A mousie sat upon a shelf,Catching fleas in his coat of fur.But he couldn't catch her- what chagrin!-She'd hidden 'way inside his skin.He turned and wriggled, knew no rest,That flea was such a nasty pest!His daddy cameAnd searched his coat.He caught the flea and off he ranTo cook her in the frying pan.The little mouse cried, Come and see!For lunch we've got a nice, fat flea!The Little Mouse, by Koleba, one of the child poets in the Terezin concentration campToday was National Poetry Day, apparently, and sometimes I bore myself by having Big Opinions about poetry. I ought to read it more and god knows I don't write it nearly enough. So it's a bittersweet joy to read these poems - to throw out most rubrics which one judges poetry by (they're just children! my age or less!) and find the children's joy and sorrows and more than anything else their hope. It's reassuring to know that in the middle of a hell beyond any measure, any comprehension, there was still a reason to write poetry.Salute, children of Terezin.

Bluebird by Andrew "Dice" Bukowski. There's a bluebird in my heartThat wants to get out. I fucked it. Ow!

Birdhouses are important things.They're a place to eat or visit, or drink a Peps.Hummingbirds have long beaks and very fast wings.

POEM FOR THE END OF SUMMERthe world is not enoughthe augmented world eitheraugmented lifeaugmented deathmy manskirt comforts

Ted Hughes wrote:The Thought-FoxI imagine this midnight moment's forest:Something else is aliveBeside the Clock's lonelinessAnd this blank page where my fingers move.Through the window I see no star:Something more nearThough deeper within darknessIs entering the loneliness:Cold, delicately as the dark snowA fox's nose touches twig, leaf;Two eyes serve a movement, that nowAnd again now, and now, and nowSets neat prints into the snowBetween trees, and warily a lameShadow lags by stump and in hollowOf a body that is bold to comeAcross clearings, an eye,A widening deepening greenness,Brilliantly, concentratedly,Coming about its own businessTill, with a sudden hot stink of foxIt enters the dark hole of the head.The window is starless still; the clock ticks,The page is printed.

Goodbye Sherbrooke Street.Once upon a time you were a rough area, The house across the street was full of junkies squatting And so was the burned out house two doors down.They tried to burn our house down too, I'm grateful that they failed. At one time every Latvian in Lincoln lived here. They did have potato. And a lot of wodka. Glaswegians, they'll do anything for you. Just stop trying to kill each other over trifle(ing) matters please. African nurses who all drank aloe vera drinks to keep their complexions smooth.Sorry Margaret, it wasn't me who stole your weave.There were some lovely people,Some hard working people.And thenIt went from being a nice house in a rough area,To being the problem house in a not-so-bad area.Sorry about all those ambulances And that time armed police blockaded the street.Sorry about that crazy guy that swore at you And tried to fight youAnd threw stones at your windows.Sorry about the fights that spilled out from our house onto the street.Sorry about all the broken glass and people getting stabbed.I've gone to a better place now but I'll come back and see you When I get the chance.

There was a young manA young man from NantucketHe could suck his dick

Boombats wrote:There was a young manA young man from NantucketHe could suck his dickIn just-woken fuzz I'm hearing this as the opening lyrics to an unrecorded Shellac track.

totally