But it’s wrong to kill and wound.Even yourself ,I had assumed

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Pray Father , please hear my confession.I have sinned during this dreadful recession
What,again? What’ve you done,you naughty man? Maybe you stole a pancake pan
Nothing.I did.Nothing at all.Yet I am going up the wall
Then  why are you here? Why do you  fear.Sartre’s nothing  in a bier
That’s what I’d like to know myself.Why have the police  got all my wealth
Well did you walk? Or did you run? Getting to church is such good fun
No the police brought me in a van.I know nothing about a pan
Some folk will die to exercise.Tell me, truly, do you lie
No,I’m a criminal,Father Brown.I am famous in this town
You get free transport from the police? When will you get  the full release?
They were charging me with onanism  just for fun but decided it’s not  done so I said, take me to a priest.He will hear me out at least
I don’t understand, in this sweet  land Why did they  that  think you had sinned
I told  them. myself  for alibi.I thought I’d  give Onan a try.They got me for  murder  which  was  a lie
You should sow your seeds, you know,my son.Some men say it can be fun
I live in a terraced house with  none.I  have not got my own garden
Sow them in someone else’s then.In such a case it is no sin
But isn’t it wrong to offer my sperm to a lady  out of turn?
Everything  is wrong  on earth today.See what the ladies have to say
Well, what a surprise.A shock indeed Are you descended from Augustine’s seed?
He wasn’t married when he died.I don’t know if he had even  tried
But he said before being dead ,Lord,  make me free of lusty thoughts.I’ll get killed if I am caught
True,but it ‘s a very long time  since then.Who can say if he  sinned?
But men still feel like that, don’t they? I have heard some boast all day
So do women,yes they do.But first you have to charm and woo
Well, they’re  ironing and washing.Not so good for heating passion
I think they ought to wash   before they dry.I’m  man, so hi  di hi
I’ll tell them but you tell me Should I wash  before I woo
Before  you woo, what else to do?
Flattening myself with the  red hot iron.Then they’ll love me when I’m dyin’
A novel way  of suicide.I once tried when down in Hythe
I thought I would at least look real  nice.That  makes it worth the heavy price
But it’s wrong to kill and wound.Even yourself ,I had assumed
Everything’s wrong,you told me so.Why not choose the time to go?
But that is wronger than most wrong.The birds will lose their evensongThink of those left  here behind! Keep their faces in your mind
They can follow free of charge.All they need are irons large
If we did that the world would end.Utter blackness would descend
Seems like it’s going   that way now.I’m just helping  in the how
Are you curious to know  who wins the vote?
I have lost my three remotes
Have you got a radio? They will tell you  when they know.
I am sorry for my sins.It seems that evil often wins
For your penance  eat a cake.Then go rambling by the lae.If you see a pretty girl ask her if she’s like a whirl.

Cliche

oxford2016-3
cliché
ˈkliːʃeɪ/
noun
noun: cliché; plural noun: clichés; noun: cliche; plural noun: cliches
  1. 1.
    a phrase or opinion that is overused and betrays a lack of original thought.
    “that old cliché ‘a woman’s place is in the home’”
    synonyms: platitude, hackneyed phrase, commonplace, banality, truism, trite phrase, banal phrase,overworked phrase, stock phrase, bromide; More

    • a very predictable or unoriginal thing or person.
      “each building is a mishmash of tired clichés”
  2. 2.
    PRINTINGBRITISH
    a stereotype or electrotype.
Origin
mid 19th century: French, past participle (used as a noun) of clicher ‘to stereotype’.

I feel inside there is a mystery

Without your permit ,I shall  charge  the free.
I ‘ve got  melodies that can’t be  heard
I  hear the sound of driftwood   on  the sea

Who was I and who can I now free?
Are there any  people left to stir?
Without you here ,I ‘m just hungry for that sea

I was just about to  kill a thousand fleas
This  spider sprang  from out of her  dark lair
I feel  the sounds  of    driftwood   on  the sea

That cup of tea was never, then,  quite free
She  spooked you off as if it were a Fair
Without you here ,I feel nothing can be.

She put you into rehab rather pre..
She brought death  to us with her  in her hair
I feel  just like I’m   drifting out  of me

They made you sow some seeds  and could not see
That you were  almost lying standing there
Without you living  ,I ‘m as long as me.

Quite soon  your vital  poems  had disappeared
You   were beaten whilst you were  jailed there
I feel inside  so black  with misery

Recognization  aching was    the   cue
I cannot I know the mind  in  such  affairs
I doubt a presence  now can salvage me.

Enchanting you by   webs  hung between her thighs
The  demon took your  hand ,I see it clear.
I feel inside.  I’d kill her to be me.

