I am edifice to your black coffee,
I am sacrament to your bleakest sunrise,
Yet still you seem to want,
you seem to desire what you so easily and readily discarded,
The ribbons of the scar you left inside of me,
yes,
you lay upon me like a burying gown,
the softest of all cloths,
ironic as the goosed flesh of death has no need...
Read More
I am sacrament to your bleakest sunrise,
Yet still you seem to want,
you seem to desire what you so easily and readily discarded,
The ribbons of the scar you left inside of me,
yes,
you lay upon me like a burying gown,
the softest of all cloths,
ironic as the goosed flesh of death has no need...
Read More
VIEW 4 of 4 COMMENTS
If this is fate then I can live with it
but if this is the work of fairies and elves
flitting, fucking and flying between
the guy ropes of a circus tent on an autumn dawn
then I object.
I'll be damned if I let them dictate to me,
I'll certaintly not take it laying down.
The holes in my sock let me know I...
Read More
but if this is the work of fairies and elves
flitting, fucking and flying between
the guy ropes of a circus tent on an autumn dawn
then I object.
I'll be damned if I let them dictate to me,
I'll certaintly not take it laying down.
The holes in my sock let me know I...
Read More
y:
I'll comment on this in the UPC.
Here's the poem I wrote when I was 10/11:
The Blaze.
A broken bottle
on which the sun reflects
the reflection hits a dry leaf
it smoulders
and catches fire
a gust of wind
more leaves alight
the fire engulfs a tree
smoke blackens the sky
a flock of birds fly off
the dancing flames grow higher
more trees are engulfed
a squirrels home obliterated
all that's left
smouldering trees and dead animals.
It's not the best poem
and I don't know how much 'help' I had from teacher. It was done in primary seven when we were doing a project on fire. We were told about forest fires.
Your one is much better, I think.
Here's the poem I wrote when I was 10/11:
The Blaze.
A broken bottle
on which the sun reflects
the reflection hits a dry leaf
it smoulders
and catches fire
a gust of wind
more leaves alight
the fire engulfs a tree
smoke blackens the sky
a flock of birds fly off
the dancing flames grow higher
more trees are engulfed
a squirrels home obliterated
all that's left
smouldering trees and dead animals.
It's not the best poem
and I don't know how much 'help' I had from teacher. It was done in primary seven when we were doing a project on fire. We were told about forest fires.
Your one is much better, I think.
y:
Ta 
Who's the lassie?
Who's the lassie?
Just a little cheeky one I wrote when I was twelve or thirteen for a school project.
Hello little mouse,
your nose in the hay,
this barrowing field
is yours to while away.
and lo,
in the meadow your maker called your name
as you played in the poppies on mid-summers day.
Hello little mouse,
your nose in the hay,
this barrowing field
is yours to while away.
and lo,
in the meadow your maker called your name
as you played in the poppies on mid-summers day.
y:
That's so cool. I'll have to fish out the only poem I wrote around that age for you to hear.
geisha_girl:
shame about the pics from the ex-even when you are over them they seem to find a way to come back and haunt you...
Have another drink!!
Have another drink!!
Costly exemptions of enmity lay as broken twigs,
pen caps and hymns across the beardy barrowing hills of Devony land,
rolling and doughing with little classes of goat,
caught hairy in a trap of love,
under a pint glass,
freedom freely raping away,
non-chalant,
dreamy,
blissful,
gleefully harmonising squeaks and squeals
with a bitter snatch of jellied eels.
Jealousy reeks upon a quick vicar en...
Read More
pen caps and hymns across the beardy barrowing hills of Devony land,
rolling and doughing with little classes of goat,
caught hairy in a trap of love,
under a pint glass,
freedom freely raping away,
non-chalant,
dreamy,
blissful,
gleefully harmonising squeaks and squeals
with a bitter snatch of jellied eels.
Jealousy reeks upon a quick vicar en...
Read More
VIEW 6 of 6 COMMENTS
y:
I think the saying is - those that can do, do; those that can't, teach. As sayings go, it is a good un.
y:
Don't know Caravaggio's work too well, but what I've seen doesn't hit the right note with me - too slick!
So we sat,
all footy and wrestly,
so nestly and beastly,
unfeasibly penitent and cowardly.
won't you sleep with this version of me?
More burned than you'll ever know,
the cache of towelling catching
your blood dripping onto our lonesome baby toes.
greeny pinky fingers linger,
webbed and abreast of the sour churn of hops left to stew in the kitchen.
they linger on the...
Read More
all footy and wrestly,
so nestly and beastly,
unfeasibly penitent and cowardly.
won't you sleep with this version of me?
More burned than you'll ever know,
the cache of towelling catching
your blood dripping onto our lonesome baby toes.
greeny pinky fingers linger,
webbed and abreast of the sour churn of hops left to stew in the kitchen.
they linger on the...
Read More
y:
Another good un. i love the words "lonesome baby toes".
huck:
why wait? Pan's Labyrinth is out now, dude; should be all over London...
this is the best poem of yours so far. intricate diction with optimal clarity.
with so little to tell you and so much time / what can I say to fill these moments with anything other than lies? - somehow i relate to this but i'm not sure why; it's as if the scene rouses a discarded memory ...
this is the best poem of yours so far. intricate diction with optimal clarity.
with so little to tell you and so much time / what can I say to fill these moments with anything other than lies? - somehow i relate to this but i'm not sure why; it's as if the scene rouses a discarded memory ...
As the postman delivers a milky load of letters
on a stamp matted by a persistent golden shoe horn (horning and whoring until dewy dusk)
I lay with my brother in a ditch,
his other holiday a mother of dosage,
of eternal forgetting,
and onto Berlin,
classical and clean,
Ich bin ein Berliner,
To fall foul to the muse of man who is much better...
