007 Challenge

JCSTREET said:

1. subj. refers.

Click to expand...

I never assumed you had one gun.

Knickerbockers

Drive! Motherfuckers!
Steel that shot and for fuck's sake
Shoot for three!

I wrote the Jealousy poem decades ago (the English would say "yonks ago"). I'm over it now.

Jealousy is logically flawed.
One is comparing other people's
Outward expressions of wellbeing
To one's own internal state. These are
Not comparable. Thus, I gave it up.

Though I am a little jealous of Philly at the moment.

The Little Words

Between the doer and the done
little words. Is it done on? Under?
Often? Plural syntax evaded
Even the illuminated Once
Upon a scarce remembered then.
Little words carry their ant shares.
With, for instance. Without.

cherries_on_snow said:

Between the doer and the done
little words. Is it done on? Under?
Often? Plural syntax evaded
Even the illuminated Once
Upon a scarce remembered then.
Little words carry their ant shares.
With, for instance. Without.

Click to expand...

couldn't sleep?

it's so recondite!

lst NA rights by negotiation US$


Picton, ON, Canada K0K 2TO



STREETS 990209 (2240)
By JCStreet
( c ) 2002 2018
all rights reserved

There’s always a Church
Street and a Station
Street and sometimes too, a
Station Rise where people
greet and Mill
Street’s another
old familiar face, where
daffodils once grew

in an old ditch by the rusting wheel, the

mill-girls churched and taken
to the station via Station street and
here and there in every nation,
there’s a notional devotion to time’s
dreary passing places

from the one-track lanes
of Derbyshire and Hertfordshire to
London’s funny faces and
other places

foreign

spaces, foreign faces, fighting
my street’s better then your
Station Road, the Church
where mill-girls wend their ways
to forelock-tugging husbands’ beds;

my street,
milling and spilling out of factory gates,
factory gates,
black-biking to the station, pedaling
for the nation;
strong hands on handlebar moustache and
ships and sealing wax
from Indies east and west &
Clydeside hulls
‘a turvy on the slips,
slippin’ down the greasy ways,
away Dom Perignon aglaze

II.

My street, street of days and dreams and
swingin’ roun’ the lamp-post onna wee rope

(granny’s havin’ a stroke)

ding, dinga ding ding, ding,

Away, westering down my street . . . sun
disappears into the woods, the
gloam woods

the woods, the WAGES

OF SIN IS DEATH

on the black asphalt pipe, runs
above the soil, runs
down gloom-in again, into the dark
mossy places, the dark
mossy places where the dead dream,

dream of no more

the woods just
before the prefabs, Edna’s
hair in braids

III.

Viau
VEE-OH Street, new
street lumped
pummel-bits red, rain-slick
slicker-covered wee girl, driver
slumped at street-side the big
Miron Freres cement truck
brmm, brmm, brmm

hidin’ in the trees, the stanchions
stanchions holding up the
“New Steinbergs Soon To Be Built Here” sign
never was, was us
board by board, stanchion-built
dream platform

38th and Bellechasse
good hunt to new street
hangin’off leady-edge tar-paper
three floors roof
summer-struck
gangly time, cruisin’ the golf course, cruisin’
for balls, Dunlop green
spot, black spot, Slazenger
whatever, drive 320 yards and yards of green,
cleanin’ the golf balls in the soapy water—you turned a handle

quawta mista?

give you 10 cents boy!

how we change and change.

BRING OUT
your dead, your
dead, your dead from Fenian fort and hill Billy

flesh-weals from
‘ware torn

down in the mossy woods, from
street to street, my street
your street, our street,
their there street

IV

Spring Vale Hill Holly Heights once
Church Street but developed
Country club, Church
moved on a truck, graves more
truck to truck, trucked to the 93rd
from last restin’ place

down in the mossy woods, what woods
where woods, bring out the dead

out of the closet, the cupboard,
the woods; where?
wend-mother cries

***********************

Station Road the last,
last time ever I saw your goneface red
road-down face, where?
wend-mother cries

are the dead, the mossy dead the
sudden-start eyes-open mossy faces
of Fenian fort and hill Billy
country club too, 320 yards and yards
of green, green

spot

quawta mista?

