Nice to see you.


75% Off! Both of my books are on sale.

Gimme some Truth said John Lennon.
And forget the bullshit said I.

Nominated for the 2014 Pushcart Prize. (more)

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anthonyjlangford2@yahoo.com.au






Sunday

MH-17: A Poem for the Taken







The United


Scattered nations
Scattered remnants
Shredded metal
White flags and body bags
The cold indoctrinated hover with hardware
Absurdly camouflaged
As though we cannot see what they are.

All a charade for the theatre rats
The stories are already terminated
Prior to conclusions
And jubilant peaks
And natural downs
Hearts of longing
Dreams out of reach
But within sight
Others still yet to dream.

Varying tongues and colours
Genes and ideas
Universally wrapped
In location
With a common goal
A succinct pilgrimage
Outcomes innocently undetermined
Now fastened as one
Ironically stitched by the severance
A sealed collective
Bound in our memory’s
Cottoned in compassion
Pooled in tears
And the endless abyss of our affections.

It’s a Journey without end
Together
In perpetuity
The United.










Wednesday

The things we do for love


Max Liebermann



Love like blood


There’s blood across the kitchen
All over me
Barry Carberry
My guts are hanging out
And I’m trailing the past behind.

Slimy broken relationships
Sinuous and weeping
Failures caustic, red hot
I’ve tried to make amends
Yet it’s still not satisfactory.

So I say, it’s all here
Laid out bare
What else do you want?

You’re hiding something, she insists
You asshole!
Why do you do this to me?

What are you talking about? I have nothing left to give.
My entrails slop onto the floor and my legs give way.

I should be enough for you!

You are but…

What do you need friends for? Female friends?

I don’t care about them anymore. Or anyone. I swear.
richardepowell.wordpress.com/

Liar!                                                          

My hip disintegrates and my spine wriggles on the floor
Like a bony snake.
I just need something for myself.

You selfish bastard!

Defeated, my heart flops like a deflated puffer fish
Trying to swim away
I scoop it up and shove it back in the muck
But it doesn't fit anymore.

God you are so narcissistic.

Maybe. I guess. But …

No fucking buts. I’ve had it.

*coughing* I think I have to.

Only thinking of yourself. So typical.

Time for one last thought.

She’s still not happy.









Feel free to replace Woman with Man or Man with Man or Woman with Woman. You know the drill (to the head).


Next post,
A new Video.

Tuesday

Famous After Death #3 - Emily Dickinson


Only verified photograph





































Poor Emily Dickinson.

Fewer than a dozen of her nearly eighteen hundred poems were published during her lifetime. Despite some time away from the family home for study in her teens, she spent the majority of her life at the family home. Though burdened with a sick mother in her mid twenties, she chose to stay indoors, earning the reputation of recluse, particularly for the last twenty years of her life. Often she would stay in her room altogether, especially when visitors came. She died unmarried at the age of fifty six.



Family home


It wasn't until her death that her younger sister discovered exactly how much Emily had written. An initial collection was published four years later, but wasn't until seventy years after that, in 1955, that the full unaltered collection appeared.

Emily's reputation is well known throughout the world, particularly in America, but why was she so overlooked during her lifetime?





'Wild Nights'



The first publication of her posthumous work in 1880 was criticized as were subsequent releases. She wrote simply but in slant rhyme, (imperfect rhyme) which was not popular at the time. Her topics often included death, a subject she discussed with friends. She was close to her cousin who died when Emily was fourteen and this left her traumatized. Other deaths over the years also affected her greatly.

Some might say that Emily suffered melancholy or agoraphobia (read depression and anxiety). Perhaps if she had been prescribed drugs, she wouldn't have shut herself away and wrote as prolifically as she did. Being so mysterious, there is much conjecture about her life, though we do know, that she yearned to be accepted as a poet. A wish unfulfilled, certainly during her lifetime.





