Ya gotta love the O's!

Ah,isn't it GOOD to be ALIVE!

What I like best about blogging is there is no control. Like being on a train platform there is nothing to stop you pushing the vicar/parish priest/ pensioner/drunk in front of you under the wheels of the next high speed through train.

If I feel like saying Quantum physics in a pink blancmange I can just say it. Or at least write it and nobody can stop me but me. And I'm an idiot so I'm not likely to do that because idiots don't care about anything so long as they can shop for bovril and anchovies in their stripey pyjamas and fur lined parkas. Besides I'm in the other room and taking no notice of me at all.

On the other paw given such freedom to express myself isn't it a little bit disappointing that that is the best I can manage?

So basically I am a coward because I would never say what I would really like to say. And I think perhaps the world is a better place for that discretion. And we don't want to delay the trains too much now do we.

Fuck it. I think it's time to come back.

TFE rises Lazarus like from the piss stained armchair and rises up up up out of it on his strangely bony (for a fat bastard) knees and rises up up up above the house up up into the sky up up above the grey dreary rainstreaked streets and shits on them like a pigeon on laxatives.

FOLLOW THE BUS!!

http://thepoetrybus.blogspot.com/2011/07/bus-building.html

Go make some poetry flavoured jam!

Let's get the weekly poem goin again!

HERE

GOODLY NEWS

NanU has taken up the gauntlet to keep the spirit of the poetry bussers alive. Get over to her blog, give her support and help choose a new name so that we can keep being forced into writing a poem every week!We need to be pushed!And it's great fun. So come on join in! Over HERE

Gwanyagudthings!
Kosmo.

TFE is dead.

NO flowers no cards no tears.
Hello my name is Saran (aka Kosmo Vinyl) brother of TFE. It is with sadness my duty to report that TFE is no more.Though not actually dead in the real world sense, he is in the blog sense no more, a dead parrot, virtual brown bread, jossed it, defunct, redundant,shot off his perch.

If you try to fly there is always someone to shoot you down, stick your neck above the barricade and someone will squeeze it. It's amazing it didn't happen sooner. It is beautiful that it didn't happen sooner. You can be a nobody all your life and through the power of the written word reach out and touch people and be touched in return.

TFE was able to fight when he was young, but he could not fly. Now he can fly he is unable to fight. It's the drunk and the lampost in his previous post brought to life.

The weekly task of The Poetry Bus produced some amazing work, so much so that a magazine was born from it. That magazine, born of the blogs, lives and breathes to this day with the promise of PB2. There would be no Poetry Bus Magazine without TFE, but equally there would be no PB2 or 3 or 4 or 5 without each and every person who took the time to get aboard and fuel the catalyst of creation.I hope some of you will wish the magazine well and follow it's progress HERE

He would love it , I'm sure, if the weekly task could continue under a different guise, a different name. And a big posthumous thank you, from him, to all that drove the bus through thick and thin.

Best wishes to all,
Kosmo.

THe Poetry Bus poem type thing

Shadows will cross your path, dead people rise up or lay down to haunt you, but it's the only way ahead, no turning back, never look back except in anger.

Tis a catharsis a symbiosis, a process by which..., a coping method, a linear procedure, a putting of one letter in front of another like feet of a thousand miles. Why, because they (b)are there and the only other alternative is not to, and that seems the greater of two evils and somewhat negative.

So to accentuate the positive while still (or through) emitting/ expunging/ processing the negative in a written detox seems like a reasonable thing to do in the face of everything we are faced with in our daily lives which like the courses of true love, never run smooth. In this life you will only regret the things you never did, unless you supported Liverpool Football Club or murdered all your family.

What I am trying to say is that this may not be a good poem but it might possibly be better than no poem , for the writer if not the reader!

Nothing exceeds like excess and Nanu was in search of too much, I hope she found it in spades in all your poems

Today I have mainly been drinking Obst- Schnaps and lager and am on the ledge /knife edge of relaxation and vomit. Such a thin line between too much and way too much and this ironically when your judgementy/perception of excess is at it's least accurate.

It's so strange. When you're sober you'd be at your best able but least likely to climb a lampost, and when you're drunk you are conversely at your least able but most likely to climb it. Life can be a sardonic bastard.

Also, and,if ,or but, the thing is, when things are really desperately bad you are paralysed in the moment and can't /won't/ wouldn't/ couldn't write at all. It is later when you are (almost) safely ashore that you can dare to go back. You need a little sunshine to cast a shadow.

The Easter song.

