Branch of Gwydion & Fionn, YGDRISIL, Odin's
ash bay stallion on the white wing of Branwen:
Architecture of griffin, lion, goat as pedestrian
as the clouds afloat, that he must now wear at arms pursuing the hounds on the hill & ridden by the hag of the
mill.
Driven from the hearth by ambition to seek fame
& fortune, unity & diversity, as the furies, witches three, pursue relentlessly. His conquest brings him no
recognition from the world he's won & lost abandoned, whilst at the hearth she is alone, forlorn & hated.
His cold will rot beneath the gulls squall tho
he harsh with eight foot span be beneath the bigger again.
Ready for the gone, he could not claw the cat petrified
on the vicars lawn because birds of the air pecked him. Thirty miles a day, on the loose, he now awaits the falconers
noose, across North Anglian plain he skipped vicarage and chimney:
But is unlikely to attend the Champaign and shrimp
sandwich of the vicarage fete.
Copyright Robin Ouzman Hislop. 2003 All rights
reserved.
God is not a Poet
Listen you Son of a Bitch, Son of Man of the Holy
Brotherhood, listen man, what's the thing most frequently said about poetry, that even the dullest dolt knows? You've
got it, there's no money in poetry and no money, no honey, honey. And what is money? Information transacted at the
speed of light, the State, the Subject, the Object and as even the dullest dolt knows, moneys everything, Ipso Facto,
QED God is money, money is God, but not a poet, in fact poetry doesn't exist, only money and written in its name,
only dates, doesn't persist, and why's that! think about it! God is not a poet.
Copyright Robin Ouzman Hislop 2002-10-12 All rights
reserved
|