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Inhalt bereitgestellt von slanderhour. Alle Podcast-Inhalte, einschließlich Episoden, Grafiken und Podcast-Beschreibungen, werden direkt von slanderhour oder seinem Podcast-Plattformpartner hochgeladen und bereitgestellt. Wenn Sie glauben, dass jemand Ihr urheberrechtlich geschütztes Werk ohne Ihre Erlaubnis nutzt, können Sie dem hier beschriebenen Verfahren folgen https://de.player.fm/legal.
A weekly pre-sleep, post-thought audio play investigating the nature of latent boredom and the strip-mining of emotional bereavement. Semi is written & performed by Mark Simpson, Garth Simmons and Jim-John Harkness, and is produced by Stephen Landerhour for BBC Sounds.
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138 Episoden
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Manage series 3115879
Inhalt bereitgestellt von slanderhour. Alle Podcast-Inhalte, einschließlich Episoden, Grafiken und Podcast-Beschreibungen, werden direkt von slanderhour oder seinem Podcast-Plattformpartner hochgeladen und bereitgestellt. Wenn Sie glauben, dass jemand Ihr urheberrechtlich geschütztes Werk ohne Ihre Erlaubnis nutzt, können Sie dem hier beschriebenen Verfahren folgen https://de.player.fm/legal.
A weekly pre-sleep, post-thought audio play investigating the nature of latent boredom and the strip-mining of emotional bereavement. Semi is written & performed by Mark Simpson, Garth Simmons and Jim-John Harkness, and is produced by Stephen Landerhour for BBC Sounds.
…
continue reading
138 Episoden
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slanderhour
and in the moment of silence, i search for my forsaken voice, buried somewhere, far and adrift, under the summit of sufferings, the rivers of rage, under trampled dreams, under the mottled page, the voice so aloof, i have forgotten it so well, the past of calamity, only if i had a voice; i could tell…
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You are as The silver moonlight Which with its grace Dances on the surface of this lake. You, who penetrates my depths And ripples into my being Causing waves to quake. I will be your shelter, In my open arms I will be your rest. I will be as the caves of old, Within me you may find peace From the raging tempest of the world. You may shutter your eyes and dream, For the fire will remain Even if to fuel it, I must burn.…
In smoky halls where shadows dance, There strides a man with flair and stance. With saxophone in hand, he's seen, Shane Ritchie, the jazz machine. His fingers glide on keys so fine, A melody born from his mind's design. Each note he plays, a tale untold, In his jazz world, he's bold and bold. His voice, a velvet, smooth and low, Sings of love lost and nights aglow. The rhythm flows through every chord, In Shane Ritchie, jazz is adored. In every riff, a story's spun, Of midnight dreams beneath the sun. With passion deep and soul so pure, Shane Ritchie's jazz will endure.…
There once was a scientist named Kelly Whose name was made famous quite quickly He spoke on the radio About WMDs, you know But then he was found dead in on a hilly
In childhood's realm, young Barrymore did dwell, A world apart, where trials and hardships swelled. No tender hands to guide him on life's path, Alone he wandered, facing nature's wrath. With naught but strength and grit as his allies, He forged ahead beneath the open skies. No sheltered haven, no familial care, Yet in his heart, a fire burned, aware. Through solitary hours, his spirit grew, A resilient bloom, steadfast and true. He learned to navigate life's turbulent tide, As independence became his faithful guide. In iambic pentameter's rhythmic sway, The tale of Barrymore's youth takes its play. A child untamed, but with a noble flame, He braved the storms, each challenge he overcame. Though trials marked his path in early years, His spirit soared above all doubts and fears. In each footfall, a tale of strength untold, A young soul destined to break the mold. So let us ponder, in poetic rhyme, The resilience of Barrymore's early time. A child of fortitude, his own beacon bright, Who forged a path, defying starless night.…
In the spotlight's gaze, Michael Barrymore stood, A figure of laughter, a king of the hood. With charm and wit, he graced the TV screen, A maestro of entertainment, a living dream. His laughter contagious, a gift he shared, A jester of joy, he truly cared. From game shows to variety, his talents unfurled, Delighting audiences, across the wide world. But shadows cast their veil on his life, As troubles emerged, piercing like a knife. Adversity struck, tarnishing his name, A fall from grace, a tarnished flame. Yet through it all, a flicker remains, A man of resilience, enduring the strains. For in his heart, redemption may reside, A chance for renewal, a rising tide. Let us remember the laughter he brought, The moments of mirth, the battles fought. For within every soul, there lies a tale, Of triumph and struggle, of strength that won't fail. So, let us reflect on Michael's journey untold, With empathy and compassion, let our hearts unfold. For amidst the highs and lows that he's seen, Michael Barrymore, a complex human being.…
