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Poetry Magnum Opus

Love Rain on Me [R]


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When all the flash boys

have departed, packed up their

gutter language, departed the scene,

leaving behind broken pint glasses,

discarded syringes, used condoms,

I will turn to you, my darling, here

in this graffitti-stricken car park

and speak of Euripides, the man

who foretold it all, the future world

he never lived to see. Your eyes

glaze over, you want to speak of love


as if a man and a woman

can lose themselves in each other

and set the world aside

now and forever.


Suicide, I think,

is one response;

marriage another.




Well, yes, it can lead to trust and affection,

partnership, comradely feeling, bearing in mind

that the fires of passion which got the whole

thing going, burn out & fade & die, they do,

in about twelve to fifteen months. I hate

scientists just as much as you do, dear heart,

but they put the nail on it. In the old days,

you know, they’d say, “Marriage is the price

men pay for sex” and that “Sex is the price

women pay for marriage”: so totally untrue.


Le fuckeeng, let me tell you, is fun,

on both sides.


It’s just a question of controlling it,

having or not having children.

Well, we all want children, hidden away

in some recess of our mind. We do.


The fount of literature and popular song

in the past, the present, and forever

is sex: that chemical fatal attraction

lasting, on average, fifteen months:

oh, would you ever shut up?


I’m told the human race began

with 2000 people or so, lost and wandering

on the savannahs of east central Africa.

From this dithering crowd

each and every one of us descend.


In the caves of France and Spain

many yonks and yonks of years ago

amid sputtering fires, as some peculiar guy

paints marvellous pictures on the wall,

a girl looks at a guy in a certain way

and they discreetly retire, giggling,

then move into the shadows and do the deed.

Without it where would we be? Not here.

Not anywhere. Non-existent, not around.

Edited by dedalus

Drown your sorrows in drink, by all means, but the real sorrows can swim

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You've certainly covered a lot of ground with this one Brendan and it's highly readable as usual. There's a sardonic ring about it and yet at the same time it is philosophical. The mood reminds me of T.S, Eliot's cockney sequence in The Waste Land and the words, “What you get married for if you didn't want children.” Sex is in our faces everywhere these days and at least recreational fucking is openly spoken about by one and all. And why not, for it's as much a part of being human as eating, drinking and any other natural bodily function. I even heard a conversation the other day on t/v that male/female homosexuality is a natural form of evolution to curb the population explosion. There's one to conjure with. :icon_cyclops: Benjamin

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A thought-provoking anthropological excursion, Brendan. Seems to go in a reverse chronological order. Enjoyed it!





PS -- I'm awarding this one the badge of honor: [R].

Here is a link to an index of my works on this site: tonyv's Member Archive topic

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Wow. After three reads, I guess I'm ready. That was a lot to digest and how fun it was to do so. I won't tell you I agree with all of the philosophies you've laid out here, but you have written one fine poem. I loved it and will make my husband sit still and listen to me read it to him. Excellent work.



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If your husband's a man (as I suspect he is, Tammi) he'll snort and go out to mow the lawn. Or drive down to the local bar. I'd do the same. We know, we KNOW: no need to listen to some idiot Irish nancy .... :wacko:

Edited by dedalus

Drown your sorrows in drink, by all means, but the real sorrows can swim

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everything's been said, nicely done.


"Unbearable, isn't it? The suffering of strangers, the agony of friends.

There is a secret song at the center of the world, Joey, and its sound is like razors through flesh."


"I don't believe you."


"Oh come, you can hear its faint echo right now. I'm here to turn up the volume.

To press the stinking face of humanity into the dark blood of its own secret heart."

"There's a starving beast inside my chest
playing with me until he's bored
Then, slowly burying his tusks in my flesh
crawling his way out he rips open old wounds

When I reach for the knife placed on the bedside table
its blade reflects my determined face
to plant it in my chest
and carve a hole so deep it snaps my veins

Hollow me out, I want to feel empty"
-- "Being Able To Feel Nothing" by Oathbreaker


"Sky turns to a deeper grey

the sun fades by the moon

hell's come from the distant hills

tortures dreams of the doomed

and they pray, yet they prey

and they pray, still they prey"
-- "Still They Prey" by Cough


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Was the fifteen months, a sort of best-before for marriage forecast by scientists in the poem or was it statistical? It was easy to read.

"Words are not things, and yet they are not non-things either." - Ann Lauterbach

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It's kind of the sell-by date. Watch out, I plan to put in a sexy photo ... a painting from about 1860-something. Rock and roll!

Drown your sorrows in drink, by all means, but the real sorrows can swim

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