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The Guardian are running another series of little books, this time about the great poets of the 20th Century. Today it's TS Elliot and I have read it and I can honestly say it's the biggest pile of shit I've ever seen. Most of it doesn't even fucking rhyme.
I'll be writing to that TS Elliot to tell him what I think.
I personally like Jack Kerouac's poetry, as well as WH Auden, and Hart Crane. I do happen to like The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by TS Eliot, but I haven't read much of Eliot's works.
Still, I'm more interested in literature than poetry, but there are some poems that I like.
"Mrs Porter/ And her daughter/ Wash their feet in soda water"
She's a prostitute. Rhythms of popular 'jazz' numbers of the period. Some sort of biblical/mytholgical reference.
I haven't read that fucking poem for 15 years. See - I learned something. Once.
T.S. Eliot FACTOID: he didn't like the smell of his wife when she was on the blob. "So rank a feline smell". Etc.
My old next door neighbour once told me that women smell of sour milk when it's bad week.
I can't say I've ever noticed.
Rev Big wrote: My old next door neighbour once told me that women smell of sour milk when it's bad week.
I can't say I've ever noticed.
You've got to really get in there, Oz Clark/Jilly Goolden style, and have a right good sniff.
Right when you think you're one of the most liberally-minded people in the world something happens that makes you realise that you are, in fact, a complete prude.
Rev Big wrote: Right when you think you're one of the most liberally-minded people in the world something happens that makes you realise that you are, in fact, a complete prude.
You just need more poetry in your life, Col. Let's face it - this is still probably the most highbrow thread on NOOL EVER, menstrual sniffing included.
Fuck me...I've just spit coffee on the computer screen...
the boss has come in to see what was so funny...
I don't think he's happy...but it's the last week here, so who gives a flying fuck???
John Cooper Clarke.
'What kind of creature bore yer, was it some kind of bat? They couldn't find a good word for yer, but I can - TWAT!'
Rev Big wrote: The Guardian are running another series of little books, this time about the great poets of the 20th Century. Today it's TS Elliot and I have read it and I can honestly say it's the biggest pile of shit I've ever seen. Most of it doesn't even fucking rhyme.
I'll be writing to that TS Elliot to tell him what I think.
:finger: 
The Waste Land is set in Belfast 2008, even though it was written in 1922.
I prefer Douglas N. Adams myself.
(by way of Prostetnik Vogon Jeltz)
Oh freddled gruntbuggly, Thy micturations are to me As plurdled gabbleblotchits On a lurgid bee. Groop, I implore thee, my foonting turlingdromes And hooptiously drangle me With crinkly bindlewurdles, Or I will rend thee in the gobberwarts with my blurglecruncheon, See if I don't!
Rev Big wrote: Hey TS Eliot is an anagram of toilets!
:) damn you, now I really like your sense of humor
