(A mummer is an actor in
a folk-ritual. O.E.D.)
here we are
mummers on the tube
enacting our corporate ritual
in the bowels of the city
and all in order to appease
THE MONEY GOD!
the Baal index!
that great cash cow
in the sky
hovering over our heads
and dominating us all
with her cruel and inhuman logic
the must-have
sine qua non
of income
‘moan’ ee
that stuff that oils of the wheels
of satan’s big machine
and keeps it all
turning
turning
round and round
like the cogs in Poirot’s brain
until we stop
dead
and scream
“I see it all now. Yea!
For I am bound
Upon a wheel of cash
That mine own tears do scald
Like golden ingots
Upon mine cheek. Alas!”
yes. alas for us.
poor mummers on the tube
struggling for room
each inhabiting
his own personal cloud
of personalised DOOM.
Wednesday 31 October 2007
The Glass Brain
THE GLASS BRAIN
She was off her food and couldn’t think fashion anymore. Something wrong. There were too many colours in the rainbow and a wooden alligator with a brass handbag, followed her through Sainsburys causing a stir. Then she had another bleeding period! Quell irritation! She felt like a porn queen in a carry-on film, or something that evolved wrong with one eye and 13 legs. Alice in wonderland was amateur compared to her. In the art gallery a famous actor was talking numbers with a distinguished looking woman in a big hat. It had to stop. She was university challenged! A mystery play that the mystery had gone out of. They did an X-ray. Whatever it was it would have to come out. She flicked channels waiting for a phone call. She went in on the Wednesday. Total anaesthetic. Undersea nightmares with arthropods biting her…
The eminent surgeon, sir Nigel Bart-Hornblower-Machin was, for the first time in his over-clubbed life, genuinely surprised. A glass brain! He sowed her back up and took a holiday in the south of france. Antibes resplendent in the morning haze. She came round to the sound of a fly buzzing against the window-pane. Buzz, buzz. She felt the same. “Well dearie. We’re looked into your brain. The problem is transparent. It’s like Godot. Nothing to be done.” Disgusted with medical science she discharged herself . What other avenues were there to explore? Madame Osmosis! New-age psycho-babble and tarot enumeration! Her basement flat in Earl’s Court smelt of cat’s (not the musical) and something else. Sit. Hands wandered her cranium. Cards were read. The hanged man loomed large. Too many swords. Not enough staves. The Empress and the Fool in fixed opposition. But still. No light shone. Osmosis was out. But then, as she trolled homeward, the light turning opalescent and ambient, she saw through it! It was simply that! A glass brain! One to look through, instead of, out of!!!!!!!!!!!!!! She felt happy and at peace, and caught a bus to Holland Park, even though it wasn’t in Holland, and it didn’t have a park.
She was off her food and couldn’t think fashion anymore. Something wrong. There were too many colours in the rainbow and a wooden alligator with a brass handbag, followed her through Sainsburys causing a stir. Then she had another bleeding period! Quell irritation! She felt like a porn queen in a carry-on film, or something that evolved wrong with one eye and 13 legs. Alice in wonderland was amateur compared to her. In the art gallery a famous actor was talking numbers with a distinguished looking woman in a big hat. It had to stop. She was university challenged! A mystery play that the mystery had gone out of. They did an X-ray. Whatever it was it would have to come out. She flicked channels waiting for a phone call. She went in on the Wednesday. Total anaesthetic. Undersea nightmares with arthropods biting her…
The eminent surgeon, sir Nigel Bart-Hornblower-Machin was, for the first time in his over-clubbed life, genuinely surprised. A glass brain! He sowed her back up and took a holiday in the south of france. Antibes resplendent in the morning haze. She came round to the sound of a fly buzzing against the window-pane. Buzz, buzz. She felt the same. “Well dearie. We’re looked into your brain. The problem is transparent. It’s like Godot. Nothing to be done.” Disgusted with medical science she discharged herself . What other avenues were there to explore? Madame Osmosis! New-age psycho-babble and tarot enumeration! Her basement flat in Earl’s Court smelt of cat’s (not the musical) and something else. Sit. Hands wandered her cranium. Cards were read. The hanged man loomed large. Too many swords. Not enough staves. The Empress and the Fool in fixed opposition. But still. No light shone. Osmosis was out. But then, as she trolled homeward, the light turning opalescent and ambient, she saw through it! It was simply that! A glass brain! One to look through, instead of, out of!!!!!!!!!!!!!! She felt happy and at peace, and caught a bus to Holland Park, even though it wasn’t in Holland, and it didn’t have a park.
Saturday 22 September 2007
seed sonnet
Seed Sonnet
If we could be conscious of just one small seed
We’d know the all of heaven contained there,
We’d know that we must all forthwith take heed
For that which germinates is beyond compare.
It is that most transcendent spark of all,
Which produces all within the mothering womb;
It is that which nothing ever can forestall
As it marches on and on from birth to tomb.
But even more than this it confounds our mind
That only dimly grasps, perhaps even less,
No matter how much sharp intellect seeks to find
Our mind at last must simply acquiesce.
So we of the seed should always stand in awe
To humbly acknowledge her mysterious and en-
compassing law.
ian joynson 2004
If we could be conscious of just one small seed
We’d know the all of heaven contained there,
We’d know that we must all forthwith take heed
For that which germinates is beyond compare.
It is that most transcendent spark of all,
Which produces all within the mothering womb;
It is that which nothing ever can forestall
As it marches on and on from birth to tomb.
But even more than this it confounds our mind
That only dimly grasps, perhaps even less,
No matter how much sharp intellect seeks to find
Our mind at last must simply acquiesce.
So we of the seed should always stand in awe
To humbly acknowledge her mysterious and en-
compassing law.
ian joynson 2004
The Hurricane's Lesson
THE HURRICANE’S LESSON
The angry brooding hills awake
With thunder massive, over my head;
Across the valley, the Church bell tolls
A sounding note; and in the stillness
My ear intuits clear, the story of that
furious fire,
That burns with slow resentment in my
heart,
Despising this vain and shallow fool
Who thinks he can live, without our
earth’s intent,
Her winds and weathers.
Her passionate storms.
Her cyclonic rages, flattening all.
O foolish man to live this barren lie
To inhabit a fiction, until we die
Thinking we can let, those angry hills
Sleeping, lie.
Never until we allow passion’s fires
to burn,
Will mankind find that lesson his heart
should learn.
The angry brooding hills awake
With thunder massive, over my head;
Across the valley, the Church bell tolls
A sounding note; and in the stillness
My ear intuits clear, the story of that
furious fire,
That burns with slow resentment in my
heart,
Despising this vain and shallow fool
Who thinks he can live, without our
earth’s intent,
Her winds and weathers.
Her passionate storms.
Her cyclonic rages, flattening all.
O foolish man to live this barren lie
To inhabit a fiction, until we die
Thinking we can let, those angry hills
Sleeping, lie.
Never until we allow passion’s fires
to burn,
Will mankind find that lesson his heart
should learn.
The Toltec Path of Freedom
The toltec Path Of Freedom – an introduction (For more information see the website @ www.toltec-foundation.org)
An ordinary housewife, let’s call her Ann, does a college course and there she meets a diverse group of people, her fellow students. Now, Ann has always had a vague feeling there is more to life, but it’s only a very vague indistinct feeling and most of the time she just ignores it. But on the course she meets a man, let’s call him John, who is rather unconventional and strange, but nevertheless a nice person and quite normal in most respects. Being near him though amplifies this vague feeling she has about there being more to life and she realises intuitively that John knows more about this than she does, so she asks John to tell her what it is. Now, John does know what this thing is, for although he doesn’t advertise the fact, he is a warrior on the path of freedom which also means he knows you cannot tell people directly anything about the path of freedom, for it is not something you can explain, it has to be experienced. So, instead of trying to explain things to Ann he suggests a course of action to her. This course of action is really nothing very dramatic or difficult, and it sounds to Ann like quite a stupid idea. John wants her to rent a film from the video shop that she normally wouldn’t watch. This is the stipulation. It must be something she is not interested in. Despite her misgivings let’s say that Ann does this. Being a conventional Mother and housewife, Ann realises, if she is strictly honest with herself, that the kind of film she is not interested in are the obscure and ‘arty’ ones. So she follows this through, even reading up on the subject so that in the end she now feels she can understand what this type of film is about and why it is made, because, albeit conventional Ann is an extremely intelligent and capable person. But despite having done this for six months, Ann still feels she is no nearer to understanding this vague thing about there being more to life and goes back to John to complain that the whole thing has been a failure. John laughs of course and innocently asks if anything else happened in the six months. Ann thinks hard and remembers one thing that was unusual. Her husband had got angry with their daughter for some minor issue, a thing he would never normally have done, and when Ann had tried to discuss it with him the idea had occurred to her that he was actually angry with her. Hearing this John suggests that her instinct is right and that her husband is angry with her for acting out of character with her arty film craze. Then Ann remembers all the sarcastic comments he had made. Hearing this John suggests that maybe her husband doesn’t want her to do anything new. Ann goes home that night and talking to her husband about it finds herself getting extremely angry and shouting at her husband in a way that she did not think she was capable of. When she calms down Ann is shocked. She had never thought of herself as an angry person before, priding herself on her self control and now she realises this is simply something she has hidden from herself.Realising this,she suddenly does feel she is a tiny bit closer to understanding what that vauge thing is which is missing from her life.
What I am trying to illustrate in this story, which I have made up,is the way in which the path of freedom differs from other paths, inasmuch, as it is about changing our perception of ourselves, through stalking our own feelings and emotions. This is the fundamental nature of the path of freedom. It is not about adding something to our lives. It is about working intelligently with what is already in our lives. Fundamental things like relationships. Always though, when people do feel a lack of something in their lives, something they might term a spiritual element, they will miss the boat entirely, in terms of freedom, by assuming it is some definite thing which they can simple acquire, like anything else. So they take up Tai Chi, Yoga, become Astrologers, Witches, Landscape Gardeners, and persuade themselves they have changed, when, in reality, at a fundamental level, nothing has changed within themselves. They have merely added something to an existing configuration. Now, I am not saying that the things mentioned above are not empowering, enlightening, etc. On the contrary, I would heartily recommend them all. What I am saying is that if you use these thing to create a new identity for yourself you will still not be free. You will be a slave to you new identity, just as you were a slave to your old identity. You will still have all your eggs in the identity basket, and the real issues, about your feelings, failings, emotions, as a human being, will carry on being unresolved in the sense that your awareness of these things will not progress in a way which it will effect the quality of your life and those around you.
An ordinary housewife, let’s call her Ann, does a college course and there she meets a diverse group of people, her fellow students. Now, Ann has always had a vague feeling there is more to life, but it’s only a very vague indistinct feeling and most of the time she just ignores it. But on the course she meets a man, let’s call him John, who is rather unconventional and strange, but nevertheless a nice person and quite normal in most respects. Being near him though amplifies this vague feeling she has about there being more to life and she realises intuitively that John knows more about this than she does, so she asks John to tell her what it is. Now, John does know what this thing is, for although he doesn’t advertise the fact, he is a warrior on the path of freedom which also means he knows you cannot tell people directly anything about the path of freedom, for it is not something you can explain, it has to be experienced. So, instead of trying to explain things to Ann he suggests a course of action to her. This course of action is really nothing very dramatic or difficult, and it sounds to Ann like quite a stupid idea. John wants her to rent a film from the video shop that she normally wouldn’t watch. This is the stipulation. It must be something she is not interested in. Despite her misgivings let’s say that Ann does this. Being a conventional Mother and housewife, Ann realises, if she is strictly honest with herself, that the kind of film she is not interested in are the obscure and ‘arty’ ones. So she follows this through, even reading up on the subject so that in the end she now feels she can understand what this type of film is about and why it is made, because, albeit conventional Ann is an extremely intelligent and capable person. But despite having done this for six months, Ann still feels she is no nearer to understanding this vague thing about there being more to life and goes back to John to complain that the whole thing has been a failure. John laughs of course and innocently asks if anything else happened in the six months. Ann thinks hard and remembers one thing that was unusual. Her husband had got angry with their daughter for some minor issue, a thing he would never normally have done, and when Ann had tried to discuss it with him the idea had occurred to her that he was actually angry with her. Hearing this John suggests that her instinct is right and that her husband is angry with her for acting out of character with her arty film craze. Then Ann remembers all the sarcastic comments he had made. Hearing this John suggests that maybe her husband doesn’t want her to do anything new. Ann goes home that night and talking to her husband about it finds herself getting extremely angry and shouting at her husband in a way that she did not think she was capable of. When she calms down Ann is shocked. She had never thought of herself as an angry person before, priding herself on her self control and now she realises this is simply something she has hidden from herself.Realising this,she suddenly does feel she is a tiny bit closer to understanding what that vauge thing is which is missing from her life.
