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BRITISH-IRISH-POETS  October 2008

BRITISH-IRISH-POETS October 2008

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Subject:

Re: Sunrise Sheppard Ransom Request

From:

Desmond Swords <[log in to unmask]>

Reply-To:

British & Irish poets <[log in to unmask]>

Date:

Tue, 21 Oct 2008 15:47:52 +0100

Content-Type:

text/plain

Parts/Attachments:

Parts/Attachments

text/plain (102 lines)

It was not silent on Friday
afternoons. rhythms business
long dead poets we're 

unaware of, metered verse
rules of air and the words

ward robe tables chair
one two point O five

contain no meaning - - - - -

--- s/he read --

there is a cow in a field
the machine is out of order

 - and many more there
wished for truth but not 

evidence deconstructed
asleep upon the pages 

Plato's shadow in the cave
on cow hide time forgot 

Socrates to feign towering
a simple mountain grace 

that knows a part the wolf
purer than a meadow fat

lamb hung simply above
the shepherd following, Bob

Sloppy Bob the penisless 
poet suckling an elegy,

cold brief nymph eye cast
an epitaph to the man, bob

reposing in poetic pose, 
pert bestrode the thinker

clutching drafts, supping tea
sat on his arse, havin a larf

Sloppy Bob, poet in residence
of the phone box just outside

thought he knew it all, thank
you Bob, who knew his part

pasturing Ulysses, you feign --
not, knew the shores from Ez

to Bernie's flight to freedom
full time failure, in the mob

fintan, bradán feasa - boyhood 
deeds of Fionn, knowledge, 

crane bags ancient hags 
and the hawk of Achill

swirls above the sod.

~

. my deepest dearest darling Bob, admit it, you fancied me on Friday
afternoons, hot Bob was for poetry with mags spread out across the dest that
day we drank too much, at the workshop with R flittin as a god, Ogma he was
Bob, drugged us, chained us up, mags incantin magic spells, shapeshiftin
into whistles and wells of hot action, adult talk, it all got too much after
the second glass of port and LSD wannit Bob, hey, hey, that friday when it
all went bonkers...s/he bonkin all of us, the whole short story, tawdry
class, i blackmailed you for ten large, do you remeber Bob, still bear the
scars of the dominatrix, how could you, a monk of the mountain breath, an
objectivist and when we terminated at the gates of langers, spankins, all
that jazz, s/he blew daddio, Mairead burnin in velcro and a bed pan, just
bar me out or i'll stick me head in the oven - i'm not messin, i'm not effin
messin Bob -- i've just got took on at Super Macs, so it wasn't a waste Bob,
Sloppy was the first, he came right after the Bob that did the skit and for
which you paid me, god i wanna get behind the counter flippin that dead
cow...a degree in writing studies pal, hey, hey, yeah mate, don't do it, end
up in a bedsit in Kilmainham speaking of Empedocles and sdackin all the
toffe nosed tossers, pissin oneself laughin, for the gang who claimed me,
the moment we met and fell in love as i bored you Bob, tryin to escape the
attention of the nuttter goin mad, well thank you very much, please can i
have my money back, which i never paid, coz i'm just a daft plassie, a
pretend paddy, but guess what, O'Leary, O'Reilly, O'Hare and O'Hara, theres
no one more irish than Barack O'Bama..

have agander, it got me believin in the Sheppard even more than i do now,
which is 100% mate. cheers Bob, my first and only mentor, he hates you
Mairead, he told me by esp, so pack in writing right now, you aint gonna
beat evers, s/he's top magician ban-draoi.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EADUQWKoVek


grá agus síocháin

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