chaletian: (dls innocent)
Oh no! Whatever can we do?
I hear that Helen's got the flu!
Don't panic, darling, it's quite fine
No, wait - did you just say it's swine?
The outlook's grim, I cannot lie
Although I really doubt you'll die
But cheer up, sweetie, don't be glum
I'll be your medication chum
I'll brave the germs, I'll risk it all
Unless you've someone else to call?
You know I jest, I'm there with bells on
I'll be your William Mompesson
Thus greater love I could not show
Chin up and give your nose a blow
chaletian: (Default)
So, I know lots of people have friended me recently for fic (hello!) and I thought, hmm, should I do some sort of vague introductory post as Katie did recently, but then I thought FFS don't do that nobody cares because it's for fic, but then I thought, but I love talking about myself, why would I deprive myself of the joy? Because NOBODY CARES, I thought. Then I thought (further), well, I could compromise, and write an introductory post about me and PUT IT BEHIND A CUT. Huh, I thought, very cunning. Thanks, I thought.

Then it turned into a pome. About me. And I can't possibly, possibly, under any circumstances, lj-cut a pome about me.

A POME ABOUT ME
or, You Can Tell It Will Be Awesome

Life began, I here narrate(y)
In nineteen hun-der-rud and eighty
When doctors from around did come
To see the baby's coal black bum
You see, it's true, I'm quite contrary
I'd come out backwards (very scary)
I had red hair and eyes of blue
Which turned to green as these things do
The place so blessed with this glad tiding
Was Leeds, in Yorkshire's great West Riding
I stayed there but a year, I'm told
To Birkenhead we went (vee cold)
At which point my story saddens
As a boy-child my parents gladdened
It's true, worse luck, they'd procreated
From '82 was my nemesis dated
(His name is Chris, he drove me mad
Though I now admit he's not that bad)
From north to east (oh Essex lair)
And thence to that Manx island fair
Then on to Tunbridge Wells in Kent
And off to boarding school I went
Next up was Yorkshire (South this time)
And lastly Derbyshire (no rhyme)
My parents yet abode there now
(Step up, darlings, take a bow)

Enough of them, now back to me
I'm off to university
I went to Oxford (truly, really)
But soon got sad and very dreary
I had a thing and went all weirdy
But not - be glad - remotely beardy
I came to London (happy day)
And started honest work for pay
And that's the truth, s'welp me Lord
I hope you haven't all been bored*


*Ha ha, I lie, I know I'm awesome
Shit, nothing rhymes with that but foursome
Fuck, I'm cornered, what to do?
I really wish I had a clue
Change the subject, there's a plan
I just cooked mushrooms in a pan!
Ha! They'll never I see I faltered
My poem has been barely altered
Oh God, I'm brilliant, it's so true
Shut up! It scans! I hate you too
Fine, piss off, I'm going now
Bye.




No, wait, there's more, it's scarce begun
Come back, it's pretty rude to shun
I like books and comics (not too freaky)
I like hot soup that's very leeky
Joss Whedon's God, I don't deny
Fuck you FOX, I loved Firefly
The West Wing, too, was not all shit
Blackadder, also, full of wit
Star Trek, Stargate, Atlantis too
Plus Buffy, Bones and Doctor Who
Fine, that's enough, I'm getting bored
I HAVE NO GOD, LIFE'S GRAND, VOTE GORD*


* I really wouldn't that believe
I HAVE NO GOD, LIFE'S GRAND, NOW LEAVE
chaletian: (alice)
According to the Metro, that bastion of respectable reporting, poetry is dying out! OHNOES! To help battle against this dreadful fate, I post herewith a random pome:

The Darkling Thrush

I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter’s dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.

The land’s sharp features seemed to be
The Century’s corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervourless as I.

At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited ;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.

So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.

~ Thomas Hardy


And also, in a single-handed attempt to bring poetry back, please help me in my pome-themed SDC. Please? Anyone? Bueller?
chaletian: (star trek disease)
So, for my next trick... *coughs* Um, yes. I thought I'd give myself a prolonged SDC over my "staycation" (that word has not yet ceased to be hilarious), and thus suggest the following challenge:

Post a fandom and a pome (helpful if you could post the body of the pome, rather than just the title), and I will write a story on that theme. Woo.

Also: I totally need an SDC icon.
chaletian: (alice)
The awesomeness of this is unparalleled...


