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Robert Charles Linford
Inspector
Username: Robert
Post Number: 293
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Wednesday, June 18, 2003 - 7:43 pm: | 
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Likewise, AP!
Robert |
AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 289
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Thursday, June 19, 2003 - 4:49 pm: |
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Night Walker
I see the world in different light
For me your day is my night.
I see showers of light…
I see…
Shadows where no shadow can exist
And forms that disappear into a mist.
My shadow dapples in the glow
And then that shadow doth grow.
And grow…
Till a giant strides the globe
And sparks fly from his robe.
I grow wheels of steel that thunder
And sprout blades that can rip asunder.
I call the stars down to the ground
Crashing down with screaming sound.
I send the mountains to the streams
And listen to the drowning screams.
My borders stretch to infinity
And my stretch is simple divinity.
I can call lightning to strike a tower
And bricks do recoil from my power.
There is peculiar sound that guides
This peculiar power inside.
Souls that come into my ken
Do not do it easily again.
For I am a great windmill of pain.
Driven by the winds of chance
To impale the night on my lance.
Creatures of the night come forth
And then do suffer my great wrath.
For white feathers fall from the sky
Each time one of them must die.
And with these white feathers I do scribe
And catalogue the white hurt inside.
I take those stars and crush ‘em in my hand
And life slips through white fingers like sand.
I take the constellations around her throat
And with the Milky Way do choke
Every last angel drop of tear
And wipe away the fear.
Put them to white feather save
Cold comfort in white feather grave.
And with their last breath
I did save them from death.
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Robert Charles Linford
Inspector
Username: Robert
Post Number: 296
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Thursday, June 19, 2003 - 5:35 pm: |
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Absolutely fantastic, AP! I thought that was one of your very best. The imagery was wonderful, and the earnest, direct yet controlled power of the thing was amazing. It was also a sad poem, and even spooky. It had the ring of total authenticity about it. And I wish I'd written it!
Uncle Charles is still coming along. I'm trying to sort of bring three ideas together. Hope to have him finished in a couple of days.
Until then, if you want to post any more poems like "Night Walker", do go ahead!
Robert |
AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 290
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Friday, June 20, 2003 - 2:53 pm: |
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Robert
Praise indeed for a poesie that came out of the wrong end of a bottle of Safeways Spanish Brandy.
It wasn't quite what I wanted but I enjoyed it anyway. I'll give it another go later tonight. Been so pushed for time in daylight hours recently, and that is when I do like to construct the basis of the poem and then give it up to the devil of liquor later in the day.
You keep working on good old Uncle Charles, I think him by far the most interesting character on the entire JtR scene, very deep and unknown.
Thank you for your positive input and comments.
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Robert Charles Linford
Inspector
Username: Robert
Post Number: 302
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Saturday, June 21, 2003 - 12:29 pm: |
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Hi AP
Any end is the right end if it produces a poem like that!
Sorry this one took so long coming. The old boy gave me a bit of trouble – I had to drag him kicking and screaming. At one point he accused me of being a "Papist ponce"! He says that everyone’s a Catholic except himself, God and Queen Victoria – in that order.
AS BELOW, SO ABOVE
Hammer on fourth nail – can you hear?
Hammer on fourth nail – faint but clear.
Just a hollow tap-tap-tapping,
Death at doorway gently rapping.
Fourth nail is the end of all
As God and world to oblivion crawl.
It is the sweetness and the light
That ushers in eternal night,
The penny-in-slot peccadillo salvation
And push-pull forgiveness of Papist creation.
It’s mumbled Masses
Of priestly asses,
The bread and the wine
Of Catholic swine,
The infant tummy rumble
Of souls whose sins are humble.
I frolicked in pit
And rolled in the sh*t.
How could I bear to live unredeemed
In world where Blood no longer streamed?
Could God bear to live unforgiven
For fashioning world by evil riven?
God too hath need
To sow His seed.
Thus Creation
Is God’s salvation.
Fear of death
Is borne on His breath,
And He must burn
On love’s wheel turn.
But for serpent in garden
He needs our pardon.
Sin must be bigger
Lest that figure
Cease to bleed
And atone for His deed
And selfish need
In sowing seed.
Digestible sin of cow chewing cud
Scabs and freezes the saving Blood.
I will flail with my rod
All who kill God.
And I sent my son into this world,
Snake in unnatural womb coiled and curled,
To pluck Hell from the deep
And haunt God in his sleep.
A serpent’s hiss
To plunge world to abyss,
To shove grinding train,
Send it hurtling again.
