In this, there are none

It is hard when the tumult of thoughts cascade and dash themselves upon worn ways. Stubborn to change, fighting against attrition. They jump away like the rabbits, fly with the pegasi and glide with the whales. They know the deep and they know the heights. They flitter like undecided insects, unsure of which place to go, butted by the wind. When they cause slow raging storms, the pressure can make you whistle like a kettle chugging away at full steam in the crater of a dormant volcano.

That's when you get sense like this. It has no sense, but the urge to find a crack. Find the weakness. Blow the chink and then WHOOSH. It's out there. No one need see. No one need know. It's not about the words as such. Nor is it about the content. It's about the flow and surge, the pull and gurgle of the tidal waves dragging on the shore. It's the crunch of the twigs beneath the feet, the stinking hot and stale air that doesn't seem to move, no matter how fast you run. It's the sharp scented current that whispers past you nose and pats your memories on the head, telling of the child who just earned their favourite dinner for getting A grades in every subject.

In the typing of the fingers and the satisfying squish-stop of the keys, in the unending tap-tapping of the keyboard and the hard disk's fanning wheeze; there the pictures flow from the brain image to the the metaphor, and in the midst of rushing stormy word-winds the presence is in the fore. Liquid trickling, dancing in the light and glittering in attention, little ideas flit and glow, being butterflies alight on windy toes. Here the stomp of Goliath's footsteps alerts of coming danger, but there David's mighty 30 stand ready at attention. With Words of power the dark is held, with songs of victory the nagger flails, and with the truth the liars mouths are stopped. Stuffed. Gobsmacked and speechless.

Warriors will stand with winking armour in the sun and happy rivers run at the feet of the blessed one. The garden, it expands as the innocent child plays. And bowing lions take their ease when the majesty is displayed.

Every orchestra strikes the strings and every woodwind plays. The oboe, the flute, the viol, the lute, all music here arrayed. Sound the trumpets brass band, let the deeping horn boom call and the french horns curl their bells when the timpani drummers roar.

Up the mountain, down the valley, in the forest born, little ribbons flutter from the railings and scatter on the moors.

Less and less

My posts are becoming less frequent as I busy myself with more and more stuff. Twylla is starting to emerge from hiding as her revisions got underway. Someone's stuck a stick in the works at present, but she should be in fine old form soon. As soon as I get over there and demand what happened to her part in the onion blog.

Less and less
Harder and harder
it is to write
one measly
good sentence.

A sentence should roar
sing
proclaim
resound
ring
the reader with
heart and soul
make them nod
and say
'yes, that's right'
or
'oh, so true,
but will you read that
sentence?'

art
language
words
flow
bring to life
the inanimate.

trash

Where the wiggle has a squiggle, marching up to the bay, the miser and the lyser romp around all day.

Hush a moment, listen here. Can you hear it? Listen.

The salt on the table is called table salt, but you've never been to a salt lake, so you've never seen the salt monster.

Why should the elephant cry, leaving all the hazelnuts by? The crocodile will mash them all and then there really will be no ball. For bowling now, the squirrels use, the old jetsam coconut, not the quarrelsome cumbercue.

To what? See the pin drop on the horizon. Speak up, man.

On a day of contrary motions, the chromatics ran with glissful notion that all the scales of harmonic's pay will scare away melodic's day.

Starry night of mournful day, see how numbered people sway. In the cold wind biting, fighting for the last pot of whiting.

Chains and barbed wire wound round the pole. Red glooped and water ran down the side. This is what the punks did. Dirt blackened with liquid soaked and the smell of sweat lingered still. Glassy eyes stared unfocussed. Not far away, another coughed. Unnoticed. Immobile. Pain filled, with black bile. In the rising mist of the height, this lowly plain drew screams from the main. Scuffled dirt and crushed leaves stuffed up the nose. This was the price one must pay when they disagreed with the Metaglee.

Water flowed in wispy strides, down the battered gardenside. In flowing motion, like her scarf in the wind; in quiet grace, like her dancing by the stream.

Enigma of enigmas. This rat has a black day to fill with yellow. The maze that had been built, lost all who entered it and swallowed all who dared find their way. And yet, from the perch on the apple tree, one could see the straight road through it. Enigma of enigmas. This rat has found a new source to wallow.

Trash is what trash does. Smells of fairy floss and pee. Orange peels and rotting leftovers. The stench of carcasses swollen with maggots, the open sewer running over and filling the tip with its filth. Trash is what trash does. Loves all, takes all, embraces all and is no respecter of persons. If you stop still for hours, you'll see them that live among it. What is one man's loss, one man's junk, one man's waste, becomes another's treasure. They frighten easy and answer with surly silence.

Teacup, teacup, buttered toast on cheese. Grilled to perfection, without even a please.

Her ladyship's gown hung in the shadows. A grim foresight of things yet to come and this her happiest day. A life filled with torment and pain - to achieve this level of joy and gain... all to be lost to another's fancy whim. Just because they can.

extract

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.

hands

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?

and as in uffish thought...

