Death!
Plop.
The barges down in the river flop.
Flop, plop.
Above, beneath.
From the slimy branches the grey drips drop,
As they scraggle black on the thin grey sky,
Where the black cloud rack-hackles drizzle and fly
To the oozy waters, that lounge and flop
On the black scrag piles, where the loose cords plop,
As the raw wind whines in the thin tree-top.
Plop, plop.
And scudding by
The boatmen call out hoy! and hey!
All is running water and sky,
And my head shrieks – "Stop,"
And my heart shrieks – "Die."
My thought is running out of my head;
My love is running out of my heart,
My soul runs after, and leaves me as dead,
For my life runs after to catch them -- and fled
They all are every one! – and I stand, and start,
At the water that oozes up, plop and plop,
On the barges that flop
And dizzy me dead.I might reel and drop.
Plop.
Dead.
And the shrill wind whines in the thin tree-top
Flop, plop.
A curse on him.
Ugh! yet I knew – I knew --
If a woman is false can a friend be true?
It was only a lie from beginning to end --
My Devil – My "Friend"
I had trusted the whole of my living to!
Ugh; and I knew!
Ugh!
So what do I care,
And my head is empty as air --
I can do,
I can dare,
(Plop, plop
The barges flop
Drip drop.)
I can dare! I can dare!
And let myself all run away with my head
And stop.
Drop.
Dead.
Plop, flop.
Plop.
Posted it before but it'sworth a repeat it being so bloody awful!
12 comments:
Hmm... The Don may disagree with you there. Not sure... May need to read again, and getting me to read again is at least some sort of success for the author.
I am not sure poetry can ever be "bad", just not to one's taste perhaps (The awesomely awful McGonagall excepted)
I see it has been described as the worst poem ever written in the English language. THAT I strongly disagree with. I have read much worse by Poet Laureates, and whoever was voting in that poll had never read McGonagall, or didn't count his words as English, or didn't count his words as poetry.
Besides, if minimalist artists get away with mere lines crossing as "Art" then here is my wondrous new work of poetry for you to enjoy:
"Faaaart"
(copyright of Faaaart belongs to Don QuiScottie (and his other professional personae) and any infringement will be most strenuously pursued through the courts, or perhaps... as a statement of artistic rebellion, just ignored.
I read it again...
My goodness I like it!
Much better and more potential meanings on offer than most of the ramblings of Bob Dylan and Leonard Cohen.
Thanks! After a few more readings this may become a favourite poem. Perhaps I see things in the words that nobody else does. Plop as the slimy scraggle grey drips drop :)
Now Don I'm worried. I think that Aileen is addling your brane!
Now I am tempted, very tempted indeed, to think that for once you put in a deliberate typo (Brane - "a spatially extended mathematical concept that appears in M-theory", and I would add very relevant to trans-dimensional interfaces too...).
Very clever Jams (or just a typo?)
And Aileen does indeed addle my brane, but she also addles my brain, and (without asking permission) other things also (as you already know, having read the true and certified as accurate account :)
[Oh. Word verification is "dis-pest". To get rid of a pest? A robotic hint to me perhaps?]
I impress with brane but or all the wrong reasons! It was a deliberate act but I had no idea of the significance
May Aileen continue to addle your brain. as for dispest it is meant to distinguish it fro dat-pest
Oh! Plip! Oh! Plop!
My tears won't stop
falling from my eyes.
And it's no surprise
as I'm laughing so hard
at the would-be bard.
What's wrong with that chap?
His poem is crap!
Haha Good one!
I wouldn't use the word "crap". Sufficient to say that the word (or, rather, the sound) "plop" is directly related to the quality of that poem, making the word "crap" simply redundant.
Haha!
Snoopy has the measure of this eh
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