.:Step into the GvOzTH DoMain:.

The Dumbfounding

When you walked here,
took skin, muscle, hair,
eyes, larynx, we
withheld all honor: "His house is clay,
how can he tell us of his far country ?"

Your not familiar pace
in flesh, across the waves,
woke only our distrust.
Twice-torn we cried "A ghost"
and only on our planks counted you fast.

Dust wet with your spittle
cleared mortal trouble.
We called you a blasphemer,
a devil-tamer.

The evening you spoke of going away
we could not stay.
All legions massed. You had to wash, and rise,
alone, and face
out of the light, for us.

You died.
We said,
"The worst is true, our bliss
has come to this."

When you were seen by men
in holy flesh again
we hoped so despairingly for such report
we closed their windpipes for it.

Now you have sought
and seek, in all our ways, all thoughts,
streets, musics--and we make of these a din
trying to lock you out, or in,
to be intent. And dying.

Yet you are
constant and sure,
the all-lovely, all-men's way
to that far country.

Winning one, you again
all ways would begin
life: to make new
flesh, to empower
the weak in nature
to restore
or stay the sufferer;

lead through the garden to
trash, rubble, hill,
where, the outcast's outcast, you
sound dark's uttermost, strangely light-brimming, until
time be full.

Margaret Avison, The Dumbfounding

Myxomatosis -Philip Larkin

Caught in the centre of a soundless field
While hot inexplicable hours go by
What trap is this? Where were its teeth concealed?
You seem to ask.

                       I make a sharp reply,
Then clean my stick. I'm glad I can't explain
Just in what jaws you were to suppurate:
You may have thought things would come right again
If you could only keep quite still and wait.

Myxomatosis -Radiohead

The mongrel cat came home
Holding half a head
Proceeded to show it off
To all his new found friends
He said I been where I liked
I slept with who I like
She ate me up for breakfast
She screwed me in a vice
But now

I don't know
why I feel so tongue-tied
Don't know why I feel
So skinned alive

I sat in the cupboard
And wrote it down in neat
They were cheering and waving
Cheering and waving
Twitching and salivating like with myxomatosis
But it got edited fucked up
Strangled, beaten up
Used as a photo in Time magazine
Buried in a burning black hole in Devon

I don’t know
Why I feel so tongue-tied
I don’t know
Why I feel so skinned alive.

My thoughts are misguided and a little naive
I twitch and I salivate like with myxomatosis
You should put me in a home or you should put me down
I got myxomatosis
I got myxomatosis
Yeah no one likes a smart ass but we all like stars
(for a reason) That wasn't my intention (for a reason) I did for a reason (reason)
It must have got mixed up
Strangled beaten up
I got myxomatosis
I got myxomatosis

I don’t know
Why I feel so tongue-tied

Mr Bleaney

'This was Mr Bleaney's room. He stayed
The whole time he was at the Bodies, till
They moved him.' Flowered curtains, thin and frayed,
Fall to within five inches of the sill,

Whose window shows a strip of building land,
Tussocky, littered. 'Mr Bleaney took
My bit of garden properly in hand.'
Bed, upright chair, sixty-watt bulb, no hook

Behind the door, no room for books or bags -
'I'll take it.' So it happens that I lie
Where Mr Bleaney lay, and stub my fags
On the same saucer-souvenir, and try

Stuffing my ears with cotton-wool, to drown
The jabbering set he egged her on to buy.
I know his habits - what time he came down,
His preference for sauce to gravy, why

He kept on plugging at the four aways -
Likewise their yearly frame: the Frinton folk
Who put him up for summer holidays,
And Christmas at his sister's house in Stoke.

But if he stood and watched the frigid wind
Tousling the clouds, lay on the fusty bed
Telling himself that this was home, and grinned,
And shivered, without shaking off the dread

That how we live measures our own nature,
And at his age having no more to show
Than one hired box should make him pretty sure
He warranted no better, I don't know.

Philip Larkin, The Whitsun Weddings

The Old Boys Club
Giving pats and exchanging hugs
Reminiscing the days gone by
Where they were once great, esteemed members
Of a patriotic pride and joy, no room for stragglers

“Those were the days of our lives, our baby steps,
We have arrived…,”
The Club chairman proclaims, as if membership from thence
Started the wheels of their poignant pyrrhic victory
At the cusp of their new promotion
Into the Club’s adoring ordination

Smiling spouses nod with growing pride
Like the maidens on fields, handkerchiefs aloft,
Softly welcoming their warrior men from glorious wars
Men, unchanged save for ghosts in their glassy eyes,
A grotesque memento mori of their deadened souls and
Repressed cries.

