SOME day. Doc
POEMS BY Dorothea English
C/o Ms A Wing
Flat 9, 92-94 Gt Titchfield St
London
WC1
p
Self o
Vvvv this
harder than mmm
Doorstep looks rrrr it
On the is oooo
Them trait
Your coat and you pooor
Jane Mansfield hat po
Marylin Monroe po
Stan collimore self
Ethan Hawke this is my
Joan Baez you see
Ethel Rosenberg stop
Janet muldowny can’t
Hugh hefner I really
f. scott Gerard
mandy Hopkins please
eve carey
lou beale get
james carter
Hamish Mcdougal jimmy
Ruby Valentine, craig lucasse,
One
We spit upon the meaningless notion
Of the catatonic rubble in our fists
When the beginning comes it will be
No better than the squashed cabbage meat
Of the raw beings
That seep away the
Toning
Of yellow
Peat
Two
When wishing comes without a door
When wishing comes without a door
Excellence will belie
The heartless
Talk
Of bygone
Offerings
To the sacred Redeemings
That weave their sad hisses into your
Mouth
That gapes, like a longing
Lioness
Milking her cubs against the distant sound
Of cars crashing through the subway of your poor
Life
Which once wet the
Cavities
Of Hell into
Strict counterpoint
Towards
The Toilets
Of the
Louvre: Forever beckoning and wailing,
Humping. Feeling. Spinning: Hard and Violent
Wishing through
The key
WH ole of your
Heart
Three
And so it struck
Where
Into the watery subjugations of the
Lines
That will always eat through until
Yes
It parts
Why?
In parts
??
The answer
Whispers
Constantly together
Whirring
Through interminable
Happenstance
When again
She wheels her way, you ask,
Was she nice?
Or was it me; contently
Insisting
That con-existence was even a possibility
When the watery of your eyes
Hides its own story
Of Miss
Demeanours
$4
Today dice throw
Carry weightlessness
as they swim her hands
into my heart
and the liver burns through,
like a solid tractor.
Anna! Come.
But that is not your name
The deceiving
Enamour
Is enough to bring
Ecstasy to the world of temptation
When Eva
Stands outside of her bedroom door
Whining
Whisking
That it was not for you
That she kame
Into the darkness for:
It was not you
That dragged her through that
Backwards phase of tortured
pumice stones and giant
Wrenches.
For that would be a terrible thing to Hear, to feel
As if no one was left to hold drown the dead body that weeps in the night and bears witness to the atrocities that
Human existence imparts
Through the hearts of
Figs.
FIVE
Because
Because the moon shines out of your Class
Doesn’t mean I’m going to love you
Because every time you move
I cry
Doesn’t mean I’m going to love you
Because the clouds
Part and I see your face
Doesn’t mean I’m going to love you
Because the birds sing
And my faith is restored
Doesn’t mean I’m going to love you
I love you in spite of myself
The head is sore
And so is the body
The muscles ache and so does the pain in my gut
But if this is death, then I am weak
And the love I feel will not part
From my heart
forever
Alas.
Six
The Movie-Lover’s Epigrammy
I think I am going to die
I really do
When the swift light comes
It is coming for me:
Red and Yellow
And Pink and Blue
There is no care
For what it Screws
Winding down the Course
Of your own Tears
It says:
‘Hey
You, yes you
You’re looking at me
And I’m looking at you.
If you don’t come here quick it’s Gonna be
The End
Sooner
Than you think
I’m joking?
Sorry.
No. This is it.
And you are the piece of meat that longs to be
Hidden in the Eternal Treat
Of
bye! Gone! Existence!
And so
I go
Walking, watching Aimless
And
Benign
Enough to give anyone a Headache
If they choose to lose
On the reckoning of ‘Life and Death’
8
why does meaning
escape
and
Flutter like
Transparent yachts
Into triangular
Beatings that Sum
All beings
Into
Grande dreams;
To jump down and
Gasp?
At the asking price
……………………..
Seven = 7
WAKE UP AND SMELL THE C:
Wake up and smell it
You lie
There, there
It torments
Enough already
It doesn’t become you
where are Yo! Mann-errs!
Can be funnnn (non?)
Remember: ……………….??
9
The poetry
dawns
and the husky light parts
cold
beneath the subject’s
army of caressing sounds
He weeps
And the wind expires
against the bleating
ivy hugging the
wonton soupy
BRICKS
That soak up all motion and meaning
Their hardburn exterior
compels
all who stand by
to weep in
hesitant expectation and….
so it swells into
constant and unwavering
e motion
remembrance
of
things
felt forever more
cold
wet
and dead
10
Two on No-One.
