Pleb Puree

QuiP

2011-03-29T05:34:00.000-07:00

I have P'd and Q'd on three continents, I have Q'd to P on 5 but alas my incontinence intervened in such a way that I was forced to P in the Q

They Say......

2011-01-20T16:15:00.000-08:00

......the moon cannot be moved, yet everytime I move, the moon is still there above me, so it can and it does. They say the moon is hanging by a thread which makes me nervous because stars are sharp. They say stars are holes cut from a black satin robe that hangs between the sky and our eyes. They say our eyes depend upon our lives. They say our lives hang upon bread. They say you can't hang a man using only a thread. They say threads lead nowhere, but if you're coming from nowhere won't you land on the moon? They say it's easier to land on the moon than to land on a spoon unless the spoon is full of honey. They say most spoonfuls of honey are made by bees, well the spoons at least. They say forks are not made but earned, but the devil made his with idle hands. They say he makes work, and makes instruction manuals in 25 different languages for things that don't. They say things that don't work are lazy but I think its just because I dropped it down the toilet, my hamster I mean. They say you should always flush after you have rescued your hamster. They say you should respect order, so does my hamster. They say hamsters can't talk, it was a joke. They say jokes are funny. Why aren't you laughing. They say question marks are machine washable, but I would question that. They say questioning is healthy, but I say answering is healthier. They say I'm not one of them so I said they're not one of me. They said there's only one of me, so I asked who it was. They told me to look in the mirror but when I did I was alone. They say lonely people need to get out more. They asked me if I was lonely. They told me to get out. They told me no more. They say less is more, more or less. More or less? They say so yes. They say poetry rhymes. With what I said? They say with life. Which confused me. They say confusion rhymes. With life I asked? They say with intrusion. They say you can write a wheel and it will turn. I wrote a circle of words on a page but I had to turn it myself. They say that they lie and I believe them.

Deep Heat

2010-01-20T21:26:00.001-08:00

In the middle of this globe, is melted rock, first red then orange and white. It's white in the middle where nothing can stay as it is, but it melts too, turns white and is suspended in that hot centre. It's amazing how it stays together, this crusty ball of volcanic glue, like a drop of battered caramel, it floats but sticks together, stuck together with an invisible grasp that braces blades of grass through roots that are sucked ever closer to the white through brown. Down, closer, or up, east or west, this spinning ball is never certain but when falling from the edge through the dark or inwards, the whitening hues melt the worries of Atlas as we finally realise where it is we sink to through the cracks.

Dots

2009-12-21T20:00:00.000-08:00

I've studied dots all my life. Dots are everything. Atoms are made of dots and so are apples. Big dots are made of smaller dots. Small dots are made of dots, and you can go no further. I am made of dots. I am a dot. Everytime I eat porridge, I eat dots. Dots taste good. Everytime I tap my teeth, I'm tapping a toothful of dots. Dots don't enjoy being tapped. But I'm not here to make them feel good. I put them under my dotoscope to make them sweat but they never do. I sweat instead, and my sweat is full of dots and they go all over the place.

Tea's a Crowd

2009-11-30T16:07:00.000-08:00

The teacup is known as a great source of heat and steam and the rule follows thus for all sizes of teacup. To prove the point I need only refer you to an incident, not long ago but, in a land very far away.

This land is quite 10 leagues from where you sit, travelling directly upwards, though be careful there is no roof above you. I have no idea what a league is, but I have it on good authority that a league is further than a flot, and a flot is longer than your nose.

In this land they enjoy themselves famously at carnivals, the primary attraction being giant tea cups that spin with such rapidity that once it was reported a dog's head fell off whilst watching it. Dog's have since attended carnivals on the condition they wear blinkers about their heads.

On this occasion two well-growed human's entered a teacup on the feast of Damsel Abigail Wotherly. It spun. Then it spun more. Children screamed and spun. Till all that an onlooker could see was a whizzing rainbow wheeling wondrously. Down it wound with a faint purr like a deflating kitten. aaaaphwzzzzuuummmmm! It stopped and out of one teacup did spray a towering fountain of vomit upon a poor blinkered dog who simply couldn't see it falling. His head fell off in shock.

All the children departed, some green, some their original colour, purple. Then a gasp of near silence, the well-growed humans did depart their teacup. Horrified parents retrieved the blinkers from their dogs and affixed them to the heads of their children for they reasoned that dogs were well accustomed to nudity.

Fingers were pointed at the old man in charge of teacups. "Did you do this?" boomed the angry mob. The naked two hung back, suspecting something was up, but not quite knowing what. He looked sorry alright, but replied gently with confidence, "My good people, it's only natural that accidents should happen."

Blobian Banana

2009-11-17T08:55:00.000-08:00

There was an island. It was named Blob-just-south-of-madagascar-shaped-like-a-squashed-pea. It was commonly agreed amongst the 76 inhabitants that this name did little for their tourist or pea exporting industry. Madagascans obviously abbreviated this name to Blob, and called its people blobbers, which much upset the 76 unfortunate souls that were labelled thus.

The Blobbers renamed Madagascar Stinkpot in retaliation but it didn't really catch on. Mainly because the entire Island smelt of lavender. In frustration, the Blobbers declared war and rowed to the capital, Antananarivo, in a boat made of blackened banana skins. "Let us in!" they boomed, "we're very angry." Of course that gave the game away and the Madagascans fled inside their city walls for they loved a touch of drama.

The Blobbers landed on the beach, it was a nice day indeed, but no day for lounging, as landing had involved them in a siege of Trojan proportions. Night fell and the Madagascans were really quite amused by this whole siege business. They had no idea how to conduct themselves in a siege, so made up their own rules by lobbing loaves of freshly baked bread, smothered in gooseberry jam, over their very ramparts.

One Blobber stood up and called the rest about him. "I have a plan said he. A very cunning plan!" If you remember the Trojan Horse you will immediately recognise the unoriginality of this plan. Nonetheless, the blackened banana boat was brought up to the gates, upturned and everyone climbed underneath.

In the morning the Madagascan King was apprehended by three flustered courtiers, who knew that, at sunrise, the king was to be found with his face in a lavender bush. "Your Highness, your Highness! The siege is over! All that is left is a Blobian Beetle. How wonderful we are." Once inside the walls, the Blobbers jumped out and gave the Madagascans the most awful fright! Such are the horrors of war and the consolations of a stupid plan working on stupid people.

Red

2009-11-16T13:08:00.000-08:00

Blue,
Green,
Yellow,
Purple,
Colour me in!

Song of my Sausage

2009-11-15T06:35:00.000-08:00

I loved you and fried you,
With equal heat,
From my heart to my belly,
To where you are now.

The end, when it came,
Changed only the name,
Of a love that remained,
Tween my teeth and your pain.

That bite I partook,
While the bough gentle shook,
and the apple thus prized,
Shook the earth from the sky.

I knew of the story,
and then I knew you,
Are sausages fruit?
And blueberries blue?

Well I ate you all,
From peel to pip,
and nourished thus,
I remain ill equipped.

Song of my sausage,
This is all I can do,
Words for a morsel,
Feathers for birds,
A hole for a coffin,
The corspe uninterred.