give you 10 cents, boy!

how we change and change
in the mossy heart places
no change in the sudden-start,
eyes-open
mossy faces

V

BRING OUT THE YET TO BE
dead, young for the gun,
young for it just
cruisin’ young
guns
your street, my street,
Station Street

the fourth station

‘A young man alights, a girl in a
thin straw hat, blue
ribbon-woundied and woundied tight around tassels
hangin’ . . . runs to give a kiss’

the fourth station, mossy
not yet to grow
old from the stain of it

WHAT DEAD, WHERE BRING
from hill Billy and Fenian
fort
wend-woman asks strangers

haven’t a clue atall atall
thorns now in the moss

==end of first movement==

2.

The mossy spaces, places
in the heart

. . . like givin’ birth in the woods alone

Deirdre says this to ‘splain to Bob there’s gotta be a witness
a witness but thinks
you give birth in the woods alone, you’re not alone
never alone these
fecund places now two
upsprung from the mossy spaces



Streets of shame are the name of the game when the lame
disport themselves with nil sequelae

nil but the limp the gimp look
of pun, the gimp look
of punishment beatings the drill
Black and Decker is a harsh knee Frencher all

because we all live on the wrong street





Streets can change their state, mu-
tate and progenate where once passeth a brigade
appears a parade, a
boulevard where movie stars and men
from bars ride open-top cars under the stars
to the close embrace of a cul-de-sac, a
chase, a ride, away crescent, park, road, amble, walk

can change and change
utterly rue

and wither or prevail, the
nub of tribal tales, treachery
undone
by our boys from our street, the
tin flutes bleat and
Lambeg’s bloody-knuckle-making skinsong
greets
the rising sun of a summer

street can become
place and to know one’s place is street-wise,
the dead know their place
the bones of extinct
tarblack pipesewers echo the wages
of sin is death in the mossy dark--on the rainy summer street
the bleat
of tin flute
piercing the villein keen

-30-

Very mossy and deathy, J.C. Gave me flashbacks.

i was born and raised in Belfast till I was 11 (we all emigrated to Montreal then) - idyllic childhood, surrounded by doting relatives - postwar UK - still lots of rationing but never felt I lacked anything.

We started school at 4 - junior infants and senior infants over two years and then grade one etc (first standard they called it)

I walked to school down my street (Grand Parade) through the waste ground which used to have WWII bunkers of some kind and then through some small woods. Some sewer pipes come to the surface there (landslip I guess) and they were heavily tarred to prevent rusting - some extreme presbyterian (there are some very very weird presbyterian sects) had scrawled THE WAGES OF SIN IS DEATH in big white letters on the pipes. I was too young to sin so I ignored it. We were a secular Church of Ireland family (that's Anglican - Church of England, Church of Scotland and Church of Ireland - very middle and upper - lip service only - play a bit of chess with the vicar - drink tea - have garden fetes - my mother took me a couple of times/year - father never set foot - all the relatives were secular too although everyone still said to their kids "now I lay me down to sleep and all the classical stuff - it's actually very comforting to a child)

Fast forward to the Troubles which began in 1969. The IRA used to murder people and then hide the bodies so that the parents and relatives husbands, wives fathers sisters brothers etc never knew where the bodies were and couldn't get closure - the Protestants were no angels ether

Religion to a large extent, however, was only a marker for culture - you had low church Calvinism on one side - very Protestant individualist - industrious, delayed gratification and all that, versus a cloying Catholic theocracy which had a stranglehold on Irish society - the South of Ireland that is - the Republic.

26 counties of Ireland's 32 constitute the Republic of Ireland and six counties comprise Northern Ireland in which there was, until recently, a Protestant majority. The Protestants had voted to stay with the United Kingdom when the rest of Ireland got its independence (sorta) in 1921 (full independence around 1948/69)

so bring out your dead refers to bereaved Northern Irish others - while tarblack sewer pipes are as referred to above

JAYSUS - is this what you meant by flashbacks (chortles)

Anyway - that's it for now - it's now 12:34 in the intellectual heartland of North Smerica - the northeast - where is William F Buckley Jr now that we need him (perhaps he's your worst nightmare - I don't know your politics and don't need to (I don't actually need anything - however there's also a level of being which whispers OTOH would be nice to, or would be nice if

For some reason I thought I was PMing here - but fortunately I have revealed nothing of the family name and fortune - thus nae harm done

Wow. You should write an autobiography. What an interesting life you must have led thus far, J.C.

