bluescreen
tofu eating wokerati
From 2018 but still timely and moving. Lyuba Yakimchuk is a poet from the Donbas region. Her poem 'Decomposition' is read here by Polina Barskova.
*Poem of the day thread
- Thread starter RubyToogood
- Start date
For a Sixth Form Reader by Hans Magnus Enzensberger
Read no more odes, my son, read timetables:
they’re to the point. And roll the sea-charts out
before it’s too late. Be watchful, do not sing,
for once again the day is clearly coming
when they will brand refusers on the chest
and nail up lists of names on people’s doors.
Learn how to go unknown, learn more than me:
to change your face, your documents, your country.
Become adept at every petty treason,
the sly escape each day and any season.
For lighting fires encyclicals are good:
and the defenceless can always put to use,
as butter-wrappers, party manifestoes.
Anger and persistence will be required
to blow into the lungs of power the dust
choking, insidious, ground out by those who
storing experience, stay scrupulous: like you:
Read no more odes, my son, read timetables:
they’re to the point. And roll the sea-charts out
before it’s too late. Be watchful, do not sing,
for once again the day is clearly coming
when they will brand refusers on the chest
and nail up lists of names on people’s doors.
Learn how to go unknown, learn more than me:
to change your face, your documents, your country.
Become adept at every petty treason,
the sly escape each day and any season.
For lighting fires encyclicals are good:
and the defenceless can always put to use,
as butter-wrappers, party manifestoes.
Anger and persistence will be required
to blow into the lungs of power the dust
choking, insidious, ground out by those who
storing experience, stay scrupulous: like you:
DotCommunist
So many particulars. So many questions.
When people say, “we have made it through worse before”
— Clint Smith
all I hear is the wind slapping against the gravestones
of those who did not make it, those who did not
survive to see the confetti fall from the sky, those who
did not live to watch the parade roll down the street.
I have grown accustomed to a lifetime of aphorisms
meant to assuage my fears, pithy sayings meant to
convey that everything ends up fine in the end. There is no
solace in rearranging language to make a different word
tell the same lie. Sometimes the moral arc of the universe
does not bend in a direction that will comfort us.
Sometimes it bends in ways we don’t expect & there are
people who fall off in the process. Please, dear reader,
do not say I am hopeless, I believe there is a better future
to fight for, I simply accept the possibility that I may not
live to see it. I have grown weary of telling myself lies
that I might one day begin to believe. We are not all left
standing after the war has ended. Some of us have
become ghosts by the time the dust has settled.
— Clint Smith
all I hear is the wind slapping against the gravestones
of those who did not make it, those who did not
survive to see the confetti fall from the sky, those who
did not live to watch the parade roll down the street.
I have grown accustomed to a lifetime of aphorisms
meant to assuage my fears, pithy sayings meant to
convey that everything ends up fine in the end. There is no
solace in rearranging language to make a different word
tell the same lie. Sometimes the moral arc of the universe
does not bend in a direction that will comfort us.
Sometimes it bends in ways we don’t expect & there are
people who fall off in the process. Please, dear reader,
do not say I am hopeless, I believe there is a better future
to fight for, I simply accept the possibility that I may not
live to see it. I have grown weary of telling myself lies
that I might one day begin to believe. We are not all left
standing after the war has ended. Some of us have
become ghosts by the time the dust has settled.
The Toombe Road by Seamus Heaney.
One morning early I met armoured cars
In convoy, warbling along on powerful tyres,
All camouflaged with broken alder branches,
And headphoned soldiers standing up in turrets.
How long were they approaching down my roads
As if they owned them? The whole country was sleeping.
I had rights-of-way, fields, cattle in my keeping,
Tractors hitched to buckrakes in open sheds,
Silos, chill gates, wet slates, the greens and reds
Of outhouse roofs. Whom should I run to tell
Among all of those with their back doors on the latch
For the bringer of bad news, that small-hours visitant
Who, by being expected, might be kept distant?