Read More
on a stamp matted by a persistent golden shoe horn (horning and whoring until dewy dusk)
I lay with my brother in a ditch,
his other holiday a mother of dosage,
of eternal forgetting,
and onto Berlin,
classical and clean,
Ich bin ein Berliner,
To fall foul to the muse of man who is much better...
Read More
huck:
thanks for your comment on my poem. you flatter me, sir! it's an old one, but i would hope it still expresses something universal.
you know what, you are kinda like a 21st-century Ezra Pound...! do you post poems on any other sites or magazines?
you know what, you are kinda like a 21st-century Ezra Pound...! do you post poems on any other sites or magazines?
So I let them dance to the beat of my bones,
in the land where my singing brother lowed.
To steal a bullet in romance's first swoon
I left my skin to bathe in the glory of the gentle metronome.
I swept and swayed under the fire that she chose,
she fucked and flayed me until the morning arose.
Under lust's fatuous sin she knows...
Read More
in the land where my singing brother lowed.
To steal a bullet in romance's first swoon
I left my skin to bathe in the glory of the gentle metronome.
I swept and swayed under the fire that she chose,
she fucked and flayed me until the morning arose.
Under lust's fatuous sin she knows...
Read More
y:
"At dawn the beast resurrected so wild and grey,"
Nice.
Nice.
markbousfield:
Not one of my better ones, too rigid, I thought about it too much
And me,
all summer-honeyed skin cuffed into the winter,
oh yes,
with his dewy waltz of Friesian glassy,
sassy to the sailors,
all double chinned in lullabies of times with hooves,
of all the fucking crowds,
oh times have passed,
there's a cat filling his fill with chewy mice,
meowing by a milk churn.
All the breast I could fleetingly call my own
flashed in...
Read More
all summer-honeyed skin cuffed into the winter,
oh yes,
with his dewy waltz of Friesian glassy,
sassy to the sailors,
all double chinned in lullabies of times with hooves,
of all the fucking crowds,
oh times have passed,
there's a cat filling his fill with chewy mice,
meowing by a milk churn.
All the breast I could fleetingly call my own
flashed in...
Read More
VIEW 4 of 4 COMMENTS
vasilisa:
thats great! so different to your previous work, you vary your tone and register constantly. xx and damn you, a welshman is the heart of my troubles at the mo :s x
y:
Well, I am arch-humorous, it's true.
I love these lines:
"there's a cat filling his fill with chewy mice,
meowing by a milk churn."
The whole thing reminds me of Nick Cave's early song 'Saint Huck' (which our mutual friend Huckleberry named himself after, I believe).
I love these lines:
"there's a cat filling his fill with chewy mice,
meowing by a milk churn."
The whole thing reminds me of Nick Cave's early song 'Saint Huck' (which our mutual friend Huckleberry named himself after, I believe).
And there I was,
raking your nails over my warm skin
dreaming of a colour I would never see.
I let slip a choice cut of affection,
as though some impish madness
had come and possessed me.
I waned from my precocious youth.
My most carnal and ferocious work,
my fire and rock of moss-bitten bitterness,
my lust,
he betrayed me.
He exposed a want...
Read More
raking your nails over my warm skin
dreaming of a colour I would never see.
I let slip a choice cut of affection,
as though some impish madness
had come and possessed me.
I waned from my precocious youth.
My most carnal and ferocious work,
my fire and rock of moss-bitten bitterness,
my lust,
he betrayed me.
He exposed a want...
Read More
Incumbent as I am
I allow the healing waters (in lieu of Summer's promise)
to arrive once more,
to harvest even the deserts of the Moon
is a dream a long way away,
away from your walls,
from my favourite oppressions,
lost to do as I please,
faith is harder to need as you no longer lay me down,
let me go,
let me swim...
Read More
I allow the healing waters (in lieu of Summer's promise)
to arrive once more,
to harvest even the deserts of the Moon
is a dream a long way away,
away from your walls,
from my favourite oppressions,
lost to do as I please,
faith is harder to need as you no longer lay me down,
let me go,
let me swim...
Read More
The Day My Heart (and Body) Broke...
By Mark Bousfield
The dull blade on the razor cuts my neck, listlessly I stand there like some statue caught in the rays of a fresh days sun. The blood forms a bubble over the wound, swelling with coagulated vitality the vein slowly closes. Still, I am immobile, the blade held mid air in my right hand. As...
Read More
By Mark Bousfield
The dull blade on the razor cuts my neck, listlessly I stand there like some statue caught in the rays of a fresh days sun. The blood forms a bubble over the wound, swelling with coagulated vitality the vein slowly closes. Still, I am immobile, the blade held mid air in my right hand. As...
Read More
VIEW 3 of 3 COMMENTS
vasilisa:
lol, of course xx
vasilisa:
thanks yes, we're studying catullus and propertius this week so even more so. how was your weekend? xx
yes, we're studying catullus and propertius this week so even more so. how was your weekend? xxImprimatur (Def: official permission or approval, to give one's approval)
by Mark Bousfield
So there it was that I awoke, the daze gripped my head as though I was dreaming once again that I was pushing my fingers through my skull, then there was Theo. A man I had barely met lying prostrate in a pool of sweat and blood at the nub of my...
Read More
by Mark Bousfield
So there it was that I awoke, the daze gripped my head as though I was dreaming once again that I was pushing my fingers through my skull, then there was Theo. A man I had barely met lying prostrate in a pool of sweat and blood at the nub of my...
Read More
VIEW 5 of 5 COMMENTS
vasilisa:
I really adore your imagery and the train of thought of the character. Do you have any more prose? xx
vasilisa:
I used to have that phone...dont be tempted to text in the shower - its metal but not waterproof.
merry christmas etc