function PopWin (Location, XLength, YLength) {
window.open(Location, "Pop", "menubar=no,toolbar=no,location=no,scrollbars=yes,directories=no,status=no,resizable=no,width=" + XLength + ",height=" + YLength);
}
function NewWin (here) {
window.open(here, "new", "menubar=no,toolbar=no,location=no,scrollbars=yes,directories=no,status=no,resizable=yes,width=800,height=180");
}
var windowPoem;
str1= "lady in winter
my lady (softer than unseen moss) is very kind (unicorns forgive her) she kisses winter leav ing petal patterns waking his cheek and takes cold flowers inside her room frail leaves into her bed (warm under her all over earth deep
my lady is kind (spring walks naked thr ough her eyes)
but when november among rain trees mists seeing into know rather i would melt (leaflike until thin enough to sink in with the quiet rain) to wait for spring again ";
str2= "one page
firstly there are the men on the seashore. so wide it was a nightcast desert. no particular reason. they crept in everywhere this time. slow senseless a deadened sea. but maybe it moves. or more sand shaking. shifting. the door is not so wide now but still this animal creeps along the gaps of the floorboards. huge time builds up the other end of his semen string and it is very noisy in here. intimate deodorants. last all day. smell of your thoughts. spine of the leopard. twist from tail to the claws. a vertigo of balance avoided by action. increasingly sweet cups of coffee and conversations. listless rattle in the radio. necessarily sand shifting through the valves. does sand conduct electricity well? no. but it conducts itself with unquenchably sinister dignity. dracula walking the seashore in the stale red aftersunset. bent men move paralell to him, closer in. sharp slivers of hair glint lunatic on their naked wrists possibly enormous is only a manner of speaking. the distance between burning tip and sacred roach, the safety of the unconsumable. the uneatable. plague of rats and fleas. sand rats. fleas numerous as grains. do not allow the dust to panic you to erroneous conclusions. that is a different matter altogether. we are almost on safe ground there. the footing does not slip suddenly at the dunes ridge. a more subtle transience is taking place. we can accomodate ourselves to slow changes*especially in the plural. sand is plural to think of a singular is only a small hole. eyes are more frightened by the vast bulk of similarly unsame objects piled in the hallway. even in the spine the leopard. even in the babble the dictionary, the dark orison, the desire against the lust for sand: changelessly shuffling the dark zombies tread the now bloodless earth-waves, their mutter piercing the clink of patter, the recounting of pennies in fountains, drowned in water, sliding into sand to such as these buried is not lost ";
str3= "one of these days
one of those days when the night keeps creeping back
even now on this landing
among the ashes and stale newspaper with this worldworn saw
squirming quaking under my belly moaning grunting
towards some ecstasy of division gripped in one or other of a harem of woods of different shapes and texture
there was still a moment
bursting through a knot deepcentre of a firm and softfleshed whitewood moved a rhythm remembered from loving
pale sawdust seed and tender resins
a sudden cinder in warm ashes ";
str4= "exhibition piece
before anything an immense parcel on the doorstep, scarlet and empty, correctly addressed and permenantly refused admission; then inside is a cobweb of plasticcoated curtainwires five cold sheep trapped in a snowdrift of plaster growing bald and fat one burning lion with an honest face, slightly shy of the curious blue bush, the urgent desert the holy hollow of a studio, grey with silence, within which sits a pharoah in his tall hat eyelessly commanding the ghost of some model or dancer: many lost objects lurk behind shadows, also the room is lost a puppet with a human womb soaring to green starfields; below, the distorted feet and frozen legs of some lover hurtle screaming into another dimension a beercrate that wants to be a cattlemarket a paranoid sitting in a plush plastic armchair, his body squeaks, a wet sponge under pressure, his neck has wrung itself. certain similar creatures stare in at him with hungry