Sowers of seed, erectors of headstones…
O charioteers, above your dormant guns,
It stands here still, stands vibrant as you pass,
The visible, untoppled omphalos.
One morning early I met armoured cars
In convoy, warbling along on powerful tyres,
All camouflaged with broken alder branches,
And headphoned soldiers standing up in turrets.
How long were they approaching down my roads
As if they owned them? The whole country was sleeping.
I had rights-of-way, fields, cattle in my keeping,
Tractors hitched to buckrakes in open sheds,
Silos, chill gates, wet slates, the greens and reds
Of outhouse roofs. Whom should I run to tell
Among all of those with their back doors on the latch
For the bringer of bad news, that small-hours visitant
Who, by being expected, might be kept distant?
Sowers of seed, erectors of headstones…
O charioteers, above your dormant guns,
It stands here still, stands vibrant as you pass,
The visible, untoppled omphalos.
Clair De Lune
Apocalypse cocktails
It is still winter in Mariupol.
A harsh wind blows through City Theatre Square
And a shopping trolley hangs like a toy in a tree
While children are tenderly wrapped in rugs
Before being taken out into the cold
To be dumped in a hurried, narrow trench.
You can hear the nails as they drive them in,
Missile by missile, bomb by aerosol bomb,
Hammers hitting iron, thudding into the cross
As the slow public crucifixion unfolds —
Like it did in Georgia, Chechnya, Syria
In Gori and Grozny and in beautiful Aleppo.
And our job is to sit in impotence —
To watch and wait and then to sift the rubble,
Hoping and praying for an early spring,
For that first green shoot amongst the ruins.
We are here to hold, to witness and to heal,
We are here to learn the ways of compassion.
© William Ayot
A harsh wind blows through City Theatre Square
And a shopping trolley hangs like a toy in a tree
While children are tenderly wrapped in rugs
Before being taken out into the cold
To be dumped in a hurried, narrow trench.
You can hear the nails as they drive them in,
Missile by missile, bomb by aerosol bomb,
Hammers hitting iron, thudding into the cross
As the slow public crucifixion unfolds —
Like it did in Georgia, Chechnya, Syria
In Gori and Grozny and in beautiful Aleppo.
And our job is to sit in impotence —
To watch and wait and then to sift the rubble,
Hoping and praying for an early spring,
For that first green shoot amongst the ruins.
We are here to hold, to witness and to heal,
We are here to learn the ways of compassion.
© William Ayot
Yossarian
⏭️
Amelia's Model
Michael Longley
I.
In her model of the solar system
My seven-year-old cosmologist
Ties to a barbecue skewer
With fuse wire the planets, buttons:
For Venus an ivory button,
Mercury silver beside the sun,
Mother-of-pearl for Jupiter,
Red and green for Mars and Earth,
For Saturn’s rings a pipe cleaner,
So that in the outer darkness
Close to the kitchen her brown eyes
Represent Uranus, Neptune.
II.
Amelia, you didn’t include Pluto
In your wire sculpture of the solar system:
Tiny and very far away, an ice
World of ice mountains and methane snow,
A dance of five moons unlit by the sun,
The god of the afterlife’s kingdom—
We shall go there when we die, dear child.
Michael Longley
I.
In her model of the solar system
My seven-year-old cosmologist
Ties to a barbecue skewer
With fuse wire the planets, buttons:
For Venus an ivory button,
Mercury silver beside the sun,
Mother-of-pearl for Jupiter,
Red and green for Mars and Earth,
For Saturn’s rings a pipe cleaner,
So that in the outer darkness
Close to the kitchen her brown eyes
Represent Uranus, Neptune.
II.
Amelia, you didn’t include Pluto
In your wire sculpture of the solar system:
Tiny and very far away, an ice
World of ice mountains and methane snow,
A dance of five moons unlit by the sun,
The god of the afterlife’s kingdom—
We shall go there when we die, dear child.
