly formal, but always concise (and to the point). This has always got him a bit tangled but is a thing which I (being a Xerox machine, of course) can do quite readily. He'll turn up with a dozen sheets of lA4 with all the bits on, and I just...you know. It's easy. There it is: The heart of the matter; because of my "skill" with paragraphs and full stops and yours faithfully and all, S has, for some time, been under the misapprehension that I am an alchemist of non fiction. It would be disheartening enough, for someone as self absorbed as I, to be mistaken as 'a talent' by my pals (who, after all, want to be nice), but when S began to write his own stuff, all freely woven ('From The Sheep To The Shop', as they used to say at Pringle Knitwear Co.), and of his own imagining, and all BLOODY MARVELLOUS, and when he then took the right huff because he thought I was patronising him by telling him as much......Oh dear. He can do "conversations", see. People talking, moving about, doing things. All animated, engaging. So readable; hilariously funny and sharp and contained. He draws out these sort of grotesques, caricatures of episodes he and I have had, but all stretched out and twisted and ridiculized (I may have just made the word 'ridiculized' up. Not sure..) and like I said, proper readable. He and I, a few years ago, had arranged for a local band we were pals with to play a gig at our local Celtic supporters club. All involved, the band and we, were big fans of Cocaine. It was mental. A pure blizzard, 'piss yersel' funny. Anyroad, S writes this fantastical account of said 'do', and adds thieving of fruit machines and Ayrshire's premier all-male pole dancing troupe ('Pole Katz featuring Visions Of Velour') and, well...It was funny. It's glued to the front of my notebook. I'm looking at it noqw3.....sorry, now....

How I wish I could do that; but, unlike the virgin Mary, I cannot conceive. I can't invent things and places and make people do all, like, interesting stuff in said places, utilizing said things. I can't plot, draw it all out, pull it all in, tie it all up. You know in 'The Italian Job', the big ambitious bullion heist? I'm pretty certain I couldn't do it. I'm DAMN certain I couldn't have written the fucking thing.

It looks so obvious. S could think up a story and I could write it. I don't think that is the cure. Woe is me.

I'm sorry for having this, my latest episode, here brothers and sisters. I suppose it's catharsis. And I've not been to mass for weeks. No...wait, that's catholics.

Oh well, better go and read my emails. S said he's going to send me the outline of his sitcom about September 11.........

Ps Miserable Liar, your recent scribblings are very daring. You daring scribbler that ye are! You're naughty and you wouldn't get away with half your cheek if ye weren't so good lookin...

I am going drinking.
I'll purse it, aye the highway is my hope. His heart's not great that fears a little rope!
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Postby chicken » Sat Apr 14, 2007 10:43 pm

:blink: if only i could FORCE my students to read the post and write an interpretation AND reflection upon it. i suspect most would be sorely lost and adrift.

Orwell wrote:How I wish I could do that; but, unlike the virgin Mary, I cannot conceive. I can't invent things and places and make people do all, like, interesting stuff in said places, utilizing said things. I can't plot, draw it all out, pull it all in, tie it all up. You know in 'The Italian Job', the big ambitious bullion heist? I'm pretty certain I couldn't do it. I'm DAMN certain I couldn't have written the fucking thing.

...

I am going drinking.


'unlike the virgin Mary...' deft. bravo. (i wish that were mine!! :D :angry: )

please, feel free to cathart-i-cise yerself here anymoment. i love it.


today's poetry reading was fair, interesting, and had certain highlights. it amazes me what I tend to like vs. what evokes a response from the audience. some of the discussion and questions from the audience was a true highlight.

i've been working on a poem called: "rabbits" which would be difficult for anyone to understand if they were not from the central US. i love it. had to genuinely restrain myself when i read it today, truly. when i read it at home i get loud and forceful and ....when necessary.... punctuate the work with proper moments of silence. despite my constrained reading, the audience responded fairly well, receptively. well...once that moment of " :blink: :ph34r: :unsure: :ph34r: :blink: " was over, they did. har. yeah, it's a kick to the vitals :D

unlike the virgin Mary....
very nice Noonan, very nice.
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Postby yandee » Sun Apr 15, 2007 9:57 am

This one was wirtten at a bus stop one sunny morning. A poem nobody will ever hear or read who knows me or the persons mentioned in it. Quite releaving and dissapointing at the same time. For you don't ever care about things like that I could also post it...

