Remember VE Day

by going off shift now. - i'm a voluntary organisation. " I do Livingrooms". Peace of Mind is my Reward ;-) Sat May 08, 2004 16:48

we had the run-up to Emmet's ireland 1803.
and certain really sticky days in May 1804
when boney Partey, declared himself Emperor.
He had earlier "been trapped in Egypt",
1798-1800 which was probably quite a good livingroom to be chilled out in for the time and the money, though it has to be said that some of his party guests got the blame for damaging some of the fittings. Quite put the the tenants' association nose out of joint.
This was not good news for Ireland. It really is quite odd, that Ireland, mythical land of many peoples out on the Atlantic, gets centrestage attention every time the shit hits the fan.

This is our fault entirely. We can't blame it on the Wombles. we ought to blame it on Columba for being such a cheeky thieving horny monk. But we don't. Or Patrick for making us feel special over the intra-species thing. Fact is, when the shit hits the fan, we sort it out for them. But, and this is the mega-big "but", everytime we sort it out for them, they very quickly fuck it all up again, and rewrite the history books. So this time less of all that. Or we're making
the greatest most chilled livingroom
ever ever
in the open again
and everyday this time
not just "the day out day".

Osama is not our fault. And it really is imperative that the Irish people understand that. He wasn't our idea, and we aren't doing anything to facilitate his horrible, inhospitable more a kitchen than a chilling space squalid penthouse effort any more.

Q. What can you do to help?
[the Q.A. format]
A. You can ensure you don't give work to any of the horrible inhospitable more a kitchen than a chilling space squaled penthouse contractors should they come offering you a cheap deal on blinds, home improvements, or garden gnomes.
Q. are they easy to spot?
A. yes. They have no sense of Humour.

Q. do they look like the illustration at the link?
A. no. The Times they were a changin' then.

http://www.indymedia.ie/newswire.php?story_id=61467

http://napoleonic-literature.com/AgeOfNapoleon/E-Texts/Poetry1.html#shelley

by knowing where the truth went Sat May 08, 2004 15:56

all of the same colour.
Scarlet, Rosy, Iron or Russet
It dries as blood.

May 5, 1981, Bobby Sands died on hunger strike at Long Kesh prison. He had begun the strike on March 1.
Not a single person over the age of conscience at that time in Ireland, in all the myriad Irelands has forgotten that time.
But our memories are different colours.

May 7, 1916, Willie Pearse the younger brother of Padraigh was executed on the orders of Gen. Maxwell most probably but one scarlet faced hell made mind of thousands in that time.

He was executed the same day as John MacBride. (MacBride had gone to the Afrikaan war game [1899-1903] and married "a beauty if not a gazelle" in 1903). the Poet and sometime moral reprobate, W.B. Yeats wasted not a moment of time, and made a proposal of marriage to MacBride's widow the next month.

Upon the foundation of the state in 1922, Mammy Pearse was elected and made a general. Her sons' deaths passed safely and completely free from any type of propaganda of any kind to history. And she lived out her life in the times of loads of living generals and dead soldiers. WB Yeats got a job designing the coins, that Bertie smelted, and inspecting schools where horrible things happened. He didn't worry about a thing, well he worried about getting hitched. He spent most of his life trying to get hitched. And what's really suspect, is always to the same woman. She called him her "dear little willy". I reckon he gave her the willies. He then went on to propose marriage to her daughter, would you believe? And that's the type of man they put on the 20 punt note. If he'd been alive today, he'd probably have a really cute S.E. Asian wife, and still be writing about Vietnam, for the Irish Times.

By the end of "ww2" new bones and ashes had been added to the tombs of the unknowns like _everywhere_. And everyone resolved to live happily ever after.
Of course there were still momentary slips like this day all those years ago when Nixon mined the Vietnamese ports to implement the opening moves of Kissenger's domino war game.
Which formed the mind of loads of the next hell bent weirdos who gave us:-

The Modern World.
this included, Ireland, Brixton, Berlin, and the emergence of the global eco-punky conspiracy.
At which stage hope was realy quite completely lost.
for poetry, for scholarship students,
for manic depression, for the mammies getting generalship, and reality.

The solution was simple.

At a cost of many hundreds of millions of pounds, a big building was built in London at Vauxhall to my precise instructions throughout the 1980s, and in 1998 I opened the most tranquil livingroom sort of chilling out space with enough space for a sofa bed if someone visited, and really good satelite TV connections. This was the best livingroom there had ever ever been in like a hundred years give or take a dozen or so, and then I was able to think clearly for hundreds and hundreds of days.
And then one day I was finally persuaded to come out.
So I did, on a rope, when they broke the window and spoiled one wall of the mosttranquil livingroom there has ever ever been in almost a century give or take a dozen either way.
Whereupon i got brought by helicopter to a nearby park, then a quick transfer was made, and by well fucking impressive surface record speedboat holder machinery zoom zoom whooosh was brought near mach 1 give or take a car ferry which was in the way, to the Nederlands. & well go on, I'll tease you no more, thence I did go to Scandinavia, coz the girls are very pretty.

It took me a while to get used to my new livingroom conditions. I had grown very used to the clarity that had been my privelage before, and admittedly I was cranky at first.
I am now almost as chilled as I used to be, and am going to see a dentist some day soon.
Meanwhile
- we are getting it sorted.

Everyone is a victim.
And they're are some very wicked
people who are going to be held
very responsible.

But we probably won't tell you who.

by iosaf - hasta la victoria siempre! Sat May 08, 2004 15:14

Gurnet, an English young musician and composer who had been a scholarship student at the London college of music in 1911, saw his student days go pop.
He ended up with millions of others in the trenches of the "Great" war, the one to end them all. Perhaps he crossed the frontier singing the songs and playing football on Christmas day?
He was wounded in 1917 and gassed and returned with Hell in his mind, to be committed in 1922 for "manic depression" and die in the looney bin tune 1937.

they said he had promise.
They all had promise.

Before the "Great War", there was a lot of promise about. And not a single one had thought to write a dystopia "World War 2".
How curious the blood, the wires, the bangs the modern world began with.


one if Gurnet's poems:-

There are strange Hells within the minds War made
Not so often, not so humiliating afraid
As one would have expected - the racket and fear guns made.

One Hell the Gloucester soldiers they quite put out;
Their first bombardment, when in combined black shout
Of fury, guns aligned, they ducked low their heads
And sang with diaphragms fixed beyond all dreads,
That tin and stretched-wire tinkle, that blither of tune;
"Apres la guerre fini" till Hell all had come down,
Twelve-inch, six-inch, and eighteen pounders hammering Hell's thunders.

Where are they now on State-doles, or showing shop patterns
Or walking town to town sore in borrowed tatterns
Or begged. Some civic routine one never learns.
The heart burns - but has to keep out of face how heart burns.

http://oldpoetry.com/authors/Ivor%20Gurney