In the white room there was a black soul, which was nice because the front door was red and it reminded me of cabbage. On the soul sat a limerick whose name was George, and George played bicycles on the hill by the other hill. One day the hill played bicycles on George. George didn't like it.
He then went and told a joke whose name was Henrietta. She said, I know how it feels to be dead. Cos you're making me feel like, I've never been......born?
Yes.
They then became a relationship. They played tandems on the other hill by the hill that was by the other hill where he used to play bicycles. It was big and green and very much more like a hill than the other one.
They went up, and they went down. When they were only half way up, they played tandems. It wasn't anywhere near York.
Latitude.
Geography, said George one day, is like a rock. Rocks are boring.
George was boring too, trying to make a hole in the ground to bury his newly married turnpike, whose name wasn't Jeanette. A simple desultary verbal act of violence in an ever softening helmet.
He buried her. He buried her like a cat buries a squirrel.
He shall burn in hell for what he hath done! He shall burn like the pagan kings of old, the dirty little nostril rubber!
The Henrietta found out. She was absolutely loving it she was! She called him darling, and said, There once was a lady from Peking, who didn't know what she was seeking. So she wasn't called Jeanette, and she chose to forget, the wonderful poems she was speaking.
And that is it, it, itchy, stitchy, clicheeee.
I've never been so happy since I met-you
Wednesday, 30 April 2008
Etwas
Ich würde, wenn ich könnte, aber ich kann nicht. Wenn ich doch spreche, wie ich kann, dann solltet ihr nicht zuhören. Ich glaube nicht daran, aber ich bin doch nicht sicher, dass ich daran glaube, dass ich nicht daran glaube. Leben ohne ist nicht besser, aber auch nicht schlechter. Ich will was sagen, etwas wichtig, und manchmal fühle ich mich, wie ich kann. Aber was ist es? Weiß nicht.
Tuesday, 29 April 2008
A Subversive Re-evaluation of a Interplanetary Dog Biscuit Supplier
Pancake. Flan Case. Outer Space. Outer Circle. Angela Merkel. Angels With Dirty Faces. Maces. Races. Basis. Grey. Miss. Bliss. Hiss. His. Hid. Hide. Haydn. Baydn Powell. Tawny Owl. Falling Foul. Sorting Room. Reporting Doom. Flume. Soon. Son of God. Dump of Cod. Kruschev. Canada. Keine Da. Oberlaa. Ob La Di. Im Neuen Jahr. The Time Is Now. Fat Smelly Cow. Ich Loade Down. Horse's Ass. Kids Were Just Crass. Sit On The Grass. Jelly. Brass. Belly. Telly. Gerald. Harry Redknapp. Feet. Beer. Bier. King Lear. Limerick. Brown Stick. Brown Sugar. Lucky Bugger. Pull The Trigger. Bigger. What A Life! Swat. A Strife. This. Makes. Nonsense. Transcendent. Above. Shovel. Mother. Muffel. The Train. Falls Mainly On The Plain. Donaldbain. Thane of Cawdor. Meeting Three Witches. Blasted Heath. Blackheath. Michael. Dance. Franz. Karlheinz Riedle. Riddle. Middle.
And The Rain Came Tumbling Up
And The Rain Came Tumbling Up
Monday, 28 April 2008
Fairy Nuff
I saw a fairy in the hedge, and she was related to Denver, who was a singer. He sang songs.
Oh my word! I know, I know, eye no, you have a taste for fast change. But Denver is stuck where he is. The fairy is more movable. She sings no songs. But sometimes the rabbit is better than the carrot, you know, you know, ewe no?
The heavens will cry over me, said an ugly hog. But let there be doves, gloves and the heavens above. Dinosaurs have hearts, just as the heathens of old had spears and leaves of caucasian ivy. The train is now arriving, tense as it is. It's like a good old time of old, where the ship was still on course and people still believed in romance. Denver sang about romance. He sang songs about romance. But he didn't believe it, so the others didn't either.
It's impossible to exist in a social plain, and in anti-social plain who knows, who knows, hoonos? It may feel more at home, but would have no takers. What a conunununundrum!
The fairy is sweet though. Hope I see her again, Denver is quite tiresome after all.
Oh my word! I know, I know, eye no, you have a taste for fast change. But Denver is stuck where he is. The fairy is more movable. She sings no songs. But sometimes the rabbit is better than the carrot, you know, you know, ewe no?
The heavens will cry over me, said an ugly hog. But let there be doves, gloves and the heavens above. Dinosaurs have hearts, just as the heathens of old had spears and leaves of caucasian ivy. The train is now arriving, tense as it is. It's like a good old time of old, where the ship was still on course and people still believed in romance. Denver sang about romance. He sang songs about romance. But he didn't believe it, so the others didn't either.
It's impossible to exist in a social plain, and in anti-social plain who knows, who knows, hoonos? It may feel more at home, but would have no takers. What a conunununundrum!
The fairy is sweet though. Hope I see her again, Denver is quite tiresome after all.
Sunday, 27 April 2008
Nature? Nay Tour? Fate or?
Just let the poet's cry themselves to sleep,
Let the musicians play on their tearful words.
Where the Bible doesn't reach,
and where the deceitful river is not heard.
The boyish bravery of the automatic writing,
that is scribbled on the parasol head;
Or the macho primality of each far sighting,
that just defends what the warlord hadn't said.
In the skies fly the eagles of yesterday's today,
weeping sadly through their feathered frames.
Maybe they will clean their souls on the way,
but never will remember their west leaning names.
