We never get washed at the weekend
We like to be dirty like coal
But when mother visits
She will say what is this is
Get me hot water and bowl
In the past people were dirty
But people looked roughly the same
Now we are phobic
After aerobics
We feel like a cat yet untamed
Our natural odours are sexy
Our nature propels us to mate
So get washed less often
And deodorant freshening
For procreation it’s never too late
https://writingcooperative.com/anne-lamotts-top-13-writing-tips-7577eb5d5c24
“I know some very great writers, writers you love who write beautifully and have made a great deal of money, and not one of them sits down routinely feeling wildly enthusiastic and confident. Not one of them writes elegant first drafts…For me and most of the other writers I know, writing is not rapturous. In fact, the only way I can get anything written at all is to write really, really shitty first drafts.” -Anne Lamott
Lamott’s line about “shitty first drafts” has gotten a lot of airtime in the writing community. Many writers seem to use it as a rallying cry.
To me, this quote is a great reminder of the fact that authorship is not a land of “haves” and “have-nots.” The world population has not been divided into capable writers and hopeless wannabes.
If even the best writers in the world struggle to write beautiful prose, we know that writing is a learned craft — one in which we can all improve over time.
We earn the blessing of the Muse by putting in writing time — not by being born with a golden ink pen in our hand.
What a my shame my husband is dead
I thought you were unhappy with him
Yes and from Weds I could have got a no faults divorce!
Well why were you keen to hide his faults?
The faults were mine
If he got home late I’d throw his dinner at him.
I wondered why you had so few plates.
I lied about him to the neighbours
Lying is hard when we forget which lie we said to whom,
I told them he beat me
Did he?
I beat him.
At what?
Chess
That’s not cruelty
It was to him
But he could have taken lessons
In what?
Being a good loser
To your own wife?
Well he was very sarcastic
He said for someone from the poorest street in Lancashire to have got into Cambridge they must have thought I was black
The branches of the tree reach out like hands
The hands of children trusting in their need
Beseeching me to notice their demands
On the sea shore, ghosts of children stand
By gasping waves. where fishing boats made speed
The branches bend out like god’s little hands
In microcosm, in miniature on land
In macrocosm where the planet bleeds
Beseeches us to answer earth’s demands
The suck of surf, the prayer of shingle sound
Where rough plants fill the shorelines with their seeds
While branches reach out like god’s little hands
Look stranger at this island, hear its sounds
The sea birds here, the robin in the weeds
Beseeching man to notice their demands
Prayer is less important, it’s these needs
Demanding ,without bitterness, our deeds
The branches of the trees, the golden strands
Tell us, humankind ,their last demands
It’s frosty and I found my knit wool skirt
It’s purple heather Northern, long and warm
I remember falling down some steps
Stone,they were ,you took me in your arms
With you standing staring on the edge
Oh, Cleveland Hills that make a cliff like fall
We drove the A 19 at deep sunset
The profile of the hills stood out,they called
They ,like Langdale, speak myself to me
My soul awakes with joy to cliffs of sight
Rejoice, oh psalmist, sing your rhapsody
From deep darkness to the morning light
I am the earth, my body will lie here
From Arnside’s Viaduct to Buttermere
I love you like I'd love a black walnut. You're so rare I can't eat you. I'll put you in my pocket and take you with me when I go in town I'll feel your crinkles and your wrinkles, But nobody will know. I love you like I'd love a comice pear. I'll put you in a golden bowl. I'll let the sun shine on you, Till you are ripe. I'll put you in my bag, Take you to a meadow of buttercups And devour you. And nobody will know. I love you like I'd love a flower. I'll give you my best vase. I'll stand it in the window. Then I'll look at you all day With my peripheral and my central vision, Till your pattern is embedded in my brain. I'll sleep well and dream of you all night. When I'll wake up ,I'll remember everything
The dawn was pinky yellow in the sun
Then the gilded sky was swiftly come.
Now the loaded clouds have filled the sky
Dark with rage as nuclear missiles fly
Mr Putins sick now is his end
Dammit he will take us all my friends
I wonder if I can write
the sort of poems
that the eliterati produce,
after reading the
London Review of Books,
while cooking a Rick Stein recipe,
drinking gin and tonic,
or French wine,
and serving a ten course meal
to Nigella Lawson and Charles
Saatchi
that leaves her gasping
in the most elegant yet sensual manner
her tongue flickering like an adder
across her glossily carpeted scarlet lips
while her cleavage looks as tempting
as my mother’s lovely breast did when I
was but an infant in arms.