We had it all we wanted for nothing
We wanted more

And how will I cope how will I live
Among ghost estate life
Turf fires, embers now
Glowing in memory
Enough was enough
Never now
Too much is never…

Juke box bandits one-armed legless

Keys in the lock
A different lock every night
Oh,nameless as the stars above
Houses, houses ,houses
Up on the skyline we yearn to
Float flee fly free
Life once enjoyed,now endured

Thick through the thin years
And (pity me
Have mercy on me)
Money passes hands far
Quicker than the lives I broke
Goat rough hollow heart

The wren in the hand I held
The wren in the hand I crushed
Cowardice in telephone booth
every card held, poker faced
those thin lips I almost kissed
I wonder if that love is hate

too much is never enough


glass of red pint of blood
scar lit city
dirt beneath the nails
filthy lucre
skip filled, the in, the out
the richest corpse
the glory and the soul
worms turning
that forgave the plough
but who will live
to forgive
me

As rain’s river falls
In tumbling cats and dogs
I look for wounds to sink my hands
To kiss another cheek
From candlelit page
To moonlit street
My head bowed drunk
Over bare boards
Screaming hordes in my forgotten head
Forget-me-not
Lover, brother, sister, fool.
Hallelujah.

And all you need is intelligence a Swiss Army Knife and charm!!

Bus crash poetry from Nanook!

The latest Poetry Bus prompt is HERE! http://sciencegirltraveler.blogspot.com/2011/04/just-too-too-far-too-bussy.html
Many thanks To NanU for driving last week. This week she hands over the keys to her twin sister Nanook or more correctly ' Nanuq' who inspired by her sisters entrepreneurial skills invented a methane based self sufficient central heating system that syphons human gases from the air to burn as fuel.
People using this system had to maintain a strict diet of cabbage, bran, and baked beans to provide enough gas to fuel the system.The disadvantages of having to wear a clothes peg on your nose at all times and never having anyone visit were far out weighed by the financial benefits.Once installed there were no further bills and the sytem proved so popular that everyone for miles around had one fitted.

In short Nanuq ran out of customers and had to look for new territories. She decided on Hudson Bay In Quebec as it is so cold and heating would surely be needed. Again the system sold well, initially, but most customers lived in igloos and as their homes slowly melted they sought refund after refund as well as compensation from poor Nanuq till she was left penniless without even the means to get home. :(





(Above is a roofless 20 ft high 'Summergloo' being constructed from giant blocks of ice and snow on the frozen Tundra of South Wicklow last August.)


But Nanuq was a bright resourceful woman so she built herself an igloo and learned how to hunt and to survive and make new friends till she was very happy. Ever looking for new inventions she quickly realised that due to the sub zero temperatures foodstuffs seemed to last indefinitely without any sign of deteriorating. ( Here we see the dangers of living in this frozen wasteland, animals grow to vast sizes on a diet of human flesh and wheetos)


So coming full circle she developed a methane powered food cooling system that later was developed into the fridges we know and love today. She made a huge fortune but was so happy living among her new neighbours that she stayed where she was and built a giant igloo that is used as an ice hotel to this very day. And everyone lived happily ever after. Except for a few baby seals.

Mork calling Orson, NanU, NanU! Bus poetique!

EVEN AMIDST FIERCE FLAMES THE GOLDEN LOTUS CAN BE PLANTED.

Lovely scientist/inventor Nancy NanUhammertime, you can't touch this is drivelo le bus cette semaine und I have respondo with this quickler write off rapido fire respondo sansrewrito ou edit. Voila mon poemme et ici pour tout le monde et ses uncles de lire and rire , ou non as le case may be. Mais either which way, ici est mon attempt at le prompt.

Merci beaucoup ( indeedy muchlo muchio) and aussi que votre dieu/totem/facsimile/nothing de la poésiesoit may party avec vous pronto.Et in ,les words de la petite Oiseaux Edam Peeoff, 'No I regret nothing, except the things I regret. I have beaten Dylan Thomas's record and the curates egg.'

Poetry is.

Is poetry.

A confusion a contemplation a question an explanation

A profusion of colour a cloudburst of double rainbows

A jet of light a volcano of thought

Bidding bridling boastful bashful brilliant

In yellows and greens and blues all hues

Read and dead and crimson leaking

Seeking sapping tapping unwrapping

Mental mettle a singing kettle

A dream of joy that never fades

Never goes to grey

Never too high a price to pay though

every shade of black burgeoning and malign

But kept in line by the buzz the adrenalin rush the heartfelt crush

Of the crazy days of summer yellow iris sunshine

Bright white light headed

The ending of the days dreaded

The ejaculation of joy

The pleasure in the pain

Resistence futile

Fuse lit missile

The insistence constant nagging

C’mon c’mon c’mon yawill ya willya will

Dragging beguiling invigorating liberating

The urge to write write write write write!

Can flowers scream?

(Lotus= Lots Of Trouble, Usually Serious.)

But wait on the bus,don't get some sleep, no need to wait, your ship can come in.