I can imagine her sitting quietly at a desk, looking out the window at the trees and imagining a life she would never lead, or at least, pondering her mortality. She thought deeply about life, and that's something to admire. 




Because I could not stop for Death

Because I could not stop for Death--
He kindly stopped for me--
The Carriage held but just Ourselves--
And Immortality.

We slowly drove--He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility--

We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess--in the Ring--
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain--
We passed the Setting Sun--

Or rather--He passed us--
The Dews drew quivering and chill--
For only Gossamer, my Gown--
My Tippet--only Tulle--

We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground--
The Roof was scarcely visible--
The Cornice--in the Ground--

Since then--'tis Centuries--and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses' Heads
Were toward Eternity--









More Emily Dickinson poems at The Poetry Foundation and at Poetry Soup.


Previous Famous After Death.
My Poetry.





Friday

Assholes linger





A design most horrid


Why
Do we want the ones
Who do not want us?

The person you once shared the most intimate moments with
Now wants to see you suffer
Beyond all else.

Why is that good deeds go punished
like the whistle-blower
Left exposed
Hung out and shattered
Stripped of opportunity.

Why do we become stressed out?
When we need
More than anything
To remain calm.

Why do we continue to punish our bodies?
When we know the harm it brings.

Some bodies arrive with malfunctions
Perfectly coherent minds
Trapped within
Hellish frames.

Why are the ugly beautiful
And the beautiful so ugly?

Why are we rarely
Truly happy
When, for the most part
It’s all we seek?

Why does a child get cancer
And babies born with heart conditions?
When assholes linger like a rampant fungus
And thrive just as prominently.

‘I’m slipping down
But there’s nowhere to go’
Something many of us can relate to
Yet why is it
That when we are dispirited
People stay away?
As though they could catch
What we have.
They only want you when
You’re on top of the world
Or possess something
That they want.

We need a thorough overhaul
An evolutionary upgrade
100,000 years should see us right.

I wonder if we’ll make it.





They're everywhere I know, but I would love to hear an asshole story from you. Especially if the asshole got his or her comeuppance.

More Poetry Here

Cheers

=]


Wednesday

Life goes around and around in more ways than one


3000 faces - Artist, O. 2011


The Track

A  Philosophical Video





If you got anything out of it, please share. Someone else may appreciate it too. (Or need it more than you!) 

Cheers and thanks for watching.













More poems, video work and other bits and pieces on the way. 



Monday

One Year Anniversary - Special Book Sale

Special One Year Anniversary Offer

55% Off! 

While stocks last!



Poetry Collection - Released June 2013







Buy Caged Without Walls for only AU $9.90
& receive Bottomless River absolutely free!




Fiction Novella - Regret Runs Deep





Only $9.90!


The normal retail price for both books is $42. 

That's more than 75% off! 

Only while stocks last...

They make for a great birthday present or a unique gift. Personalised signed copies available! 





There are NO more books in print, so this is your last chance! 

PayPal 






For alternate payment options or queries, email
anthonyjlangford2@yahoo.com.au





Thursday

My Zygote is in their Coffee.






I have two poems in the May/June 2014 issue of Zygote in my Coffee.

Warning: These guys are crazy.





Here is the Contents Page.

The Poems are called Pressing & Miscalculations before Reflection. They are both about Youth, living too hard and going crazy.


Um....  Eggs with your coffee?

Coming Up: I have a special offer to celebrate the one year anniversary since the release of Caged Without Walls, my debut poetry collection. You really don't need to be into poetry to appreciate these items of prose, er poetry, whatever. It will be offered at more than 50% off PLUS a free copy of my debut novella, Bottomless River. Limited stock. Stay tuned!





Wednesday

Why Poetry Sucks...







 A strange post from a poet you might say. But suck it does and I’m going to tell you why.