eyes. he is a plucked chicken a landscape by kenny, bright and hard as a bottle, a white house, presumably in morayshire a window onto perhaps falkner street, as beyond real as ever, slightly bowed amazing olive shutters a sideways eye its pupil a dignified armchair left by an old lady the pure harmony of ancient stone and shadow, as always there are steps a crucifixion, christs arse threatened by a gargantuan pitchfork, sundry fiddlers mill around, some vased flowers are looked at... by the same hand, the raising of the cross, a study of an agitated teabreak, the true face of apathy a bird related to the albatross bathes in acid light her plumage indigo and diamondflecked; the sun rises, longhaired, curious. the birds eye mocks the passing glance above it, an alien hand has painted symbols relating to dawns and hurricane with the brittle vigour of a starscrewer. maddy's face, disembodied, is meshed in a purgatory of branches, her body, decapitated, dissolves into an ectoplasm of bark in a small room semen rises spurts streams judders falls in three tall tubes, the liquid comes from white tanks on the floor, fed by white tubes. the light isolates such things. in a dread clinic the sap fulfills its certain functions controlled by the rythems of a looped recording of any part of the universe whatsoever a vast circle of wood, hamstrung on the intricacies of its internal angles. heart of yellow charas smoke, starfiels of sand a picture to drift through to any dream you like a fat cat with few delusions menaced from afar by a supercilious dragon who loves a seeing tree. a one-eyed seeing tree. two pudgy apologisers sprawled in the shade of the lived tree of a diseased brain, their limbs maimed by arrogance their eyes hard with ignorance. the stench is appalling. the infinite repetitions of geometry snared by graph paper and exhibited in repetitions of a draftsman's design a flight of perfect white stairs dropping silently into a jungle deserted except by thoughts. similar stairs ascending to a plateau of incan style on the other side of the vegetation. a patient sky. several implosions of colour lines to stretch bewilder or disembowel a curved flight of marble stairs presented on a pedestal giants spurs, a grate to roast an elephant on, the spikes although oppressed by their iron frame stay off the floor by sheer willpower
a limp sheet on poles, a canopy over the varnished floor, guarded by red roadmans flags several attendants and two corridors away among the blur of older symbols a small gold frame, ornate but not unpleasant, embraces only the wall, and a brass plaque, engraved, in roman style TEMPORARILY REMOVED ";
str5= "vulture
vulture haggard, i hover above this child who shatters into world; as in the raw panic of awake he tears the dead flesh of the air, claws to gorge the very gut of time
older, numbed by experience of constant reawakenings, false scents of continuity, we lose this universal food, devour ourselves instead, become disembowled by our desires, our thoughts our fears of the unceasing uncertainty of everything ";
str6= "hour 11 + 5
euphoric sat with her man watched her dance bouzouki music na 'tane to 21 13 steps to the bar a certain
natcheral rythem couldn't stop
watching her breasts curled dormice placid tiny only 5 minutes ";
str7= "strangers and sweets
everywhere children go in danger of being accosted and having their love bribed or harshly demanded from them; not least by these familiar strangers that lurk in their houses and claim it as a right ";
str8= "hamlet, perhaps and easy
and you wrote a song upon a leaf to fall downseason, ebbing always to the grid
and i have seen it from my table and could not move, no could not hold it
a white body fading floats beneath the heavy rhododendrons and i would reach it, pluck it from the past, the sorrow
but the swollen rain drifts somewhere i am not, into some other future; and it is all so treacherous, complicated, diverse in direction. ";
str9= "angels would blow their horns less frequently
1. he closes the window against the traffic
he puts on a record. it plays sophisticated traffic noises
2. stared downstreet waiting for the sun to fade out
but who will stop these lights that jerk in their false cycle
of perpetual haste until they burst. and are replaced.
