ASF Poetry Thread

METH AND THE ROAD TO HELL

It’s elementary Watson, skip the myth and do the math
for every person tries it there’s a steeply downhill path
it’s all about a bending of the mind around what’s real
and it spirals in its trending, in a tyre screeching squeal.
... the devils at the table, do you deal?

these crystals of amphetamine, hot devils they call ice
these pistols trigger mental spinning sets of Satan’s dice.
these one-way road signs that they sell, this omni-fatal death
you like exploring roads to hell ? – here kid – just try this meth.
......for mind exploding roads to hell, try meth

the meth will crosswire all your wires, and double cross your “wise”
it stokes your skill for telling lies, and paranoia’s fires
It strokes a monkey Hell devised, to fuse upon your face
your pock-marked cheeks can’t be disguised, like love-bite ridden lace.
...... his love bites eating you - he rides your face.

the Ruskies like to play roulette, with piston and a bullet
less risky and less foolish, that a crystal in your gullet
the chance of 1 in 6 to have an air-conditioned head
and the major difference being - you’re conditionally dead
...... the other? Ruskies know when they are dead.

......for mind exploding roads to hell, try meth
(and you thought mad was something like Macbeth)


http://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=crystal+meth&search_type=&aq=1
Crystal Meth

2020hindsight said:

(and you thought mad was something like Macbeth)

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Maybe this one might lighten the mood a bit ... (weekend after all)

Shakespeare revisited ....

Macbeth Act V scene I

Doctor: You see, her eyes are open.

Gentlewoman: Ay, but their sense is shut.

Doctor: What is it she does now? Look, how she rubs her hands.

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21 century translation:-

You see, you see, her eyes are open wide!
yet rubs her hands – there’s something there to hide ..

in answer sir, she’s all screwed up inside
her eyebrows twitching like her mind is fried..

LADY MACBETH: Out, damned spot! out, I say!--One: two: why,
then, 'tis time to do't.--Hell is murky!--Fie, my
lord, fie! a soldier, and afeard? What need we
fear who knows it, when none can call our power to
account?--Yet who would have thought the old man
to have had so much blood in him.

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21 century translation:-

Out Out damned spot, this useless fool machine
this 5 star rating - whatfore does it mean?
these Russian settings, "wash-ski, rinse-ski, spin-ski"?
and what’s this special cycle? "M Lewinski?"

Out Out damned spot, I’ve washed this dress for hours
and hands all dotted red with spots of Duncan
my head, it spins with paranoiac powers
it must be something micky-finned I’ve drunken.

and will these hands of mine be clean again?
they look like I’m a worker on some tramway!
ahh – now I think of it - not if , but when -
I’m sure there’s something out there sold by Amway.

LADY MACBETH: To bed, to bed! there's knocking at the gate:
come, come, come, come, give me your hand. What's done
cannot be undone.--To bed, to bed, to bed!

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..... I’ll raincheck dear, - I’ve an aching in my head.

Macbeth:- If done, when ‘t is done, then ‘t were well, done quickly

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Participants contributing as one,
Now “up and doing” for the well done quickie
And alternating “down and being done”.

Macb:- Is this a dagger which I see before me?
The handle toward my hand

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– come let me clutch!
Ahhh no , it’s just that dead-cheap Scotch you pour me
And some dead Scotsman had me by the crutch.

Macb:- I’ve Done the deed – did You not hear a noise?
Lady Macb:- I Heard the owl scream and the cricket’s cry!

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Macb:- Reminds me, I should Be out with the boys
and What’s the score?
Lady Macb:- – bout 2 for 25.

Based on something I saw a couple of days ago at a red light.
PS If smokers want to retaliate - maybe write a defensive poem, or a poem about people who indulge in booze (where I am marginally vulnerable, although not to excess - imo lol - though I do have more that 4 some days ) - then feel free to do so. PS I just fail to see any difference between cigarette companies and common drug pushers - and/or giant international drug syndicates, thatssall.

THE MASERATI AT THE LIGHTS

"He drove a Maserati" – that is what he hoped you’d say
his golden goddess stalking at the lights,
both man and beast looked hearty, - at a price where salesmen prey,
it’s way beyond most mortal human’s rights.
…… But then he wound his window down, and in an arching curve
a glowing cig butt hit the tar below,
and any thoughts of envy took a sudden downhill swerve
that ashed that flashy image in one blow.

My friend, if it’s a race you have each time the red light changes,
that red light just thrown out there leaves us cold,
have you not common sense or savvy there to face the dangers?
those smoking guns can strike before you’re old.?
……. The car you’re in is not a sin, though tickets come and often
but honour please your “turn of toil and strife”
and what’s a cigarette my friend but nails around your coffin
that turn your lights out finally – for life.

