Poetry Writings Artwork and stories from Neil Furby

Apr 25, 2007 at 02:19 o\clock

Sponge blown song 1

Along the streets the wet sheen of the morning shower varnishes the city block city.

Sparrows hip hop sing 

 tiny bodies tiny feet

feeding on last nights rubbish now morning morsels

sofly bright sun a milion bangs  nudges the undead

sound on ,vision on, a million receptors click

seat belt inhibitors hold the body bag tight

jelly on top control centre starts day shift

 thought messages, word mouths ,body mechanics

line up the urges, line up the needs

@neil Furby



Apr 18, 2007 at 23:41 o\clock

Much better Than "Dancing with the Wanna Bees"

At the sound of the rolling drumbeat
her legs go ever so slightly
shaking the gourd rattles secured above her ankles
in a controlled shuffling step
cha-cha-cha cha-cha-cha cha-cha-cha
slow staccato of the steam locomotive
pulling out of Fort Victoria station western bound
she is transported through the bushes
green expanses of pasture dotted with grazing cattle
to the land of sweet wild berries, butterflies
and the motley coloured wild shrubbery
her body in a synchronised union with the beat
short sisal fringe skirt bears witness
as the music gains momentum
she advances, hips swaying and pumping
chachacha chachacha chachacha
stomping, slight flapping of curved arms
wings of a hawk taking to the air
she soars loosing herself in the thick of things
the baritone sound of the kudu horn
intensifies the urgency blowing a cloud of dust
visibility limited, but she needs no sight
she dances with a relocated heart
the sound reaches crescendo evoking bitter memories
of the aged miller’s long beard she had to stroke
she hides her soul in the rhythm
glass eyed look of one near trance
chachacha chachacha chachacha chachacha
flawless moves auto-pilot engaged
her heels barely touching the ground
she wanders to the wintry hazy blue hills of Bikita
where a lonely mother’s heart pines
for the child she once held, swinging far too high
slipping further and further away
put to flight by the whip of the evil cultural gnome
the pulse slows down to a gradual halt
the dust settles, the dancers recede
“Foreign bodies in my eyes” she sniffs
her eyes and nose giving the dance arena
a well deserved sprinkle before the next dance
   © 2007, Joyce Chigiya 

Apr 17, 2007 at 23:40 o\clock

Russian Folk Tale

snow scene

Apr 17, 2007 at 23:32 o\clock

Portrait Detail, with Pear

Portrait Detail, with Pear


Ants have razed the paradise of the pear,
  regiments summoned by a mighty singing
     through cracks you can't see in the floorboards.
The time was ripe for their enthusiasm,
  their sense of business and industry,
     the waving of their antennae like flags,
        their trails across the plane of formica.

The corpse will soon cave beneath its own weight.
  Its yellow hips have started to pucker,
     mottled by a few improvised brushstrokes
where the delicate skin has sugared through.
  What a shame there's no color to convey
     the exquisite perfume of this sagging.
        It's really too soggy to handle, but if

you hoist it from the saucer anyway,
  the pear hangs on, like magnet to metal,
     suctioned for a moment by what it drained
in the long hurry to decimate itself:
  this amber-colored crescent of syrup
     enriched by the carcass of one lost ant,
        last cognac of vanilla, blood and myrrh.


Christopher Bakken

Apr 17, 2007 at 23:20 o\clock

Transylvianian Dancers

by: falcon82   Keywords: fdfd

Listening to: dfd


Apr 13, 2007 at 02:13 o\clock

NY to Paris Google Map instruction 23 googly humour ??

