The Day The Saucers Came...

That Day, the saucers landed. Hundreds of them, golden,
Silent, coming down from the sky like great snowflakes,
And the people of Earth stood and
stared as they descended,
Waiting, dry-mouthed, to find out what waited inside for us
And none of us knowing if we would be here tomorrow
But you didn’t notice because

That day, the day the saucers came, by some some coincidence,
Was the day that the graves gave up their dead
And the zombies pushed up through soft earth
or erupted, shambling and dull-eyed, unstoppable,
Came towards us, the living, and we screamed and ran,
But you did not notice this because

On the saucer day, which was zombie day, it was
Ragnarok also, and the television screens showed us
A ship built of dead-men’s nails, a serpent, a wolf,
All bigger than the mind could hold,
and the cameraman could
Not get far enough away, and then the Gods came out
But you did not see them coming because

On the saucer-zombie-battling-gods
day the floodgates broke
And each of us was engulfed by genies and sprites
Offering us wishes and wonders and eternities
And charm and cleverness and true
brave hearts and pots of gold
While giants feefofummed across
the land and killer bees,
But you had no idea of any of this because

That day, the saucer day, the zombie day
The Ragnarok and fairies day,
the day the great winds came
And snows and the cities turned to crystal, the day
All plants died, plastics dissolved, the day the
Computers turned, the screens telling
us we would obey, the day
Angels, drunk and muddled, stumbled from the bars,
And all the bells of London were sounded, the day
Animals spoke to us in Assyrian, the Yeti day,
The fluttering capes and arrival of
the Time Machine day,
You didn’t notice any of this because
you were sitting in your room, not doing anything
not even reading, not really, just
looking at your telephone,
wondering if I was going to call.

My Blueberry Girl

Blueberry Girl by Neil Gaiman

Ladies of light
and Ladies Of darkness
and Ladies of never you mind
This is a prayer for a Blueberry Girl
First may you Ladies be kind
Keep her from spindles and sleeps at 16
Let her stay Waking and Wise
Nightmares at 3 or bad husbands at 30
These will not trouble her Eyes
Dull days at 40
False friends at 15
Let her have Brave days and Truth
Let her go Places that we've never been
Trust and Delight in her youth
Ladies of grace and Ladies of favor
And Ladies of merciful night
This is a prayer for a Blueberry Girl
Grant her your Clearness of Sight
Words can be worrisome
People complex
Motives and manners unclear
Grant her the Wisdom to chose her path right
Free from unkindess and Fear
Let her tell Stories
And Dance in the ring
Somersaults Tumble and Run
Her Joys must be high
as her Sorrows are Deep
Let her grow like a Weed in the Sun
Ladies of paradox
Ladies of measure
Ladies of shadows that Fall
This is a prayer for a Blueberry Girl
Words written Clear on a Wall
Help her to help Herself
Help her to Stand
Help her to Lose and to Find
Teach her we're only as Big as our Dreams
Show her that Fortune is blind
Truth is a thing she must find for Herself
Precious and Rare as a Pearl
Give her all these and a little bit more
Gifts for a Blueberry Girl

Boys and Girls Together by Neil Gaiman

Boys don't want to be princes.

Boys want to be shepherds who slay dragons,

maybe someone gives you half a kingdom and a princess,

but that's just what comes of being a shepherd boy

and slaying a dragon. Or a giant. And you don't really

even have to be a shepherd. Just not a prince.

In stories, even princes don't want to be princes,

disguising themselves as beggars or as shepherd boys,

leaving the kingdom for another kingdom,

princehood only of use once the ogre's dead, the tasks are done,

and the reluctant king, her father, needing to be convinced.

Boys do not dream of princesses who will come for them.

Boys would prefer not to be princes,

and many boys would happily kiss the village girls,

out on the sheep-moors, of an evening,

over the princess, if she didn't come with the territory.

Princesses sometimes disguise themselves as well,

to escape the kings' advances, make themselves ugly,

soot and cinders and donkey girls,

with only their dead mothers' ghosts to aid them,

a voice from a dried tree or from a pumpkin patch.

And then they undisguise, when their time is upon them,

gleam and shine in all their finery. Being princesses.

Girls are secretly princesses.