The poet named the Earth, and all that flows around,
but he will always be searching, never an end,
because their words are made from old sounds,
that just can't grip the menace of a friend.
Awake, stay awake, I'm leaving this place,
but expect a visit on the third day, because
I can't stay away long, my heart even stays
in this forest, by the kestrel's three week house.
Medicine from rain, water can do the same
Let the musicians play on their tearful words.
Where the Bible doesn't reach,
and where the deceitful river is not heard.
The boyish bravery of the automatic writing,
that is scribbled on the parasol head;
Or the macho primality of each far sighting,
that just defends what the warlord hadn't said.
In the skies fly the eagles of yesterday's today,
weeping sadly through their feathered frames.
Maybe they will clean their souls on the way,
but never will remember their west leaning names.
The poet named the Earth, and all that flows around,
but he will always be searching, never an end,
because their words are made from old sounds,
that just can't grip the menace of a friend.
Awake, stay awake, I'm leaving this place,
but expect a visit on the third day, because
I can't stay away long, my heart even stays
in this forest, by the kestrel's three week house.
Medicine from rain, water can do the same
Saturday, 26 April 2008
From the Diary of a Magnet
I've been following my attraction, wandering (and wondering) around the marks of the compass. I have been west of south and north of east, but always facing slightly to the left of north. While I was somewhere east of west, I stumbled upon a land because I was looking the wrong way. I had tripped over a tree, and landed in a factory, where Twiggy could have stood on the wall, but didn't. I painted it. I painted Twiggy where she could have stood and I painted Angela Merkel where she couldn't possibly, but did anyway. Everything was facing just left of north, one way or another. There was no rules there except the way to face. It's always ignorant facings that bring this town down! How it came to stay I do not know. The box of colour should have fallen over 13 months before, but it seems to want to stay for more.
There were some stylish kids, and they were rioting in the town of Woninten, painted on the northwest wall. They were rebelling against themselves, as they had become too stylish to be a counter culture. But I gave them the plus and the minus and they then felt liberated.
In Bringmintenner, nobody voted, and everybody spoke in unison. “Unless it's worth co-ordinating a group of speakers for, it's not worth saying,” they all said. They violently rejected Democracy.
Bluehead Ballet was run by Bluehead, and featured, mainly, Ballet. He was a free soul with an opposite attraction. His ladies didn't belong to him, but to each other, united in the aim to serve his Art, since his Expulsion after the trials in Tring, England. They were attractive, without trying to be.
In the distance I could see a castle, in the mountains. It looked like what my factory could be, but wasn't. A piece of the factory ceiling fell to the floor just as I saw.
To the stars or to the bottom of the river.
Sleep lives in the West, with her false easterly wisdom and damp liberty.
There were some stylish kids, and they were rioting in the town of Woninten, painted on the northwest wall. They were rebelling against themselves, as they had become too stylish to be a counter culture. But I gave them the plus and the minus and they then felt liberated.
In Bringmintenner, nobody voted, and everybody spoke in unison. “Unless it's worth co-ordinating a group of speakers for, it's not worth saying,” they all said. They violently rejected Democracy.
Bluehead Ballet was run by Bluehead, and featured, mainly, Ballet. He was a free soul with an opposite attraction. His ladies didn't belong to him, but to each other, united in the aim to serve his Art, since his Expulsion after the trials in Tring, England. They were attractive, without trying to be.
In the distance I could see a castle, in the mountains. It looked like what my factory could be, but wasn't. A piece of the factory ceiling fell to the floor just as I saw.
To the stars or to the bottom of the river.
Sleep lives in the West, with her false easterly wisdom and damp liberty.
Friday, 25 April 2008
Media Blog
To what extent is a non-consumer's life dictated by the Media he doesn't use? For example, I don't watch much TV, if any. This is not some kind of political stance against the ever more ubiquitous nature of visual culture. Nor is it against the twisted idea of the companies telling me what I like. No, I merely find it boring, so I do not consume it. But it still affects me. I don't have things to talk about when the TV is brought into question. That affects me.
I guess what they show must appeal to the masses, in order to keep viewers. But my not viewing doesn't carry enough weight to change it, I don't think.
So if I go somewhere, the media I don't consume affects places I go, I suppose. For example, I can't go to the cinema without there being films literally everywhere. Or in my favourite cafe they sell films and stuff. And the people's fashions are probably influenced somewhere along the line by what they've seen on TV or by famous medium providors. And mine probably too.
I'm a media controlled weakling. I need to get a non-media dictated life.
I must say I do miss Loose Women though. When they had that shiny man from the musicals on it was hilarious. John Barrowman is it? It really confuses me when music lyrics talk about stuff from TV, or from films. Like those David Bowie songs about those BBC police programmes. Or books that I haven't read. Like the Libertines sang a line that I thought said "Wouldn't it be nice to be boring and grey" when they actually said "Wouldn't it be nice to be Dorian Grey", which shows my ignorance.
This was supposed to be about media, not about me not consuming it. Is it still a plural? Or is it an abstract noun now, like love and peace and other things it has injured, if not killed. That was a silly comment.
Wouldn't it be nice to be boring and grey? Just for a day?
I guess what they show must appeal to the masses, in order to keep viewers. But my not viewing doesn't carry enough weight to change it, I don't think.
So if I go somewhere, the media I don't consume affects places I go, I suppose. For example, I can't go to the cinema without there being films literally everywhere. Or in my favourite cafe they sell films and stuff. And the people's fashions are probably influenced somewhere along the line by what they've seen on TV or by famous medium providors. And mine probably too.
