|Idiot's Galaxy (1493)
In the separate parishes of England
Winter’s glued to rough hewn hovels.
Sheep skin interiors sweat, while those
deemed inferior work up a lather,
surfing networks of enfeebled minds.
They point towards smoke smudging faraway horizons,
wondering if more like them were there,
nowhere to go, no thoughts to share
13 Jan 12
Rated 6 (6) by 1 users.
Active (1): 6
(define the words in this poem)
(711 more poems by this author)
Add A Comment:
The thump of a galaxy's revolution must be loud for someone. I prefer to listen to the stars burn.
maybe hovels glued to winter would be more philosophic; sheep skin interiors maybe too glib -- as an image of primitive, the words themselves show primitive by being laid out like you've laid them: nose to tail and bleating. the void may be your wish, but voiding in words has to prove itself poetry through more than listing. if these images are enough for you to feel as though you've author'd something universal, then that's a private thing between you and your dreams. to me it all just seems like a picture postcard of a happy landscape with huts.
and they do Known they do
Larry star man with singed underpants Lark
Ahhhh..... happy landscapes with huts...those were the daze cadmium
Larry far far away Lark
a constable feels best in a dark room with a spotlight. put it out in the garden and it looks like a bunch of old paint on a board...
so, larry, what's the stage look like here, and who's declaiming? is there a pit orchestra in your head flowing the scene along, smashing a cymbal at the peaks and clopping a stick when the pony cart lunges dizzily down stage?
that is, if you want to write music hall, why not add some music?
Oh I just realised whose declaiming...if that is the right word
i especially like the title and the couplet at the end.