Plum and Gum

2009-11-04T17:16:00.000-08:00

Plum and gum,
Birdless feathers,
Which of these flock together?

Unrelated,
lest with incest charged,
a flock of plums ensnared in jars-

is jam, and jam
is in it, band of brothers,
Beatles lost without their mothers.

Holy mother,
Save me now,
Crease your brow and plough the stars,

and set them straight,
make sense of light,
that rudely speckles where it likes,

Like an egg,
we're all inside,
there's little holes for still born light.

and here I am,
I'm born again,
Cracked once more, I feel the same.

Old Man from Custard

2009-10-01T15:20:00.000-07:00

There was an old man from Custard,
Did commute on a horse to Mustard,
On his way back,
He fancied a snack,
So smothered his horse in custard.

Upton Downing

2009-09-21T18:39:00.000-07:00

Twas as strange an encounter as ever I've had. Monday afternoon, a day of drudgery, and there was I sitting on the steps of the courthouse. I can't say what brought me there; for legal reasons, suffice to say that I maintain my innocence.

So there I sat, and up comes a vagrant with an air of such stiff authority you'd swear he'd been sent from the Aras itself. I thought the Phoenix Park plausible as this man's origin assuming he were an escapee from the zoo. There he was dressed in ribbons of rags and smelling of the Liffey's breath, to say nothing of his own.

"Get off of that" he rasps "that's my step." Well I was quite taken aback and replied that the step where I sat belonged to the people of Ireland. Well, if he had a gastket he would have blown it, but instead he blew steaming hot air from between his lips. "That step does not belong to you or him" He pointed rudely at an innocent passer-by. "No indeed, this step is infact a family grave, and I'd thank you not to rest your buttocks on my dear departed."

That took the wind from me I assure you. A family grave? I was curious. Pray tell sir. Move me enough and Ill move my buttocks, I said. So he drew his palms together like a holy man. Holy man my eye! And drew them under his chin, which he scratched a little bit.

"Upton Downing, I presume you know him? (pause...I didn't) well beneath these humble rags runs the blood of his family, indeed, my great great grandfather no less, and here he lies, under that step." I indulged his fancy. "Buried....here! But, but...how?"

"Oh its a tragic story, a stepsmith who died for his passion was Upton Downing. For he loved his craft. Twas said he called his steps his children, his children stepchildren and his step children bastards, such a man as he was."

I searched this man's eyes for the signature of truth, but whatever might have been there was obscured at present by a thick whiskey glaze. "It was nearly finished this flight" he continued. "A masterpiece, sure you can see it yourself, feel the art through your buttocks and I dare them not to be better for it, the last step readied indeed. Twas standing right where I am now." He pretended to be a step but I would have guessed pillar.

"Right here, and a crowd assembled, among them a boy the size of Oliver Twist, but time proved Oliver Twisted a more fitting brand. Didn't he steal behind the admiring assembly. The last step before him was upright, ready for placement, the glory of it, and didn't this little lick of wickedness push with all his might so that the step tottered. It tottered and it swayed and all gasped while the carved rock rocked. It was too late, gravity pronounced, the great stone fell. It happened slow. As it did, that man of my blood, Upton Downing, threw himself faster below the falling mass. A muffled thud it was. He knew full well that it would crush his vitals, yet preserve his legacy. Upton Downing died in this place."

The man was flushed and his hands trembled towards the clouds. Twas a sight I couldn't help but be moved by. So I moved, and watched him kneel at the family grave. I imagined Uptown Downing sitting on the stairway to heaven, presuming that he had already arrived.

He got up and dusted his filthy rags which I thought pointless. "This Upton Downing, would he perchance have been related to the Downings of Castleknock? I knew them well." Oh no says he, "he was born further South." Where was that? "Stepaside" I laughed more than seemed appropriate.

It's a snail's life

2009-09-21T16:49:00.000-07:00

Snails are little aliens, I can't say from where they came, but certainly not my back yard. Their little fleshy poles poking for clues often find no clue of whats most important to their existence. The sole of the shoe, and the lack of same in the human that owns it. There are snails in my back garden. The crushing of one of two wont affect the totality in any meaningful way, for snails do not grieve for or bury their dead. They might just as easily slither over their expired brethren of a moist grey Sunday.

It is worthy to lament a broken shell, unlucky that it was vacated at the time of its breakage. Unlucky and messy. But mess is no big deal. Where ever a snail goes mess follows as his glistening wake. He varnishes the earth from A to B, unsequenced and unalphabetical.

I once got inside a snail's mind. This particular snail had outgrown his shell. He was all constricted. To a human it might feel as though a large dog was sitting on their lungs. To a dog it wouldn't make sense at all. This snail was hunting for something bigger. His clothes didn't stretch and he hadn't the effrontery of a slug.
Oh to be a slug of loose morals and waist.

So he set about his task, led up the garden path. And just as he was getting somewhere, that great shadow descended from above. The last thing i heard was the crunch of freshly opened crisps.

New Wings

2009-08-20T15:27:00.000-07:00

Bee needed new wings indeed. The old ones were all withered, they drooped like sad eyebrows from his body. Caterpillars don't usually involve themselves with bees but on this occasion one happened to be close by.

This caterpillar, wasn't the usual. He was a chunky specimen, his body bursting with flesh, looked like a joint of meat rolled up and bound in invisible string. He had given up moving for the rest of his life; so it was the bee who approached him.

"Hey man, how did you get so fat?" Bee lacked tact. The caterpillar could only squirm. blink and oddly enough, sing in the key of c minor. Bee had only known canaries to sing and rats to try and sing like them, but this was a whole new experience.

"Man I aint got nothing to say to you." But caterpillar just couldn't help himself. "But I will say this. I've been waiting here for my wings for so long, I could have been a thousand butterflies by now. Instead I just get fatter and fatter."

Bee was kind of moved by the plight of this ghastly creature and so wrapped his drooping wings about a quarter of the way around his distinctly unhuggable frame. It was a hug. A hug of a bug that had no rug or wings.

The caterpillar sat there, he was lazy, waiting for it all to happen. "Hey bee, pick my nose for me will ya." Bee took one look at those nostrils and knew there wasn't an ounce of truth in either one. Just then a butterfly fluttered upon the scene and landed softly upon the caterpillar's back. He didn't realise how spongy and voluptuous that body was until he started sinking. Slow at first, but then the lips created by his own weight started to suck him inwards faster. Faster. Wings saved the butterfly just in time.

Don't let him drag you down bee. It was said in a look, clearer than words. Bee thought on his withered wings. They still work. He could feel the breeze wet and wonderful like water stream through their paper thin sinew.

Sure they were withered. Bee was withered. What was he gonna do? Get another bee? No.
Those wings would melt like the butterfly would. He took to the air for as long as the lease still rolled. Caterpillar sighed.

You Dig?

2009-08-06T04:54:00.000-07:00

It was his first time. His claws had only three months to grow but now they were alone. They were sharp. Don't wear yourself out, work steady. His mother knew what she was talking about so he resolved to at least try and follow her advice.

The ground was hard, thawing from a recent ground frost. It still bore white crusts of frozen crystal. The ground underfoot made him shiver. Moving quickly was the only option.

