Are you afraid to die?

[Andre]

For fuck sake you lot , don't be depressed I'm dealing with death everyday, and guess what I don't
think about it. I find it the best way to be.! If I was to think about it, probable it would drive me mad
I here some tragic stories and I have to get on with it.

Same as car bodies. Dealers deal with it.

Doom and gloom, some of theses lot are counting the days Andre, living in dread what if, how or
when !. They do seem to be thinking to much, were all doomed.

Business must be slow @Dia bando , if you are try to drum up some on a boxing forum.

As a mater of fact, business is slow there don't seem to be many takers.

Says the under taker

[brocktonblockbust]

6 feet under
or burnt up in an urn
we will be broken asunder
and be buried or be burned
Dia Bando shovels 'em in
them corpses in the flames--
he threw so many motherfuckers ın so far
he cannot remember their names.

[Dia bando]

6 feet under
or burnt up in an urn
we will be broken asunder
and be buried or be burned
Dia Bando shovels 'em in
them corpses in the flames--
he threw so many motherfuckers ın so far
he cannot remember their names.

Brock

[Andre]

This is one of my favorite works by a famous old school poet Robert Graves, born London 1895, it catches the shock and horror at the realization of lifes clock as it falls into reverse on him (so he mentally tries to turn it back) but it gently slides to a halt and ceases in his own time. I love it. Its so... Gothic and atmospheric.



DOWN


Down stairs a clock had chimed two O'clock only.
Then outside form the hen roost crowing came.
Why should the shift -wing call against the clock?
Three hours from dawn? Now shutters click and knock.
And he remembers a sad superstition.

Unfitting for the sick bed .... turn aside.
Distract, divide, ponder the simple tales
That puzzled childhood; riddles,turn them over-
half riddles, answerless,the more intense.
Lost bars of music tinkling with no sense
Recur, drowning, uneasy superstition.

Mouth open he was lying,this sick man,
And sinking all the while;how had he come
To sink? On better nights his dream went flying,
Dipping sailing the pasture of his sleep,
But now (since clock and cock) had sunk him down
Through mattress bed, floor, floors beneath,stairs ,cellars,
Through deep foundations of the manse,still sinking
Through unturned earth. How had he magicked space
With inadvertent motion or word uttered
Of too close-packed intelligence (such there are)
That he should penetrate with sliding ease
Dense earth,compound of ages,granite ribs
And groins? Consider: There was some word uttered,
Some abracadabra-then, like a stage ghost,
Funereally with weeping,down, drowned,lost!

[brocktonblockbust]

This is one of my favorite works by a famous old school poet Robert Graves, born London 1895, it catches the shock and horror at the realization of lifes clock as it falls into reverse on him (so he mentally tries to turn it back) but it gently slides to a halt and ceases in his own time. I love it. Its so... Gothic and atmospheric.



DOWN


Down stairs a clock had chimed two O'clock only.
Then outside form the hen roost crowing came.
Why should the shift -wing call against the clock?
Three hours from dawn? Now shutters click and knock.
And he remembers a sad superstition.

Unfitting for the sick bed .... turn aside.
Distract, divide, ponder the simple tales
That puzzled childhood; riddles,turn them over-
half riddles, answerless,the more intense.
Lost bars of music tinkling with no sense
Recur, drowning, uneasy superstition.

Mouth open he was lying,this sick man,
And sinking all the while;how had he come
To sink? On better nights his dream went flying,
Dipping sailing the pasture of his sleep,
But now (since clock and cock) had sunk him down
Through mattress bed, floor, floors beneath,stairs ,cellars,
Through deep foundations of the manse,still sinking
Through unturned earth. How had he magicked space
With inadvertent motion or word uttered
Of too close-packed intelligence (such there are)
That he should penetrate with sliding ease
Dense earth,compound of ages,granite ribs
And groins? Consider: There was some word uttered,
Some abracadabra-then, like a stage ghost,
Funereally with weeping,down, drowned,lost!

these are the haunted solemn words and perturbances of a middle-aged man realizing all-too-strikingly his clear undeniable mortality, his limit life on earth, h,s com,ng, loom,ng dem,se as a creature. thıs ıs a hauntıong-ass poem Andre, a great post mate, a hauntıng I wıll thınk of some nıghts.

[Dia bando]

This is one of my favorite works by a famous old school poet Robert Graves, born London 1895, it catches the shock and horror at the realization of lifes clock as it falls into reverse on him (so he mentally tries to turn it back) but it gently slides to a halt and ceases in his own time. I love it. Its so... Gothic and atmospheric.



DOWN


Down stairs a clock had chimed two O'clock only.
Then outside form the hen roost crowing came.
Why should the shift -wing call against the clock?
Three hours from dawn? Now shutters click and knock.
And he remembers a sad superstition.

Unfitting for the sick bed .... turn aside.
Distract, divide, ponder the simple tales
That puzzled childhood; riddles,turn them over-
half riddles, answerless,the more intense.
Lost bars of music tinkling with no sense
Recur, drowning, uneasy superstition.

Mouth open he was lying,this sick man,
And sinking all the while;how had he come
To sink? On better nights his dream went flying,
Dipping sailing the pasture of his sleep,
But now (since clock and cock) had sunk him down
Through mattress bed, floor, floors beneath,stairs ,cellars,
Through deep foundations of the manse,still sinking
Through unturned earth. How had he magicked space
With inadvertent motion or word uttered
Of too close-packed intelligence (such there are)
That he should penetrate with sliding ease
Dense earth,compound of ages,granite ribs
And groins? Consider: There was some word uttered,
Some abracadabra-then, like a stage ghost,
Funereally with weeping,down, drowned,lost!

these are the haunted solemn words and perturbances of a middle-aged man realizing all-too-strikingly his clear undeniable mortality, his limit life on earth, h,s com,ng, loom,ng dem,se as a creature. thıs ıs a hauntıong-ass poem Andre, a great post mate, a hauntıng I wıll thınk of some nıghts.

Excellent Brock, the word's have a deep meaning and I must say it make you think about your mortality.

[Andre]

All the birds kicked up one and half hours away from dawn here a month ago it was at 4am and wasnt getting light till 7 back then, it made me sit up and listen and think of this poem.

I thought you guys would like it. Its my favorite. He paints a surreal but very connected journey to the end, all built on 17th century superstition, religion and some raw fact,you can feel he was emotionally attached about it and felt it deep.

You're right Brock it is a haunting thought put this way.

Makes me imagine a darkened down middle class Georgian house with a few creaks n drafts and a black iron bed with springs and a shitty matress in a plain room with bare boards on the floor and a candle on a shelf and a bed pan under the bed and a tin cup for company, His Misses sleeping up the other end of the house keeping her distance from the unknown sickness all the normal things of the day, then that bastard rooster sences time is wavering for someone close and goes and sets the whole thing off.