Mark Mark did a fart
Blew the whole world apart
Blogging about music from early 80s indie to Britpop and beyond
Mark Mark did a fart
Blew the whole world apart
Grass how you can change the land
Spring, the grow and wetness of the grass, the promise of more to come
Summer so green and lush, the smell of summer ascent upon my senses
Autumn, the flowers start to go, the beckoning of darkness to come
Winter, so wet and weary , the lost of soul that is winters darkness
There was a cat
It lived next to a dirty rat
It had a hat that was owned by an older chap named Jack.
And that was that
Once red and always on
the plaid-lined lower shelf
of the cupboard under the sink,
for weak juice and milky tea.
The mug smells of hot tussock
that breathes like baking.
It tastes of the Belgian biscuits
my mother made one summer
and looks like black-striped pink
geraniums. It feels like feet
swilling sand in a bucket of water
gone warm, sounds like the pound
that resembles wind at first, the tide.
It is full of the frustration of playing
children’s Scrabble instead of
the real thing with darker squares
and no pictures, the tired
comfort and outrage of being
put to bed before the fire
is put out, while other children
climb the hill’s seeping shadows,
feeling their way under wire
fences and over dead sheep;
screams flashing like torches.
There are orange plastic mugs
and magenta geraniums and dry
biscuits, tussocks, torchlight
here—but what is the point
in saying that mug is a similar
size or I learnt to swim by
walking my palms along the floor
of a lagoon identical to that one?
It only marks the distance between
here and then. Sometimes I am far
from the country that no longer exists;
sometimes I feel close to nothing.
This mug is not a likeness, a simile.
It is the same mug I drank from then.
I hold it now, but the trees are whiter—
bones clean except for silver leaves
the shape of my father’s and my husband’s
dry smiles. One is here, one is then. I am
tense now. Unsure of when we are. Cold tea
burns my lips. I politely ignore everyone.
A tiny angel enters the room
in a halo of sungold dust motes.
In Mary’s ear: a high-pitched annunciation
she doesn’t at first quite catch.
It tries to tell her she’s a sweet-hot stunner,
drives life itself crazy with her
scent of coconut and maple,
mango body-butter, coffee,
beach salt, beach towel, sunscreen,
last night’s sauvignon, and see,
the succulent curve and bend of her …
The angel’s touch brushes her
with a faint stirring wind,
the hairs on the back of her neck
quiver like harp strings.
Troubled at these sayings
Mary looks over her shoulder,
asks, who’s there?
Swift as a night nurse
the angel plunges the syringe;
its small prick enters,
the quick sting lifts,
flustered Mary is left
with a visible white swelling
that comes to nothing
but this minor, red-capped
princeling of disappointment,
an itch that irritates:
incarnation of her own
and the world’s
My Atthis, although our dear Anaktoria lives in distant Sardis, she thinks of us constantly, and of the life we shared in days when for her you were a splendid goddess, and your singing gave her deep joy. Now she shines among Lydian women as when the red-fingered moon rises after sunset, erasing stars around her, and pouring light equally across the salt sea and over densely flowered fields; and lucent dew spreads on the earth to quicken roses and fragile thyme and the sweet-blooming honey-lotus. Now while our darling wanders she thinks of lovely Atthis's love, and longing sinks deep in her breast. She cries loudly for us to come! We hear, for the night's many tongues carry her cry across the sea.
I'm nobody! Who are you? Are you nobody, too? Then there's a pair of us -- don't tell! They'd advertise -- you know! How dreary to be somebody! How public like a frog To tell one's name the livelong day To an admiring bog!
To drift with every passion till my soul Is a stringed lute on which all winds can play, Is it for this that I have given away Mine ancient wisdom, and austere control? Methinks my life is a twice-written scroll Scrawled over on some boyish holiday With idle songs for pipe and virelay, Which do but mar the secret of the whole. Surely there was a time I might have trod The sunlit heights, and from life's dissonance Struck one clear chord to reach the ears of God. Is that time dead? lo! with a little rod I did but touch the honey of romance— And must I lose a soul's inheritance?
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe. "Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!" He took his vorpal sword in hand: Long time the manxome foe he sought So rested he by the Tumtum tree, And stood a while in thought. And, as in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came! One two! One two! And through and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back. "And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! Oh frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!" He chortled in his joy. 'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe.