28 July, 2010

as a rainbow

Flying around the world so high, the fly observed disturbance. After hiding beneath a leaf as raindrops pattered down, the sun came out and shone nonsense when water still battered from the sky. Then in a moment of brilliance blinding, two bows appeared minding, carving out a pathway in the blue.

In all, with all, zipping in and out, the fly set off to find how such colours came about. Chasing further in the sky, it never seemed to reach, for just as it thought it was drawing nigh, the rainbow just moved further out of reach. On and on, the fly kept doggedly, wanting coloured prize, but then in utter fatigue the fly fell and fluttered, feeling small in size. Feebly trying to steady flight, the fly stretched out its wings, but too tired was its meeting and too fast was it wheeling.

Down below, while painting hall, the man turned 'round a moment. A little splosh he did not hear while tin of paint sat in rear. Swashing up a brushful, there the poor fly stood. Evermore to grace the halls and in death, to enhance the walls.

23 July, 2010

a letter

To the wending stream to the willow
By the whistling moss-strewn pillow

Myrias of myria
Greeting of the dee
From a time gone by

Here in ancient room now bare
Where all is torn and taken
I sit at the last remaining furniture
To write you this
My last
At last.

I remember a time from long ago
When we ran beneath daisied boughs
Laughing, rolling by the stream
The two of us a team.

We had good times and many laughs
It's been an age
But no present time
Has been as great as those
No, not by half.

Remember the day we found that frog
Hidden beneath the stone?
How we built him a little house
Caught insects and fed him?
Remember how you insisted he needed a friend
And after many hours
Found one about his size?

I know you are busy
I know you don't have much time
But I wanted to tell you one more time
That while I know things have changed
And we have turned our separate ways
You the high road
I, the low road

My love for you has not dimmed
It has not paled
So while now you send me away
From this old place full of memories
I know you do what you think is best
And while my heart twists within me
To think that perhaps I've been betrayed

I remember that your heart is not so cold
That still
You are a human being
Capable of feeling
Despite our differing opinions

One day this war will be won
And we will both be judged by other men
Let our consciences be clear
Of all the deeds we have done.
I know mine is.

So as I go with your men
Willingly to my death
Please consider this
My last
Let me see your face
One last

22 July, 2010

send me

"Send me, sir. I will go," said the young boy.

Hairy caterpillars worked up and down as the man contemplated the offer.

"You realise, lad, that this will be a dangerous task?"

"Yes sir, I do. I'm quick on my feet and know the streets better than any cabby. I can hide and nobody would ever question another little boy running around."

"That is true, but do you understand the utmost importance of the responsibility you are taking? It is but one letter, but the weight of its matter could well break your back if others learn that you are the messenger."

"Yes sir. I understand. Send me. I will go. Nobody else wants to."

Wrinkles forced the hairy caterpillars to writhe in what seemed like worry.

"You cannot stop for breath, cannot misplace, cannot lose this letter. You may well be sought for and killed. Are you absolutely certain?"

"Ask the master there, sir," said the boy, pushing his peaked cap up a little higher so that he could look above the man's well groomed chin. "He knows how responsible I can be."

The master nodded thoughtfully, though his thin-pressed lips seemed troubled.

"He's a good lad. He'll do as his told without a second to waste."

"Very well then. You, my young man, will go. I only wish you weren't so young, for though you may deliver the letter, there is a good chance, you may not make it back."

"Oh, I will, sir. You wait and see. I'll be there and back in a jiffy, only you tell me where to go and who to see."

"I will that, my young man. What's your name?"

"Jeffrey Hold, sir."

"Then young Jeffrey. Here's the letter. Put it in your breast pocket and let no other see it or even know it's there. Do not lose it at any cost. It must be delivered within the week to either a lady with golden hair and a pearl ring upon her left little finger or to a tall footman with a scar across his nose like so and who stutters when he talks."

Jeffrey repeated what the man said, committing it to memory and the hairy caterpillars lifted in seeming surprise.

"The place you are to go is Castleford, across the river. There you may find either of the people I have described to you and you may be sure that if you ask them if they had found an apple penny, they will be sure to answer you with a confirmation that they had and will tell you where next, you are to go. Here, Jeffrey, I will give you a few coins to keep you on your way. Be careful."