What I am trying to illustrate in this story, which I have made up,is the way in which the path of freedom differs from other paths, inasmuch, as it is about changing our perception of ourselves, through stalking our own feelings and emotions. This is the fundamental nature of the path of freedom. It is not about adding something to our lives. It is about working intelligently with what is already in our lives. Fundamental things like relationships. Always though, when people do feel a lack of something in their lives, something they might term a spiritual element, they will miss the boat entirely, in terms of freedom, by assuming it is some definite thing which they can simple acquire, like anything else. So they take up Tai Chi, Yoga, become Astrologers, Witches, Landscape Gardeners, and persuade themselves they have changed, when, in reality, at a fundamental level, nothing has changed within themselves. They have merely added something to an existing configuration. Now, I am not saying that the things mentioned above are not empowering, enlightening, etc. On the contrary, I would heartily recommend them all. What I am saying is that if you use these thing to create a new identity for yourself you will still not be free. You will be a slave to you new identity, just as you were a slave to your old identity. You will still have all your eggs in the identity basket, and the real issues, about your feelings, failings, emotions, as a human being, will carry on being unresolved in the sense that your awareness of these things will not progress in a way which it will effect the quality of your life and those around you.
learning to see sonnet
LEARNING TO SEE SONNET
When naked souls do bathe in burning blood!
And all horror bursts forth from out the womb of time!
When ten headed devils walk in a burning wood!
And poets’ despair of pointless fruitless rhyme!
When miserable saints off cliffs make their fatal leap,
And sinners’ prosper in their evil ways,
And fools their self-pitying tears do sanctimoniously weep,
And there is no end to all your hollow empty days.
When a new Messiah is seen on your T.V.
Promising all to those who believe in him,
With discount rates for those who cannot pay
And wrist bands to show your superior knowledge to men;
Then at last perhaps in our earthly confusion
We’ll see beyond the surface of illusion!
When naked souls do bathe in burning blood!
And all horror bursts forth from out the womb of time!
When ten headed devils walk in a burning wood!
And poets’ despair of pointless fruitless rhyme!
When miserable saints off cliffs make their fatal leap,
And sinners’ prosper in their evil ways,
And fools their self-pitying tears do sanctimoniously weep,
And there is no end to all your hollow empty days.
When a new Messiah is seen on your T.V.
Promising all to those who believe in him,
With discount rates for those who cannot pay
And wrist bands to show your superior knowledge to men;
Then at last perhaps in our earthly confusion
We’ll see beyond the surface of illusion!
Tuesday 18 September 2007
THE ILLOGICAL JOURNEY
THERE
I went into the dictionary hall
to buy a dictionary.
I put my buttons in the vagina
and a dictionary
fell in the old tin bathtub below.
I picked it up and walked to the line
of fire-breathing dragons.
I put the dictionary in a dragon’s mouth,
slightly burning my hand,
and pulled it out of his arse
as I passed through.
I walked on to where the waterfall began
and jumped down.arrgghhh!
surfacing on a long unmade bed.
I heard the labour party announce
“the suitcase now arriving on platform 1
is for for turpitude.”
I unzipped and entered.
I sat down on an old tree stump
next to a young wardrobe.
I put on my seed pods
and listened to some mathematics.
A Siberian shamen came examining dictionaries.
I showed him mine.
He put it on his minature xylophone.
It made a bad smell.
He nodded and moved on.
The suitcase arrived.
I re-zipped
and took the refrigerator up to the beach.
I walked along with lines of shredded wheat
on either side of me.
The side of beef was open.
I gave some buttons to the Dictaphone
and went in.
BACK
I came out.
The walrus was shining.
I walked the other way.
The shredded wheat gave way
to lines of burnt toast.
I saw a bookcase coming and hopped on.
I showed my dentures to the driver.
I went up the backbone of a fossilised dinosaur.
On the top shelf I found a tub of marge and sat down.
I say watching the burnt toast.
An old twin-tub sat next to me.
We got into a conversation about the weather.
We exchanged mannerisms.
The old twin-tub got off.
I carried on to my perdition.
I went down the backbone and alighted.
It was beginning to moan.
I ran down the keyboard
holding my instincts up.
I came to my cheese sandwhich.
I took out my triangle,
put it in the opened wound,
turned it.
The fear opened.
I went in.
I went into the dictionary hall
to buy a dictionary.
I put my buttons in the vagina
and a dictionary
fell in the old tin bathtub below.
I picked it up and walked to the line
of fire-breathing dragons.
I put the dictionary in a dragon’s mouth,
slightly burning my hand,
and pulled it out of his arse
as I passed through.
I walked on to where the waterfall began
and jumped down.arrgghhh!
surfacing on a long unmade bed.
I heard the labour party announce
“the suitcase now arriving on platform 1
is for for turpitude.”
I unzipped and entered.
I sat down on an old tree stump
next to a young wardrobe.
I put on my seed pods
and listened to some mathematics.
A Siberian shamen came examining dictionaries.
I showed him mine.
He put it on his minature xylophone.
It made a bad smell.
He nodded and moved on.
The suitcase arrived.
I re-zipped
and took the refrigerator up to the beach.
I walked along with lines of shredded wheat
on either side of me.
The side of beef was open.
I gave some buttons to the Dictaphone
and went in.
BACK
I came out.
The walrus was shining.
I walked the other way.
The shredded wheat gave way
to lines of burnt toast.
I saw a bookcase coming and hopped on.
I showed my dentures to the driver.
I went up the backbone of a fossilised dinosaur.
On the top shelf I found a tub of marge and sat down.
I say watching the burnt toast.
An old twin-tub sat next to me.
We got into a conversation about the weather.
We exchanged mannerisms.
The old twin-tub got off.
I carried on to my perdition.
I went down the backbone and alighted.
It was beginning to moan.
I ran down the keyboard
holding my instincts up.
I came to my cheese sandwhich.
I took out my triangle,
put it in the opened wound,
turned it.
The fear opened.
I went in.
Thursday 6 September 2007
clowning workshop
"trying to be joyful means that you know perfectly well that you are sad."(OSHO)
went to a clown workshop. idea to learn clowning, which turns out is all about accessing your inner child. lot of hyped up, bright-eyed young things there. only me feeling kinda down and not chirpy. hadn't wanted go. my partner's idea. long story shortened, i think workshop a waste of time. i can't get into it. o horror! surely to the lord this kind of joyful innocent playing must be good?! let me x-plicate. in order learn clowning you must be childlike. full of innocence and wonder at existence. to me this seems a bit 'ultimate'. yet workshop wants you to just go straight there. stand up and be it! to do that you must feel and be how a child is. so we all try but it's obvious it's not really happening and the reason is no one feels a thing! perfect example of this is exercise with a clown's prop. say a funny object. a lavatory brush. now you have to have a feeling or an emotion towards this object. what happens time and again is the object breaks! they come on and it falls to bits. and not once did anyone react by crying! which is obviously what a child would have done. conclusion. People do not feel. do not have access to their emotions in a creative way. they can't channel their feelings in certain context like clowning. therefore their clowning is just inauthentic. and what i think is before we even consider doing the clowning we should tackle this issue of feeling. accessing our emotions creatively. it's dumb and stupid to go straight to clowning and think we can just force the issue. make it happen. this is dumb and arrogant on our part.SO YOU say say, but this is a job for therapy. and therapy is bad. or we don't need it. but i would say no. we don't need therapy. we need responsibility. we should honestly acknowledge out inability and then take responsibility for it thru self observation so we can see how we can work to improve this issue of being in touch with feelings and emotions in a creativer context.see how effectively we express emotions in different situations. normal situations. be more aware of it! we can pretend to be clowns but that is all it is. pretending. mimicing. acting like. putting on a fake mask. it is not being. we're fooling ourselves if we think it is. it is of course
like the whole world in which we pretend, put on masks,play roles, without ever being authentic or getting to the truth of anything. we never do experience the real joy of being a clown. and that is something worth experiencing. it's not a negligible issue. look at laurel and hardy. the marx brothers. how wonderful it
would be to emulate these marvellous beings! what liberating joy!
went to a clown workshop. idea to learn clowning, which turns out is all about accessing your inner child. lot of hyped up, bright-eyed young things there. only me feeling kinda down and not chirpy. hadn't wanted go. my partner's idea. long story shortened, i think workshop a waste of time. i can't get into it. o horror! surely to the lord this kind of joyful innocent playing must be good?! let me x-plicate. in order learn clowning you must be childlike. full of innocence and wonder at existence. to me this seems a bit 'ultimate'. yet workshop wants you to just go straight there. stand up and be it! to do that you must feel and be how a child is. so we all try but it's obvious it's not really happening and the reason is no one feels a thing! perfect example of this is exercise with a clown's prop. say a funny object. a lavatory brush. now you have to have a feeling or an emotion towards this object. what happens time and again is the object breaks! they come on and it falls to bits. and not once did anyone react by crying! which is obviously what a child would have done. conclusion. People do not feel. do not have access to their emotions in a creative way. they can't channel their feelings in certain context like clowning. therefore their clowning is just inauthentic. and what i think is before we even consider doing the clowning we should tackle this issue of feeling. accessing our emotions creatively. it's dumb and stupid to go straight to clowning and think we can just force the issue. make it happen. this is dumb and arrogant on our part.SO YOU say say, but this is a job for therapy. and therapy is bad. or we don't need it. but i would say no. we don't need therapy. we need responsibility. we should honestly acknowledge out inability and then take responsibility for it thru self observation so we can see how we can work to improve this issue of being in touch with feelings and emotions in a creativer context.see how effectively we express emotions in different situations. normal situations. be more aware of it! we can pretend to be clowns but that is all it is. pretending. mimicing. acting like. putting on a fake mask. it is not being. we're fooling ourselves if we think it is. it is of course
like the whole world in which we pretend, put on masks,play roles, without ever being authentic or getting to the truth of anything. we never do experience the real joy of being a clown. and that is something worth experiencing. it's not a negligible issue. look at laurel and hardy. the marx brothers. how wonderful it
would be to emulate these marvellous beings! what liberating joy!
Wednesday 29 August 2007
Waking Sleep (part one)
I’m trying to explain quantum physics to Homer Simpson when Shirley Maclaine comes in wearing this Aztec headress and invites me on a seal cull. We’re culling away when I look down and see one of the baby seals has the face of Linda McCartney. I am overcome by horror and pity. So is shirley. We both decide to stop culling, but our arms act idenpendently of our minds, and go on culling anyway!
Shirley invites me to her chalet. Despite the fact she is old and haggish I want to have sex with her. I climb on top. It is like scaling a minature everest. I must plant my flag. I look in my rucksack but I’ve forgotten it. All I have is an old analog tape recorder. So I plant that. I can hear shirley breathing heavily. Her great old tits heaving with continetal drift. I think she is reaching her ‘climax’. QUICK! RUN!