Il brilgue: les tôves lubricilleux
Se gyrent en vrillant dans le guave.
Enmîmés sont les gougebosqueux
Et le mômerade horsgrave.

«Garde-toi du Jaseroque, mon fils!
La gueule qui mord; la griffe qui prend!
Garde-toi de l'oiseau Jube, évite
Le frumieux Band-à-prend!»

Son glaive vorpal en main il va-
T-à la recherche du fauve manscant;
Puis arrivé à l'arbre Té-Té,
Il y reste, réfléchissant.

Pendant qu'il pense, tout uffusé,
Le Jaseroque, à l'oeil flambant,
Vient siblant par le bois tullegeais,
Et burbule en venant.

Un deux, un deux, par le milieu,
Le glaive vorpal fait pat-à-pan!
La bête défaite, avec sa tête,
Il rentre gallomphant.

«As-tu tué le Jaseroque?
Viens à mon coeur, fils rayonnais!
Ô Jour frabbejeais! Calleau! Callai!»
Il cortule dans sa joie.

Il brilgue: les tôves lubricilleux
Se gyrent en vrillant dans le guave.
Enmîmés sont les gougebosqueux
Et le mômerade horsgrave.

~ Lewis Carroll, trans. Frank Warrin
chaletian: (Default)
Due to my tragic inability to wake up in time to go to Katherine's for dinner, I find myself contracted to write several pomes to assuage my guilt.




A Pome On Stupidity

My social engagements aren't many
In fact I so rarely have any
You'd think that today
I'd get carried away
And not fall asleep and forget to go out to dinner like a complete fool


A Pome on My Apology to Katherine


Oh, Katherine! Mea culpa!
Forgive me, please, my dear!
I failed to come to your party
I have damaged our friendship, I fear

Oh, Katherine! Mea culpa!
I have no good excuse
I can't blame you for pointing a finger
And murmuring so sadly, "J'accuse"

Oh, Katherine! Mea culpa!
I promise I'll improve
You won't miss me the next time, I swear it
Cuz I'll come and we'll get in the groove


A Pome on Barack Obama


Obama, Barack
Will pull out of Iraq
And here in the UK we'll clap

Obama, Barack
Will get things on track
And raise all that corporate tax

Obama, Barack
The man's not on crack
But you are if you vote for his ageing, inconsistent, right-wing, pro-life, misogynistic opponent


A Pome (or Song) on Sarah Palin

In Wasilla's famed Main Street
Where the girls are so upbeat
I first set my eyes on sweet Sarah Palin
With her lack of credentials
(She's not presidential)
Singing "Russia's right out there, so vote for me now!"

"So vote for me no-ow
Oh vote for me no-ow"
Singing "Russia's right out there
So vote for me now"

She was a fearmonger
And sure 'twas no wonder
She thinks that all women should be stripped of choice
Cuz God loves all babies
Even more than the ladies
She says "Barack is a killer, so vote for me now!"

"So vote for me no-ow
So vote for me no-ow"
She says "Barack is a killer
So vote for me now"

She's full of defiance
And doesn't trust science
So the mad right-wing crowd give her a ten
And though McCain's near to drowning
You won't see her frowning
Winking "Oh-12 will be great, guys, so vote for me then!"

"So vote for me then
Oh, vote for me then
Winking, "Oh-12 will be great, guys
So vote for me then"
chaletian: (Default)
Kath-er-ine
She's better than Anne-Bol-eyn
She's great with a chick-er-in
Cuz she's tops in the kitch-er-in
Though she's too fond of snick-er-in'
O, Kath-er-ine

So. Words.

Oct. 31st, 2008 02:10 pm
chaletian: (Default)
Meh. Friday afternoons at work suck. Booooo.