  • There’s several reasons. The first being that the Poetry world is as conservative and insular as The Civil War Widow’s Quilt Creating Club (though they probably had many members). Too many have specific ideas about what Poetry should be, when it really can be anything it wants to be. The majority of publications, particularly the larger mainstream ones and the ones funded by Arts Grants, expect a certain type of hidden meaning, i.e. only the author can understand, or those with the exceptionally high intellect, or so they would have you believe.






  •      They also require a certain amount of words that no one will understand unless they look it up, while pretending they didn't find it in the thesaurus to begin with.  This is called intellectual snobbery. Words such as Tintinnabulation, usufruct, perspicacity, mondaine, gasconading and my favourite, sesquipedalian, which literally means a person who likes to use big words.




Grandiloquent.






How can young people and new readers embrace poetry if they can’t relate to it? And no that does not mean making it angst ridden, slash your wrists style navel stabbing. Poetry needs to pull its collective head out of its ass.





  • Also the subject matter has to favour these well, subjects. You see, I could have looked up an alternate word there with heftier emphasis on my supposed intelligence, thus elevating this post and the entire website. But I won’t. Landscapes, birds, the politically oppressed, the sexually oppressed, i.e. feminism, any type of political correctness or where the poet takes the higher ground as after all, they are poets; love, especially the unrequited kind, but the most favoured are those whereupon no one really knows what the fuck you’re talking about but it’s got enough big words and sentence breaks to appear impressive. In other words, Poetry is restrictive.



                      




  • The other main reason why Poetry sucks is that, well, no one reads it, only other Poets. Poetry is consumed by those wanting to write it or copy it or who do actually appreciate it, but those readers who are not poets themselves are rarer than an honest real estate agent. Go into any bookstore and ask for the poetry section. A lot of stores won’t have one, and if they do, it will be small. Being a poet sucks the most, as few publishers will even take on a Poet. They’re not publishing it because no one reads it, and if you do happen to find one, well, good luck, because what they’re looking for is… well, read the first section again.


                      
                                  If you're famous, you're in! Even if its shite.
                       


Give him a Pen!





















This, my friends, is why Poetry sucks big fleecy dogs balls. There’s no variety, no spice and no one willing to take a risk to publish those writers who do try to do something different and more accessible, which may even, God forbid, spread the amount of people willing to read and purchase Poetry.


She must be good. She's dead.



Yet it continues to remain as insular and dull as it has mostly been for hundreds of years, save a few who managed to leave an imprint, ironically, those who did something bold and managed to get it out there through a close contact (Sylvia Plath), luck and dogged determination (Charles Bukowski) or the fact that they were already dead (Emily Dickenson).



Yep, it’s a frustrating shit fight if you’re a poet, but while the heart beats and bleeds, the words will keep a coming. Just don’t expect anyone to read it. Ah, it sucks alright…I know I excogitate, please excuse my concupiscent circumlocution. 




My theory on the Fiction Writing Style of Show vs Tell.

My Poetry Book, Caged Without Walls.

Some of my Poetry







Tuesday

Elusive riches discovered




Hi Friends,

Logo


I have a poem published in the Summer Edition of Gold Dust out of the UK.
It's called Elusive Riches. Irony? Hmmm.


You can read it online here:
http://issuu.com/golddust/docs/25_v06_covers_small


or order a cheap print copy here:
http://www.golddustmagazine.co.uk/


         Cover 25


I hope you'll swing by.

I'll give you a clue, its something to do
with this ...







 More Poetry. 




Friday

Guts








(Don’t) Let it all hang out


Claude Monet
There is something about art
Whether it’s a sketch
Or a poem
Or a film
That garners respect
With time
Suckled and Savoured
Like a fine wine
Because most people
Critics and consumers alike
Don’t know a good thing
When they see it
Preferring to allow time
To be the judge
Rather than risk
Putting their opinion
On the line.











Almost goes without saying but all of the above were not appreciated in their day. And there are many, many more, too many to list. Perhaps a post for another day.

More Poetry here.