That’s enough of that,The Editor.
signed X
[Books are not us……….has noone told you
We’re alive,alive………..we’re alive.Thsnk God]
I think I can probably bring in Heisenberg
and my cat;I read The Listener;
Weren’t those the days,
Ah, for just one of them now.
Anyway in Dirac’s space there are four dimensions
…….I can feel for him..
I’m almost four dimensional in my living.
I could feel myself
Looking down on my sister from the ceiling
And thinking,Is that me?
Am I who?
However I descended again after some sleep,
And I made some earl grey tea.
It was very grey;
possibly i did not let it brew for long enough.
Thst’s the main question in life;
When is enough enough?
What is exactly the right time for action
And reaction?
Judgment,timimg,execution’
That sums it up.
Tea is quite wet,luckily..
I’m parched with the literati,
The clitorati,
The flitorati,
And the fitorati.
All we wait for now is notoriety.
Tempus fugit.
Sobriety.
E
Black against light sky
Bright flowers blown ; bare branches now
Reach beseechingly.
Reluctant sun hangs
Sending thin light and pinkness
To clouds sleek as cats
Now paling, blue grey,
I see mauve dying into dark
Night sky edges in
The blackness awaits;
Dreams dangle like stringed balloons
A new born gurgles
How full the holly!
Forsythia large and darker,
Birds shelter wisely
Fidgeting is exercise of sorts
Shouting words that are considered coarse
Sex is better standing on your head
Gravity is better than your bed.
Skipping classes, running out of milk
Jumping in alarm, or clicking links
Walking out on lovers in a rage
Stalking those whose worth you cannot gauge
Printing errors, boiling over milk
Washing up your shirt if it is silk
Oiling the agenda and the wheels
Covering up our nerves with rolling steel
Helter skelters, slides and rolling balls
Having rows that drive me up the wall.
Fidgeting and tapping on a board
Kicking habits, tripping over cords
Playing on my feelings with your airs see
Keeping lustful men upon the stairs
Sitting on the loo and crawling out
Menstruating monthly, drinking stout
Poring over maps with ruined eyes
Keeping up, rotatating all your toes
Feeling lively touching up your walls
Churning out Epistles for St Paul
Movement keeps us going as we bathe
Diving through the deep green of a wave
Counting shells and mines and heads of cod
Making kippers,salting fishing rods
Writing letters on a sweatshirt front
Writing me ,advising who to haunt
Making fountain pens to write with ink
Letting rubber boots dry in the sink
We can’t keep still ,so mindfulness is bad
Until the end when all are mindful dead
Sorry our house may be bombed today do don’t leave a message
Hello I am a friend of your sister
We took a short break in Moscow but our money is running out
Can you help me,?
My name is Putin, Vladimir
Could you do a bank transfer?
I’ll send you one from Kiev
Less-than-optimal levels of the sunshine vitamin, can spell trouble for your memory and moods.28 Aug 2019
For 6 months I have had no treatment.
This Causes brain fog tiredness
Depression anxiety and insomnia
Just what I need on my birthday NOT
I remember mother’s beauty and her coal stained and cracked hands
Each little line was etched in black, like a map to other lands
She always wore an apron that she made from an old dress
How I loved my mother,I did I must confess.
I remember mother’s beauty and the row of nappy pins
She always wore them like a brooch, while we kids made a din
The baby had her rusks and milk, she had a little pot
She slept inside a cradle then she moved into a cot
I remember most Mam’s cooking, the apple dumplings steamed
The kettle too sat on the fire , I played and then I dreamed
She had a tin of buttons, she was ace at making clothes
She knitted like an acrobat to forget her many woes
Her daddy was a miner till he had a heart attack
He came home black and dusty, then he filled his old tin bath
When he retired he got a dog, he loved her very well
He called her Lassie for her name, she was beautiful , my belle
Her daddy came to see us after our own daddy died
He helped our mother with odd jobs, then we all ate scones and cried
Can’t anyone makebPutin’s get panic attacks?
If I were a panic I’d go now.On by the wings of a dove
Don’t be manic about your
panic. What brings calm but loving arms?
Play it slow,reduce the blow
Don’t shut down. Share my frowns
I felt so weird.It’s his damn beard
The tree looks different yet it is the. same.