So it goes, dear listener, that among the myriad of things that sets man apart from his animal counterparts is the gift of gab and the mastery of language. To be a man is to be a creature of speech and discourse. The art of conversation holds a significant role in our lives. It can ease our sorrows and afflictions, amplify our delights and jubilations, and enhance our understanding of the world. Indeed, conversation is a powerful tool that allows us to convey our thoughts, emotions, and experiences with great significance. It is a valuable vehicle that propels us forward on our journey of self-discovery and communal growth.…
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Garth meets a priest. Public transport drama. Garth and his friend have a difference of opinion. Exploring the SUBconscious Other things
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Your face did not rot like the others—the co-pilot, for example, I saw him yesterday. His face is corn- mush: his wife and daughter, the poor ignorant people, stare as if he will compose soon. He was more wronged than Job. But your face did not rot like the others—it grew dark, and hard like ebony; the features progressed in their distinction. If I could cajole you to come back for an evening, down from your compulsive orbiting, I would touch you, read your face as Dallas, your hoodlum gunner, now, with the blistered eyes, reads his braille editions. I would touch your face as a disinterested scholar touches an original page. However frightening, I would discover you, and I would not turn you in; I would not make you face your wife, or Dallas, or the co-pilot, Jim. You could return to your crazy orbiting, and I would not try to fully understand what it means to you. All I know is this: when I see you, as I have seen you at least once every year of my life, spin across the wilds of the sky like a tiny, African god, I feel dead. I feel as if I were the residue of a stranger’s life, that I should pursue you. My head cocked toward the sky, I cannot get off the ground, and, you, passing over again, fast, perfect, and unwilling to tell me that you are doing well, or that it was mistake that placed you in that world, and me in this; or that misfortune placed these worlds in us.…
Love me, use me, Never let me go. Quench this unbearable thirst, this fire in my soul. ... Use me, hate me, ravage me, destroy me, As long as in the end you promise to hold me in your arms and love me. ... Grab my neck and pull my hair only keens and moans will be gotten from there. ... Stroke me like a harp, pluck me like a live wire string. Tighten me up, and snap me so I scream. ... Fill me, tempt me, push me, pull me. Throw me to the bed and make me sing ... Hold me down and shatter me, Pick me apart, and rebuild me made just for you. ... You met me a cracked photo frame empty and useless, Now fixed, filled full with only your image. ... Please don't leave me I promise to obey! Hold me apart so my pieces don't stray, Here in you arms Sir forever I will stay.…
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The jolt that comes to bones inside a tumbled streetcar is what the painter considers as she strokes her- self into story. There is less to the jolt that comes as he shuts his eyes before the monitor, save what he imagines—a lightning bolt, a god tapping the shoulder. He imagines the sky swelling with ceiling fans or the guano of extinct birds, a jolt riding from his shoulder blades to his eyelids, dropping with roller coaster clacks to his fingers. Here, he dreams of Frida Kahlo. Here, he says, let me spread my flesh out like a table linen, let my bones be silver that touches, making, again, that clack. My skull will be a glass, set properly, I have class enough. What jolt is it to chew over class, his body set before him as a reader sips (perhaps) a glass of something heady? We give books spines, we break them. The table will have its legs, its head. The body is upon us. Does the table have a stomach? Is it simply there to bear our hunger without its own, like a eunuch bathing a stripper? What is the poet without eyes or ears—reading, listening? He is a platform—a place to set, that to set it with. And if this is all, what will he do when the reader finishes a glass, rises from the poet’s head, and passes into the city? Covered with a linen, he is waiting for something to spill, perhaps a girl in Mexico rolling her ankle in a street- car.…
