tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19535506990638130992024-03-14T05:31:43.328+00:00The Dread Letter OfficeWhere the collected poetry from <b><a href="http://thefarqueue.blogspot.com">The Far Queue</a></b> comes to rot.Garthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15637097897454660933noreply@blogger.comBlogger243125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1953550699063813099.post-45673565081030896622030-02-21T20:56:00.000+00:002020-04-11T15:45:38.528+01:00<div align="justify">It would be a conceit to believe that any of this is relevant…<br />
Perhaps these are merely random words spat forth by misfiring synapses in the organic computer of an alter-ego too big to believe it has nothing to say; or too far gone to give a shit.<br />
After all, life continues (for now); children are born; politicians evade the truth; nations rise and fall (as do sea levels) and the world lurches on regardless of the words that gather electronic rust on these flickering pages.<br />
<br />
The Dread Letter Office management takes no responsibility for personal interpretation of these lines.<br />
(Since when did management take responsibility for anything?)<br />
<br />
Read ‘em and weep.</div><br />
<br />
<div align="justify">© Pisces Iscariot reserves all rights to these scribblings</div>Garthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15637097897454660933noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1953550699063813099.post-33866421584454165592030-02-20T14:47:00.000+00:002020-04-11T15:46:17.412+01:00<div align="center"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_p2z__ukdjXo/Sc99icn2fQI/AAAAAAAAAzM/JhcWnlEijBQ/s1600-h/the+book+of+samothrace.gif"></a><br />
<img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318607715700210946" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_p2z__ukdjXo/Sc99icn2fQI/AAAAAAAAAzM/JhcWnlEijBQ/s400/the+book+of+samothrace.gif" style="display: block; height: 327px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /><span style="font-size: 85%;">The Book of Samothrace ~ Barry Windsor-Smith</span><br />
<br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_p2z__ukdjXo/Sc99Ij2aNVI/AAAAAAAAAzE/k7EHRL-P1a4/s1600-h/klee_ancient-sound.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318607270963721554" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_p2z__ukdjXo/Sc99Ij2aNVI/AAAAAAAAAzE/k7EHRL-P1a4/s400/klee_ancient-sound.jpg" style="display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 386px;" /></a><span style="font-size: 85%;">Ancient Sound ~ Paul Klee</span><br />
<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_p2z__ukdjXo/ST7gHZYjrnI/AAAAAAAAAlg/YRnpkxfmYHk/s1600-h/zdzislaw_beksinski_1976.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5277902231002394226" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_p2z__ukdjXo/ST7gHZYjrnI/AAAAAAAAAlg/YRnpkxfmYHk/s400/zdzislaw_beksinski_1976.jpg" style="display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 337px;" /></a><span style="font-size: 85%;">Untitled ~ Zdzislaw Beksinski</span><br />
<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_p2z__ukdjXo/SpfisUeM97I/AAAAAAAAA9w/yARX8nnxoMQ/s1600-h/oscar_chichoni_cover_for_co_co.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375013931327485874" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_p2z__ukdjXo/SpfisUeM97I/AAAAAAAAA9w/yARX8nnxoMQ/s400/oscar_chichoni_cover_for_co_co.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 295px;" /></a><span style="font-size: 85%;">Cover for CoCo ~ Oscar Chichoni</span><br />
<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_p2z__ukdjXo/SvXO3uM1ygI/AAAAAAAABB0/F6nN9T1NqyI/s1600-h/dragons_pleasure+jacek+yerka.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_p2z__ukdjXo/SvXO3uM1ygI/AAAAAAAABB0/F6nN9T1NqyI/s320/dragons_pleasure+jacek+yerka.jpg" /></a><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">Dragon's Pleasure ~ Jacek Yerka</span></div>Garthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15637097897454660933noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1953550699063813099.post-764071450403100172020-11-23T11:51:00.002+00:002020-11-23T11:52:22.681+00:00The Goddess Consumed<div align="center">The goddess moves slow<br />
Her self to nourish<br />
Slower than time’s increments can convey<br />
From the grinding of leaves to dust and mud<br />
To the glaciers’ courser carvings<br />
<br />
The goddess moves so slow<br />
Her potions to brew<br />
That the leaves feel no sacrifice<br />
When they find themselves no longer leaves<br />
But dust in the layers of her skin<br />
<br />
The goddess moves slow<br />
Her composure to keep<br />
Slower than the death of the sun<br />
Bound by the shackles of gravitational forces<br />
