Don't drink.
- You might harm your liver.
Don't smoke.
- You'll kill your baby.
Don't you dare wear black shoes
When this season's colour is blue.
Don't have sex
- Until your sexteen (then you're deemed old enough to fuck with who you choose.)
Don't drive too fast
Don't make friendship last
Don't be yourself
- When lies are in
Don't skate unless the ice is thin
Don't talk to strangers
Or let them in
Don't eat their food
So you get thin.
Hopeful.
Saturday, 23 August 2008
Friday, 22 August 2008
Haiku for Seduction
Spring sun shines softly
He said, "Please come back to mine."
I said, brashly, "Fine."
Hopeful.
He said, "Please come back to mine."
I said, brashly, "Fine."
Hopeful.
The Old Tomten and the Fox
Rust and fleas are
Chainmail links the colour
Of dried blood
As the hungry fox scrapes
Up against the wire of the chicken coop.
Snowflakes that fall are not alone
But lonely they melt
Drowning in the beard of the old Tomten
Whose rheumatic eyes watch through the dark.
Steamy waits the bowl of porridge,
Thick with milk and sugar
Not thin and flaked with rust like the cold sly fox.
Steam condensing on the doorstep tells a story.
Red and white and cream and grey
Stalk the night away in combat
Like snowflakes, never the twain the same,
Tomten guarding, fox advancing.
Silver is gilded the treetop,
The farm house chimney smoke,
The lonley eyelids of the old Tomten
And the chainmail fur of the fox.
Run, attack, it's over, stop!
The chickens are snoring, unaware
The old Tomten raises his hand to strike
A savage warrier with painted cheek
- But the fox will starve tonight.
The old Tomten beats his drum
A call the fox is not afraid of
As he pads through the snow
Leaving trails of pawprints
Delicate as blood drops
To the cold stone doorstep
Where the ol Tomten balances on thin legs,
Smoke curling upwards warms the whiskers of the chainmail fox.
Both drink, the Tomten first
Then with urgent and mistrusting sips,
Fox dips his tongue into the steaming cup
Ghosts lie low as the two faces warm together.
The fox drags his full belly through the snow
Away from the farm where the chickens coo
The shadow of a spider cartwheels up the wall
And in the silver moonlight, the old Tomten smiles.
Hopeful.
This poem is a homage to the poem 'Bone Mother' by Holly Black, one of my favourite authors. It is based on an old Swedish children's story, 'The Tomten and the Fox' by Astrid Lindgren. I couldn't find a retelling on the web so I found some info on the Tomten on our old friend Wikipedia.
Bare lovage mates. xx
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tomten
http://www.endicott-studio.com/cofhs/chBoneMother.html
Chainmail links the colour
Of dried blood
As the hungry fox scrapes
Up against the wire of the chicken coop.
Snowflakes that fall are not alone
But lonely they melt
Drowning in the beard of the old Tomten
Whose rheumatic eyes watch through the dark.
Steamy waits the bowl of porridge,
Thick with milk and sugar
Not thin and flaked with rust like the cold sly fox.
Steam condensing on the doorstep tells a story.
Red and white and cream and grey
Stalk the night away in combat
Like snowflakes, never the twain the same,
Tomten guarding, fox advancing.
Silver is gilded the treetop,
The farm house chimney smoke,
The lonley eyelids of the old Tomten
And the chainmail fur of the fox.
Run, attack, it's over, stop!
The chickens are snoring, unaware
The old Tomten raises his hand to strike
A savage warrier with painted cheek
- But the fox will starve tonight.
The old Tomten beats his drum
A call the fox is not afraid of
As he pads through the snow
Leaving trails of pawprints
Delicate as blood drops
To the cold stone doorstep
Where the ol Tomten balances on thin legs,
Smoke curling upwards warms the whiskers of the chainmail fox.
Both drink, the Tomten first
Then with urgent and mistrusting sips,
Fox dips his tongue into the steaming cup
Ghosts lie low as the two faces warm together.
The fox drags his full belly through the snow
Away from the farm where the chickens coo
The shadow of a spider cartwheels up the wall
And in the silver moonlight, the old Tomten smiles.
Hopeful.
This poem is a homage to the poem 'Bone Mother' by Holly Black, one of my favourite authors. It is based on an old Swedish children's story, 'The Tomten and the Fox' by Astrid Lindgren. I couldn't find a retelling on the web so I found some info on the Tomten on our old friend Wikipedia.
Bare lovage mates. xx
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tomten
http://www.endicott-studio.com/cofhs/chBoneMother.html
Thursday, 21 August 2008
The Puppeteer
The puppeteer works from midnight to noon
Then from noon to night again
Six days he makes the strings dance
Six nights he makes the air boom.
One puppet he carved to look like his own self,
Shiny shoes and a wandering eye
Spiders, snakes and a lizards head
And a smile so sweet it would drop you dead.
This puppet danced the dance of war
And proud to look like the maker's face,
Held all other puppets in his thrall.
Not peace he sought; but with his stiff wooden hands
Tried to hold the strings of other things,
So when he danced, those painted suits danced too,
Thinking they had wings.
This puppet, whose name perhaps was George,
Perhaps lived in a painted heaven
Perhaps slept behind a yellow curtain,
His painted face turned to the strange stars.
He knew that his future looked uncertain
But his painted eyes could shed no tears.
the old puppeteer, now bent and grey with age
No longer had the eyesight nor the belief to take those strings
Yet still the puppets danced.
The danced to the music of the shrapnel symphony,
Waltzed to Woland's whim,
George proclaimed he danced for the puppeteer -
Really he danced for him.
We are all puppets on those long yellow strings
Held in gross and lifeless hands,
Cut the ribbons that cross your wrists
And see the painted smile hide those painted fists
See the tears flow and know that we never more will rest.
