a b cask
d e fjord
g h itinerary
j k lumberjack
m n over-turned motorway vehicle
p q rest results
s t union of hands
v w xenoclan
y zeusklat
last night i dreamt i was being pursued by the KKK in Lurgan...i remember them chasing me over fields.
i had to hop over hedges and lay flat beneath them.
i got away but, not without some small panic stations being alerted.
the police came and arrested them.
i was safe.
Friday 24 April 2009
A Lithe For Splinters
BEYOND...to the aggregator! As everyones pulses race rabid, i think in a run amok format.
Details lend themselves to unrelated objects, to stories unexperienced, to images unseen. 'If we keep ourselves to ourselves we can't be accused of integration'...Our summoner is our keeper, his thoughts overpower ours in terms of public opinion. It is he who stands, vis-en-vis, converses; debates and toils with them and their en-masse views. I for one am glad the role was filled, and by such a levelled chap. His mask wearing face is ferocious and intense. His voice cut from the same stone as dragon's roar and air-turret output. It's only now that our people get regarded, get messages of support. He has become a Demi-God of stratospheric proportions...my keeper, my life-line. As corrupt a man as he is, he has spoon-fed us hope whilst we lay in our womb-like positions.
He thinks in luck. Our borders can no longer be crossed.
yours, A FF
a b c d e f g h i j k l m n o p q r s t u v w x y z
I hear of words that fly from tips to borders.
They land on ears and lips, bounce from one head to another.
They are swapped and shared.
They are put together and arranged.
They mean nothing, bowing under the weight of expression.
They are sang and shouted.
They are small and priceless.
They are thrown and spewed.
Acting as both weapon and shield to those who yield, before and after.
Formed from small elements 26.
animals and giants make the greatest of friends.
under a woe, we agasp at sightly humours.
talking with voles and riders about happenings two villages across.
i listen with a venomous reprise...touting and towing.
waving and bowing.
our canals are overflowing.
our boats overturning.
i, bouncing from subject to subject, forget about unhappiness.
holding hands, our hearts entwine and we start to believe in colour.
at the days end the wind brings us home to the laps of our loved ones.
hair shining like silky weaves.
mouths open and closing with comforts we, carfeul not to tread on their sleeves, that is where their hearts lay you see, sing string sounds and bell tones.
skipping skipping skipping underneath a garden.
They land on ears and lips, bounce from one head to another.
They are swapped and shared.
They are put together and arranged.
They mean nothing, bowing under the weight of expression.
They are sang and shouted.
They are small and priceless.
They are thrown and spewed.
Acting as both weapon and shield to those who yield, before and after.
Formed from small elements 26.
animals and giants make the greatest of friends.
under a woe, we agasp at sightly humours.
talking with voles and riders about happenings two villages across.
i listen with a venomous reprise...touting and towing.
waving and bowing.
our canals are overflowing.
our boats overturning.
i, bouncing from subject to subject, forget about unhappiness.
holding hands, our hearts entwine and we start to believe in colour.
at the days end the wind brings us home to the laps of our loved ones.
hair shining like silky weaves.
mouths open and closing with comforts we, carfeul not to tread on their sleeves, that is where their hearts lay you see, sing string sounds and bell tones.
skipping skipping skipping underneath a garden.
We Talk In Language Stars
As if it were common occurance, the sky turned from sheet-like SFX to yawning millions.
The pessimism of night turned into an orange optimism, laden with pink thoughts and red hope undertones.
The silence fell and as if by magic turned us from our positions, threw us from our soft-palettes into hardened balance. The squeaks of slumber become steam-trains and slippered foot-steps.
Rushing aimlessness and laughing quarters.
Today brought a tickle, lack the bubble-pot cauldron her throat once was.
Mud pool skies observe.
Blues omitting disapproval.
The pessimism of night turned into an orange optimism, laden with pink thoughts and red hope undertones.
The silence fell and as if by magic turned us from our positions, threw us from our soft-palettes into hardened balance. The squeaks of slumber become steam-trains and slippered foot-steps.
Rushing aimlessness and laughing quarters.
Today brought a tickle, lack the bubble-pot cauldron her throat once was.
Mud pool skies observe.
Blues omitting disapproval.
Eastern Calls From An Underbelly
with heads exposed our cheeks are bitten by winds large and course.
like flying cars with rusted hinges.
'are there any peaks left to roam?', my fellow speaks in earthly tones of terracotta and gold.
i understand but, with my deafened tongue i cannot reply.
i know that there are not.
if i speak his heart will break...
like flying cars with rusted hinges.
'are there any peaks left to roam?', my fellow speaks in earthly tones of terracotta and gold.
i understand but, with my deafened tongue i cannot reply.
i know that there are not.
if i speak his heart will break...
tree arks
a circle of trees can be seen in the distance.
cared for by dwellers and their assistants they guard and parade in unison.
their small faces and larger than life heads clap out rough rhythms at march-band tempos.
t r u m p * * speaks their snare-drum * b a n g * shouts their Bassoon.
a job vacancy description reading '...must be a better Wolf' hangs from a broken branch.
a giant plough formation is the centre of the carnival they paint, depicted by twigs and ferns.
s n a p * * goes their foot-steps * c r a s h * their whispers.
as the sunlight fades they make merry their time and vacate.
'one more day over' is heard being said through damp curtains.
T H E N
- a silence that erupts upon faces like a mute volcano.
the light-lamps grow dim now...
cared for by dwellers and their assistants they guard and parade in unison.
their small faces and larger than life heads clap out rough rhythms at march-band tempos.
t r u m p * * speaks their snare-drum * b a n g * shouts their Bassoon.
a job vacancy description reading '...must be a better Wolf' hangs from a broken branch.
a giant plough formation is the centre of the carnival they paint, depicted by twigs and ferns.
s n a p * * goes their foot-steps * c r a s h * their whispers.
as the sunlight fades they make merry their time and vacate.
'one more day over' is heard being said through damp curtains.
T H E N
- a silence that erupts upon faces like a mute volcano.
the light-lamps grow dim now...
Long Reminders
Our hands fell together as we walked.
A route akin to what we are familiar with.
We lend each other words and syllables, finishing off our sentences with descriptions of pictures seen and imagined.
The sun lay between us as we slept.
Awake now the moon hums to us, we know not each other anymore...
Our songs are in dialects differed.
Our hands rivers and seas apart.
At least we had that one moment.
At least, we can ...
can we build upon broken stems?
A route akin to what we are familiar with.
We lend each other words and syllables, finishing off our sentences with descriptions of pictures seen and imagined.
The sun lay between us as we slept.
Awake now the moon hums to us, we know not each other anymore...
Our songs are in dialects differed.
Our hands rivers and seas apart.
At least we had that one moment.
At least, we can ...
can we build upon broken stems?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
