None could unlock my hermitage I feared
Until in flowers Morrissey appeared,
Who knew how shyness gouges like a knife
And wrote the painful soundtrack to my life.
From Wilde and those who love a quiff so high,
From Vauxhall pubs and Hector, last to die,
It's 'Viva Morrissey!' outsiders cry.
Hmmm, I can't help thinking the complete silence here is down to me. From day one on DS my posts seem to have upset convention. I've often received pledges of loyalty, or just sheer hatred. Accused of non-existent crimes here and in America, I can't change things now. Thankfully the trolls have gone - but that doesn't mean I haven't upset someone else. When there's no explanation you have to guess.
There’s a freak on every corner,
there are freaks all around,
they’ve all been out watching me
since I moved into their town.
There’s a freak on every corner
and I’m knowing each one by name
so when something bad happens
I know I’m not the one to blame.
There’s the man in the old-stained raincoat
who stares out at me from across the road,
his restless hands hang deep in his pockets
as he shuffles nervously within the folds.
And the woman with the bulging, split carrier bags
mouths abuse at me as she shakes her fist.
I pierce her gaze, then lower my eyes
to see the deep cuts forced into her wrists.
Now there’s a freak on every corner
and I note them, one at a time.
I know what each and every one is thinking,
I know their thoughts and mine.
I see the man who always stares
as the neat clean little girls skip by.
And as their skirts swing high around their stick white legs
I’m the one who knows what’s behind his eyes.
The freaks they stand around the school playground
at the start of every school day.
I stand away, still, so they can’t see me
as I watch them watch their children play.
There’s a freak down every alleyway
and he’s playing hide-and-seek.
He wears a pair of old cracked leather gloves
to gently smooth away any startled shrieks.
Now I know there’s a freak in every single house and home,
they’re everywhere, you just look and you will see.
So you know, I always have to be one step ahead
so the freaks can never get their hands on me.
But I’m here to watch over the young and pure
and I think of them alone in the night.
And when there’s a need to keep them safe
I’ll do what I know is right.
Sometimes when I'm writing I may only come up with a few lines but I hang on to them because, perhaps, at some future date they may grow into something more.
Here are a few samples/examples:
A single tear
slips a salted trail
down my face
when I think
of the future
and you.
a
s
in
gle
tear
drop
slips down
her face as she
thinks of the past
and those she loved
those who loved yet turned
away all thoughts caught in
a salted track snail trail of
memories drawn over
wrinkled skin silver
reflections caught
in the fading
light
Galatea
In sun-blaze
she cradles her painted moon
on branches that curve through arc to cleft.
Her forked body
spread lightly on the Earth.
Flodigary
The full reflected moon
floats
milk white
on the slate sea,
pressed
under the warm,
heavy air
of a Hebridean night.
The line
in the corner of her eye
is now fixed -
no longer by laughter
but a channel
too often for tears.
Who lies behind the painted face,
the red banana smile,
the wide teared eyes
and red horn nose?
A clown -
or just someone wearing the clothes?
I love it when a fella
holds his
umberella
for me
in the pouring rain.
Hmmm, I can't help thinking the complete silence here is down to me. From day one on DS my posts seem to have upset convention. I've often received pledges of loyalty, or just sheer hatred. Accused of non-existent crimes here and in America, I can't change things now. Thankfully the trolls have gone - but that doesn't mean I haven't upset someone else. When there's no explanation you have to guess.
I can only offer verse and hope some enjoy it.
I shall keep smiling alone :kitty:
Trouble with guessing is it largely depends on one's mood. Personally, I disabled PMs from day one, so if anyone wants to discuss a point they must do it openly and moderately (I do understand PMs can be alerted, but I doubt all FMs do).
Hmmm, I can't help thinking the complete silence here is down to me. From day one on DS my posts seem to have upset convention. I've often received pledges of loyalty, or just sheer hatred. Accused of non-existent crimes here and in America, I can't change things now. Thankfully the trolls have gone - but that doesn't mean I haven't upset someone else. When there's no explanation you have to guess.
I can only offer verse and hope some enjoy it.
I shall keep smiling alone :kitty:
Why? I have only seen encouragement and friendliness offered from you. Have I missed something Musty? I find it hard to believe you could have upset anyone, how so?
Don't feel obliged to answer if I'm prying at all, I just feel as though I have missed something that's somehow made you feel this.
Anarchy was a persona tried on
By a geezer called John Lydon.
Being a rebel to yer every cause,
He spat at all and fans’ applause
Irked him too well, just because.
K/A as Johnny Rotten, Sex Pistol
Hair, temper both prone to bristle.
John chewed on QE2 like gristle,
Eschewed vile English patriotism;
Vestiges of past, an anachronism,
Assumed high priest of anarchism.
