Biography of Tom Gibo
Im not much of a poet (too pretentious a title for one such as I) I just wright the odd poem and enjoy playing with words.
Hope you like.
If u wanna say hello go 2 ww.myspace.com/thatotherbloke
Tom Gibo Poems
I Will Love You Till The Day I Die (Love...
We awake cushioned by the down of your quilt, A single eye shimmers by the moon. You turn and think thoughts so mindless Lick your lips,
Little Inconsistencies And Non-Rhymes
This urban hell, This ode to life A burning well is but strife A sulphurous ditch with inner daemons
I had a friend, He had the bends, Nitrous oxide stole his heart. He was a woman
The Wolf Brighton
The wolf Brighton Carl Memorex Gurned chips and toast Burnt the most. Saw him last
The month of May Sowing of hay After the plough Has left he's scars.
Thinking of the sun And thinking on the run Its a silent whistle That stops your dog
Oh it's a rabbit who had a habit of popping LSD He ate the growing mushroom And threw up in my bed...room
Burning pyres in shadowed woods, Shapes with horns and hooves and wings Scatter about, Darkness fights his eternal struggle,
He wept and whined and waded and that anon, She whooped and jeered and spurned him on. He cried and lied but still could not find She cursed and beat and forced him on.
The Old Ways
''Who is the one with many eyes'' he asked ''That is Journo the sad one, do not stare too closely'' ''and him whose skin is like a dark portal and mutters a language I know not of'' ''Ah he is of the older ones and is as a mountain in height, he speaks the tongues of dead gods and is called Antero Vipunen''
Melancholy Wintertime Thoughts
Its cold outside and the fire Crackles in the hearth, sends forth Merry sparks to conceal you from the dark.
To sleep and to slumber, In a nice warn bed, To live but a dream and only be a head, To have no thoughts to have no wants
Your View On Poetry
Your mind is closed, Sealed to the truth The speech of others is to you but lies Poetry is truth, poetry is life.
Merrions wood try as it should Will get eaten up. Vast estates, puddles and crates Miose threateningly.
The Old Ways
''Who is the one with many eyes'' he asked
''That is Journo the sad one, do not stare too closely''
''and him whose skin is like a dark portal and mutters a language I know not of''
''Ah he is of the older ones and is as a mountain in height, he speaks the tongues of dead gods and is called Antero Vipunen''
''Who is that one covered in open sores with a broken harp clutched to her bosom''
''She is Kipputytto the daughter of pain''
''And the one who looks like the sky at night with no fac