Corpsey

call me big papa
That awful man
Lint and peppermints,
shoulder scurf,
odiferous breath,
wretched voice which makes bad opinions worse.
We intuit some science behind it all, implicit in the frequency range of it,
in it's mucoid blockages and nasal flattening,
in how artless it reveals itself
as excitement overwhelms it
cracks it's dull veneer, animalises it
to honk and squeal
in it's blind mole groping for approval, in the pleading implicit in it,
all of it corresponding to a
like congestion of the soul, to a vulnerability that
invites cruelty. We see it all laid out, as though we could plot it
on a graph, the shape of it, just where it is pinched and depressed,
where cramped and deformed by shame and fear.
Something sadistic rears up in us
Imperious and disdainful
Take this wretch away
And dispose of him!
This is one of the first of your ones I've read that I really related to.
 

luka

Well-known member
Staff member
its all about hating the weak and malformed and wanting to crush them like insects
 

luka

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Staff member
it's too late for me if you havent pulled your socks up before 40 its never going to happen is it
 

luka

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Staff member
lint almost rhymes with peppermints and scurf almost rhymes with worse, if you squint a bit
 

luka

Well-known member
Staff member
Elegiac afternoon, just before the credits roll
Let them wallow in it a moment, all wistful
and misty eyed, sunlight burnished gold.
The only emotion is on the screen, and
the only people we truly learn to care for
are fictional.
When we see them simulated we can
model them, rumple the face like that,
abstracted eyes, is this a feeling?
is this how it's done?
In real life we don't feel that way
when someone dies or some
tragedy is enacted we don't
feel a thing
feelings
are as fictional as love.
If humans are a fabrication
then what are we really?
As unsentimental and
scrawny-necked as
vultures. What is it
we really want?
 

luka

Well-known member
Staff member
And here, perfunctory sweeping gesture, the rites of Mithras were performed
ghost city below the city, chill earth, worms turning, rotting Roman brick.
The city of the dead, sandalled feet slapping against the mosaic floor,
echoing in the high ceilinged chambers. Head full of sums, how many amphorae aboard that ship
rate of profit, spit the plum stone into the palm.
Rhetoric not what it used to be
Provincial governors on the make, bad air of the marshes
heron swallows a rat.
A wave of classical marble breaking and receding, ruins behind it the tour guide turns on his heel
and we trundle after him, up the steps
to the light
 

luka

Well-known member
Staff member
Slow tide of sunlight into afternoon



Cezanne apples, rumpled tablecloth composing



into still life the dull gleam



of cutlery. The flow of oil coagulates



and we come



to a perfect standstill. This moment



Forever.​
 

luka

Well-known member
Staff member
Let life
Pass you by.
On the other side of the window
Let life pass you by.
Bedraggled cloud
Ragged wind
Crow caw
Caught in the throat.
You can't touch it
You can't keep it
Let life
Pass you by.

All the things we might have wanted
We didn't get. Pool full of gold coins
Bikini models draped over sun lounger
Name in lights and portrait
On the cover of the magazine
Your own double
Winking back at you
Let life
Pass you by.
 

jenks

thread death
And here, perfunctory sweeping gesture, the rites of Mithras were performed
ghost city below the city, chill earth, worms turning, rotting Roman brick.
The city of the dead, sandalled feet slapping against the mosaic floor,
echoing in the high ceilinged chambers. Head full of sums, how many amphorae aboard that ship
rate of profit, spit the plum stone into the palm.
Rhetoric not what it used to be
Provincial governors on the make, bad air of the marshes
heron swallows a rat.
A wave of classical marble breaking and receding, ruins behind it the tour guide turns on his heel
and we trundle after him, up the steps
to the light
This one has a touch of David Jones about it. I like it.
 
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