We anarchists loved this puking punk,
He’d never sell out, or principles junk.
But no, HM’s revolution has been utter,
Promoting some bland brand of butter.
Exactly, I do not like to think of you worrying. I write in fits and starts, it isn't always poetry either, so may go weeks or months without a new full piece, just the bones of a few different poems, which need tweaking.
I have read everything posted here and am in awe.It sounds a bit daft, but I find it a bit intimidating, the talent here and do not feel qualified to review, just to enjoy, but I will post an opinion in future, as I see that is the point.
I love, love the creepy stuff, really enjoy horror and ghosties.
Anarchy was a persona tried on
By a geezer called John Lydon.
Being a rebel to yer every cause,
He spat at all and fans’ applause
Irked him too well, just because.
K/A as Johnny Rotten, Sex Pistol
Hair, temper both prone to bristle.
John chewed on QE2 like gristle,
Eschewed vile English patriotism;
Vestiges of past, an anachronism,
Assumed high priest of anarchism.
We anarchists loved this puking punk,
He’d never sell out, or principles junk. But no, HM’s revolution has been utter,
Promoting some bland brand of butter.
Hahaha...brilliant. My era too, I had blue hair for a year, a later, mid eighties Siouxsie Sioux. I met her once.
It's good that Steven Patrick Morrissey has provided a key and it's good to see you back Mr M.
Thanks Scottie, I'm reading back through all the posts, but I may have to save comments till Monday. A new album from Morrissey is out soon, I can't wait. He is my absolute idol, a force who helps me to live.
There’s a freak down every alleyway
and he’s playing hide-and-seek.
A masterful slice of paranoia that contains many relevant observations. Urgent and edgy, this epic unfolds like a crawling diary of fear. Scottie, your poetry takes me off to another world, one that is ours and yet apart. Surely, the sole mission of any great art.
But no, HM’s revolution has been utter,
Promoting some bland brand of butter.
Hi Frank
You've stolen my thunder, I've been toying with an ode on Rotten for ages Like Mrs Goto, I was a major fan and I still rate Never Mind The B*llocks as a turning-point album. My suspicions were raised when he went into ITV's Jungle and the butter ads confirmed a very sad sell-out.
An absorbing poem that also catches the brief thrill of punk
I'm much better now thanks Sandy I wasn't looking after myself properly and had a bit of a wobble. I'm sleeping through the night as well, a rarity for me
Janet Stevens seemed
The sort of pupil who with concentration
Would shine amid the halls of education.
Janet shunned the crowd,
Though gossip in the girls' school simply bored her,
She noticed how the others all ignored her.
Lonely on the fringe,
She joined a club of peers and those who ran it,
To be a welcome member suited Janet.
Yet there was a test;
To prove your worth and truly be successful
You had to make a victim's life more stressful.
Janet soon would find
The perfect target to promote her fully,
A new girl she could take apart and bully.
Prudence Cousins seemed
The sort of pupil who would never fight back,
A pale outsider, shy but on the right track.
Didn't act the same
As others did and while she meekly studied
No friendship ever blossomed once or budded.
Janet took her chance
To hurt Prudence and make the school road rocky,
She sneered at her in netball and in hockey.
Whispered hints she was
A lesbian or something more horrendous,
'Her red hair and her spectacles offend us.'
Term after cruel term,
Through piling pressure on she would discover
The pressure came off when she hurt another.
Three decades went by,
She'd left school and forgotten about classes,
How rapidly we alter when time passes.
Janet Stevens now
Was married, middle-aged and very wealthy,
She owned a business where returns were healthy.
Yet despite success,
When she recalled her youth, like creaking hinges
Her bullying caused subtle guilty twinges.
Then one day in town,
After a deal to make her profits bigger
In town she saw an old familiar figure.
Prudence Cousins now
Was single, shabby-clothed and quite eccentric,
Her life went round in daydreams so concentric;
In a plastic bag
Were novels full of lovers sad and pretty,
She read them on the benches in the city.
Janet noticed how
The victim from her past and one she'd branded
Meandered down an alley, looking stranded.
That in night the bed
Next to her sleeping husband, without warning
How Janet Stevens cried and ached till morning.
Janet Stevens seemed
The sort of pupil who with concentration
Would shine amid the halls of education.
Janet shunned the crowd,
Though gossip in the girls' school simply bored her,
She noticed how the others all ignored her.
Lonely on the fringe,
She joined a club of peers and those who ran it,
To be a welcome member suited Janet.
Yet there was a test;
To prove your worth and truly be successful
You had to make a victim's life more stressful.
Janet soon would find
The perfect target to promote her fully,
A new girl she could take apart and bully.
Prudence Cousins seemed
The sort of pupil who would never fight back,
A pale outsider, shy but on the right track.