Be With Me In Rockland

For Lisa Gießauf

1

Lisa, I’ll be with you in Vienna
Where you study politics
Whilst I study the art of failure

Lisa, I’ll be with you in Vienna
Where you get money for your interior decoration
Whilst I decorate my room with broken dreams

Lisa, I’ll be with you in Vienna
Where you go to fancy student parties
Whilst I drink myself to sleep

Lisa, I’ll be with you in Vienna
Where you live like a queen
Whilst I carve my odes of dirt into my arms and the wet concrete if my walls

Lisa, I’ll be with you in Vienna
Where you let your dreams of the bright lights of the city come true
Whilst I never make my dream of leaving this sickening place behind come true

Lisa, I’ll be with you in Vienna
Where you live your life the way you wanted to
Whilst I gradually lose my mind in acid clouds of perpetual sickness of stomach

2

Lisa, I’ll be with you in Vienna
Where you open up like a white lily in the first mellow light of the morning
Whilst I will go down to the very bottom of this hateful pit

Lisa, I’ll be with you in Vienna
Where you find someone new, someone I never were
Whilst I will be forgotten

Lisa, I’ll be with you in Vienna
Where I tell you again that I love you more than my own life
Whilst you say that you know with this light sadness in your eyes

Lisa, I’ll be with you in Vienna
Where the catatonic pressure that’s inside my heart rises still
Whilst you try to understand me

Lisa, I’ll be with you in Vienna
Where the tremor gets heavier and my heart breaks
Whilst you fail to understand me
Lisa, I’ll be with you in Vienna
Where you constantly tempt me to blow my head
Whilst I only leave pathetic sight of what I once was

Lisa, I’ll be with you in Vienna
Where you tell me to stop
Whilst I can’t

Lisa, I’ll be with you in Vienna
Where you aspire being head of the paper
Whilst I aspire nothing but sedation

Lisa, I’ll be with you in Vienna
Where you write a report on the population underprivileged
Whilst they come to take me away

Lisa, I’ll be with you in Vienna
So please, now, be with me in Rockland.

Was primarily planned as stanza endings for a greater poem and probably it will be... sometimes, but it works out "quite" well as a solitary poem.
Last edited by yandee on Sun Apr 15, 2007 9:58 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Postby OrwellThatEndsWell » Sun Apr 15, 2007 5:09 pm

Chicken.....May nothing but happiness come through your door. Yer a diamond.
I'll purse it, aye the highway is my hope. His heart's not great that fears a little rope!
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Postby Miserable Liar » Mon Apr 16, 2007 1:52 pm

Orwell wrote:Ps Miserable Liar, your recent scribblings are very daring. You daring scribbler that ye are! You're naughty and you wouldn't get away with half your cheek if ye weren't so good lookin...

I am going drinking.


Thank you! Haha, hoped you enjoyed your drink. :P
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Postby chicken » Mon Apr 16, 2007 10:55 pm

yandee:

"Whilst I carve my odes of dirt into my arms and the wet concrete of my walls"
is brilliant.
odes of dirt. great, just great!!
wet concrete. that's greater greater!!


i've toyed with a poem of the same construction: short stanzas, same first line, repetitious. i might suggest you incorporate more things (like the dirt and the wet concrete) instead of ideas. and always try to avoid using 'poetic' words like "heart" or "dreams" because something like: "a report on the population underprivileged" is so much better. given the repetition and sentiment, some of the overly-angst-ridden lines can be toned down and expressed by things like 'shoes worn thin' or 'while my key never works quite right' or some such--driving your point home with every line forces the reader instead of leads the reader. let the poem, as a whole, speak for itself. i hope this makes some sense to you.


nice poem. i like this draft and think it's well worth some tinkering.
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Postby chicken » Tue Apr 17, 2007 3:18 am

this thing at Virginia Tech is just sad. so very sad.

