[x]

The sun was a boat on fireThe sun was a boat on fire
It sailed the sea of the sky

The sun was a boat on fire
My veins feed into the Nile

Its all dry
Its all dry

TastyAnts taste like protein,
and my blisters taste like salt

boils down.the strong broad wit of it
(autumn and our teacups)
lives in the spaces between your
fingertips like the spaces between your
vocal cords

these days everything is simple
it is syrup it is fine and
patience is a game
you play alone
with sodium lights
and wine glasses and
running down stairs.

On Sea-Majesty's RestlessnessIt was a vast
stormy time, when
all about were
sirens and wails;

the lord vacated
his gloomy sea to
be as goodly as
he could, to be free!

upon the shores he took
stores of drink upon his back
and crawled up rocky mounts
for peace from raging storms.

alas, in fury he was drinked
ere the stores were felt as heavy
and when his heading skyward
blurred vague, he rolled and veered to here.

A crawling rotund beast he was, bulbous,
with animal whiskers and sharp barkings;
the sea had been kind to him and this was
his reward - to lay apace and ponder.

AbiogenesisAbiogenesis

There is a sculpture of a man.
He has evolved through
hammer, chisel, art.
Through each his stony feet and hands
there bubbles life that
flows from stony heart.
And grinding diaphragm I hear,
as from a baby's
gravel-pit first breath;
a wheezing boulder overture:
the sculptor Darwin's
banishment of death.

The study of oceanography The study of oceanography is not unlike the study of the human heart.

She's the sea
and I'm the sand beneath her.
She's washing away at my layers
misplacing my skin
and stringy muscles. Writing songs
on my cardiovascular system
about a ship who used to sail in her.

She rubs along the coral calluses
of my fingertips and corrodes
the bedrock of my bones.

I like to pretend that the rotting hulks
and men who sleep with fishes
do not have such an intimate
knowledge of her, have not caressed
her curves like I have,
known every inch of her skin.
But she absorbs them,
and they are allowed to know her
from the inside out.

When

Observations As a stone cast in a starry lake
a makeshift heart will sink,
and in the scented air, an eye
will light a careful sigh
against a law signed by the
birds, protecting
ink and sky.

The atmosphere will sing its tune
to a September afternoon.
At the wedding, I will be
a sordid feast, licking violins
and burning hymns,
like a horse euthanised upon
the dawn-
I listen.

I walk the dusk to
Manhasset Bay, and though
I rust,
I must, I must.
To Connecticut and onward
oh, the evening sails,
lusting o'er sunset tales
inadequate with avarice, as
desolate as

The Exspenable generOnly good for one thing
To put buns in the invoe
In ancentiet times they were throw on the street
They had no drowy to protect them
They were only need was to popualte the masses
To in increase the gene pool

Good for nothing else
Always seeing the next contest of bronzes
To match their shields with
Every simplton on the street
Considere not more than another mouth to feed

It was require that one have eight kids
Just to further the specipies
Only they had no use
Only good for one thing
Left with no tools to defeat them
But the tools they could make them selves
That we taught them to make

In truth they are so much more
They a

Grand Daddy's Clock.It's quiet
I hear nothing, but
a pendulum
the rhythmatic,
cathartic beat
from Grand Daddy's Clock.

Tick Tock
Tick Tock
Tick Tock.

Like a platoon drill
of marching soldiers
in newly polished heels,
crunching the tarmac
and leaving their clipped,
polished silence
echoing in the stillness.

What is it
about this humdrum
hypnotic feat
that resonates feelings,
buried long
and so deep?

A.M.Young (Please respect copyright)

CypressesThey are all the same, each one of these places;
sown together in rows – stones and cypresses.
The only sound here that echoes
is the sound of silence.
Right now, in this place of quietude, I don't see a face
that isn't my own – everyone else is gone.