I'm a media controlled weakling. I need to get a non-media dictated life.
I must say I do miss Loose Women though. When they had that shiny man from the musicals on it was hilarious. John Barrowman is it? It really confuses me when music lyrics talk about stuff from TV, or from films. Like those David Bowie songs about those BBC police programmes. Or books that I haven't read. Like the Libertines sang a line that I thought said "Wouldn't it be nice to be boring and grey" when they actually said "Wouldn't it be nice to be Dorian Grey", which shows my ignorance.
This was supposed to be about media, not about me not consuming it. Is it still a plural? Or is it an abstract noun now, like love and peace and other things it has injured, if not killed. That was a silly comment.
Wouldn't it be nice to be boring and grey? Just for a day?
Nothing to say...
I had nothing to say to blog yesterday, and I guess I still don't. But I thought then I would write about having nothing to write.
I don't know what to write.
I've been doodling all kinds of sh.....short prose.
It's a common misconception that Utopia is a perfect land. It is not, the Greek origins to the word mean "No Place", ie the most important thing being that it does not or can not exist. Eutopia however would be more correct, as the Greek origins of that translate as "good or well place). The play on phonetics was probably intended by Sir Morus, but there is an important difference. So next time, you will know!
Noddy Holder is in the Birmingham Walk Of Stars. He is from Walsall.
I want to go to Leighton Buzzard and/or Weston-Under-Lizard. England has nothing if not great place names.
I think that Rohan might end up dying in the Colourbox, when it falls down.
I could comment on the current perils within the socio-economic processes of the southern Basque region, but I'm not going to.
Be well, readership, you who doth treat me too kind
I don't know what to write.
I've been doodling all kinds of sh.....short prose.
It's a common misconception that Utopia is a perfect land. It is not, the Greek origins to the word mean "No Place", ie the most important thing being that it does not or can not exist. Eutopia however would be more correct, as the Greek origins of that translate as "good or well place). The play on phonetics was probably intended by Sir Morus, but there is an important difference. So next time, you will know!
Noddy Holder is in the Birmingham Walk Of Stars. He is from Walsall.
I want to go to Leighton Buzzard and/or Weston-Under-Lizard. England has nothing if not great place names.
I think that Rohan might end up dying in the Colourbox, when it falls down.
I could comment on the current perils within the socio-economic processes of the southern Basque region, but I'm not going to.
Be well, readership, you who doth treat me too kind
Wednesday, 23 April 2008
Oh! Vestal Kindred Smithery
Enter Mariot, Ferry and Helbot in the background, messing about.
Mariot. What love is't that breaks
the heart of the giver?
Why doth it eat my soul?
Ferry. Because it is hungry for what it seeks?
Mariot. But why is it then Love?
Ferry. It doth beateth me so.
Helbot makes noise
Ferry. Who goes there? What ho?
Helbot. I art no ho. I bring thee news of angels, poisons, and witches.
Mariot. How so? The witches were poisoned
by the Angels of the Hell.
Helbot. Oh, what sweet shock!
Shock! Shock! How
do you know?
Ferry. Aye though we walk in the shadows of light,
we fear no evil. We have't so harsh
like th' winds of Vienna in the street
where we live.
Mariot. What he says, through such
muddy paths, is that
we told the Angels of Hell
to do it.
Helbot. Oh! You pretty things! Don't you know
you are driving your mother and father
insane!
Ferry. I was not born of woman.
All exeunt
Enter Three Blythe Spirits
Blythe Spirit 1. I art stronger in death
than I e'er were in strife!
B.S. 2. You are indeed, with nose of Bosnia-Herzogovnian
we make our sour drink, and ready with goblet!
B.S. 3. Eye of Peruvian Tree Swinger and leaf of Cactus
that loathsome Ferry thought he had fuck'd us!
B.S. 1. But lo he hath but made us better,
as we add the juice, to make it wetter.
All. Call back our wrath if you dare!
We are now waiting by the fire, on a chair.
What goes now will forever be bound,
By the perilous realm that you have now found!
All exeunt
Enter Mariot, Ferry and Helbot.
Ferry. The beast is abroad, the Angels of Hell
have decieved our twisted aims!
Helbot. What, ho?
Mariot. He art no ho. The witches
are back.
Helbot: Sh't.
All Exeunt.
Applause
Happy Birthday Will
Tuesday, 22 April 2008
The Hardest Zip to Zip
Blogs and Essays are often made by a fabulous sentence to end, and also the delivery.
So here we go:
"So we should not ban it, because Janet can - its gannet tans itself on the gambit".
It's not off-topic, it's a metaphor. "It" symbolises witchcraft, "Janet" is symbolic of all supposed practicioners. The "Gannet" is telling of the superficial principles of medieval patriarchal persecution. I don't know what a gambit is.
This is the truth
Or did I just rhyme as many things as possible together? ban it, janet, can it, gannet, gambit.
Planet didn't fit in.
A gambit is apparently any maneouvre by which one seeks to gain an advantage, originally from chess. So that could symbolise the men's attempt to gain advantage over women.
Sentence done, let's go home, good night.
or
By the way Anne I couldn't give a flying fiddle about this!
So tough tits tutor tripe!
I throw my sentence at you! Whilst I'm covered in mud, blood and tears.
And nose of Turk, eye of western samoan bullfrog, tongue of lion and a garnish of poison ivy.