<!--quoteo--><div class='quotetop'>QUOTE</div><div class='quotemain'><!--quotec-->unsung hero: three months out


Monday, April 16, 2007, Virginia Tech
where someone lost it
cut down innocents, wrote history:
an alarm clock no one set
that clock no one wanted to hear
again
an insult to civility

diligent students, taking notes in class
sheep for the taking
voices and ideas silenced
papers never graded, books never read, marriages never celebrated, children never borne,
gone.

professors drive home
those weeping
those in shock, public radio playing to deaf ears
those who quit and move on
the university itself a-shudder asks:
what do we do?

in ordered steps the immediate servants,
underpaid and underappreciated:
we will clean this up
go home
and love our children so you
may carry on.

and those selfless chaotic heroes,
those seas without shore seep in:
“I hear you saying…”
“You seem…”
and their feelings do not count
those selfless heroes
set ego aside
listen louder than any
skip lunch…
they bleed the bleeding

don’t smile during the progress of tears, ranting, doubt, and fuck
set aside for
three months out
give them time and
it won’t be okay,
but livable
three months out.<!--QuoteEnd--></div><!--QuoteEEnd-->
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Postby madmancmonkey » Tue Apr 17, 2007 3:19 pm

Good effort Andy. Is Lisa reaL? I am assuming so .. in this case the juxtaposistion your 'reality' and what you think is her ideality in Vienna work well.
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Postby Miserable Liar » Wed Apr 18, 2007 12:23 am

I like 'Be With Me In Rockland', it's charming.

Shot Her

Call the doctor, call the doctor,
I think I’m going to be sick,
with all the things you said to me,
Is that how you get your kicks?

Technically I’m guilty, but guilt-free,
well I came from the past,
and I came so fast,
that I didn’t bring my gun with me,

So I panicked and shot her in the back.

Run her over, run her over,
dropped her off at the docks at six,
well the light of the moon shone into my room,
but you don’t know what I did.

So you come knocking on my door,
accuse me of all, now apparently I’ve broken the law?
Well what would you do if a girl came to you,
and threw you to the floor?

Technically I’m guilty, but guilt-free,
well I came from the past, and I came so fast,
that I didn’t bring my gun with me,
so I snapped, and shot her in the back.

A dress looked fat on a girl like that,
I needed gangster-like chains to tie down this cat,
with my bullets all packed,
I shot her in the back.
You're gonna kill me, is that your plan?
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Postby madmancmonkey » Fri Apr 20, 2007 12:05 pm

Two recent efforts


Catharsis

Counting syllables to a tear like tap
Which soundtracks my rhythmatic ennui
yelled “Escape the painful tedium! ”

New York aspirations of Northern town,
Heaved under a chrome sky, sun gold gilded.
Lost in architectural canyons,
Another day pushing sadness to margins

My ragged Vicious tee shouted; Rebel
To deaf ears of adhesive young couples,
My Dean turn-ups and Moz quiff ignored by
Lads with ‘I drink therefore I am’ mantras

Down Granada way the factories shut,
The uniformed workforce march transportward
To suburban lives, pubs, cul-de-sac chats
Tabby cats, the jigsawed postcode mural

A Harrys’ later I watch Irwells’ flow,
Its liquid plasma, drift to the Quays and
Dusk forms an gritty ocular photo,
Another for my minds’ battered scrapbook

Salford stands, an Angular Picasso,
Printed against a post-Lowry backdrop
The acoustic rush of the Met echoes,
Drowns Castlefields’ vacuum of silence

Easily life is not too bad
I’m relishing the trudge back to Chorlton
To Glenn Miller and a special chow mein