Henceforth the maidens beamed, basking in that moment
As their men went to Church, tearfully paying penance.

The Old Boys’ substantial confidence
Brought them success in abundance
German and Italian marques they held dear
Homes with gleaming chandeliers

Awaiting each month’s close
They shuffled to the Club
As the chairman arose, blood red Bordeaux held aloft
Grandly cheering the Boys on their considerable dominion
Men, unchanged save for their sharp shoes and silk ties
More beautiful emblems of their meteoric rise!

“I still recall the great times we used to have..”
The Old Boys Club
Giving pats and exchanging hugs
Leaders they emerged then and now aim to be,
Scions of divine destiny.

The gunk coalesces into the sink
Yoke of man, that unflinching thirst for the sweeter
Swimming in the swirl that his lips may taste
His arms reach desperately for the prize
To better his lot, to rise
In that swirling descend.

Such a sickly positive trait
Vomit seals his fate
Shored up on the gunk with his sweet desire
Admires his prize for an ephemeral second
His tremulous arms torn to threads by his razed envious soul
Soon, he jumps into the vortex for a second go


Enter the GvOzTH DoMain...
Tuesday, April 24, 2007 The Dumbfounding When you walked here, took skin, muscle, hair, eyes, larynx, we withheld all honor: "His house is clay, how can he tell us of his far country ?" Your not familiar pace in flesh, across the waves, woke only our distrust. Twice-torn we cried "A ghost" and only on our planks counted you fast. Dust wet with your spittle cleared mortal trouble. We called you a blasphemer, a devil-tamer. The evening you spoke of going away we could not stay. All legions massed. You had to wash, and rise, alone, and face out of the light, for us. You died. We said, "The worst is true, our bliss has come to this." When you were seen by men in holy flesh again we hoped so despairingly for such report we closed their windpipes for it. Now you have sought and seek, in all our ways, all thoughts, streets, musics--and we make of these a din trying to lock you out, or in, to be intent. And dying. Yet you are constant and sure, the all-lovely, all-men's way to that far country. Winning one, you again all ways would begin life: to make new flesh, to empower the weak in nature to restore or stay the sufferer; lead through the garden to trash, rubble, hill, where, the outcast's outcast, you sound dark's uttermost, strangely light-brimming, until time be full. Margaret Avison, The Dumbfounding Labels: Quotes Written at 1:35 PM by gvozdika \| # \| 0 Comment(s) 0 Comment(s): Post a Comment Friday, March 30, 2007 Mexico City (Feb 8 - 12, 2007) Labels: Photo Collages Written at 4:31 AM by gvozdika \| # \| 1 Comment(s) 1 Comment(s): HAHAHAHAH! this is SO FUNNY! Written at Apr 1, 2007, 1:51:00 AM by Anonymous Post a Comment Thursday, March 29, 2007 Labels: Photo Collages Written at 7:45 PM by gvozdika \| # \| 0 Comment(s) 0 Comment(s): Post a Comment Wednesday, March 28, 2007 Labels: Photo Collages Written at 12:31 PM by gvozdika \| # \| 0 Comment(s) 0 Comment(s): Post a Comment Monday, March 12, 2007 Myxomatosis -Philip Larkin Caught in the centre of a soundless field While hot inexplicable hours go by What trap is this? Where were its teeth concealed? You seem to ask. I make a sharp reply, Then clean my stick. I'm glad I can't explain Just in what jaws you were to suppurate: You may have thought things would come right again If you could only keep quite still and wait. Myxomatosis -Radiohead The mongrel cat came home Holding half a head Proceeded to show it off To all his new found friends He said I been where I liked I slept with who I like She ate me up for breakfast She screwed me in a vice But now I don't know why I feel so tongue-tied Don't know why I feel So skinned alive I sat in the cupboard And wrote it down in neat They were cheering and waving Cheering and waving Twitching and salivating like with myxomatosis But it got edited fucked up Strangled, beaten up Used as a photo in Time magazine Buried in a burning black hole in Devon I don’t know Why I feel so tongue-tied I don’t know Why I feel so skinned alive. My thoughts are misguided and a little naive I twitch and I salivate like with myxomatosis You should put me in a home or you should put me down I got myxomatosis I got myxomatosis Yeah no one likes a smart ass but we all like stars (for a reason) That wasn't my intention (for a reason) I did for a reason (reason) It must have got mixed up Strangled beaten up I got myxomatosis I got myxomatosis I don’t know Why I feel so tongue-tied Labels: Radiohead Musings Written at 11:39 AM by gvozdika \| # \| 0 Comment(s) 0 Comment(s): Post a Comment Mr Bleaney 'This was Mr Bleaney's room. He stayed The whole time he was at the Bodies, till They moved him.' Flowered curtains, thin and frayed, Fall to within five inches of the sill, Whose window shows a strip of building land, Tussocky, littered. 