Poem/story of the day

[Rincewind]

correct..

Eight changes tonight.

[21st Century Fox]

We're 16 hours into National Poetry Day and have yet to be regaled by a single verse from the FT Poet Laureate. I for one am disappointed.

[James.]

Seems a fitting moment to resurrect this:

 

Burger Love

her quarter-pounder eyes
edged with charcoal
coaxed me inside.
her round succulent body
i savoured hungrily,
as from table to table she rolled.
a small gherkin green nose
sat on lips of tomato sauce
surrounded by a cheesy smile.
as my fingers touched
i knew it was
burger love.

[MooseBreath]

Ed Miliband

Walks hand in hand

With the working man

And the shirking man

He gets his tan

From a small red can

Not from Pakistan

Where he buys the lambs

That he imports as sheep

To live like packs of meat

And bones, desperate drones

Full of dreams of tea and scones

He promises them

Expensive shoes and woolen coats

AND ALL YOU NEED TO DO IS VOTE

FOR LABOUR

he'll do you a favour

Need fags? Fvck it, here's a crateful to savour

With Miliband you can have it all

Fags, booze, skag and draw

And its all for free

Ain't no necessity

To work for a living

Not for you and me

We've got Miliband

By us he stands

And give me one more benefit perk

And fvck work you can have it back

[Guest MattP]

:chant: :chant:

[Jon the Hat]

Nice Dre twist there.

[21st Century Fox]

Ken really needs to record himself reading Burger Love. I can just imagine some future generation finding the hidden away digital file on the Internet and playing it like it was an Edison Wax Cylinder.

 

Ken seriously record it, I've had a pretty good idea for a backing track.

[Finnegan]

 

Ken seriously record it, I've had a pretty good idea for a backing track.

 

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_pgPq4FGWfk

[Rincewind]

Didn't realise it was national Poetry Day. I hope James is not claiming Burger Love as his owm. Rep points OK for reviving it though.

 

 

Here is my effort then. Something light.

SIMON

Simon was a Norwegian blue parrot

In plumage as well as speech

Uttering words to make  grannies blush

Ending with a screech.

The owner grew tired of this

So Simon featured in the local rag

Good home wanted for talking bird

And was soon bought by kindly Father Chas.

Father Chas took Simon to his church

Where he put him on display

The idea was to cheer up the congregation

When they came to pray.

At the first service all was going well

Simon was very quiet

Until he heard the words Jesus Christ

Then what ensued was a near riot.

Father Chas took Simon home

Knowing what he had to do

He had  to change his ways

And teach him words anew.

Father Chas told Simon

That he was unhappy with his speech.

And to parrot phrase a poem of his

He wanted to verbally punch him in the beak.

So Father Chas set down to work

And Simon recited new words

Within weeks he progressed well

And became a new bird.

So if you visit Father Chas’ church

Listen close to the sermon that’s on

For the words coming from the pulpit

Could be from newly ordained Simon.

[Zingari]

A poem for David   (Lloyd George)

 

If you've searched without success in every pestilent latrine

For a sample of the most revolting filth the eye has ever seen;

If the garbage of the midden and sewage of the drain

Reward you not, and all your efforts seem to be in vain,

Let not barren explorations fill your busom with despair,

Just trot around to Downing Street, you'll sure unearth it there.

[Rincewind]

Is that one of yours Zing?

 

I didn't need to post one of mine. They are always available in my sig link. They even come up on Google now. Akthough you need to put the right word in the box.

[Zingari]

Is that one of yours Zing?

 

I didn't need to post one of mine. They are always available in my sig link. They even come up on Google now. Akthough you need to put the right word in the box.

No 

it was for written for another David residing at that address 

[Monk]

I still read a fair bit of the late Edwin Morgan. My favourite is still:

There were never strawberries

like the ones we had

that sultry afternoon

sitting on the step

of the open french window

facing each other

your knees held in mine

the blue plates in our laps

the strawberries glistening

in the hot sunlight

we dipped them in sugar

looking at each other

not hurrying the feast

for one to come

the empty plates

laid on the stone together

with the two forks crossed

and I bent towards you

sweet in that air

in my arms

abandoned like a child

from your eager mouth

the taste of strawberries

in my memory

lean back again

let me love you

let the sun beat

on our forgetfulness

one hour of all

the heat intense

and summer lightning

on the Kilpatrick hills

let the storm wash the plates

[Zingari]

"let the storm wash the plates" ??

