Posts Tagged poetry
Three of Hearts: Chpamnorbosg Eiurnyngillyng
Posted by Angela Brett in CERN, Writing Cards and Letters on June 22, 2008
A lad at a fair who was lacking directions,
found a booth which was offering temp’ral projections.
“We’ll show you the future, we’ll show you the past,
you’ll gape at the first and you’ll gasp at the last.”
Being fond of projections, and not short of time,
he sat in the chamber and paid in the dime.
There were buttons for films of both pre- and post-diction
in all sorts of genres; he chose science fiction.
Way out behind the shroud of night,
beyond the Milky Way
the sothnax live in perfect time,
not slaves of night or day.They see the world through two stalked eyes
one each of time and space.
What humans see as future time
is just a further place.In such a world it’s rather hard
to pull off any capers,
a fresh-made scheme is by that time
already in the papers.But one mad sothnax killed and fled
without the slightest plan
without the slightest thought that time
flew faster than he ran.For since a lengthy moment he
was blinded in one eye,
the police approached, and just in time,
the killer found out why.For all the speed a photon has,
it’s far outpaced by souls.
For all their pow’rs to see through time,
they can’t see through black holes.And so the killer’s soul escaped
and made its way toward Earth,
to steal a dying egg in time
to steer it back toward birth.Their unforeseen collision forced
the dying human soul
to think it was not yet its time.
They fused to make a whole.
But enough with this fiction of tempo-transmography,
Our fact-hungry viewer went next to biography.
Chpamnorbosg Eiurnyngillyng
Lived a life of greed and killing
then he got in a mother
and started another.
And with that our young lad was left thirsting for more
so he pressed on the button that said ‘film d’amour’.
roses are red,
sothnax xanthose.
One soul mates a sothnax,
two soulmates arose.
Such soulful emotion was too strong a homily,
So to lighten things up he selected a comedy
An alien thought he was winning
till he got into trouble for sinning
So he came down to Earth
underwent a new birth
and completely forgot his beginning.
Just for fun our lad moved to the edge of his chair
then selected a horror and braced for a scare.
She screamed bloody murder
as the monster interred her
and without an escape route
she was juiced like a grapefruit
but the killer’s black soul
sped to make a black hole
to escape being observed
an escape undeserved.And he grew as a boy
with no thoughts of the ploy
till the day he was found
by a bloodless bloodhound
And our hero could see that in fact it was he,
and they came in the stall
and forced his downfall
he screamed a waul
lost the brawl
lost all
gall
Two of Hearts: Words for Snow
Posted by Angela Brett in Mont Blanc, Writing Cards and Letters on June 15, 2008
In English I can breathe like air.
In French my easy breath is gone
to water that I’m choking on.
J’ai changé d’air, j’habite en Suisse,
I cannot live in cowardice,
so I speak in French a little more
l’air anglais dedans et dehors
the fractal mix like falling snow
la langue française joue le rôle de l’eau
that’s crystalised like none before
une neige si belle, j’en veux encore
l’eau à la bouche, mes langues y glissent,
I want to see some more of this
et rester dans la neige qui fond.
Je veux nager comme un poisson
dans l’eau française, courante et claire.
Ace of Hearts: Nitrogen
Posted by Angela Brett in Intriguing Development, Writing Cards and Letters on June 8, 2008
Nitrogen, we breathe and we ignore.
We do not know what we are breathing for.
A large part of the air, the human race
is there to simply breathe, and nothing more.
Hot air, without reaction or a face,
with nothing more to do than take up space
continue, as today, and as before
breathe out, breathe in, breathe out, keep up the pace.
Should lightning strike, your senses to alert
And nitrogen to nitrates to convert
you’ll breathe with force of will and not cuirass
The air, the breath, the life, no more inert.
Your heart is not a mere ignoble mass.
Take nitrates, and create some biomass.
Take hold of the inertia, and invert:
Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in this noble gas.
Jack of Spades: ɘloЯ
Posted by Angela Brett in St James's Gate, Writing Cards and Letters on May 18, 2008
One ev’ning I went to the pub for a beer
and later went home to my bed.
As I went off to sleep I was feeling quite queer,
and the world turned around in my head.
The pieces of bread dipped us humans in cheese,
the cheese made by cows from our milk.
Early worms got the birds, while they made their pongees
from our swaddling, and christened it silk.
As letters sent men they would each seal a kiss,
which itself stole a beau, what a turnoff.
And Soviet Russia was in all of this,
poking fun at our man Yakov Smirnoff.
The horses on knightback were chased by the steeple,
convinced they should set the truth free.
And wars fought in soldiers then started the people,
till their shoes walked a mile in me.
Then science was checked by remains prehistoric,
The reptiles who warmed up the air
and caused the extinction of things meteoric
while the common were sought by the rare.
At some point, I think I awoke my alarm,
but I’m not at all certain of when.
For certain events have a true-to-life charm.
I should never drink lager again.