How does it feel?
Are you squashed;
Being moshed?
Until feelings become
Mere
Chance,
Would be a fine thing.
Until
Then
Salut.
Goodbye
Again. It is not your fault.
It was in your jeans
The writing is in the hall until
You Scrawl
The Truth
For All to see like
TCP until it becomes
ok Yo!
wish upon a star and don’t wake up.
11
the night passes into day
lightning whispers home
against the porcelain tremors
and your heart
reeks
of
cold
mashed potato
the sound is glittering as
the vagrant dares to speak
constantly stirring into inimitable ground
beef
she says
dixit
domina est
regina
12
It always comes at three ‘a clock’!
The soaring pain
That doubting Thomas
Wills silently
yet stealthily
he Whispers
calmly,
where the goat has its stitches…
It tolls.
And I am despondent.
I realize that
the life you threaten is,
the faith
I never knew I had,
Until your sparkling, disconcerting
Eyes cast their shadow
Over my
Motionless, translucent body.
Rearing your head-
Long,
into my
Umber Kaleidoscopic Veins
Beyond dragons and queens and existentialism
To reach for
Grapes and Pottery
that will never be touched again
By your soft breath.
w-i-e-r-d . ?
13
The bed
The bed is always comfortable
It weeps for me
And for what is entailed within it.
When I picture it. It creaks in the dark rustic expanse of nothingness.
You are there
And the eyes look up.
Pure desire
Passion
And joy.
It is dramatic
and I cannot escape from the image
It is sacred
I must shut my eyes for another.
Because those brown eyes will never leave me.
The memories are too ingrained
And I feel longingly in silent expectation
Why did it have to happen so young?
I have my memories. But, alas
That is all
For nothing can ever return or be the same.
Unless there is love
14 thirteen
I think being chuffed is the essential factor
A mutual level of chuff-dom is the crux
de la situation
without that,
Mutual
Appreciation
Society
Kannot function.
It remains a myth of inescapable yet unattainable
Boredom
15
I will never die young.
I must always die old.
And the hats that I wear will be
relatively few in the
blue wake of the unsuspecting
crow who sits and perches until
He feels that it is time to
go.
There is a long line.
A long place.
For that spot at meaningful
transfiguration
from your own.
Place to go……..
DON’T THINK in quotes. Read for you.r.s.e.l.f. .
to help your . .
insanity . .
. bear able .
or else . .
your . .
pain . . . . .
will
BE
COME
Six-teen
When you are in complete control
Rainbows wash under your head
Spanish steps mean
Nothing next to cranberry jelly
When you are in complete control
Underlying jets spill forth onto
A crimson sea
Of earning
Power
Exists and never lies.
But when it happens you must not cry
For complete control
Is everything But
the meaning
That you
Desire
seventeen years young
I never had any grand plans
Pro Misss!
I never had any grand plans
Honest!
I never thought much of myself .
I just did what I did
And people seemed to stop
And say
Hey!
I never had any Grande plans
Ovid!
I just wanted to
Bea like you
And say
I do
With someone new
It that too much to ask?
18
A beautiful memory, so hard to picture
From the same day
for me
it has to go back
to nostalgia
because a simple blue boat is not enough
blue/turquoise/emerald
yes it was beautiful
but I was alone
the emery board
that reams its way onto my heart
has to have
a certain soulder to it.
it has to have humans in it
always human interaction
none of this musing at the beauty of the world.
That’s all very well.
But sharing is what it’s all about.
Or else. You are sharing with you
alone.
and then it becomes a dream
of unreality
and we live once more
in that
nostalgic past
19
can my key theme be loneliness too?
I really feel it. Yes I do.
Crippled yet quietly enjoying
The time and space
To feel the luxury of one’s own failure
When it comes
To that mysterious element
Called happiness.
When it existed, it felt like a right.
But people don’t have to like you
That’s their choice
No drama please
You delicate flower
I don’t think there’s any need for
Such an exuberant display of
Unease
Please
Sit pretty and be content
In yourself. With yourself.
And hide
Away
Into your contractive consciousness
If you
Have the
Will
To be a negative
Personality.
And ‘don’t say JUST’
@20
light and birds
two yet one
in providing
that safety, that feeling
of becoming hypnotised to this
world without end
colour arises and that strange unknowing
becomes a grown reality
of heroism virtually
franchising the creamy white shutters
into rusty view
I weep.