Didn't act the same
As others did and while she meekly studied
No friendship ever blossomed once or budded.
Janet took her chance
To hurt Prudence and make the school road rocky,
She sneered at her in netball and in hockey.
Whispered hints she was
A lesbian or something more horrendous,
'Her red hair and her spectacles offend us.'
Term after cruel term,
Through piling pressure on she would discover
The pressure came off when she hurt another.
Three decades went by,
She'd left school and forgotten about classes,
How rapidly we alter when time passes.
Janet Stevens now
Was married, middle-aged and very wealthy,
She owned a business where returns were healthy.
Yet despite success,
When she recalled her youth, like creaking hinges
Her bullying caused subtle guilty twinges.
Then one day in town,
After a deal to make her profits bigger
In town she saw an old familiar figure.
Prudence Cousins now
Was single, shabby-clothed and quite eccentric,
Her life went round in daydreams so concentric;
In a plastic bag
Were novels full of lovers sad and pretty,
She read them on the benches in the city.
Janet noticed how
The victim from her past and one she'd branded
Meandered down an alley, looking stranded.
That in night the bed
Next to her sleeping husband, without warning
How Janet Stevens cried and ached till morning.
Bullying of all kinds is reprehensible not least internet trolling as mentioned often in these pages; well described sad scenario Musty. With best wishes welcome back to your regular place in your thread, thanks for the feedback good sir. Frank
Comments
It's good to be back and I hope Biz and co are still around :kitty:
None could unlock my hermitage I feared
Until in flowers Morrissey appeared,
Who knew how shyness gouges like a knife
And wrote the painful soundtrack to my life.
From Wilde and those who love a quiff so high,
From Vauxhall pubs and Hector, last to die,
It's 'Viva Morrissey!' outsiders cry.
©
I can only offer verse and hope some enjoy it.
I shall keep smiling alone :kitty:
There’s a freak on every corner,
there are freaks all around,
they’ve all been out watching me
since I moved into their town.
There’s a freak on every corner
and I’m knowing each one by name
so when something bad happens
I know I’m not the one to blame.
There’s the man in the old-stained raincoat
who stares out at me from across the road,
his restless hands hang deep in his pockets
as he shuffles nervously within the folds.
And the woman with the bulging, split carrier bags
mouths abuse at me as she shakes her fist.
I pierce her gaze, then lower my eyes
to see the deep cuts forced into her wrists.
Now there’s a freak on every corner
and I note them, one at a time.
I know what each and every one is thinking,
I know their thoughts and mine.
I see the man who always stares
as the neat clean little girls skip by.
And as their skirts swing high around their stick white legs
I’m the one who knows what’s behind his eyes.
The freaks they stand around the school playground
at the start of every school day.
I stand away, still, so they can’t see me
as I watch them watch their children play.
There’s a freak down every alleyway
and he’s playing hide-and-seek.
He wears a pair of old cracked leather gloves
to gently smooth away any startled shrieks.
Now I know there’s a freak in every single house and home,
they’re everywhere, you just look and you will see.
So you know, I always have to be one step ahead
so the freaks can never get their hands on me.
But I’m here to watch over the young and pure
and I think of them alone in the night.
And when there’s a need to keep them safe
I’ll do what I know is right.
Here are a few samples/examples:
A single tear
slips a salted trail
down my face
when I think
of the future
and you.
s
in
gle
tear
drop
slips down
her face as she
thinks of the past
and those she loved
those who loved yet turned
away all thoughts caught in
a salted track snail trail of
memories drawn over
wrinkled skin silver
reflections caught
in the fading
light
In sun-blaze
she cradles her painted moon
on branches that curve through arc to cleft.
Her forked body
spread lightly on the Earth.
Flodigary
The full reflected moon
floats
milk white
on the slate sea,
pressed
under the warm,
heavy air
of a Hebridean night.
The line
in the corner of her eye
is now fixed -
no longer by laughter
but a channel
too often for tears.
Who lies behind the painted face,
the red banana smile,
the wide teared eyes
and red horn nose?
A clown -
or just someone wearing the clothes?
I love it when a fella
holds his
umberella
for me
in the pouring rain.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OV5_LQArLa0
Why? I have only seen encouragement and friendliness offered from you. Have I missed something Musty? I find it hard to believe you could have upset anyone, how so?
Don't feel obliged to answer if I'm prying at all, I just feel as though I have missed something that's somehow made you feel this.
Anarchy was a persona tried on
By a geezer called John Lydon.
Being a rebel to yer every cause,
He spat at all and fans’ applause
Irked him too well, just because.
K/A as Johnny Rotten, Sex Pistol
Hair, temper both prone to bristle.
John chewed on QE2 like gristle,
Eschewed vile English patriotism;
Vestiges of past, an anachronism,
Assumed high priest of anarchism.
