First off, an apology to the Manic Street Preachers, whose song title I have appropriated for the title of this particular episode, but basically what I offer here is some poetry. Oh well. Small infractions of decorum make the world go round. Or they make baby Jesus cry. One of the two. Incidentally, those of you bored and just surfing the internet because you've got nothing better to do should try looking into the biographies of Kevin Carter and Paul Robeson. One was a Pulitzer-Prize winning and Time-Magazine cover photographer who committed suicide at the age of 33. The other was an African-American who graduated from Rutgers University as valedictorian in 1919 with 15 varsity athletic letters, including track, basketball, and baseball, as well as football - where he was twice an All-American, before graduating from Columbia Law School and thereafter becoming a published author, essayist, opera and broadway singer, renowned actor on stage and screen, civil rights activist, social commentator and thinker. I'll let people find out which is which on their own. But their stories are incredible, and well worth the time and effort of going to google and looking them up. Eventually, I'll post the big links which will tell people all the big secrets and heart-breaking turns of events in their lives, but not now. For now, you may peruse the following poems, which, while I don't think are class, might still pass muster at a high-school poetry competition (plagiarists take note), although the content is very difficult to pass off as high-school age. Anyhoo, here goes.
that necklace
it gilded her neck like a thread of the sun
and she wore it to dinner that night
drifting along the trace of her skin
at once both bemure and polite
a birthday gift from a year since
and this year she wore it on mine
silky thread of love-locked lacework
that paced ice-cold waves down my spine
my modestly made jests made it jerk
and dance with her lips as she smiled
the bow of her shoulders made it curtsey
as she blushed in her violent style
my evenings always seemed to end early
but this one seemed quicker than most
our unsteady thanks rang empty
when she flew in the night like a ghost
a shade in the night floating breathless
her countenance lit by that necklace
- mARKUS
Yes, I know, gentle readers, that's a bit maulin and nostalgic for some of you to stomach comfortably. So here's something to counterbalance such sickly-sweet sentimentality. It's in five parts plus a sub note, so take care.
cantos of a w.c.
1.
sticker
on light switch panel
once demanded
lights be turned off
when unoccupied
now
torn
it just says
unoccupied
2.
surely remote
rarely used
with dead fluourescent
over dull mirrors
as empty as
dostoyevsky's hell
3.
one might
leave the lights off
if blind
or afraid
of finding a way out
again
4.
stark
vacant
at times
i feel
like
that water closet
** "Fathers and teachers I ponder, "What is hell?" I maintain that hell is the inability to love"
- Feodor Dostoyevsky.
-mARKUS
At this point I must protest that the blogsite text-editor-thing won't let me separate anything from the margin when ostensibly left-aligned. I can't tab away from it, nor can I put spaces between anything and that infernal margin. My poetry is generally more spread out, and has more of a feeling across the (virtual) page. So if you ever catch me on the street, I'll print you out a page - the way it's supposed to look. Or you can ask me nicely, and I'll e-mail you an RTF of it. Not that I expect any requests. Few enough people visit this site, and those who do either reel away in waves of nausea, or realize that they've mis-typed the URL. And besides, the poetry is rather rubbish, so it would be better if you read up on Paul Robeson and Kevin Carter. Become more knowledgeable. Aquire more power in the cosmos. There is no knowledge that is not power. There is no negative that is not positive. And other such twaddle. What coke-addled advertising executive comes up with the phrase "there is no knowledge that is not power"? Probably the same intoxicated fiends that came up with "Speed matters. Now more than ever."
Yeah. Piece that one out. Someone didn't have all their neurons firing when they launched their campaign.
Right-o. Coming up soon - the not-long-awaited follow-up of my 3rd June posting. No one has ever requested the full meal deal. Until now. And I'm going to have to burst some bloodvessels in my fingers to get it all posted before the weekend. And then I might have an audience of one. Aside from the article I wrote about why women prefer the ideals of James Dean over Montgomery Clift, Jim Morrison over Peter Gabriel, and Dylan Thomas over Ted Hughes, this is the one piece of critical academism which has dynamized the whole female-male debate. It's also bloody huge. It's 13 pages, double-spaced, so I might have it typed in, say, six or seven hours, depending on the number of ICQ interruptions with which I have to cope.
So, to my entire audience, I say to thee: "Return hence soon, such that ye may receive such bounty as to ye was promised." So hurry back. Both of you. Cheers,
^+Justice for the 96+^
-mARKUS
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