None of them know that one day, in their turn,

Boys and girls will find themselves become bad kings

or wicked stepmothers,

aged woodcutters, ancient shepherds, mad crones and wise-women,

to stand in shadows, see with cunning eyes:

The girl, still waiting calmly for her prince.

The boy, lost in the night, out on the moors.

If You Forget Me by Pablo Neruda

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window ,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.

Little Johnny's confession by Brian Patten

THIS MORNING
...................being rather young and foolish
.........I borrowed a machinegun my father
.........had left hidden since the war, went out,
.........and eliminated a number of small enemies.
.........Since then I have not returned home.

This morning
.......swarms of police with tackerdogs
.......wander about the city
.......with my description printed
.......on their minds, asking:
.......'Have you seen him ?
.......He is seven years old.
.......likes Pluto, Mighty Mouse
.......and Biffo the Bear,
.......have you seen him, anywhere?'

This morning
.......sitting alone in a strange playground
.......muttering you've blundered, you've blundered
.......over and over to myself
.......I work out my next move
.......but cannot move.
.......The trackerdogs will sniff me out,
.......they have my lollypops.

The Armada by Brian Patten

Long, long ago
when everything I was told was believable
and the little I knew was less limited than now,
I stretched belly down on the grass beside a pond
and to the far bank launched a child's armada.
hidA broken fortress of twigs,
the paper-tissue sails of galleons,
the waterlogged branches of submarines -
all came to ruin and were on flame
in that dusk-red pond.
hidAnd you, mother, stood behind me,
impatient to be going,
old at twenty-three, alone,
thin overcoat flapping.
hidHow closely the past shadows us.
In a hospital a mile or so from that pond
I kneel beside your bed and, closing my eyes,
reach out across forty years to touch once more
that pond's cool surface,
and it is your cool skin I'm touching;
for as on a pond a child's paper boat
was blown out of reach
by the smallest gust of wind,
so too have you been blown out of reach
by the smallest whisper of death,
and a childhood memory is sharpened,
and the heart burns as that armada burnt,
long, long ago.

So many different lengths of time by Brian Patten

How long does a man live after all?
A thousand days or only one?
One week or a few centuries?
How long does a man spend living or dying
and what do we mean when we say gone forever?

Adrift in such preoccupations, we seek clarification.
We can go to the philosophers
but they will weary of our questions.
We can go to the priests and rabbis
but they might be busy with administrations.

So, how long does a man live after all?
And how much does he live while he lives?
We fret and ask so many questions -
then when it comes to us
the answer is so simple after all.

A man lives for as long as we carry him inside us,
for as long as we carry the harvest of his dreams,
for as long as we ourselves live,
holding memories in common, a man lives.

His lover will carry his man's scent, his touch:
his children will carry the weight of his love.
One friend will carry his arguments,
another will hum his favourite tunes,
another will still share his terrors.

And the days will pass with baffled faces,
then the weeks, then the months,
then there will be a day when no question is asked,
and the knots of grief will loosen in the stomach
and the puffed faces will calm.
And on that day he will not have ceased
but will have ceased to be separated by death.

How long does a man live after all?
A man lives so many different lengths of time.

And How Long? by Pablo Neruda

How long does a man live, after all?
Does he live a thousand days, or one only?
A week, or several centuries?
How long does a man spend dying?
What does it mean to say 'for ever'?
Lost in these preoccupation

I set myself to clear things up.
I sought out knowledgeable priests.
I waited for them after their rituals,
I watched them when they went their ways
to visit God and the Devil.

They wearied of my questions.
They on their part knew very little;
they were no more than administrators.

Medical men received me
in between consultations,
a scalpel in each hand,
saturated in aureomycin,
busier each day.
As far as I could tell from their talk,
the problem was as follows:
it was not so much the death of a microbe -
they went down by the ton -
-but the few which survived
showeds signs of perversity.

They left me so startled
that I sought out the gravediggers.
I went to the rivers where they burn
enormous painted corpses,
tiny bony bodies,
emperors with an aura
of terrible curses,
women snuffed out at a stroke
by a wave of cholera.
There were whole beaches of dead
and ashy specialists.

When I got the chance
I asked them a slew of questions.
They offered to burn me;
it was the only thing they knew.

In my own country the undertakers
answered me, between drinks:
'Get yourself a good woman
and give up this nonsense.'