Two
I go back to my flat and there are are all these buddhist monks in my living room, drinking lager and watching the miss world contest on TV. Miss Guatemala is acceptping the crown. “I intend to use the prize money to help the indigenous orphans of the sub-continet to put on shakespeare so they might come to grips with the metaphysical nature of reality.” The monks disgust me because all they are interested in is getting her panties off. I go into my room and fume. Fume, fume. Finally I can’t take it anymore. I burst into the living room. “WILL YOU GET THE HELL OUT OF MY FLAT YOU BUDDHIST BASTARDS!!! The monks shut up instantly and hang their heads in shame. Then they all troop out a bit like the Von Trapp family. I am overcome with remorse. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. The price of beef. Mean annual rainfall.” They ignore me. I sit down in the empty room. The announcer on tv says, “And now we present, ‘The lonely Planet.’” I pick up the TV set and smash it, on the floor. Sit down again. Feel bored. “Hello? Curry’s? I’d like to order a new tv.”
Three
The next morning I had a letter. ‘To whom it may concern’. The dog on the boat seen by the chief of ppolice was not an alsatian but a labarador. This was ascertained by the unusual method of reading egg yolks. Yours sincerely, a well wisher. I noticed the letter was written on transparent paper that smelled of … poo. I remembered I was going on holiday so a phoned a taxi. Ten mins later I opened my door. Standing there was a black man with a white stick wearing wrap around sun glasses. I said to him, “Are you the man with the platinum moulding on his inlaid encription of brass forget me nots!!!!!!!!!!????????????? “No”, he said. “I’m the cab driver. Airport?” “Yes”. He began to tap his way down the corridor. “Hang on a minute! (Pause.) How much will it cost? “£5”.“O.k.” He tapped his way to the car. A bright yellow mini. I had a lot of trouble squeeing in with my enormus suitcase. Once inside I began to feel apprehensive. Fear crawled inside we like a box of snakes all writhy and slimy. (Even tho, snakes are not slimy.)
we moved off very fast carreering down the road in the bright sunshine the black man starring athis feet! Nitemare premonitions of mutilation and car crash negativeness hemmed me in form all sides. I was sweating pigishly and I was as tense as a schoolgirl at a paedophiles convention.
Suddenly another yeloow mini bumped into us. The black man slammed to a halt, wound down his window and said, “Can’t you see where you’re going you blind bastard?!” At last we arrived. Call me churlish but I didn’t tip him.
we moved off very fast carreering down the road in the bright sunshine the black man starring athis feet! Nitemare premonitions of mutilation and car crash negativeness hemmed me in form all sides. I was sweating pigishly and I was as tense as a schoolgirl at a paedophiles convention.
Suddenly another yeloow mini bumped into us. The black man slammed to a halt, wound down his window and said, “Can’t you see where you’re going you blind bastard?!” At last we arrived. Call me churlish but I didn’t tip him.
Four
I entered through the automatic double doors into the airport. Inside it was like a big cathedral. Big glass windows let in shafts of coloured light. Directly facing me were rows of check in altars.
Hundreds of people were queing up to check in. An announcement. Will all passengers for flight 616 to malaga now sing hymn number 55, ‘there is a green hill far away, on which we will not crash’. I checked my pocket for my flight details. Flight 616 Crash Airlines. Seat 616 at 6.16. I looked up for the baord. No board. Instead in the middle of the concourse I saw a big neolithic stone plinth. On it were carved various flight details. Flight 616 – Amsterdam. Death airlines. No delays. Flight 616 – Brussels, Skull Airways, no delays. And there was mine! And no delays! I checked my watch. It was 4.16. 2 hours to go. I dragged my heavy suitcase to the check in altar queue. In front of me was a man, a fat couple, 2 giraffes, 2 young female backpackers, and a young guy in a tee shirt with a picture of Mary Whitehouse stenciled on the front. The giraffes were arguing. G1. “Did you take your air sickness pills? G2. “Yes. Of course I did. Don’t nag. G1. “I’m not nagging.” G2. “Yes you are.” G1. “No I’m not. You know what you’re like though.” G2. “And what am I like?” G1. “You know.” G2. “No. I do not know.Tell me.” G1. “Oh. What’s the point? You’ll only get into one of your funny moods.” G2. “I am not in a funny mood!” G1. “I didn’t say you were in one. I said you’d get into one.” G2. “Well. I am not going to get into one.” G1. “Ha. You’re in one already.” This went on until it was my turn to check in. Behind the check in altar was a woman in the Crash Airlines uniform. A kind of white shroud with rips, tears, oil stains and burn holes. She eyed me with bored contempt. “Any luggage?” “Just this heavy suitcase.” I deposited it on the runners. She busily typed into her computer and spoke without looking up. “It’s not heavy enough.” “What?” “Your suitcase. Couldn’t you have brought anything else?” “Well. I don’t know. It does contain my entire wardrobe. A set of encyclopedias. My dumbells. And an automatic washing machine.” She wasn’t impressed. She sighed. I’ll let it through this time but next time try and bring heavier stuff.” “Yes. I will. Heavier stuff.” She attached labels and it was whisked off.She handed me back my passport. “Here you are sir. Enjoy your flight with Crash Airlines.” “I will. Thank you.”
Hundreds of people were queing up to check in. An announcement. Will all passengers for flight 616 to malaga now sing hymn number 55, ‘there is a green hill far away, on which we will not crash’. I checked my pocket for my flight details. Flight 616 Crash Airlines. Seat 616 at 6.16. I looked up for the baord. No board. Instead in the middle of the concourse I saw a big neolithic stone plinth. On it were carved various flight details. Flight 616 – Amsterdam. Death airlines. No delays. Flight 616 – Brussels, Skull Airways, no delays. And there was mine! And no delays! I checked my watch. It was 4.16. 2 hours to go. I dragged my heavy suitcase to the check in altar queue. In front of me was a man, a fat couple, 2 giraffes, 2 young female backpackers, and a young guy in a tee shirt with a picture of Mary Whitehouse stenciled on the front. The giraffes were arguing. G1. “Did you take your air sickness pills? G2. “Yes. Of course I did. Don’t nag. G1. “I’m not nagging.” G2. “Yes you are.” G1. “No I’m not. You know what you’re like though.” G2. “And what am I like?” G1. “You know.” G2. “No. I do not know.Tell me.” G1. “Oh. What’s the point? You’ll only get into one of your funny moods.” G2. “I am not in a funny mood!” G1. “I didn’t say you were in one. I said you’d get into one.” G2. “Well. I am not going to get into one.” G1. “Ha. You’re in one already.” This went on until it was my turn to check in. Behind the check in altar was a woman in the Crash Airlines uniform. A kind of white shroud with rips, tears, oil stains and burn holes. She eyed me with bored contempt. “Any luggage?” “Just this heavy suitcase.” I deposited it on the runners. She busily typed into her computer and spoke without looking up. “It’s not heavy enough.” “What?” “Your suitcase. Couldn’t you have brought anything else?” “Well. I don’t know. It does contain my entire wardrobe. A set of encyclopedias. My dumbells. And an automatic washing machine.” She wasn’t impressed. She sighed. I’ll let it through this time but next time try and bring heavier stuff.” “Yes. I will. Heavier stuff.” She attached labels and it was whisked off.She handed me back my passport. “Here you are sir. Enjoy your flight with Crash Airlines.” “I will. Thank you.”
Five
In the middle of the concourse a short fat man up ended his suitcase, stood on it and addressed the assembled trippers.“Ahem.” Everyone turned to pay close attention to him. Some angelic looking children sat at his feet.“Fellow trippers.The public is like a giant ameoba. High volume but low intelligence. Like baby birds responding to the shape of a mother’s beak. An animal that just sees in broad outlines. Icons. Labels. It’s a moronic monster sucking up it’s low rent offal through a tv tube to be digested and magically transformed into more inertia. More prejudice. More religious fanaticism. More blind pig ignorance. Listen trippers. Do you think Shakespeare’s hamlet made difference? Imagine emptying a teaspoon in the ocean. Imagine adding one grain of sand to the desert. Imagine one more galaxy in the cosmos. And why? Because everything people do is based on fear. FEAR. Our anxiety to identify. To be part of the cow-like crowd. This is our primal fear. The fear of a child confronted with a dark cellar where monsters lurk. Or like Norman Bates, to assuage his fear of being motherless. I.E. and unknown thing. He becomes his own mother, or identifies with her. That is his folly. The folly of indulging in his fear. So we must control our folly. Feel our fear. Or rather realise that we have no identity. And that has a meaning because it means that being nothing, or NO-thing,we have nothing to defend and can therefore relax. Be happy. As the song says. Accept formlessness. Newness. Like a child’s game. Invented to serve the needs of the moment and nothing more.” There was dead silence. A youngish woman wearing a tee shirt that said FCUK, coughed and put her hand over her mouth. The fat man steped down off his suitcase, picked it up, and walked off. The crowd dispersed. I looked to my right. Around the neolithic plinth some hippies were dancing, dressed in flowers and singing songs to Mother Earth. They seemed to be full of love and happiness. The security guards arrived and had a word with them. Quite politely. The hippies pulled faces but moved off anyway. One of the security guards removed some flowers from the plinth. To my left were the duty free shops. I wandered over there.
Six
Inarticulate wounds
Inarticualte wounds
They mumble nothings
In the dawn
As the noon-tide pricks
In the dead of day
They mumble nothings
Always
Always
I noticed this printed on the side of a fashionable woman’s carrier bag as I walked towards the area demarcated for purchasing duty free goods. Entering I saw a tallish, over-made up, woman standing behind a counter on which the word FOREBEARANCE was written.
I went up to her and ---
Six
Whispering bones
Whispering bones
They whisper secrets
In the dawn
As the noon-tide pricks
In the dead of day
They whisper secrets
Always
Always
I saw this written on a poster round a pillar as I walked to the place in the airport especially for purchasing duty free goods. I went in and saw a rather plain woman standing behind a prom-
omotion for SOMNOLENCE, which I presumed was a new fragrance. At that moment I distincly smelt something very similar to burning flesh. I went up to the promotion woman and said, “Can you smell that?” “Yes,” she said. “It’s the new fragrance by Kolin Clone. Somnolence.” “No. Not that. That smell of burning flesh?” She sniffed. “There is no smell of burning flesh,” she said flatly. I looked to my left and saw something that shocked me deeply.It was a little orange ball of fire hovering about 6 inches off the floor.“Look at that!” I said. She looked. A bored expression on her face. “Oh those. We get those all the time in here. A problem with the air conditioning.”
She picked up a bottle shaped like a small bed. “Would you care to try somnolence sir? It combines the scent of reed marshes with the odour of pomegranets and the perfume of stags in season.” I took it, pulled back the lid which was a bed cover and had a good sniff, all the time keeping my eye on the science fiction type ball of fire hovering next to me 6 inches off the ground. To me it smelt of poo. Nasty horibble stinkly bottom poo. I told her. She snatched the bottle off me and placed it carefully back on the promotion. “Somnolence does not smell of poo,” she said looking away. Then she turned her back on me and began fixing something on the stand. The ball of fire moved off to the left so I followed it. It led me round a corner, down some stairs and into an alcove. There was a bucket on the floor which it hovered over. The bucket had a lid. I bent down to open the lid, the ball of fire obligingly flying off to the left. I had another shock. The bucket was full to the brim of severed human ears. I could quite easily see they were real and not something concocted for a joke shop or some other kind of schoolboy jape. I took one out. I noticed that the lobe had been peirced. I had a feeling of complete revulsion and dropped it back in the bucket. I looked around. The ball of fire had vanished. I decided that I had better report this horrific article to the relavent authorities so that steps could be taken. Just exactly what steps, I didn’t know. But steps, nevertheless.
