Pimp of the Holy **** wrote:
> Nice, but...
> DT is incredibly redunant.
>
> Can you see it?
>
> Many of his images and burps are repeated.
>
> Still beats the morons posting here. :)
Well, yeah.
Made money /and. was a sodden drunk, also... a bridge between Rimbaud
and the Beats.
> --
> -------------------------------------------
> AJ - http://****In.Com
e In.
> (800 folders. -- kiddie-filtered -- FREE,
> Usenet ****.)
>
> >> >> > At the Curb - (Revision 1)
> >> >>
> >> >> > by Barbara Scat
> >> >>
> >> >> > The wind blows quick and low
> >> >> > beneath the trees and ****ts.
> >> >> > I watch the stolen petals
> >> >> > roll tight across the ground
> >> >> > and listen to the bad clouds
> >> >> > boil their rumble sound.
> >> >> > The air smells of ions
> >> >> > and feels of bone-cold wet.
> >> >> > I watch the thumping rain fall
> >> >> > on leaf boats hunting home,
> >> >> > and see the wet road mirror
> >> >> > a man standing alone.
> >> >>
> >> >
> >
http://groups.google.com/group/alt.arts.poetry.comments/msg/4331d3352c4d4068?dmode=source
> >> >>
> >> >
> >> > Poor Barbie's only "intellectual property" turns out to be a cat
turd.
> >>
> >> Incarnate devil in a talking s****,
> >> The central plains of Asia in his garden,
> >> In shaping-time the circle stung awake,
> >> In shapes of sin forked out the bearded apple,
> >> And God walked there who was a fiddling warden
> >> And played down pardon from the heavens' hill.
> >>
> >> When we were strangers to the guided seas,
> >> A handmade moon half holy in a cloud,
> >> The wisemen tell me that the garden gods
> >> Twined good and evil on an eastern tree;
> >> And when the moon rose windily it was
> >> Black as the beast and paler than the cross.
> >>
> >> We in our Eden knew the secret guardian
> >> In sacred waters that no frost could harden,
> >> And in the mighty mornings of the earth;
> >> Hell in a horn of sulphur and the cloven myth,
> >> All heaven in the midnight of the sun,
> >> A serpent fiddled in the shaping-time.
> >> -DT
> >
> > One Thomas poem I always come back to and always find something snazzy
is:
> >
> > Altarwise by Owl-Light (Stanzas I - IV)
> >
> > Altarwise by owl-light in the half-way house
> > The gentleman lay graveward with his furies;
> > Abaddon in the hangnail cracked from Adam,
> > And, from his fork, a dog among the fairies,
> > The atlas-eater with a jaw for news,
> > Bit out the mandrake with to-morrows scream.
> > Then, penny-eyed, that gentlemen of wounds,
> > Old cock from nowheres and the heaven's egg,
> > With bones unbuttoned to the half-way winds,
> > Hatched from the windy salvage on one leg,
> > Scraped at my cradle in a walking word
> > That night of time under the Christward shelter:
> > I am the long world's gentlemen, he said,
> > And share my bed with Capricorn and Cancer.
> >
> > Death is all metaphors, shape in one history;
> > The child that sucketh long is shooting up,
> > The planet-ducted pelican of circles
> > Weans on an artery the genders strip;
> > Child of the short spark in a shapeless country
> > Soon sets alight a long stick from the cradle;
> > The horizontal cross-bones of Abaddon,
> > You by the cavern over the black stairs,
> > Rung bone and blade, the verticals of Adam,
> > And, manned by midnight, Jacob to the stars.
> > Hairs of your head, then said the hollow agent,
> > Are but the roots of nettles and feathers
> > Over the groundowrks thrusting through a pavement
> > And hemlock-headed in the wood of weathers.
> >
> > First there was the lamb on knocking knees
> > And three dead seasons on a climbing grave
> > That Adam's wether in the flock of horns,
> > Butt of the tree-tailed worm that mounted Eve,
> > Horned down with skullfoot and the skull of toes
> > On thunderous pavements in the garden of time;
> > Rip of the vaults, I took my marrow-ladle
> > Out of the wrinkled undertaker's van,
> > And, Rip Van Winkle from a timeless cradle,
> > Dipped me breast-deep in the descending bone;
> > The black ram, shuffling of the year, old winter,
> > Alone alive among his mutton fold,
> > We rung our weathering changes on the ladder,
> > Said the antipodes, and twice spring chimed.
> >
> > What is the metre of the dictionary?
> > The size of genesis? the short spark's gender?
> > Shade without shape? the shape of the Pharaohs echo?
> > (My shape of age nagging the wounded whisper.)
> > Which sixth of wind blew out the burning gentry?
> > (Questions are hunchbacks to the poker marrow.)
> > What of a bamboo man amomg your acres?
> > Corset the boneyards for a crooked boy?
> > Button your bodice on a hump of splinters,
> > My camel's eyes will needle through the shroud.
> > Loves reflection of the mushroom features,
> > Still snapped by night in the bread-sided field,
> > Once close-up smiling in the wall of pictures,
> > Arc-lamped thrown back upon the cutting flood.
> >
> > -- Dylan Thomas
--
"Ozone Stigmata" by Will Dockery & Henry Conley
http://www.myspace.com/willdockery
Will Dockery videos:
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