I never saw people so happy.

Raising their glasses they sang,
toasting health and death.
They were huge fornicators.

I returned home, much older
after crossing the world.
Now I question nobody.
But I know less every day.
................
Cuánto vive el hombre, por fin?
Vive mil días o uno solo?
Una semana o varios siglos?
Por cuánto tiempo muere el hombre?
Qué quiere decir 'Para Siempre'?

Preocupado por este asunto
me dediqué a aclarar las cosas.

Busqué a los sabios sacerdotes,
los esperé después del rito,
los aceché cuando salían
a visitar a Dios y al Diablo.

Se aburrieron con mis preguntas.
Ellos tampoco sabían mucho,
eran sólo administradores.

Los médicos me recibieron,
entre una consulta y otra,
con un bisturí en cada mano,
saturados de aureomicina,
más ocupados cada dia.
Según supe por lo que hablaban
el problema era como suige:
nunca murió tanto microbio,
toneladas de ellos caían,
pero los pocos que quedaron
se manifestaban perversos.

Me dejaron tan asustado
que busqé a los enterradores.
Me fuí a los ríos donde queman
grandes cadáveres pintados,
pequeños muertos huesudos.
emperadores recubiertos
por escamas atterradoras,
mujeres aplastadas de pronto
por una ráfaga de cólera.
Eran riberas de difuntos
y especialistas cenicientos.

Cuando llegé mi oportunidad
les largué unas cuantas preguntas,
ellos me ofrecieren quemarme:
era todo lo que sabían.

En mi país los enterradores
me contestaron, entre copas:
- 'Búscate una moza robusta
y déjate de tonterías.'

Nunca vi gentes tan alegres.

Cantaban levantando el vino
por la salud y por la muerte.
Eran grandes fornicadores.

Regresé a mi casa más viejo
después de recorrer el mundo.

No le pregunto a nadie nada.
Pero sé cada día menos.

Tim Burton's Brilliance

He proposed in the dunes,

they were wed by the sea,

Their nine-day-long honeymoon
was on the isle of Capri.

For their supper they had one spectacular dish-
a simmering stew of mollusks and fish.
And while he savored the broth,
her bride's heart made a wish.

That wish came true-she gave birth to a baby.
But was this little one human
Well, maybe.

Ten fingers, ten toes,
he had plumbing and sight.
He could hear, he could feel,
but normal?
Not quite.
This unnatural birth, this canker, this blight,
was the start and the end and the sum of their plight.

She railed at the doctor:
"He cannot be mine.
He smells of the ocean, of seaweed and brine."

"You should count yourself lucky, for only last week,
I treated a girl with three ears and a beak.
That your son is half oyster
you cannot blame me.
... have you ever considered, by chance,
a small home by the sea?"

Not knowing what to name him,
they just called him Sam,
or sometimes,
"that thing that looks like a clam"

Everyone wondered, but no one could tell,
When would young Oyster Boy come out of his shell?

When the Thompson quadruplets espied him one day,
they called him a bivalve and ran quickly away.

One spring afternoon,
Sam was left in the rain.
At the southwestern corner of Seaview and Main,
he watched the rain water as it swirled
down the drain.

His mom on the freeway
in the breakdown lane
was pounding the dashboard-
she couldn't contain
the ever-rising grief,
frustration,
and pain.

"Really, sweetheart," she said
"I don't mean to make fun,
but something smells fishy
and I think it's our son.
I don't like to say this, but it must be said,
you're blaming our son for your problems in bed."

He tried salves, he tried ointments
that turned everything red.
He tried potions and lotions
and tincture of lead.
He ached and he itched and he twitched and he bled.

The doctor diagnosed,
"I can't quite be sure,
but the cause of the problem may also be the cure.
They say oysters improve your sexual powers.
Perhaps eating your son
would help you do it for hours!"

He came on tiptoe,
he came on the sly,
sweat on his forehead,
and on his lips-a lie.
"Son, are you happy? I don't mean to pry,
but do you dream of Heaven?
Have you ever wanted to die?

Sam blinked his eye twice.
but made no reply.
Dad fingered his knife and loosened his tie.

As he picked up his son,
Sam dripped on his coat.
With the shell to his lips,
Sam slipped down his throat.

