Sorry about that, it is however necessary, after all I went to the Bon Jovi concert on Thursday, which was possitivly awesome, but we had to wait two and a half hours between entrance and when Bon Jovi starting to sing. There where two bands before them however, Fallen Drakes and Vintage Trouble. The first was Okay and the second was far better, but not Bon Jovi good. Any way your not here to read about that, your here for my writing course work, I hope;
This first one is poem based on five words which I'll highlight, and underline, the in this Gold.
Upon the yonder hill,
what secrets of men lie hither,
too many questions unasked,
screams of the universe's smallest sliver,
the warts of the past,
the rose of scandel,
Things that matter and not,
all mixed together, like stew in a pot,
questions no-one knows for,
like do jellybeans have mind,
or rats their own language,
and can cats stand on two legs
if bacon is involved?
Maybe Yes, Maybe nay,
but hay?
who really gives a f***
This next one was inspired by a picture in a ladybird book for children. The picture of sevral Pylons streching into the forest and was in a book about England's electricty supply;
Pylon after pylon stretched through the forest for as far as any eye could see. Maxim smiled or grinned, he couldn't really tell. You know you have to know exactly what you do at every moment or when you do something big you'll coc-
And then The Writer died. Ernest Bloodhound sighed, got out of his seat and walked to the desk infront of his. The Writer haid was slumped on the type writter, which churned out random letters before stopping at the end of a line, it was one of those old typewriters that you had to push a gizmo to go for the next line. Ernest sighed as he pulled out a flare gun and shot into the air. All the authors un the room turned to the centre, too The Writter's desk. After a second or so sevral detective and meds jumped down from the roof on their ropes and started their work. Ernest tried to remain calm, but The Writer, the government's greatest author dead. All the world's authors would be in shock. From the day they had finished their state essay they had been chosen to write novels, pamphlets, movie scripts and the like, whether government commission or of their own free subject choice. And The Writer was the best ever, and as No.1 he sat in the middle of Warehouse Alpha and now his love of writing and Lady-bird easy reading books had come to naught, how was modern ltrature going to be judged? On the guide lines of the writers before the modern empire! Ernest sincerly hope not.
The last two pieces are two hiakus that where supposed to be opposities of one another, based on frostbite and burns;
The Breath of Winter,
Oh be gone ye jaws of cold,
Leave me be frostbite
The Fires and Sun,
Unleash that horrific blight,
in burns of the skin.
Hope you enjoyed those, and sorry about this being three days late but it was just that I kept losing my drafts of this blog and it is pissing me off, so I'll just write this off and finish.
The Angry Blogger,
Me
This first one is poem based on five words which I'll highlight, and underline, the in this Gold.
Upon the yonder hill,
what secrets of men lie hither,
too many questions unasked,
screams of the universe's smallest sliver,
the warts of the past,
the rose of scandel,
Things that matter and not,
all mixed together, like stew in a pot,
questions no-one knows for,
like do jellybeans have mind,
or rats their own language,
and can cats stand on two legs
if bacon is involved?
Maybe Yes, Maybe nay,
but hay?
who really gives a f***
This next one was inspired by a picture in a ladybird book for children. The picture of sevral Pylons streching into the forest and was in a book about England's electricty supply;
Pylon after pylon stretched through the forest for as far as any eye could see. Maxim smiled or grinned, he couldn't really tell. You know you have to know exactly what you do at every moment or when you do something big you'll coc-
And then The Writer died. Ernest Bloodhound sighed, got out of his seat and walked to the desk infront of his. The Writer haid was slumped on the type writter, which churned out random letters before stopping at the end of a line, it was one of those old typewriters that you had to push a gizmo to go for the next line. Ernest sighed as he pulled out a flare gun and shot into the air. All the authors un the room turned to the centre, too The Writter's desk. After a second or so sevral detective and meds jumped down from the roof on their ropes and started their work. Ernest tried to remain calm, but The Writer, the government's greatest author dead. All the world's authors would be in shock. From the day they had finished their state essay they had been chosen to write novels, pamphlets, movie scripts and the like, whether government commission or of their own free subject choice. And The Writer was the best ever, and as No.1 he sat in the middle of Warehouse Alpha and now his love of writing and Lady-bird easy reading books had come to naught, how was modern ltrature going to be judged? On the guide lines of the writers before the modern empire! Ernest sincerly hope not.
The last two pieces are two hiakus that where supposed to be opposities of one another, based on frostbite and burns;
The Breath of Winter,
Oh be gone ye jaws of cold,
Leave me be frostbite
The Fires and Sun,
Unleash that horrific blight,
in burns of the skin.
Hope you enjoyed those, and sorry about this being three days late but it was just that I kept losing my drafts of this blog and it is pissing me off, so I'll just write this off and finish.
The Angry Blogger,
Me
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