We all had “Maserati days”, the “speed” we found in cars
the distant kin of other hard-core junkies
but craving for some Craven As, or “speed” in sleazy bars
it’s just a stupid pandering to monkeys.
……Can someone tell me maybe please, the differences in motives
twixt pushers of these varied drugs addictive
(ignoring petrol heads who tease - I mean the automotives)
but how the hell they sell these cigs vindictive!

And as for all the bits of butts – like roadside shearer’s dags
I wonder if you’d do us all a favour -
before you die go back and pick em up in paper bags,
we’ll put em in your coffin – that’s your flavour.
…… And on your tombstone, paid for by some Craven A or other
we’ll add that “Stirling Moss here was a raver”
plus an out o court apology – one corporate to another
his heart just failed – you see , "Stirling was a craver”.

HOW MY GREAT GREAT GRANDDAD DISCOVERED MATESHIP DURING DUCK DINNER

Young Jim O'Shea. And Pat O'Neill and Mick O'Rourke and me
We'd been a-drinking half the day - not once did we agree
But then our bellies told it was time to think of tea -
And that’s when Jimmy's duck hypothesy…
Was first laid down for all of us to see.

"The Baron's got a lake up in the hills about six mile"
And then he grinned - we all closed in to share this bit of guile
"And I think that roast duck's the best - especially cooked in style
a hint of peppercorns will light your dial",….
And we all joined in one collective smile.

"Now Paddy you just paddle round and be the decoy duck,
And Michael you can catch the thing and drag it from the muck,
And Shamus boy (that’s me you know) well you can clean and pluck,
And me ", said Jim - "well I will stuff and tuck….
And cook just how I like - and best of luck.”

"Now hang on " said the rest of us "that doesn’t sound quite fair
While you are sitting warm as toast the rest of us are bare"
"Don’t worry now", said Jimmy boy, while putting on an aire
"The planning of it all has been my share…..
I’ll have the fire goin, see you there."

So off we went with hopes so high and smelling duck for dinner
Young Pat and Mick and me makes three, and not one man a sinner
Well not in our eyes for we knew that we were so much thinner
Than any Baron with his triple chinner……
And once per lifetime everyman's a winner.

The next morn's light found three of us all huddled in a group
The cold was barely bearable, the duckpond like iced soup
The first rays of the sun shone through, and then this 3 duck troop
Came paddling up and circled in a loop…….
And "boom bang crash" - we had em in the hoop.

We ran as fast as legs would go towards where Jim was parked
We'd run about a quarter mile when some damned bloodhound barked
And hot on heels were five great danes with teeth all bloody marked
I really didn’t feel like being sharked……..
I climbed a tree and waited till it darked.

.................
The Baron made a point of rounding up the likes of me,
At dusk he found me hiding is my weeping willow tree,
I wept when the night watchman came, and when they turned the key,
And when they said "ten years in Botany"…….
- At least I had 2 friends as company.

So Pat and Mick and I in chains were locked in some ship's Hold,
The convict's cell is kinda cramped and something to behold.
And blow me down if that's not Jimmy wearing all that gold
As corporal in the infantry so bold……
No wonder we were feeling we'd been rolled.

The fleet arrived in Sydney Town and furled its set of sails,
We finally got to stretch our legs amid the whines and wails,
And days were spent a-breaking rocks, and nights were spent in jails,
And then I got a break by telling tales …….
- I told em I was chief chef - back in Wales .!?!

They took me to the Officer's mess to serve their daily muck
And there was Jimmy boasting that he'd had a stroke of luck,
He'd been promoted Captain and to celebrate his pluck,
The Mess decided he should dine on duck…….
And - guess who got to cook (don't life just suck).

I took three bags of peppercorns, some powder and some flint,
And loaded up ole Betsy and threw in a touch of mint,
And gave the bird both barrelloads which gave the duck a dint
With peppercorn throughout (and way past "hint")……..
it looked a bit like silk screen that you print.

Well Jimmy took a bite of duck, "Caw what the heck!!" he said
He choked and flailed his arms and punched a Major in the head
So then they threw him in the clink and chained him to his bed,
And then, just when he hollered to be fed…….
I got to serve the bugger milk and bread.
(And Mick and Jim, the second duck - instead)

should be
"And Mick and Pat, the second duck - instead."
oops.

BACK TO BACCHUS PARTIES
An imagined reunion of a group who in their youth used to sit around a fire singing PP&M in the bush.

A 60’s group of young and free, the warmest coolest dudes
communal karaoke by some fire,
with PPM, a song or three, and back-to-basic moods,
youth’s cellars stocked with all young hearts’ desire.
Some talk about the stars above and other mental foods,
some joker playing idiot town cryer,
some belching toasts to Bacchus to which youthful prayer alludes,
the cellars stocked, and us the only buyers.