People that are here have long been gone.
They have abandoned their places
in life, and I doubt anyone could recognize their face
anymore; they are faceless like the cypresses,
but it is from their mouths that this silence
comes forth and echoes...

Breaking the spell, chiming of the bell echoes,
and I start to wonder where have you gone.
All you left behind is silence.
I

Sinking holographsYou left me
pressing the stars against
a doleful sky,

my arms curled under
the weight of most celestial music,
rotting with the promise
of an "above."

And at my weakest hour
I saw that eternal ceiling cut
and oozing electrons,
its singing leptrons falling
over me like sparks,

drenching me with obscurity
and relative acidity.
And I was the last one.

My hands had blisters
that grew into callouses,
but your love made them wither
and dry like the dust.

I drank from your poison,
as my fingers swam through
a sea of quintessence,

collecting grime from the corners
of the sky under broken nails.

And then you smothered me,
your

softwe stripped sand
by strand, our skin
like pacific roots
our palms bare
and bleached

exposed a hermit
to the outside
fed his home to poseidon

midnight,
a paper seagull comes
and carries him away

MeI am…

I’m a daydreamer, a loner,
A guy that can’t tell a joke.
You may have met me
But you don’t know me.
I’m kind to people
But they never say thank you.
To them, I just exist
I’m just there.
I’ll never be good enough for them,
But I’m good enough for me.

A Postcard from Mother EarthYour flippancy,
and lack of care for any-thing
cuts me
from long distance

I can't scratch through the space between us
to give you a meaningful wound.

You, who are the world and
I, who am the earth

We've got plenty to fight about
but you don't even bother to address
your
hatred for
me.

You dress it up
in terms like:
Progress
Civilization
and Necessity

Can you explain to me,
what is Civilized or Necessary
about torching my forests
blowing up my mountains
and poisoning my waters?

I have shaken and
murmured.

I have rolled over in my sleep and
I have sent the winds to speak with you
but it seems you've forgotten e

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The Cafe: LIVEI was disappointed to find that The Café was not the hotbed of social and political discourse I had desired. It was, after all, called The Café with a capital T and C, and had the kind of furniture which was designedly mismatched.

'Don't let it get you down,' said a stranger opposite, presumably a mind reader. He had a squashed face like a toad, or perhaps it was only the colour of the settee that made me think so. Anyway he was extraordinarily fat. 'I don't suppose it'll last much longer,' he continued, 'I saw them bickering over the blueberry muffin display on Sunday. Then, when they break up, you can be a comfort in her distress

Faustino's Abacus"I hear you've got enchantments on all the petroleum pipes out of Mexico these days, Doug?" said skinny Javier Galo, cutting the deck and pushing it to his left.

"Warlocks all along the northern border," Doug nodded. He sucked his Bolívar cigar and emitted a perfect smoke cube over the baize. "I'm moving into Texas. The spells there are straw houses, I'll puff 'em down before March."

The man in the hat coughed significantly.

"Don't underestimate those Texan charms, Dougie," The Big Red rumbled, his large face glowing. "They might glitter like show costumes, but they're thick as tanned bull hide, under it."

"Uh huh? Well I think I kno

Creating VoiceWhen you write dialogue, when you write dramatic monologues, when you write in first person, your character must have his own voice.
Voice is in part the distinct vocabulary, grammatical tendencies and spoken patterns which are unique to your character. A linguist would call this his idiolect.
Voice’s other part is made up of the interests and obsessions of your character: what sort of things they notice about the world, how they interpret them in relation to their previous experiences, and what emotional colouring they give events. We might call this perspective.

Idiolect
Firstly, a story: I am English, middle class, and I studied at Oxford. When I worked in a supermarket cafe in inner-city Cardiff (Wales) I’d get customers who would say, after half a minute’s banter about their breakfast at the till, “hang on, you’re too clever to be working here!” They didn’t say this because I had told them my life story,

SynthesiserSilver chrome stripes.