What I was writing has accidentally been deleted. I pressed the mouse button one too many times. But perhaps it is better this way. For I spoke of nidotia and mythoti, explothrout of videmovida or ecoleurotions and wishodrams. And these things are beyond words - not for consumption until such a time as they are deemed ready. So with a hey, nonny nonny, I will just womit; wordspill upon here in the meantime. See what happens.


When will the shadows be cleansed?
By hopeless tide of wishless dread?
Who will make shudder the wind blown chime what will shake the hidden time?
Ha! Thou hast not heard!
And thou knowest not the things of which have been spoken!
Sit a while and hearken unto me, and I will tell thee of mighty deeds. Thy troubles cannot be solved by my hand, but unto thee my wisdom may I impart.

When a hero doth travel far, by and by his companion shall be meet.
A companion may not be worthy of a name, for he is hidden in the shadow of a mane.

What mane? I speak not of lions, my friend, but of other things of which there is not any word in any tongue that may describe it.
A challenge shall be given forth, that the hero must surely overcome or perish in its sight.
His companion in all likelihood shall trouble the hero's challenge and complicate his quest.
There shall be betrayal and intrigue, thwarting and scheming. Of these are there many variants.

Shall there be romance? Shall there be friendship? Unless the hero be unreal, relationships must tangle, tackle and conquer.
Patience is a virtue to many, but to wait over time, shall require thee a price. And the price may be too high to pay.

Better yet, take thy manuscript and hide it beneath thy bed or amidst the rubbish. Nay, better yet, take thee thy writing and here must thou burn it. For it is better for it to never see the light of day.
Wilt thou proclaim thy righteousness and thy power over the pen? But humble thyself and behave wisely, and a thing shall come at opportune time to steal the moonlight from the den.
Replace the cap. There, thou art. Let the sun shine forth in all its glory. Never mind, never mind.
What? Wast years of thy work? Ha! It is good.
Laugh. It is gone. Breathe the fresh air.
Now go thou forth and renew it. Create it, mould it, shape it.
Let it become. That is what thy imagination is for, is it not?
Then in the uffish stillness hear, the whispered breath of slippered year.
There. See how thou art skilled?

What? That Doctor? That raggedy man?
Nay, nay, my friend. Again, I say nay. He is fictitious; felicitous though he may seem. A dangerous notion, if ever there were any.
Blue box?
Yes, in the past. I saw it. Of course. I met him. A delightful fellow.
Because he is! My dear fellow, just because he chooses one in billions, doth not mean he shall take even the slightest notice of thee. Therefore he is fictitious, for in reality, he can never be, for he erased himself out of time and mind.
What art thou to thy fellows?
Unique? Surely. In time thou shalt see and understand.
The former is no more. The new is come.
You have seen it? Nay, thou hast not truly seen.
Come and I shall show it thee.
Now you see? Canst thou now understand my speech?

Yes, yes, bigger on the inside. Hurry on, we have places to go, things to see and an awful lot of running to do.
Yes, that was Jenny's line.
Accent? Well, I adopted it for you - thee, rather. See? Ha! I've been waiting for thee - you, all this time, so that we can get out of here.
Yes, yes, the key, the key! Honestly, you must be blind to have missed it, but then, humans on a whole are rather blind little creatures. They grope about in the dark and try to change the universe, but succeed in only making ripples. Little ripples. But one day that will change. So much potential, you lot.

Are you coming? Then hurry up and get a move on! Unless you'd rather be blown to smithereens. Come along!
Didn't I mention the hidden time before? Come on, you can't be that slow. Time machine. Yes! It's a time machine.
You are coming now, right? Good. Then let's gooooooooooo!



Imagine how God must see us. Puny little specks of dust, rolling in more dust.

aargh

Hark to the bargey lark
That saileth to the moon
Ignore him who heedeth not
To angry raging mood
Thus the blood rain falleth hot
And boiling waters rise
To expel the secret box of dark
Yet still addendum the lies
What say the grungy bees
Whom after raid the loom?
What will the windows please
When silver tangents groom?
Quickly falls the blocky ditch
Of which the yesters cease
Or stomping rhinos glaring pitch
Of cracking earthen pease
Take a jar of sweet-smelling lard
And paste it to the croaker
Jam the whiners mouth with card
And take them to the soaker
Whistle, whistle, rip the shard
Pity not the dripping turd
Yet in the broken after guard
Triple all absurd
Scribble-scrabble, wait a while
So coroner can gamble
Then hesitating throw a tile
At misbegotten ramble
And as in uffish selfish trial
Whiffles tulgy amble
In that very moment smile
Before cutting down peramble
Hark to the bargey lark
What saileth to the moon
For simple though the road to park
It giveth thee no boon.

periwinkle

periwinkle has a wrinkle
right there on his nose
nightmares tinkle
down the sink hole
to wash away the blows
stubborn mussel
nudges brussel
to wrestle wrinkle dose
but instead elbows
past the tussle
hitting periwinkle's nose.

actually nary

If you think reels don't deal fairly
Let's have a look at nary.

