Register    Login    Forum    Search    FAQ

Board index » Monty Python Forums » Silly




Post new topic Reply to topic  [ 60 posts ]  Go to page Previous  1, 2, 3, 4, 5  Next
Author Message
 Post subject:
 Post Posted: Sun Aug 05, 2007 6:45 pm 
Offline
Paranoid Android
User avatar

Joined: Mon Apr 02, 2007 10:41 am
Posts: 3369
Location: Off with his head, man, off with his head...
constructive self criticism

my weakness
was
my feeling
of supremacy

i've
vanquished it
now i'm
perfect

Erich Fried

_________________
Image


Top 
 Profile  
 
 Post subject:
 Post Posted: Mon Aug 06, 2007 11:17 am 
Offline
Paranoid Android
User avatar

Joined: Mon Apr 02, 2007 10:41 am
Posts: 3369
Location: Off with his head, man, off with his head...
Take my words

Give me your hand...


Yannis Ritsos

_________________
Image


Top 
 Profile  
 
 Post subject:
 Post Posted: Tue Aug 07, 2007 3:24 am 
Offline
Major Looney
User avatar

Joined: Tue May 22, 2007 4:20 am
Posts: 504
Location: Hell is where the heart is
The Goat

(Mate Balota)

Four hours my mother walked,
fifty thousand steps she made fasting.

Over hills and valley,
to me in town,
to tell me that,
the goat had died.

At home my old grandmother,
a small, sick sister,
and a house without wheat, flour, money,
and a dead goat.

Another thousand steps,
each step full of care,
how can so many be fed
from the pay of just one child in town?

Three days I did not eat,
three nights cried for the goat,
and worked in the furnace,
fourteen hours a day.

Not the far off Austrian Emperor.
Not the great German Emperor,
can even begin imagining,
the thoughts of a small man
crying all night for a dead goat.

_________________
... I reached for your hand again
In the dark
Your hand was the light
But my hand sank through
And I whispered your name
in silence
Come back
Be mine ...


Top 
 Profile  
 
 Post subject:
 Post Posted: Tue Aug 07, 2007 3:26 am 
Offline
Major Looney
User avatar

Joined: Tue May 22, 2007 4:20 am
Posts: 504
Location: Hell is where the heart is
Walking Around

(Pablo Neruda)

It so happens I am sick of being a man.
And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie
houses
dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt
steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.

The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse
sobs.
The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool.
The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens,
no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators.

It so happens that I am sick of my feet and my nails
and my hair and my shadow.
It so happens I am sick of being a man.

Still it would be marvelous
to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily,
or kill a nun with a blow on the ear.
It would be great
to go through the streets with a green knife
letting out yells until I died of the cold.

I don't want to go on being a root in the dark,
insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep,
going on down, into the moist guts of the earth,
taking in and thinking, eating every day.

I don't want so much misery.
I don't want to go on as a root and a tomb,
alone under the ground, a warehouse with corpses,
half frozen, dying of grief.

That's why Monday, when it sees me coming
with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline,
and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel,
and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the
night.

And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist
houses,
into hospitals where the bones fly out the window,
into shoeshops that smell like vinegar,
and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin.

There are sulphur-colored birds, and hideous intestines
hanging over the doors of houses that I hate,
and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot,
there are mirrors
that ought to have wept from shame and terror,
there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical
cords.

I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes,
my rage, forgetting everything,
I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic
shops,
and courtyards with washing hanging from the line:
underwear, towels and shirts from which slow
dirty tears are falling.

_________________
... I reached for your hand again
In the dark
Your hand was the light
But my hand sank through
And I whispered your name
in silence
Come back
Be mine ...


Top 
 Profile  
 
 Post subject:
 Post Posted: Wed Aug 08, 2007 3:39 pm 
Offline
Paranoid Android
User avatar

Joined: Mon Apr 02, 2007 10:41 am
Posts: 3369
Location: Off with his head, man, off with his head...
Strange Child

the curly haired girl said
her hair were snakes
invisible to others
but throw up nonetheless visible fire
which will incinerate everything

None of us grew stiff
we gave her a truth serum
the substance that always makes the patient
tell the truth

In her words nothing changed
the clinic burned down


Erich Fried

_________________
Image


Top 
 Profile  
 
 Post subject:
 Post Posted: Fri Aug 10, 2007 9:10 pm 
Offline
Paranoid Android
User avatar

Joined: Mon Apr 02, 2007 10:41 am
Posts: 3369
Location: Off with his head, man, off with his head...
"Problems" by Subcomandante Marcos

This thing that is one's country is somewhat difficult to explain,

But more difficult still is to understand what it is to love one's country.