Beyond her control<br />
<br />
The goddess moves too slow<br />
For the insect that is eating her skin<br />
For the damages done<br />
Her choices are limited to reaction<br />
This insect is terminal<br />
<br />
The goddess moves not at all<br />
The sun has gone out<br />
The insect has reached the limits<br />
Of the sustenance to be gained<br />
from the corpse of its mother</div><br />
<br />
<div align="left">November 2020</div>
Garthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15637097897454660933noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1953550699063813099.post-12513204693002909262020-08-03T12:00:00.002+01:002020-08-03T12:02:42.353+01:00A Statue of Limitations<div align="center">My outstretched hand<br/>
stone and ivy coiled<br/>
reaches out forever for your retreating form<br/>
obscured by the mist rain of magic and loss<br />
But my face has turned<br/>
cracked the plaster crust of the past’s claim to sacrosanctity<br/>
my hand may long but my mind’s moved on<br />
And under the skin I tap the vein that carries my spirit<br/>
in a rush of melancholy joy at my own ability to exist<br/>
independent and unreachable to the thoughts of others<br />
This statue was sculpted by the hand of becoming<br/>
but it will not remain against the erosive force of being<br />
It is not skin that defines memory<br/>
but blood and guts<br/>
heart and the blade of thought<br />
</div>Garthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15637097897454660933noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1953550699063813099.post-33610412410637495602020-05-09T10:32:00.003+01:002020-05-09T10:32:54.652+01:00Head<div align="left" style="padding: 0px 50px;">My head on a stick<br />
Wood<br />
Removed<br />
To be hidden and<br />
With time<br />
To become<br />
A pincushion pierced with visions<br />
Formed by the shards of broken mirrors<br />
<br />
<br />
April 2020</div>Garthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15637097897454660933noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1953550699063813099.post-42901028504383708912020-05-09T10:31:00.001+01:002020-05-09T10:31:17.224+01:00This Virus Conforms<div align="left" style="padding: 0px 60px;">These wandered edges <br />
Well safe as far as it goes <br />
In a world made sterile by the rigors of control <br />
And these boundaries to conform <br />
<br />
These battered corridors <br />
Well maintained as far as I know <br />
In a world made clean by the rigors of mediocrity <br />
And these boundaries to conform <br />
<br />
These cluttered corners <br />
Well kept as far as I neglect to see <br />
In a world patrolled by the rigors of culture <br />
And these boundaries to conform <br />
<br />
These deserted dormitories <br />
Empty of disease as far as I know <br />
In a world immune to the rigors of deception <br />
And the boundaries to conform <br />
<br />
These desiccated bodies <br />
Vacated by intellect unwilling to see <br />
A world fucked over by the rigors of want <br />
Patrol the boundaries to conform<br />
<br />
<br />
May 2020</div>Garthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15637097897454660933noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1953550699063813099.post-87854802822166914292020-04-11T15:45:00.000+01:002020-04-11T15:45:15.052+01:00You Are You Are<div align="left" style="padding: 0px 100px;">You’re the wind<br />
Coming from ahead<br />
Aside askance even<br />
You make your presence known<br />
In Chambers of my ears<br />
Rattling the furniture there<br />
The stirrup<br />
The saddle<br />
The cochlea<br />
<br />
You’re the wind against whom<br />
I have to work that much harder<br />
You bring the new</div><br />
<div align="right" style="padding: 0px 100px;">You’re the wind<br />
At my back<br />
Unnoticed effortless even<br />
Your presence is manifest<br />
In the ease of my passage<br />
There are no aural or choral clues<br />
no discord<br />
Only the whispers in the trees<br />
The whistler in the wires<br />
<br />
You’re the wind at my back<br />
Forward faster<br />
You are the invisible hand</div>Garthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15637097897454660933noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1953550699063813099.post-55684619613538098162019-11-25T06:51:00.002+00:002019-11-25T06:51:45.519+00:00Wings<div align="center">Nighttime falls, Nighttime knows<br />
What I can’t see before my nose<br />
To accept the burden of the age<br />
To contain the acid of my rage<br />
<br />
Evening wanders, waltzes in the wings<br />
Wonders what wonders nighttime brings<br />
Scrambles my thoughts and fries my dreams<br />
Unpicks the orange stitches in my tattered old jeans<br />
<br />
