Sunday, 28 July 2013


"Every blockhead who can jingle a few verses, neglects, in these enlightened days, the business for which he may happen to have been educated, for the purpose of following the idle and unprofitable trade of a poet... Some injudicious patron has... persuaded him that he is a genius: and, determined that his light shall be no longer hidden under a bushel, he prints and publishes. For the first volume, by dint of laborious personal application, he perhaps contrives to gather as many subscriptions (half-purchase-half-charity), as enable him to meet the expenses of his book. But before his second effort is ready, the wonder has ceased, and his volume attracts just as many readers as it deserves, and no more. Disappointment, of course, ensues: the genius considers himself a flower," Anonymous reviewer, Literary Magnet (1827)


What will us say
To us son,
When the day of judgement comes?
On the day of judgement?
What will us do
To us,
When us time has overrun?
When us time is spent.

Us sat upon a wounded knee,
And listened to a symphony,
Of all the men of straw and wood,
Hung from webs of neighbourhoods,
Whose mindless feet gave their excuse.

Protection masquerades as truth,
So raise us arms against the sun,
Us patrons of virtue.

Where will us go when he comes,
The fiend behind the fiend,
The fiend behind the -
How will us breathe when it turns,
When the wind changes
And the storm blows in.

Where will us look,
How will us look us in the eye,
After sitting pretty,
After us knocked us off the fence.

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