Six
Inarticulate wounds
Inarticualte wounds
They mumble nothings
In the dawn
As the noon-tide pricks
In the dead of day
They mumble nothings
Always
Always
I noticed this printed on the side of a fashionable woman’s carrier bag as I walked towards the area demarcated for purchasing duty free goods. Entering I saw a tallish, over-made up, woman standing behind a counter on which the word FOREBEARANCE was written.
I went up to her and ---
Six
Whispering bones
Whispering bones
They whisper secrets
In the dawn
As the noon-tide pricks
In the dead of day
They whisper secrets
Always
Always
I saw this written on a poster round a pillar as I walked to the place in the airport especially for purchasing duty free goods. I went in and saw a rather plain woman standing behind a prom-
omotion for SOMNOLENCE, which I presumed was a new fragrance. At that moment I distincly smelt something very similar to burning flesh. I went up to the promotion woman and said, “Can you smell that?” “Yes,” she said. “It’s the new fragrance by Kolin Clone. Somnolence.” “No. Not that. That smell of burning flesh?” She sniffed. “There is no smell of burning flesh,” she said flatly. I looked to my left and saw something that shocked me deeply.It was a little orange ball of fire hovering about 6 inches off the floor.“Look at that!” I said. She looked. A bored expression on her face. “Oh those. We get those all the time in here. A problem with the air conditioning.”
She picked up a bottle shaped like a small bed. “Would you care to try somnolence sir? It combines the scent of reed marshes with the odour of pomegranets and the perfume of stags in season.” I took it, pulled back the lid which was a bed cover and had a good sniff, all the time keeping my eye on the science fiction type ball of fire hovering next to me 6 inches off the ground. To me it smelt of poo. Nasty horibble stinkly bottom poo. I told her. She snatched the bottle off me and placed it carefully back on the promotion. “Somnolence does not smell of poo,” she said looking away. Then she turned her back on me and began fixing something on the stand. The ball of fire moved off to the left so I followed it. It led me round a corner, down some stairs and into an alcove. There was a bucket on the floor which it hovered over. The bucket had a lid. I bent down to open the lid, the ball of fire obligingly flying off to the left. I had another shock. The bucket was full to the brim of severed human ears. I could quite easily see they were real and not something concocted for a joke shop or some other kind of schoolboy jape. I took one out. I noticed that the lobe had been peirced. I had a feeling of complete revulsion and dropped it back in the bucket. I looked around. The ball of fire had vanished. I decided that I had better report this horrific article to the relavent authorities so that steps could be taken. Just exactly what steps, I didn’t know. But steps, nevertheless.
Seven
I looked at my watch. 4.55. Less than 2 hours before my flight. But then I had second thoughts. Should I report the ears? Might I not get delayed and miss my flight. I sat down on an airport seat to think. Next to me was lying a newspaper. I read the headline. CORNED BEEF BARON BACKS SPAM. There was also a story about a supermodel and a popstar who were going to have a quiet wedding in the country. How nice, I thought. Now they will be happily married instead of living for kicks in the show-biz fast lane. Then my mind went back to the severed ears. I thought of the owners of those ears. What foul evil machinations had they obviously fallen fowl of? And who would be next? Moi?! I jumped to my feet. “Oh! Conscience will make cowards of us all!!” A badly dressed couple turned to stare at me. I smiled. At the main desk I reported the ears. “What?! A bucket of severed ears! But that is absolutely horrific!” To her colleagues. “Listen everyone. This customer has found a bucket of severed human ears!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” Shock, consternation and horror amongst the colleauges. They all began milling about and bumping into each other. I motioned and they all followed. Once we were at the bucket and I removed the lid to show them the actual ears it was the same but much worse, with hair pulling, hand ringing, tears, and one woman, obviously a senior person wearing a bigger hat, began raging inarticulately, grinding her teeth and denouncing the perpetrators of such vile ungodly acts as being vile and ungodly. Then she fainted and someone rushed off for the smelling salts which were in the medical cabinet in the main office apparently. Then some nearby customers came over and it was the same routine with them, and a doctor appeared and pronounced the ears to be definitely of human origin, and that sent more shock waves through the now growing crowd and at that moment, I really do think, if someone had produced a guilty party, they would have strung him up on the spot. Such was the fervour of their moral outrage. However, one enterprising customer,named Mr Omer, ransacked his lugage and put together a very presentable effigy, which, on a pile of suitcases, commandeered from the lost luggage office, they proceeded to burn whilst dancing around it and hooting like savages. I choose this moment to creep off. It was 5.15 and I wanted to get a meal before my flight.
Eight
The restaurant area was to the left. It was the Guilt Free Guzzelor chain. There were two restaurants to choose from done out with contrasting décor. The first one was Sultan’s Palace. Lush draperies, huge chandeliers, sweeping staircases and sprouting palms with the staff in flowing arab robes. The other was Concentration Camp Chic. Low ceilinged huts with cramped little booths, in uniform grey, surrounded by barbed wire and sentry towers all in minature. The staff in striped pyjamas and shaven heads. I chose the C.C.C. as it seemed to be the fullest. I sat at a table and the waitress handed me a menu.
MENU
Old testament stew
Hindu dumplings
Koran Quiche with chips
Fillet of Catholic sole
Protestant Hake
Zen burgers with chips
Dessert
Sufi crumble with real dairy cream
There seemed to a sort of religious element to the dishes. I asked the waitress. “No”, she said. “That’s not a religous element. That really is Old Testament Stew. It’s made from a 100% prophets” she said, her eyes gleaming. “Right. I’ll have the Zen burgers. With salad and chips.” I felt a bit miffed. No religious element. I’d been looking forward to that. On the next table were the Giraffes, tucking into some Hindu Quiche. “But you always complain about the hotel room.” “I do not always complain about the hotel room, and besides, the hotel rooms are always bad.” “No they’re not. And besides, what do you expect on our budget?” “Very little my dear. Very little.” “Oh. Now we’re onto your ‘my dear’ reaction.” “My dear!” He stopped short and screwed up his long thin mouth. “I am not onto my ‘my dear’ reaction.” She caught my eye and smiled. I smiled back. “And where are you flying to?” Smiling she said, “I do not see that is any business of yours.” “No. and we’d thank you to keep your nose out of our affairs!” Phut! Really. The manners of some people. I’d a good mind to tell them about the severed ears. I sat there stewing as the waitress bought me a plate of Old Testament Stew. “But…but…but…” I looked at my watch. 5.31! “Oh. Never mind.” I tried to gulp in down quickly but the meat was as tough as old boots. As I sat eating there was an announcement. Will all staff report to the kitchen for todays selection. A sweet young japanese waitress standing near my table dropped some Old Testament stew which crashed noisly to the floor. Then there was dead silence. With a bowed head and a defeated attitude she began to clear it up while the supervisor stood over her glaring. I finished my stew, said goodbye to the giraffes and made my way to security to board my plane.
I looked at my watch. 4.55. Less than 2 hours before my flight. But then I had second thoughts. Should I report the ears? Might I not get delayed and miss my flight. I sat down on an airport seat to think. Next to me was lying a newspaper. I read the headline. CORNED BEEF BARON BACKS SPAM. There was also a story about a supermodel and a popstar who were going to have a quiet wedding in the country. How nice, I thought. Now they will be happily married instead of living for kicks in the show-biz fast lane. Then my mind went back to the severed ears. I thought of the owners of those ears. What foul evil machinations had they obviously fallen fowl of? And who would be next? Moi?! I jumped to my feet. “Oh! Conscience will make cowards of us all!!” A badly dressed couple turned to stare at me. I smiled. At the main desk I reported the ears. “What?! A bucket of severed ears! But that is absolutely horrific!” To her colleagues. “Listen everyone. This customer has found a bucket of severed human ears!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” Shock, consternation and horror amongst the colleauges. They all began milling about and bumping into each other. I motioned and they all followed. Once we were at the bucket and I removed the lid to show them the actual ears it was the same but much worse, with hair pulling, hand ringing, tears, and one woman, obviously a senior person wearing a bigger hat, began raging inarticulately, grinding her teeth and denouncing the perpetrators of such vile ungodly acts as being vile and ungodly. Then she fainted and someone rushed off for the smelling salts which were in the medical cabinet in the main office apparently. Then some nearby customers came over and it was the same routine with them, and a doctor appeared and pronounced the ears to be definitely of human origin, and that sent more shock waves through the now growing crowd and at that moment, I really do think, if someone had produced a guilty party, they would have strung him up on the spot. Such was the fervour of their moral outrage. However, one enterprising customer,named Mr Omer, ransacked his lugage and put together a very presentable effigy, which, on a pile of suitcases, commandeered from the lost luggage office, they proceeded to burn whilst dancing around it and hooting like savages. I choose this moment to creep off. It was 5.15 and I wanted to get a meal before my flight.
Eight
The restaurant area was to the left. It was the Guilt Free Guzzelor chain. There were two restaurants to choose from done out with contrasting décor. The first one was Sultan’s Palace. Lush draperies, huge chandeliers, sweeping staircases and sprouting palms with the staff in flowing arab robes. The other was Concentration Camp Chic. Low ceilinged huts with cramped little booths, in uniform grey, surrounded by barbed wire and sentry towers all in minature. The staff in striped pyjamas and shaven heads. I chose the C.C.C. as it seemed to be the fullest. I sat at a table and the waitress handed me a menu.
MENU
Old testament stew
Hindu dumplings
Koran Quiche with chips
Fillet of Catholic sole
Protestant Hake
Zen burgers with chips
Dessert
Sufi crumble with real dairy cream
There seemed to a sort of religious element to the dishes. I asked the waitress. “No”, she said. “That’s not a religous element. That really is Old Testament Stew. It’s made from a 100% prophets” she said, her eyes gleaming. “Right. I’ll have the Zen burgers. With salad and chips.” I felt a bit miffed. No religious element. I’d been looking forward to that. On the next table were the Giraffes, tucking into some Hindu Quiche. “But you always complain about the hotel room.” “I do not always complain about the hotel room, and besides, the hotel rooms are always bad.” “No they’re not. And besides, what do you expect on our budget?” “Very little my dear. Very little.” “Oh. Now we’re onto your ‘my dear’ reaction.” “My dear!” He stopped short and screwed up his long thin mouth. “I am not onto my ‘my dear’ reaction.” She caught my eye and smiled. I smiled back. “And where are you flying to?” Smiling she said, “I do not see that is any business of yours.” “No. and we’d thank you to keep your nose out of our affairs!” Phut! Really. The manners of some people. I’d a good mind to tell them about the severed ears. I sat there stewing as the waitress bought me a plate of Old Testament Stew. “But…but…but…” I looked at my watch. 5.31! “Oh. Never mind.” I tried to gulp in down quickly but the meat was as tough as old boots. As I sat eating there was an announcement. Will all staff report to the kitchen for todays selection. A sweet young japanese waitress standing near my table dropped some Old Testament stew which crashed noisly to the floor. Then there was dead silence. With a bowed head and a defeated attitude she began to clear it up while the supervisor stood over her glaring. I finished my stew, said goodbye to the giraffes and made my way to security to board my plane.
Nine
As I passed the bookstand I noticed the new novel by Winton Zamizz on display. ‘House of Bondage’. I picked it up and read the opening sentence.
