Sylvia***Rev.Two***


"Doubt is not a pleasant condition, but certainty is absurd." Voltaire

A psychic told me so,
wasn't listening half asleep,
my fingers aching, tissue paper-
stuck to the inside layer of my boxer shorts,
big breasted woman she is, take you into her bosom
get lost, boat sinks on some river,
the Republic of Congo weeping,
and I'm weeping the tissue safely
housed in my drawers, wipe my eyes dry,
need a new tea pot must remember that,
no tea until then, no coffee until then either,
need to buy a lighter, I'm babbling,
ohh big bad babbling brook, Rupert Brooke
sad little man, met him once, small little bit of England
that is always him and nothing else, mad sort of chap,
late, oh yes, very late, big breasted girlfriend,
all for show, all for show oh yes indeed, and the, “first shall
be the last and the last shall be the first,” dunno
why she said that, quoting the bible at all hours,
doesn't even believe in God, doesn't even believe in Allah-
lujah/lulla/by little....don't cry get some sleep-

sleeping feeling very sleepy, my psychic told me so
I was on the phone to her for hours and hours,
“you are going to meet a.......” never heard the rest
fell asleep, she has me fearing death by any means,
says it's all dark, has died four times she has,
the mystic liquids she ingests to speak to the...
They try to take her with them, mystics that is,
want her in their club house, investigating Dyatlov-
in shorts, beards trimmed only a little still
very bushy on their scarred/scared/sacred faces-
if you ask me it was them Russians, “Oye Comrade
get a move on,” hasn't even been able to predict the war yet,
doesn't know it's happening, says it's coming,
not bleeding well almost a decade under way,
needle in her arm, dick hanging out of her pants,
says she commandeered it I don't wanna know
I tell her that, she goes into details anyway.
Speaking the Queen's English through rotten teeth,
the smell of coffee/cigarettes/dirt swaying a little
on my heavy laced boots, all black and fading
covered in dog shit and moss



Sylvia

Revision One

A psychic told me so,
wasn't listening half asleep,
my fingers aching, tissue paper-
stuck to the inside layer of my boxer shorts,
big breasted woman she is, take you into her bosom
get lost, boat sinks on some river,
the Republic of Congo weeping,
and I'm weeping the tissue safely
housed in my drawers, wipe my eyes dry,
need a new tea pot must remember that,
no tea until then, no coffee until then either,
need to buy a lighter, I'm babbling,
ohh big bad babbling brook, Rupert Brooke
sad little man, met him once, small little bit of England
that is always him and nothing else, mad sort of chap,
late, oh yes, very late, big breasted girlfriend,
all for show, all for show oh yes indeed, and the, “first shall
be the last and the last shall be the first,” dunno
why she said that, quoting the bible at all hours,
doesn't even believe in God, doesn't even believe in Allah-
lujah/lulla/by little....don't cry get some sleep,
sleeping feeling very sleepy, my psychic told me so
I was on the phone to her for hours and hours,
“you are going to meet a.......” never heard the rest
fell asleep, she has me fearing death by
any means, says it's all dark,
has died four times she has,
the mystic liquids she ingests
to speak to the spirit world...
They try to take her with them, mystics that is,
want her in their club house, investigating Dyatlov-
in shorts beards trimmed only a little still
very bushy on their scarred/scared/sacred faces-
if you ask me it was them Russians. Oh yes them  Russians
“Oye Comrade get a move on,” hasn't even been able to
predict the war yet, doesn't know it's happening, says it's coming,
not bleeding well almost a decade under way, runs around
needle in her arm, dick hanging out of her pants, says she commandeered it
I don't wanna know and I tell her that, she goes into details anyway.





Sylvia

A psychic told me so,
wasn't listening half asleep,
my fingers aching, tissue paper-
stuck to the inside layer of my boxer shorts,
big breasted woman she is, take you into her bosom
get lost, boat sinks on some river,
the Republic of Congo weeping,
and I'm weeping the tissue safely
housed in my drawers, wipe my eyes dry,
need a new tea pot must remember that,
no tea until then, no coffee until then either,
need to buy a lighter, I'm babbling,
ohh big bad babbling brook, Rupert Brooke
sad little man, met him once, small little bit of England
that is always him and nothing else, mad sort of chap,
late apparently, oh yes, very late, big breasted girlfriend,
all for show, all for show oh yes indeed, and the first shall
be the last and the last shall be the first, apparently dunno
why she said that, quoting the bible at all hours,
doesn't even believe in God, doesn't even believe in Allah-
lujah/lulla/by little, don't cry get some sleep,
sleeping feeling very sleepy, my psychic told me so
I was on the phone to her for hours and hours,
“you are going to meet a.......” never heard the rest
feel asleep, she has me fearing death by
any means, says it's all dark,
has died four times she has,
the mystic liquids she ingests
to speak to the spirit world...

I know what you're saying, but for some reason at the minute I have an aversion to writing anything with stanzas I know most people like the space, I do to when I'm reading, I just hate the way they look. I may well add them if the majority of critiques ask for them, though seeing as you may well be the only comment, I might have to revise that statement.

Cheers and yea I think I'll ditch, "apparently,"

Syd

Fair nuff, but do I have to be saying anything?

Stream of thought poems are best read aloud by the writer.  I miss the old poetry slam days.  It's really hard to get a poem such as this down on a stagnant forum and have it feel or look right, although I do admire the valiant effort. 

I think maybe you were meant to read your poems at a beatnik club in the 60s.  But we are never born at the right time, are we?

You know I'm a big fan and I often love going on the leaps and bounds in your thinking.  You also know I'm totally honest, and while this definitely has substance, it isn't your best work.  Besides, you're too young to remember Sylvia, and all you do is make me feel old and envious.

love ya,

mel.

I am definitely not going to dig for meaning in this. Instead I'm just enjoying the images, the possibilities, the language. Structure  would not help this, I agree that it's meant to be heard read, preferably by the author. Truly enjoyed this Syd.

Rob