Daylight burns, daylight is<br />
Cast before me like a fragrant rose<br />
To blind me with reality snow<br />
To neutralise my need to know<br />
<br />
Morning prods, dances centre stage<br />
Knows no darkness denies daylight’s cage<br />
Clarifies my thoughts and dissolves my dreams<br />
Stitches my day into the hemlines and the seams </div><br />
November 2019Garthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15637097897454660933noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1953550699063813099.post-65601616797442742932019-10-07T06:40:00.001+01:002019-10-07T06:40:28.912+01:00Voodoo. You Think. You Are.<div align="center">My head on a stick<br />
Wooden<br />
Removed<br />
To be hidden and in time<br />
To become<br />
A pincushion for visions<br />
In rear-view mirrors</div><br />
October 2019Garthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15637097897454660933noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1953550699063813099.post-31527274791406193572019-09-27T17:35:00.002+01:002019-09-27T17:35:35.138+01:00Heave Away<div align="center">Aphorist pamphlets pose:<br />
“Why do bad things happen to good people?”<br />
Jehovah’s Witnesses await like statues<br />
At the end of the world<br />
The passing parade<br />
Of digitalised zombies<br />
Wrapped in social media cocoons<br />
Stumble past but not present<br />
Between cave and workplace cubicle<br />
Heads full of personalised propaganda<br />
Fed on a diet of entitlement and hate<br />
Trading outrage for ego in echo chambers<br />
Reinforced ignorance meets reinforced concrete<br />
At some future junction<br />
Of confident stupidity<br />
and obedient peasantry<br />
The decrees of the reigning gentry<br />
Rain down on upturned faces<br />
That accepted with humility<br />
The futility of their place</div><br />
September 2019Garthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15637097897454660933noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1953550699063813099.post-89260070383265752192019-07-01T15:25:00.002+01:002019-07-01T15:25:54.082+01:00In a Hall of Mirrors<div align="center">The years they flee before my aching sails<br />
The days that tie me to some purpose<br />
The hours that flicker by my open eyes<br />
The minutes I fill with my madness<br />
The seconds the thirds<br />
The micro-managed slivers<br />
I spend inside this echoing head<br />
</div><br />
<div>June 2019</div>Garthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15637097897454660933noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1953550699063813099.post-10584275038041804062019-03-05T09:57:00.003+00:002019-03-05T09:57:35.510+00:00Chalk Outline<div align="center">There are no more straws to clutch at<br />
This coffin has turned to mud<br />
My shoes are full of sharp fish bones<br />
My hair a barbed-wire flood<br />
The sides collapse<br />
my scrabbling claws<br />
I bite my tongue<br />
it tastes of nothing<br />
my teeth grind yellow<br />
against hope’s black flies<br />
I am the corpse of the idea<br />
of a man <i>of a man</i><br />
I am a spectre<br />
of self-told lies</div><br />
February 2019Garthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15637097897454660933noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1953550699063813099.post-47260436680847153112018-07-26T12:38:00.001+01:002018-07-26T12:38:39.641+01:00Portrait<div align="center">O mother they wrote their history on your skin<br />
Blue ink and red roses represented<br />
Stripped away the beauty and the meaningfulness<br />
Substituted amber with ambergris<br />
<br />
Your portrait in oil and baroque misrepresentation<br />
<br />
O mother the smell of their dark endeavour<br />
Blue blood and reign, red roses represented<br />
Strip joint diplomacy substituted for meaning<br />
Switched amber for burnt umber<br />
<br />
Your portrait in piss and dead vegetation<br />
<br />
O mother the cries of their deep indignation<br />
Blue tattoo on the red skin representing<br />
Their sad strips of poor-me made meaningless<br />
Changed tune from amber to umbrage<br />
<br />
Your portrait in sack-cloth and ashes<br />
<br />
O mother no silence in these verdigris cities<br />
Blue calls of red insect colonies<br />
Strip-mine the folly of their forever buildings<br />
Switchback amber in temperatures mean<br />
<br />
Your portrait in scales of the new<br />
</div><br />
<div align="justify">July 2018</div>Garthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15637097897454660933noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1953550699063813099.post-38353000398933593392018-05-25T09:21:00.002+01:002018-05-25T09:21:24.873+01:00Echo Chamber<div align="center">Some days it’s as if<br />
The cake dome that covers<br />
