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1. |
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Whenever I think about The Shining, I think about the loveliness
of the proposition of Jack's employment, and of the tragedy
of how he blew it so completely. I keep my particular
fantasy of working in a lighthouse
(I'm sure, completely at odds with the reality):
Distanced almost immeasurably
and yet critically necessary.
I relate my fantasy to a friend who looks back at me
and, wolfishly, quizzes me on why I want to live
in a giant penis.
'Because I hate people, that's why.
That's why I want to live
in my giant penis.'
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2. |
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"I have said to myself and others
that I'm going to swim that river
or die trying
- and I mean that quite literally.
I could die in that river, but that is not
my intention. My intention is to swim
through the rainforest to prove something.
In 1963, Dr Martin Luther King
had a dream that changed our world.
I too have a dream.
My dream is to swim
the Amazon
to prove to the world
that nothing is
surmountable."
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3. |
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I tell (to death) a memory of a rat - 'big as a fucking pig':
it swaggered between tables as if it owned the premises.
I can't do anything but tell it (if not to death) to wall its room.
It owned that grotty garden that fucking Sunday afternoon,
where it can shelter in the dark.
I have a kitchenette - no toilet, yet - but shower, sofa, bed;
the next rung is self-containment (must aspire). But who said
I'm not accommodating. I fought the mice into the floors
and if they stay there they can stay here; out of sight, out of my thoughts.
They can shelter in the dark.
The edges of my vision should be still - drifting with dreams;
not crawling with cockroaches. Quick, then still. Every beast
should have a fear and dread of man. This - 'big as a fucking mouse' -
still; steadily looking. I leap from sofa to bed; bleat-
no - command - it: shelter in the dark. Let me sleep - like the mice.
It tracks under my bed. That doesn't comfort. I've obliged
its stolid claim on majesty, as I have flattered rats.
But it should know it in its composition, antennae - from its
armoured hind down to lowered, bullish head -
it should know that it is flattened. I'm rattled. But
that's its only card - the rattling. That translates quickly to wrath.
It should have lived inside the walls. Can only fall on the warpath.
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4. |
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She looked down at his cookware and fanned her arms.
'Vous ne pouvez
pas allumer de feu içi - le
feuillage prend façilement feu.'
He watched her arms,
then the flow of the brook,
and contemplated: 'The stream floods.'
(Raising his own arms): '"Rises?"'
'Le terrain est très sec.
Le vent sec propage le feu.'
He looked up past the scrubland and into the forest.
'We'll relocate further up.
Thanks so much for warning us.
Away from that river.
"Flash floods"
We will go up.'
She swept animatedly at the valley
as if conducting an orchestra.
'Un petit feu peut façilement s’étendre et
brûler
une fôret
entière. Vous comprenez?'
He nodded hard, pointed:
'Thank - YOU. "WOOSH!" Our "STUFF"!
We will go - UP.'
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5. |
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And here, she advises discretion
by spelling 'fucked' with numbers
and saying 'please' with seven 'e's.
It's like reading felt tip
or the self mockery of a child
imitating a toddler.
You all be well warned, here.
Eight months. Culture
and habit fail to acquit her
from her juror's oath. Send her
to the cells, please. Anyone
want to follow her?
Some things are real
and I will not have a juror
chortle to a defendant
'Don't be a stranger, pal
well av meet up' and
exchange lower case acronymns
and commentary. Now
he or she following
in her footsteps will find
themselves in her company.
They can go and 'pal' right up.
I didn't get up
to make speeches like this,
to bark at the damned sea.
I'm the Lord Chief Justice
and we are adults
(that we made it this far, makes me speechless).
Now let us attempt to proceed.
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6. |
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I was digging holes in a plot of soil,
Rooting out tangleweed.
She had found a frog, was herding it about me
Was dribbling it between her feet.
And it let off a noise – shrill, loud, sustained –
About as far from a 'ribbit' as a tin whistle a bassoon,
She weaved it shrieking round a gauntlet of clump grass and thistle
And I felt sick to see the glee on her face, so I acted
By scaring her away with a shuffle of my foot,
Scooping the harassed amphibian on my spade.
I tossed it into a nearby bush
And left it up to God.
Then I moved from tangleweed, started on Alpinum seeds,
Then she caught a bird for me.
