Say from me

I wrote a poem. A free-verse poem. How unlike me. 


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I see the face: an accurate impression, if pressed to see

unimpressive if precise dots: exact, hollow,

but less

capricious than I remember; a savagely bad attempt

to recollect something temptingly untrue

but I

try not to; recalling ghosts keeps them longer

keeps them lingering, thoughts without voice

I want

and wonder if the haunting whistles,

aggressively invisible, always stay with you,

or not

white sheets coloured rose, the dots will stay

but like all things fade, differently, and when

the white

grey sails away, leaves nothing to observe

if you come across her maybe, say hello


from me




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The Aged Aged Man

Huzzah and hurrah and a load of other words which sound happy and celebratory when typed, but have completely different meanings once I tell you that they are in fact being used sarcastically. That's right, judging from my tone of type (say what), you could probably assume I'm back in Cornwall, where I shall be spending the next three months. Hopefully this might turn out to be a good thing and I might get a lot of stuff done, like work towards the Spring-Heel Jack idea (I still haven't even got a story properly planned out yet), or finishing up the entire script of the first volume of Wanderer. After a year of planning it would be nice to get it off the ground in September. 

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So, with nothing interesting to say I'll leave you with a poem by Lewis Carroll I particularly like, called The Aged Aged Man

I'll tell thee everything I can; There's little to relate. I saw an aged aged man, A-sitting on a gate. "Who are you, aged man?" I said, "And how is it you live?" And his answer trickled through my head Like water through a sieve. He said, "I look for butterflies That sleep among the wheat: I make them into mutton-pies, And sell them in the street. I sell them unto men," he said, "Who sail on stormy seas; And that's the way I get my bread - A trifle; if you please." But I was thinking of a plan To dye one's whiskers green, And always use so large a fan That they could not be seen. So, having no reply to give To what the old man said, I cried, "Come, tell me how you live!" And thumped him on the head. His accents mild took up the tale: He said, "I go my ways, And when I find a mountain-rill, I set it in a blaze; And thence they make a stuff they call Rowland's Macassar-Oil - Yet twopence-halfpenny is all They give me for my toil." But I was thinking of a way To feed oneself on batter, And so go on from day to day Getting a little fatter. I shook him well from side to side, Until his face was blue: "Come, tell me how you live," I cried, "And what it is you do!" He said, "I hunt for haddocks' eyes Among the heather bright, And work them into waistcoat buttons In the silent night. And these I do not sell for gold Or coin of silvery shine, But for a copper halfpenny, And that will purchase nine. "I sometimes dig for buttered rolls, Or set limed twigs for crabs; I sometimes search the grassy knolls For wheels of hansom-cabs. And that's the way" (he gave a wink) "By which I get my wealth - And very gladly will I drink Your Honour's noble health." I heard him then, for I had just Completed my design To keep the Menai bridge from rust By boiling it in wine. I thanked him much for telling me The way he got his wealth, But chiefly for his wish that he Might drink my noble health. And now, if e'er by chance I put My fingers into glue, Or madly squeeze a right-hand foot Into a left-hand shoe, Or if I drop upon my toe A very heavy weight, I weep, for it reminds me so Of that old man I used to know - Whose look was mild, whose speech was slow, Whose hair was whiter than the snow, Whose face was very like a crow, With eyes, like cinders, all aglow, Who seemed distracted with his woe, Who rocked his body to and fro, And muttered mumblingly and low, As if his mouth were full of dough, Who snorted like a buffalo - That summer evening long ago A-sitting on a gate.

The Boy With The Shrunken Head

I totally forgot about this poem. It was homage to the Tim Burton "Oyster Boy"-esque poetry which I was quite fond of. This dates back about three years I think, from college. I was going to use it in a project, then never did, because I left it alone to illustrate Antichrist Superstar, which I like more anyway.

Anyway, enjoy

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This tale is quite tragic but it must be told Of Timothy Green, 11 years old A lovely young boy with just one minor fault – His head had been shrunk by an ancient cult His eyes were all dark and surrounded by rings His nose was no more and his hair was like string His mouth was a mess, he whistled when he breathed He had close to no tongue and was missing some teeth Life for young Tim wasn’t easy at all: Off his shoulders his head would occasionally fall Finding it would be hard cos his legs couldn’t see And he’d find himself walking into walls or trees When he found it (and that was a job and a half) He still had to endure all the terrible laughs He would get from the public and people he met And the photographers from the Daily Gazette When Tim went to school he was picked on by most As a joke his schoolmates sent his head through post Tim would take it all in, he turned the other cheek He never fought back; he was gentle and meek When he came home he’d sit down on his bed and he’d cry And he’d wish that his life would just pass him right by His mother would come up and she’d comfort her child She would tell him it’s good to be placid and mild So Tim would agree (out of love for his mum) But he still couldn’t help feeling terribly glum He’d go to sleep sad and he’d wish he were dead And the nightmares would creep up and enter his head In his dream Tim made friends and they all ran around Playing football and fighting till they all hit the ground But a bully walked past and he snatched Timmy’s head He decided to use it as a volleyball instead His friends all left Tim to pay volleyball Tim tried to walk home but he couldn’t see at all And he told his mum what happened when he was in bed On his neck his mother placed an old cabbage head She said “stop your whining and use this for the while. “Just be happy you’re here you ungrateful child!” Tim awoke with a start, he was stricken in fear That he lost the only person he really held dear It was then that he swore to become one with the crowd And of his small head he would be really proud It was good to be different and Tim knew that well And the people who argued could just go to Hell He breakfasted fast and he stormed out the door (But not before his head fell and rolled on the floor) He marched to school proud of his miniscule head He would pay no attention to the things that they said He strutted around like the school was his own But by lunchtime he realised he was all alone So he vowed that before the day ended he would Make and play with as many friends as he could He went down to the field where the other boys played But the others ignored him, no attention they paid “Please can I join in? I’m not bad at this game. “Just cos my head’s cursed doesn’t mean that I’m lame.” The boys stopped playing and they looked at him weird “Fine, you can play ball” and Tim almost cheered Tim joined in the game, ecstatic and wild It was the happiest day in the life of this child He realised he never had such a good time And all he needed was to run to unwind But life ain’t all good, I can say as a fact Cos Tim didn’t leave the football game intact … He was running for goal, it was such a clear shot As he ran his head fell of and rolled on the spot It tumbled away and Tim’s sight disappeared This was one of those moments that Timothy feared The goalie misjudged what he thought was the ball And he grabbed it and kicked it straight over the wall “That wasn’t the ball!” a boy cried out to him “That thing that you kicked was the head of young Tim!” Tim’s head flew through the air, it had such a migraine It felt like someone had shot him in the brain It landed with a splash in a nearby gutter And it tried to scream “Help!” but it only could mutter It was starting to move (someone had used their hose) He had to breathe through the hole that was his nose Water filled his mouth and he gagged hard for air He swore. Why must life for this boy be unfair? It stopped in its tracks and hit fur in embrace And looking at him was a brown shaggy face With a big dark red tongue and a large grinning jaw The hairy brown dog picked up Tim up off the floor Despite cries from head, the dog brought it back home The mutt could feel quite clearly that this was a bone The head was then dropped on a patch of old lawn Fearing the worse, for himself Timmy mourned …… ...….. And now, with a cabbage atop his shoulders Tim walks around bored and he slowly gets older There’s nothing to do when you’re mind’s underground In a lawn, by some house, somewhere unknown in town And Cabbage Boy (as he was rightly renamed) Is now a celebrity and internationally famed But of his new fame this boy will never know As his ears are just next door, but two feet below THE END