Maybe dressed like a witch...With a big trafic cone on my head! Look at me I'm a big witch!
The flick my cape and walk out, grabbing my broom stick with an indignant nonchalance.
Then I'll fly underground and raid THE Machine Room where the Plagiarism machine is kept. It looks like Bertha, but has watchtowers, it's own climate and plagiarism dwarfish watchmen.
So here we go:
"So we should not ban it, because Janet can - its gannet tans itself on the gambit".
It's not off-topic, it's a metaphor. "It" symbolises witchcraft, "Janet" is symbolic of all supposed practicioners. The "Gannet" is telling of the superficial principles of medieval patriarchal persecution. I don't know what a gambit is.
This is the truth
Or did I just rhyme as many things as possible together? ban it, janet, can it, gannet, gambit.
Planet didn't fit in.
A gambit is apparently any maneouvre by which one seeks to gain an advantage, originally from chess. So that could symbolise the men's attempt to gain advantage over women.
Sentence done, let's go home, good night.
or
By the way Anne I couldn't give a flying fiddle about this!
So tough tits tutor tripe!
I throw my sentence at you! Whilst I'm covered in mud, blood and tears.
And nose of Turk, eye of western samoan bullfrog, tongue of lion and a garnish of poison ivy.
Maybe dressed like a witch...With a big trafic cone on my head! Look at me I'm a big witch!
The flick my cape and walk out, grabbing my broom stick with an indignant nonchalance.
Then I'll fly underground and raid THE Machine Room where the Plagiarism machine is kept. It looks like Bertha, but has watchtowers, it's own climate and plagiarism dwarfish watchmen.
Monday, 21 April 2008
Sunday, 20 April 2008
Sore Young
When Amy gets some money, we might live in a house that has sangria and a penguin radio (with a rubber ring) and she will learn the words for Lemonade in many different languages, so that she is happy. The penguins can dance wicked cool.
We will live together with our literary genius and there will be no maniacal blogging. I won't have to answer the door in my pants because there will be a large box to hold all of her magazines. We can learn Elton John lyrics.
There will be jelly and laughter. And riots.
We will live together with our literary genius and there will be no maniacal blogging. I won't have to answer the door in my pants because there will be a large box to hold all of her magazines. We can learn Elton John lyrics.
There will be jelly and laughter. And riots.
Happy
I've been thinking. No, really! Shocking I know. It hurt as well.
I might be what they call happy at the minute. But I don't like that word. I am in a positive mood, in a period of being grateful for being alive, for being alive in this exact place of location, time, and situation. And that sounds so slushy and silly, but it's true. I am smiling, I am laughing, and I love what is around me. But I guess we always need something to bother us, to stop us being satisfied. Satisfaction for me should only ever be a stepping stone. It is dangerous for me to become too comfortable, which I guess is why I always come across stuff that affects my satisfaction. But that's only ever one step away from bringing about a better life, by solving problems as they come, and moving upwards because of it. So who knows? What's negative often brings about change, into something more positive. This is rather incoherent isn't it?
Well, erm, Hello again to all the people I lost just there. That's what happens when I don't write in the third person! I just don't feel in touch with my third person, or my dative self, today. That's possibly a good thing, as he is a bit arrogant and pretentious. Like Gerald.
So instead I'll try and write something irrelevent.
Man: “You're right, he's left”
Woman: “Yes, he has, my son has gone. When did he do that though?”
Man: “I thought it was going to be tomorrow. I guess that's always my problem. Tomorrow never comes”
Woman: “I think it was yesterday. Lots of things happened yesterday.”
Man: “There are lots of yesterdays. What do you think about the implosion of meaning when too many sources of information are forced upon us?”
Woman: “Baudrilliard to that. I don't even speak French.”
Man: “No, not many do really.”
Woman: “Except the French, of course.”
Man: “I knew you'd say that.”
Woman: “Because it's true?”
Man: “No, I met a Frenchman the other day that spoke English. He didn't say a word of French the whole time.”
Woman: “Where was this?!”
Man: “In Jean-Claude's bedroom. He said he was leaving today actually, early, going hitch-hiking. Going early to avoid the rush hour traffic.”
Woman: “Oh, he's probably in Bordeaux by now. Wasn't he our son? He has been incredibly French of late. Apart from not speaking French.”
Man: “Oh, maybe he was, I never asked his name I must admit. I suppose he is gone.”
Woman: “Yes”
Saturday, 19 April 2008
Shpeecy Shpicy Poot de Chucken Wid de Peashy
Beaut and Libert had another adventure last night. They dreamt about getting pregnant and sleep sex and small grey hard furred dog creatures.
They went to Sweden afterwards to get fellofahorse and a drum.
