
***
appurtenance: ok, so a bad comedown can be awful, but it can also be morbidly productive...
I Don't Want the Day
Throes of rote
in valleys dominated by the moon
Rote of throes
'cross plateaus condescended by the sun
(For a throat
the sibilance of pressure chimes again)
And then
epiphany
a simile: one's efforts to forget
are the course of...
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yes we really should! when is it again? god bless the oxford tube...
are you doing anything this weekend? we should get together for a drink. xx




this is the only thing on my cpu - don't like it that much any more since my style's changed quite abit (this was during foundation when I was working in textures more than form so the photo isnt really showing the painting)
xx
in response to all your comments: I'm equally glad to hear that you can appreciate my work. as a so-called "postmodernist" i often get the "it's nice but i don't really understand it" line and that's depressing as all hell. as regards your work, I'd say that it's easy to overestimate the degree to which your work is 'alienated' from the contemporary current; there're more poets than you think working in a similar vein, and I think there will always be a place for your type of work. if anyone's going to be interesting the unpoetical 'masses' in poetry, i think it far more likely to be you than me.
and I definitely agree that poetry will not die til language dies - after all, it's the vital force of language, and coupled with slang, its what forces language to move forward and change and evolve. poetry will never die as long as there are poets!
and yeah, poetry is a kind of abstention, but its also a different form of participation. as long as language is a vital force in civilization, poetry will be a primary participant in life.
I share, in general, your disdain for what you so aptly term 'the done thing' - that's exactly why facing all these questions is so hard when the person you love is so invested in these 'done things'
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Grief
I'm dreaming of a white Christmas
with nobody crying,
yet you have eyes for me
under the tree, still,
clever waif.
I'm dreaming - with maybe just
a little crying
for the lengths gone to
to reproduce you. (It's a sighing
in the flurries, Mr Stewart.)
But the world outside my pane
shan't drain
the comfort of simple things:
a glowing hearth and a...
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The cosmos freaks you out?

I don't think there was ever a possibility of the guides not taking me back at that point; it literally felt like an impossibility because they had everything so effortlessly in hand. BUT, maybe if they hadn't taken me back I would've died in my sleep that night

Humphrey Astley was born in Oxford, England in 1982. He is founder and curator of the ongoing art exhibit Rain Over Bouville (.co.uk), from which these twenty-five poems have been culled. This is his first collection.
i hate writing about myself in the formal third person, but if i am going to self-publish i am going to have to do...
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Humphrey Astley was born in Oxford, England in 1982. He is founder and curator of the ongoing art exhibit Rain Over Bouville (.co.uk). This is his first collection.
If you have to keep that line in, switch culled to drawn. Culled probably rankles because of its meaning. To cull is to withdraw for the purpose of disposing (ie. old stock). Here it is from dic.com
"esp. something picked out and put aside as inferior."
hehe i will try to get the party photos prepped for my journal soon.
I should slow down some time
which is not to say I live
an accelerated life
but I should slow down
and let violence find me
dripping tongue
                              wheeling vista
___

for now, unfortunately, i'm heading home.
whats this? that dasha's been making a name for herself around here. what's she done to catch your interest?