We all must dance.
Hopeful.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ijz1CdUj5fg&feature=related
Then from noon to night again
Six days he makes the strings dance
Six nights he makes the air boom.
One puppet he carved to look like his own self,
Shiny shoes and a wandering eye
Spiders, snakes and a lizards head
And a smile so sweet it would drop you dead.
This puppet danced the dance of war
And proud to look like the maker's face,
Held all other puppets in his thrall.
Not peace he sought; but with his stiff wooden hands
Tried to hold the strings of other things,
So when he danced, those painted suits danced too,
Thinking they had wings.
This puppet, whose name perhaps was George,
Perhaps lived in a painted heaven
Perhaps slept behind a yellow curtain,
His painted face turned to the strange stars.
He knew that his future looked uncertain
But his painted eyes could shed no tears.
the old puppeteer, now bent and grey with age
No longer had the eyesight nor the belief to take those strings
Yet still the puppets danced.
The danced to the music of the shrapnel symphony,
Waltzed to Woland's whim,
George proclaimed he danced for the puppeteer -
Really he danced for him.
We are all puppets on those long yellow strings
Held in gross and lifeless hands,
Cut the ribbons that cross your wrists
And see the painted smile hide those painted fists
See the tears flow and know that we never more will rest.
We all must dance.
Hopeful.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ijz1CdUj5fg&feature=related
Bondage
In fact, I should really have called this post 'Linkage' becasue it's to shout out a link to another site, but I just wanted to use the word 'bondage.' This may give you some idea of my current humour. Anyway I've added this blog to the blogcatalog where it is possible to check out many other blogs. Take a gander if you will, I'm sure that there's something for everyone's taste.
Hopeful.
Hopeful.
Wednesday, 20 August 2008
Don't Talk to me about Pressure
I don't want to do this
But I do, so much.
No, I think you want me to do this
I think you want me to succeed
And I don't want to disappoint.
Not that there isn't an element of ambition,
I'll grant you it would be nice
To walk up to school in the August heat,
Rip open that brown envelope and see,
Goodness me, what the last thirteen years
Have all been leading up to.
But is it really necessary?
I know I know, it's complicated
It's my future
It's my life
My one chance
But that's the shit, right?
Its mine not yours and if I get (shock horror)
An unperfect grade
Don't fucking suck your teeth and ask so slowly
"What went wrong?" Coz you read in the papers
That exams are getting easier,
Not like when you did them, right?
I'm just one more weopen in your arsenal, right?
One more pip on your shoulder, right?
You don't know what I'm saying, do you?
By Hopeful.
This is for anyone who has ever felt the pressure to succeed taking over every aspest of their lives. Mates, I know how you feel. xx
But I do, so much.
No, I think you want me to do this
I think you want me to succeed
And I don't want to disappoint.
Not that there isn't an element of ambition,
I'll grant you it would be nice
To walk up to school in the August heat,
Rip open that brown envelope and see,
Goodness me, what the last thirteen years
Have all been leading up to.
But is it really necessary?
I know I know, it's complicated
It's my future
It's my life
My one chance
But that's the shit, right?
Its mine not yours and if I get (shock horror)
An unperfect grade
Don't fucking suck your teeth and ask so slowly
"What went wrong?" Coz you read in the papers
That exams are getting easier,
Not like when you did them, right?
I'm just one more weopen in your arsenal, right?
One more pip on your shoulder, right?
You don't know what I'm saying, do you?
By Hopeful.
This is for anyone who has ever felt the pressure to succeed taking over every aspest of their lives. Mates, I know how you feel. xx
Thursday, 7 August 2008
The Whispers of Civilisation to Literature in the Garden of Eden
Why do the snakes draw close, Nicolai?
They only foretell our doom
Their eyes speak, Nicolai
Of your demise - and mine
As they creep close in the dark.
They are watching,
Drawing close, Nicolai,
It is time to pull forth, dear Homeless friend
Your best conjurors.
Tell them it is time for the Grand Finale
And I shall send my foremost fighters
Wearing grey rust-stained armour suits,
Arm them with swords of city-dark nights
With shields of sleet and snow.
Ignorance shows it's yellow belly in anger
As it sidles up to us in the dark
And do you see, Nicolai,
Those snakes grasping at the throats of freedom?
By the greasy light of the Turkish lantern -
Do you see?
And can you hear, o flatterer of my folly, o friend,
That heavy hissing rising like smoke through the dark
Kissing your ear to tell that forbidden fruits once again
Have risen from that low feral dump where once they festered.
Here come our legions, Nicolai
Across the glacial skies
Sit here on this bench with me, Nicolai
- Shall we lie here and watch the march
Destroy us, and not rise?
Hopeful.
They only foretell our doom
Their eyes speak, Nicolai
Of your demise - and mine
As they creep close in the dark.
They are watching,
Drawing close, Nicolai,
It is time to pull forth, dear Homeless friend
Your best conjurors.
Tell them it is time for the Grand Finale
And I shall send my foremost fighters
Wearing grey rust-stained armour suits,
Arm them with swords of city-dark nights
With shields of sleet and snow.
Ignorance shows it's yellow belly in anger
As it sidles up to us in the dark
And do you see, Nicolai,
Those snakes grasping at the throats of freedom?
By the greasy light of the Turkish lantern -
Do you see?
And can you hear, o flatterer of my folly, o friend,
That heavy hissing rising like smoke through the dark
Kissing your ear to tell that forbidden fruits once again
Have risen from that low feral dump where once they festered.
Here come our legions, Nicolai
Across the glacial skies
Sit here on this bench with me, Nicolai
- Shall we lie here and watch the march
Destroy us, and not rise?
Hopeful.
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