Boru
Well-Known Member
The Liaison Co-ordinator by Tom Leonard
Efturryd geenuz iz speel
iboot whut wuz right
nwhut wuz rang
boot this nthat
nthi next thing
a sayzty thi bloke
nwhut izzit yi caw yir joab jimmy
am a liaison co-ordinator
hi sayz oh good ah sayz
a liaison co-ordinator
jist whut this erria needs
whut wi aw thi unimploymint
inaw thi bevvyin
nthi boayz runnin amock
nthi hoossyz fawnty bits
nthi wummin n tranquilisers
it last thiv sent uz
a liaison co-ordinator.
Sumdy wia digree
in f*ck knows whut
getn pyd fur no known
whut thi f*ck ti day way it.
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chainsawjob
Kipping in the dunes
Elder - P.J. Kavanagh
Feigns death in winter, none lives better,
chewed by cattle springs up stronger;
an odd Personal smell and unlovable skin;
straight shoots like organ pipes in cigarette paper;
no nurseryman would sell you an Elder
‘not bush, not tree, not bad, not good’,
Judas was surely a fragile man
to hang himself from this ‘God’s stinking tree’.
In summer it juggles flower-plates in air,
creamy as cumulus, and berries, each a weasel’s eye of light.
Pretends it’s unburnable (Who burns it sees the Devil),
cringes, hides a soul of cream plates,
purple fruits in a rattle of bones,
A good example.
Feigns death in winter, none lives better,
chewed by cattle springs up stronger;
an odd Personal smell and unlovable skin;
straight shoots like organ pipes in cigarette paper;
no nurseryman would sell you an Elder
‘not bush, not tree, not bad, not good’,
Judas was surely a fragile man
to hang himself from this ‘God’s stinking tree’.
In summer it juggles flower-plates in air,
creamy as cumulus, and berries, each a weasel’s eye of light.
Pretends it’s unburnable (Who burns it sees the Devil),
cringes, hides a soul of cream plates,
purple fruits in a rattle of bones,
A good example.
surreybrowncap
“Those who believe in telekinetics, raise my hand"
surreybrowncap
“Those who believe in telekinetics, raise my hand"
Charles Bukowski ‘My Cat The Writer’
surreybrowncap
“Those who believe in telekinetics, raise my hand"
John Mole - " Stan Laurel"
Ollie gone, the heavyweight
Balletic chump, and now
His turn to bow out, courteous,
A perfect gentleman who
Tips his hat to the nurse
Or would, that is, if he were
Still in business. She
Adjusts his pillow, smooths
The sheets until their crisp -
And - even snow - white starchiness
Becomes his cue. It's time
For one last gag, the stand - up
Drip - feed: Sister,
Let me tell you this
I wish I was skiing,
And she, immaculately cornered
For the punch - line: Really
Mr Laurel, do you ski? A
chuckle -
No, but I'd rather I was doing
That than this,
Than facing death, the one
Fine mess he's gotten into
That he can't get out of
Though a nurse's helpless
laughter
Is the last he hears.
Ollie gone, the heavyweight
Balletic chump, and now
His turn to bow out, courteous,
A perfect gentleman who
Tips his hat to the nurse
Or would, that is, if he were
Still in business. She
Adjusts his pillow, smooths
The sheets until their crisp -
And - even snow - white starchiness
Becomes his cue. It's time
For one last gag, the stand - up
Drip - feed: Sister,
Let me tell you this
I wish I was skiing,
And she, immaculately cornered
For the punch - line: Really
Mr Laurel, do you ski? A
chuckle -
No, but I'd rather I was doing
That than this,
Than facing death, the one
Fine mess he's gotten into
That he can't get out of
Though a nurse's helpless
laughter
Is the last he hears.