I’m planning a reunion with old voices singing flat,
to retrace time-lost footprints like black trackers,
some old songs and some crooning just to give the past a pat,
and toasts “to youthful mirthful days with Bacchus”.
An age-old conversation about this and then and that
the whys and wheres and wherefores we have cast,
a fireside celebration of some old folks' turn at bat,
and back to Bacchus parties of our past.

A fire for the toasting where the soul and heart are at,
toast days of yore and toast those few tomorrows,
the spirit of young memories and a spirit laden chat,
and spirits raised and downed to age-old sorrows.
We always knew that rhymes of peace were vulnerable to aging,
when Peter Paul and Mary lost their steaming,
and nonetheless we prayed they’d cease cos cruel wars stopped raging -
were times a-changing ? – maybe we were dreaming?

PS as one of my mates used to say, "when I'm too old for wine, women and song, - I'll give up singing"

THE TEENAGER-LEAD SOLUTION TO THE OIL SHORTAGE;
SECOND, THIRD, FOURTH, ETC HAND OIL CHANGES.

You buy a car for fifty bucks inclined to buck and boil
for services go round to Chucks when he throws out his oil
his oil in turn (what hasn’t burned) he gets from a bloke in some bar
and he’s a mechanic – he’s got the good oil - cos he serviced some rich bloke’s car.

Black gold you say?, that’s understated ! - doesn’t get no blacker!
the stuff that I pass on to Fred, it pours out much like lacquer
but by the time he throws it out, it’s cost us each a quarter
we call it "friend-enriched indeed", and six cars keep going..... – sorta.

PS believe it or not, that's what is happening with some kids I know

THE CANDIDATE’S RACE

There’s the coloured and whites, then the cosmopolites
they’re the ones who treat all races equal
there’s that patriot game where the madmen take aim
but the world prays there won’t be a sequel
so it’s shouldn’t be colour nor lobbyists dollar
not his suit, nor his skin, but the wearer
it’s the man and his plan, his ‘united we can’
and praps this poll – at last - will be fairer.

On the war in Iraq whether John or Barark
will be best on the war against terror;
on the question of standards, the US flag’s lanyards
are gold if I’ve not made an error;
on the candidate’s race, when your man's losing pace,
they can’t say things like “black man I hate you”;
it’s more sneaky and snide, to make racial asides
while you threaten to blow up his HQ.

POLITICAL JOKES WITH A MOTIVE AND A MOTIF

Those elections in November, only weeks to turn the tide
maybe jokes might fire an ember? maybe tan Obama’s hide?
was it KKK where the joke was first spoke? – talk of shooting? what could that mean?
so I won’t be passing on those jokes till I know where they have been.

Motif (narrative), any recurring element in a story that has symbolic significance; a recurrent theme or pattern

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THE NIGHT OF THE LONG KNIVES –
THE ELECTORAL TERM THAT ONLY ENDS WITH A TYRANT”S DEATH – GEORGE ORWELL’S ANIMAL HOUSE TIMES THREE.

Zimbabwe, the name is short, the terror lingers on,
elections called so that opposition's killed,
and courts approving land grabs that are nothing more than con,
and courts that dine on blood that’s constant spilled.

Zimbabwe, inferno fires praps only time will douse,
(pray soon Mugabe’s death might free their shackles),
Napoleon Mugabe in the maddest Animal House
with the pigs today played by packs of murderous jackals.

This “mind” of this Mugabe! mad !! Pol Pot looks almost saint !
“I'm mightier than thou - and might is right!
these killing fields, they’re MINE I say – ALL MINE without restraint”
...
Zimbabwe, it will be one long long night.
… but one day God MUST see –
………. and set it right.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow The Village Blacksmith - a faked animation, and read by a modern actor.

"Heres a virtual movie of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow reading his poem "The Village Blacksmith". The poem is read excellently by Rik Kistner."

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (February 27, 1807 -- March 24, 1882) was an American educator and poet whose works include "Paul Revere's Ride", The Song of Hiawatha, and "Evangeline". He was also the first American to translate Dante Alighieri's The Divine Comedy and was one of the five members of the group known as the Fireside Poets.

Longfellow was born in Portland, Maine and studied at Bowdoin College. After spending time in Europe he became a professor at Bowdoin and, later, at Harvard College. His first major poetry collections were Voices of the Night (1839) and Ballads and Other Poems (1841). Longfellow retired from teaching in 1854 to focus on his writing, though he lived the remainder of his life in Cambridge, Massachusetts in a former headquarters of George Washington.

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The Village Blacksmith.....

UNDER a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling,---rejoicing,---sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.

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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-luUle4f1B8&feature=related
blacksmith firewelding scrolls on the anvil

sheesh , how much work went into those scrolls on old fences, gates etc..?