Nine of Spades: 0.5|1〉+0.5|0〉+8i Lives
Posted by Angela Brett in Flowers and Animals, Writing Cards and Letters on May 4, 2008
The first, I landed right-side up,
The next, I saved my skin.
The third, I won at cat and mouse,
The fourth, I dragged me in.
The fifth, I wasn’t curious.
The sixth, I wasn’t swung.
The seventh, I escaped the bag.
The eighth, I got your tongue.
So of my deaths, I’ve sidestepped eight
with guile and movements deft.
And while I’m in a quantum state,
I’ve still a half-life left.
I: Reflections in the imaginary axis
Posted by Angela Brett in Writing Cards and Letters on May 4, 2008
I see ruthless enemy
The devil, I know,
The negative one.
I saw the root
of evil
Axis
of evil
I was the root
of the negative one.
The devil that I know:
Icy, truthless inner me
Eight of Spades: Fork and Tongs
Posted by Angela Brett in The Best of Switzerland, Writing Cards and Letters on April 27, 2008
You’re not like all those other tools,
fond only of their wieners.
Yet even as your fire cools,
I see a snag between us.
Why won’t you be my Montague?
I’d be your Juliet.
I see you at the barbecue
embracing Andouillette.
That pig, I’d like to pierce her through,
and feed her to the cat.
She’s full of tripe, she smells of poo,
The wurst, a spoiled brat.
She sizzles near your tenderloins,
that visc’ral vivisection.
My tines vibrate as she purloins
the flames of your affection.
I come in closer, she’s dead meat.
I touch you with a tine.
You see my points, I feel your heat,
and briefly, we entwine.
And then I see the sausage roll
to ashes in disgrace.
It’s my turn now, I’ll take control,
I vow, I’ll take back space.
We’re stronger than the sausage link,
I’ve seen our stars align.
And later in the kitchen sink,
I know that you’ll be mine.
Seven of Spades: Happy, Ending
Posted by Angela Brett in Flowers and Animals, St James's Gate, Writing Cards and Letters on April 20, 2008
This is the story of the happy ending,
where Mary and her little lamb play.
Of lamb, from human girl befriending,
to lessons in happiness stray.
Where Mary and her little lamb play
it’s tiring, so Mary would take it
to lessons, in happiness, stray.
A lamb, what a day it would make it!
It’s tiring, so Mary would take it
Said Father that very same night.
A lamb! What a day. It would make it?
That it would just wake, be alright!
Said Father that very same night
“You’ll bury what’s left.” No impression
that it would just wake, be alright,
its grave but a little depression.
You’ll bury what’s left no impression;
the sick one had not been her friend.
It’s grave, but a little depression
would not bring her world to an end.
The sick one had not been her friend,
she prayed in her panic that he
would not bring her world to an end.
He slaughtered the neighbours, not Mary.
She prayed in her panic that he
would not murder, hurt a loving soul mate.
He slaughtered the neighbours, not Mary.
The friends survive, rejoice, and ruminate.
Would not murder hurt a loving soul, mate?
No matter if a stranger, or a roast?
The friends survive, rejoice, and ruminate
why it’s okay to lose the farthermost.
No matter if a stranger or a roast
of lamb. From human girl befriending:
Why, it’s okay to lose the farthermost.
This is the story of the happy, ending.
Five of Spades: Calorimeter for Atlas (in the key of E)
Posted by Angela Brett in CERN, Writing Cards and Letters on April 6, 2008
When Titans weren’t successful in a coup,
‘Twas Atlas who was made to hold up Heaven.
Now let’s assume the heavens weighed a tonne,
How much did Atlas burn to hold that weight?
Let’s say he lifts a metre, on genu,
For this way it’s a cinch to calculate.
Now, force times distance travelled’s called work done.
The pull of Gaia’s roughly nine point eight.
One metre times one thousand times her glue,
Is nine eight zero zero, at which rate?
That energy’s to lift it off the floor,
the trick from there on in’s to stay alive,
for if he doesn’t wobble the Divine,
then force times distance is exactly zero.
That’s not quite true, he still must sweat some more,
Beneath his skin he’s into overdrive.
We must consider muscle tension too,
to figure out the total energy.
But this, my simple physics can’t derive.
It’s something we must find empirically
by burning the Titanic sugar fix,
that’s eaten every second by our hero.
C: Death of Consumption
Posted by Angela Brett in Writing Cards and Letters on March 23, 2008
It seems to be true that the world is in debt.
If I take from you then I won’t see it yet.
By nature we crave to spend more than we earn;
we’ve money to save and we’ve forests to burn.
We’ll use up the rest, extradition’s deferred;
we’re draining our nest-egg and killing the bird.
Their species are dying, and so are our own,
but let’s just keep flying, it’s fine in our zone.
Let’s use all the oil and eat all the fish,
abuse all the soil and do as we wish,
ignore all the damage that we cannot see;
Perhaps it hurts you but it doesn’t hurt me.
In Earth’s final hour, we won’t fear the night;
if we have the power, we’ll turn on the light.
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