Third Man. Where's the toilet? You've been talking in your sleep. I've been sleeping in my dreams. I'm sticking with you, because I'm made out of glue. Let's record you playing with your Whammy and I'll play the bongos. "Wow what are you doing here at this party?" "I'm playing cricket. You?". You give off a good vibration. Sangria. Would you like to try Sex on the Beach? Let's do it on the Donau Beach. "My name is Ali, I am from London" "Are you really?" "Yes, i am" "Cool, I'm not" "You're not what?" "Ali from London" "No, I am though" "Good". "I could tell you were a musician straight away. That's not a bad thing. I knew I was talking to a child then so it is more interesting" "Thanks". I like turtles. Electronik, Supersonik. My blue jeans is tight, prepare for the downcount. "Is Norah Jones blues?" "No". Shall we go? I want junk-food. You're like a little sister to me. Yeah I thought you were gay. Night Bus. Hey babe, take a walk on the wild side. Kartnerstrasse is over that way. Train tracks. Swedish jokes. Twelve inch pianist. It's ok for running around in. I want it all. Es geht durum. "I'm just tidying my room, quickly" "I think you'll be here a long time". Fruity cakes. I like your Whammy. Me too. I like turtles. I just like maps. I like big butts and I cannot lie. "I like bad 60s horror films" "Oh really, have you seen a good one recently?" "Erm, no." You have a lot of stuff. "Do you iron?" "Yes." I like turtles. I don't need a jacket. Ribena is beautiful. You should have learnt karate! "You have nice handwriting" "Can you read it?" "No". How to fossilise your hamster. Hot water freezes quicker than cold water, fact. "I like Loretta Lynn" "Who?". That the treble can't erase, what about my weakness, I'm totally addicted to bass. Wow wha oh. Chicka chicka freestyler. Puretone. Why did I know that? I want to be green. Cold rooms. Dead people. I like turtles. It's so warm isn't it! I don't need a jacket. Hmm, according to this, you're gay. "Damn we missed the bus!" "There's another one in 8 minutes" "How good is that!"
Tres bien! =)
Может быть, я люблю тебя больше, чем мы оба знаем.
Но, может быть, лучше о том, что путь.
Не перевести, или, может быть, вам надо?
They went to Sweden afterwards to get fellofahorse and a drum.
Third Man. Where's the toilet? You've been talking in your sleep. I've been sleeping in my dreams. I'm sticking with you, because I'm made out of glue. Let's record you playing with your Whammy and I'll play the bongos. "Wow what are you doing here at this party?" "I'm playing cricket. You?". You give off a good vibration. Sangria. Would you like to try Sex on the Beach? Let's do it on the Donau Beach. "My name is Ali, I am from London" "Are you really?" "Yes, i am" "Cool, I'm not" "You're not what?" "Ali from London" "No, I am though" "Good". "I could tell you were a musician straight away. That's not a bad thing. I knew I was talking to a child then so it is more interesting" "Thanks". I like turtles. Electronik, Supersonik. My blue jeans is tight, prepare for the downcount. "Is Norah Jones blues?" "No". Shall we go? I want junk-food. You're like a little sister to me. Yeah I thought you were gay. Night Bus. Hey babe, take a walk on the wild side. Kartnerstrasse is over that way. Train tracks. Swedish jokes. Twelve inch pianist. It's ok for running around in. I want it all. Es geht durum. "I'm just tidying my room, quickly" "I think you'll be here a long time". Fruity cakes. I like your Whammy. Me too. I like turtles. I just like maps. I like big butts and I cannot lie. "I like bad 60s horror films" "Oh really, have you seen a good one recently?" "Erm, no." You have a lot of stuff. "Do you iron?" "Yes." I like turtles. I don't need a jacket. Ribena is beautiful. You should have learnt karate! "You have nice handwriting" "Can you read it?" "No". How to fossilise your hamster. Hot water freezes quicker than cold water, fact. "I like Loretta Lynn" "Who?". That the treble can't erase, what about my weakness, I'm totally addicted to bass. Wow wha oh. Chicka chicka freestyler. Puretone. Why did I know that? I want to be green. Cold rooms. Dead people. I like turtles. It's so warm isn't it! I don't need a jacket. Hmm, according to this, you're gay. "Damn we missed the bus!" "There's another one in 8 minutes" "How good is that!"
Tres bien! =)
Может быть, я люблю тебя больше, чем мы оба знаем.
Но, может быть, лучше о том, что путь.
Не перевести, или, может быть, вам надо?
Wednesday, 16 April 2008
The Wagon of the Folk
I have just invented the four wheel motorised vehicle, and I shall name it the Automobile, or Car to its friends.
I think now I have invented it, I need to advertise it, maybe with a set piece of mechanical parts doing a dance routine. Or maybe with Eric Clapton in the background simulatneously eating a raspberry cake and murdering Robert Johnson songs. With the slogan "Stop Breaking Down" he he he.
No, what I really need, I think is a singing dog.
Right, let's get about it then. This car gives you CONFIDENCE, like some kind of happy pill. So we'll have a cute little dog and have it singing a song that nobody knows, but like...here's the good bit...really confidently in the car, and then really quietly in a post office or a bank.
But how do we get it to look nervous?
Other man: "We could either like...put the dog on a vibrating floor so he looks like he's shivering.
Or, we could just completely destroy the little hound's life by beating him with candy canes and rubber rings, and forest fires, and call him a liar, and then think of other situations where he doesn't know which way to go, at which point we scream at him loudly:
YOU GET TO SIT ON THE FRONT SEAT WITH YOUR NOSE OUT THE WINDOW
And then he'll look all happy to be singing an old soul disco type song."
Me: "It is 1904, what is soul/disco?"
Other man: "That doesn't matter. Do you have a Vibrating floor?
Me: "A what?"
Other man: "It'll have to be the second one then won't it. Excellent!"
Then we made the advert and it got banned, because people thought we were stupid enough to use a vibrating floor instead of just bullying a cute white dog.
Nice Cute Dog
I think now I have invented it, I need to advertise it, maybe with a set piece of mechanical parts doing a dance routine. Or maybe with Eric Clapton in the background simulatneously eating a raspberry cake and murdering Robert Johnson songs. With the slogan "Stop Breaking Down" he he he.
No, what I really need, I think is a singing dog.