The sickness and sadness remain
But I cannot deny my life’s existence
As is the temptation in dreams and the grotty
Nox
Perpetua
Dormienda
SLEEP and School
Someone is building an army outside my window
Digging up the drain to pour away my life into
Hyptos
The Greek god of sleep
Why do we desire it so?
I am spoilt
Constantly desiring
Yet overindulging
The thing that thou has wrought in us
And makes this world
As a world that the Lord hath
Blessed
Pure
Clean
Lovely and of good report
We beseech thee
Amen, amen, amen, a a a a a a
Men
A
A a a a a
Men
Scriptures Wash
Scriptures wash,
And the climate builds.
Scriptures wash,
And the growing yearns.
Scriptures wash,
And your voice soothes,
As I am calmed by the awakening of your breath within me.
Scriptures wash,
When I am laid in tormenting memory.
Scriptures wash
You into me and my stomach is softened.
Scriptures wash,
And the raven appears transformed:
The mere feeling of warmth is
Like a dusty duvet that comforts and
Washes the Scriptures
Into noisy yet constant oblivion
The fantasiste
When others look and stairs
Into the reality of my optimism
They are bemused
I need not the power of possessions
For I have dreams to do that world
Sometimes a person is frustrated
They want a connection.
For me to…..
But inner life is something that no one can share
He exists
And he travels, through the story of eternal truth
To return to the oikos of his imagination
There she has weaved and deceived
And he must slaughter to purify his
And their own
Memory
Erase until we have
Restoration
And forgetfulness
Can I call him now?
Can I call him now?
And let him know
That his presence in my head is
Enough.
Enough to quench whatever thoughts
Lie hid and twisted
In Quebecic
Notes of Great Exhibitions
And a life that is forgotten
Yet tasted
Like a green lolly-pop
That you thought was too sweet
It tasted of strawberry
You wanted lemon
But the perfect flower
Will never exist
It is enough
That he is there
In his land and you are
Here, wishing you were there,
But knowing that the imperfectness of reality
Is far more romantic than the
Happiness of
Fantasy
Football is quick yet appealingly physical
When we weep their calves
Are crying in the meadows,
Agile and graceful, swift,
Multicoloured
And happy to be active, away from the
Prying mouths of their over-nurturing
Mothers and hard headed
Pops
They are excitable and serious.
Few words but a head full
Of strange information, useless to anyone
But themselves and every rapt listener,
Who quietly
Assuredly
Is falling
Into the whole of eternity-less
Love
Celebration
When the lights come on
The drama is over
And I feel
Exhilarated
Happy, desperate
To tell someone
That they came back on.
They went off. And they came back on.
And now my best friend is alive again
And I feel safe
Always
From the comfort of strange
Actors
26
The bare necessities of existence
Fly in the face of
Talking beds that
Use their magical powers
Exquisite and complicated
Always invasive
Never grounded in the
Reality that is
Recent comings
Out of the wiry blue
Hallucinations
That speak to the
Restless mind and well
Wish the ever-present
Language of hope
Forgiveness
Forgiveness comes naturally,
When it is time
To forget why?
The relief of being;
Of giving need
Surpasses
Any rational thought.
It blossoms inside,
Satisfyingly Nauseous
Exciting
That you are no longer
Locked out of the door,
And the carpet of doom feels
Lifted into a
Greasy hollow of coloring
Abandonment sacrilegiously
Pouring the sweaty upside-down-ness
Into
Singular
Awkwardness
Everyone wishes they were someone else
A kindof naïve present-hood often
Calms the upstairs
Windows as they descend into
Knowing heaviness.
Release is a form of
Self-hood
And transformation merely
The burden of linguistics.
Forging habits create
Security yet also
Perception which bleeds into an
Opening book of promises and cryptic
Vitriolic barbed
Patriarchal
Discourses which manifest themselves
In
Over-simplistic platitudes which help to
Dull the
Grey matter that
Wishes it
Were
Blue
Like many great artists….
Like many great artists,
She started out with pots
And from there
She rose into something quite
Extraordinary
The soft, sensual malleability
Appealed as she drenched her hands
In a watery pulpy
Cream which slowly dried itself on
Her juicy fingers
And wept for the effort that would come
From within the talons of
Thought and hunger
Lay a meaningful expression of
Fried
Oranges
Quite unlike any other pot that whispered to
Her sweet caress
Like many great artists…
She started out with paint
She used it like a medium of
Adversity
A tonic for the releasing pain
That constantly occupied her mind
She felt at one
In the moment of concentration
Like a quiet mental patient in
Rehabilitation
‘isn’t it nice that she’s using her creativity?’
for painting had a kindof archaic useless
appeal
for arms
nothing too meaningful
yet something all relatable
she drew first
in pencil. Then
filled in the blanks
constantly filling.
