You’ll never believe me…I was waiting to Skype God. You can imagine the anxiety! I mean…the Almighty, the Alpha & the Omega, Tetragrammaton—YHWH. It was buffering his end, ringing out. There was a lot of eeking & blare. The postman dropped his delivery. I was gripped on what God was going to look like. I [...]
ITV’s Good Morning Britain's backdrop-countdown to Brexit is a dramatic reminder of what is to come. However, until March 29th we are all of us just speculating, guided by a homunculi Tiresias that lives in ours and others' ears, themselves just speculating off of the fragments of other speculators spoon fed 24hour news straight out [...]
The Royal Wedding In another dimension where fairness & justice is 5% above our own dimension’s… Harry complains he doesn’t look good in red, it’s his hair. Moreover, why does he have to wear William’s same Irish Guard’s Mounted Officer’s uniform, he looks like a proper twat, why couldn’t he just go to Saville Row, [...]
Very glad that my 1st act as Underfoot’s new guest editor, is to publish a handful of Marie Marshall’s poems (no relation).
Put succinctly, Marie Marshall is the bee’s knees, legitimately one of the finest poets i have discovered during my forage of the Internet, finest poet FULL STOP. Never a word wasted nor misused, never a thought wanting, always impossible to anticipate, & at times full of humour; Marie is my kind of poet. Enjoy.
To read more of Marie’s work go here, spend the afternoon, put a pot of coffee on, set a plate of biscuits, maybe, a mix of Garibaldi & Custard Creams.
The river’s in constant re-set mode,
sighting by its hand against the banks
what’s up and what’s down. It has
the tattoo of the sky in its eye. Two
girls, leaning against the wall, ignore
it, choosing instead to contemplate
hills and the warmth of each other’s
shoulder, but each has plashed puddles
that have (since) closed up, that eye
winking out. The river’s voice is
understated, catch some in a bucket
and it’s abated. Call by to see brother
Perch in his green-and-silver suit, to
maintain a plastic pot for washing
your brushes, to extract and filter.
Renew! The sun turns you to molten
copper. The river’s dare is born of
hills and ephemeral daymare tails.
from Potty Poetry
(a handful of poems printed on cards and left in the toilets at Burning Man 2016)
We met right here,
but this is no sleazy…
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While i am here & before i exhaust you with today's Charlie poem, i want to say that Tim Miller at Underfoot poetry has asked me to be a guest editor, so i am scouting poets. If you'd like 6 poems published, send me 8 to firstname.lastname@example.org along with a bio, & a paragraph explaining [...]
A grim poem from the Charlie Malurkey cohort of capers & general peculiarities. In short, Charlie reads prophecies in the pubic hair that arranges on his bathroom floor, taking it to be a message from Godly God. Sorry, so sorry. Body-Hairomancy Last night he bothering the audience with messages him got from Godly God, It [...]
i understand people may not understand, perfectly, the language used, it is written using the intonations of my home town of Cannock, back in England, which has a peculiar idiom. It is English, but somewhat truncated, due to a mix of lunacy & bad genes. But there is melody there & i thought it might [...]
Been reading Rolfe Humphries' translation of Ovid's Ars Amatoria, which is an excellent translation. He sticks to the hexameters, often employing the anapaest & using internal assonance, which makes for a pleasant music. i have broke with that in places, letting the line run to heptameters or longer, making it a sort of Blakean love [...]
The all mighty curator of the universe & tinkerer of Charlie's Broca's Area, zaps our hapless hero with memories of his own, from when he took human form during the Influenza of 1918, when a 100 million or so died & Godly God, despite the chaos & tragedy, danced with a dying Spanish woman in [...]
Charlie's back, well, sort of. All these poems are old. i always have a fuss before i post them, but the bulk is done. Feeling in a Charlie mood so here you go. In this poem, Charlie, strapped for cash, takes a job as a man in a dinosaur suit, to sell paper towels. The [...]