Pink and green and red and brown
Like the blank of nothing
Nary has a single frown
Looking with straight focus.

Now reels on the other hand
Plural their tapes like salt shakers
All across the soaken land.

What is fair to a latter rose?
What is fair to battered toes?

Cancel out all the multiples
Drawing out the special ones
This is what nary ripples.

Long do reels have to peal
Their everlasting tape
Of simile
And appeal
While nary ignores the happily
And gives the simpler feel.

Dealing fair?
Who feeds the bear?
Dealing fair?
Who meets the care?

Actually...
Nary.

Ever

Ever by the misty glades
Through the humid mountain sprays
Ever by the leafy shades
Does sunlight filter in by rays.

Ever on the sandy dunes
Where the bravest dare not assume
Ever during day a whistled tune
May allow a show of plume.

Ever on the salty shores
Of lapping wavelets tickling little dorms
Ever knocking on happy doors
Or planting newer tiny gorms.

Ever on the path will wander
To and fro across the land ponder
Ever learning not asunder
And by this be growing fonder
Of the place given as a gift
Full of plenty and not a-thrift.


Playing by the lullabyes the cranky lobster wept. For upon his softer shell the coronet from afternoon had leapt. Now it dug into his skin, (for yesterday he'd shed) and glistened with pinkly-pin, a glowing lovely red. By and by a musslet came, a-weaving and a-bobbling, saw the poor lobster's plight and continued on a-robbing. Then swept by a silver bream a-glistening in the ripples, pulled and pulled but could not stipple the coronet of whipples. Hefty then a large foot stomped and there an octopus came after, chasing after running lunch and filled with inky laughter. Seeing then the lobster's plight, the octopus did pry, and with words of comfort left again to return with a grafter. Not trusting hungry foe, tired lobster crept into hidden hole. Deeper, deeper into the dark and still the coronet it bit, but then cooling water and lack of light made the thing submit. It crawled back up toward the door where octopus sat lurking, hoping for the easy meal it had seen a-murking. Up sprang coronet, shining fair, onto the octopus' neck, there it looped and drooped and bit down hard without a single care.

take

With a mild time elating
To the hard held rhyme abating:

Can the fisherfolk tell of woe
When the seamen have cried of so?

'Ere the well placed game of shatter
Breaks the long held space of matter
So the beer-filled cans of batter
Shake the ever emptying platter.

What can portions do to focus
All the missons in the locus
While the fashions of the portal
Remain the honoured plains of chortle?

Card the missiles in the lie
Place the shuttle in the rye
Speak no more of broken reeds
And tell not glasses wearing tweeds.

Place the making in the battle
Churn the little wearing cattle
Force the gate among the wait
So that the rate will not be great.

Will the lay-man hear the whistle
Of the yodel in the thistle
Or the portens in the while
Where the broad leans over tile?

Bake no pie
Shake not lye
Cream no tie
In the sigh.

Take.

ulk

In the trulky burning, turning,
With the hulky honing, stoning,
There the pulky mixed it, sixed it,
To the bulky journing, lourning.
Well the hulky gored it, moored it,
At the wulky pouring, shoring,
Up to pulky shaven, haven,
With the bulky smoke 'em, poke 'em.

Scuttle by the wriggling waves,
Shuttle by the lapping caves,
Hop on grulk to reach the peak
During which the mulk will week.
Case by case the drulk will haul,
Heaving to the newest shoal,
So that Entrest will 'midst rate cake,
Another day, cash flow bake.

"Holla!" calls the prickly ulk,
To the jumping jellybean sulk.
"If you don't bring back my leaven, steaven,
Tomorrow I'll meet you even, reaven!"

Hurriedly the sulk, he mopes
To pace up picking the lulky ropes.
Perceiving all the milky toppings,
He also gathers creamy droppings.

All this in the trulky turning,
When the rulk is still a-burning,
And the hulky still be stoning,
Newer bladders for the honing.
The pulky by the wulky mixes still
Sixing crickets to the schill,
So that Entrest will bake and cake
All the ulk will ever make.

space

Once in the space
The visitor found porridge
But the porridge was sour
Like the yellow tamarind

Just so you know
This isn't a real poem
I'm just writing like this
For the fun of being low.

Anyway...
The yellow tamarind
Ate a orange cluster of dry figs
That had mashed a cake of dates
To a sweet pizza smithereen.

But this is going no where,
so just for you information
The pizza got eaten by a dog
or was it a hog?
I'm not sure.
It could have been either.

blurgalot

To blurg ,
to blog ,
it will not merg,
when apples cease
and trotters surg.

There is no point
but to elaborate,
To huddle,
To expel,
To extrapolate.

'Mercy!' cry the heels of toe,
When sense is none
and sharks think woe.

Again no point
shall these words here make.
Just to annoy,
To trickle,
To apple pie bake.

Bit by bit the sand do fly,
Attrition is the best man's sigh.
Little by little cats will tie
Their tails in knots of mice so shy.

Fiddle and faddle,
Grabble the rabble,
Tiller the tattle,
When time to babble.