Went to see Tim Minchin last night which was really ace, and better than in September, and he was really angry about the Jonathan Ross/Russell Brand thing and suggested burning the Daily Mail, which I was fully behind as a proposition. \o/

On the way home, I had a thought so borrowed The Notebook (TM) from Katie and forgot to return it this morning! Oh noes! Katie suggested that the best way to expiate my guilt would be to write a pome upon the matter, so I have done so forthwith:

The Sorry Story of the Notebook

Young Katie has a notebook
A notebook she does own
For though she's really very bright
Objectively it's shown:

That Katie has no memory
It's very sad to say
And thus the handy notebook
Must needs come into play

She writes down all the little things
She otherwise would forget
Like shopping lists and Christmas cards
And funny signs she's met

She writes down things she sees in shops
And since she's super nice
She lets her flatmate do the same
At no financial price

So also in the notebook
At intermittent times
Go comic strips and funny quotes
And poetry that rhymes

But foolishly did Katie act:
It never pays to share
She lent the book to Liss last night
It's vanished int' thin air!
chaletian: (tww senior staff)
Happy Birthday, [livejournal.com profile] bookwormsarah! Hope you have been having a nice day. Sadly, I could not fic for you, but have written a WW pome instead:



A Pome upon the Wonder of the West Wing )
chaletian: (firefly wash evil laugh)
So, you all remember that part where Katie and I get our groceries delivered by Sainsbury’s, right? Actually, surveying the evidence at hand, I should probably say that Katie and I get our groceries “delivered” by Sainsbury’s. As in, allegedly. As in, not last night. We only barely escaped having to scrape out the insides of the freezer again. We have no food. I was reduced to baking cookies (with water instead of milk) at half past nine in the evening just so we didn’t starve.

Following this, I rang up Sainsbury’s to (a little wearily, a little ruefully) request the location of our delivery. Tragedy! the person on the phone informed me. Delivery man dead! 0.o Or, OK, not dead, but in an accident that morning. Tut, said I. Dommage, said I. Was everyone else in accident, too? Was that why nobody, during the course of the day, tried to get in touch to convey this sad news? Anyway, blah blah fucking blah, you know what, I’ve had so many tragic tales of our Sainsbury’s deliveries that I really can’t find it in me to explain the ins and outs of this one. Hopefully we will have food on Friday. Pray for us, darlings.*

Woo. Lords shot down terrorist legislation. Aces. Though I was pissed off to read an article where Lord West was reported as saying that rah need such legislation otherwise terrorists will be let free onto the streets!! OMG! Terrorists! On the streets! Lock them up! Quick! Except, loath as I am to contradict Lord West, of course terrorists are not being allowed to roam the streets. The people who are being (in the context of this debate) allowed to roam the streets are, of course, people against whom, after being held for 28 days, there is not sufficient evidence to make a charge. Which is a slightly different kettle of fish.

Just finished reading vol 1 of Scott Pilgrim, which was really ace. I have ordered vol 2 and Katie is ordering vol 3. See how we work like an oiled machine, there… Also ordered another Hush Sound album, because I really, really like their music.

Jade and I have been having a pome-off. It started thus:

Jade
Her soul is decayed
Like moulding leaves
Or ragged sleeves
Or compost

Jade followed up with:

Laura
Her poo is blue
She is too
Like picasso’s bloody period
She is a monthly pain
In my soulless brain

To which I, delighted, responded:

With jewellery that’s chunky
And the mind of a monkey
Jade rocks
My socks

Jade came back with:

With strawberry blonde hair
And a mouth that has no care
Laura Rocks
My socks!!!!!

And I finished her off with:

You’ve no creativity
Like a star in a nativity
Wandering aimlessly, blind
To the search inside its mind
For individuality

(Which subsequently I feared might be harsh, though she seemed to quite enjoy it!)


* Metaphorically.
chaletian: (p+p lizzy tea)
There were a couple of hilarious items worthy of note on my way in to work this morning, however I would just like to share the fact that last night on the train I read The Duke and I and didn’t care who saw it. Woo.

Having shared that, I shall move on. So, on the train. I was casually glancing over at a neighbour’s newspaper (I had finally got around to (i) charging the MP3-player-formerly-and-really-currently-known-as-Katie’s and (ii) putting new stuff on there and making new playlists so I now have, among others, The Black Adder, The Lovely Tim, and Winchester Cock Rock, and was listening to that rather than reading myself). It was the Telegraph, and in the special way of that newspaper, there was an article about how ENERGY-SAVING LIGHTBULBS WILL GIVE EVERYONE CANCER!!!! or sun burn or summat. Ha, I thought. No wonder Grandma is the way she is about beef burgers and 20-spotted ladybirds and the like. And then I looked over a minute or two later, in which time yonder neighbour had turned the page, so that the next thing was A GIANT FUCK-OFF ADVERT FOR ENERGY-SAVING LIGHTBULBS. Reader, I had to chuckle.