A PSALM OF LIFE' by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)

A PSALM OF LIFE' by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

'TELL me not, in mournful numbers,
life is but an empty dream !
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real ! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal ;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way ;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle !
Be a hero in the strife !
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant !
Let the dead Past bury its dead !
Act,— act in the glorius Present !
Heart within, and God o'erhead !

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time ;
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate ;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.

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continued ..

Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate ;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.

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What the old Longfellow’s saying, spose you're getting pasted daily
stead of being sad and baying, just be patient for the rally
every (other) time in history that the ASX went down
UP IT CAME – to end the mystery ! - some tomorrow’s glorious dawn !!

Just pray we live long - and sane - and here's "to rebirth" – not "to mourn". :bier:

http://www.abc.net.au/news/stories/2008/07/08/2298183.htm?section=justin


SEXUAL ASSAULTS IN CHURCH

There’s a gardening smell from the Hyde Park trees to the tall cathedral’s spires,
Is it Cardinal Pell and his legalise, on what constitutes true liars?
Is it pardon or Hell if the TRUE God sees, while some coverup feeds the fires?
or will churches just sell some "inferior Jesus” whilst they “foist” on young kids like pariahs ?

When will churches dispel their pretence of appeasement – fighting voices of kids in church choirs ?

Church sex assault complaint 'wasn't isolated'
Posted 8 minutes ago

Tonight ABC's Lateline can reveal Catholic Church documents, that show the church was aware of yet another child victim of sexual assault by a priest who was reported last night to have assaulted a Sydney man.

Last night, Lateline reported the case of Anthony Jones - a former religious education teacher - and his evidence that Cardinal George Pell misrepresented the truth when he responded to Mr Jones's complaint of sexual assault by Father Terrance Goodall.

Today the Archbishop admitted his letter to Mr Jones, saying he was the sole complainant against Father Goodall, was a mistake that came about because he did not think another complainant's allegations of sex abuse were the same.

Lateline will reveal internal documents that show the church was aware of yet another child victim of Father Goodall.

Meanwhile, a group representing victims of assaults by clergy says an apology by Cardinal Pell to Mr Jones is not good enough.
Cardinal Pell said today he wrote a mistaken and badly-worded letter to Mr Jones in which he did not accept the finding of an internal church inquiry which upheld Mr Jones's allegation of sexual assault.

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.....

When I was a kid I was font-baptised, and at my age it looked like a well,
I was tilted and slid like a boat capsized, and into the water I fell,
“they drown me I’ll sue em!” I said to my mother, “and as for that preacher called Pell
if he’s off to Heaven then I want the other, cos it’s probably safer in Hell”.

FAITH IN THE BIG BANG

with the universe expanding -(that’s not faith, mind, that’s a fact)
and the radiating straight lines from a centre when backtracked
hence I’m gonna join with Hawking – and/or Sagan – in alliance
when it come’s to faith-based talking, I’ve got all my faith in science

TELLING A JOKE TO YOUR SICK MUM
versus TREATING HER SICKNESS AS A JOKE

Some say it’s ok to make gestures in fun
though the evidence just keeps accruing
give the one-finger jest to your dying mum
as long as you know what you’re doing
and joking’s ok on pollution and pox
or the flatulence charcoal you’re taking
and you hope carbon footprints don’t stain your new jocks
(just remember the oven is baking).

Hey I’m "cutting down carbon" said the man with the axe
you chop on these forests they fall
hey I’m passionate about it – “you can go f*** the facts”
“carbon trading”? I say “timber’s “ the call
Hey this cutting down trees can be fun (for a while)
And why should I make gestures to regrow it
Hey I’ve moved up to “redwood-tree-carbon” – more style !
(and the end of the world as we know it).

Hey I’m telling my God that his planet’s a joke
Hey that’s yet one more joke of a sort
Hey this raping is ok for fine western folk
we’re just reaping our legitimate rort
Hey this selling your soul to the Devil is swell
except that old Nick don’t exist
Hey I’m showing my grandkids there really is Hell
(and I’m Hell-bent their names to enlist. ) :evilburn:

I guess barbq jokes about cooking steak rare
to save on the global emissions
is all quite ok folk , as long as you care
and you vote making “Earth-first” decisions
I guess it’s ok to make gestures in fun,
while our Mother, this dome, fights for air
but denial ? - as a gesture to your dying mum ?-
(it's as funny as bi-polar dispair.)

David Suzuki’s bicycle’s demountable
personally shaped to his bum
David Suzuki wants pollies accountable
who finger salute our sick mum...
Telling a joke – or treat as a joke
there’s a suble difference there
As David says, "sure, but she’s down, out, - near broke
(And how much can a polar bear.)

.......
probably should have used this one..

One day I believed the king,
One day I killed the king,
One day I killed all his kin,
Yes, my friends, i'm the king.

I'm King - by noirua