Digging, ha. It made him laugh. Rocks aren't diggable and this ground is a rock. The little rabbit cursed the way things were without knowing why. Just then a mole arrived. "Hey little rabbit." The rabbit had never seen a mole before. They didn't go out much.

"Hi...." What was he supposed to call him? "I'm a mole." "Yeah I was.....wondering." Rabbit lowered his eyes to the ground, slightly abashed. He was always told to run from things he couldn't name and those he could. But this, this mole, he was so tiny and by the looks of things he didn't know exactly where rabbit was, for he was directing his speech at a daisy.

Rabbit felt the desperation creeping in. Like a flood that carries you along a course before you realise that you have moved. "I need some help mole. I can't dig, I'm awfully cold, and there's foxes creeping about. I can smell them." This all gushed out. Even rabbit was taken aback at the urgency that had come upon him.

Mole found it kind of funny but he didn't laugh. Out loud at least. He put his arm around the daisy, realised it was a daisy and blushed. "I thought...nevermind, these eyes are about as useful to me as underground windows. But rabbit my friend, I am an excellent digger." He puffed out his chest but rabbit still thought him puny.

Mole turned on his heels and shouted with his neck twisted, "follow me little one." Hes a round mouse. A round mouse! Thought the rabbit. But the cold crept up his bones from the frozen earth and if he was going to move he might as well follow the mole.

They arrived by a stream that gurgled clear. Rabbit thought it looked new born. By the bank the mole stood arms outstretched. Rabbit noticed for the first time his claws of impressive substance for such a little creature. Mole stood by a hole about the cirumference of his waist. Perfectly round, overhung by a fringe of reedy grass.

Rabbit was incensed. "You filthy show off. So what! You can dig a hole the size of your ass. Big deal. You think its funny that I can't? Do you?" Rabbit stormed about looking for a way to get back up the steep bank of the stream. How frantically he scraped with paws of pure rage. Mole felt the earthen shrapnel hit him in the eye, but he couldnt see it coming. How ironic he thought.

By the time the rabbit had worn himself out he paused his paws and tried to stand up. He hit his head off something solid. The sky is awfully low today he thought. But wait, it was dark too. Dark but not night, it was a tunnel!

Deep Enough to watch the stream go by and not get wet. Shallow enough to provide a passing fox a muzzle pocket and light lunch. Well rabbit was damned if he was gonna do ginger animals any favours. He thought of that time an orangutang had tied his ears together. Not nice.

With renewed energy, this time drawn deep from the well of bitterness, rabbit set about extending his muzzle pocket beyond the reach of anteaters. He didnt like them either on account of liking ants. Those claws were pared thin alright. Though they were but knubs of bone, the tunnel stretched farther and farther.

Mole was pleased. Though his modest tunnel had been surpassed already, he was glad that the rabbit was home....

Alphabet Muchroom Soup

2009-08-04T09:27:00.000-07:00

Upward journeys aren't respected as going anywhere...
unless you reach the moon.
Going down is the new reverse.
Reverse reversed isn't forwards,
just insideout.

I took a trip along an arc that went on forever,
but that arc wasn't a circle.
When I came down I was told I was backwards,
By people who had just arrived at A from B,
thought the moon began with C,
and God with D.
I gave them an E,
and pointed them in the direction of Freedom.

Slumber stream

2009-03-25T15:34:00.000-07:00

Blogging like a logger, I chop my wood and send it down river.

Prick!

2009-03-15T17:16:00.000-07:00

Prick me, prick me! screamed the pin to the needle, the needle to the beatle, the weasel to the easel, the easel to the pea soup, pea soup to the tea spoon, tea spoon begged the blue moon, blue moon pestered every broom to prick him now to prick him soon! The brooms assumed the moon had asked the spoon, the soup, the easel and the weasel, so wondered under woolen jumpers what made them the final frumpers? Prick you, prick you? you awful goon, assume I'm easy as a spoon. They swept. Adept at keeping women kept, blue moon was blue and so he wept. Pricked was he from gaping gap, his soul flew out like water flows from gushing taps. A burst balloon, blue moon baboon, prick me prick me! said he who picked his words too soon.

Au Clair de la Looney

2009-03-08T12:19:00.000-07:00

Some run, others half moon. Half of all half mooners can run 100 metres in 8 seconds thereby eclipsing normal humans. Some might say its pure lunarcy, to that I say divide by two, take the useless half and fling it to the darker side of the moon. This man is french (hat). His name is Au Clair de la Looney. He half moons through the streets of Paris, usually after exposing himself to delighted tourists. The authorities wrongly claim him to be on the run from the law. Au Clair half moons, nothing is palpable when he passes but a faint breeze of onion soup.

Wise Old Tree

2009-03-05T12:11:00.000-08:00

An olive asked about oil and the tree fell silent. Every olive wondered but the tree said nothing. He knew. He'd seen them come and go, weighing heavy till harvest, then gone, not like leaves for fruit was of the tree's own flesh.

Silence lasted till the tree spoke. "It will get hot soon and then you will sweat, the old farmer will put your sweat into his frying pan to.... cook his rashers." Horrified the olives exclaimed in unison, "Those poor pigs!"

The year so far...

2009-02-26T14:28:00.000-08:00

March marches, May may?
February does nothing, me neither.

April aprils, September and November's embers
stir in gales of mild distemper.

August blows away those sweltered
lusty summer days, that seemed so full from inside out.

December's decent; housing Jesus,
in the end a stable friend.

Tooting Squirrel

2009-02-04T14:12:00.000-08:00

The tooting squirrel blew soft upon his brassy pipe playing rainbows through the ether, thereby orchestrating weather as only a divine conductor can. The flowers and the bees and Purple Bee collected their tickets for the performance and waited for those cool drops to fall from above, those prisms of prisoned light. Softly splashed upon the earth the rainbows freed to breed amongst the charged air, green hair sprouting and devout to the mysteries of life tunnelled above and below. Before long emeshed, refreshed; those gathered beneath the crimson firmament lost count at seven.

Headless Chicken

2009-01-23T07:03:00.000-08:00

He’s headless chicken; tufts of fluff protrude crudely either side of that headless divide. He cannot cry but would like to, he can sigh and smile but only with the curve of his chin. He shed his head when a gypsy said his head was worth a loaf of bread. “A loaf for this atrophied head; I accept thy trophy, take this lead!” With a puff of cheeks and weird words the deal was sealed with a kiss from a rose. “Kiss the rose, rise the loaf, take the head, beans on toast.” Toast! A toast! To chicken and to his head never the twain shall meet again. But toast! My toast the chicken thought, he couldn’t speak his beak, his jaw, his peck; his eyes had missed the fatal flaw. The loaf of an oaf for the loaf on an oath composed of words a gypsy wrote.

Bee's Barber Wired Pot

2009-01-13T02:34:00.000-08:00

The bee's hairdresser was stressed,

Tickus Tockus

2009-01-09T02:12:00.000-08:00

It's the new year, I fear I've posted little. Less. Nothing!
So how about a story of new things, a dietary refreshment
and resolution to never do certain things and always do others?

Bollywood locks is what I would say to that....
This is what you get instead.
The earth was spinning as a globe is wont to do,
and a Roman took his middle finger, wait for it said he,
Wait for it! then poke he picked a place, its greenish
said he, your mean said the globe, it's time said he.