And then, deeper into the dark heart of my journey, swaying somnolently on the Jubilee line, I was pleased to see one of the more emo boys I have ever laid eyes on. Full on emo hair (that he kept rearranging – it’s not easy keeping emo hair properly in check). Emo clothes. Emo guitar. Extremely emo grafittied rucksack. Hilarious.

Heigh ho. Anyway, since yesterday was mostly writing pomes about Other People (I know, I don’t know what came over me), I have today reverted to two pomes about me:

Pathetic
Not Athletic
Is The Katie’s
Sad Lament

~

There is a tragic happenstance I’m really keen to share
Each time it pops into my brain I can’t help but despair
When all around is death and ruin, alone for this I care
I know it’s vain, I know it’s shallow, I know I seem unfair
But frankly all I yearn to know’s the colour of my hair

-- And on that note, I was looking in the mirror this morning and you know what? It definitely isn’t blonde.


ETA: Also, NO, Gordon Brown. You do not get to rant about punishing the bankers who "fuelled the economic meltdown through their greed" when YOU WERE THE ONE WHO FOSTERED THAT ECONOMIC CLIMATE OVER THE LAST DECADE!!!* FFS. Politicians are something else.

*Do not judge my media source. It's a very colourful paper and I love it for that alone.
chaletian: (pgw drones)
O Mnemosyne I must confess
That every day brings less and less
The mem'ries that o'er time I stored

Is there something I have done?
Some fleeting prize I have not won?
Of my sweet past did you grow bored?

Pray tell me, muse, why you decree
That I be shorn of memory?
That no soft whisper strike a chord?

Cuz frankly, darling, I am fucked
Out of my head all thoughts are plucked
I can't remember anything
And of this woe I cannot sing
And Katie's getting really mad
And I am getting really sad
chaletian: (svh jess flirts)
When there’s woe across the universe
And life seems really most perverse
When the situation’s looking bitter
And the hedgerow’s bleak and full of litter
When all around there’s gloom and doom
And one fears th’economy ne’er will boom
Stand back!
Watch out!
Goes out the shout…
It’s true!
No whim!
It’s SuperPim!
chaletian: (bard much ado benedick wtf)
Hel
N
She is great, fantastic, eve
N
Though she’s not a one for mel
N
Her tax party stories are really leg
N
Dary, though not as much as her hev
N
Ly tales of dislocated hips
chaletian: (p+p emo darcy)
E.M.O.
That’s how she likes to go
Not E.M.I.
That really wouldn’t fly
Nor E.M.A.
She wouldn’t come to play
Nor E.M.U.
She's not a crossword clue
Just E.M.O.
A fingerless, stripy ho
chaletian: (mp god)
Given that it is, as Xanthe reliably informs me, National Poetry Day, I thought I would write a pome and share it with you.


One day God
(Sitting on a log)
Thought “I’ll have some fun
And create a sun.”

But then God
(Still on the log)
Thought “Why stop there?
I’ll create a pair.”

And then God
(Jumping off the log)
Thought, with a curse
“A fucking universe!”

So now God
(Far away from the log)
Creates new worlds
(And lots of girls)

Only God
(Back on the log)
Thinks “Still like to see
What dude made me.”
chaletian: (mp god)
♥ You know how I posted a day or two ago about Katie getting trapped by Jehovah's Witnesses? Well, I felt a bit bad about it, because she said they were quite nice (which they were, though I had to struggle to restrain myself from shouting out "she's a heathen!" when they asked if she'd thought much about the Bible, but I was wearing a towel and didn't want to involve myself). Until some anonymous bod replied that I could learn something from the Bible, the self-righteousness of which made my instinctive response "fuck off!" Because whilst (a) I believe that there are valuable moral lessons to be learned from the Christian doctrines, viz being nice, I think that actually that's fairly universal and I don't *actually* need the Bible to tell me and (b) um, whatever, stop touting your deluded personal fantasy. I'm sorry, I think people can believe and say what they like about stuff and I'm with Voltaire on the whole not necessarily agreeing but fighting to the death for your right to say it (only, admittedly, less noble and thus only really willing to fight to the mild discomfort and/or slight personal embarrassment), but when it comes down to it I don't believe God exists and therefore any "relationship" anyone has with him is entirely in their heads. Which, whatever, if that works for people, but keep it to yourself (which most people I know do). It's not like I try and involve people in my personal fantasy (viz being secretly descended from the Grand Duchess Anastasia of Russia and thus heir to the Russian throne, as will be proved by my Romanov jewel, purchased very reasonably, and even more mystically, at the Kingston H&M). Well, OK, except for Megan, whom I almost managed to convince. Yes, that's right. I abused her childish trust and belief in me by making her think that one day my £1.99 necklace will fall open to reveal a Faberge jewel that will cement my claim to Russia. Heh.*