Each dread sin
Was a nail banged in,
Each whore that died
Was a spear thrust in side,
That Blood should keep flowing,
That train should keep going.
Killing the song lark
Of mother’s grave keening,
Was letting in dark
That gives light a meaning.
Forty day fast
And then stone cast.
Pious fool in Pontiff’s hat,
Speak : how many Hail Marys for that?
Sacrificed, but not reborn –
No resurrection that grey morn,
Locked away in madhouse tomb,
Coiled and curled in madhouse room,
Chin on chest and knees drawn up.
Closed, the lips that drained the cup.
Boy I sent to teach the faith,
Fading into walls like wraith.
Hammer on fourth nail still I hear,
Hammer on fourth nail faint but clear.
Robert
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AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 291
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Saturday, June 21, 2003 - 3:50 pm: |
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Ah Robert
an absolute masterpiece, you have communed with Blake in another dimension.
Everything about the poem is pure stint and dint, superb stuff... only the title failed the body of the poem. I felt you should have called it 'Hammer on fourth nail'.
The crucifixion of christ done into a poesie about the murder of whores was a brave flight, but it worked wonderfully... and again you beat me to the draw. I hadn't thought of that.
Your poem is a haunting piece of scripture that is superbly worked.
I am in admiration, sir.
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Robert Charles Linford
Inspector
Username: Robert
Post Number: 303
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Saturday, June 21, 2003 - 4:39 pm: |
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Wow, AP, thanks for saying that - especially the bit about Blake. I wasn't sure when I sent it whether I'd written a good one or not, so I'm glad (and relieved) that you liked it.
I know you're very busy at present. Shall I await your next one, or try to do another myself?
Robert |
Chris Scott
Inspector
Username: Chris
Post Number: 266
Registered: 4-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, June 22, 2003 - 9:07 am: |
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Hi Guys
Still watching, still reading and still mightily impressed - keep up the excellent work
Chris |
Robert Charles Linford
Inspector
Username: Robert
Post Number: 305
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, June 22, 2003 - 12:17 pm: |
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Thanks, Chris. We'll try!
Robert |
AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 292
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, June 22, 2003 - 1:31 pm: |
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Night Walker Too
I took my beating heart and let it run as a hound
Through alley and street I hunted them down.
I placed my heart upon my sleeve
And then on that pattern did weave
Clouds on the ceiling of my mind
That did cast shadow on all mankind.
With blood I would gently oil the wheel
And try and touch that place we all feel.
But wheel was great engine of fire
Fired by lust and a strange desire.
T’was a girth big piston with hammer blow
And did stunt the blunt piston as it did grow.
The walls were but slither points in the still
Cement formed cracks with which I could fill
in violent haste with night formed paste.
And darkness was all around
In the night still sound
Of the shadows that do surround
The fertile killing ground.
Where buck meets roe
And wolf meets doe.
And did I do that shadow dance
And fate was but happenstance.
I watched the shadows rise and fall
Saw the shadows tall and small.
It were but ledger with black and white
But fine bound ledger in which I write.
It were but night.
A time to chalk with blood on door jamb
A time to walk with sacrificial lamb.
For it were but a Passover
A celebration of Jehovah.
It were but night.
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AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 293
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, June 22, 2003 - 1:34 pm: |
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Robert
Praise was well deserved, your poesie was fantastic.
I'd like to see you develop that theme, as it works so well.
Time is my master at the moment, so I'll try and keep up.
Nice to know we have one reader.
Thanks Chris. |
Robert Charles Linford
Inspector
Username: Robert
Post Number: 306
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, June 22, 2003 - 4:22 pm: |
|
Great poem, AP, and a remarkable atmosphere conjured up. It had a strong dreamlike quality, particularly the fourth verse which had a sort of waking dream feel (I'm not sure, but I think it might be called the hypnagogic trance). Strange that a poem about bloody murder should be so aesthetically satisfying!
I'll try to develop my last poem, though it'll take me a little while. Thanks again for your comments. I'm looking forward to reading Night Walker Free.
Robert |
AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 294
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Thursday, June 26, 2003 - 2:38 pm: |
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Ultimo Ultimata
My name is Ultimo Ultimata
And from me you can expect no quarter.
For I, Ultimo Ultimata
Am dread lord of mass slaughter.
You will find, with your last breath
That I was born and bred
For bright sword of death.
You will find no comfortable seat
To watch my performance on the street.
For street is my arena and circus
And quick death my quick purpose.
