SHE LIES THERE
She lies there, waiting,
in my heart;
she lies there, expectantly,
for me to remember;
she was here once, fully,
in my life,
giving joy, giving love, giving
but she lies there, waiting,
as she laid there once,
a silly mistake, a stupid impulse, for another;
she lies there, waiting,
as I remember my jealous rage;
she lies there, the earth upon her,
and I stand here, waiting,
as she opens her eyes
It all began with fin de siecle,
it affected our minds, made them fickle;
The world was heading for a war,
peace of mind would be no more;
One man realised we had a void,
his name was Dr Sigmund Freud;
He invented the unconscious, for us to dream,
of the most ridiculous, fearful scheme;
Picasso came along, with nightmares on canvas,
rich in imagery, and oh! so rancous;
Together, they ripped meaning to shreds,
allowing riotous thoughts inside our heads;
Postmodernism was the result of that,
pulling rabbits out of a hat;
Thoughts and ideas were no longer real,
dependent upon whatever ideas prevail,
in a world that was
from then on
A YORKSHIRE PROPOSAL
'Aye, noo, can thee tell me lass,
can thee clean, is wha' I ask'
'Aye,' she says, 'I'can de that,
an beat an sweep any ole mat'
'an can thee cook, ar's askin' noo?'
‘Aye, a’can cook tatties and scraps and mek a good stew.’
'An can thee do't weshin, is what a' mean?'
‘Well, aye; gimme’t watter a’can scrub tha' weshin clean.’
‘Well promise me yan thing a'fore 'itchin up.
If thee iver leaves me, mak sure
I WANT IT
I want it, I need it, I must have it now!
To my desires, I must bow;
to crave, to demand, can seem so horrid,
descending to naught but the torrid;
But times do come when you must give in,
even though it may be a sin;
To have such passion makes my heart ache,
but finally I grasp out
that damned cream cake!
(c) Anthony North, March 2008
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