Frank Corcoran

irish composer



Soft you, before I take on ” Let me “. Consider weakish ” Definitely” and, after I´ve lambasted that, sherry-swinish ” Nest Myself”, all of this on this our
post-Samhan ” Ogni Santi” / ” Aller Seelen” ( – poor Schubert´s teeth ! ) thermometric fall .
Next in line to be criticized ” All over the world !” as creeping arrogance, a time-server for word-pigs! Her “glob” = his ” blogadr” = ” their wished for “playbar “. So whisper it wistfully, cautiously: ” pressword = wordpress/swordpressworryswishI´dódonítfirstan´foremosht/ ”
( In principle, was not our pressing out Dat But Only Just Dat Just Word long foreconceived, in fact some aeons earlier ? )
Press down. Shut up. Shut. Nest down. Mrs. Blogs, born in this Night of The SHE, she is helpless, so shes nesting on Culann´s Dawg, Cú. Down, hound, dawn fawning!
On one such “sacred”, ” livid” ( Luther ) October 31st evening, I happened to wrench the fifth rib while slipping across my own SHE Divide, up interviewing Mother on Skellig´s West Face. I´d faced wet-to-the-skin Blogadr.s, all, and I mean all, of her wet E-Mails; Luther – long before- had been pressing out The World At Stool, anti-Jewish pighound, we are more on the alert today. Marvel, though, at what he did expel: ” B.Lo.Go´dr. Sw´nish // “, the professorial theologians´ Thuringian privie practically blown apart by this lovely part-song for shitters.
Allow for ” SHE”, for our Celtic Fun On The Time-Line. October was doubtlessly grand, now the Sí were shovelling up her soil. I slipped over her own grey-hound. I had to sneak by, smacked by Samhan saints, by SHEs and by poor Schubert´s teeth, nesting with Mother´s hush-puppy hounds under a purgatorial Skellig Mór down-pour where no playbar ever did split Luther´s ” sacred” from “livid”.
I come to Martin´s beblogadred statement. I am referring, of course, to his Wartburg Question: ” Suppose I HAD rescued her out of her own vomit?” Watch that reformed barplay, his typical Augustinian pressing on HER words, her” HAD” and her “OF” .
My Diet of Worms beloved, sitting Musicus Luther how did strain, pressed he (still at you-know-where , ja ? ), propagated he, a case sensitive type, still a-sitting, he entered his post, evacuating Immortal Stool-Words:
” Let SHE out, gentle swine ! Press my Marty ICH certainly out of all great art ! Sitting rather than in good standing ( in this my private privie) , I Martin, Musicus, Marty cut ICH out of every thaumatological letting -go, verily out of Gad´s every Thuringian Word-server, each of His word-processors and, well, Son-pressers “.
Plop. Pull handle.Our theologian sedens now stroked his wordpress; the playbars coupled. ” You Lady Blog , me Blogadr. We nest ourselves on world-, time- and self-servers?”
This was ” aller Seelen”, a wet night, our ” ogni santi” on projected Irish Samhan Sí -sod and Skellig West Face ( closed to tourists, there´s sheets of foam a mile high in winter ), these were a myriad open faders, cross-overs, media-connectors. Press harder, young Sí-devils ! Strain, ye SHE-men! Grace ignoreth consequence ! Samhains prime time! Muscular ecstasy now´! Or never again for an artist a true-blue option! Wider! Open! She comes!” Schubert´s teeth ( fixed media work ), Mother´s wet hound-puppies on Skellig, drowning SHE´s ” glob” and Our Reformer´s ” blogadr ” pushed Herr Doktor Martin Luthers playbar down, aiming´for all Servants of the Strained Word.
´Tis easy speaking it : ” Suppose I had NOT rescued her out of her vomit?” Martin´s Satan snarl : ” She was all slopped out on the bed. death by drowning if you hadn´t. Certain.” Then the Tempter struck: ” What about her delayed death at sea? ” Our Reforming Sitter: ” Ancient Tempter! ” Lucifer was blazing back: ” Would have inhaled her own supper.” Dr. Marty Theologus: ” Haste to the wedding, guilt I Thee bring? ” His Mischievous Evil: ” Let the pitch-cap fit!” Our theological shitter:” Release my pressbar! ” Old Satan, his feary Father: “You did want to nest!” Luther´s Old High German Wartburg expletive was ” Blogadr! ”
After this Thuringian curse, all world-servers went silent. I´d said goodby to Mother on wet Skellig´s Wet Hell, goodbye to her wet hush-hounds and to Schubert´s syphilitic teeth, to wet Glob and drowned Blog and rescuing her out of her own vomit aeons earlier . Soft this wettish Sí Morning. Who ELSE is listening up on that West Face to my soft tale about how SHE is not necessarily of the Samhan Sí ; that we´re all flowing down the same river, down to Samhan City,

Posted under: Humble Hamburg Musings

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