The saccharine glass emptiness<br />
Of this hollow city facade<br />
Reflects the inner grey interior<br />
Of darker thoughts<br />
<br />
Some days it’s as if<br />
The fake dome that covers<br />
This saccharine fake façade<br />
This empty social contract<br />
Reflects the inner grey interior<br />
Of a man shaped shell</div><br />
<div align="left">May 2018</div>Garthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15637097897454660933noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1953550699063813099.post-81116526744878581502018-04-13T07:29:00.002+01:002018-04-13T07:30:00.664+01:00A Grotesque Animal<div align="left">I’m done with walking through walls<br />
On the promise of a warm reception<br />
From the ghosts that live within<br />
<br />
If I remember correctly we agreed<br />
Never to stop listening to the music<br />
To be true to the ideal<br />
To bring about the new world<br />
<br />
Yet here I am alone at the barricades<br />
Staring at the façade<br />
Cultivating scar-tissue for these low days<br />
<br />
And if anger is the enemy<br />
Then I am my own enemy<br />
Hiding behind a mask<br />
No matter how much I protest the contrary<br />
<br />
April 2018</div>Garthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15637097897454660933noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1953550699063813099.post-74008805990141423562018-03-23T07:40:00.002+00:002018-03-23T07:40:51.453+00:00Glue<div align="center">It’s all very well being his Yin to her Yang<br />
Fitting together in the songs they never sang<br />
A covalent pair in need of repair<br />
they push and they pull<br />
they fight to find fair<br />
they hurt and they heal<br />
they find the right path<br />
Narrow and perilous but allowing to feel</div><br />
<div align="left">March 2018</div>Garthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15637097897454660933noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1953550699063813099.post-69195804152546600342017-11-20T12:24:00.000+00:002017-11-20T12:24:44.703+00:00Weather Prophet<div align="center">The wind delivers<br />
Rain on window pane sorrow<br />
We used to talk<br />
About how love<br />
Would help us storm tomorrow<br />
<br />
This chisel blunt<br />
Cannot set these days in stone<br />
But statuesque<br />
And sculptural we are not<br />
This hammer jars to the bone<br />
<br />
Nothing to hide<br />
Nothing to push us through<br />
these moments of inertia<br />
<br />
Burns the core of the flame<br />
Burns the faltering fingertips<br />
With the reminder that we are we<br />
<br />
We are not cameras<br />
These tools are blunt and inexact<br />
these snapshots exist<br />
in >2 dimensions<br />
They render real from filtered fact<br />
<br />
Children are here<br />
To Storm the walls of our defences<br />
To break our hearts<br />
Until we are dulled<br />
Stripped down to our essences</div><br />
October 2017Garthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15637097897454660933noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1953550699063813099.post-44158269330596742722017-10-19T11:47:00.003+01:002017-10-19T11:47:49.173+01:00The Peddler<div align="center">He handed me a scrap of life<br />
Shaved from the face of reason<br />
I rendered it as inexact<br />
Unsuited to the season<br />
And handed back<br />
The refuted fact<br />
As evidence of treason</div><br />
September 2017Garthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15637097897454660933noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1953550699063813099.post-77428842685130233342017-10-19T11:39:00.002+01:002017-10-19T11:46:16.209+01:00Because You've Read it in your Tea-leavesI don’t see anybody getting ready for the ice age<br />
I don’t know if they know ‘bout it or not<br />
I’m not gonna go outside until the ice age<br />
I don’t wanna be hanging ‘round in that<br />
<br />
I don’t see anybody giving it up for winter<br />
I don’t know if they even want to know<br />
I’m not gonna beg and plead ‘til winter<br />
I don’t wanna be hanging round like that<br />
<br />
I don’t see no solar-heated future<br />
I don’t read those science-fiction papers<br />
I’m not gonna be bought and sold a future<br />
I don’t wanna he hanging on to that<br />
<br />
I don’t see the sense in shouting out the obvious<br />
I don’t know if I even give a damn<br />
I’m not gonna be branded as a fool<br />
I don’t wanna be hanged for shit like that<br />
<br />
September 2017Garthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15637097897454660933noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1953550699063813099.post-20668077697862797262017-10-19T11:37:00.002+01:002017-10-19T11:37:33.118+01:00Anglian Sky - Midwinter<div align="center">there’s a moment<br />
