Hello all, just joined this very cool website. I'm Dominic and I just turned twenty. I absolutely adore Leonard Cohen's writing - novels, songs, poems, stand-up comedy, love it all. He is my idol. It is my dream to see him in concert and an even wilder dream that I may one day have the honour of meeting the man himself. Big love to you all. Keep plugging away, keep writing. I love it. If you like what I've written, go to dominicfrancispoetry.blogspot.com for more poems, articles and a novel I started this weekend. Lots of love,
Dom
PS. I think god is alive and that magic MAY be afoot.
xxxx
Leonard Cohen Is My Man
Leonard Cohen Is My Man
Last edited by DJObrien on Sat Jun 22, 2013 3:02 am, edited 3 times in total.
Re: Leonard Cohen Is My Man
An extract of my novel (which is being written now). See more on dominicfrancispoetry.blogspot.com
Big love,
Dom xxx
A strange but real thing happened to my cat Faella today. My dad was putting socks in the draw of my bedroom, and the cat was in there. My dad said to the cat one day someones going to lock you in the drawers and then you'll be sorry. He carried on tidying up, finished off, and then shut all the drawers. My dad had his dinner, watched tv and went to bed. Though he masturbated, he couldn't go to sleep. But one thing was keeping him up; the cat wasn't in her basket. Until finally about quarter to four in the morning, he sat upright and said to himself 'I better see if the cat is in her drawer'. so he went upstairs, and accidentally crushed the cat in the sock drawer. The cat was calling in a very soft voice 'waaa'. Had he not woken up, the cat would still have been in the drawer for more than the 8 hours she was. But happy endings make good stories, new labour, purgatory and o happy families.
Tho our love affair is bordering on the illicit realm of bestiality, I love her more than words can say; I'll love her tomorrow and I'll love her today. She is the best friend I ever had; thru our sorrow she offers me sanctity and sanity and peace of mind. She is untouched by mourning, untouched by moon; she is the antithesis of the opposite of the antichrist. Like The Sex Pistols, she is an anarchist.
Played chess with E and J today. J is a good player; he also made a killer tune on piano. He's agreed to be in the Down to Earth Astronauts, so you may see him play with us soon. J beat us both, though I came close to beating him. I told him that I used to play in chess club and that his win was all the more honourable for it. J is only 20, the same age as me at time of writing. One dream I had a couple of nights ago is I was at a Leonard Cohen concert in the desert, and everyone was going mad for it. The crowd was insane, the backing vocalists with lurid, lurid and certifiable insane Cypriotes. The music was amazing. I don't think anything I knew was actually played, but the Cohen of my dreams, MY true Cohen, was a pitch-perfect mad improvising conductor with no agenda except for pleasure for the audience, the band and his own beautiful loose soul. At one point Cohen turned to the audience, tired of any pretence, and gestured to the band, saying 'Thank You Peons'. No one was sure whether to spit on the floor in disgust, cry aloud about their sad lament to the moon or role on the silly whole door of the floor, laughing their blinking heads off. The result was a picture of all three emotions. It was a pleasure to witness him in his prime; he threw the bums a dime, didn't he? People'd call, say beware doll, you're bound to fall; he thought they were kidding him? I'm not speaking of Cohen now; I'm speaking of myself. After all, the man of my dreams is - for all intents and purposes - me. Or so I wish. But anyway the beautiful bootiful dream flew to a close while the audience were adopting their respective reactive stances. The next day, after I woke up, I bought tickets to see the man himself live. I hope his real performance matches my performance in my dream. But there's little chance of that, tho the real true Cohen is bleeding fantastic. We shall see. Maybe we'll meet in another life. I'll shake his hand and he'll yell in my face where the blinking heck have you been all my life, loved one? He would give me a hand job and I would pleasure him with my mouth. But that IS just a dream. He is married, if I remember correctly. Not to Marianne, though she is one of the most perfect beings I have ever seen. He has two kids; I almost said he was too kids, and I guess he was. His profession was his depression and his sin was his lifelessness. Not really, he's filled with life as much as me and the next man. He was My Man, he is My Man, he will be My Man,. But goodbye til Leonard til I witness his antics life on stage this beautiful summer that the hospital and my new lease of life have provided me with.