What

.. Roses are red Violets are blue You'll forever be sorry If I ever find you I want you so much Your body I crave But I wont be happy Till you lie in a grave ..

Boredom Poem



This is my boredom poem:

 I've lazily called it Death of an Angel. I might change its name later on.


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 I watched you through my open window 
In the street below 
You stood there in the cold harsh yellow 
Of the streetlight’s glow 

 The Man looked like he wanted blood 
The way he lurked around 
He stalked the shadows like a cat 
And barely made a sound 

 He walked up and you kissed him there 
With passion, but with hate 
A kiss that made the streetlights flare 
A kiss that sealed your fate 

 He backed away and said something 
I couldn’t understand 
You argued back, and from my view
 I saw the world expand

 I saw the heavens and the hells 
Sin, purity and death 
And when you stopped it all returned 
I had to catch my breath 

 And in a flash the world returned 
My room, the streets, the light 
You two were the there, held in embrace 
He grinned in dead delight 

 His knife was hidden in his coat 
And quickly, I must note 
He had the dark blade in his hand 
Held under your throat 

 And here he whispered in your ear
But you did not reply 
And in one go he slit your throat
And spat on you goodbye 

 I see this in my dreams always 
Your skin a faded blue 
And I feel pain and hear the wails 
The angels cry for you



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A Prayer

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The burdens of the world fall on
 This girl without esteem
 She lays in bed and in her head 
She finds herself a dream 

 This is the girl the troubles find 
She takes them as her own 
She’s always there she’ll always wear 
The soul she has on loan 

 This life is hers, she can’t deny 
The things that she must do 
But in her sleep where nightmares creep
 Some freedom she’ll pursue 

 But whenever she tries to flee 
The memories will shape 
And she will know she cannot go 
And she cannot escape 

 You’ll see her once but straightaway 
Too soon will you forget 
You saw her face; she leaves no trace 
As if you never met 

 And when she wakes it’s back to work 
This job of subtlety 
Not quite dead, she’ll look ahead
 Towards eternity


どこに遊びに来る子供たち (i.e., bollocks)

This is Where Children Come To Play, translated into Japanese via Google Translate, and then back into English Why? I was bored --------------- I know this is your favorite place I've been here before carrying Some time ago, I can not remember Why I Left This is the place of my dreams Cut off from where it is not magic What do I think? And no one cries This is where the King of Elves Children come to play? Youth is a dream to be held in custody? Bay and kept in darkness This is one place to access Enjoy it with each breath If still not returned to the To be killed

My Binocular Girlfriend

I wrote this last night, meant to be creepy and stuff, but I wrote the last stanza, and then just made it into this silly thing

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 The first time I saw you I knew it was love 
I could have sworn that you were sent from above 
You didn’t see me, I was nonetheless there
Watching you dancing in your underwear 

 I’m the guy at the window that you never see 
The one that wants you to be here with me
I bought some binoculars, right the next day
And for hours, perched by my window I’d stay 

 You’d work and you’d leave and you’d come back again 
I’d smile that you’d never bring back any men 
Our life as a couple, just one road apart 
My binocular girlfriend, queen of my heart 

 But since you bought curtains, it’s no longer fun 
I think our relationship’s finally done 
I’ll be honest with you since I see you no more 
I’ve been cheating on you with the window next door



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Where children come to play

This is a place I know and love I've been here once before So long ago, I can't remember Why I left at all This is the place I put my dreams Where magic never dies Where what is there is what you think And no one ever cries This is the place of elves and kings Where children come to play Where youth is kept, where dreams are held And darkness kept at bay This is a place you visit once Enjoy it with each breath For when you leave you don't return Until you come in death

Antichrist Superstar

I thought I'd post this up. It's a poem about the end of the world. Lovely stuff, no? Here it is I did an entire project on it for college, too, illustrating it. The cover of which can be found here. I wish I could write more things like this, I had quite a lot of fun with it...