Monday, March 23, 2009

Camel Leopard

A timeless work of art,
from the dry and empty Tenere.

It must be even older than,
that "desert of deserts".

The Greeks called it the camel leopard,
that long-necked one.

(Today we use it to explain (and riducule) Lamarck,
and as a model of high blood-pressure).

Sunday, March 22, 2009

Red Rodney Round Midnight!

He was a cool guy, Red Rodney!

Thursday, March 19, 2009


The first time she saw him,she laughed,because it so obviously wasn't the first time.

The second time,he laughed as well,and they greeted each other as old friends do.

The third time,they were lovers,lying in silent naked embrace on a narrow wooden bed in a small room with a slanting ceiling.

Through the skylight, the deep blue night looked like something Chagal would have painted.

She had a vision of large orange cats grinning on the garden wall, their colours standing out brightly in the powdery dusk.

She slept.

And her mind wandered off to some ancient place, she saw herself clinging to her lover like a single rock in the ocean.

Becoming one in every sense; a love beyond false overtones of grandiosity, of anxiety or of guilt.

A love overshadowing all other sensations with frightening urgency.

At the point of orgasmic climax they burst into flames and were shot upwards through spiritual planes like a two-headed astral rocket.

When it seemed they could travel no further, she broke free, and he plummeted flaming downward into an endless void of blackness.

She held out her arms, and willed there to be something.

Suddenly, galaxies spiralled sickeningly around her form and a great cacophany of voices hollered into the blackness.

She smiled, and dived backwards through nebulæ in search of her lover's touch.

When she found him again, they amalgamated into one, two shapes mirroring each other. Gaia and Uranus. Yin and Yang. It was quiet.

And in them was the whole of creation, and their's to bask in was the endless shining white light of time.

She awoke. He was gone.

She leaned back on the pillow and smiled cynically to herself.

You can't break free, she thought, I will be here-and I will be with you.


And she went back to sleep, sad but contented, and in her next dream she saw a unicorn.

A wounded unicorn shambling towards her in a foresty glade.

Hippie Interlude!

The Hippie Interlude is Bert Sommer singing "Jennifer" live at Woodstock! For some reason I just like this;

Thursday, March 12, 2009

Who Steals Snails?

"Someone has stolen a snail."


"Serious. There were three snails. Now there are two."

"It's there. You probably just can't see it in the weed and that.."

"No. I would have been able to. It's not there. It's gone. It must've been pinched!"

"By who? Er..Captain Macheath..?"

(Sarcastic laughter)

"There were three snails. Now there are two. It's gone. See for yourself."

(Examines culture)

"Yes. Only two. But it can't have been stolen..."

"Why 'can't' it have been stolen?"

"A pond snail?"

"It's not just a pond snail, that. It's like, an exotic type."

"No it isn't. There aren't any 'exotic' pond snails. Even if there were, where's our mysterious exotic-snail spotting thief going to flog it?"

"You're only interested in motive. We haven't got to motive yet. It's just facts for now."

"Alright! But abscence of a single pond snail doesn't make thievery a 'fact'."

"There is no other explanation."

"The phantom pond snail pilferer of foggy London town strikes again, eh?"

"Stop trying to distract me with silliness."

(In some sort of imitative voice): "Arrr...what luck" An exotic pond snail with five figure 'street value' just lying around here for the taking!"


"Why don't we flog the other two...or would anyone else notice they're gone and get us sent to Alcatraz? Maybe we're already being framed! Maybe..."

"There it is."


"Here. It's under the table top. It must've worked it's way out of the's been escaping while we spoke."

(Genuine amazement): "That's...amazing. How'd it did it do that? Can it do that?"

"It has. We'd better put a lid on the culture."

"Under the table top! That's...that's devious, that is!"

"Whatever..get over it. As long as they weren't stolen."

Tuesday, March 3, 2009

A baker's dozen fragments of Gnomic wisdom and snazzy drape coats

Are we a collection of Swiftian spiders in a grisly cellar, conjuring web from their own innards..."Isn't my web especially fine?".

We can be heroes, just for one day. But then there's to-morrow. And then there's 30 years on. And then we are laughed at for the cut of our coat. This is why so many young people just grasp the chance to be an instant cliché. Getting it over with, like.

You can say this:
"I have no other; but she doesn't understand. I will never have another, but you can't tell her that. Why does it have to be that way? Why does this openness breed contempt? What is wrong with us?"

Bathing with salts and Epsom salts is better than just ordinary bathing.

People who "win" are deluded. They seem to think life is a series of games that only they understand the rules to. Like a casino where they can stack up "Karma chips" because no one else is watching the roulette wheel. I'm not saying they won't be happy that way.

From Hermann Hesse's Narcissus and Goldmund; "God requires many things from us other than having visions."

"Bubble and Squeak" is fried cabbage, I think. I don't know how it came by that name. Probably some obvious reason. It would become clear, I suppose, if I ever made "Bubble and Squeak". But I can always surf it up. It's for things like this that the Internet was invented.

Much fanaticism is born in the lonely darkness where dogma meets doubt. Poor bastards in agony!

"In the land of the contrary, the conformist is the counter-voice!". Or something. It's not true because there's a logical break. The fact that there are real absolutes doesn't mean that they haven't constructed false ones.

Boca Juniors have a yellow and blue strip because of the flag on a Swedish ship...the first ship to anchor at Boca. I'd be more convinced if the tourists being told this weren't "near-Swedes". That's a national inferiority complex for you!

Males of my generation divide neatly into the sexually satisfied, and those who are quiz-show-winner-level experts on popular cultural ephemera.

Video killed the Radio Star? Well, "Bootytweak" drowned the video-geek! Someone, somewhere, I'm sure, is still making great music. But he's/she's more than ever like the unpopular warm-up act. Do I sound old when I say that it's too visual? "After all, they were saying that about Elvis back in the Fifties", like...?

With cardboard dreadnoughts on a parquet floor, my sons and I re fought Jutland with a die.

Ain't this some snazzy tailoring?