Showing posts with label rimbaud. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rimbaud. Show all posts
Saturday, 7 January 2012
The wicked window
The wicked window creaked a small toad and left itself wide open and panting for mercy as a twiddle diddle dumpling rolled it's fat oaf rotund girth onto a long flesh tongues lashing like a pirates whip yet ever so ready for a good fisting when needed in a rush he would starve himself naked then pop two mouldy cherries into his gondola which was always pissing rainbow spray over rusty buckets although he wished that the bucket was not where it was at that point in time but still none the less meant it no harm but felt it needed to learn a stiff lesson especially when flatulent in flowered gown all starched solid stale by the sheer presence of 'Dark Norris' and his hanging length of homicidal duck tweed trousers
Oh why am I so wicked
Oh why do I creak so
Oh this torturous life of Monkeydom
Being a wicked
Wicked window
Wicked
Creak
Wicked
Wicked
Wicked
Creak
Wicked
Wicked
Wicked
Creak
Wicked
Wicked
Wicked
Creak
Wicked
Creak
Wicked
Little window
This piece of cut-up, and prose was written back in Spring 2006.
They are both based on separate pieces, but have a very subtle link that threads them both together.
By Spartacus Mole
Friday, 6 January 2012
Men with dead fingers
Men with dead fingers
Stand naked
And taught
Draped in ashtray leftovers
And left crying inside loose bowel canals...
If you would like to read more you will need to become a member of Instant Nowhere Korporation, which you can do at the following link for free:
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We look forward to you becoming a member of the Korporation...
Thursday, 5 January 2012
Captain Beefheart
This brilliant drawing is of Don Van Vliet aka "Captain Beefheart", and is on the front of a Birthday card very kindly created for me a few years ago now by a good friend of mine called Skeats aka "The Big Swell". Check out his music on http//thebigswell.bandcamp.com for more of an insight into a very cool guy, and a very good friend of mine.
By Heston Quiff
 |
| "Fast and Bulbous" |
This brilliant drawing is of Don Van Vliet aka "Captain Beefheart", and is on the front of a Birthday card very kindly created for me a few years ago now by a good friend of mine called Skeats aka "The Big Swell". Check out his music on http//thebigswell.bandcamp.com for more of an insight into a very cool guy, and a very good friend of mine.
By Heston Quiff
Monday, 26 December 2011
Dance of the Hanged Men
On the black gallows, one-armed friend,
The paladins are dancing, dancing
The lean, the devil's paladins
The skeletons of Saladins
Sir Beelzebub pulls by the scruff
His little black puppets who grin at the sky,
And with a backhander in the head like a kick,
Makes them dance, dance, to an old Carol-tune!
And the puppets, shaken about, entwine their thin arms:
Their breasts pierced with light, like black organ-pipes
Which once gentle ladies pressed to their own,
Jostle together protractedly in hideous love-making.
Hurray! the gay dancers, you whose bellies are gone!
You can cut capers on such a long stage!
Hop! never mind whether it's fighting or dancing!
- Beelzebub, maddened, saws on his fiddles!
Oh the hard heels, no one's pumps are wearing out!
And nearly all have taken of their shirts of skin;
The rest is not embarrassing and can be seen without shame.
On each skull the snow places a white hat:
The crow acts as a plume for these cracked brains,
A scrap of flesh clings to each lean chin:
You would say, to see them turning in their dark combats,
They were stiff knights clashing pasteboard armours.
Hurrah! the wind whistles at the skeletons' grand ball!
The black gallows moans like an organ of iron !
The wolves howl back from the violet forests:
And on the horizon the sky is hell-red...
Ho there, shake up those funereal braggarts,
Craftily telling with their great broken fingers
The beads of their loves on their pale vertebrae:
Hey the departed, this is no monastery here!
Oh! but see how from the middle of this Dance of Death
Springs into the red sky a great skeleton, mad,
Carried away by his own impetus, like a rearing horse:
And, feeling the rope tight again round his neck,
Clenches his knuckles on his thighbone with a crack
Uttering cries like mocking laughter,
And then like a mountebank into his booth,
Skips back into the dance to the music of the bones!
On the black gallows, one-armed friend,
The paladins are dancing, dancing
The lean, the devil's paladins
The skeletons of Saladins.
Thank you Mr Rimbaud...
The paladins are dancing, dancing
The lean, the devil's paladins
The skeletons of Saladins
Sir Beelzebub pulls by the scruff
His little black puppets who grin at the sky,
And with a backhander in the head like a kick,
Makes them dance, dance, to an old Carol-tune!
And the puppets, shaken about, entwine their thin arms:
Their breasts pierced with light, like black organ-pipes
Which once gentle ladies pressed to their own,
Jostle together protractedly in hideous love-making.
Hurray! the gay dancers, you whose bellies are gone!
You can cut capers on such a long stage!
Hop! never mind whether it's fighting or dancing!
- Beelzebub, maddened, saws on his fiddles!
Oh the hard heels, no one's pumps are wearing out!
And nearly all have taken of their shirts of skin;
The rest is not embarrassing and can be seen without shame.
On each skull the snow places a white hat:
The crow acts as a plume for these cracked brains,
A scrap of flesh clings to each lean chin:
You would say, to see them turning in their dark combats,
They were stiff knights clashing pasteboard armours.
Hurrah! the wind whistles at the skeletons' grand ball!
The black gallows moans like an organ of iron !
The wolves howl back from the violet forests:
And on the horizon the sky is hell-red...
Ho there, shake up those funereal braggarts,
Craftily telling with their great broken fingers
The beads of their loves on their pale vertebrae:
Hey the departed, this is no monastery here!
Oh! but see how from the middle of this Dance of Death
Springs into the red sky a great skeleton, mad,
Carried away by his own impetus, like a rearing horse:
And, feeling the rope tight again round his neck,
Clenches his knuckles on his thighbone with a crack
Uttering cries like mocking laughter,
And then like a mountebank into his booth,
Skips back into the dance to the music of the bones!
On the black gallows, one-armed friend,
The paladins are dancing, dancing
The lean, the devil's paladins
The skeletons of Saladins.
Thank you Mr Rimbaud...
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