I took my life and threw it on the skip, Reckoning the next-door neighbours wouldn’t mind If my life hitched a lift to the council tip With their dry rot and rubble. What you find With skips is – the whole community joins in. Old mattresses appear, doors kind of drift Along with all that won’t fit in the bin And what the bin-men can’t be fished to shift. I threw away my life, and there it lay And grew quite sodden. `What a dreadful shame,’ Clucked some old bag and sucked her teeth: ‘The way The young these days … no values … me, I blame…’ But I blamed no one. Quality control Had loused it up, and that was that. ‘Nough said. I couldn’t stick at home. I took a stroll And passed the skip, and left my life for dead. Without my life, the beer was just as foul, The landlord still as filthy as his wife, The chicken in the basket was an owl, And no one said: `Ee, Jim-lad, whur’s thee life?’ Well, I got back that night the worse for wear, But still just capable of single vision ; Looked in the skip; my life – it wasn’t there! Some bugger’d nicked it – without my permission. Okay, so I got angry and began To shout, and woke the street. Okay. Okay! And I was sick all down the neighbour’s van. And I disgraced myself on the par-kay. And then … you know how if you’ve had a few You’ll wake at dawn, all healthy, like sea breezes, Raring to go, and thinking: `Clever you! You’ve got away with it.’ And then, oh Jesus, It hits you. Well, that morning, just at six I woke, got up and looked down at the skip. There lay my life, still sodden, on the bricks; There lay my poor old life, arse over tip. Or was it mine? Still dressed, I went downstairs And took a long cool look. The truth was dawning. Someone had just exchanged my life for theirs. Poor fool, I thought – I should have left a warning. Some bastard saw my life and thought it nicer Than what he had. Yet what he’d had seemed fine. He’d never caught his fingers in the slicer The way I’d managed in that life of mine. His life lay glistening in the rain, neglected, Yet still a decent, an authentic life. Some people I can think of, I reflected Would take that thing as soon as you’d say Knife. It seemed a shame to miss a chance like that. I brought the life in, dried it by the stove. It looked so fetching, stretched out on the mat. I tried it on. It fitted, like a glove. And now, when some local bat drops off the twig And new folk take the house, and pull up floors And knock down walls and hire some kind of big Container (say, a skip) for their old doors, I’ll watch it like a hawk, and every day I’ll make at least – oh – half a dozen trips. I’ve furnished an existence in that way. You’d not believe the things you find on skips…
Breaktime, I'll write something for you Breakfast or lunch, I think of you Birds outside the window, chirp at me Birds of the same feather, follow me Be it short or long, poem I write you Braided or craze, your hair, I describe you Below or over my head I scribble for you Beaten or scrambled egg, I'll fry for you Better late than never Bread or butter I will serve you ever Brevity in my poems I pen so tender Bending or standing, I'll never surrender Bright or dim lights will aid my bleary eyes Blunder or sentimental, my heart for you never die…
Earlestown is named after Sir Hardman Earle (11 July 1792 – 25 January 1877) a slave owner whose family was steeped in the slave trade. He was the Chairman of the London and North Western Railway . Earlestown Town Hall is an imposing building, fronted by a war memorial. In 1962 the Beatles visited Earlestown for a night gig and played at the town hall. On the same night Newton Boys Club on Graffton Street was opened by Frankie Vaughan for the local community. [6] Another significant building included the art-deco former Curzon cinema which was demolished in January 2010. Earlestown has a small but busy town centre with many shops including high-street outlets such as Tesco , Boots , Wilko and several high street banks alongside independent retailers, bookmakers and fast-food takeaways. There are a range of traditional pubs, such as The New Market, The Ram's Head, The Railway Inn, The Griffin, and The Wellington. Earlestown is well served by many fast food outlets offering a good range of Indian and Chinese dishes as well as fish and chips and the ubiquitous McDonald's . Most of the local restaurants are curry houses; Earlestown's 'curry quarter-of-a-mile' on Queen Street has three Indian restaurants and a Tandoori take-away.…
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How little it takes to stain the character. A single drop of ink is a very small thing, yet dipped into a tumbler of clean water, it blackens the whole. And so the first oath, the first lie, the first glass of drink, seem very small things, yet leave a dark stain upon the character. Look out for the first stain.…
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