Every dip of the brush, soothing and
Relieving.
Every new stroke a therapeutic
Touch that
Weakened her essence
And ground her soul
To a steady
Haunting
Active existence
Like all great artists…
She started out with music
Young at first
A singing lolly-pop
Dangling from her salivating lips.
The tunes were simple
And her heart was innocent
Round and round and round they sang
Mixing it up
And playing on the xylophone
That wondrously seemingly placeless instrument she thought.
Who plays this strange metal object in
Real life?
Surely it is only used for music clubs and my amusement?
Do people ever play ‘percussion’?
She loved it all the same.
The little improvised spot-light sessions were always alarming
But she knew some notes and she knew the rhythm
And somehow in the moment it would all be ok
She was learning form.
But was never a showman.
If only she had had more time to think…
but it only happened once a week.
No xylophone practice at home.
Just in the spot-light. Saturday morning.
in a little group.
And choir.
No friends in the group. But it didn’t matter.
Then music becomes a competition with yourself and others. There are rules. And it becomes a job.
What is it then?
He/She
He liked to write lying down
Perhaps in pencil
She liked to write lying down
Her warm companion serving as a friend
Gratifyingly warm
And strangely conforming.
Something rhythmic
Something mechanical
Little noises of accompaniment that
Give a strange feeling of
Completeness to the whole experience
A new experience
One of privilege
One that only ‘rich kids’ have
One not deserved or earned
Before
She had to lie in bed and think, then awake at six
To get up and start
Remembering
Now, she only had to roll over and it was there
Her best friend
Who could have thought it?
Words tossed in the wind. Gone with them
Catullus 64 or 68
But the beauty of expression never goes away.
Words are a waste.
But so is time
Life is a waste, but so is any human endeavour.
Same difference
I think, therefore I am
I went to Cambridge to learn how to think.
That was what they told me.
Classics. Latin, Ancient Greek, Philosophy (old stuff)
Archaeology, Ancient Sculpture and ‘Art History’
Oh
And
Deconstructionism. Literary Criticism
Peoples opinions and opinions.
And in the end
‘what do you think?’
it was nice.
To be able to ‘think’. And say what I did.
So you can think. How helpful.
Oh and you can read. Very carefully.
And when you want to
The world is yours.
Why thank you
I must say, you’ve shown me the world
How it seems. How it is,
And well
That is fairly useless I admit,
Because you’ve joined the
Thinkers club complicit, without even ‘thinking’
‘do I want to be one?’
ignorance is bliss.
Everyone has their areas of specialism….
But at least a love of dead dead guys
Is unthreatening
I wouldn’t have liked to be there
But it is nice to observe.
After all that’s what we do…
I think
I want to be studied
I think I want to be studied
For no other reason than that
Merely because there is a conversation that one can have
With a reader
That one cannot have with a human being
They will bring themselves
To the fore
When it is time
To be dead
Asleep
From ‘criticism’
No judgements made.
The act of being studied is enough.
A relic of a season. Of a year. Of a past
Life that
Creates itself into existence
Death of the Author
That is the truth.
For the reader merely brings himself onto the page. And
Says
Hey, this is me, thinking about this person in the fashion of the day.
But there will never be death of the author
Until, there is
Death of the human. For ultimately
We are all
Voyeuristic altruists.
I really believe that
And when the chips are down
Down people go onto the level of being good.
They just can’t help themselves. But it is always best with strangers.
Because there is no memory
For memory is the key
The key to forgetting
And the key to all. For it is perceived
We all have our own ‘view’ of history.
Our memory
And that must be correct. Or else we are crazy.
But our memory is useless.
Because all we have are other humans reactions to what is happening.
And vulnerability either shuts
Or releases
It depends on the person. Entirely.
Who wants to forget,
Who wants to share?
These questions are at the heart of what we think is a heart?
No one is right. No one is wrong.
But open kindness comes without a package.
And you know who you are.
Or you probably don’t. because if it does not come. It never will
She/He
She uses song to help her words
And through song comes woman
All a woman can do is sing and weave. And wait.