"That I will, sir." Again, Jeffrey carefully repeated the instructions until he knew them and the hairy caterpillars nodded in time to his words. "When should I start?"

"That you'd best ask your master. When do you think would be best?"

"I believe he should have a good supper and rest well tonight. Then tomorrow morning, he should leave in the morning market rush, with a full stomach to send him on his way."

"There you go, lad. Is there anything you would like?"

"Only a spare handkerchief and a belt."

"And you shall have them." The man pulled out a extra large sized handkerchief from his pocket and gave it to the boy. "There you go. I dare say your master will see to the belt."

"That I will. Go see Cook for supper first, lad, and I'll see what I can find you."

"Thank you sir. Thank you master. I'll bid you a good night then."

And off the boy trotted, looking ridiculously much too young for such an important task as this. The men almost felt as if they were monsters, for sending such a young lad into the fray, but they were helpless to do anything else.

"God help him and watch over him," murmured the bushy caterpillars, already moist.

"Amen," said the master in a quiet tone.

20 July, 2010

irate man

He glared around the court, eyes red-rimmed and face all haggard. Unkempt hair and prickly beard gave vent to his intense frustration.

"Can the world do any more to me? Can things get any worst? You have no ears, you do not hear, even though I tell you the truth. What hope have I? What care do I have left in this world?" the man shouted irately to the sky. "What more can the world bring me?

"My brother is in another country, being tried for being a Christian. My mother is in hospital, sick and dying, while all my material goods have been seized. My sister is trapped in a bad marriage where her husband abuses her; and my children kidnapped. Held hostage, for goodness sake! My wife was murdered and my in-laws are being terrorised.

"I am a wanted fugitive in my own country, where even my closest friends will not see me - for a crime. A crime I did not commit. A crime I knew nothing about and had but the misfortune to be present at the time. After my startling arrest and during the transfer to another facility - you say I escaped. I will admit that I hoped the escape was real, but no. Do you not know that masked men held me at gun point and bid me do as I was told. What choice had I when both my life and the life of my innocent children were at risk, but to obey? They took me in a car and brought me to the city. I was told to walk down a street and if I refused or tried to run, a gunman would kill my children, one by one, and they would make sure I knew it. There, as I walked was I re-captured. I did not struggle, I made no protest, though I have been treated ill. I looked the officer in the eye and told him where the gunmen stood, before the bullets flew. Yes, there was a gunfight and I was unharmed, make no mistake of that. It was not by my doing, I assure you. I am sorry the fine officers died, more so that not all the gunmen were. Do you not understand? Can you not see that you are being forced to look at me, while away from your watchful eyes, they do their evil deeds? I do not know them. I have not seen their faces uncovered. And now you wish to condemn me to death, to have me leave my children parentless and hostage still. What do you think will become of them? Have you found them? Have you? Have you?

"What else can the world throw at me? I am already a broken man."

And he broke down and wept, while the court shifted uneasily in their seats. It is never easy to see a grown man weep, even one accused of such a heinous crime as this.

The judge cleared his throat. Either this man had been through much or he was truly the world's greatest actor, because even he, the stoic judge of impartial law, was moved by the trials the man bespoke. Yet he had to speak and deliver both verdict and hasty message passed onto him not 10 minutes ago. Poor man, what else could the world throw at him but this?

"Whether you have pleaded guilty or not guilty, the evidence has been laid bare before the court. The jury has found you guilty of the accused crimes and the sentence as such is death. Also, the message that earlier arrived, I am sorry to inform you. Your children have been found. Both dead, left in the rubbish tip. The police believe that their murder had nothing to do with this case, but rather due to the fact that the ransom note delivered your empty home was left unanswered."

Poor man. Poor poor man. He was innocent, of course.

19 July, 2010


In this I know it passing well, where whence the spigot turned its tell and now I tell you mysterious lay of shining baubles, glistening hay. Oh, aye, take note, take note, tis well that gargoyles gargle - for tis not a bell; Then take ride upon the eventide where bloodwake ripples in sunset's stride, for I have no care of seeming please to make my heart beat in with lease, just so that thou might take my place and mutter amidst thy brainless wastes. Oh, thou thoughtest I knewest not and nay, here I am, to thy face absurd. Then wait for it, wait for it, your angry SHOUT when thy truest will comes rise about. Tch. Wilt thou not speak my happy foe? Wilt thou not hear of deeds well low? How in the night, under cover of dark, thou tookest my dearest and left there your mark? Or how in westerly blowing wind thou didst set alight my only park? I tell thee, nay, I adjure thee, get thee hence. I'll not see thy face no more - no wisp, no lisp, no more masking. Hence!