And so time was born out of an argument,
between the globe and a Roman. But everyone was quite confused.
Ok so this is the start? Yes! So where is the end? There is no end.
The geographical end for you will be
the place where you lie down and rot into the ground,
explained the Roman, his name was Tickus Tockus.

Tickus Tockus then took the Globe and divided it into twelve,
calling each one a contimonth. A contimonth?
Yes! and inside each contimonth lies about 30 different daytions.
And so the world could be described as a globe,
It could be 12 contimonths,
It could be 365 daytions,
It could be a clock! Time itself.

It was a clock. The first clock ever.
Those Roman's really knew a thing or two,
Especially Tickus Tockus. He built an Ivory tower at
Greenish Mean Time. Chaucer later changed it to Greenich,
His spelling was awful for a sign artist.
And a white haired wizard was installed in the tower,
He looked out at the sky and smelt the trees and could tell
by the whisper of a spider web, what was the time.

The wizard sent out his wondrous unichron, they had been born together,
Of the same womb, a painful birth! and he sent the unichron all over the earth,
Depending upon the time.
To the exact contimonth,
the exact daytion,
the exact minutown,
he never came second, but upon the second,
this swift-footed pendulum,
Ticking and tocking, clipping and clopping
A dusty trail shared by memories and wagons alike.

And in this way every speck by the trail,
inhaled the the dusty cloud of trampled seconds,
the blink of an eye and a sweaty breeze,
they knew time had passed all at once,
years fell like dominos in the unichron's wake.

The Sword in the Rock

2008-12-31T03:38:00.000-08:00

A sword in a rock that couldn't be drawn, until along came the bee with a tub of relish. "I see you're relishing this challenge." says the king assuming his wit to be God given. "If you draw the sword using merely your strenght, not only can you have my kingdom, you can have my daughter too!" The king had the daughter wrapped as a joke, but she found it far from amusing.

Bee sat down with his tub of relish and made a sandwich, laying the relish on so thick. The daughter crumpled her wrapping but was still a worthy prize. After his sandwich the crusts were discarded. Bee limbered up to the sword. It was a strong sword, buried deep in the rock. The rock groaned intermittently, for he had feelings and the tip of the sword tickled them so deep was it entrenched.

All I have to do King-a-ling is pull. The bee buzzed with eloquence. So he stepped up to the sword and pulled with all his purple might. So much might that a tiny tear ran down his furry face. And another, and another till a purple stream did flow between his feet. Oh it's no good. This sword is truly stuck he thought.

But then the bee thought back to biblical times when he drew wine from the rock and Jesus shoved him aside and claimed all the credit for it. Wine from a rock! Well if there happens to be wine in every rock maybe I can do the same here.

So bee made another relish sandwich. This time it had banana in it. The king nearly vomited, but swallowed it, then was disgusted by the swallow and vomited. Sorry said the bee, but he smiled, the king knew he was not a genuine sort. Bee sucked his lips upon the rock's grey edifice drawing out what he presumed to be deep within. Wine, glorious wine! Gradually as thick liquid climbs upon itself up a straw, so did the wine leave the rock, flowing to bee with its load of sensual derangement.

Soon his senses were deranged to such an extent that he blew his nose with a handful of pepper, snorting instead of blowing. Silly bee. The rock sobered without its wine and the prick that once tickled his feelings was recognised now as a deathslice in the cold light of sobriety. "Oooouuch!"

Bee wobbled greatly, relish all over himself, where is the mouth? Not near the knee anyway. He wobbled and fell upon the sword. Rock shrieked in pain. The secret bestowed. Do not pull but drive! So simple yet so well hidden. Bee drove some more and then some more and pinched the rock for added effect. He howled and howled. "Just let it go rock. Let it go!"

Rock could take no more and he deflated like a failed cushion in a saggy heap. The sword fell to the ground on pebbles. Bee used it wisely to unwrap the Daughter formerly of the former king. "To take from the heart king-a-ling, ne'er pull from it, but drive unflinching toward it till it lets go." There endeth the Bee's lesson less taught but learned himself.

King trod naked into the setting sun with the rock draped about his shoulders, a prehistoric shawl, former alcoholic, sobered shell, tight lipped but weak he gripped.

Living Week

2008-12-30T04:52:00.000-08:00

The tea leaves told of reckless love,
That courted maids on
Wednesday; prayed,
Thursday wedded,
Friday thristy,
Saturday fried instead of baked,
Sunday sat while love is waked,
Monday sunned their fattened stake,
Tuesday money took them back,
To Wednesday through the ashes black.

Wispa Mint

2008-12-23T01:56:00.000-08:00

Spaces in my soul, bubbles full of trouble,
Choc on the block, Phoenix from the rubble,
I spread my weathered wings with a feather in my cap,
Flavour saviour risen with the globe upon my lap.

I'm back like Dre, returned with the Mac,
Yearning to be earning the taxes of the lax,
Crisp Snack Tracker, Snickers snickered laughter,
Digest thee then in pieces, in the tum of ever after.

So I'm back in the hood, kickin' on the shelf,
Living on the edge, watching Aero melt,
I the chosen one, am ressurected butter,
Melting in the gut, a wrapper in the gutter.

Let me be

2008-12-20T06:47:00.000-08:00

A spider stood before the Lord with a broken leg,
He was meek but angry, he said,
"Lord why are my legs so weak?"
To which the Lord replied,
"Why did you break the legs I gave you"
Spider had no answer, it was an accident,
A tangle in his web, and crack.

I'll tell you what, said the Lord,
Show me the perfect creature,
A tiger! Spider was sure,
Then let it be so.
And spider became a tiger in a blink.

But the blink was different, only two eyes,
No web, he had to hunt his food,
It would come to him no longer,
He could run, but before long he had a toothache
and didn't feel like it.

The Lord received him again
with a smile, spider couldn't smile;
his teeth hurt, why?
The Lord had no answer.

A shark! I'll be a shark next,
They're teeth are always clean,
underwater, perfect.
And so he was cast once more to the earth,
But this time the Indian Ocean.

Oh it was fun, swimming,
But then he tried to stop and couldn't,
If he did his life would dim, keep swimming,
His shark mind would say;
It was so tiring.

I'm tired Lord, life is tiring;
Let me be my broken leg,
Let me be nothing,
Let me be.

The Lord smiled and almost buzzed,
And spider did, a spider not,
A bee was he, alotted lot.

He came upon a spider web,
and thought to use it as a bed,
flying made the bee so stiff.
Out a spindled spider came,
the bee winked and said hello.

The spider thought how strange a choice,
this creature must not want to be,
overcome he then rejoiced,
the Lord had sent him such a meal.

A slice of life

2008-12-19T03:06:00.000-08:00

Knives divide the blood of men between the breath a sliver wide,
So then it fits the blade cuts thin that nothing's lost within the slice.
Either side a thickness falls, creased flesh folds upon the plate,
And as the juice gathers hence, its life that's lost another weight.

Sandwich makers take from bakers fruit of ovens humming heat,
Bread is born before the sun, that virgin meat beneath a bulb...
we cut the crust so slices fall, divide the whole to pockmarked walls.