At the river

So easily found is hedonism,
Even more in whimsical youthful throes
And our money down depthless drains of throats!
Alcohol floats our boats down sea of haze
Then one faraway year, ‘those were the days’


I felt like a walking human cliché,
As hungover as a debauched sailor
My temple throbbing, (I thank you booze Gods)
Among the knoll of the seagulls’ rabble
I stared at the mirthful rivers’ babble

Daffodils spectated from the bank as
Loverless boats bobbed gently to lute breeze
Willows wept, mourning the passing of Spring
On the fierce rapids a heron strutted,
Protagonist in a beauty tableau

The effervescent orb then ascended
Coaxing a birdsong concert, basking all.
Smoke trails latticed Cerulean sky
And whilst gazing at this giant mural
I thought of the pricks in bed addled still

And it almost induced me to spew up
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Postby Miserable Liar » Fri Apr 20, 2007 1:13 pm

Measures

Twenty a day like it’s ok,
a shot of whiskey to keep myself away,
I often speak and there’s a slight delay,
have another drink, I suggest you all stay.

Stimulants, just to keep you from the edge,
push you closer until you’re on the rocks, with a twist.
Cutting them out but you still persist,
fancy a drink? only if you insist.

Constant shaking until you snap,
reality is fear, if you believe all that,
making it natural, although the chances are small,
I believe it could be good for us all.
You're gonna kill me, is that your plan?
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Postby OrwellThatEndsWell » Fri Apr 20, 2007 7:13 pm

Miserable Liar wrote:Measures

Twenty a day like it’s ok,
a shot of whiskey to keep myself away,
I often speak and there’s a slight delay,
have another drink, I suggest you all stay.

Stimulants, just to keep you from the edge,
push you closer until you’re on the rocks, with a twist.
Cutting them out but you still persist,
fancy a drink? only if you insist.

Constant shaking until you snap,
reality is fear, if you believe all that,
making it natural, although the chances are small,
I believe it could be good for us all.

Blimey.
I'll purse it, aye the highway is my hope. His heart's not great that fears a little rope!
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Postby Miserable Liar » Fri Apr 20, 2007 11:31 pm

Orwell wrote:Blimey.


A good one or a bad one?
You're gonna kill me, is that your plan?
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Postby Miserable Liar » Sat Apr 21, 2007 12:52 am

God-Bless that Fucking Rope

We talked until words ran into each other, as moments occurred,
we talked until words could speak no-more, and nothing to share,
tiredness grew as it always did, the whole time we were together,
her eyes filled up as she said “I don’t want to be alone.”

I don’t think I could ever, conjure up the courage,
to say what I really wanted, without sounding selfish,
although I wanted her, along with other things,
my eyes filled and I said “I’ll never leave you on your own.”

Although now we feel apart, we’re still together strong,
I still look back at the day we talked, and feel I was wrong,
but it’s good that we spoke, and expressed how we felt,
although the explanation is “We don’t want to be alone.”

Every time I looked at her, I just felt obliged,
to protect her from hurt, as I still felt mine,
guilt is a word I can no longer use,
even if it’s guilt that means she’ll never be on her own.

I can’t see her smiling face anymore,
all I can see is it drenched in tears,
I feel the need to be the end of her fear,
”I don’t want to be alone.” Well you won’t be will you?

Regret is a word I can no longer comprehend,
words I won’t use on a list will never end,
I summed them up, past meaning and beyond,
although I’m not drowning, I’m dead in the pond.
Nothing can seem to break this bond,
we’re tied together by an invisible rope.

I’m trapped at the same time as grounded and safe,
”We’ll never walk alone.” That seems to be the case.
I feel the need to wipe her tears at a sensitive pace,
but they keep coming back, running down her face.

I’m the cause of all my sadness and happiness too,
I guess you love me then and I love you.
Last edited by Miserable Liar on Sat Apr 21, 2007 12:52 am, edited 1 time in total.
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