surreybrowncap
“Those who believe in telekinetics, raise my hand"
Lee L. Berkson - "Marilyn"
that last take - not MISFITS, them.
she and clark under a fine moon, posse of stars.
the colt bolts to the mountain, finds innocence.
monty broods by the corral.
she loves them all, even monty.
she says goodbye, as if tomorrow .....
suppose she slept easy without the pills
suppose the call got through to bobby or jack.
imagine joe in the on-deck circle
menacing in yankee pinstripes, batting cleanup,
always cleanup, arthur in the wings.
suppose she packs, grabs her poodle
slips out the side door, incognito
as she can be in silver lamé,
top cut low enough to jar the dullest memory.
suppose she flies into morning
lands in Majorca, hops a single engine
some island off the map.
say she practices her spanish
words like 'buenos notes' and 'adios'
fading into orange roofs, papaya
a shell's throw from the water
the sand and sun. a bird sings to her
wants no autograph.
that last take - not MISFITS, them.
she and clark under a fine moon, posse of stars.
the colt bolts to the mountain, finds innocence.
monty broods by the corral.
she loves them all, even monty.
she says goodbye, as if tomorrow .....
suppose she slept easy without the pills
suppose the call got through to bobby or jack.
imagine joe in the on-deck circle
menacing in yankee pinstripes, batting cleanup,
always cleanup, arthur in the wings.
suppose she packs, grabs her poodle
slips out the side door, incognito
as she can be in silver lamé,
top cut low enough to jar the dullest memory.
suppose she flies into morning
lands in Majorca, hops a single engine
some island off the map.
say she practices her spanish
words like 'buenos notes' and 'adios'
fading into orange roofs, papaya
a shell's throw from the water
the sand and sun. a bird sings to her
wants no autograph.
surreybrowncap
“Those who believe in telekinetics, raise my hand"
Come on folks - this is meant to be a daily poem
You don't want me hogging it...( or hedgehogging it....)
Anyway....
Philip Larkin - "The Mower"
The mower stalled, twice; kneeling, I found
A hedgehog jammed up against the blades,
Killed. It had been in the long grass.
I had seen it before, and even fed it, once.
Now I had mauled its unobtrusive world
Unmendably. Burial was no help:
Next morning I got up and it did not.
The first day after a death, the new absence
Is always the same; we should be careful
Of each other; we should be kind
While there is still time.
You don't want me hogging it...( or hedgehogging it....)
Anyway....
Philip Larkin - "The Mower"
The mower stalled, twice; kneeling, I found
A hedgehog jammed up against the blades,
Killed. It had been in the long grass.
I had seen it before, and even fed it, once.
Now I had mauled its unobtrusive world
Unmendably. Burial was no help:
Next morning I got up and it did not.
The first day after a death, the new absence
Is always the same; we should be careful
Of each other; we should be kind
While there is still time.
surreybrowncap
“Those who believe in telekinetics, raise my hand"
John Cooper Clarke - "Evidently Chickentown"
surreybrowncap
“Those who believe in telekinetics, raise my hand"
Dedicated to a friend across the sea....
Ernest Dowson
Vitae Summa Brevis Spem Nos Vetat Incohare Longam
The brief sum of life forbids us the hope of enduring long. –Horace
They are not long, the weeping and the laughter,
Love and desire and hate:
I think they have no portion in us after
We pass the gate.
They are not long, the days of wine and roses:
Out of a misty dream
Our path emerges for a while, then closes
Within a dream.
Ernest Dowson
Vitae Summa Brevis Spem Nos Vetat Incohare Longam
The brief sum of life forbids us the hope of enduring long. –Horace
They are not long, the weeping and the laughter,
Love and desire and hate:
I think they have no portion in us after
We pass the gate.
They are not long, the days of wine and roses:
Out of a misty dream
Our path emerges for a while, then closes
Within a dream.
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chainsawjob
Kipping in the dunes
surreybrowncap
“Those who believe in telekinetics, raise my hand"
Yesterday marked 200 years of the death of Shelley....