To cause dismay
By stab and slay.
I come fully equipped
To thrust, jab and rip.
Even though with steel I’m bound
I come and go without a sound.
My name is Ultimo Ultimata
And the emperor is my master.
I slaughter my women like men
And kill them again and again.
Until the emperor bows his head
And all whoredom is dead.
When I suddenly appear
You will suddenly fear.
For I am Ultimo Ultimata
The devil himself incarnate
Who does from flesh make
And from whore do choke
An emperor’s purple cloak.
And give him slaughtered flesh to taste
And cut off your ears to spite your face.
Blood on my hand
And blood in the sand
Now kill the whore
The crowd does roar:
‘Ultimo! Kill that damn whore
Slice her up and make her sore!
Cut off her tits
And rip out her bits!’
Even Praetorian Guard does bow
Even the Senate does cow-tow
At the killing of the fat cow.
I am Ultimo Ultimata
And the emperor is my master.
And then it his pleasure
To shower me with treasure.
For I am Ultimo Ultimata
And all tremble at my name.
I am Ultimo Ultimata
And all know my fame.
In the name of the whore
Others have gone before.
And others will come
Till the job is done.
But I was the one.
For I am Ultimo Ultimata
And I serve only my master.
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Robert Charles Linford
Inspector
Username: Robert
Post Number: 329
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Thursday, June 26, 2003 - 3:33 pm: |
|
AP, I enjoyed that no end. The Roman theme surprised and intrigued me. I thought it worked really well. You even managed to get in the ambivalent feelings of the newspaper-reading Victorians. The repetitions imparted an ineluctable inevitability to the slaughter, and the ending was very neat indeed.
Circumstances haven't been conducive to poetry the last few days, but I am working on a follow-up to the last one, which I'll post as soon as possible.
I hope your book is going well.
Robert |
AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 295
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Thursday, June 26, 2003 - 5:19 pm: |
|
Thank you Robert,
it were but a brave and brandy ridden attempt but I enjoyed it as well.
I was attempting to link the attitude of late middle class Victorian society to that of the degenerative tail end of the Roman collapse where rape, death and slaughter were but a jolly, something for the stage perhaps, and I have always had the feeling that Jack was but a useful product of his age, for the stage that is, and everybody thought it but an act... much like Big Brother today.
Was Jack a gladiator?
The giant of the stage who took us poor souls from one century into another?
I know not.
But it makes useful poetry.
Look forward to your next poesie.
Book? I never writ a book in me life.
I just tinker round the edges. |
Robert Charles Linford
Inspector
Username: Robert
Post Number: 335
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Saturday, June 28, 2003 - 12:41 pm: |
|
Hi AP
The fourth nail follow-up is still coming, but I have been musing on your last. It prompted a poem that came fairly quickly, so I am posting this boastful, taunting Jack :
"I WANTS TO MAKE YER FLASH CREEP"
Crouch down low, and keep tight curled :
Something strange now walks your world.
Creature of another race -
Pray you never see my face!
I am the spirit of idiot chance,
Chaotic Lord of St Vitus dance,
The free will that you always claim
As birthright - how do you like the game?
The tried old track becomes a mire
And winter snowfalls burn like fire.
House transforms to croaking frog,
Cow turns a cartwheel and barks like a dog.
Poor fools that were tricked,
Find crutches kicked,
And their world unpicked.
I am the Black Hole in the sky
Where your laws do not apply,
The empty road of recurring nightmare
You walk, not knowing how you came there.
Toss and turn, wake with a scream :
Scream to find it still a dream,
And you're on the road again,
Road to nowhere and nowhen.
Hide your heads
Under your beds,
And mind I'm not
In the chamber pot!
Nor am I mad - the mad have their reasons,
And they drag their dreary seaons
Round and round closed circles confined,
Pacing the bars of 'prisoned mind.
Their repetitious maladies
Are pre-ordained Greek tragedies.
I am that I am
And I don't give a damn.
But so that you may muse upon
This novel Tetragrammaton :
J - A - C - K
Is all that I'm prepared to say.
I am Jack, an awkward sod,
Or your unfathomable God.
Robert
|
AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 296
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Saturday, June 28, 2003 - 4:09 pm: |
|
Robert
Enjoyed that beyond redemption.
You managed to squeeze an acid trip into the mind of a barmy Blake looking for demons in his potty.
I find your poesie raises in me the question of the adoration of the crowd for such a character and then his own attempts to hide away from the crowd and their adoration - or something like that, been at that pesky brandy again.