PM (q.v.)

The high trail of St. Nicholas Park
Climbs behind Hamilton's house
Museum in the shadow of City College.
The 130 stairs thwart bicyclists.
Tourists are on the path below. Huge
Even boulders nest within
Wild thistle and untended trees.
Even on Saturday it is close
To quiet. Coffee tastes better
Cheeked by breeze. When wind stills
One can hear trees waking, branches
Pregnant with spring.

Good Hands

Good hands come ready
For clay, play, or heavy
Lifting. Good hands come
Easy without hostages or locks.
Hands that speak and listen,
Hands that strum rock steady.

Sober hands are wise and steady.
Patient hands are still but ready
To grip me tightly, suddenly. Listen
I'm not frail. I like my petting heavy.
Fingers winding spirals in my locks
Instinctively. Faithful kisses come

Night falls. Sleep comes.
A racing heart will steady
Best in rooms with doors that lock.
Early risers early ready,
Packed for rain however heavy.
Windows forecast if we listen.

Accutely banish static. Listen!
There. Mark the dial and come.
Good hands will strip away the heavy
Day. Then you can steady
Step to dance. To twirl when ready.
I tilt. You grip. Eyes lock.

Every key is sure it can unlock
But most can't. Safecracker listens
Click by click, hands ready
To swing when the last click comes.
Fingers nimble. Agile. Steady.
Good as gold but not as heavy,

Treasure is as treasure does. Heavy
Coddle swaddles up the lock
As joust. Why keep a man unsteady
Slavish. Ear to door, he listens
For his turn. Fuck that. Get ready.
Tickets go. Rarely come

Aboard. Throw overboard the heavy
Wool. We'll swim. Get ready
Beaches. Here we come.

001

I don't know how far we'll go
conclusions run to their furthest point
suggest that female tyranny is
going to make masculine "opression"
a joke
that the soviets and the Nazis have nothing
on what is coming

95% of murderers are men, worldwide
21% of victims are women. Your oppressors
are other men, dear. Well mostly. Watch out for that 5%!
Source: United Nations

Something rare

That rare chord
Changes the beat of blood
And wings the spine tall.

cherries_on_snow said:

95% of murderers are men, worldwide
21% of victims are women. Your oppressors
are other men, dear. Well mostly. Watch out for that 5%!
Source: United Nations

Click to expand...

Have we seen the full extent of any form of female tyranny? We understand the masculine but we are not the soul executors of shitty behaviour,

The balance between control and freedom always has a price,

Getting arrested for sitting with my legs too wide is a small step in the direction of female tyranny, use the state to police intolerant behaviour leads to government power expansions, which leads to.......

These small steps often in the name of compassion without proper discourse pave the way to blood when pontificating feom a supposed moral high ground, but as Ive said before I am merly a Neanderthal. We know the outright statistics of male interaction but there is little on record of female paedophilia, or the fact that women initiate violence toward children at a realllly cool 70%

And that the statistics for single mother households produce the most destructive and violent misogynistic men.

Yes men fight and kill and inflict violence but im sure at least half of them learnt it from their mother, taken to the nth degree male behaviour is visibly destructive against for the most part other men, taken to the nth degree what is female tyranny going to look like?

Truth be told we havent seen it yet, but it seem like it will involve a lot of policing and control of anything masculine or adult male behaviour in some form of weird justification like self defence.

Im not woman bashing simply putting out a comment after watching a video on youtube of two guys getting arrested for manspreading, in england men go to jail or get serious sanctions for wolf whistling, and we are being nagged to death and bombarded with anti male, anti masculinity messages everyday. When the vast majority of men are not brutal murderers and tyrants, we sijmply exist the same as women, we are not the sum of our collective groups despite what is being projected.