SONG TO THE MEN OF ENGLAND - Percy Bysshe Shelley
Men of England, wherefore plough
For the lords who lay ye low?
Wherefore weave with toil and care
The rich robes your tyrants wear?
Wherefore feed and clothe and save,
From the cradle to the grave,
Those ungrateful drones who would
Drain your sweat -nay, drink your blood?
Wherefore, Bees of England, forge
Many a weapon, chain, and scourge,
That these stingless drones may spoil
The forced produce of your toil?
Have ye leisure, comfort, calm,
Shelter, food, love's gentle balm?
Or what is it ye buy so dear
With your pain and with your fear?
The seed ye sow another reaps;
The wealth ye find another keeps;
The robes ye weave another wears;
The arms ye forge another bears
Sow seed, -but let no tyrant reap;
Find wealth, -let no imposter heap;
Weave robes, -let not the idle wear;
Forge arms, in your defence to bear.
Shrink to your cellars, holes, and cells;
In halls ye deck another dwells.
Why shake the chains ye wrought? Ye see
The steel ye tempered glance on ye.
With plough and spade and hoe and loom,
Trace your grave, and build your tomb,
And weave your winding-sheet, till fair
England be your sepulchre!
SONG TO THE MEN OF ENGLAND - Percy Bysshe Shelley
Men of England, wherefore plough
For the lords who lay ye low?
Wherefore weave with toil and care
The rich robes your tyrants wear?
Wherefore feed and clothe and save,
From the cradle to the grave,
Those ungrateful drones who would
Drain your sweat -nay, drink your blood?
Wherefore, Bees of England, forge
Many a weapon, chain, and scourge,
That these stingless drones may spoil
The forced produce of your toil?
Have ye leisure, comfort, calm,
Shelter, food, love's gentle balm?
Or what is it ye buy so dear
With your pain and with your fear?
The seed ye sow another reaps;
The wealth ye find another keeps;
The robes ye weave another wears;
The arms ye forge another bears
Sow seed, -but let no tyrant reap;
Find wealth, -let no imposter heap;
Weave robes, -let not the idle wear;
Forge arms, in your defence to bear.
Shrink to your cellars, holes, and cells;
In halls ye deck another dwells.
Why shake the chains ye wrought? Ye see
The steel ye tempered glance on ye.
With plough and spade and hoe and loom,
Trace your grave, and build your tomb,
And weave your winding-sheet, till fair
England be your sepulchre!
Boru
Well-Known Member
In a similar vein to Song to the men of England is this poem by Dominic Behan.
I’ve won a hero’s name with McAlpine and Costain
With Fitzpatrick, Murphy, Ashe and the Wimpey’s gang
I’ve been often on the road on me way to draw the dole
When there’s nothing left to do for Johnny Laing
And I used to think that God made the mixer, pick and hod
So that Paddy might know hell above the ground
I’ve had gangers big and tough tell me tear it all out rough
When you’re building up and tearing England down
In a tunnel underground a young Limerick man was found
He was built into the New Victoria Line
When the bonus gang had past, sticking through the concrete cast
Was the face of little Charlie Joe Devine
And the ganger man McGurk said big Paddy hates to work
When the gas main blew and he flew off the ground
Oh, they swore he said don’t slack, I’ll not be there until I’m back
Keep on building up and tearing England down
I was on the hydro dam on the day that Jack McCann
Got the better of his stammer in a week
He fell from the shuttering jamb and the poor auld stuttering man
He was never ever more inclined to speak
And I saw auld Bald McCall from the big flyover fall
Into a concrete mixer spinning round
Though it wasn’t his intent, he got a fine head of cement
When he was building up and tearing England down
I remember Carrier Jack with his hod upon his back
How he swore one day he’d set the world on fire
But his face they’ve never seen since his shovel it cut clean
Through the middle of the big high tension wires
No more like Robin Hood will he roam through Cricklewood
Or dance around the pubs in Camden Town
Oh, but let no man complain, sure no Pat can die in vain
When he’s building up and tearing England down
So come all you navvies bold, do not think that English gold
Is just waiting to be taken from each sod