Fame coming from without rather than within, I mean like Blake's fame came from his eternal soul - deep within - and Jack's fame comes from the scratching of mice who pick at his crumbs.
Jack never made a contribution, even a bloody one, but somehow we are stirred in a way that even Blake cannot stir us.
What an immortal frame.
Good poem, Robert, good cause for thought. |
Robert Charles Linford
Inspector
Username: Robert
Post Number: 337
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Saturday, June 28, 2003 - 4:25 pm: |
|
Thanks, AP. I was fortunate to be able to post that, because my computer's playing up. Hopefully I'll be able to send my next one on a nice, new, well-behaved computer.
Robert |
AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 303
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Friday, July 04, 2003 - 5:29 pm: |
|
Acid Drop Jack
Jack floats around
In silent sound.
Punched back and forth
In god’s great court.
Floated on angel’s wing of feather
Like mote of dust in eye of forever.
Like shiny chrome ball
At god’s beck and call.
Silent flicking of telephone book
Images that flicker when you look
And images that make Jack feel
The turn of wheel…
And shutters of steel
That slam like iron in hell
On the black of prison cell.
So he must poison that drip
And with relentless grip
Try to swerve that curve.
His heart were but emotion
And the killing but an ocean
That flooded the swell
Down there deep in hell.
The lever was pulled
And Jack were full.
Of pus and pestilence
For his four pence.
Four pence to fill your hole
Four pence for your battered soul.
And then inside
Did he slip and slide
In tunnel too narrow and too wide.
Til’ he came to the end
And found it another bend.
He found himself from where he did come
Just this side of a distant sun…
He found himself in distant tomb
Just this side of his mother’s womb…
So Jack sliced himself in and out
And did emerge with great shout,
As great lever hit him great clout
And Jack bounced around heaven once more
To end his days in womb of mother whore.
Who with great mirth
Gave great birth
To great god’s single sin,
By god Jack had a twin.
And hit from pillar to post
He hated himself the most.
Fed well foul on angel’s meat
Then sat down on Satan’s seat.
And then great lever hammered down
And again chrome ball did spin around.
|
Robert Charles Linford
Inspector
Username: Robert
Post Number: 362
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Friday, July 04, 2003 - 6:28 pm: |
|
Absolutely loved it, AP. The sheer futility of the whole affair I found very attractive indeed, but I also liked the humour you got into it. It's a remarkable conception, this - bouncing around, going in and out of tunnels, getting clouted inside a crazy cosmic pinball machine! Very beguiling and energy-charged poem,AP.
Sorry my poem's taking me so long. I can post on the other threads, but it's only today I've felt I was back in the right frame of mind for poetry. This evening a few lines came into my head, so I hope I can get rolling again. I'm actually frustrated when I can't concentrate or get anything, and I think writing poems is getting to be a bit of a drug for me!
Still couldn't do one on a Greek urn to save my life, though.
Robert |
AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 304
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, July 06, 2003 - 4:06 pm: |
|
Thanks Robert
Actually the poesie is only about 25% of what I wanted to write but the demands on my energy and time at the moment are truly prodigious, and I guess I will not be able to devote 100% for some time. I have started five or six in the last two weeks and they all sit there in the ether gathering cosmic plasma until I find the time to release them. Not complaining as I am enjoying much success elsewhere on this complicated planet.
I think poems to be a healthy drug for you. |
Robert Charles Linford
Inspector
Username: Robert
Post Number: 365
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Monday, July 07, 2003 - 9:35 am: |
|
Hi AP
EMULATION
"So I made man, the angel who dies,
An innocent with baby eyes,
My loneliness his love to bring,
With the Milky Way for an apron string.
One morn I gazed at him and lo!
Tiny hairs began to grow.
Tiny ape was created free,
And tiny ape must climb the tree,
Gobbling apples, taking chances,
Hazy dreams and crazy dances,
Eyes aloft to Heaven’s throne
That he covets for his own.
So the garden round was walled,
Guarded with a flaming sword.
Yet the ape for all his sorrow
Still took thought for misty morrow,
Planted own tree
He’d ne’er live to see.
I sent flood and plague and fire -
Gibbering ape but mounted higher,
Ransacked my universe for laws,
Wrote quantum equations with hairy paws,
Poured out his life and broke my heart
Giving birth to his man-made art,
Outloved me in his trust and faith,
Worshipping heart-created Wraith.
But I made Jack, the one who feeds me,
Slithering snake who really needs me.