3. at the corner is the wildest. a harrassed clebration
of nervous postures, juddered brakes. a fierce friendless illusion.
yet two form one pressed in a bush; such hasty clutching peace
we force ourselves to in this time of harsh signs crossroads and confusion
at the corner, is the wildest ";
str10= "the waiting room
in this room the thin heat clings in dampness down our backs and flushes up our faces; behind the masks of magazines and newspapers
passengers in transit, we pass the uneasy hours between arrival and uncertain departure muffled in ourselves, our ears depressed by everlasting music, our eyes aimlessly watching print, flicking often to the clock.
when the time comes it would be good to think that we would stand up, lift our bags and go, without regrets, perhaps with thankfulness that the waiting was not so hard as it could have been. i know however, it will not be so easy ";
str11= "getting heavy
big in his boots he met a weighing machine dressed as a punchball.
I tell your weight, it said and so he hit it with his heaviest punch.
the machine stood still and thought about it. seven stones lighter than me, it said at last
falling on top of him and crushing him flat. ";
str12= "on the roof
the longer you watch the sun the more clouds cover it suddenly it breaks the dusk you are watching smoke
watching a man paint the inside of a grimy window light blue
a low window he is imprisoned by the frame but it must all seem normal feel secure and homely from his viewpoint. delusions
of that longterm prisoner, urban man ";
str13= "prodigal
a thin distant whistle he packed one hand in his trousers went to forget about it all (and her) ";
str14= "julius, the conspirators
1. some sad sunday they lured him into the studios ostensibly for a discussion with others in his field but instead they hacked his image, ripped away the belief others had in him, his sole reality, and left
the bloody remnants of his thoughts splattered on the twisted film, tangled wires and sharp machinery
2. his shadow flickers across old newsreels neither praised nor buried.
time and themselves destroy his enemies; that was only to be expected
of fools so proud as spring who fearing fate fought for identity, only
to find the changelessness of change, themselves but agents of more fate than they had considered
3. and the freak who saw it coming among so many other things
watches with scant interest. a slight compassion: his head is punctured by dreams, slept in by every imaginable sorrow.
there are as many intrigues and changes in his own life. ";
str15= "on & on
he muttered a long time in this compartment and the buffet car getting progressively more irritated by the lack of interest shown in him then pulled the alarm chain was confused to find he was the guard.
the train was stationary he looked out of the window the land was empty now is the time to leave he thought if i can just hold it like this with my mind the whistle the acceleration startled him as he rose up from his seat
sitting on the lavatory he was pleased to realise that even firstclass passengers had to use it unless they were deliberately constipated by pride. despite this he was nervous of arrest for spreading illegal smells ";
str16= "the honest woman
she is sitting at her window as she has done as she will do every day her window is held open by a bottle it has nine grimy panes of which she occupies the bottom left hand two. her face is drawn tight to the bone the black holes of her eyes send empty messages across the sullen alleyway. she is rocking slowly, slowly like a clock that has been left to wind down and stop dead. she has two cats, they walk the windowsill she talks to them wild-eyed, her curled black hair and silver pendants nodding in agreement with herself. she is a metronome of lonliness measuring the pulse of her days against the drizzle of rain, the shouts of children the flitting movement of strangers at their windows across the alleyway she has noone but anything to talk to sometimes the unsaid words clog up her throat, a lumpy mess of unshared thoughts that are brought out like a bronchial cough, she spits them at the world, dribbles them to her cats. you must not watch her long, for if you do the rocking releases a spell, the memories of all past lonlinesses fill your head, and, weighted down you also start to rock, you at your window, she at hers and you must go, tear yourself away before past sorrows become present reality, before you begin to mutter vacantly, watching the windows of strangers to draw them into this mesh of sadness. you must go out on the street, and sing of the happiness that may come to you, while at her window like a sadness machine like a mad rocking horse left alone in an attic after the children have grown up and gone this woman keeps rocking rocking rocking ";
str17= "a vat, brewing
under the stone a city and in the city i, who have a little presence through my motion
that stirs the static air, find the yeast still bursting in strange corners where
old women gurgle in their ancient tongues, drowsy with days, that shake and seethe after my
passing, only to drown back to slow rythms, made listless by incestuous gossip, heat
and the long afternoon, fermenting in the dangerous silence beneath intoxicated trees. ";
str18= "the garden of earthy delights
he bent his head to the hole in the garden wall, elbowing aside the nearly mummified painter, and leered in. a contraceptive covered applecore lay in the grass surrounded by mist. he felt cheated. is that all, he asked, or does it get better tomorrow? one of the painter's gnarled eyelids winked encouragingly, the mist began to rise and the wall perspired, the sky turned pubic purple and there it was, laid out before him, the whole garden:
all the virgins that wouldn't, all the virgins that would, all the virgins that had a life size nude and mobile picture of any actress at all with her nipples and crutch covered by little photographs of the censor
one snake in the grass
a waddling procession of blubbery housewives with saucepans on their bottoms and babies on each breast and not tonight dear tattooed on their bellies a dancing troupe of young men and women reeling in and out of the gates of marriage and divorce to the accompaniment of lusty hymns and bawdy songs over highly uneven ground littered with confetti and torn up marriage licenses.