Right, let's get about it then. This car gives you CONFIDENCE, like some kind of happy pill. So we'll have a cute little dog and have it singing a song that nobody knows, but like...here's the good bit...really confidently in the car, and then really quietly in a post office or a bank.
But how do we get it to look nervous?
Other man: "We could either like...put the dog on a vibrating floor so he looks like he's shivering.
Or, we could just completely destroy the little hound's life by beating him with candy canes and rubber rings, and forest fires, and call him a liar, and then think of other situations where he doesn't know which way to go, at which point we scream at him loudly:
YOU GET TO SIT ON THE FRONT SEAT WITH YOUR NOSE OUT THE WINDOW
And then he'll look all happy to be singing an old soul disco type song."
Me: "It is 1904, what is soul/disco?"
Other man: "That doesn't matter. Do you have a Vibrating floor?
Me: "A what?"
Other man: "It'll have to be the second one then won't it. Excellent!"
Then we made the advert and it got banned, because people thought we were stupid enough to use a vibrating floor instead of just bullying a cute white dog.
Nice Cute Dog
Monday, 14 April 2008
Soul on the Balcony
On Saturday Libert and Beaut hid on a Balcony, that wasn't actually a balcony, just a room with broken windows looking out over a beautiful Car Garage, with herds of Wildebeest sweeping majestically across the forecourt.
Before that, Libert was listening to Dolly Parton at home, but stopped doing that to watch a play that he won't see again, at least for a while. It was an improvised comedy piece, with characters too quirky to be fictional. There was happiness and comedy to hide the inevitable sadness, which is often the best kind. How often are things like funerals and tragedies-in-the-departure-lounge ruined by sadness? Much better to counter it with a smile, that way the two emotions may become deeper, but in a better way, as you feel glad that something happened, not sad that it's gone. If you think something has left too soon, it's only because you didn't do enough in the time given.
Libert then wore a toilet on his head with Beaut and took pictures in the party hat, as that's where the best light is. Beaut and Libert then flew by canal boat to an island in the west, where a pack of Mendel's Peas were immitating wolves. I think Mendel was there actually, there was an old man. They spoke neither Swahili OR Elvish, so it came to be that Libert, Beaut and Smil left, and crashed their canal boat into a kayak, filled with gems. These gems led them to a factory, but I'm not sure of that word. Factories make stuff, this place had destructed itself. Libert and Beaut danced to Music that you don't hear with your ears, but with your soul. They danced like retards. Smil danced and played with balls on a string. The music stopped but the souls carried on, they went to the balcony.
The Voice of Reason confronted them, but they hid. The Flashlight of Reason drew their shadow on the wall, but they hid. They looked for Smil, to save her from Reason, but smelt only Diesel (it petrol, as they were reliably informed along the way). Then they stood with their backs against a wall, in the dark, like Children from a half heart-felt Revolution.
It was bloody excellent.
Then Libert went home to clean up.
Before that, Libert was listening to Dolly Parton at home, but stopped doing that to watch a play that he won't see again, at least for a while. It was an improvised comedy piece, with characters too quirky to be fictional. There was happiness and comedy to hide the inevitable sadness, which is often the best kind. How often are things like funerals and tragedies-in-the-departure-lounge ruined by sadness? Much better to counter it with a smile, that way the two emotions may become deeper, but in a better way, as you feel glad that something happened, not sad that it's gone. If you think something has left too soon, it's only because you didn't do enough in the time given.
Libert then wore a toilet on his head with Beaut and took pictures in the party hat, as that's where the best light is. Beaut and Libert then flew by canal boat to an island in the west, where a pack of Mendel's Peas were immitating wolves. I think Mendel was there actually, there was an old man. They spoke neither Swahili OR Elvish, so it came to be that Libert, Beaut and Smil left, and crashed their canal boat into a kayak, filled with gems. These gems led them to a factory, but I'm not sure of that word. Factories make stuff, this place had destructed itself. Libert and Beaut danced to Music that you don't hear with your ears, but with your soul. They danced like retards. Smil danced and played with balls on a string. The music stopped but the souls carried on, they went to the balcony.
The Voice of Reason confronted them, but they hid. The Flashlight of Reason drew their shadow on the wall, but they hid. They looked for Smil, to save her from Reason, but smelt only Diesel (it petrol, as they were reliably informed along the way). Then they stood with their backs against a wall, in the dark, like Children from a half heart-felt Revolution.
It was bloody excellent.
Then Libert went home to clean up.
Friday, 11 April 2008
Banshee Term Moot
Jerramore was a person yesterday, but today he read a book. He then put the book down, which he hadn't been able to do for a while, for approximately the duration of the book in fact. He always had that problem, as his hands were made of semi dried glue. It takes him so long to seperate the book and the hands from their insistent bookstucktohand formation, that he has time to read the thing. Quite how he turned the pages, I don't actually know. I wasn't there, I'm only the messenger. But anyway, he read a book. And it actually changed him as a person, a bit, not too much. He then went and drank a bottle of acid and died, but came back to life to tell a family of rich people about it, to make them feel guilty. Now this might not seem too strange to you, but he was dressed as a woman at the time. How risque!!!!!!!!!!!