when the rising birds change<br />
from white against the trees' dark silhouette<br />
to black against the orange graduating to stratospheric blue sky<br />
just sunset</div><br />
December 2014Garthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15637097897454660933noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1953550699063813099.post-78315218680726959202017-10-19T11:23:00.000+01:002017-10-19T11:23:09.444+01:00Glorybirds<div align="center">It watched us pass<br />
Our marching feet<br />
Our civilisation<br />
One black bird eye<br />
Unafraid -<br />
Said the crow<br />
You’re only meat<br />
That I haven’t eaten yet<br />
<br />
Trees point skyward<br />
Black-fingered fate<br />
List the names of the fallen<br />
Poise waiting for those<br />
Whose time is yet<br />
<br />
I grit my teeth<br />
In the wind’s dark bite<br />
On battlefield bleak<br />
Unhopeful of a happy ending<br />
A grin<br />
A grimace<br />
A glancing blow<br />
The smile on a shark<br />
On battlefield<br />
Hope less<br />
In the wind’s dark bite<br />
I grit my teeth<br />
And face away -<br />
From the crow that says<br />
You are only meat<br />
And I haven’t eaten yet<br />
<br />
Trees amputated<br />
Black on orange coal glow<br />
The ledgers of loss<br />
Whose pages await<br />
My blood to balance<br />
<br />
I will grit my teeth<br />
howl on the abyss’s dark bowl lip<br />
And wolf my bite of hope<br />
On battlefield<br />
We are carrion -<br />
Says the crow<br />
You’re all just meat<br />
That I haven’t eaten yet</div><br />
June 2014Garthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15637097897454660933noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1953550699063813099.post-28840167456497771502017-10-19T11:21:00.002+01:002017-10-19T11:21:39.777+01:00Cross-stitched Navel AttachéI live a life one step removed<br />
Behind that frosted pane<br />
Where shadows clue<br />
And ghosts remain<br />
But never answer calls<br />
Number withheld<br />
<br />
I scratch the parchment skin<br />
From within the tightened drum <br />
Parading paranoid days<br />
An aggregated sum<br />
Of the future’s empty promise<br />
Black nails knuckled numb<br />
<br />
I hear him droning on<br />
In the room inside my head<br />
Wearing a deeper groove<br />
When what he should’ve said<br />
Would paint a brighter view<br />
The broader track un-tread<br />
<br />
I look out wondering through<br />
The side door framing daylight<br />
Dust mote dancing wrong<br />
Somehow put to right<br />
Lacklustre summer sailing<br />
A time waster's line-of-sight <br />
<br />
For who am I to talk<br />
About all I know is true<br />
When I won't bend my will<br />
Give the devil’s due<br />
To kiss the open palm<br />
Of the empty hand extended<br />
<br />
July 2014Garthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15637097897454660933noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1953550699063813099.post-64689294571387321512017-10-19T11:19:00.001+01:002017-10-19T11:20:26.653+01:00Commuter Belt UnbuckledDown endless halls<br />
Of unwound clocks<br />
The token ghosts<br />
Of Tick-box negligence<br />
Inept key-card carriers<br />
Push to catch the late-running 7:15<br />
Silver bullet train<br />
Adequately crammed<br />
With self-mutilating mice<br />
<br />
August 2014Garthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15637097897454660933noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1953550699063813099.post-10959123868737030382014-04-22T11:48:00.002+01:002014-04-22T11:48:10.945+01:00The Deepest Cut<div align="left">Your love won’t let you down<br />
When you’re rushing at all your tomorrows<br />
She won’t undermine your trajectory<br />
Question your right to self-belief<br />
Or light the taper on your abject sorrows<br />
<br />
Dry-eyed and desolate<br />
This husk with heart desiccate <br />
<br />
Will talk to no-one won’t let you up<br />
Pay no heed to the diamonds you discard<br />
You’ll scratch her name into your arm<br />
With the rusted knife of self-belief<br />
Long-ago stolen from memory’s scrap yard</div><br />
November 2013Garthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15637097897454660933noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1953550699063813099.post-40771173768331980842014-04-22T11:46:00.003+01:002014-04-22T11:46:44.853+01:00Upside<div align="center">I am a ghost in the grass<br />
In the grass I hang<br />
I hang below her jagged green cliffs<br />
I read the sky’s cloud calligraphy<br />
I believe I know what I’m talking about<br />
I am a ghost in the green grass<br />
In the green grass<br />
I am</div><br />
November 2013Garthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15637097897454660933noreply@blogger.com0