seven or eight snakes in the grass
primly starched nurses in overtight uniforms waving stethoscopes and fallopian tubes twelve year old boys in revealing pink trousers overweight men who can´t see their erections masturbating while they eat ladies in tattered leather rubbing up withered trees nine hundred bunnies with the centre pages of playboy stuck over their bobtails several thousand men with vaseline faces carrying glossy books tastefully bound in flesh coloured leather with free bonus rhino whips
several dozen snakes in the grass
one pillar of the church feeling up the ministers daughter underneath the pew several married priests with their testicles wrapped in altar cloths many old men with their genitals trapped in coffin lids one honest maniac one adulterous judge several perverted warders one girl raped on the street by a brutal strangers one girl raped in her bed by a persistant boyfriend several hundred snakes in the grass one girl inviting and not giving one girl not inviting and taken several voyeurs with large eyes and wet pants many men and women with pictures of their parents stuck in their crutches many false lovers not even true between their legs too many people mentally masturbating
innumerable snakes in the grass
one overhot frustrated general a few thousand rockets a few million bayonets a few million bulletholes ...
the garden erupted in smoke his eyes red and seared he turned back to the painter, who motioned him back again, and this time he saw, by the light of the crescent moon, a man holding up two fingers and a woman, squatting on an egg.
";
str19= "the stoning
outside the walls we are surprised by the almost silence, the heavy breathing of the men who bend and throw.
the sky is solid brown, coloured by the urgent cursing, the death cries that are now expiring with him.
though their clothes are many coloured they all seem the same dull shade their backs hunched with this labour their bodies like taut tired springs.
he is stretched out on the ground not awkwardly,his face is dirtsmeared like a streetchild, and the bloody ribbons
that lace his face are like tear tracks the more so for the slow trickle that leaves the squashed pulp of his eye.
a child comes staggering and drops a lump of masonry full on his face. it embeds with a rippling crunch. it would appear that we're too late said the priest. i could hardly deny it. ";
str20= "birdman
the fall resulted in sudden amnesia he stares at her at the corners of his burnt red eyes tears slither out like pips from a watermelon. drops of wax lie stupidly among the broken teaspoons the waitress, sympathetic to his sadness leaves his table alone, even though it is littered in feathers and there is water everywhere
absentmindedly he stirs his coffee with one of yesterdays dreams the girl in the sky-blue raincoat goes out quietly: a downy feather like those over a seagull's heart lies, trapped by tealeaves at the bottom of her cup ";
str21= "at touches distance
at touches distance an implausibly genuine voice (mine) desires a return to dialogue
though not to unity from pride perhaps or insecurity, fear of jeering distance
yet the dangerous universe behind a thoughtful nothing is expected, that relieves the mind
by confusion of ultimate peace or paranoia and any other answer would be worse
better not to seek into this something whatever thats silent that could never
provide an unquestionable answer except through eternities of interrogation
let silent trust. enough ";
str22= "poems from a room
the old grey vase under the window where she left it resurrection clean
still dreams of dark corners where sunlight is known through shadows only and the air mute with dust comforts the intense silence of the absolutely still.