Big love,
Dom xxx
A strange but real thing happened to my cat Faella today. My dad was putting socks in the draw of my bedroom, and the cat was in there. My dad said to the cat one day someones going to lock you in the drawers and then you'll be sorry. He carried on tidying up, finished off, and then shut all the drawers. My dad had his dinner, watched tv and went to bed. Though he masturbated, he couldn't go to sleep. But one thing was keeping him up; the cat wasn't in her basket. Until finally about quarter to four in the morning, he sat upright and said to himself 'I better see if the cat is in her drawer'. so he went upstairs, and accidentally crushed the cat in the sock drawer. The cat was calling in a very soft voice 'waaa'. Had he not woken up, the cat would still have been in the drawer for more than the 8 hours she was. But happy endings make good stories, new labour, purgatory and o happy families.
Tho our love affair is bordering on the illicit realm of bestiality, I love her more than words can say; I'll love her tomorrow and I'll love her today. She is the best friend I ever had; thru our sorrow she offers me sanctity and sanity and peace of mind. She is untouched by mourning, untouched by moon; she is the antithesis of the opposite of the antichrist. Like The Sex Pistols, she is an anarchist.
Played chess with E and J today. J is a good player; he also made a killer tune on piano. He's agreed to be in the Down to Earth Astronauts, so you may see him play with us soon. J beat us both, though I came close to beating him. I told him that I used to play in chess club and that his win was all the more honourable for it. J is only 20, the same age as me at time of writing. One dream I had a couple of nights ago is I was at a Leonard Cohen concert in the desert, and everyone was going mad for it. The crowd was insane, the backing vocalists with lurid, lurid and certifiable insane Cypriotes. The music was amazing. I don't think anything I knew was actually played, but the Cohen of my dreams, MY true Cohen, was a pitch-perfect mad improvising conductor with no agenda except for pleasure for the audience, the band and his own beautiful loose soul. At one point Cohen turned to the audience, tired of any pretence, and gestured to the band, saying 'Thank You Peons'. No one was sure whether to spit on the floor in disgust, cry aloud about their sad lament to the moon or role on the silly whole door of the floor, laughing their blinking heads off. The result was a picture of all three emotions. It was a pleasure to witness him in his prime; he threw the bums a dime, didn't he? People'd call, say beware doll, you're bound to fall; he thought they were kidding him? I'm not speaking of Cohen now; I'm speaking of myself. After all, the man of my dreams is - for all intents and purposes - me. Or so I wish. But anyway the beautiful bootiful dream flew to a close while the audience were adopting their respective reactive stances. The next day, after I woke up, I bought tickets to see the man himself live. I hope his real performance matches my performance in my dream. But there's little chance of that, tho the real true Cohen is bleeding fantastic. We shall see. Maybe we'll meet in another life. I'll shake his hand and he'll yell in my face where the blinking heck have you been all my life, loved one? He would give me a hand job and I would pleasure him with my mouth. But that IS just a dream. He is married, if I remember correctly. Not to Marianne, though she is one of the most perfect beings I have ever seen. He has two kids; I almost said he was too kids, and I guess he was. His profession was his depression and his sin was his lifelessness. Not really, he's filled with life as much as me and the next man. He was My Man, he is My Man, he will be My Man,. But goodbye til Leonard til I witness his antics life on stage this beautiful summer that the hospital and my new lease of life have provided me with.
