Harold Pinter Poems
|2.||Death May Be Ageing||12/29/2015|
|3.||To My Wife||12/29/2015|
|9.||It Is Here||12/29/2015|
|12.||The Islands of Aran Seen from the Moher Cliffs||12/29/2015|
|14.||The Old Days||12/29/2015|
|18.||God Bless America||12/29/2015|
|20.||I Saw Len Hutton In His Prime...||1/13/2003|
|22.||I know the place||12/29/2015|
Comments about Harold Pinter
Jill. Fred phoned. He can't make tonight.
He said he'd call again, as soon as poss.
I said (on your behalf) OK, no sweat.
He said to tell you he was fine,
Only the crap, he said, you know, it sticks,
The crap you have to fight.
You're sometimes nothing but a walking shithouse.
I was well acquainted with the pong myself,
I told him, and I counselled calm.
Don't let the fuckers get you down,
Take the lid off the kettle a couple of minutes,
Go on the town, burn someone to death,
Find another tart, giver her some hammer,
Live while you're young, until it ...
I send my voice into your mouth
You return the compliment
I am the Count of Cannizzaro
You are Her Royal Highness the Princess Augusta
I am the thaumaturgic chain
You hold the opera glass and cards