I have written both poetry and prose intermittently since 2005. My major influences, to name a choice few, can be found in Lewis Carroll, J.G Ballard, Jonathan Swift, Philip Larkin, Ted Hughes, J.D Salinger, Ray Bradbury, George Orwell and Emile Zola.
The first poetry book I purchased was Ted Hughes's 'Birthday letters' as a sixteen year old in 1998; and shortly after Larkin's 'High Windows' . Words can't alone explain the world I entered on reading 'Birthday Letters' and as for Larkin, exceptional and equally capable in his style. I can't separate the two, in their abilities. I prefer Hughes and Larkin, to their predecessors John Betjeman, Thomas Hardy and W.H Auden. Much ... more »
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Chris Tyrimos Poems
Marrakech: Or the tale of the Monkey in ...
The futility of an ego cased in a personality, in flesh. Ideas came to me in a juvenile milky coffee. Semi copper coloured bricks in a cheap attention seeking hostel. Lemonades and liars, frauds and friars, princes and peoples.
A Funny Valentine
‘They’ gave each other over to one another. In an idea above one another. It wouldn’t grow up properly. It was ill with a hunger that would strip them internally.
Desperado rode into town, whisky on breath, blood lust in his will. A five a.m madman, with the stainless steel, polished, cocked, loaded. He’d come for debts, chewing a toothpick and aspirins. He’d come for business as a spectre, a stranger, a highwayman.
Imaginations Imagine [ childrens ]
My imagination is reality, it saves me from the familiar, the humdrum. An alarm clock made of gold snakes, my bed floats near Jupiter, my golf clubs are pink flamingos. Garden filled with stick insects the size of double Decker buses. The polar bear wears a three piece suit and sunglasses. The local owl and owlets boast in a brand new red Ferrari, what a wonderful day lies ahead, a beautiful day! This magnificent adventure filled to the brim with hot chocolate near bonfires, where angels sing in Hyde Park, my soul flies away with a rainbow coloured frog, his tips his top hat as we reach new worlds, where door handles are marshmallows.
The day the earth stood still
It was a leap year, when it occurred, a night lost to the calendar. Everything froze. I stock still in central Moorgate with my list and designer stubble. Worked my way around London. In a cheap suit and tan leather semi brogues, misunderstood. Apologised to everyone Id upset. As they sat frozen at their desks, flirting, grimacing. Oblivious.
The circus closes its doors, one last elaborate excuse. Shelve your costumes, throw in the popcorn. There's a spanner in the works. This ghost in the machine tangles up a last sunset.
We meandered through ideas of love and commitment The foxes in the garden, screamed in their way of passion and of course. Id walk the haunted paths and collect energy fields, in my own way Revisiting childhood. Soiled jackets and hot chocolate, a clean ideal.
A stranger meets me on a tall ship, the kruzenshtern. Clicking mechanised frogs were a catwalk fashion of the day. Radio times red pen circle addict club. The child in me expects an enemy at the Kenilworth ancient gate.
Aliens enter the atmosphere, once and for all, Moses warned them in a wormhole Greenwich Meridian Time. Eccentrics and wheelchair bound wizards. The coalition congress of Bourbon Restoration,
The metallic casings in your mouth made my lips sting fillings of iron. Industrial sooty ink, half filled cups of coffee Ideas on society and the starving confused me. To a point where I questioned my name and image. Twice
Meet me at the Diner
Welcome to my world, yours, ours. Meet at the diner you knocked down with those expensive beautiful lies voiced in mock red leather electric booths. The trifle reminded me of the French revolution.
Last night in Tangiers
Giants in Hell, was the exact look on that beggars face. I walked and walked, back and forth passed back alleys, bars and ruins of Coptic churches. People at the bars were dancing to fill a void, a perfect way to hide, in their voodoo dance trance Frame by frame, incorruptible Saturday night dancer.
I'm sliding against all odds and evens, resisting anarchy.' He whips the back of a weekend. Fear has to be learnt. Half fox half man, a lost idea of his self.
Dinosaurs in the bath
How can today be more beautiful than yesterday? Look in the mirror, not at it. Your light golden skin colour twenty four hour reminder of the national gallery. A one night stand ends up in a wedding.
Comments about Chris Tyrimos
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
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Edgar Allan Poe
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(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
Marrakech: Or the tale of the Monkey in the Jemaa el Fna
The futility of an ego cased in a personality, in flesh.
Ideas came to me in a juvenile milky coffee.
Semi copper coloured bricks in a cheap attention seeking hostel.
Lemonades and liars, frauds and friars, princes and peoples.
Men in the cancerous Indian summer of their lives.
Paying for lust, a well oiled transaction.
My soul spirit affected by the noise, bright lights, a voyeurism.
As viewer, more foreign hypocrite, 'Noel Simsolo' moral administrator.
A bizarre re-affirmation of local suffering, somehow,
confirmed in replica watches and matching tungsten ...