Anyway, while he was doing that, he saw a mice and a man, but he was not any the wiser, as his eyes weren't good enough in death to tell the difference between them. A lousy life for the washed up wife of a permanenly plastered pissed up bastard! Lousy Life!!! That's what he thought, but didnt have the courage to say so. The rich people were so welcoming after all. He knocked on the door, and they didn't hear it, but when he rang the bell they let him straight in and gave him some English beer, which went straight through him. His feet never touched the floor the whole time. Instead, the floor touched his feet, rather sensually in fact, he thought. It was like those foot vibrating massage machines in the shopping centres. But he just thought that was the acid talking. Well, massaging, not talking. There was a cold poison in the air, like as though a 13 year old called Juliettia was upstairs asking where why or what was her boyfriend's name. How untimely. Were they destined to be happier in sacrifice as in the mixed up emotional world of life? Or were they just a bit weird?
Jerramore was asked this question once, before he'd even encountered Romond or Juliettiquette. He just said they were a bit silly, wanting to spend the rest of their lives together after three days, in which Romond had managed to kill somebody, gatecrash a party, probably bite his thumb, and climb a young girls wall and enter via a window, the other side of which the said child was on her bed, naked. Call Jerramore a little cynical if you please, but he thought that wasn't really the kind of person you'd plan your life around.
But as he remembered this strange situation, he quickly shut it out, as he was supposed to be preaching to rich people. That's the trouble with ghosts, they just can't do two things at once. Which is a shame, because if he had only thought to use the example of Romond and Julietcetera he could have really made an impact. We all know that a random unexpected sentence can really make the original point seem a lot more relevant.
There are seagulls on the light house.
Jerramore could see a serpent (or was it an eel? Big worm? Damned dead eyes) and it was green. He loved it, but got scared and ate an apple, which had been burnt by somebody called Trevor. Aparrently construction is a form of destruction. But Acid is a creation, and it made Jerramore what he is today, and he was an arsehole before, so the fact he's now quite interesting isn't destruction is it? Or if it is destruction of his old persona, then it's hardly a bad thing.
Anyway, the rich people became old with their guilt after Jerramore's empassioned talk of around 26 seconds and ended up like most people, dead.
But it wasn't a depressing death, with age they became lovely charitable people, and they had dreams of psychopathic mistresses with withered arms and melancholy hussars of the German legion, and then though much more knidly of Love, Amore, Liebe and of Romond and Juliextraterrestrial.
Grey, Ham, Green, Hazmat, Encore, Raged.
The man is a fool, but it is quite funny when you think about it, isn't it?
Anyway, while he was doing that, he saw a mice and a man, but he was not any the wiser, as his eyes weren't good enough in death to tell the difference between them. A lousy life for the washed up wife of a permanenly plastered pissed up bastard! Lousy Life!!! That's what he thought, but didnt have the courage to say so. The rich people were so welcoming after all. He knocked on the door, and they didn't hear it, but when he rang the bell they let him straight in and gave him some English beer, which went straight through him. His feet never touched the floor the whole time. Instead, the floor touched his feet, rather sensually in fact, he thought. It was like those foot vibrating massage machines in the shopping centres. But he just thought that was the acid talking. Well, massaging, not talking. There was a cold poison in the air, like as though a 13 year old called Juliettia was upstairs asking where why or what was her boyfriend's name. How untimely. Were they destined to be happier in sacrifice as in the mixed up emotional world of life? Or were they just a bit weird?
Jerramore was asked this question once, before he'd even encountered Romond or Juliettiquette. He just said they were a bit silly, wanting to spend the rest of their lives together after three days, in which Romond had managed to kill somebody, gatecrash a party, probably bite his thumb, and climb a young girls wall and enter via a window, the other side of which the said child was on her bed, naked. Call Jerramore a little cynical if you please, but he thought that wasn't really the kind of person you'd plan your life around.
But as he remembered this strange situation, he quickly shut it out, as he was supposed to be preaching to rich people. That's the trouble with ghosts, they just can't do two things at once. Which is a shame, because if he had only thought to use the example of Romond and Julietcetera he could have really made an impact. We all know that a random unexpected sentence can really make the original point seem a lot more relevant.
There are seagulls on the light house.
Jerramore could see a serpent (or was it an eel? Big worm? Damned dead eyes) and it was green. He loved it, but got scared and ate an apple, which had been burnt by somebody called Trevor. Aparrently construction is a form of destruction. But Acid is a creation, and it made Jerramore what he is today, and he was an arsehole before, so the fact he's now quite interesting isn't destruction is it? Or if it is destruction of his old persona, then it's hardly a bad thing.
Anyway, the rich people became old with their guilt after Jerramore's empassioned talk of around 26 seconds and ended up like most people, dead.
But it wasn't a depressing death, with age they became lovely charitable people, and they had dreams of psychopathic mistresses with withered arms and melancholy hussars of the German legion, and then though much more knidly of Love, Amore, Liebe and of Romond and Juliextraterrestrial.
Grey, Ham, Green, Hazmat, Encore, Raged.
The man is a fool, but it is quite funny when you think about it, isn't it?
En Espagnol
Conquista! él buscaba una conquista, no importaban los demás, sólo quería ganar - ¿llenar?
¡Conquista! Una más de sus conquistas! No creía en el amor, no tenía corazón, hasta que ella...Lo miró...
Y extrañamente las cosas cambiaron, ya nada fue igual para él. La presas se convirtió en cazador, el cazador se convirtió en presa!
¡Conquista! Ella gana esta conquista. Su destreza de mujer, Dominó todo su ser, fue me fácil La conquista.
Ah ah ah ahhhhhh
De pronto los cosas cambiaron, ya nada fue igual para él. La presas se convirtió en cazador, el cazador se convirtió en presa!
¡Conquista! Ella gana esta conquista Su destreza de mujer Dominó todo su ser Fue muy fácil La conquista!