Or the likes of you and me will ever get an OBE
Or a knighthood for good service to the hod
They’ve the concrete master race for to keep you in your place
And a ganger man to kick you to the ground
If you ever try to take part of what the bosses make
When you’re building up and tearing England down
Building Up And Tearing England Down
Dominic BehanI’ve won a hero’s name with McAlpine and Costain
With Fitzpatrick, Murphy, Ashe and the Wimpey’s gang
I’ve been often on the road on me way to draw the dole
When there’s nothing left to do for Johnny Laing
And I used to think that God made the mixer, pick and hod
So that Paddy might know hell above the ground
I’ve had gangers big and tough tell me tear it all out rough
When you’re building up and tearing England down
In a tunnel underground a young Limerick man was found
He was built into the New Victoria Line
When the bonus gang had past, sticking through the concrete cast
Was the face of little Charlie Joe Devine
And the ganger man McGurk said big Paddy hates to work
When the gas main blew and he flew off the ground
Oh, they swore he said don’t slack, I’ll not be there until I’m back
Keep on building up and tearing England down
I was on the hydro dam on the day that Jack McCann
Got the better of his stammer in a week
He fell from the shuttering jamb and the poor auld stuttering man
He was never ever more inclined to speak
And I saw auld Bald McCall from the big flyover fall
Into a concrete mixer spinning round
Though it wasn’t his intent, he got a fine head of cement
When he was building up and tearing England down
I remember Carrier Jack with his hod upon his back
How he swore one day he’d set the world on fire
But his face they’ve never seen since his shovel it cut clean
Through the middle of the big high tension wires
No more like Robin Hood will he roam through Cricklewood
Or dance around the pubs in Camden Town
Oh, but let no man complain, sure no Pat can die in vain
When he’s building up and tearing England down
So come all you navvies bold, do not think that English gold
Is just waiting to be taken from each sod
Or the likes of you and me will ever get an OBE
Or a knighthood for good service to the hod
They’ve the concrete master race for to keep you in your place
And a ganger man to kick you to the ground
If you ever try to take part of what the bosses make
When you’re building up and tearing England down
surreybrowncap
“Those who believe in telekinetics, raise my hand"
First time I came across this poem...
I'm English...
Father was Irish who came to this country and worked on the railway..
Abusive and violent towards my mother..
Not sure it was this country that made him that way..
Boru
Well-Known Member
Sorry to hear that about your da.. there could be any number of reasons. Or excuses for that behaviourFirst time I came across this poem...
I'm English...
Father was Irish who came to this country and worked on the railway..
Abusive and violent towards my mother..
Not sure it was this country that made him that way..
England and emigration acted as a safety net and safety valve for the new Irish state and its many failings and shortcomings.
The people who left often had nothing to go back to and went from rural poverty to urban poverty and its associated pressures.
The jist of both poems us that there is always an underclass and someone to keep us down
Edit to add.. the words are often sung too..
bluescreen
tofu eating wokerati
Dystopiary
putting up a hook to hang my hopes upon
Rong Radio - Benjamin Zephaniah
Rong Radio - Benjamin Zephaniah
My ears are battered and burned and
i have just learned that i have been
listening to the wrong radio station
My mind has been brutalised now the pain can’t be disguised
I’ve been listening to the wrong radio station
I was beginning to believe that all black men were bad men
and white men would reign again
I was beginning to believe that i was a mindless drugs freak that
couldn’t control my sanity or my sexuality
I was beginning to believe that I could not believe in nothing except nothing
and all i ever wanted to do was to get you and to do you.
I’ve been listening to the wrong radio station.