* this table is mess, if i shift one object more disclose them- selves. when she urges me to be less lazy i can only laugh; for such is the nature of papers books tabletops minds and yes even love and life them- selves
* the radio broke down. the record player was stolen as i travelled back to greet it. no constructed music now fills this room, only the cadences of cars, faint seeps of gas and water and the day, listlessly plucking the wires of my brain.
the film continues. a dog mauls the silences. a lost pigeon startles the rattling window
bored of talking with myself i relinquish, in glad fear, my final rights to edit and control the unending soundtrack. ";
str23= "see
see how this child uses these bricks
one on another builds a shaky tower
to sweep them away in a wild gesture not wholly impatience
more born of the urges constant remoulding chaotic, illusory all over the floor.
impossible to think of an alternative ending for anything. ";
str24= "lifes not free until its easy
the rabbit stared at the sundial but couldn't take his time. the hour of the tiger comes stalking disguised as a bamboo chopper. the rabbit is still, hiding his fear like an elephant standing on a mouse.
canaries play around his feet, eating sunseeds and waiting for the full moon. they are out of their heads and totally unafraid of tigers.
the rabbit is also unafraid but then he always believed he was a hedgehog ";
str25= "somehow its always summer between the sheets
winter morning grizzled bear feeling under a pile of blankets hollow winds in leafless trees shivering sinkwater colddamp floors
it makes me summerhappy to watch you coming back to bed smiling with all your body like the junenaked sun so full of mustbelove as blindbeautiful as flowers ";
function poem(pome,pun,long,wide){
dadPoem = window.open('','poem','toolbar=no,location=no,directories=no,status=no,scrollbars=yes,resizable=no,copyhistory=no,' + 'height=' + long + ',width=' + wide);
text = "" + pun + "";
text += "";
text += "
";
text += "
";
text += "dave calder";
text += " ";
text += pome;
text += "
";
text += "";
dadPoem.document.write(text);
dadPoem.focus();
dadPoem.document.close();
var dadPoem="";
return;
}
function picks(sp){
if (sp==1){poem(str1, 'lady in winter',540,350);}
else if (sp==2){poem(str2, 'one page',540,560);}
else if (sp==3){poem(str3, 'one of those days',540,400);}
else if (sp==4){poem(str4, 'exhibition piece',540,660);}
else if (sp==5){poem(str5, 'vulture',480,440);}
else if (sp==6){poem(str6, 'hour 11 + 5',500,380);}
else if (sp==7){poem(str7, 'strangers and sweets',320,464);}
else if (sp==8){poem(str8, 'hamlet, perhaps',540,372);}
else if (sp==9){poem(str9, 'angels would blow',540,460);}
else if (sp==10){poem(str10,'the waiting room',500,460);}
else if (sp==11){poem(str11,'getting heavy',520,350);}
else if (sp==12){poem(str12,'on the roof',500,380);}
else if (sp==13){poem(str13,'prodigal',360,360);}
else if (sp==14){poem(str14,'julius, the conspirators,...',540,400);}
else if (sp==15){poem(str15,'on & on',540,400);}
else if (sp==16){poem(str16,'the honest woman',540,520);}
else if (sp==17){poem(str17,'a vat, brewing',500,400);}
else if (sp==18){poem(str18,'the garden of earthy delights',540,600);}
else if (sp==19){poem(str19,'the stoning',540,400);}
else if (sp==20){poem(str20,'birdman',540,490);}
else if (sp==21){poem(str21,'at touches distance',540,480);}
else if (sp==22){poem(str22,'poems from a room',540,460);}
else if (sp==23){poem(str23,'see',540,360);}
else if (sp==24){poem(str24,'lifes not free .. ',510,400);}
else if (sp==25){poem(str25,'somehow its ..',410,460);}
else return;
}