The sun may shine,the wood is polish plain
e
Would you like a massage?
I’ve never cooked one yet.
Could you use a banana?
I need a hammer for this job.
Would you like a packed lunch?
It will take more than lunch to get a pact signed.
Why does corn flake?
It thinks it’s snow
Why do blood vessels narrow?
To make themselves thinner.
How do you spell artery?
Good guess.
Why is this a bad time for sex?
We don’t need them in South Africa
What is a plateau?
The female form of platoon
So how about cartoon?
The masculine form of cart
How about the eau?
Leave it off.
Why
I drank it
Hope the cartwheels were clean.
Do stop panicking.
Where is he?
With Mrs King.
Cats raised from the dead free
with every bag of nuts
.(£54)
Cods rose to heaven.Getting new
stock on the First Friday of May
Sadness preventative advice.
Love your neighbour daily
Cats claws cut on Sundays
Minced sticklebacks on sale at
the back of the Hospital now
Roads gritted every June.
Talking cats here when Bojo
resigns owing to psychosis.
English as a second language for
cats or mules.
How to believe in Love
So why do you dislike that Clinic
There were two dead cats in the Waiting Room.
What were they waiting for?
And the floor was dirty.
I’m not surprised.
The doctor looked at the computer all the time
I’m afraid they do.
But it wasn’t on.
Shortage of power already?
No, he hadn’t put the plug in.
One of those dreamy intellectuals
Do they read the Sun?
Are you sure he was the doctor?
He was the only person in the room.
He could have killed the doctor and hidden the body
Where?
In the Waiting Room !
While reblogging someone’s post is often meant as a compliment,reblogging all of someone else’s posts seems excessive.
It is better to write a piece about a blog you admire and then put links to the posts so that people read the posts on the blog of the person who wrote them.
You need to be careful not to plagiarize.
Reblogging images may put you in breach of copyright also.
As we are taught
Moderation in all things.
That is a good policy otherwise you give the impression you have no ideas of your own to write about so why do you have a blog at all?
Surely nobody has a blog just to put posts there from someone else’s blog?
You can teblog this if you like
A mobile stone hit me on the head.
A noble bone is no guarantee.
A servile crone needs a big pile of cash from the state
A pebble roamed a stone was phoned
My wardrobe trenzy
Get rid of all transcendent numbers of garments Counting them to ensuring War, am They are uncountable and infinitem
Ergo god is a non recurring decimal. , How can he sleep?
By marrying a rational number!
No wonder we have wars by by
We can’t even have pi garments.
And pi is irrational to
Uncountable, irrational…what fun to play with number jumbles while drinking nettle tea from Heysham and having a suicide trip in a boat in a thunder storm in fearsome Morecambe Bay .
R
If you plan to make love in the night time
If you plan to make love in the day
Have you got medicine near you?
Where is your GNT spray?
How off putting it is with a lover
If the pain hits you when you have kissed
Grab hold of that spray and then use it
Under your tongue is the best
I hope it won’t happen tomorrow
For I am getting married at last
What will the bridegroom be thinking
If I lie down on the floor and then gasp?
His mother is 90 on Sunday
She’s glad he will have a kind wife
I hope I can treat her politely
Without sacrificing my life
300 mg of aspirin
Are stashed in my handbag so white
As well as my Nokia smartphone
My book and a candle to light
But God may decide I am ready
To join in his games up above
If I don’t see you tomorrow
Remember it’s all you I have loved
H
Young black males in London were 19 times more likely to be stopped and searched than the general population, a study of official data shows.
The tactic, dogged by claims of racial profiling, was concentrated in deprived areas, and the success rate for searches turning up something potentially unlawful had fallen from two years ago, the research by University College London’s institute for global city policing found.
Researchers examined official stop and search data in the capital from July to September
I
If you hate yourself, why do you think someone else will like you?
If your life is full and creative, you have no time to spend looking for someone else
I’m all alone and up a tree
Why won’t someone rescue me?
I came up here to see the view
I want you to come up too
I have no ladder nor a rope
I just have a telescope
For you see a spy
Watching ladies as they fry
The sun is hotter,more intense
I tell the ladies :No offence
But if I get more close to one
I am frightened and I run
Yet I long for a soul mate
And to share a box of dates
Call me silly, call me crazed
I am feeling fine yet dazed