'Mr Bleaney took My bit of garden properly in hand.' Bed, upright chair, sixty-watt bulb, no hook Behind the door, no room for books or bags - 'I'll take it.' So it happens that I lie Where Mr Bleaney lay, and stub my fags On the same saucer-souvenir, and try Stuffing my ears with cotton-wool, to drown The jabbering set he egged her on to buy. I know his habits - what time he came down, His preference for sauce to gravy, why He kept on plugging at the four aways - Likewise their yearly frame: the Frinton folk Who put him up for summer holidays, And Christmas at his sister's house in Stoke. But if he stood and watched the frigid wind Tousling the clouds, lay on the fusty bed Telling himself that this was home, and grinned, And shivered, without shaking off the dread That how we live measures our own nature, And at his age having no more to show Than one hired box should make him pretty sure He warranted no better, I don't know. Philip Larkin, The Whitsun Weddings Labels: Quotes Written at 10:55 AM by gvozdika \| # \| 0 Comment(s) 0 Comment(s): Post a Comment Tuesday, January 30, 2007 The Old Boys Club The Old Boys Club Giving pats and exchanging hugs Reminiscing the days gone by Where they were once great, esteemed members Of a patriotic pride and joy, no room for stragglers Leaders they emerged then and now aim to be, Scions of divine destiny. “Those were the days of our lives, our baby steps, We have arrived…,” The Club chairman proclaims, as if membership from thence Started the wheels of their poignant pyrrhic victory At the cusp of their new promotion Into the Club’s adoring ordination Smiling spouses nod with growing pride Like the maidens on fields, handkerchiefs aloft, Softly welcoming their warrior men from glorious wars Men, unchanged save for ghosts in their glassy eyes, A grotesque memento mori of their deadened souls and Repressed cries. Henceforth the maidens beamed, basking in that moment As their men went to Church, tearfully paying penance. The Old Boys’ substantial confidence Brought them success in abundance German and Italian marques they held dear Homes with gleaming chandeliers Awaiting each month’s close They shuffled to the Club As the chairman arose, blood red Bordeaux held aloft Grandly cheering the Boys on their considerable dominion Men, unchanged save for their sharp shoes and silk ties More beautiful emblems of their meteoric rise! “I still recall the great times we used to have..” The Old Boys Club Giving pats and exchanging hugs Leaders they emerged then and now aim to be, Scions of divine destiny. /Gvoz/ January 30, 2007 Labels: Verses Written at 1:25 PM by gvozdika \| # \| 0 Comment(s) 0 Comment(s): Post a Comment Friday, January 19, 2007 The Cycle The gunk coalesces into the sink Yoke of man, that unflinching thirst for the sweeter Swimming in the swirl that his lips may taste His arms reach desperately for the prize To better his lot, to rise In that swirling descend. ******* Such a sickly positive trait Vomit seals his fate Shored up on the gunk with his sweet desire Admires his prize for an ephemeral second His tremulous arms torn to threads by his razed envious soul Soon, he jumps into the vortex for a second go /Gvoz/ January 19, 2007 Labels: Verses Written at 4:08 PM by gvozdika \| # \| 0 Comment(s) 0 Comment(s): Post a Comment	Name: Gvoz D.O.B: 7 Feb 1983 Horoscope: Aquarius Home: Eastside SG Favs:Alt.bands,Loungin, Politics,History December 2004 January 2005 April 2005 May 2005 June 2005 January 2007 March 2007 April 2007 \|Home\| Radio.Head AtEase.Web Foreign//Affairs NY//Times CfR PaV.G VaN.Era Ta.Ryn Tree.sia Se.Rene X.Wei AvE PaM Ru.tH Powered by blogger
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