‘Entering into the effulgent light of that sequestered park where the fractious magpies chattered derisively, Sorbett knew a moment’s transitory repose in the burgeon and bluster of his all too eviscerated existence.’ --- Yes. excellent prose as always! An author I fervently admired. Known as he was for his humility and forthright criticisms of our barren, irresponsible and laddish culture. His was a lone voice of integrity in our over commercialised world. My most ardent wish would be to actually meet the great man. Ah, dreams, dreams! I put down the book and hurried to security. I stood patiently waitng my turn. As I went through the alarm went off sounding like some high pitched bird- call of some amazonian species I was unfamiliar with. The security woman was chatting with a friend as she ran her hands over my body. She seemed to spend a long time searching my groin area. I could feel myself becoming sexually excited. Oh no! Embarrassment surged through me like chardonay through a literary convention. Excruc-
iating! And now she got the big paddle and was running that up my inside leg. And all the time chatting about her sister-in-laws masectomy, quite oblivious to the effect she was having on me. Visions of my penis ripping through my zip and spurting orgasmically all over the front of her brand new sterilised uniform plauged my mind and cast me into a house of bondage much worse than any Zamuzz could have imagined. But then she stopped and passed me thru. I went straight to the toilet to adjust my clothing. Coming out into the departure lounge proper I saw that it was a huge dimly lit cave. I could hear the distinct sound of dripping water as I stood with the rest of the passengers. No seating was provided. Then I noticed primitive cave paintings on the greenish and slimy walls. Pictures of antelopes and wildebeests being hunted by primitve stick men. Not exactly Van Gough but still good. A primitive man standing next to me said; “I know an awful lot about art, but I never know what I like. Take these for example. I can’t decide wether to applaud them for there innocennce and child-like wonder or deride them for there lack of technique and obvious over simplification of a vastly more complicated theme.” “Please,” I said. “Don’t burden me with the rubbish going on in that thick head of yours! I don’t have time for that twaddle!” I hadn’t planned to say this. It just seemed to jump out of my mouth. The man screwed up his lips, put his hands in his pockets and stalked off. Presently my flight was announced and I proceeded down a cave tunnel with quite a high roof and a sloping floor, to my plane.
As I passed the bookstand I noticed the new novel by Winton Zamizz on display. ‘House of Bondage’. I picked it up and read the opening sentence.
‘Entering into the effulgent light of that sequestered park where the fractious magpies chattered derisively, Sorbett knew a moment’s transitory repose in the burgeon and bluster of his all too eviscerated existence.’ --- Yes. excellent prose as always! An author I fervently admired. Known as he was for his humility and forthright criticisms of our barren, irresponsible and laddish culture. His was a lone voice of integrity in our over commercialised world. My most ardent wish would be to actually meet the great man. Ah, dreams, dreams! I put down the book and hurried to security. I stood patiently waitng my turn. As I went through the alarm went off sounding like some high pitched bird- call of some amazonian species I was unfamiliar with. The security woman was chatting with a friend as she ran her hands over my body. She seemed to spend a long time searching my groin area. I could feel myself becoming sexually excited. Oh no! Embarrassment surged through me like chardonay through a literary convention. Excruc-
iating! And now she got the big paddle and was running that up my inside leg. And all the time chatting about her sister-in-laws masectomy, quite oblivious to the effect she was having on me. Visions of my penis ripping through my zip and spurting orgasmically all over the front of her brand new sterilised uniform plauged my mind and cast me into a house of bondage much worse than any Zamuzz could have imagined. But then she stopped and passed me thru. I went straight to the toilet to adjust my clothing. Coming out into the departure lounge proper I saw that it was a huge dimly lit cave. I could hear the distinct sound of dripping water as I stood with the rest of the passengers. No seating was provided. Then I noticed primitive cave paintings on the greenish and slimy walls. Pictures of antelopes and wildebeests being hunted by primitve stick men. Not exactly Van Gough but still good. A primitive man standing next to me said; “I know an awful lot about art, but I never know what I like. Take these for example. I can’t decide wether to applaud them for there innocennce and child-like wonder or deride them for there lack of technique and obvious over simplification of a vastly more complicated theme.” “Please,” I said. “Don’t burden me with the rubbish going on in that thick head of yours! I don’t have time for that twaddle!” I hadn’t planned to say this. It just seemed to jump out of my mouth. The man screwed up his lips, put his hands in his pockets and stalked off. Presently my flight was announced and I proceeded down a cave tunnel with quite a high roof and a sloping floor, to my plane.
Friday 24 August 2007
on the edge
at the edge of a precipice
night ascends
a cardboard staircase.
no remorse.
no truth in madness.
descending bass-lines re-iterate a piece of item that emerged from a volcano
in Peru & was used by a man in the Government to bludgeon to
death a child on some waste ground in the midle of June.
no remose.
old vulture hopping down the corridors of a novel by Conrad
(called 'night-madness-ascending')
the story of a public agent who went secret
in order to uncover a plot to assasinate
Gerald.)
No truth in assasinations.
Only the night uncoiling like an old spring on a scrapheap
at the edge of a desert
where day descends
in a polystyrene elavator.
the government man has a lizard at each ear.
they talk to him in lizzard Greek with compressed lips.
"What? The C.I.A.? With an old mangle?
Posting bonds? For Gunga Din?
When? Last week? & how many lemurs were there? 48?
& APHRODITE HAD THE HAMBURGER CONCESSION????!!!!
Raw meat.
Raw meat.
See the blind choirs of Alabamha
unravel the seams of the night
with harmonies sublime,
bump into the furniture,
pizz, outside the bowl.
(My name is Desmond Ratcliffe the third,
and this is my spanking blog!)
Now Gerald sues the Attorney General.
Someone at the home office was lonely
and now there is no syntax
in the Government sentence!
night upending her weasels
in the purple dark.
Madame blavatsky
signalling the end of creation
with her enormus drawers!
& me
sad me
on the edge of a chasm
having eaten my fill
as upward i go
on my crazy foam escalator!
night ascends
a cardboard staircase.
no remorse.
no truth in madness.
descending bass-lines re-iterate a piece of item that emerged from a volcano
in Peru & was used by a man in the Government to bludgeon to
death a child on some waste ground in the midle of June.
no remose.
old vulture hopping down the corridors of a novel by Conrad
(called 'night-madness-ascending')
the story of a public agent who went secret
in order to uncover a plot to assasinate
Gerald.)
No truth in assasinations.
Only the night uncoiling like an old spring on a scrapheap
at the edge of a desert
where day descends
in a polystyrene elavator.
the government man has a lizard at each ear.
they talk to him in lizzard Greek with compressed lips.
"What? The C.I.A.? With an old mangle?
Posting bonds? For Gunga Din?
When? Last week? & how many lemurs were there? 48?
& APHRODITE HAD THE HAMBURGER CONCESSION????!!!!
Raw meat.
Raw meat.
See the blind choirs of Alabamha
unravel the seams of the night
with harmonies sublime,
bump into the furniture,
pizz, outside the bowl.
(My name is Desmond Ratcliffe the third,
and this is my spanking blog!)
Now Gerald sues the Attorney General.
Someone at the home office was lonely
and now there is no syntax
in the Government sentence!
night upending her weasels
in the purple dark.
Madame blavatsky
signalling the end of creation
with her enormus drawers!
& me
sad me
on the edge of a chasm
having eaten my fill
as upward i go
on my crazy foam escalator!
aug11 2007
Saturday 28 July 2007
darkness of daylight
In the darkness of the daylight
In the midnight sunshine bright
When the wolves are howlin’ hollowly
In the grey/green automatic moonlight.
As the milk is turnin’ blue.
As the hellhound’s followin’ you.
As you fall down on hard stones,
With ne’er a soul to hear your moan.
In that cold intellectual darkness
That is just before the dawn;
That heartless soul-less arid wasteland
That of which ‘the poets’ tell.
&! when your damned blood burns in it’s chains!
Raging for release & peace & some kind of, recompense!
For all the weakness of our worries!
For all the confusion of our minds!
When distempered dogs are barking!
When dyspeptic cats make yowl!!!!!!!!
That my friend that……………THAT.
That is the darkness of the daylight.
That is the midnight daybreak noon.
That is the devil that reason cannot fight.
That is the darkness of the daylight.
In the midnight sunshine bright
When the wolves are howlin’ hollowly
In the grey/green automatic moonlight.
As the milk is turnin’ blue.
As the hellhound’s followin’ you.
As you fall down on hard stones,
With ne’er a soul to hear your moan.
In that cold intellectual darkness
That is just before the dawn;
That heartless soul-less arid wasteland
That of which ‘the poets’ tell.
&! when your damned blood burns in it’s chains!
Raging for release & peace & some kind of, recompense!
For all the weakness of our worries!
For all the confusion of our minds!
When distempered dogs are barking!
When dyspeptic cats make yowl!!!!!!!!
That my friend that……………THAT.
That is the darkness of the daylight.
That is the midnight daybreak noon.
That is the devil that reason cannot fight.
That is the darkness of the daylight.
garden of fire
In a garden of fire
The flowers burn
With formless desire.
Where immaculate borders
Of liquescent lava
Are wreathed in a gaseous blue fog
In which lightning sparks,
As you walk, on paths,
Of cinder stars!
Anger blossoming
Under your toes;
And who knows
What will grow
In a garden of fire?
What germinates deep
In it’s molten depths?
Maybe it grows
Tongues of flame
To speak in riddles
That enter our minds
Like smoke or fire
Consuming the dry tinder
Of our thoughts
Leaving us burnt black
And charred
With a zen-like echo
In the void;
That once more becomes
A garden whole
To sprout forth fire
Or holy words.
The flowers burn
With formless desire.
Where immaculate borders
Of liquescent lava
Are wreathed in a gaseous blue fog
In which lightning sparks,
As you walk, on paths,
Of cinder stars!
Anger blossoming
Under your toes;
And who knows
What will grow
In a garden of fire?
What germinates deep
In it’s molten depths?
Maybe it grows
Tongues of flame
To speak in riddles
That enter our minds
Like smoke or fire
Consuming the dry tinder
Of our thoughts
Leaving us burnt black
And charred
With a zen-like echo
In the void;
That once more becomes
A garden whole
To sprout forth fire
Or holy words.
Wednesday 25 July 2007
qUANTUM OWL
QUANTUM OWL
Skinner’s rats
run rhapsodically
round a maze
amazingly like
a nightmare
in a quantum owl’s brain!
Full of bad wallpaper
disconcerting smells
things glimpsed
from the corner of your eye
slit by a Bunelian razor
in the hairless moonshine
shining phantasmorgorically
on the quantum owl
with quasonic isotopes illuminating
his owlish mind
as he props up the bar
at the Dog and Duck
talkin’ turkey
to a dyspeptic kangaroo
& behaviourism too!
as the bell rings last orders
the maze turns inside out
flowers blooming
in the magnitude
of it’s bleeding & infinite depths
the rats escaping into the sun
only to run round and round
in the same way
they have always done!
no surprise to the quantum owl
who smiles
& puts down his trowel
& drags his incomprehensible self
to the bus station
where he waits
for a 15b
to take him home
to sleep
perchance to dream
of skinner’s rats
running rhapsodically
in …… zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Skinner’s rats
run rhapsodically
round a maze
amazingly like
a nightmare
in a quantum owl’s brain!