Ah ah ah ahhhhhh
Conejo blanco
¡Conquista! Una más de sus conquistas! No creía en el amor, no tenía corazón, hasta que ella...Lo miró...
Y extrañamente las cosas cambiaron, ya nada fue igual para él. La presas se convirtió en cazador, el cazador se convirtió en presa!
¡Conquista! Ella gana esta conquista. Su destreza de mujer, Dominó todo su ser, fue me fácil La conquista.
Ah ah ah ahhhhhh
De pronto los cosas cambiaron, ya nada fue igual para él. La presas se convirtió en cazador, el cazador se convirtió en presa!
¡Conquista! Ella gana esta conquista Su destreza de mujer Dominó todo su ser Fue muy fácil La conquista!
Ah ah ah ahhhhhh
Conejo blanco
Thursday, 10 April 2008
Revel the Johnelator
Apples are Canons
Washing Machines are Rockets
Robots are Terrapins, Tortoises, or Seals
Red is New
Blue is Dead
The thing about doorkeys is that they are never quite JURISDICTION
Selling Donkeys is Cruel
Buying Horses is Curry Sauce
Gravy is not Curry Sauce
Breakfast Cereals, Morals, Cats, Genetically Modified
Read this blog backwards
Washing Machines are Rockets
Robots are Terrapins, Tortoises, or Seals
Red is New
Blue is Dead
The thing about doorkeys is that they are never quite JURISDICTION
Selling Donkeys is Cruel
Buying Horses is Curry Sauce
Gravy is not Curry Sauce
Breakfast Cereals, Morals, Cats, Genetically Modified
Read this blog backwards
Wednesday, 9 April 2008
Naja Naja
I nearly bought some chocolate but I decided not to.
Ich kaufte fast Schokolade, aber ich entschied nicht dazu
Monday, 7 April 2008
Ten Favourite Songs of All Time
Here are my favourite songs ever =) It doesn't matter if you don't like them, it's not your list! They aren't in order, but as a group they are my favourites...
Dead Leaves And The Dirty Ground - The White Stripes
Because it is a powerful primal love song
Mr Cellophane - Chicago Musical, (Fred Ebb & John Kander)
Because I hate indifference too
Broken Boy Soldier - The Raconteurs
Because it sounds like Jack White fronting a Velvet Underground and Led Zeppelin supergroup.
Heroine - The Velvet Underground
Because it's so simple and builds up amazingly
Dazed and Confused - Led Zeppelin
Because it covers every emotion
Scarborough Fair - Simon & Garfunkel
Because it is a beautiful arrangement of a lovely tune
I Just Don't Know What To Do With Myself - The White Stripes
Because it goes from delicate loneliness to all out desperation
Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down) - Nancy Sinatra
Because it is minimalist to the extreme
Gollum's Song - The Lord Of The Rings Soundtrack
Because the words made me cry
Sitting on Top of the World - Traditional Blues Song
Because it was my first real Blues song
Dead Leaves And The Dirty Ground - The White Stripes
Because it is a powerful primal love song
Mr Cellophane - Chicago Musical, (Fred Ebb & John Kander)
Because I hate indifference too
Broken Boy Soldier - The Raconteurs
Because it sounds like Jack White fronting a Velvet Underground and Led Zeppelin supergroup.
Heroine - The Velvet Underground
Because it's so simple and builds up amazingly
Dazed and Confused - Led Zeppelin
Because it covers every emotion
Scarborough Fair - Simon & Garfunkel
Because it is a beautiful arrangement of a lovely tune
I Just Don't Know What To Do With Myself - The White Stripes
Because it goes from delicate loneliness to all out desperation
Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down) - Nancy Sinatra
Because it is minimalist to the extreme
Gollum's Song - The Lord Of The Rings Soundtrack
Because the words made me cry
Sitting on Top of the World - Traditional Blues Song
Because it was my first real Blues song
Sunday, 6 April 2008
Apples, A's and Birds
Gerald is an artist. Sheena is a Parasite. Gerald can draw everything so beautifully, except for apples. Sheena can only draw apples, but draws them very well indeed. People like apples, so Gerald wanted to draw them. But he can't. Sheena the Parasite is better.
On a separate note, I'd like to say thank you to my readership. I hope you both enjoy my nonsense. The two A's are wonderful people.
There's a little bird in my cupboard, I'm gonna take her home. Let her be free to be in a cage of her own choice, instead of my own. I don't know if it's right to be left, who ever does?
Answers on a postcard to the usual address
On a separate note, I'd like to say thank you to my readership. I hope you both enjoy my nonsense. The two A's are wonderful people.
There's a little bird in my cupboard, I'm gonna take her home. Let her be free to be in a cage of her own choice, instead of my own. I don't know if it's right to be left, who ever does?
Answers on a postcard to the usual address
Thursday, 3 April 2008
I am Old
This Blog has a foreword written by somebody else. Well, four words. Similar.
Gentry. Dystopia. Cauliflower. Galavant.
I don't know what to write. I was happy this week, but now I'm a bit off, because somebody keeps telling me what to do with my life and that I should move cities and talk with english people that I don't like because they are arrogant fucks that I would rather push down stairs than talk to
Gentry. Dystopia. Cauliflower. Galavant.
I don't know what to write. I was happy this week, but now I'm a bit off, because somebody keeps telling me what to do with my life and that I should move cities and talk with english people that I don't like because they are arrogant fucks that I would rather push down stairs than talk to
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