 

You want to eat your strawberries and laze about in the sunshine without considering the consequences ?

 

That's just fookin idleness,  and symptomatic of the British "something for nothing" malaise !! 

[Webbo]

Poetry,politics and milfs. There's all sorts on foxestalk.

[I am Rod Hull]

Cliff...

 

Oh, Cliff

sometimes it must be difficult not to feel as if

you really are a cliff

when fascists keep trying to push you over it

are they the lemmings?

or are you Cliff?

[Mike Oxlong]

I want to hold you, undress you and take you to bed

So long as you keep that paper bag over your head

[Rincewind]

I still read a fair bit of the late Edwin Morgan. My favourite is still:

There were never strawberries

like the ones we had

that sultry afternoon

sitting on the step

of the open french window

facing each other

your knees held in mine

the blue plates in our laps

the strawberries glistening

in the hot sunlight

we dipped them in sugar

looking at each other

not hurrying the feast

for one to come

the empty plates

laid on the stone together

with the two forks crossed

and I bent towards you

sweet in that air

in my arms

abandoned like a child

from your eager mouth

the taste of strawberries

in my memory

lean back again

let me love you

let the sun beat

on our forgetfulness

one hour of all

the heat intense

and summer lightning

on the Kilpatrick hills

let the storm wash the plates

You soppy sod.

It does have good imagery  though.

[Zingari]

I want to hold you, undress you and take you to bed

So long as you keep that paper bag over your head

Ah inspired by the classic romantics no doubt 

[Rincewind]

The soppiest one I've done

You Sleep On

 

Our hands touch

You close your eyes

I whisper I love you

You sleep on.

 

Your touch relights my memories

The day you said I do

The smile of our newborn son

Tiny fingers clutching ours.

 

The first nervous steps

Hands reaching out

The lead in the school play

A son we are so proud.

 

The years they pass

The memories always remain

You drift back and forth

As against the odds you fight.

 

You smile as our hands touch

You close your eyes

I hear you whisper I love you

You sleep on.

 

And I wait.

[Zingari]

Cliff...

 

Oh, Cliff

sometimes it must be difficult not to feel as if

you really are a cliff

when fascists keep trying to push you over it

are they the lemmings?

or are you Cliff?

Was that inspired by Wuthering heights?

[Mike Oxlong]

Ah inspired by the classic romantics no doubt 

Yes, well spotted. Was inspired by Mills and Poon.

[I am Rod Hull]

Was that inspired by Wuthering heights?

 

No... Prick, Britain 

 

Oh god

why?

am I so much more sensitive than everybody else?

why?

do I feel things so much more acutely than them

and understand so much more

I bet i`m the first person who`s ever felt as rotten as this

could it be

that i`m going to grow up

to be a great poet and thinker, and all those other wankers in my class are going to have to work in factories or go on the dole?

yes I think it could.

[I am Rod Hull]

This is one of my own and its called Pants pulled down

 

I checked my lotto numbers

I did not win

I could have spent my £3 on cucumbers

but now its in the bin

its not worth getting mad

my £3 will go to a charity and make someone feel less sad

will it go to someone with 1 leg?

why cant paralympians use cucumber instead of expensive titanium alloy?

[Vlad the Fox]

Dulce et Decorum Est - Wilfred Owen.

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,

Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,

Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs

And towards our distant rest began to trudge.

Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots

But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;

Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots

Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.

GAS! Gas! Quick, boys! — An ecstasy of fumbling,

Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;

But someone still was yelling out and stumbling

And floundering like a man in fire or lime...

Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light

As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,

He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace

Behind the wagon that we flung him in,

And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,

His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood

Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,

Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud

Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, —

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest

To children ardent for some desperate glory,

The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est

Pro patria mori.