For example,

they taught us that to love one's country is, for example,

To salute the flag

To rise upon hearing the National Anthem

To get as drunk as we please when the national soccer team loses

To get as drunk as we please when the national soccer team wins and a few etceteras that don't change much from one presidency to the next....

And, for example,

they didn't teach us that to love one's country can be, for example,

to whistle like one who's becoming evermore distant, but

behind that mountain there is also a part of our country where nobody sees us

and where we open our hearts

(because one always opens one's heart when no one sees them)

And we tell this country,

for example,
everything we hate about it
and everything we love about it
and how it is always better to say it,
for example,
with gunshots and smiling.

And, for example,
they taught us that to love one's country is,
for example,
to wear a big sombrero,
to know the names of the Boy Heroes of Chapultepec,
to shout "Viva-arriba Mexico!"
even though Mexico is down and dead.
and other etceteras that change little from one presidency to
the next....

And, for example,
they did not teach us that
to love one's country
could be,
for example,
to be as quiet as one who dies,
but no,
for beneath this earth there is also a country
where no one hears us
and where we open our hearts
(because one always opens one's heart when no one is listening)
and, we tell our country,
the short and hard history
of those who went on dying to love her,
and who are no longer here to give us their reasons why,
but who give them all the same without being here,
those who taught us
that one can love one's country,
for example,
with gunshots and smiling.

_________________
Image


Top 
 Profile  
 
 Post subject:
 Post Posted: Tue Aug 14, 2007 12:48 pm 
Offline
Paranoid Android
User avatar

Joined: Mon Apr 02, 2007 10:41 am
Posts: 3369
Location: Off with his head, man, off with his head...
Waiting for the Barbarians by Konstantinos Kavafis


What are we waiting for, assembled in the forum?

The barbarians are to arrive today.

Why such inaction in the Senate?
Why do the Senators sit and pass no laws?

Because the barbarians are to arrive today.
What laws can the Senators pass any more?
When the barbarians come they will make the laws.

Why did our emperor wake up so early,
and sits at the greatest gate of the city,
on the throne, solemn, wearing the crown?

Because the barbarians are to arrive today.
And the emperor waits to receive
their chief. Indeed he has prepared
to give him a scroll. Therein he inscribed
many titles and names of honor.

Why have our two consuls and the praetors come out
today in their red, embroidered togas;
why do they wear amethyst-studded bracelets,
and rings with brilliant, glittering emeralds;
why are they carrying costly canes today,
wonderfully carved with silver and gold?

Because the barbarians are to arrive today,
and such things dazzle the barbarians.

Why don't the worthy orators come as always
to make their speeches, to have their say?

Because the barbarians are to arrive today;
and they get bored with eloquence and orations.

Why all of a sudden this unrest
and confusion. (How solemn the faces have become).
Why are the streets and squares clearing quickly,
and all return to their homes, so deep in thought?

Because night is here but the barbarians have not come.
And some people arrived from the borders,
and said that there are no longer any barbarians.

And now what shall become of us without any barbarians?
Those people were some kind of a solution.

_________________
Image


Top 
 Profile  
 
 Post subject:
 Post Posted: Sun Aug 19, 2007 5:31 am 
Offline
Paranoid Android
User avatar

Joined: Mon Apr 02, 2007 10:41 am
Posts: 3369
Location: Off with his head, man, off with his head...
I dream in verses
My nightmares are all nursery rhymes
And you are always there
Naked
But without motions
Covered in my shame you are
Your eyes reflect my guilt
Liar
Hypocrite
Your lips mouth “I love you”
Blood dripping on every word
You are my punishment
You are my redemption

I dream in colours
All of my nightmares are green and blue
And you’re there
Always frowning
Refusing to stand still
Cuddled in my arms you are
A little child with red lips
Lover
Friend
My mouth savours your taste
And passion needs no words
I am your punishment
I am yours.