Lidless eyes and flicking tongue,
Wallowing in blood and –"
"Dung?
Old hypocrite in Heavenly chair,
You it was who put it there!
Father’s belt and mother’s bed,
Infant terrors left unsaid,
Chip on shoulder, sibling envy,
Smothered dreams and smothered frenzy.
All things stinking of the past,
Turning us to stone at last.
Layered childhood years, down pressing,
Fossilise us with your blessing.
Most turn to coal, fit for the pyre.
A few are diamonds, flashing fire
And cutting paths of frozen perfection
Through a world of their own conception.
See! Pious saints have lost their grin,
For now I’m come to bear God’s sin.
'Tis my Gomorrah, and Lot’s wife
Is frozen for ever at touch of my knife.
Blood spilt is my inundation
And my rainbow recreation.
My Thomas is no doubting soul
Though he plunges hand in hole,
Squeezes apron strings in paw,
Cuts and flings them to the floor.
For he believes in me,
And also climbs the tree.
Talk not of Hell,
I know its smell!
Thunderbolt that strikes my head
From my own hand will be sped.
Though I delve in mud primeval,
Divine I create my Good and Evil.
Like father, like son
Till the world is done.
Buck’s Row saw nativity
Of upstart creativity.
I too plant tree
I’ll never see.
Zigzag path engraved on whore
Winds its way to Heaven’s door.
And my base reptilian sin?
'Tis but a serpent sloughing skin."
Robert
|
AP Wolf
Inspector
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 305
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Monday, July 07, 2003 - 4:44 pm: |
|
Robert
we must place you in Bedlam at once, for this be pure genuis at work. We must consign you to workhouse and bury you in unmarked grave, for such is the reward for such good words.
I could smell Blake's primordial sin in your words. Am absolute belter of a poesie.
My humble and sincere congratulations for the carving and engraving of such words.
Profound, profane and provocative... what more could you want from poesie? And that little spark of a universal passing made it complete.
I take me hat and wig off to you, sir.
Superb stuff. |
Robert Charles Linford
Inspector
Username: Robert
Post Number: 370
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Monday, July 07, 2003 - 6:07 pm: |
|
Many thanks for that, AP - though I'm not looking forward to the workhouse!
I have a humorous one nearly finished, which I'll post as soon as I can.
Thanks again!
Robert |
Robert Charles Linford
Inspector
Username: Robert
Post Number: 396
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Thursday, July 10, 2003 - 2:09 pm: |
|
Hi AP
I can’t remember, was it Martin Fido who wondered who Jack would turn out to be on Judgement Day? Anyway, here’s a poem about it.
JUDGEMENT DAY
Gabriel’s horn! This was no drill.
Earth stopped turning, time stood still.
'Mid excitement unabating,
Ripperologists, still debating
Bade farewell to history,
Dashed off to hear the mystery.
Legions of them buzzed and swarmed,
God leapt clear as His throne was stormed.
Heaven’s halls were filled to the wide,
The angels had to sit outside.
Evans searched for Doctor T
And followed a trail of herbal tea.
Fido called for his Polish Jew :
"Kaminsky! Cohen! Where are you?"
Bob Hinton walked where Hutchinson walked –
The latter complained of being stalked.
AP Wolf cried "’Twould be dandy
If Thomas appeared, with a bottle of brandy." -
Then went round with a tragic face,
For Cornwell had closed the brandy case.
Chris Scott, he was having fun
Searching for Adam in census Year One.
(Someone called Linford, you understand,
Went off to Hell where smoking’s not banned.)
Paradise quaked, as spirits fiery
Burst into labs and tested the Diary.
Paley said "Oh blast! Oh darn it!
What if he doesn’t turn out to be Barnett?"
Dan Farson confessed that he would rue it
If Jacky wasn’t found to be Druitt.
But I mustn’t overdo it.
At last came the moment of everyone’s asking :
Jack the Ripper’s public unmasking.
The victims too, they wanted to know,
And all grabbed a seat in the very first row.
Then silence reigned, and hopes were sunk
When God announced "Jack’s done a bunk."
You could have heard a theory drop,
A book bite the dust, or a suspect go pop.
Then : "Surely with all our brains we can match him.
Hey, everybody, we can still catch him!
He’s only been five minutes gone.
There’s still time, everyone – come on!"
So off they all charged in a shouting pack,
Back on the road in pursuit of Jack.
‘Twas flat eternity’s saving leaven,
And God had given them their Heaven.
Robert
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