My future has been blighted i am so short sighted
I’ve been listening to the wrong radio station
I was beginning to not trust me, in fact, i wanted to arrest me
I’ve been listening to the wrong radio station.
I’ve been dancing to music that i can’t stand.
I’ve been reciting commercials to my girlfriends.
I’ve been trying to convince myself that what i really need is a sunbed
and a mortgage and some hairspray, the kind of hairspray that will wash my grey blues away.
I been trying to convince myself that i could ease my conscience
if I gave a few pence or a few cents to a starving baby in Africa
because African babies need my favours
because Africa is full of dictators
and oh yeah globalisation will bring salvation!
I’ve been listening to the wrong radio station.
I thought my neighbours formed an axis of evil
I wanna go kill people
I’ve been listening to the wrong radio station.
I am sure I didn’t inhale so why is my mind going stale
I’ve been listening to the wrong radio station
I was beginning to believe that all muslims are terrorists
and christian terrorists think they existed
I really did believe that terrorism couldn’t be done by governments
not our government, not white government
I just could not see what was wrong with me.
I gave hungry people hamburgers you see
I was beginning to believe that our children were better than their children
their children would die from terrorism but i couldn’t hear their children call
and a child from Palastine simply didn’t count at all.
What despair,
no children i was not aware
I’d been listening to the wrong radio station.
For years I’ve been sedated, and now i think I’m educated
I’ve been listening to the wrong radio station
and every time i got ill, i took the same little white pill
I’ve been listening to the wrong radio station.
When it started I was curious but then it got so serious
It was cool when it began but now I really hate Iran
and look at me now i wanna make friend with Pakistan
I wanna bomb Afghanistan, and i need someone to tell me,
where the hell is Kurdistan?
Yeah, you can be my ally for a while until i come to bomb your child
and I’m sure there’s a continent called the middle east
and i think i can bomb my way to peace
I’ve been listening to the wrong radio station.
I’ve been listening to the wrong jams, I’ve been listening to the wrong beat
I’ve been listening to the wrong radio station.
I’ve been listening to the wrong tones of the wrong zones
I’ve been listening to the wrong radio station
I’ve been listening to the wrong voices
I made such mad choices
I’ve been listening to the wrong radio station.
I’ve been listening to spies I’ve been listening to lies
I’ve been listening to the wrong radio station.
I needed to know what some pop star somewhere was having for breakfast
I needed to know that I was no longer working class
I needed to know if the stock market rose 1 percent
I needed to know that I had a ruler to give me confidence
I needed to know that my life would improve loads
if I had an operation on my nose.
I needed to hear that DJ say,
“Good morning, good morning!”
I thought he was there just for me
I loved the way that he would say, “This show was sponsered by...”.
“Oh my oh my”, he made me cry
I’ve been listening to the wrong radio station.
Can you dig this? I put my self on a hit—list
I’ve been listening to the wrong radio station
I’m laughing and I’m crying and I’m watching myself dying
I’ve been listening to the wrong radio station.
Listen to him, can you hear?
Listen to her, can you hear?
Listen to it, can you hear?
Listen to me, keep this frequency clear!
Tune in, Drop out.
Rong Radio - Benjamin Zephaniah
My ears are battered and burned and
i have just learned that i have been
listening to the wrong radio station
My mind has been brutalised now the pain can’t be disguised
I’ve been listening to the wrong radio station
I was beginning to believe that all black men were bad men
and white men would reign again
I was beginning to believe that i was a mindless drugs freak that
couldn’t control my sanity or my sexuality
I was beginning to believe that I could not believe in nothing except nothing
and all i ever wanted to do was to get you and to do you.
I’ve been listening to the wrong radio station.
My future has been blighted i am so short sighted
I’ve been listening to the wrong radio station
I was beginning to not trust me, in fact, i wanted to arrest me
I’ve been listening to the wrong radio station.