Trinity Collage

2008-12-18T06:09:00.000-08:00

Purple bee come forth of three, just outside the holy ghost who erst we thought a host with most, he banished thee and made some toast. White or brown he couldn't choose? Jesus chose some apple jews that Adam peeled till they were nude. Trippy dude that Jesus was, he pranked the Jews, they drank his blood, a fair exchange, no one lost, said he the one that bore the cross.

Holy Spirit, Whiskey River, Willie Nelson, undelivered,
Holy Ghost, from coast to coast, Tupac rolled and reached the post,
Father, Son, only one, but who to pick to shade our sun?

The train tumbles, its wake a wake of biscuit crumbled.
Rhubarb! says the hungry egg whose yolk could once have been a heart,
Nipped a bud that strained to form, no lips could spring from ears of corn.

Take me then and give me that, my heart is dripping with your fat,
It's bread you say, light of fluff, I cede it not, I cede enough,
And wine I drink, a shining cup, mind the cup, to risk the rest for ever got.

It's all a mess, a waste receipt, toilet papered lists recede,
A blot upon the woodskinned grime, I bloat my blot and spill my wine,
Spread my flesh, but shrink my time.

Potatoes steam with curling skins, cracked the fluff of dust within,
A steaming ball, volanic mass, holy globe that came to pass...
the spuds she said, mammy nature, husband dried but left her craters.

Rise and Shine

2008-11-23T18:19:00.000-08:00

This a post of ressurection. To drag this blog from beneath the sands of postless time into its rightful place upon the plains of obscurity. It has been a long time not to rhythm my lines. The poetry of my life is not mirrored faithfully by what is here of course, but it is a mirror. A house of mirrors, and through it I may ask once in a while, does my mind look big in this? For it is big, but big isn't always beautiful. It is where I graze my thoughts freely un herded and unheard. But that isn't sad, that's what I have asked for. I stop and wonder who am I typing to then. Who?

To Pigeons

2008-05-07T16:37:00.000-07:00

Eight days passed May and nothing is written much less meant, much more intended. Here a jumble for those offended, remain with me suspended in friendship. Bees and fans never mix, I have none, problem fixed, but thats a fix within itself, for who I write is hard to tell.

But as this venture roots and swells I can look behind at something left. A trail of breadcrumbs for literate pigeons to pick and peck, led by impulse, led by bread. Our aim must be to leave the ground, we all can fly, just as we peck, our wings catch the breeze, spread the seed so this weak sapling beats the weeds.

Barrel Chest

2008-04-29T18:41:00.000-07:00

Fields grow high when left to be,
Sway me with your method,
A wheeling iron belly,
Oil doesn't feed it,
But keeps alive the drive,
Through liquid fields,
That seem to grow,
Sinking wheels,
Get out and walk,
Blackened stalks,
Black grass talks,
Of dark burnt gold,
Whose grip is failed,
We stand in palm,
And beg it not to loose its hold.

Black Blankets

2008-04-12T20:19:00.000-07:00

Roads are eager weavers, woven threads by human beavers, damning nature, sure as fate, slate black acres are dead when laid. Black tracks lie and stretch, and all along the lines they belch to heaven's lights, the gates of hell, metal wretched to move attached to humans born to prove the tar is blacker when it moves.

I abide, the rules endure, I have my side, you have yours, its never known that rules collide, but roads are thin, we are thick, leaves brown like burning wicks, piles of death through which to kick.

And round and round they wind, rewind, strangle, tangle, wrangle, mangle. Crown of thorns upon the earth, barbed bangles, death from birth. Nay, say those of tar romance, advance entranced in eight lane dance. Advance to where within a trance? one must not drive sense enhanced. So look upon what we have and where we go, how we get there, to and fro, you look and see another road, black blankets smother mother's soul.

They grow and grow, more than trees, tar is sewn. Take their stand like older soldiers, roadside they sigh, fought a war, thats slipped our minds, they slip from us without a fuss, rearview mirror gathers dust.

Toggolloop

2008-04-10T10:38:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure how to describe him. He has no feet. Also, his eyes are back to front so he can only see inside his own head, which is rather unfortunate. Time passes slowly for young Toggolloop because of this. He has friends, but most people engage with him to watch that odd blue tongue of his flick in and out wildly. Toggolloop has no control over his tongue. It says what it wants to.

One day, I stumbled upon Mrs Wickery wearing such a frown upon her face, that it pulled her whole body bent right down to the floor. What's wrong Mrs Wick? I enquired. "That friend of yours, I'll never forgive him, he has compared me with the village bin and claims it has won on all counts; fragrance, personality and aesthetics."

I made the mistake of hesitating in silent, subconscious agreement with the crudity of Toggolloop's blue tongue. She smelt of old fish boiled in vinegar. The village bin was also quite fragrant as receptacles of rubbish go. As for aesthetics, I often confused the two from a distance. Up close I have been known to refer to the bin as Mrs Wick, while my criminal record includes a shameful count of attempted rubbish disposal within the oral cavity of same woman. I was too polite to stand up in court and admit that I had made an honest mistake of identification.

It was bad enough that Toggolloop often found himself a victim of his own actions, but the man was like the epicentre of an earthquake. The shockwaves projected outwards, those closest being the hardest hit.

When I found him sitting on the giant green grass grapes, Toggolloop was in despair. His tongue had left him, like a difficult adolescent, and snaked away to Hollywood to chase its dream as a celebrity blogger. Events had literally rendered the poor soul speechless. The unfortunate couldn't even lick the giant green grass grapes, which were particularly sweet at this time of year, everyone was doing it.

The village was a goldfish bowl, or perhaps, more appropriately, an old fish bowl, full of vinegar and Mrs Wickery. Toggolloop needed a period of calm and silence for reflection, a time to unwind, to find peace. With that in mind I decided we would find it in only one place...

Arctic Junky

2008-04-09T09:28:00.000-07:00

Snow billows in my face. I find I'm lost within this place, a great white space where minds can float, my feet sink low. Every step I take seems deeper white, the deeper the sink, the whiter the light, till one step sucks up to my knee, the next my thigh and its up too high. Sunken drunk, I plug the pain, brain it drains and I remain.

Firm foundations hold me tight so I stay still and chill. Do with me what you like. I am happy here, sincere tears freeze on my cheek and fall as I smile in mouth wrinkled peace. All over its soft like pillows of bubbles, if this is forever; I want it doubled.

I was going some place, but I never made it, I'm sorry to those who waited with patience, studied their wrists, eyed watches with worry, as if there was somewhere to be in a hurry. Don't look at your watch, I ain't there, mine has stopped and yours don't care.

Tick and tock, time takes stock, on it goes lumbered with numbers, growing alone, all else falls asunder. How much is zero? Four letters, one word, how many meanings, its quite absurd, how do you deem the sound of three or the smell of ten, if I'm close to five can I reach out to six? Five is four and six is three, so judging by letters six should be fore and five should succeed? But all of my words blow in the breeze, while thinking melts like ice water freed to the sea.

They may look for me but by then I'll be gone, sunken sun will rise again but Jesus rose and kept on going so still we keep his blood stream flowing. The higher he goes the longer it flows, we drink from its depths, it washes our toes.