I think it was a blue tit –
Pale breasted, round, petite –
Specks of blood on its feathers.
She dropped it on my lavenders,
Where it lay near-motionless.
Only on closer inspection
Did I notice its small, round beak
Opening and closing weakly – very quiet.
She had crushed its throat in her jaws,
Rendering throat useless as an air duct
Which meant that the blue tit was suffocating,
While she, in fascination, looked,
And I found this quite distressing.
So I trod as hard as I could on the blue tit's head.
A sort of mercy killing – a quicker death.
And though it took two stomps to crush it dead,
My hope is it pipped suffocation.
Because that was the intention.
I went black inside, feeling pretty sordid
The blue tit was suffocating. It made my day morbid.
So I went back inside and had a cup of tea.
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7. |
Foxes (2008)
03:30
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I wish I wasn't here, but awake
In the middle of the night
Listening to what shouldn't be a fox
Cat played backwards
Jeered by tropical birds
Through a snout
Shouldn't be a fox.
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8. |
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I hear a sound from round the corner
People have flocked across the foyer
A drunk man starting up an altercation
With a library user
Ripped from the user by security
Flung out in threats, taunts and gestures
The angered victim left recovering with concerned onlookers
One of whom posits an answer:
"Turnstiles! To protect the space from abusers!"
I catch it twice but sort of tentative,
Then repeated a lot surer:
"We need some sort of turnstile system!
Entrance retracted from non-members! Turnstiles!"
Drunks rain down, collapsing on us,
Daring absurdities out of us
Since when was someone's member status
A sign of benign inner purpose?
They're vetted only for names and address
Tabs kept only on the books they've debted
And we're not a Tube station
Or a public lavatory
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9. |
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'What are you going to do with him, Cardinal?
My stomach crawls when I'm near him.
My duty must be - in some way - to forgive him.
But his new defiance...he speaks, now, against remorse.
Now, the very words I use to shepherd me back -
where I may err - he twists back on us,
like they mean something different. He's lost his shame in his acts-'
'This vase - whose is it, father?' 'Yours.'
'Correct. Now - smashed here on the ground -
whose is it, now?' 'Still yours.' 'Look,
the floor's now covered in ornamented glass.
Cracked glyphs, shards of patterns - look -
with edges that could slit your neck
as quietly lacerate your palms as
you stoop and gather them. Correct -
it's still all my glass. You should know my metaphor
by now - my answer. I've smashed
a lot on this floor to show you - repeating it.
Shattering things I can't then unbreak,
then stooping and cutting my hands on it.'
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10. |
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We can't speak with you again.
I can speak of and at you.
We tried all of the above, we
cast in marble,
at your side, a thing that
brought such obvious pleasure to your eyes.
At your side, a stone Teletubby.
It hurts to think about your name.
Baby, I struggle to to say your name.
What words - said or lettered - could cradle you?
Baby, I just want to speak something.
Both of us - we want to speak something.
Something. Anything. To anyone.
The stones aren't nothing.
The smile's not nothing
of all our love of you.
I love you!
That will stay.
Can't make it better. I can't utter - I can't stutter
anything that will weather, that will stay.
I know she's straining
when she says I did justice to our feelings.
The stones aren’t nothing.
The smile's not nothing
of all our love of you.
Everything here - vying for eminence,
record, or penitent.
Unravelling into the earth.
Going down in silence.
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11. |
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It's cold outside
There's no kind of atmosphere
I'm all alone, more or less
Let me fly far away from here
Fun, Fun, Fun, in the Sun, Sun, Sun
I want to lie shipwrecked and comatose
Drinking fresh mango juice
Goldfish shoals, nibbling at my toes
Fun, Fun, Fun in the Sun, Sun, Sun
Fun, Fun, Fun in the Sun, Sun, Sun
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12. |
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Whenever I think about The Shining, I think about the loveliness
of the proposition of Jack's employment, and of the tragedy
of how he blew it so completely. I keep my particular
fantasy of working in a lighthouse
(I'm sure, completely at odds with the reality):
Distanced almost immeasurably
and yet critically necessary.
I relate my fantasy to a friend who looks back at me
and, wolfishly, quizzes me on why I want to live
in a giant penis.
'Because I hate people, that's why.
That's why I want to live
in my giant penis.'
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Language of Prairie Dogs Manchester, UK
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