Full of bad wallpaper
disconcerting smells
things glimpsed
from the corner of your eye
slit by a Bunelian razor
in the hairless moonshine
shining phantasmorgorically
on the quantum owl
with quasonic isotopes illuminating
his owlish mind
as he props up the bar
at the Dog and Duck
talkin’ turkey
to a dyspeptic kangaroo
& behaviourism too!
as the bell rings last orders
the maze turns inside out
flowers blooming
in the magnitude
of it’s bleeding & infinite depths
the rats escaping into the sun
only to run round and round
in the same way
they have always done!
no surprise to the quantum owl
who smiles
& puts down his trowel
& drags his incomprehensible self
to the bus station
where he waits
for a 15b
to take him home
to sleep
perchance to dream
of skinner’s rats
running rhapsodically
in …… zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
MEETING BOB
Meeting Bob
Anjee works on sex line. Lonely. Lives with Monica. Actress. They go clubs but guys always creeps. Bob keeps calling her on sex line. He wants to meet her. They get on well, he makes her laugh but strict rule. Never date client or ‘jerks’ as they call them. Scare story about girl who was raped, chopped up and posted to different embassies. Anjee gets friendly with Sandra. Older woman who works on sex-line. She has abusive relationship but afraid of losing job or being alone. Monica’s (Anjee’s flatmate) boyfriend dumps her. Suicide attempt. Dr. at hospital fancies Anjee. She heroically decides to be honest about her job. He is shocked and disgusted. Anjee goes home through graveyard. Is thinking of Monica and Sandra. Their wasted lives. Hears voices of dead people telling stories of un-fulfilment. Puts hands on ears and runs. Decides it mustn’t happen her. IT MUST NOT HAPPEN HER! Must do something. What? Inspired by something she decides to break the rules. 1. Lights fag in Macdonalds. Argument with manager. 2. Talks loudly in library. Ejected. 3. Tells Sandra (fellow worker) she will meet Bob. (Mrs Xavier, manager of sex line office is horrible to her.) She imagines Bob as tall and handsome. Sandra is opposed to it. Anjee has talk her into helping her. They think of plan to foil management. All calls monitored. A diversion. Sandra will have epileptic fit. (Turns out to be real fit.) Anjee saw one at hospital. Then Bob doesn’t call. Time passing. No call. Anjee depressed. Stands on Blackfriars Bridge looking at black waters. Friendly policeman moves her on. Then Bob calls! He was on holiday in Athens. Tells someone get Sandra. Keeps bob talking. Sandra comes. But she can’t do it. Too embarrassed. Then Sandra has real fit. Spontaneously! Anjee forced arrange date with Bob on day of date. Anjee sick with anticipation thinking of scare stories. Almost backs out. They meet. Shock. Bob is fat and bald! But he, HE, doesn’t fancy HER! Anjee bemused. Date goes well. Agree to meet again as friends. Bob kind and cultured type. Introduces her to his friends. Takes her art galleries et cetera. Big secret of what she does for a living. Mortally afraid he will let on. Visits Sandra in hospital. Discuss how she had real fit. Back at work she gets annoyed with jerk. Called see Mrs Xavier. She belittles her. Threatens her. Anjee says nothing. Home. Monica has new boyfriend. Usual routine. Tells Bob about Mrs X. He advises her not to put up with it. That night. Dream about screaming abuse at her father. Anjee wakes up feeling different. Next day on way work buys tin of orange paint. Then says outrageous things to her first client. Called office. Mrs X about to go into her evil routine. Takes out tin of paint and pours it over her head. Girls react by cheering. She is office hero! In coffee bar she circles job adverts. Bob rings on mob. How did it go? Fine. Just fine. End.
Anjee works on sex line. Lonely. Lives with Monica. Actress. They go clubs but guys always creeps. Bob keeps calling her on sex line. He wants to meet her. They get on well, he makes her laugh but strict rule. Never date client or ‘jerks’ as they call them. Scare story about girl who was raped, chopped up and posted to different embassies. Anjee gets friendly with Sandra. Older woman who works on sex-line. She has abusive relationship but afraid of losing job or being alone. Monica’s (Anjee’s flatmate) boyfriend dumps her. Suicide attempt. Dr. at hospital fancies Anjee. She heroically decides to be honest about her job. He is shocked and disgusted. Anjee goes home through graveyard. Is thinking of Monica and Sandra. Their wasted lives. Hears voices of dead people telling stories of un-fulfilment. Puts hands on ears and runs. Decides it mustn’t happen her. IT MUST NOT HAPPEN HER! Must do something. What? Inspired by something she decides to break the rules. 1. Lights fag in Macdonalds. Argument with manager. 2. Talks loudly in library. Ejected. 3. Tells Sandra (fellow worker) she will meet Bob. (Mrs Xavier, manager of sex line office is horrible to her.) She imagines Bob as tall and handsome. Sandra is opposed to it. Anjee has talk her into helping her. They think of plan to foil management. All calls monitored. A diversion. Sandra will have epileptic fit. (Turns out to be real fit.) Anjee saw one at hospital. Then Bob doesn’t call. Time passing. No call. Anjee depressed. Stands on Blackfriars Bridge looking at black waters. Friendly policeman moves her on. Then Bob calls! He was on holiday in Athens. Tells someone get Sandra. Keeps bob talking. Sandra comes. But she can’t do it. Too embarrassed. Then Sandra has real fit. Spontaneously! Anjee forced arrange date with Bob on day of date. Anjee sick with anticipation thinking of scare stories. Almost backs out. They meet. Shock. Bob is fat and bald! But he, HE, doesn’t fancy HER! Anjee bemused. Date goes well. Agree to meet again as friends. Bob kind and cultured type. Introduces her to his friends. Takes her art galleries et cetera. Big secret of what she does for a living. Mortally afraid he will let on. Visits Sandra in hospital. Discuss how she had real fit. Back at work she gets annoyed with jerk. Called see Mrs Xavier. She belittles her. Threatens her. Anjee says nothing. Home. Monica has new boyfriend. Usual routine. Tells Bob about Mrs X. He advises her not to put up with it. That night. Dream about screaming abuse at her father. Anjee wakes up feeling different. Next day on way work buys tin of orange paint. Then says outrageous things to her first client. Called office. Mrs X about to go into her evil routine. Takes out tin of paint and pours it over her head. Girls react by cheering. She is office hero! In coffee bar she circles job adverts. Bob rings on mob. How did it go? Fine. Just fine. End.
Monday 23 July 2007
OLD CROW
OLD CROW
Old crow
U been around too long
U old crow
Cokkin’ ur disdainful eye
At the passin’ scene
Cus u were ther
When Adam met a talking snake
When Babel babbled in Men’s ears
When the great water rose
& covered all
U were ther
& u didn’t turn a feather
Did u old crow?
Because ur just an old crow
Aren’t u?
U old crow
& I can hear u cawing now
Up in ur tree top
& plague – war – reality t.v.
Is all the same to u
Ain’t it old crow
If it good
If it evil
If it some zen craziness…
U just carry on
Bein’ an old crow
Knowin’
What an old crow knows
& that’s u
U OLD CROW.
Old crow
U been around too long
U old crow
Cokkin’ ur disdainful eye
At the passin’ scene
Cus u were ther
When Adam met a talking snake
When Babel babbled in Men’s ears
When the great water rose
& covered all
U were ther
& u didn’t turn a feather
Did u old crow?
Because ur just an old crow
Aren’t u?
U old crow
& I can hear u cawing now
Up in ur tree top
& plague – war – reality t.v.
Is all the same to u
Ain’t it old crow
If it good
If it evil
If it some zen craziness…
U just carry on
Bein’ an old crow
Knowin’
What an old crow knows
& that’s u
U OLD CROW.
return of the man in the leopard skin boots
An enormous mountain in a desert of broken bottles and old tin cans. On the top of the mountain a lone Burger King, its chimney belching smoke like one of the towers at Dachau. The manager is giving orders to his staff. A lot of small innocent faced children who work feverishly to supply the demand for burgers to vast numbers of faceless people who constantly mill in and out, toiling up the mountain from the desert where they live in pre-fabricated houses, all squashed together in one corner of the desert with a big sign in front saying ‘WELCOME TO NOWHERESVILLE.’ The residents of N.V. have a simple routine. Their days are spent watching long, convoluted soap operas on T.V. which have special breaks in them so the residents can go for burgers. These breaks are called burger breaks. The only other thing they do is have sex to have children in order to supply the fast food outlet on the mountain with more staff, owing to the fact that the workforce there, quickly become exhausted and die, largely owning, to the inhuman conditions under which they are forced to work. If anyone raised the question of the horrible inhumanity of this process, the residents of N.V. would shake their heads and say, “Well. You’ve got to have burgers.”
Then one day a man came, out of the west. He was a strange looking man with bright orange hair, a camel haired coat and leopard-skin boots. He went round N.V., knocking on doors and always asking the same simple question. Would they mind if he, free of charge, built a temple, there in N.V. on an available space, that they of course would select, if, of course, there was one. The man went round asking the same simple question and he always got the same simple response. “Yes! We do mind! We don’t need a temple. We’ve got a burger king. Up on the mountain, which is twice as good as any temple so just **** off!” Or words of similar import. Every time he got this response the man would hang his head, and then go quietly to the next pre-fabricated house and knock there. ”Yes! We do mind …” et cetera. When the man had conscientiously knocked on every door he toiled up the mountain to see this thing they called Burger King which they said, was better than a temple. The manager, having heard of his arrival, showed him round with a smirk on his face. When the man saw the innocent faced children, struggling to supply the continuous demand for burgers, maxi, cheese, and veggie, there was a tear in his eye. But he didn’t say anything. When he’d seen what there was to see he went back down the mountain, through the town and disappeared, into the west, from whence he came. The residents watched him go. Disdainful expressions on their faces. Then went back to watching their soaps, until the next burger break.
“The burgers are off!” the cry went up through the town. Yes. The unthinkable had happened. Some off burgers had got through the rigorous and anti-septic inspection systems, up at B.K. and a few people had actually, actually! eaten some of them! It was inexplicable. It was unthinkable. It was unhygienic! However. The situation was under control. The manager assured everyone, severe steps had been taken. A thorough programme of rigorous inspections had been instituted. Then. A pre-fabricated house fell down! Killing someone right in the middle of a soap. This too was unprecedented. Never before had a pre-fabricated house fallen down either during a soap, or not during a soap! Then. Strange clouds were seen in the sky in the shape of burgers. A two headed duck, landed on the burger king roof, and then it flew off again. Then. Then for 3 whole days a resident went off the taste of burgers. Off the taste completely! Then. And then at last a big tornado came out of the desert and circled N.V. for seven days and seven nights. Then phut! It was gone. It was all very odd. If the residents N.V. had had any knowledge at all whatsoever, they might have seen these strange and ominous events as ‘omens’ of some dire and terrible thing to come. But they hadn’t. So they didn’t.
Then, exactly a week later, they saw very far off, a big cloud of dust, moving towards N.V. over the desert. What could it be? The next day it was bigger. And the next. And the next. Until, the cloud was practically upon them. But then it stopped moving. Settled down. And standing there in the desert was a huge phalanx of Sherman tanks. The man with the orange hair sat on one in the middle with his arm raised. He lowered his arm, there was slight pause, and then an enormous explosion. Before they new what was happening N.V. was being blown off the face of the earth! Then the tanks moved forward, through the rubble, up the mountain, and after the children had been safely removed, the same thing there. Bang went burger king! Then the orange haired man rounded up all the surviving residents and made them clear a big space in the very centre of N.V., where he proceeded to build the most marvellous, post-modern Temple. It had a big sign in front in gothic letters saying, ‘The Temple of Man.’ Then he took all the children off with him, into the west, and the remaining residents were left there, in the desert, with a spanking new Temple, wondering what to do. And no burgers! And no children to make them! What a catastrophe! Most of them sat on the ground in a trance of despair, and before them the wonderful Temple, bright new and shiny. Glinting in the sun.
Then one day a man came, out of the west. He was a strange looking man with bright orange hair, a camel haired coat and leopard-skin boots. He went round N.V., knocking on doors and always asking the same simple question. Would they mind if he, free of charge, built a temple, there in N.V. on an available space, that they of course would select, if, of course, there was one. The man went round asking the same simple question and he always got the same simple response. “Yes! We do mind! We don’t need a temple. We’ve got a burger king. Up on the mountain, which is twice as good as any temple so just **** off!” Or words of similar import. Every time he got this response the man would hang his head, and then go quietly to the next pre-fabricated house and knock there. ”Yes! We do mind …” et cetera. When the man had conscientiously knocked on every door he toiled up the mountain to see this thing they called Burger King which they said, was better than a temple. The manager, having heard of his arrival, showed him round with a smirk on his face. When the man saw the innocent faced children, struggling to supply the continuous demand for burgers, maxi, cheese, and veggie, there was a tear in his eye. But he didn’t say anything. When he’d seen what there was to see he went back down the mountain, through the town and disappeared, into the west, from whence he came. The residents watched him go. Disdainful expressions on their faces. Then went back to watching their soaps, until the next burger break.