Sinking into deeper white, my body is bread soaked in wine, frozen in these icy depths, who knows, I may last forever yet.

Garden of Breeding

2008-04-04T10:50:00.000-07:00

Another trance, I'll sew your pants to show the slow, romance, though scant, when stitched with love deserves a chance. A patchwork quilt, home of guilt, swaddling clothes, Jesus warns us not to wilt, pill trips ignore it, eclipse importance, wasted Mormons watch us worship abnormal foremen.

So show me the way, I'm blind, undermined by the truth that I know, but can't seem to find, its lost in the hay and needles my thoughts, that are stacked in a corner, darkened to nought.

Streets shine wet and the clouds squeezed dry, the rain has passed, it never lasts, but asks the grass to fast en masse; no choice, no voice, it has no noise; save for the sound of wind through the blades, rejoice in news of rain shadow's shade.

We all wait for things from the sky, it casts no shadow but colours us in, compels us, repels us and swells us with sin. Things don't grow from the ground but way up high, every birth is a birth borne of the sky.

My mind casts heaven as a kingdom of roots, no angels of white, but wild woven shoots, entangled in battles and meshed to a gauze that carpets the floor of all that is caused. A celestial farm tended by none, it grows at will, weed and flower, until distilled, the clouds refilled, full to fall as fresh power showers.

Earth floats, a great sphered mirror of growth and birth that's rooted near. We wonder where is heaven's Eden, this is it, God hates weeding.

Curly Crab

2008-04-03T17:20:00.000-07:00

Seaweed clears in a belching whip as the tide pulls to change its grip. Limpets suck a glistening rock, stuck like blisters under socks. Fish strike skittish darts, Curly crab watches under a rock. He's red and always looks like hes hiding something under that shell. More so than any other crab. Today is his birthday, the candles won't light on the cake because its underwater, which is lucky in a way because crabs can't blow candles out. They would have to call in the blow fish and they don't need such a deflated creature on this happy occasion. But crab isn't happy. His cake is melting slowly in the washing salt water, scavenged in darting pin prick sorties by wary shrimps. Some pity those living under a cloud, but what about living under a rock. What about living under a rock that's under a cloud? At least clouds aren't heavy, the worst possible outcome is a soaking, but how could crab get soaked? he lived in a rock pool! With all these thoughts and an ill chosen rock weighing heavy upon his crustacean mind, Curly Crab had had enough. Like a duck takes to water, Crab left it. Finding the air rather thin, embarrassing bubbles sprouted from his breath. But Crab had no sense of shame. One time, in the rockpool, he lay upon his back and pretended to be a starfish in an attempt to ensnare retarded shrimps. He failed monumentally. Some of the limpets came unstuck such was the intensity of their laughter, ironically awarding the last laugh to Curly Crab who feasted upon their bowled bowels in between unrestrained bouts of boorish chuckling.

Fool's Alchemy

2008-04-03T09:15:00.000-07:00

April fools in a big vase, a vase? yes a big vase, amazed by those looking in, wondering have they lived in sin. Add some gin, helps keep them in, drunken fools cant climb glass, alas they pass the gin and fail to last.

Next the ginger, haven't got it? take some gin, add some ger. Ger can be found in mounds beneath the rooty legs of spaghetti trees, it also grows on pegs with ease. With ginger added, the fools magic orange, like William would be if his name wasn't lies or pie in the sky.

When that is done grab some pie from the sky. If this proves beyond your reach, go tell your ma your breaches, made from leeches wear themselves, the clever creatures. She will preach your thoughts are lies, pie that's stolen from the sky. (particularly if you don't have breaches) Use them in the vase...hope they dont fly.

If you do this right, a blue bottle should appear beside you with a buzzing fly inside. Dont be fooled by his poems, he doesn't love you, he only wants to lick dried sweat from your salty skin. Put him in. But not the bottle, leave that for later when we adjourn ourselves to the blue birds brothel.

Now the vase should be foaming and poeming, if its too noisy take it off the boil, if the gin distills and boils, the fools will know their roles as foils, jokes, egg yolks...three, from birds that look like blokes. When yokes go in the vase should brim, take a sup, if its grim, take some salt and fling it at a nearby ass. Alas the ass may claim assault and lock you up within his vault. If he tries surprise his eyes with pepper spray to keep the braying pest at bay.

The rest goes in the vase. When the fools cry take their tears, drown them in years of fears of wimpy peers, return to vase and grow a beard. When its gray with silver streaks, may be years, may be weeks, the beard bear will come from lofty, wooded mountain peaks. This bit is a little dangerous. You must kiss the bear on the nose, don't let him bite your head off, a rose will help slow his anger flow. Now its ready, pour the vase upon your face and let it set. If possible, sit in a fridge, if not stand upon your head and please ensure your brain don't freeze!

By the time its ready April's gone, a beard of pain, the fool remains.

Pillows

2008-03-31T09:00:00.000-07:00

Every creature needs a pillow for its head, when thoughts weigh heavy and turn to lead. A pillow to hide, to rest its pride, a pillow to take a break from life. Take a pillow, be a pillow, save a thought for weeping willows. Save more for selfless weeping pillows, those pressed thin, beneath the skin, tumults rage from within. Be kind, recline, surrender mind, let crumbling pillars take their time.

Prometheus thinks that letting go will crush his fibre film flat but does he think we think like that and look above and hope he lasts? He the strongest pillar pillow, beneath a sky that kissed his elbows, soft with ease, his aching knees, ache not for fear of falling sky, but weighty thoughts of those who think it might.

Fear not, the roof will hold, the sky can't fall, the moon it floats, sailing stars can't sink like boats.

Cats, Poodles, Puddles

2008-03-27T06:21:00.000-07:00

I was chatting to chocolate in the midday sun, she melted before me and began to run. I chased her through the mint tiled streets up to polo lane. A risky place to run through if you have the luxury of such a choice. Unfortunately chocolate didn't. So she ran, her trail disappeared like a retracting tongue, down a polo hole. It is rumoured that whatever falls down polo lane falls in the next rain. As a rumour it never held much weight with me until the next rain fell, warm chocolate descended in misty sheets, side winding through sweet sugar streets. A white chocolate man wearing a crisp vanilla suit took fright and swept his white chocolate dog behind him, dangling mid air, to the safety of a nearby foil wrapper. Gentle puffs of strawberry breeze rolled away the chocolate laden skyfloss towards iced climbs that peered above the horizon in the shape of pecan pie peaks. As the skies cleared, funneling chocolate could be heard chugging down drains in that single sound, which above all others, signalled the end of heavy rains. Of the chocolate that remained, it stood in brown muddy puddles. Street dogs emerged from city cracks and crevices with suspicious noses to the ground, leading them eventually, to the bountiful pavement oases that were beginning to set about lapping tongues. Mode switch from lapping to licking. Pigeons pecked. Cats picked. Just as the puddles resolved to set, the sun peeped out aflame, angry even. Glowering airy discontent the puddles melted and ran again. Through the street the dogs and cats followed the flowing rivulets till they came upon polo lane. Down again chocolate flowed, facing dogs and cats with such a choice chosen hastily by the fleeting fancy of gnawing appetites. The polo holes sucked them in. It rained again...