3,800 mi (about 29 days 7 hours)
Head southwest on Broadway toward Warren St 0.2 mi
1 min
Turn left at Park Row 0.1 mi
1 min
Slight right at Frankfort St 0.3 mi
1 min
Turn left at Pearl St 56 ft
Turn right onto the F.D.R. Dr N ramp 0.4 mi
1 min
Merge onto FDR Dr N 7.7 mi
12 mins
Take exit 17 on the left for Triboro Bridge/Grand Central Pkwy toward I-278/Bruckner Expy 0.4 mi
2 mins
Merge onto Triborough Bridge
Partial toll road
0.4 mi
1 min
Merge onto I-278 E via the ramp to I-87 N/Bronx/Upstate N Y/New England 0.6 mi
1 min
Take exit 47 to merge onto Bruckner Expy/I-278 E toward New Haven 1.9 mi
2 mins
Take the I-278 E exit toward New Haven 0.3 mi
Merge onto Bruckner Expy 5.0 mi
6 mins
Continue on I-95 N
Partial toll road
Entering Connecticut
62.1 mi
1 hour 12 mins
Take exit 48 on the left to merge onto I-91 N toward Hartford 36.8 mi
37 mins
Take exit 29 for US-5 N/CT-15 toward I-84/E Hartford/Boston 0.4 mi
Merge onto CT-15 N 1.7 mi
2 mins
Merge onto I-84 E
Partial toll road
Entering Massachusetts
40.7 mi
38 mins
Take the exit onto I-90 E/Mass Pike/Massachusetts Turnpike toward N.H.-Maine/Boston
Partial toll road
56.0 mi
56 mins
Take exit 24 A-B-C on the left toward I-93 N/Concord NH/S Station/I-93 S/Quincy 0.4 mi
1 min
Merge onto Atlantic Ave 0.8 mi
3 mins
Turn right at Central St 0.1 mi
Turn right at Long Wharf 0.1 mi
Swim across the Atlantic Ocean 3,462 mi
29 days 0 hours
Slight right at E05 0.5 mi
2 mins
At the roundabout, take the 2nd exit onto E05/Pont Vauban 0.1 mi
Turn right at E05
Partial toll road
17.3 mi

Apr 13, 2007 at 02:01 o\clock

Sonnet 129 by Bill Shakespeare

Th'expense of spirit in a waste of shame
Is lust in action; and till action, lust
Is perjur'd, murderous, bloody, full of blame,
Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust,
Enjoy'd no sooner but despised straight,
Past reason hunted, and no sooner had
Past reason hated, as a swallow'd bait
On purpose laid to make the taker mad;
Mad in pursuit and in possession so;
Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme;
A bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe;
Before, a joy propos'd; behind, a dream.
  All this the world well knows; yet none knows well
  To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell

Apr 13, 2007 at 01:59 o\clock


The glass does not break because it is glass,
Said the philosopher. The glass could stay
Unbroken forever, shoved back in a dark closet,
Slowly weeping itself, a colorless liquid.
The glass breaks because somebody drops it
From a height — a grip stunned open by bad news
Or laughter. A giddy sweep of grand gesture
Or fluttering nerves might knock it off the table —
Or perhaps wine emptied from it, into the blood,
Has numbed the fingers. It breaks because it falls
Into the arms of the earth — that grave attraction.
It breaks because it meets the floor's surface,
Which is solid and does not give. It breaks because
It is dropped, and falls hard, because it hits
Bottom, and because nobody catches it.

A. E. Stallings

Apr 3, 2007 at 18:17 o\clock

Three Shades

Three Shades

Twenty-five years ago poets Apirana Taylor, Lewis Scott and Lindsay Rabbitt branded themselves as Three Shades for a series of gigs: A Maori, an African American and a European New Zealander.  Their styles are distinctly different, and they have revitalised the show, which includes elements of theatre and music, for the 21st century.

See Three Shades at Poetry Café Porirua Easter Monday  9th April 7 :30 pm

Apr 3, 2007 at 18:04 o\clock

Autumn Garden (Illustration to The Wanderings of the Little Blue Butterfly in Fairyland) Notes

Autumn Garden (Illustration to The Wanderings of the Little Blue Butterfly in Fairyland)

The poet, painter and applied artist Anna Lesznai developed an art and style which owe much in inspiration to the art of the small Slovak-populated town of Körtvélyes. This is especially evident in the rich floral ornamentation of her embroidery designs. Her stories, too, and the colourful fairy tale world of the accompanying illustrations such as The Wandering of Little Blue Butterfly in Fairyland, published in 1918, were much admired. These also resemble Hungarian folk tales in which fairies are very much like ordinary people, and Fairyland is always just around the corner.

Apr 3, 2007 at 17:58 o\clock

Autumn Garden (Illustration to The Wanderings of the Little Blue Butterfly in Fairyland)

Autumn Garden (Illustration to The Wanderings of the Little Blue Butterfly in Fairyland)