“The burgers are off!” the cry went up through the town. Yes. The unthinkable had happened. Some off burgers had got through the rigorous and anti-septic inspection systems, up at B.K. and a few people had actually, actually! eaten some of them! It was inexplicable. It was unthinkable. It was unhygienic! However. The situation was under control. The manager assured everyone, severe steps had been taken. A thorough programme of rigorous inspections had been instituted. Then. A pre-fabricated house fell down! Killing someone right in the middle of a soap. This too was unprecedented. Never before had a pre-fabricated house fallen down either during a soap, or not during a soap! Then. Strange clouds were seen in the sky in the shape of burgers. A two headed duck, landed on the burger king roof, and then it flew off again. Then. Then for 3 whole days a resident went off the taste of burgers. Off the taste completely! Then. And then at last a big tornado came out of the desert and circled N.V. for seven days and seven nights. Then phut! It was gone. It was all very odd. If the residents N.V. had had any knowledge at all whatsoever, they might have seen these strange and ominous events as ‘omens’ of some dire and terrible thing to come. But they hadn’t. So they didn’t.
Then, exactly a week later, they saw very far off, a big cloud of dust, moving towards N.V. over the desert. What could it be? The next day it was bigger. And the next. And the next. Until, the cloud was practically upon them. But then it stopped moving. Settled down. And standing there in the desert was a huge phalanx of Sherman tanks. The man with the orange hair sat on one in the middle with his arm raised. He lowered his arm, there was slight pause, and then an enormous explosion. Before they new what was happening N.V. was being blown off the face of the earth! Then the tanks moved forward, through the rubble, up the mountain, and after the children had been safely removed, the same thing there. Bang went burger king! Then the orange haired man rounded up all the surviving residents and made them clear a big space in the very centre of N.V., where he proceeded to build the most marvellous, post-modern Temple. It had a big sign in front in gothic letters saying, ‘The Temple of Man.’ Then he took all the children off with him, into the west, and the remaining residents were left there, in the desert, with a spanking new Temple, wondering what to do. And no burgers! And no children to make them! What a catastrophe! Most of them sat on the ground in a trance of despair, and before them the wonderful Temple, bright new and shiny. Glinting in the sun.
seed sonnet
Seed Sonnet
If we could be conscious of just one small seed
We’d know the all of heaven contained there,
We’d know that we must all forthwith take heed
For that which germinates is beyond compare.
It is that most transcendent spark of all,
Which produces all within the mothering womb;
It is that which nothing ever can forestall
As it marches on it's way from birth to tomb.
But even more than this it confounds our mind
That only dimly grasps, perhaps even less,
No matter how much sharp intellect seeks to find
Our mind at last must simply acquiesce.
So we of the seed should always stand in awe
To humbly acknowledge her mysterious and en-
compassing law.
ian joynson 2004
If we could be conscious of just one small seed
We’d know the all of heaven contained there,
We’d know that we must all forthwith take heed
For that which germinates is beyond compare.
It is that most transcendent spark of all,
Which produces all within the mothering womb;
It is that which nothing ever can forestall
As it marches on it's way from birth to tomb.
But even more than this it confounds our mind
That only dimly grasps, perhaps even less,
No matter how much sharp intellect seeks to find
Our mind at last must simply acquiesce.
So we of the seed should always stand in awe
To humbly acknowledge her mysterious and en-
compassing law.
ian joynson 2004
Wednesday 4 July 2007
Sons And Buns
A man had 7 sons who were all obsessed with buns. Buns! Buns! Buns! They would scream, morning noon and night. The man was quite at a loss with having to provide mountains of buns for his 7 sons. Then there came a National bun shortage. Buns could not be had for love or money. Politicians appeared on T.V., wringing their hands and weeping copiously as they earnestly promised to short out the bun situation. This did not help the man, for his sons said; old man, if you cannot provide buns for your sons you are a bad father and do not deserve to live! And they dragged him to the gallows tree at the crossroads just outside of their town, which was called ‘Bun Town’, and was named after the big Bun factory in the middle of it, where the man just happened to work, driving a fork-lift truck, and began to string him up. As they were stringing him up they sang a happy song which went like this.
Buns, buns, buns.
They should always come
in tons
& be very sweet
& nice to eat
& knocky you off your feet
O wonderful buns!
O stupendous buns!
It was not as good as a song by the Beach Boys but it was definitely a good song. Howheffalump. There was some dirty gravel around the roots of the gallows tree and under it lived a nasty old devil named Neville. Neville the devil. & when he heard the racket the sons obsessed with buns were making, stringing up their bun-less father, out he popped and all the sons said- A devil! Named Neville! And ran off amok, or amuck, and then Neville the devil said to the man, -what’s going on? And the man said, -you have saved my life, Mr nasty devil person, and therefore I owe you an explanation. -Damn right, said the devil. And the man explained about his relations with his 7 sons vis a vis, the bun shortage, and parenting in it’s more general aspect. -Hum, said the devil and the cogs in his nasty devil brain began grinding round. (Grind, grind.) -Listen. If you want buns, I can get tons of them. But you’ll have to give me something in return. -What? Said the man. -A motorcar? -No. -A season ticket to Hull Kingston Rovers? -No. -A signed copy of Naomi Campbell’s novel ‘Swan’, which was ghost written for her by a professional writer who’s name escapes me? -No. Your immortal soul. And the man thought, it’s always a mistake to expect originality from the devil class of person. And he was in a quandary. (A quarry?) No. A quandary. For he did so want to be a good father and yet, he only had the one soul and it was not as if he could just buy another. Well. Not a good one, with all the extra attachments including power steering and inflatable fenders! And anyway. What precisely did his soul do? He was damned if he knew. (Ha, ha.) So he said, alright. Where do I sign?
After that the sons opened the pantry door and it was full to the rafters with buns. B.U.N.S! and the more they took out and ate the more there was in it. And the sons grew so fat from eating buns they couldn’t leave the house but just lay around watching t.v. and farting. The man went back to work at the bun factory driving his fork lift truck and everything seemed normal except… that now the world had gone grey. G.R.E.Y. no colour anymore. Anywhere. Grey trees. Grey skies. Grey people. Grey bun factory, which had been grey anyway, but that’s not the point! He went to the cinema to cheer himself up. The film was ‘Greystoke’. But it didn’t help. He couldn’t bear the sight of his sons anymore so he went to live in a bed-sitter in town in the red-light district where all the ‘good-time’ girls lived. They were a friendly bunch and would always chat to him on his way home from work.
-Hello luv. You look down in the dumps.
-Yes.
-What’s the matter? And he explained about Neville and his sons and the bun situation and the loss of his soul. One girl, Mandy, took a great interest and offered him some good advice to the effect that he would have to get it back. But how? Mandy didn’t know. Prompted though by Mandy’s concern the man went to see Neville again. He knocked on the gravel. Knock. Knock. Knock. Neville popped up.
-Yes?
- I want my soul back.
- I’m sorry. You made a non-refundable bargain. And he showed the man the contract. -It’s watertight. Ask anyone. The man snatched the contract out of Neville’s claw (hoof) and ran off. He ran straight to ‘Drab,Grey and Tendatious’, the local solicitors,where, for an exorbitant fee, paid in advance, in cash, Mr Drab, (Grey and Tendatious were busy fleecing someone else,) examined the contract looking for a waterhole. (doh!) LOOPHOLE! And there it was. In the small-print. The contract could be revoked on condition of the return of all the buns.
All? But that’s impossible! Said Mandy. Yes, said the man. Impossible. Hum. I know! Said Mandy, for she was a good-time girl with big breasts and died blonde hair and tight P.V.C. outfits, and was never at a loss as regards practical solutions to practical problems – We’ll just have to go and see my Granny. Granny Randy. She lives in the heart of the scary wood with her cat named bosun. Or is it Raphael? No, it’s bosun. Lower case ‘b’. So, at midnight, as grey thunder clouds mounted each other ominously in the west/north… off they went. As they approached the scary wood banshees howled and hound dogs wailed and they could hear a scary song.
‘If you go down to the woods today……’
I’m scared, said the man. Don’t worry said Mandy, I have a magic charm that will protect us. Thank god! said the man. The scary wood was dark and dense not to mention dark. Eyes of ferocious wild animals shone malevolently in the scary foliage. They entered a clearing. There in front of them was an enormous mangy drooling yellow-eyed tiger! The man immediately wet himself! But Mandy, unafraid, strode up to the tiger and catching hold of the hem of her P.V.C. mini-skirt, hoisted it aloft, over her head. A huge cloud of foul-smelling miasma issued forth from out the crack in Mandy’s crotch-less panties; one whiff of which sent the tiger running for his life!
–That sorted him, said Mandy.
-Yes, said the man. He wasn’t expecting that.
–No one ever is, said Mandy, wisely. They went on and then there before them was Granny Randy’s council maisonette.
–Granny Randy, it is me, or rather I, randy Mandy, your granddaughter! Granny Randy appeared in her door wearing a pointed black hat, black cloak, holding a broom with a big hairy wart on the end of her big hairy nose.
-Is she a witch, said the man, frightened.
–A witch? Come off it! Granny Mandy is a new-age psychic! They entered her Maisonette.
–Wow! Said the man. Astrological wall-paper. Spiritualistic curtains. A channelling rug! Pagan futon! And a shamanistic fitted kitchen! Crikey! Granny shooed bosun off the sofa and they sat down.
–You see, said Mandy, and she explained the whole boring plot to Granny.
-Sounds like a plot, said Granny.
–Yes, said the man. It does. But it’s not. It’s real life.
–Fair enough, said Granny.
–So what should we do? Said Mandy.
–Oh. That’s easy, said Granny. I was at the Mind,Body,Spirit Festival near Victoria, last week. There was a stall promoting this. All purpose Bun Emetic.
–All purpose bun emetic! Said Mandy.
–Does it work? Of course it works! What d’you think it is? Some crackpot new-age type nonsense?
-Well, yes.
–Well it isn’t. Here’s what you do.
At the crack of dawn the very next day Mandy and the man arrived at his old house where his 7 sons were all sleeping off another bun fest. So big a fest was it the sons did not notice themselves being roughly piled onto a pallet on the man’s fork lift truck he had resourcefully borrowed from work. Once they were on, Mandy and the man drove straight to the gallows tree on the edge of town where they carefully funnelled bun emetic into the mouths of the sleeping sons. Then the man knocked on the gravel for the last time.
KNOCK.KNOCK.KNOCK.
Neville the devil appeared. The sons all started to wake up. Then they all started to puke, and as they puked back up all the buns they had swallowed down, the man tipped them all right on top of the Devil’s head!
-Curses! Says Neville. Foiled by a slapper and her emetic wielding Granny! As Neville says this the world bursts back into colour before the man’s eyes! Neville disappears in a cloud of rage and the man beats his sons all the way home with a cricket bat saying-------------You’re bun days are over! Or words to that effect.
9 months later Mandy and the man are walking down the aisle of Bun Town Church. Mandy in a beautiful white sexy P.V.C. dress. The sons are bridesmaids. The ‘good-time’ girls occupying the front row. Mandy winks at them as she says –I do. Looking at her big belly, one thing is certain. Mandy definitely has got one in the oven!