News: The Hats are Off

2008-03-27T03:33:00.000-07:00

Wizards blow their noses with straw hats from scarecrows. Obviously the scarecrows aren't happy about this and have begun proceedings to have their hats reinstated. Wizards claim it is not they who are to blame but their noses which need blowing at least five times a day. The stand-off reached its climax yesterday, near the fifth exit of the yellow brick road, where three scarecrows working in a field of cabbage reported their hats whisked from their heads in an act that could be attributed to no-one else but the wizards council.

Weeping by the roadside one of the victims, a bald scarecrow of about 3 years old, bitterly complained "we have no defence against this, these aren't isolated incidents, the wizards are organised, they don't even need all the hats they're stealing. Look at me do you honestly think I'm scary without my hat? They're taking away our livelihoods."

As we spoke a well-known scared crow swooped low upon the field with malicious intent. "Look there. That crow is swooping about like 50 cent with wings. There was a time when a bird would fall out of the sky just by looking at me." But now the tables have turned. The scare crows have become the crow scared while wizards blow their noses with supreme disregard for all but themselves.

Scarecrows claim this is the last straw. They are adamant the wizards must move first on this issue since scarecrows have no legs, but the wizards, like the scarecrows, are standing firm. "The wizard's council wishes to express its deep regret at recent events and how they have been manipulated by the scarecrow controlled media," recited a spokesman as he shoved a straw hat up his right nostril and magicked my camera man into a furry slipper. Reports suggest the other slipper originally took the form of Dorothy, an ironic end for the girl who was first brought here through the power of her magical footwear.

Travelling the famous yellow road it is obvious that this is about more than just straw hats and runny noses. The problem lies much deeper. After years of land control using scare crow tactics, the wizards are clearly attempting to redress the balance in their favour through ritualised, organised nasal cleansing.

Together with this is the worrying proliferation of spells of mass destruction, not only among wizards but scarecrows also. One spell test in the middle of the Yellow Ocean proved that even the word honorificabilitudinitatibus was not beyond them.

Worrying times lie ahead for the Land of Oz.

Toad and Blob

2008-03-25T16:49:00.000-07:00

A little blob on the road. It crossed halfway and found a toad. The toad was white and grinned quite wide with purple hair upon his chin. Bob the blob tried to nod but had no neck so had to roll. Confused old toad was not amused. He shut his mouth and stood up straight, walked web feet to a crooked gate. Hinges groaned as toad encroached, complained of pain since rust had came every time a guest approached. "Please climb the wall its not that tall." "Climb me?" it bawled and rose up high; I wasn't built for pleasure climbs. Toad thought, blob told a joke, noone laughed which made blob sob, unmoved, the toad spoke to God about the fact that dogs ate frogs. God sat atop the bawling wall, green bottles standing either side. God was thin, barely there, dressed to make the ladies stare and stare they did through shuttered lids to make God blush beneath their glare. "God...oil my mind or oil the gate, how can we pass this impasse great?"But God's lips were there for show, they couldn't speak, only glow. Blob impressed, the toad less, abandoned God though so well dressed.

Toad and blob wait at gate to see what turns fate might take.

SouperBird

2008-03-23T09:50:00.000-07:00

Excuse me, my soup flew away. Where is it? The Sky. What soup did you order? Potato and Leek. I see...did you blow on it? Well it was quite hot. You shouldn't have done that, its very jumpy. Have you had any of it? Yes I tasted it. Oh its going to be terribly lonely you will have to let it out. What?? How!? Just open your mouth and rub your belly. No way, not with all these people watching. Well the only way it will go is up at this stage. Its the only way unless... Unless what? Well you could use the upside down ceiling toilet but you could be strapped to it for hours. What if i don't let it out? Soupnapping is a serious offence. If you keep it in there the soup will revert back to its original ingredients and potatoes will start growing out of your ears. Leeks will sprout throughout and tickle your throat, and if you sleep too long they will root you in the ground so deep that no one will be able to help you, merely harvest vegetables from your aching limbs. You will serve as a reminder that flying soup is not to be fettered.

OK rub my belly....and so he did, through opened lid a bird of draping feathers bright, took flight from lips it gripped with talon tips that ripped the skin to bloodied drips. Behind a line of little chicks round like spuds and green like leeks, formed squadron meek, wings so weak flapped flurried frantic busy beat. The one in front flapped a draughty tide his wings so strong his breadth so wide, he glimmered in the dying sun feathers shimmered dimmer as it sunk.

Dark...blushing sky regained its poise, withdrew to black, the soupbirds swallowed once again must wait for day to make ammends.

The Cold Face

2008-03-19T18:01:00.000-07:00

Cream: Give me a week, I'll be gone off in a week
Milk: You're gonna be used by then are you mad? Look at me, I'm already half used
Cream: Did you ever wonder why that is? Those people take advantage of you, you got to let them know who you are, go straight to their thighs. Its the only way.
Celery: Wish I knew where they were, all I ever do is pass through.
Cream: Did anyone ask you? If you didn't come from a cow I don't want to hear you.
Blue Stilton: I came from a cow.
Cream: If you didn't come from a cow and are blue stilton...I don't want to hear you.
Blue Stilton: Why don't you like me? It's because you weren't good enough isnt it.
Cream: Don't you know what they say about cream, floating to the top...
Blue Stilton: so do turds
Cream: humans don't eat turds
Blue Stilton: they're not eating you either hahaha
Cream: its a sad day when I'm being laughed at by something I can smell before I can hear it.
Milk: shush someone's coming

enter a deep filled apple pie, squeezed in beside the cream, the plot thickens...to be continued

Leaves to Float

2008-03-13T07:04:00.000-07:00

Imagine if trees grew passed the blue to space and through? Would that mean Jack could climb up to the moon and onwards till his beans did shine like stars to all who looked above for beans are stars with fleshy gloves. And what of humble lumberjack, he chops a tree, it wont come back. Birds invest their rest in crafted nests to see them lifted far too high, they lay their eggs the trees still grow till space unlocks their holding brace and so they float through stars in endless grace. Apples no longer hang but strain to drift, a child climbs branch by branch and reaches full for forbidden fruit, lessons humans never learn are taught once more, a chubby hand swallows fruit and follows suit, lost in space to twirl and swirl at vacuumed pace.

Trees that grow too high will smother cities underneath and take their fruit, from earthen roots, away to fill the cosmic sea. Floating fruits will sprout new roots whose blind pursuit to anchor deep will find no base and find no feed. Trees that grow too high will block the sun and darken eyes. Trees that grow too high will pierce the sun, branches char, the sun it runs, timber veins undone, let flow the tide that crashes down and bursts the sky.

But trees they never grow so high, so why behave as though they might?

Tea Total

2008-03-10T06:38:00.000-07:00

Today I dreamt and woke to find my hive alive inside my mind. Under spells and seas swelled well my boat was tossed upon the shore. There I found a beach bleached white, its grains were square of crystal light and numbered thousands, every pinch, it grew and stretched its glowing fringe. Lying flat upon my back the sky grew grim, drawing in, clouds like cloth, with holes and folds, menaced wrath and pricked my soul. Metallic stir, a lightning spur, cloud sponges squeezed inter their guts, so brown comes down of liquid drown the ground around soaks sucking brown. Sucking white from bleached shine beach and spreading leach soon reached the sea. A water cloud, moisture shroud, soaked ghost through host to make it choke.

