zodiac
replying on Sci-fi ode to poemranker nicknames by zodiac
23 Jan 2004, 12:08 PM
I have to say (reading it now after 9 hours of hideous MA comps) that it does have a kind of logic to it. Even more, maybe, than I thought when I deliriously wrote it this morning.
I meant to say it doesn't sound like Poe. Sounds like Burns and Joyce (of course) but better. Poe was too clumsy, even in the dark tarn of Auber poem which I can't remember the name of now. And I think Jodhpurs is a great touch and don't know enough about Briticisms to know if you made it up or not.
Perfect. Put periods at the ends of the stanzas and a bow in its hair and send out into the street to the tune of a jig. Tomorrow it may drown itself in the Liffey, but tonight there's only tonight and infinite possibilities for love.
You're own of the old-time mythmakers. I'm going to read some of your posts. Sorry for taking so long about it.
-=Dark_Angel=-, P.I.
replying on His Master's Jodhpurs by -=Dark_Angel=-, P.I.
23 Jan 2004, 11:32 AM
You can't look at it.
-=Dark_Angel=-, P.I.
replying on His Master's Jodhpurs by -=Dark_Angel=-, P.I.
23 Jan 2004, 11:08 AM
What a lovely gift!!!!!!!1
Weird.
More to the point, I think, is the peerless pleasure of an evening stroll on Jesus Green, smoking a good pipe, delighting in the smell of the air and the trees, and watching the smoke lazily curl up into the air to mingle with the uneducated smoke from the chest-nut vendors' stands.
I remember one autumn when I was escorting the Captain's daughter, as she was then, to the boat-houses one fine evening, when a crudely-dressed vagrant began to skilfully gamboll and whistle a lewd tune in front of us. Quick as a flash, I seized a handful of hot coals from a chest-nut stove and flung them against the peasant's rudimentary tunic, which I now saw to be made of oil paintings and straw. The wretched fellow burst into flames at once, shrieking and beating himself about the pate with a frenzy. It was at that very moment that I realised I had forgotten to bring old Harrison's pocket-watch with me. I cursed and double cursed myself.
Well, you can imagine what happened next, so I shan't bore you with the telling. Suffice it to say: the Trinity breakdancing championships were never the same again!
CHAPTER XXV
IN WHICH THE READER SHALL FIND LITTLE TO DO WITH THE STORY, AND MAY, THEREFORE, SKIP
Imagine the look of sheer terror on my stupid face as I opened my post this morning. I say 'this morning', when really it was more like 'late afternoon', having spent the night before eating the new Walker's Chicken Tikka Masala flavoured crisps, and having been woken, most improperly, at noon, by a bedder who does not fully comprehend her lowly place in this world. Thus roused, I whittled away the early hours of the afternoon drinking coca-cola, scoffing Sainsbury's Frosted Flakes, chuckling at Matthew's comment on 'Broken', and painfully lamenting the rather paltry number of posts my work is attracting of late. It was only because I had to return a DVD that was two days overdue that I eventually oozed out of my bedchamber and felt my way to the Porter's Lodge. There I found a pouch. However, it was not empty: it was quite, quite full.
Therein, to my delight, a treasured text with such whimsical chapter titles as: CONCERNS ITSELF MAINLY WITH A HAT, THE ONE-LEGGED SOLDIER, and, best of all, HOW I TALKED WITH A MADMAN IN A WOOD BY MOONLIGHT. Truely a most exceptional find.
Should you ever feel the need to have it back, I would gladly reluctantly return it.
As Ever,
Epsom Brown
A colossal exploration of a trapped guff.
You're a giant bender.
There's already an extensive commentary on the subject at
http://www.poemranker.com/poem-details.j
It's hardly "basically identical" now, is it?
Very evocative. There's always an old man drinking lager. Railways stations are places of excitement, because they lead to travel and all sorts of possibilities, but also they are dark, cold, wet and depressing. Oh, and bugger grammar, it's not important.
What was in the said pouch?