For others
To sing
And weave
Her pain into a shroud that will eventually be given to the
Father of her world
No love can have need
No love can use need
But words themselves
Have a habit of
Mis-communicating
On purpose
We need a simple scoundrel
A man who’s work
Was used to bung up barrels
Of monkish beer
Simple and Direct Ferries full of hate and love
And lusty thoughts for lusty brides and
Girls
For sex will always sel
The salt into any salient
Point.
It is the point that cannot be overrided
Until we come into another race of man
For no man can say no to the joys of an experience that will make him
Complete
Lee ‘valley
Was a meaningful contradiction of fun and games
With an underlying seat of violence
Until eating there became too dangerous for mere words to fall
Upon
I find it hard to write
In English some times
You may see.
But Greek remains a sacred
Bond of
Constant
Fraternity
the movement of the bowel
the movement of the bowel is
a strange sensation
that I will never know
until we walk in the crowd of useless
chattering waffles
every sound has its own chord
perhaps abstraction is no more than a creative
blue hammock
but step-great-grandaddy had a point
in his own useless
capacity
as a creature of myth and
storytelling
we show off with ourselves
by our experience
the tales of tailing rabbits who never grew
become what defines
the kneading clod of
pure recompense
the shitty life that has a kind of beauty
is what keeps life alive and well
my father is a storyteller
nothing more and nothing less
but these stories are so deep inside the imagination of a child
that without them
we have nothing but longing
for her, we must extract the stories
no one wants to hear it
until they do
and then it becomes a little shared experience between
deep dark nessa
she always called her
like she was a friend. And then
that day’s journey into night
was far too long for me
and not so magical
the aura shades away and you
ask,
but why the fuss?
‘you are just as good as her’
he is just a guy
my mother said
just a guy
not too complicated
that is me
oh how true is insanity
objectifying the subjective will always be
the hardest and most problematic
seat
for me
for when it comes, it will be like a magic circus.
Impossible to escape from yet quietly rowdy
With all these mysterious people who
Do not work for me
Silently dislocating me from reality
Always
Wishing on that forbidden tree that things would vanish
And all would be a clear wash of
Habitat
Of musical and arctic exhilaration
So that being close no longer becomes an object of my constant
Piety and guilt
Which should not exist
Quilting is a way to make everyone happy
But until there is money in the bank
There will be no untidiness
Money is not love
And love is not money
But in a world of exhaustion
We cannot abide
An opposing
Show of strength
I am psychic
This is a claim
Many make
And they usually have a female organ
But when something happens
A person
In two heads
At one time
It always feels a little strange
And we go for psychic every time:
The least mystical of those heads.
He writes books.
As I write
And that becomes a strange inspiring flight of
Fancy hats and a little strain, but still a rather
Koptic Refrain….
Again I feel this strange power
I am psychic
After all.
It was probably the Catholic bell
And my weak
Constitution
Surprise
Is an invidious diversion
That haunts and unrelentingly bothers
Those whose lives
Are sorted and planned.
It is never the surprise they
Had in mind
But it
Pleasantly awakens
The dull mind from its state
Of worthless derision and
Confusion.
It welts away the porcelain candle drops
That bear their quilted reverence over
Sands of doubt
And uplifts the gloomy body
From the slumber-less apathy of
Watching games and heavy comfort
That could be confused with
Luxury.
See ‘nature’
Oh see how
Nature dwells in every corner
Of this habitat
Nature the cliché
Which ignites yet startles
The boundless wanderings of a
Vagrant soldier.
We come into our grown-down
Souls when nature
Has had its way with us
He burdens us with his
Power
And she strikes the iron
Ceaselessly.
In Europe she does not bother to
Appease or use her charms
She is only there
For those who will stridently,
Tamingly,
Taint her with their own full strength,
And combat gear that holds itself up
Away from the faint-hearted
Soft-minded folk that wish
If only
She could
CALM
JUST
Just is not a word.
It is an apology.
it is used by those who fear
to
SAY WHAT THEY MEAN
It comes to England and takes its
Self-deprecating
Indirect place
In our language
With no other purpose than
To
Gentrify
And mystify the path to comprehension.
I am just a girl
Who can’t say no.
I just wanted
It pleads.
It demeans the game of rhetoric to
Explain the path to
Nothingness.
It makes people who they do not want to be
And causes misunderstanding wherever it goes.
You are a person
And there is no cause for
Just
Anywhere in this world.
Days
Some are good. some are
Bad. But always
There will be times within
That bring away the pain.
Too many good days create an unreal
Expectation of the rest of your life
I think this is a problem.
