The Velvet Paw of Asquith Novels

A brand new fiction. As sharp as barbed wire, but not nearly as dangerous.

velvet paw of asquith
Thomas Corfield Writing Wrongly

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Oscar's Poems

Oscar Teabag-Dooven poetry book

There was a great deal of negotiating involved here. Oscar prefers his poetry to be ethereal, i.e. not written down. He finds worth in their composition rather than their retention. Nevertheless, thanks to the encouragement of the Elder Splunett Pom-Wimple (Pivotal Elder of the Inaugurate Halls of Liebe), Oscar has agreed to having these posted in the hope that it permits others to sense what he does; that which lies beyond the noise. 

Oscar has never been inclined to give them titles, but advises he would be willing to consider any that might be suggested.

On wandering through Ruen late at night:


In reflective steps I peruse your lines,

And step your rectangular ground,

With narrow walls in shades of blue,

And cast silver light around.

Beyond these white-washed walls I feel,

A curious edge to me,

The deepest call of timeless shore,

I heed that sound of sea.

Upon a day unconstructive:

Encumbered and shackled, I am weary in wait,

Dawn to dusk spent in a peculiar state,

For betwixt the hours I consciously discerned,

Though arrive home with nothing,

For nil have I earnt.


Upon greeting the dawn: 

The coldest chill of morning breath,

That stirs and renders sleep to sleep,

I blink in slowly dawning wake,

Returning here with dreams to keep.

And though I feel this warmth of dawn,

That strips night's chill and leaves me bare,

I smile, knowing despite this start morn,

That sun has been up, all night, elsewhere.

Composed under duress of interrogation: 

There was a young cat named Sedervitz,

Who was ugly and seething with arrogance,

Despite being one-eyed,

He was always despised,

As he could only converse through his bottom bits.

On sailing beneath cliffs to a certain doom: 

Like blackened fingers pointing twixt,

The dark of sea and star of sky,

I float beneath these jagged cliffs

And humbly pass their mass thrown high.

Although they tower and wrench while still,

And froth in ancient blackened stone,

My boat ’pon water will safely drift,

And in their presence, I shan’t drift alone.

Following then by light of stars

A path measured by their line of crest,

A journey taking hours and hours,

It covered in merely one out-breath.

And castles built upon such height,

May harbour those who insist on yield,

And play games with those who believe by right,

The delusion fate is theirs to wield.

An ode to Oscar, written with a lisp:

I have a friend of whom I met,

From far acrossth the sthea,

A noble cat and clever poet,

Who twice did resthcue me.

He’s a Velvet Paw of Asquith,

Being a title quite destherving,

And if he doubts his worth of such,

He need think only of the Dervysth.

And although he’s sthoftly spoken,

And jolly good with wordsth,

He has a heart as beautiful,

As his abundant fluffy fursth.

And yesth it’s true he’s earless,

But on this one needn’t dwell,

For if an ‘F’ is put before it,

He isth truly that as well.

Reflecting upon night:

Night feels more alive than day.

There is no mask of routine,

Nor clouded noise to hide,

The essence of earth's vista.

Night leaves the world strangely naked,

And stretched across,

That bed of earth.

Sound and smell plunder sight,

And by which perception touches mind,

In tender and unused spots.

So I pause

To breathe through hollows deep.

And through a blanket of richest silvered blue,

Night sees me awake.

And in darkness I see her through senses,


Extract from the Tome of Cadre:

Where soil rivers flow,

And land's vigour churns beneath,

In flux and flex they meet,

Until now jagged and torn in swathes,

Until now turgid in stone and limb.

The quiet rise and fall of earth's breath,

In that invisible plexus of altered pinnacle,

Here then, is quiet unfathomable,

Here indeed, the earth soundly sleeps.

‘Til churning earth of the island pit to waken,

Those dark and blind,

Might the world invert to the bowl of heaven,

Spilling marble from its rested depth of earth,

Do not disturb earth's sleep,

Do not displace that brazen Lodestone perched.

Lest marble spill from dark pit to bright height,

Rupturing stone as bone and earth as marrow,

And its magma its deepest heat of blood,

While red storms rain coppered blood and bile of mead,

'Til all beneath seep in ache,

Far beyond any feeble, mortal days.

Upon wandering down a country lane:

Hold this air of quiet breeze,

Rest this churning of unease,

Bring my mind to this quiet place,

Far from maddening wrath and race,

This scent ‘pon air has travelled far,

Anointed by earth and cooked by star,

And holds within its history,

All the earth can known of me.

Through the window of a hurtling train:

Creatures I have never met,

Have breathed upon this window pane,

And sitting then as I do now,

They dreamed beyond this glass of train.

And swayed beneath its thundering,

While watching blur of world pass by,

Yet regardless of such hurtling,

Surely dozed as content as I.

Momentum screaming merciless,

A whistle offers faith at least,

To storm on rails ever ahead,

Toward the Alps of the Mahlese.

And were I now to fall asleep,

Careering through this shredded night,

Certainly with nowt to fear,

This cradled sleep. This safest flight.

Stealing the last line from the notorious bard named the Dodosette: 

Fear hones instinct, 

And fear sharpens sense. 

Fear treads beside me 

when courage relents. 

Fear breaks my spirit,

And fear mends my bones,

Fear coverts all 

when death stalks me alone. 

Fear offers passage,

And fear bars the way,

Fear numbs paws 

when they’re bloodied and frayed. 

Fear has me noble, 

And fear has me bold—

—will someone get this cat to shut his cake-hole?

Upon waking in the valley of the river Feint:

As world slowly turns beneath,

This endless arc of sky,

One horizon greets the sun,

The other says goodbye.

In this breath between the two,

Pink and crimson stir,

Render dreams to vagrant mist,

And light where shadows were.

Upon witnessing the birth of an island:

Black teeters upon plunge,

Stone punctures crust,

Lifts in amber boil,

Bursts in molten froth.

To cascade beneath leaden sky.

It is the heat of suns,

The cold of moons,

It is all there is.

Regardless of world,

Regardless of breed.

All stem from this amber glow.

Where fables fall,

Castles rise,

Whether this world,

Or another,

The same earth turns beneath.

Bedrock shifts,

Beauty is ripped from earth,

And in its frenzied arc,

Both greet,

And bade farewell.

Of all the things looked upon,

Of scented air,

Warmth of stone,

The taste of earth and rain,

On countless worlds,

In countless dreams,

Such things recur time and again.

When all thought is severed,

And surrender is complete,

Then worlds around us disappear,

And their boundaries can meet.

When found and known,

Here becomes everywhere.

And nowhere remains literally, now here.

The space between text,

The page between line,

The quiet between word.

The pause between breath.

In all these things are doors between worlds.

Into which we might fall sideways,

And be dropped upon unknown shores.

To awake in words unfamiliar,

To awake lost and found,

This interim between worlds is paper thin.

Broken by blink, perhaps,

Shattered by dream, certainly.

In any awareness disjointed,

In wakened hours or otherwise,

Reside doors to a world elsewhere,

Of all the things looked upon,

Of scented air,

Warmth of stone,

The taste of earth and rain,

On countless worlds,

In countless dreams,

Such things recur time and again.

When all thought is severed,

And surrender is complete,

Then worlds around us disappear,

And their boundaries can meet.

When found and known,

Here becomes everywhere.

And nowhere remains literally, now here.