We are more alike than we are different. Men brutalize other men more often than they brutalize women. Women brutalize other women more often than we brutalize men. It would be great if we could drop it and be humans.

cherries_on_snow said:

We are more alike than we are different. Men brutalize other men more often than they brutalize women. Women brutalize other women more often than we brutalize men. It would be great if we could drop it and be humans.

Click to expand...

We are more alike than different in the averages, but at the oitside ends of agression, it would be predominantly men, see criime rate. For compassion and acceptance it would overwhelmingly be women, see teaching stats and nursing stats in pallative care. We are partially dictated too by the more extreme ends of our human behavioirs.

Lol that is part of being human, thats the problem we have these high flying notions that based on consciousness that we are above all other animals, but the devil in the details is we're still simply biologically wired, sure we can divert some of the chemistry of it all, but it seems to me we are more at war with our animalistic instincts than figuring out the why and working towards the what to do about it. Too much supression causes disintegrated explosions and unfettered the strongest destroy the weakest, we sit in flux between the two, the balance of human socialisation and the balance of biological and emotional imperatives.

We were born without wings yet we fly. We have more choice than any other animal.

cherries_on_snow said:

We were born without wings yet we fly. We have more choice than any other animal.

Click to expand...

Yes, industriousness, curiosity, innobation, language, communication, reading and understanding, but this single point doesnt from my perspective end all arguementation,

I mean the choice doesnt necessarily mean what we are chosing is right nor does it mean its wrong, its interesting ruminations for me

Should be 1948/49 NOT 69 - YIKES!!!

JCSTREET said:

i was born and raised in Belfast till I was 11 (we all emigrated to Montreal then) - idyllic childhood, surrounded by doting relatives - postwar UK - still lots of rationing but never felt I lacked anything.

We started school at 4 - junior infants and senior infants over two years and then grade one etc (first standard they called it)

I walked to school down my street (Grand Parade) through the waste ground which used to have WWII bunkers of some kind and then through some small woods. Some sewer pipes come to the surface there (landslip I guess) and they were heavily tarred to prevent rusting - some extreme presbyterian (there are some very very weird presbyterian sects) had scrawled THE WAGES OF SIN IS DEATH in big white letters on the pipes. I was too young to sin so I ignored it. We were a secular Church of Ireland family (that's Anglican - Church of England, Church of Scotland and Church of Ireland - very middle and upper - lip service only - play a bit of chess with the vicar - drink tea - have garden fetes - my mother took me a couple of times/year - father never set foot - all the relatives were secular too although everyone still said to their kids "now I lay me down to sleep and all the classical stuff - it's actually very comforting to a child)

Fast forward to the Troubles which began in 1969. The IRA used to murder people and then hide the bodies so that the parents and relatives husbands, wives fathers sisters brothers etc never knew where the bodies were and couldn't get closure - the Protestants were no angels ether

Religion to a large extent, however, was only a marker for culture - you had low church Calvinism on one side - very Protestant individualist - industrious, delayed gratification and all that, versus a cloying Catholic theocracy which had a stranglehold on Irish society - the South of Ireland that is - the Republic.

26 counties of Ireland's 32 constitute the Republic of Ireland and six counties comprise Northern Ireland in which there was, until recently, a Protestant majority. The Protestants had voted to stay with the United Kingdom when the rest of Ireland got its independence (sorta) in 1921 (full independence around 1948/69)

so bring out your dead refers to bereaved Northern Irish others - while tarblack sewer pipes are as referred to above

JAYSUS - is this what you meant by flashbacks (chortles)

Anyway - that's it for now - it's now 12:34 in the intellectual heartland of North Smerica - the northeast - where is William F Buckley Jr now that we need him (perhaps he's your worst nightmare - I don't know your politics and don't need to (I don't actually need anything - however there's also a level of being which whispers OTOH would be nice to, or would be nice if

Click to expand...

1. title refers.

cherries_on_snow said:

We were born without wings yet we fly. We have more choice than any other animal.

Click to expand...

you never disappoint

Northern Ireland Mothers - not others - worn out keyboard here - some letters have been on strike for months.

At home, we call Northern Ireland 'Norn Iron'