We anarchists loved this puking punk,
He’d never sell out, or principles junk.
But no, HM’s revolution has been utter,
Promoting some bland brand of butter.
Miaow said the cat
woof woof said the dog
good morning warbled the sparrow.
Exactly, I do not like to think of you worrying. I write in fits and starts, it isn't always poetry either, so may go weeks or months without a new full piece, just the bones of a few different poems, which need tweaking.
I have read everything posted here and am in awe.It sounds a bit daft, but I find it a bit intimidating, the talent here and do not feel qualified to review, just to enjoy, but I will post an opinion in future, as I see that is the point.
I love, love the creepy stuff, really enjoy horror and ghosties.
Hahaha...brilliant. My era too, I had blue hair for a year, a later, mid eighties Siouxsie Sioux. I met her once.
I'm so sorry people, sometimes my mind gets it wrong and I shouldn't assume things are bad now. I must bury my tortured DS past.
To 'Wenge' prim scholars wouldn't
Let dictionaries say,
The Oxford English couldn't,
So I'll explain today.
The male herd's surge of pleasure
On seeing some nice bird,
That feminist types measure,
Condemn and call absurd.
Despite their gripe, it's not pants
To Wenge and we don't hurt
The girl in denim hotpants,
The lass in her short skirt.
A similar thing rightly
Stirs frog and cockatoo,
I've Wenged at Keira Knightley
And Cher's left knocker too.
Some ladies have long reckoned
Us men are simply fools,
I'll answer in a second
By stating golden rules:
She mustn't be too bandy
Or have Mick Jagger's gob,
Or dwarf the late John Candy,
Kate Winslet's just the job.
I love a dame full-figured,
The Rubenesque aren't fake,
Wenge-worthiness is triggered
By legs and bits that shake.
To Wenge, the sweetest tingle
Can help if you've been ditched,
It happens when you're single
And always when you're hitched.
©
You've stolen my thunder, I've been toying with an ode on Rotten for ages
An absorbing poem that also catches the brief thrill of punk
How are you feeling today Musty?
Do you sigh through anguish
Do you sigh through understanding
Do you sigh through a feeling
At times we all sigh together
Sigh is such a lovely word, it almost matches the sound :kitty: A lovely poem Sandy, I think there are 'collective' sighs, as when Diana passed away.
Janet Stevens seemed
The sort of pupil who with concentration
Would shine amid the halls of education.
Janet shunned the crowd,
Though gossip in the girls' school simply bored her,
She noticed how the others all ignored her.
Lonely on the fringe,
She joined a club of peers and those who ran it,
To be a welcome member suited Janet.
Yet there was a test;
To prove your worth and truly be successful
You had to make a victim's life more stressful.
Janet soon would find
The perfect target to promote her fully,
A new girl she could take apart and bully.
Prudence Cousins seemed
The sort of pupil who would never fight back,
A pale outsider, shy but on the right track.
Didn't act the same
As others did and while she meekly studied
No friendship ever blossomed once or budded.
Janet took her chance
To hurt Prudence and make the school road rocky,
She sneered at her in netball and in hockey.
Whispered hints she was
A lesbian or something more horrendous,
'Her red hair and her spectacles offend us.'
Term after cruel term,
Through piling pressure on she would discover
The pressure came off when she hurt another.
Three decades went by,
She'd left school and forgotten about classes,
How rapidly we alter when time passes.
Janet Stevens now
Was married, middle-aged and very wealthy,
She owned a business where returns were healthy.
Yet despite success,
When she recalled her youth, like creaking hinges
Her bullying caused subtle guilty twinges.
Then one day in town,
After a deal to make her profits bigger
In town she saw an old familiar figure.
Prudence Cousins now
Was single, shabby-clothed and quite eccentric,
Her life went round in daydreams so concentric;
In a plastic bag
Were novels full of lovers sad and pretty,
She read them on the benches in the city.
Janet noticed how
The victim from her past and one she'd branded
Meandered down an alley, looking stranded.
That in night the bed
Next to her sleeping husband, without warning
How Janet Stevens cried and ached till morning.
©
Bullying of all kinds is reprehensible not least internet trolling as mentioned often in these pages; well described sad scenario Musty. With best wishes welcome back to your regular place in your thread, thanks for the feedback good sir. Frank
Rock anthems make me punch the sky,
A ballad makes me swoon,
Absorbed in Pink Floyd passing by
The dark side of the moon.
The anger of the Pistols when
They left the Queen repulsed,
The sound of Blondie luring men,
The Martian war of Holst.
I capsize in the yellow of
The Beatles' submarine,
I linger in the mellow of
Pastoral Fairport green.
From Elvis to Manchester pain,
From Sparks to XTC,
It's no good, I just can't explain
What music does to me.
©