|Tales of Fat Man and Boss (1955)
Back then my young brothers were wailing,
while dragged out from church to be Sunday School fools,
but I was so cool, scoffed at their tales,
“The Adventures of Fat Man and Boss.”
Each shared hysteria, adventures mysterious,
were drowned out by mother because.
Sherbert fizzed rainbows, mercury filled teeth,
our cash never reached the Lords copper filled box.
He was sent down an ally, while we sallied forth,
“Jeese, Mary Joseph, mother of God.”
Thunderous hail, farting and lightenings scorch,
seemed divine interventions from Fat Man and Boss.
Those long afternoons dragged time along kerbs,
hop among cobbles bobbed in straight lines.
Threw stones at ducks on banks of canals,
firing our catapults at wild squawking birds.
God’s creatures are all great or small,
so sublime, so banal, so absurd.
I yearned for a boat to sail far away,
from the crushed effervescence of those long ago days.
Dandelion and Burdock soaking in slang,
made up words tangled with too tender tongues.
I’d have been gunner, Fat Man on rudder,
with Boss bloody helling loud and so clear.
When he was certain no one could hear him,
he’d yell “Fuck off world!” while we skirted the weir.
12 Sep 09
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over written, like you were going for american idol, and were afraid you were boring to look at so you had to pump up the poem with so many radical images. they're not really images though -- all the 'sunday school fools' -- they're word-product from the corner store: somebody else's idea of what food should look like.
this one, to carry the image, is like a frozen burrito for the convenience store microwave, and we're not even a microwave. why would this work for us?
jeez, larry, how did you turn into a rapmusic-in-the-car 30's something white boy on his way to work?
Who is this us? and why the royal we? Is there something we don't know? Maybe a self annointed royal garter? Congratulations on your extended metaphor "Frozen Burrito"? mmmmmm...... Goodness me this is lather worked up upon lather and you probably had to do something about your underpants after tapping it out. Calm down my foaming at the mouth , self designated high priest of PC, I am fearful you are shortening yoiur alloted span with green eyed bile. I accept that this is over written, and i know you are easily wound up, and yes you make good points but have an extremely unfortunate way of coming across which ultimately
seems to have impeded and thwarted your life chances and boy...... does it show.
Larry with depest sympathy Lark
there's some fantastically evocative writing in here - the references and pointers are slipped in with a light and unforced touch so that the reader is totally drawn into theis world - my question is about the strength of the rebellion at the end - it seems to be a little out of kilter with that, but a brave and well-concieved poem.
who is this us? anyone who gives a shit about keeping art real. for you to forget that this is where we get critical -- and do this lamer thing of acting like it's a party for your knighthood -- reflects badly on your writing. it's like you didn't even care enough to look at what you'd written through someone else's eyes... didn't even want that. so, that's what you've got -- you and you alone, and we and all of us, and still this ragged piece of hype available in several sizes: fat, bloated, overblown, and, too big to be anything but hype.
back when my younger brothers wore trousers,
when dragged to church or to the dentist,
i was so cool and didn't wear nothin, cause
i didn't no no better.
schubert playing on the grammaphone,
a marche militart, and i'm doing ballet
in the parlour while all the family prays --
for meee??? -- thanks, ma.
those long afternoon sessions
of watching my form in the mirror,
and pirouette, and peachy little onions
in the martini of coming of age --
how i yearned for a glass of tanqueray,
or at least a booths, to flirt my mind out,
and far away from thoughts of sydney.
i have been a hummer, and phat dude
in the clubs, with the boys yelling for my
strip the bacon routine. i just tell them to,
fuck offfff, world, and dropped my underwear.
After reading this effort i know now that your frustrated pique and sardonic tone are a result of your frustration at being unable to conceive of anything that you can make look even slightly credible other than patronising so called poems such as this which is such a lame parody and hardly surprising coming from a mind that seems crippled by an inability to truly and sincerely express anything worth reading
your acknowledgement of the unfortunates and down and outs of this world does you credit, they don't get any
"Fuck off world" is the symbol of helplessness and of never being able to fully realise ourselves outside of the world that others created for us. Trashpoodle is a prime example of being the runt (and i hope i have the spelling correct there) of the litter and it shows through in every thing he writes but instead of doing something positive about it he appears to enjoy wallowing in his fixations. I anticipate another dose of well reasoned abuse from him(Larry yawns and glances at his watch) within a few hours or so, the bookies have stopped taking bets in it, in fact they are laying 10-1 on that he doesn't spend less than 5 hours every other hour ladling it out and by midnight Tuesday 20-1 on that he will have been in 10 abusive interchanges, tried to write a half decent poem and failed, ridden round his neighbourhoods(very briefly) on his little red trycycle to get in a couple of frozen kababs and banana milkshakes to keep himself going and may, as a special treat wear his Joey the clown outfit for a whole evening sometime before Christmas.
Larry ringmaster Lark
dear ringworm: living in splendor has blinded you... my small light glows bright only when life's dark -- however could it dim the golden lark?
Now you are finally talking sense TP and i think you might be bathing in my Aurora Borealis...could it be yes it could somethings coming but its a dud. Oh no TP...you shouldn't have crapped all over the porch...whatever will Grandma Moses say
Larry blinded by the light Lark
boringAlice, for a man who wallows in dadda you do sound like uncle dursley.
And you sound like Mr. Pooter. Keep em coming my friend. I, while surprised you can spare me the time from all your other psuedo escapades on here, am cleaning up at the bookies.
Larry Ladbrokes Lark