What? Think you I mad? Twas not my doing, no, nor my reasoning. For thou heardest of what befell my fate and sad, you did what you had long a-wait.
Go to, go to, old friend, twice fell. I'll remember thee to eastern shores, thy name upon the weather mores. Oh, all eyes will keep, aye. All eyes will keep for sight of thee, that no more injure me my sores. And then in misty dawn you rise, wishing still to take my prize, but I know thee. Oh, I know thee, my most ancient foe and I'll not lease to thee my remaining cause.

Oh, the joys of hearing Shakespeare. That language really gets stuck in your head.

16 July, 2010


Take the pulp of an orange, the peel of a firjoa, the essence of a cumquat and the hair of a pineapple. Mix.

Grate the juice of an apricot, the shedding of a turnip, the seed of a candle, the mush of a pomegranate. Mash with the former.

Place in a pot with the cream of the cream and heat until simmering point.

Amidst the leftovers of the same, the fibres may prevail. If this is so, point and stick in a blender. This will make them harder to see. Or if you'd rather, instead, take a pinch and there you will have it, an extract.

The essence of a story, the extract of a book.
A page of a cob corny, the sage of the tale.
Cut them up in jigsaw pieces and re-align again.
In this way, things will stay fresh and you'll never be bored again.

Yesterday morning, I sat down and stayed there all day, typing. Twenty pages later, on review, it was insufficiently stuffed. Halfway there.

07 July, 2010


Hands are hard things to draw, but I reckon feet are harder. Then again, it depends on which one you spend more time drawing. I can see my hand to copy it, but it's harder to put my foot on the table and copy it (from different angles, etc).

Well has it been said that the polka dotted tinted window will melt in the sunshine. Over time, it has been known to flow against gravity and even open, especially in summer. Unfortunately, its viscosity is such that it cannot get very far before night falls and it has to return to its proper falling.

Yesterday, the tie of bottles emptied. Meaning, the lolly train has not been and must be re-altered to take a larger load. Unfortunately, the table may complain about the strain and go on strike. We'll see what we can do.

Pens, pens, everywhere, pens! It's been raining pens on this fine day with splotches of clouds. Black pens, blue pens, red pens, green, purple, orange, yellow! Pens of all colours, shapes and sizes. Could it be that someone somewhere has lost a dozen truckloads of pens? The problem with the unexpected rain is that walking on a pile of pens is inadvisable in slippered feet, as the broken ends may draw blood and you may end up with very well graffitied distal limbs. Now that I have a huge spare cache, would you like some?

06 July, 2010

i know

I know that sometimes, you have more support for something else that you do and yet... you still choose the 'road less travelled'. The frying of onions whole is a bit more difficult. Especially when you have to figure out a way to fry the whole onion so that the inside is crispy, but the outside ain't burnt. Honestly. You'd need to start with a low heat over a long period of time maybe.

Anyway, here I am. This space allows more freedom of thought. The onions are worlds within worlds within worlds. Each has to have a proper infrastructure or risk rot and becoming mush. There's just so much more air here. I can say what I want. It doesn't have to be related to anything and it doesn't matter what anyone thinks. Just wordspill.

Flagrant blagrant
Either eider
Magnificent maleficent
Tragic Cedric
Yellow bellow
Pollen whollen
Tickle sickle
Pop hop
Moat groat
Shoot loot
Boot it out the window


Amidst a freezing morning dreary
Where sluggish traffic rattles tary
And Bridgewater Jerry mistles by
And early shoppers hug their rye
Little birds huddle shivering
On the fluttered leaves quivering
While sleepy workers groan at the thought
Of another day full and frought
With little tasks and tediums
Boring casks and encyclopedians.

02 July, 2010


When winter's frosty mornings
Fail to sheet slippings
Boughs all rise
Sprightly they green
Grandly they deem
awaitened spring
no more a lonely dream
And colours will abound
And happy echoes sound
As into sky burts little songs
From little fluffballs round
Then the golden plumes
come bursting forth
in an explosion of yellow humes
Pollen counts give porth
To noses running, sneezing.