| From: ern malleyscrub | 16/01/2002
19:46:18 |
| Subject: australin poe- tree | post id: 30897 |
| The Other Womans
song I tidy up before he arrives, put away my womens magazines and poetry and scribbly drawings I wouldn't tell him I love him, some things are better left unsaid He doesn't laugh so much now, his wife is playing with his head so I keep everthing simple, try to make him happy, and when we find our way to bed I ignore the hurt look he hides with more than a strong heart can bear. The world is outside when we hold ourselves wrapped in this fragile laughter and flesh warm trap we hold back the tide of the scorn of discovery our friends do not know and it seems easy to hide and yet I long to breathe the air of public scandal and disgrace even if it blows lilliputian winds our love may at last show its face. | |
| From: ghostgummer | 16/01/2002
20:34:12 |
| Subject: re: australin poe- tree | post id:
30920 |
search me and the memories i have kept and never neatly placed with hesitation on the nature strip one hard rubbish collection day search me and the places i go these days with no photos on the mantle and no friends remain to say g'day do you remember the day? search me my face my hand where i hold it not at least they are clean except for the corners where no gaze lingers quite long enough to see search me but you will not find for in the spare room on top of the wardrobe in a green shoebox next to taxpack 96 lies my heart | |
| From: G-wiz | 17/01/2002
18:35:58 |
| Subject: re: australin poe- tree | post id:
31210 |
|
"Terrence, this is stupid stuff: You eat your victuals fast enough; There can't be much amiss, 'tis clear, To see the rate you drink your beer. But oh, good Lord, the verse you make, It gives a chap the belly ache. The cow, the old cow, she is dead; It sleeps well the horned head: We poor lads, 'tis our turn now To hear such tunes as killed the cow. Pretty friendship 'tis to rhyme Your friends to death before their time Moping Melancholy mad: Come, pipe a tune to dance to, lad." Why if 'tis dancing you would be, There's brisker pipes than poetry. Say, for what were hop-yards meant, Or why was Burton built on Trent? Oh many a peer of England Brews Livelier liquor than the muse , And malt does more than Milton can To justify God's ways to man. Ale, man, ale's the stuff to drink For fellows whom it hurts to think: Look into the pewter pot To see the world as the world's not. And faith, 'tis pleasant till 'tis past: The mischief is that 'twill not last. Oh I have been to Ludlow fair And left my necktie God knows where, And carried half-way home or near, Pints and Quarts of Ludlow beer: Then the world seemed none so bad, And I myself a sterling lad; And down in lovely much I've lain, Happy till I woke again.Till I saw the morning sky: Heigho, the tale was all a lie; The world, it was the old world yet, I was I, my things were wet, And nothing now remained to do But begin the game anew. Therefore, since the world has still Much good, but much less good than ill, And while sun and moon endure Luck's a chance, but trouble's sure, I'd face it as a wise man would, And train for ill and not for good. 'tis true, the stuff I bring for sale Is not so brisk a brew as ale: Out of a stem that scored the hand I wrung it in a weary land. But take it: if the smack is sour, The better for the embittered hour; It should do good to heart and head When your soul is in my sould's stead; And I will friend you, if I may, In the dark and cloudy day. There was a king reigned in the East: There, when kings will sit to feast, They get their fill before they think With poisoned meat and poisoned drink. He gathered all that springs to birth From the many-venomed earth; First a little, thence to more, He sampled all her killing store; And easy, smiling, seasoned sound, Sate the king when healths went rough. They put arsenic in his meat And stared aghast to watch him eat; They poured strychnine in his cup And shook to see him drink it up: They shook to see him drink it up: They shook, they stared as white's their shirt: Them it was their poison hurt. - I tell the tale that I heard told. Mithridates, he died old. --A.E Housman | |