Sparkling white watered brown, the beach of crystal lost its bleach and melted slowly to the sea. I took a crystal in my hand that slipped from solid sparkle cube to glooping drooping glueish goo. My feet! gone amongst the melt, ankles kissed by flowing tide from solid mass to fluid flow I wondered at the hand being dealt and wondered would I ever know?

As I sink I fade away, I try to think but think too much and thoughts they crush me rushing through. Didactic needs, lactic greed, heights unreached, unwatered seeds stampede, now freed last moments feed their frenzied fall like broken beads. And when it all falls apart, it ends, I wake; beach of bleach sinks beneath unconscious stream that teems unclean while surface gleams. There upon the banks I lie, half woken, sleepy, yet undried. A lady, heavy boned with metal kettle offers up a cup of tea. Please, says I and pleased was she, sugar offered, two for tea.

Tea of tree flowed a stream, I smelled the heat and let it bleed. Sugar dropped like ice it melted, lost but found, a beach unsheltered.

Counting Sheep

2008-03-05T09:01:00.000-08:00

The market buzzed, a sheep stood up, he held a cup and slurped a sup. Swallows flew through skies of blue and spied the sheep and thought of stew. But sheep aspired to climbs much higher, a diplomat, a vocal squire; the one who stood and never sat and swore to bite the biting gnat. Farmers thought it rather odd for sheep to stand among the flock and brand himself the son of sods who wish wear the shepherds smock. Shepherds looked and saw the stand and braced tight their smocks with sheepish hands. Music slid a slide to quiet, haggle quelled from swollen riot, bells were heard from necks for sale whose tails flew quick to flies but failed. Assembled market stood stone quiet, feet shuffled patterns in the dust. An old iron gate that treasured time that clotted on it, dust on rust. Baited breath awaited sheep who stood so firm as watchers peeped. All expected words to fall, but why? when sheep have never talked.

TranscenDental

2008-03-03T06:15:00.000-08:00

A tube of toothpaste set stone hard, I squeezed it out the minty lard, cut it into little disks for little freaks to get their kicks. They're teeth were vile, rotten smiles, they threw their disks for many miles; without a thought for browning teeth that festered foul like melting meat. Distraction proved the prime attraction, teeth embroiled in oral toil, loosed their roots and tore their shoots; escape from gummy gumptous soil. Pop, pop, so light they dropped, falling yellow feathers settled gently, gentle settlers. Freaks entranced in disk romance dropped their teeth and on they pranced. Disks dropped; so there they hopped to throw again, chase and race, till heaven's end. Alas, along their blind disk caper, the freaks got lost and tired like crumpled paper. Through the mill and grilled the disks lay still; placebo pill.

And lost were they along the way, what once was coloured dulled to grey, the disks forgot; accept their lot, know their meaning; little dots. Freaks were bleak, they knew no meaning, knew no place; lost, they found no homely trace. Demeaning leanings leant upon them; but tears they flow from troubles peak towards the valley through to peace. Their tears they flowed along the path from where they came through fallen teeth, tears they rush they bleed and bleed soaking soil, teeth sense the need. Roots lick the folly of the tears, soak dope rain through fleshy veins, sprouting trains of veins anew the freaks looked on as orchard grew. Trees stretched through the journey back to home for freaks who thought their senses stole. They shone so white the trees bent down, their pearly fruit soft touched the ground.

And home was reached by merry dance. The trees were seen by moon who beamed and wished his teeth were half as clean.

Yolklore

2008-03-02T06:05:00.000-08:00

I took the train through tumbled tunnels with light like lines of fire in funnels. Fanning veins of spindled flames, the roof cracked off but felt no pain. Bees averse to fearsome flame traverse the frame of fires that cant be tamed. But then from space a spoon of grace loomed floating boating silver shining; behind it falls of light cascade, rainbow white on silver lining. Spoons, they bend, says story teller, believe it not! said Yuri Geller. A moment spoke but shut up quick, the spoon it dove and dug a hole, a pocket picked of lava slick, its yellow heart oozed thick by tick. A nick, tickle, trickle, pour; yellow yellowed roof to floor. Sunk the spoon, fat round goon, lampooned a flood and out poured its doom. It swept away and I flew then. Spied from on high away from men. An egg explodes, a mangled spoon, revenge at last, at last a chicken has a laugh. Then my friends the laughter tumbles, glen to fen, chicken den to chicken pen. It spreads the land far and wide, shepherds heard it; their sheep affright. And then the horse, he saw the joke and laughed so much he broke his yoke.

Ploughs fell flat, jockeys sat, cowboys mused upon the flats. From horse to cow and cow to dog it passed to cat and cat to frog. Croaking laughter followed after heard by tigers on the prowl, close to wolfish hunting pack, their jowls jiggled howl by howl. It spread and spread; a joke on men whose straightened lips turned tight with worry. Furrows flurried human brows, creased sincere; their fields unploughed. Leaves tickled by the blowing breeze, heard word and shook the boughs that shook the trees; the roots stretched merry, grass was touched and laughed so much it came unstuck. Afar from steps in Rome to trees bent over, to laughing sheep and cliffs of Dover; the whole world quaked awake and men attend with frowns drowned sober. Laughing crease the world it cracks, splitting sides, its gaping grin, the molten yoke flows out within. The fiery tongue of yellow yolk, white hot; a cosmic egg, a cosmic joke. It sets among another sun, fried flat, like that, cooked well done.

Raining Horse

2008-02-29T02:42:00.000-08:00

Funnel web, the spider sits, stuck to task, his eight eyes blink. The drop it came from high above, it whistled through and sang of love. Inside I spied a tiny horse, grey like mist, he kissed the edges tense and tight, crystal light, for better or worse. Falling then the drop did bend and faster now towards the web which shook and ebbed upon the stems that held it up, for fallen friends. Spiders sit still till thrills spill upon their death sieve's sills. It fell and broke upon the sticky silk, the drop like glass splintered shards, the horse stuck tight, eyes rolled white, nostrils flared from breath grown hard. The muscles surfaced to the skin and begged the question from within "can i come out before he comes in?" The twitch, like cosmic itch, spider jumped and rolled and pitched. Steady now the horse is eight, projected fate for soon he'll leave the spider's plate. Oh woe is me, my purple thoughts, this blackened soot has wrought them fraught. But still the web as breath grew dim, refracted sun like heaven's prism, touching gently warm and light, unfetters all from silk string prisons.

Bubble Burst

2008-02-28T05:42:00.000-08:00

The first, the erst, the bubble burst. A day has dawned, a cherry tree, its boughs waylaid with fruit for free. Pop is music of the skin, it touches ears but not within. So come with me, take a trip, a passage through the earhole lips. Further, further I take thee hence to see my world, to see it clear and know my innards and my sense. Further onwards dinner dance, kiss my thoughts, take a chance, and u may find my inner sense. And now its clear you travel far, the journey bound it has no end, so take me with you where you go and i will lead u followed friend. I will follow, innocent, Never stop the ground is wet, stand still too long your feet will set, stuck forever, cement regret.