♥ On an entirely different note, a new poster has appeared in Baker Street (northern Jubilee line, should anyone be interested. Not that I can really imagine that. Moving on...) for the film The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas. There is a little box on the poster considerately telling me that the film contains scenes of Holocaust, Threat and Terror. Well, thank fuck they told me, frankly, because the picture on the poster of two boys on either side of a CONCENTRATION CAMP FENCE didn't give that one away or anything... FFS, how stupid is the public assumed to be these days? Pah, I say. And I say it vehemently.

♥ Have read a great number of comics recently, including majority of the Bruce Wayne: Murderer/Fugitive storyline (really like the Batman comics - can anyone recommend any good Batman and Nightwing fic? Not slashy, necessarily, just sort of angsty family stuff?). Also, latest issue of Fables - two very enthusiastic thumbs up!

♥ Anyway, you might be asking yourself what I've been up to recently. (Or you might not, but I can't cope with that possibility of no-one caring, so will pretend it could not exist.) So, yep. Um, not much, actually. I tidied my room a little while ago but since then I developed my current art project (a sort of collagey-wall-hanging thing) which is half-finished on the floor, with every single vaguely craft-related item I own silting up the room. The odds of it being spoiled are increasing exponentially (not literally, that was a little bit of hyperbole). So, there's that. We're going to the Bad Film Club this week to see Robocop III which should be a little bit of a treat. That's about it. Ooh, we had a BT line installed on Friday, that was a bit of excitement in the week.

♥ Bah. Mid-September already. Must remember to fashion the remains of Grandma's birthday present and send it. Re my little plan to bop up to Sheff and surprise her, I surreptitiously floated the idea to Grandad and he was dubious on account of Rosie etc and not knowing what they're doing in advance. So on the one hand I want to post it so she has her present for her birthday, and on the other hand want to save it till I next go up so I can see her little face. *making see-one's-little-face-when-receiving-present gesture*

♥ Ooh, totally forgot to mention that on a whim we went to see Tim Minchin at the Bloomsbury the other week, which was really ace (though there's a funny story there, cuz I saw a thing in the paper about it on the Friday, and had a little email conversation with Katie about let's go tonight! and we agreed to do that, and I bought the tickets and was quite excited and we were making plans about meeting etc until I realised that in fact it wasn't till the following Friday, so that was side-splittingly funny but fortunately worked out OK despite my own stupidity and inability to know what the date is), though I was nearly late because the Gower St Waterstones is there, and I got sucked in by the books. So, yes. Tim Minchin. Katie discovered him back when Mark Watson made the world substantially better and made me listen too. He writes songs (and then performs them. Obviously). They are funny. And ace. And on Youtube. Go and watch. Or go and see him live, which was much better. Also, I wrote a pome (which was nice, on account of having lost my pome-fu! 0.o Like my fic-fu and my computer-genius-fu... I am fu-less. Fu-free. Sans-fu. Tragique), because that seemed an appropriate medium:

Pome, or, I tried to think of a genius title but failed )

My god, I actually will one day become the next poet laureate. I can see it now. Please don't interfere with my personal fantasy by commenting on the pathetic attempts at rhyming with words that don't quite fit. Or that it's crap. I just want my fu back!! *g*

Also, I have a little confession... )

Anyway, I'm going to go to bed again. I woke up at about two in a bit of a bedlinen tangle and couldn't sleep, but I've gone tired again. I'm never going to be up in time in the morning, and Emma will have yet another reason to bully me. I didn't mention, did I, that in the course of my day's BT-man-leave on Friday, she called me three times merely to bully me? You've actually got to give her kudos for the kind of persistent hard work she puts into it... *g* Apparently Roman brought in jaffa cakes, and I missed them. :(




* Actually, I must sadly confess that I didn't entirely succeed in making her believe my little tale of intrigue and romance. She remained mostly sceptical till the end.

June 2016

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