You left as fast as  smiling   can now be
Happy to escape  the  devil’s  glare
Without your  vision ,I am never me

I feel myself like ape or refugee.
Floating on  the tide, I know not where
Without your presence ,I’m no longer me.
I feel inside there is a mystery

Enchanting you by stars hung from her tree

Without your presence ,I’m no longer me.
I ‘ve got  memories that can’t be shared
I feel tlike   some old driftwood   on  the sea

Who was I and who can I now be?
Are there any  people left to care?
Without you here ,I am fno longer me.

I was just about to give you  that hot tea
This  woman sprang our of her  dark lair
I feel inside like  driftwood   on  the sea

 

That cup of tea was never, then, to be
She took you off as if it were a dare
Without you here ,I feel no longer me.

She put you into rehab misery.
She brought death inside with her like a prayer
I feel  just like I’m   drifting,   all at   sea

They made you go to gym and could not see
That you were  almost dying standing there
Without you living  ,I ‘m no longer me.

 

Quite soon  your vital signs  had disappeared
You   had not eaten whilst you were  jailed there
I feel inside like  driftwood ;I’m  at sea

Resuscitation  was  to be the  key
I cannot see  the wisdom  of  such fare
Without your presence ,I’m no longer me.

Enchanting you by   stars  hung from her tree
The  angel took your  hand ,as it was bare.
I feel inside like  driftwood , all at   sea

You left so fast but  gave a smile to me.
Happy to escape  the  carer’s  glare
Without your  being here ,I am not me

I feel myself like ape or refugee.
Floating on a raft, I know not where
Without your presence ,I’m no longer me.
I feel inside like  driftwood   on  the sea

 

 

A person’s authentic nature is a series of shifting, variegated planes

Philip K. Dick, from The Selected Letters of Philip K. Dick 1972-1973:

A person’s authentic nature is a series of shifting, variegated planes that establish themselves as he relates to different people; it is created by and appears within the framework of his interpersonal relationships.

Grace

IMG_0067

When those we loved are gone into the dark,

From where we come and so will also end;

Then mournful we await a living spark

To light  the fire within and sorrow mend.

 

Reality is not absorbed  whole;

Though we have seen, we cannot yet believe.

And pain torments our  jagged heart and soul

Until in time the grace  comes to receive.

 

We must believe that we can bear  this load,

Even when we fall and lie forlorn.

Help may come  or pain may be a goad.

Love may come from those we used to scorn.

 

To willingly accept  may seem too hard,too grim.

Yet when we do ,the spirit grows within

Only to God’s lion


He  grabbed my love and did not  it return
Labelled me insensitive.unkind.
He  struck my heart without   care or tconcern
I learned that in his soul he ‘s deaf and  blind

He labeled me   insensitive.unkind.
Not the perfect mother of his dreams
In his  deepest soul, he is  still blind
Makes connections mainly for his schemes

I was not the perfect mother of his dreams
His need was for a breast  to like upon
He  wants   women mainly for his schemes
Which failed with me and so he is long gone,

His need was for a breast  to like upon
In ease and comfort like a new born  child
He  failed with me, and so he is long gone,
For I prefer my company more wild.

 

In ease and comfort,  he lay  like a  child
He  never thought to ask  what I’d  prefer
For I prefer my company more wild.
Only to the lion of God defer

What is a pantoum poem?

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https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pantoum

 

Structure

The pantoum is a form of poetry similar to a villanelle in that there are repeating lines throughout the poem. It is composed of a series of quatrains; the second and fourth lines of each stanza are repeated as the first and third lines of the next. This pattern continues for any number of stanzas, except for the final stanza, which differs in the repeating pattern. The first and third lines of the last stanza are the second and fourth of the penultimate; the first line of the poem is the last line of the final stanza, and the third line of the first stanza is the second of the final. Ideally, the meaning of lines shifts when they are repeated although the words remain exactly the same: this can be done by shifting punctuation, punning, or simply recontextualizing.

A four-stanza pantoum is common (although more may be used), and in the final stanza, lines one and three from the first stanza can be repeated, or new lines can be written. The pantoum form is as follows:[1]

Stanza 1
A
B
C
D

Stanza 2
B
E
D
F

Stanza 3
E
G
F
H

Stanza 4
G
I (or A or C)
H
J (or A or C)

Verse forms[edit]

The pantoum is derived from the pantun berkait, a series of interwoven quatrains. An English translation of such a pantun berkait appeared in William Marsden‘s A Dictionary and Grammar of the Malayan Language in 1812. Victor Hugo published an unrhymed French version by Ernest Fouinet of this poem in the notes to Les Orientales(1829) and subsequent French poets began to make their own attempts at composing original “pantoums”.[2]Leconte de Lisle published five pantoums in his Poèmes tragiques (1884).

There is also the imperfect pantoum, in which the final stanza differs from the form stated above, and the second and fourth lines may be different from any preceding lines.

Baudelaire‘s famous poem “Harmonie du soir”[3] is usually cited as an example of the form, but it is irregular. The stanzas rhyme abba rather than the expected abab, and the last line, which is supposed to be the same as the first, is original.