Re: Leonard Cohen Is My Man
DJObrien wrote:An extract of my novel (which is being written now). See more on dominicfrancispoetry.blogspot.com
Big love,
Dom xxx
A strange but real thing happened to my cat Faella today. My dad was putting socks in the draw of my bedroom, and the cat was in there. My dad said to the cat one day someones going to lock you in the drawers and then you'll be sorry. He carried on tidying up, finished off, and then shut all the drawers. My dad had his dinner, watched tv and went to bed. Though he masturbated, he couldn't go to sleep. But one thing was keeping him up; the cat wasn't in her basket. Until finally about quarter to four in the morning, he sat upright and said to himself 'I better see if the cat is in her drawer'. so he went upstairs, and accidentally crushed the cat in the sock drawer. The cat was calling in a very soft voice 'waaa'. Had he not woken up, the cat would still have been in the drawer for more than the 8 hours she was. But happy endings make good stories, new labour, purgatory and o happy families.
Tho our love affair is bordering on the illicit realm of bestiality, I love her more than words can say; I'll love her tomorrow and I'll love her today. She is the best friend I ever had; thru our sorrow she offers me sanctity and sanity and peace of mind. She is untouched by mourning, untouched by moon; she is the antithesis of the opposite of the antichrist. Like The Sex Pistols, she is an anarchist.
Played chess with E and J today. J is a good player; he also made a killer tune on piano. He's agreed to be in the Down to Earth Astronauts, so you may see him play with us soon. J beat us both, though I came close to beating him. I told him that I used to play in chess club and that his win was all the more honourable for it. J is only 20, the same age as me at time of writing. One dream I had a couple of nights ago is I was at a Leonard Cohen concert in the desert, and everyone was going mad for it. The crowd was insane, the backing vocalists with lurid, lurid and certifiable insane Cypriotes. The music was amazing. I don't think anything I knew was actually played, but the Cohen of my dreams, MY true Cohen, was a pitch-perfect mad improvising conductor with no agenda except for pleasure for the audience, the band and his own beautiful loose soul. At one point Cohen turned to the audience, tired of any pretence, and gestured to the band, saying 'Thank You Peons'. No one was sure whether to spit on the floor in disgust, cry aloud about their sad lament to the moon or role on the silly whole door of the floor, laughing their blinking heads off. The result was a picture of all three emotions. It was a pleasure to witness him in his prime; he threw the bums a dime, didn't he? People'd call, say beware doll, you're bound to fall; he thought they were kidding him? I'm not speaking of Cohen now; I'm speaking of myself. After all, the man of my dreams is - for all intents and purposes - me. Or so I wish. But anyway the beautiful bootiful dream flew to a close while the audience were adopting their respective reactive stances. The next day, after I woke up, I bought tickets to see the man himself live. I hope his real performance matches my performance in my dream. But there's little chance of that, tho the real true Cohen is bleeding fantastic. We shall see. Maybe we'll meet in another life. I'll shake his hand and he'll yell in my face where the blinking heck have you been all my life, loved one? He would give me a hand job and I would pleasure him with my mouth. But that IS just a dream. He is married, if I remember correctly. Not to Marianne, though she is one of the most perfect beings I have ever seen. He has two kids; I almost said he was too kids, and I guess he was. His profession was his depression and his sin was his lifelessness. Not really, he's filled with life as much as me and the next man. He was My Man, he is My Man, he will be My Man,. But goodbye til Leonard til I witness his antics life on stage this beautiful summer that the hospital and my new lease of life have provided me with.
Hi O'brien. Welcome to the forum.
The reason I highlighted some lines is that I thought I detected the beginning of Tolstoy's Anna Karenina, followed by Nabocov's opening of his Lolita. Actually, I would love to see a novel attempting to combine both books. [it might take a while to write, though]
As to the section on "your man." It seems to me the man of your dreams is hallucinating. In fact, it has me thinking of Leonard Bernstein on acid--not Leonard Cohen.. and so, it could just be a case of "Leonard confusion".. [which no doubt happens sometimes]
Actually, I don't think you'll be disappointed in seeing L.C. in concert--however, it's unlikely he'll be on acid. And it's unlikely he'll remind you of Leonard Bernstein--even a Leonard Bernstein who's not on acid. [just to give you fair warning]
Anyway, good luck with the novel (!)
v. x
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AQ3GpUldYvE
FULL SCREEN..
Violet