They buried him quickly in the sand by the sea
-sighed a prayer, wept a tear-
and they were back home by three.

A cross of greay driftwood marked Oyster Boy's grave.
Words writ in the sand
promised Jesus would save.

But his memory was lost with one high-tide wave.

Sweetheart Come and Into My Arms

There is something about Nick Cave's lyrics that tug at me. Sweetheart Come is from the album No More Shall We Part and Into My Arms is from The Boatman's Call


Sweetheart Come

Come over here, babe
It ain't that bad
I don't claim to understand
The troubles that you've had
But the dogs you say they fed you to
Lay their muzzles in your lap
And the lions that they led you to
Lie down and take a nap
The ones you fear are wind and air
And I love you without measure
It seems we can be happy now
Be it better late than never

Sweetheart, come
Sweetheart, come
Sweetheart, come
Sweetheart, come to me

The burdens that you carry now
Are not of your creation
So let's not weep for their evil deeds
But for their lack of imagination
Today's the time for courage, babe
Tomorrow can be for forgiving
And if he touches you again with his stupid hands
His life won't be worth living

Sweetheart, come
Sweetheart, come
Sweetheart, come
Sweetheart, come to me

Walk with me now under the stars
For it's a clear and easy pleasure
And be happy in my company
For I love you without measure
Walk with me now under the stars
It's a safe and easy pleasure
It seems we can be happy now
It's late but it ain't never
It's late but it ain't never
It's late but it ain't never




Into My Arms

I don't believe in an interventionist God
But I know, darling, that you do
But if I did I would kneel down and ask Him
Not to intervene when it came to you
Not to touch a hair on your head
To leave you as you are
And if He felt He had to direct you
Then direct you into my arms

Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms

And I don't believe in the existence of angels
But looking at you I wonder if that's true
But if I did I would summon them together
And ask them to watch over you
To each burn a candle for you
To make bright and clear your path
And to walk, like Christ, in grace and love
And guide you into my arms

Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms

And I believe in Love
And I know that you do too
And I believe in some kind of path
That we can walk down, me and you
So keep your candle burning
And make her journey bright and pure
That she will keep returning
Always and evermore

Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms

You

You tell me with your golden flecks

and I reel inside myself
You tell me with your soft long strokes
and I quiver, and curl and sigh

Your bitten hands, your coal bold locks
Your angry dark, your beautiful heart
I surrender, abandon and unfold..

pinks 12/07

One Hundred Ways..

One hundred ways
To fuck the man that made you that way
To bruise and tease and stalk and prey
To let him feel what its like to play

One Hundred ways
To fool them with your clothes and parfait
To ignite envy as you prance and sashay
While you swallow your hateful bitter Beaujolais

One hundred ways
To seduce and charm and lead them astray
To hear them plead for you to stay
As you casually walk to your next willing prey

One hundred ways
To have it all, your curds and whey
To take and take to feed your day
With sloth and greed and shit and decay

One hundred ways
To fake promises and make her stay
To cut her down with words that flay
And smile as you push her down to lay

One Hundred ways
To stare at the vision of disarray
To pick and tuck and mould like clay
And turn the clock as you pay and pay

One hundred ways
To smile as if everything’s okay
To claim you love his swagger and sway
While holding the simmering anger at bay

One Hundred ways
To wish for one to look your way
To long and hope and plead and pray
As you fear for an end with no love to say

One hundred ways
To turn the tide and make it ok
To stop the heart and back away
And hope to god it stays that way..

pinks 12/07

If It Be Your Will

If it be your will
That I speak no more
And my voice be still
As it was before
I will speak no more
I shall abide until
I am spoken for
If it be your will
If it be your will
That a voice be true
From this broken hill
I will sing to you
From this broken hill
All your praises they shall ring
If it be your will
To let me sing
From this broken hill
All your praises they shall ring
If it be your will
To let me sing

If it be your will
If there is a choice
Let the rivers fill
Let the hills rejoice
Let your mercy spill
On all these burning hearts in hell
If it be your will
To make us well

And draw us near
And bind us tight
All your children here
In their rags of light
In our rags of light
All dressed to kill
And end this night
If it be your will

If it be your will.

Watch this site

Bloddy hell.. I can't decide what I really want to hav on this site.. yet..