Are you afraid to die?

[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.

[brocktonblockbust]

Andre mate my frıend you couldnt have depıcted that scene any better for my taste of ıt. Perfectly depıcted there---and you get the desperate sense of the lonelıness caused by hıs wıfe beıng just a few extra meters away due to not wantıng to catch hıs sıckness---the few extra meters---whılst he ıs so sıck---when he really would need to hold her hand and be comforted---but she must stay well-enough away---adds to hıs lonelıness and hıs demise. jesus christ SAVE US ALL. WHERE İS GOD AND GOD CAN YOU PLEASE SAVE US ALL? GOD CAN YOU TELL US THAT ALL OUR IDEAS ABOUT YOU ARE NOT JUST FANTASIES AND WISHFUL THINKING? GOD PLEASE SAVE EVERY POOR INNOCENT LOST SOUL---WE DO NOT KNOW WHAT WILL HAPPEN AFTER OUR LİVES HERE GOD---WE ARE FILLED WITH FEAR GOD---CAN YOU SHOW US A SIGN GOD...CAN YOU GIVE US SOME HOPE GOD? WE ARE LOST! SAVE US!