_________________
Image


Top 
 Profile  
 
 Post subject:
 Post Posted: Sun Aug 19, 2007 6:12 am 
Offline
Major Looney
User avatar

Joined: Tue May 22, 2007 4:20 am
Posts: 504
Location: Hell is where the heart is
That's a beautiful poem...

_________________
... I reached for your hand again
In the dark
Your hand was the light
But my hand sank through
And I whispered your name
in silence
Come back
Be mine ...


Top 
 Profile  
 
 Post subject:
 Post Posted: Fri Aug 24, 2007 4:14 pm 
Offline
Major Looney
User avatar

Joined: Tue May 22, 2007 4:20 am
Posts: 504
Location: Hell is where the heart is
Warning - When I Am an Old Woman I Shall Wear Purple

By Jenny Joseph


When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple

with a red hat that doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.

And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves

and satin candles, and say we've no money for butter.

I shall sit down on the pavement when I am tired

and gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells

and run my stick along the public railings

and make up for the sobriety of my youth.

I shall go out in my slippers in the rain

and pick the flowers in other people's gardens

and learn to spit.



You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat

and eat three pounds of sausages at a go

or only bread and pickles for a week

and hoard pens and pencils and beer nuts and things in boxes.



But now we must have clothes that keep us dry

and pay our rent and not swear in the street

and set a good example for the children.

We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?

So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised

When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.


_________________
... I reached for your hand again
In the dark
Your hand was the light
But my hand sank through
And I whispered your name
in silence
Come back
Be mine ...


Top 
 Profile  
 
 Post subject:
 Post Posted: Wed Aug 29, 2007 4:03 pm 
Offline
Paranoid Android
User avatar

Joined: Mon Apr 02, 2007 10:41 am
Posts: 3369
Location: Off with his head, man, off with his head...
Head full of Gold
by Yannis Aggelakas

I have an empty rusty pistol
and a truth as convenient as a razor
and I wander from town to town
with a head full of gold

I have a fear that everyone has
and a fire I feed with mistakes
and I wander from town to town
with a head full of gold

I have a road but I don't know where it leads
A straight line on a dirty map
and I swirl from one end to the other
with a head full of gold
I have a sadness so great
I'm always afraid it might burst out
and I balance inside the dream 's dizziness
with a head full of gold

I have a pale sun inside phormaldehyde
A heart that thirsts like a burned field
and I wander from town to town
with a head full of gold

_________________
Image


Top 
 Profile  
 
 Post subject:
 Post Posted: Thu Aug 30, 2007 10:54 am 
Offline
Paranoid Android
User avatar

Joined: Mon Apr 02, 2007 10:41 am
Posts: 3369
Location: Off with his head, man, off with his head...
From Howl

by Allen Ginsberg

For Carl Solomon

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,

dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,

angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to thestarry dynamo in the machinery of night,

who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water fiats 'doating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz,

who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,

who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war,

who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull,

who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall,

who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,

who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night,

with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock and endless balls,

incomparable blind streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the motionless world of Time between,

Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,

who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children brought them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in the drear light of Zoo,

who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford's floated out and sat through the stale beer afternoon in desolate Fugazzi's, I listening to the crack of doom on the hydrogen jukebox,

who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brooklyn Bridge,

a lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills off Empire State out of the moon, yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars,

whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the Synagogue cast on the pavement,

who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic City Hall,

suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grindings and migraines of China under junk-withdrawal in Newark's bleak furnished room,

who wandered around and around at midnight in the railroad yard wondering where to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts,

who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing through snow toward lonesome farms in grandfather night,

who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telepathy and bop kaballa because the cosmos instinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas,

who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking visionary indian angels,

who were visionary indian angels,

who thought they were only mad when Baltimore gleamed in supernatural ecstasy,

who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Oklahoma on the impulse of winter midnight streetlight smalltown rain,

who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston seeking jazz or sex or soup, and followed the brilliant Spaniard to converse about America and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship to Africa,

who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving behind nothing but the shadow of dungarees and the lava and ash of poetry scattered in fireplace Chicago,

who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the E.B.I. in beards and shorts with big pacifist eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out incomprehensible leaflets,

who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism,

who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union Square weeping and undressing while the sirens of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also wailed,

who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before the machinery of other skeletons,

who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in policecars for committing no crime but their own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication,