Jolting upside downside like
one of those clanking rides at the funfair
which hurts.

Snogging someone in a club
who tastes of blue alcopop,
whose tongue goes round like a rotor.

A square, red car
speeding at a steady pace,
hogging the middle lane.

A clunky simile
within a forced rhyme.

GutsThis pig's got guts gushing
from its belly on the sand, blood
channelling along rock gutters
glugging to the sea.

What do you see
by the glistering light guttering
in the gusting air, glittering
on the bloody entrails?

Tales in the intestines
of the bloody gutted pig.
My gut feeling is
this is bad news, bad news.

God, god, what
has the pig been guzzling
has the pig been gulping?
This is bad news, bad news.

Don't be gutless, god,
let's get to the guts
of this gut busting
body gutting business.

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Lovesong of Flird and Memoom

by `CrumpetsHarvey, Jun 2, 2010, 7:35:33 AM
Literature / Poetry / Romantic / General / Traditional Fixed Forms

A fantastical Flird, who could brill like a bird,
serenaded Memoom till she glistelled and glowed.
He buburrelled her maw, and then placed in her paw
a gillpilly he'd plucked from the gree where it growed.

Then a sneeze in the trees brought the Flird to his knees,
but the source of the snuzzering nobody knowed,
till a Flell with a bell, and a purplish smell,
ungereeched dear Memoom from the meerying road.

Then the dring fell in flocks, and the gree turned to rocks,
and the flimmel gurmgrud where before it had flowed,
and the Flird, with a cry, trist a tear from his eye,
as the glow durruhed dim and then dode.

Lovesong of Flird and Memoomby `CrumpetsHarvey

Literature / Poetry / Romantic / General / Traditional Fixed Forms

Update: Guess what? March Hamilton Media are going to publish a collection of my poems for middle-grade/teens-ish-sort-of-age. That will include this one, Urgent please reply, House on my Head and Dog at the End of the World (almost certainly the title poem and generally being kept under wraps; so if you read it when I posted it last year you're among a privileged group

) as well as 50-odd poems you haven't yet seen.

The collection should be out around April/May and will be published as a hardback and ebook. If you want to know when it's coming out you can sign up to the March Hamilton mailing list by e-mailing mailinglist@marchhamilton.com. Otherwise, just keep an eye on my journal because obviously I'll be mentioning it around that sort of time as well

.

WOOO!

*xlntwtch Mar 20, 2012 Writer

Congratulations on getting your work published in "March Hamilton Media."
That probably happened a while ago, but I can't tell.
I do know I think this poem is funny, sunny and punny. Thank you.

~Ard0R0us Oct 22, 2011 Hobbyist General Artist

I read this one after reading your house mouse poem; thanks for including the link. I enjoyed both of them. I think you should substitute 'nonsensically' for the last word in your artist's comment though because as it stands it made me think you and your writing group engage in language use more suitable (or perhaps more expected) for athletic venues.

`CrumpetsHarvey Oct 30, 2011 Professional Writer

~silvernium Nov 2, 2010 Hobbyist Writer

Hey, this is quite original and very fun! Good on you and your friends for getting together for a self made course. Greatness may come of it

`CrumpetsHarvey Nov 2, 2010 Professional Writer

Yes. In all our imaginations it definitely will. Unfortunately our imaginations have a habit of wandering off to unrealities.

~silvernium Nov 4, 2010 Hobbyist Writer

It is nice to do that sometimes.

~PeleVarvara Jun 4, 2010

Yay! Thank you for putting this up - it was so totally awesome when you read it out to us!

If this is shit, I like shit

`CrumpetsHarvey Jun 4, 2010 Professional Writer

woop!

we need to do another of those KWE things sometime.

~PeleVarvara Jun 20, 2010

Absolutely, yes!

~creaking-door Jun 2, 2010

An original and enjoyable read.

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Lovesong of Flird and Memoomby `CrumpetsHarvey

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