I’ve been dancing to music that i can’t stand.
I’ve been reciting commercials to my girlfriends.
I’ve been trying to convince myself that what i really need is a sunbed
and a mortgage and some hairspray, the kind of hairspray that will wash my grey blues away.
I been trying to convince myself that i could ease my conscience
if I gave a few pence or a few cents to a starving baby in Africa
because African babies need my favours
because Africa is full of dictators
and oh yeah globalisation will bring salvation!
I’ve been listening to the wrong radio station.
I thought my neighbours formed an axis of evil
I wanna go kill people
I’ve been listening to the wrong radio station.
I am sure I didn’t inhale so why is my mind going stale
I’ve been listening to the wrong radio station
I was beginning to believe that all muslims are terrorists
and christian terrorists think they existed
I really did believe that terrorism couldn’t be done by governments
not our government, not white government
I just could not see what was wrong with me.
I gave hungry people hamburgers you see
I was beginning to believe that our children were better than their children
their children would die from terrorism but i couldn’t hear their children call
and a child from Palastine simply didn’t count at all.
What despair,
no children i was not aware
I’d been listening to the wrong radio station.
For years I’ve been sedated, and now i think I’m educated
I’ve been listening to the wrong radio station
and every time i got ill, i took the same little white pill
I’ve been listening to the wrong radio station.
When it started I was curious but then it got so serious
It was cool when it began but now I really hate Iran
and look at me now i wanna make friend with Pakistan
I wanna bomb Afghanistan, and i need someone to tell me,
where the hell is Kurdistan?
Yeah, you can be my ally for a while until i come to bomb your child
and I’m sure there’s a continent called the middle east
and i think i can bomb my way to peace
I’ve been listening to the wrong radio station.
I’ve been listening to the wrong jams, I’ve been listening to the wrong beat
I’ve been listening to the wrong radio station.
I’ve been listening to the wrong tones of the wrong zones
I’ve been listening to the wrong radio station
I’ve been listening to the wrong voices
I made such mad choices
I’ve been listening to the wrong radio station.
I’ve been listening to spies I’ve been listening to lies
I’ve been listening to the wrong radio station.
I needed to know what some pop star somewhere was having for breakfast
I needed to know that I was no longer working class
I needed to know if the stock market rose 1 percent
I needed to know that I had a ruler to give me confidence
I needed to know that my life would improve loads
if I had an operation on my nose.
I needed to hear that DJ say,
“Good morning, good morning!”
I thought he was there just for me
I loved the way that he would say, “This show was sponsered by...”.
“Oh my oh my”, he made me cry
I’ve been listening to the wrong radio station.
Can you dig this? I put my self on a hit—list
I’ve been listening to the wrong radio station
I’m laughing and I’m crying and I’m watching myself dying
I’ve been listening to the wrong radio station.
Listen to him, can you hear?
Listen to her, can you hear?
Listen to it, can you hear?
Listen to me, keep this frequency clear!
Tune in, Drop out.
chainsawjob
Kipping in the dunes
surreybrowncap
“Those who believe in telekinetics, raise my hand"
WHEN WE TWO PARTED - Lord Byron
When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.
The dew of the morning
Sunk chill on my brow—
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame;
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.
They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me—
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee too well—
Long, long shall I rue thee,
Too deeply to tell.
In secret we met—
In silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?—
With silence and tears.
When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.
The dew of the morning
Sunk chill on my brow—
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame;
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.
They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me—
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee too well—
Long, long shall I rue thee,
Too deeply to tell.
In secret we met—
In silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?—
With silence and tears.
surreybrowncap
“Those who believe in telekinetics, raise my hand"
Opposite my old house once stood William Blake's home.
Now a block of flats.
Situated in Lambeth North / Waterloo area.
Spot These Gorgeous William Blake Mosaics, Hiding In Lambeth
The world's biggest gallery of Blake's work.
londonist.com
