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.
Day: November 5, 2016
Cliche

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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”
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2.PRINTINGBRITISHa stereotype or electrotype.
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
There are patterns and yet no patterns
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
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?
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
DStanza 2
B
E
D
FStanza 3
E
G
F
HStanza 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.