A man had 7 sons who were all obsessed with buns. Buns! Buns! Buns! They would scream, morning noon and night. The man was quite at a loss with having to provide mountains of buns for his 7 sons. Then there came a National bun shortage. Buns could not be had for love or money. Politicians appeared on T.V., wringing their hands and weeping copiously as they earnestly promised to short out the bun situation. This did not help the man, for his sons said; old man, if you cannot provide buns for your sons you are a bad father and do not deserve to live! And they dragged him to the gallows tree at the crossroads just outside of their town, which was called ‘Bun Town’, and was named after the big Bun factory in the middle of it, where the man just happened to work, driving a fork-lift truck, and began to string him up. As they were stringing him up they sang a happy song which went like this.
Buns, buns, buns.
They should always come
in tons
& be very sweet
& nice to eat
& knocky you off your feet
O wonderful buns!
O stupendous buns!
It was not as good as a song by the Beach Boys but it was definitely a good song. Howheffalump. There was some dirty gravel around the roots of the gallows tree and under it lived a nasty old devil named Neville. Neville the devil. & when he heard the racket the sons obsessed with buns were making, stringing up their bun-less father, out he popped and all the sons said- A devil! Named Neville! And ran off amok, or amuck, and then Neville the devil said to the man, -what’s going on? And the man said, -you have saved my life, Mr nasty devil person, and therefore I owe you an explanation. -Damn right, said the devil. And the man explained about his relations with his 7 sons vis a vis, the bun shortage, and parenting in it’s more general aspect. -Hum, said the devil and the cogs in his nasty devil brain began grinding round. (Grind, grind.) -Listen. If you want buns, I can get tons of them. But you’ll have to give me something in return. -What? Said the man. -A motorcar? -No. -A season ticket to Hull Kingston Rovers? -No. -A signed copy of Naomi Campbell’s novel ‘Swan’, which was ghost written for her by a professional writer who’s name escapes me? -No. Your immortal soul. And the man thought, it’s always a mistake to expect originality from the devil class of person. And he was in a quandary. (A quarry?) No. A quandary. For he did so want to be a good father and yet, he only had the one soul and it was not as if he could just buy another. Well. Not a good one, with all the extra attachments including power steering and inflatable fenders! And anyway. What precisely did his soul do? He was damned if he knew. (Ha, ha.) So he said, alright. Where do I sign?
After that the sons opened the pantry door and it was full to the rafters with buns. B.U.N.S! and the more they took out and ate the more there was in it. And the sons grew so fat from eating buns they couldn’t leave the house but just lay around watching t.v. and farting. The man went back to work at the bun factory driving his fork lift truck and everything seemed normal except… that now the world had gone grey. G.R.E.Y. no colour anymore. Anywhere. Grey trees. Grey skies. Grey people. Grey bun factory, which had been grey anyway, but that’s not the point! He went to the cinema to cheer himself up. The film was ‘Greystoke’. But it didn’t help. He couldn’t bear the sight of his sons anymore so he went to live in a bed-sitter in town in the red-light district where all the ‘good-time’ girls lived. They were a friendly bunch and would always chat to him on his way home from work.
-Hello luv. You look down in the dumps.
-Yes.
-What’s the matter? And he explained about Neville and his sons and the bun situation and the loss of his soul. One girl, Mandy, took a great interest and offered him some good advice to the effect that he would have to get it back. But how? Mandy didn’t know. Prompted though by Mandy’s concern the man went to see Neville again. He knocked on the gravel. Knock. Knock. Knock. Neville popped up.
-Yes?
- I want my soul back.
- I’m sorry. You made a non-refundable bargain. And he showed the man the contract. -It’s watertight. Ask anyone. The man snatched the contract out of Neville’s claw (hoof) and ran off. He ran straight to ‘Drab,Grey and Tendatious’, the local solicitors,where, for an exorbitant fee, paid in advance, in cash, Mr Drab, (Grey and Tendatious were busy fleecing someone else,) examined the contract looking for a waterhole. (doh!) LOOPHOLE! And there it was. In the small-print. The contract could be revoked on condition of the return of all the buns.
All? But that’s impossible! Said Mandy. Yes, said the man. Impossible. Hum. I know! Said Mandy, for she was a good-time girl with big breasts and died blonde hair and tight P.V.C. outfits, and was never at a loss as regards practical solutions to practical problems – We’ll just have to go and see my Granny. Granny Randy. She lives in the heart of the scary wood with her cat named bosun. Or is it Raphael? No, it’s bosun. Lower case ‘b’. So, at midnight, as grey thunder clouds mounted each other ominously in the west/north… off they went. As they approached the scary wood banshees howled and hound dogs wailed and they could hear a scary song.
‘If you go down to the woods today……’
I’m scared, said the man. Don’t worry said Mandy, I have a magic charm that will protect us. Thank god! said the man. The scary wood was dark and dense not to mention dark. Eyes of ferocious wild animals shone malevolently in the scary foliage. They entered a clearing. There in front of them was an enormous mangy drooling yellow-eyed tiger! The man immediately wet himself! But Mandy, unafraid, strode up to the tiger and catching hold of the hem of her P.V.C. mini-skirt, hoisted it aloft, over her head. A huge cloud of foul-smelling miasma issued forth from out the crack in Mandy’s crotch-less panties; one whiff of which sent the tiger running for his life!
–That sorted him, said Mandy.
-Yes, said the man. He wasn’t expecting that.
–No one ever is, said Mandy, wisely. They went on and then there before them was Granny Randy’s council maisonette.
–Granny Randy, it is me, or rather I, randy Mandy, your granddaughter! Granny Randy appeared in her door wearing a pointed black hat, black cloak, holding a broom with a big hairy wart on the end of her big hairy nose.
-Is she a witch, said the man, frightened.
–A witch? Come off it! Granny Mandy is a new-age psychic! They entered her Maisonette.
–Wow! Said the man. Astrological wall-paper. Spiritualistic curtains. A channelling rug! Pagan futon! And a shamanistic fitted kitchen! Crikey! Granny shooed bosun off the sofa and they sat down.
–You see, said Mandy, and she explained the whole boring plot to Granny.
-Sounds like a plot, said Granny.
–Yes, said the man. It does. But it’s not. It’s real life.
–Fair enough, said Granny.
–So what should we do? Said Mandy.
–Oh. That’s easy, said Granny. I was at the Mind,Body,Spirit Festival near Victoria, last week. There was a stall promoting this. All purpose Bun Emetic.
–All purpose bun emetic! Said Mandy.
–Does it work? Of course it works! What d’you think it is? Some crackpot new-age type nonsense?
-Well, yes.
–Well it isn’t. Here’s what you do.
At the crack of dawn the very next day Mandy and the man arrived at his old house where his 7 sons were all sleeping off another bun fest. So big a fest was it the sons did not notice themselves being roughly piled onto a pallet on the man’s fork lift truck he had resourcefully borrowed from work. Once they were on, Mandy and the man drove straight to the gallows tree on the edge of town where they carefully funnelled bun emetic into the mouths of the sleeping sons. Then the man knocked on the gravel for the last time.
KNOCK.KNOCK.KNOCK.
Neville the devil appeared. The sons all started to wake up. Then they all started to puke, and as they puked back up all the buns they had swallowed down, the man tipped them all right on top of the Devil’s head!
-Curses! Says Neville. Foiled by a slapper and her emetic wielding Granny! As Neville says this the world bursts back into colour before the man’s eyes! Neville disappears in a cloud of rage and the man beats his sons all the way home with a cricket bat saying-------------You’re bun days are over! Or words to that effect.
9 months later Mandy and the man are walking down the aisle of Bun Town Church. Mandy in a beautiful white sexy P.V.C. dress. The sons are bridesmaids. The ‘good-time’ girls occupying the front row. Mandy winks at them as she says –I do. Looking at her big belly, one thing is certain. Mandy definitely has got one in the oven!
A HAND TURNS THE PAGE
A hand turns the page
Of the book of time
That is written in symbols
And sounds of the forest
Which covers the earth
From pole to pole
Breeding strange monsters
To terrorise the sleep
Of innocent man
Carrying his troubles
In a suitcase of yesterday
Which he puts under his bed
Full to the brim
Of shiny black beetles
That explode like a bomb
And rush in a river
An iridescent flood
Over his carpet
And the man screaming “No!
I am not an Egyptian!
Organising slaves
To build the big pyramid
Of secret intent
And unearthly magic
A triangular obsession
Deep in the desert
That grows in Do-It-All
Ikea and Mothercare!
A desert of blood
And red red roses
Blooming painfully
In my inmost soul
That should be whole
Like the Garden of Eden
Where Adam and Eve
Naked as children
Live in eternal
Innocent bliss!”
* * * * * * * * *
A hand turns the page
And the symbols are singing
Songs of redemption
In an alien key
Full of dissonant splendour
Like isotope soup
Brooding, diseased
Bursting in chaotic patterns
From a pomegranate
That grew in time
In a garden of now
While on a beach of transition
The sea coloured night
Plays games
With the incense burning fraternity
Who cough at the door
And stumble on stones
With fog in the hallway
And fog on the stairs
And fog on the runway
And fog in their hair
When the spiders from mars
Drive cars in the street
And all the lumpen dead-leg sailors
Graft for a burning bush
In the rain
In time
Nothing.
* * * * * * *
The hand turns the page
Full of wordless rage
And words of pain
Dripped like honey
Down the window pane
All frosted over
With the cold snows
Of Killy-man-jarr-oh
& she said,- “oh no.
Now I must take King Lear
To the mini-market
For a bottle of beer
My, I am feeling queer
I feel like Beelzebub’s bum
Sitting on some faucet
In the hottest sink of hell!
For who can tell
What winds shall blow
And what storms will rage
Over my page
Full of wordless words.”
* * * * * * * * *
The hand turned the page
And at last you realise
There is no hand
There is no page
There isn’t
There never was
There are only your tears
Streaming down your amazed face
As you stand
In the holy English rain
Thinking – this is the hand
That turned the page.
A hand turns the page
Of the book of time
That is written in symbols
And sounds of the forest
Which covers the earth
From pole to pole
Breeding strange monsters
To terrorise the sleep
Of innocent man
Carrying his troubles
In a suitcase of yesterday
Which he puts under his bed
Full to the brim
Of shiny black beetles
That explode like a bomb
And rush in a river
An iridescent flood
Over his carpet
And the man screaming “No!
I am not an Egyptian!
Organising slaves
To build the big pyramid
Of secret intent
And unearthly magic
A triangular obsession
Deep in the desert
That grows in Do-It-All
Ikea and Mothercare!
A desert of blood
And red red roses
Blooming painfully
In my inmost soul
That should be whole
Like the Garden of Eden
Where Adam and Eve
Naked as children
Live in eternal
Innocent bliss!”
* * * * * * * * *
A hand turns the page
And the symbols are singing
Songs of redemption
In an alien key
Full of dissonant splendour
Like isotope soup
Brooding, diseased
Bursting in chaotic patterns
From a pomegranate
That grew in time
In a garden of now
While on a beach of transition
The sea coloured night
Plays games
With the incense burning fraternity
Who cough at the door
And stumble on stones
With fog in the hallway
And fog on the stairs
And fog on the runway
And fog in their hair
When the spiders from mars
Drive cars in the street
And all the lumpen dead-leg sailors
Graft for a burning bush
In the rain
In time
Nothing.
* * * * * * *
The hand turns the page
Full of wordless rage
And words of pain
Dripped like honey
Down the window pane
All frosted over
With the cold snows
Of Killy-man-jarr-oh
& she said,- “oh no.
Now I must take King Lear
To the mini-market
For a bottle of beer
My, I am feeling queer
I feel like Beelzebub’s bum
Sitting on some faucet
In the hottest sink of hell!
For who can tell
What winds shall blow
And what storms will rage
Over my page
Full of wordless words.”
* * * * * * * * *
The hand turned the page
And at last you realise
There is no hand
There is no page
There isn’t
There never was
There are only your tears
Streaming down your amazed face
As you stand
In the holy English rain
Thinking – this is the hand
That turned the page.
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