who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof waving genitals and manuscripts,

who let themselves be f**ked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy,

who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean love,

who balled in the morning in the evenings in rosegardens and the grass of public parks and cemeteries scattering their semen freely to whomever come who may,

who hiccupped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath when the blonde & naked angel came to pierce them with a sword,

who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden threads of the craftsman's loom,

who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of beer a sweetheart a package of cigarettes a candle and fell off the bed, and continued along the floor and down the hall and ended fainting on the wall with a vision of ultimate c*nt and come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness,

who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning but prepared to sweeten the snatch of the sunrise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked in the lake,

who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver--joy to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely petticoat upliftings & especially secret gas-station solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too

who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in dreams, woke on a sudden Manhattan, and picked themselves up out of basements hungover with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemployment offices,

who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the East River to open to a room full of steamheat and opium,

who created great suicidal dramas on the apartment cliff-banks of the Hudson under the wartime blue floodlight of the moon & their heads shall be crowned with laurel in oblivion,

who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of Bowery,

who wept at the romance of the streets with their pushcarts full of onions and bad music,

who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in their lofts,

who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded by orange crates of theology,

who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations which in the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish,

who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht & tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable kingdom,

who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for an egg,

who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks fell on their heads every day for the next decade,

who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccessfully, gave up and were forced to open antique stores where they thought they were growing old and cried,

who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse & the tanked-up clatter of the iron regiments of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinister intelligent editors, or were run down by the drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality,

who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually happened and walked away unknown and forgotten into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alleyways & firetrucks, not even one free beer,

who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of the subway window, jumped in the filthy Passaic, leaped on negroes, cried all over the street, danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed phonograph records of nostalgic European 1930'S German jazz finished the whiskey and threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans in their ears and the blast of colossal steam-whistles,

who barreled down the highways of the past journeying to each other's hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude watch or Birmingham jazz incarnation,

who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had a vision to find out Eternity.

who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver & waited in vain, who watched over Denver & brooded & loned in Denver and finally went away to find out the Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes,

who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying for each other's salvation and light and breasts, until the soul illuminated its hair for a second,

who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for impossible criminals with golden heads and the charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet blues to Alcatraz,

who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky Mount to tender Buddhas or Tangiers to boys or Southern Pacific to the black locomotive' or Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the daisy-chain or grave,

who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hypnotism & were left with their insanity & their hands & a hung jury,

who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers on Dadaism and subsequently presented themselves on the granite steps of the madhouse with shaven heads and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding instantaneous lobotomy,

and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin metrasol electricity hydrotherapy psychotherapy occupational therapy pingpong & amnesia,

who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic pingpong table, resting briefly in catatonia,

returning years later truly bald except for a wig of blood, and tears and fingers, to the visible madman doom of the wards of the madtowns of the East,

Pilgrim State's Rockland's and Greystone's foetid halls, bickering with the echoes of the soul, rocking and rolling in the midnight solitude-bench dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a nightmare, bodies turned to stone as heavy as the moon,

with mother finally * * * * * *, and the last fantastic book flung out of the tenement window, and the last door closed at 4 AM and the last telephone slammed at the wall in reply and the last furnished room emptied down to the last piece of mental furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted on a wire hanger in the closet, and even that imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of hallucination--

ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and now you're really in the total animal soup of time--

and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed with a sudden flash of the alchemy of the use of the ellipse the catalog the meter & the vibrating plane,

who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space through images juxtaposed, and trapped the archangel of the soul between 2 visual images and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun and dash of consciousness together jumping with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna Deus

to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand before you speechless and intelligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet confessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm of thought in his naked and endless head,

the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting down here what might be left to say in time come after death,

and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the suffering of America's naked mind for love into an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio

with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand years.

_________________
Image


Top 
 Profile  
 
Display posts from previous:  Sort by  
 
Post new topic Reply to topic  [ 60 posts ]  Go to page Previous  1, 2, 3, 4, 5  Next

Board index » Monty Python Forums » Silly


Who is online

Users browsing this forum: No registered users and 1 guest

 
 

 
You cannot post new topics in this forum
You cannot reply to topics in this forum
You cannot edit your posts in this forum
You cannot delete your posts in this forum

Search for:
Jump to: