Wild thoughts

My 100th post. Yay!
My 100th post. Oh joy, oh rapture!

The trees are in their autumn beauty,

The nights are getting cool.

I wish I hadn’t sold my coat

For that bandy-legged mule.

I’ve  rode upon that mangy creature,

And now my ass is sore.

Under the October twilight,

I’m frozen to the core.


Advertisements

Fancy

— Just talk to me, Lou. Tell me honestly: is there….. another?

— I’m real busy here, Frankie. I gotta…..

— Will ya just vouchsafe to listen? My poor heart is cleft in twain, Lou!

— What’s with all the fancy talk, Frankie?

— It ain’t fancy, Lou, it’s just…. ya know….. heartfelt.

— Oh Jeez!

— Be honest with me: are you forsworn?

— Am I what? Cut out the fancy lingo or you can kiss my ass!

— Can I? Really?


Waiting for Apollo

—Come in, Apollo!

—Tweeeeeek…. crackle…. hisss…. spluttt

— Are you receiving? Over.

— Tweeeeeek…. crackle…. hisss…. spluttt

— NASA calling Apollo. Come in, Apollo. Over.

—…..hisssss….so just sit back and…. spluttt…. smooth vibes from the Juice Wellington Trio…. splutttt…. coming to you live…. hissss-splutttt…lo Theatre in beautiful downtown…. crackle-hisssss-splutttt….

— Marconi! Get your sorry ass in here!


 

Arbour

The pomelo grove, neglected for years, is over-run with arsesmart and jackfruit. On the western edge, a gazebo still stands among clamorous ivy and scutchgrass — a tiny, weathered theatre where love once trod the boards.

Here, Pyramus pined for Thisbe, Gaston yearned for Berenice, and Cosmo fairly heaved for Laetitia.

A voice calls out from the house:

— Don’t compromise your ardour, Cosmo dear!

— I shan’t, Mama!

It’s not called jackfruit for nothing.


A question of tone

A tatterdemalion meets a gaberlunzie on the steps of the public library:

— I’ve just been reading in The Times about that vile phansigar….

— Oh yes, apprehended at last, thank goodness!

— Let’s hope the full weight of justice is brought to bear…

— I should hope so…. excise the canker from our midst, so to speak. It’s a question of tone really, isn’t it?

— Precisely! That sort of thing undermines the commonweal at so many levels…. social harmony…. savoir vivre…. not to mention property values.

— That too, of course. It goes to the very heart of what we mean by “civil society”.

— Indeed, just so! Well, we can rest easy in our beds now, thanks to the vigilance of our independent constabulary.

— Stout fellows!


Stool pidgin

— I say we do it soon, Frankie — tonight!

— No, no, Lou. Patience is the mother of invention.

— But Frankie, we got him right here — a bird in the hand catches the worm, ya know.

— Yea, but a rolling stone never boils, Lou. We just gotta be careful is all. No sense in killin’ the goose that lays the fatted calf.

— Prevention is better than a blind horse, Frankie.

— Maybe so, but we don’t wanna count our chickens in midstream.

— And what if he escapes?

— We’ll still get him. Absence makes the hair grow longer, but sooner or later the ugly duckling bites the hand that rocks the cradle rules the world.

— You’re never too old to skin a cat, Frankie.

— Oh Lou! Ya just don’t get it, do ya? There are none so blind as those who cannot see.


Prime Minister’s Question Time

Mr Speaker —

I speak for the nation

in my utter condemnation

of discrimination

in education,

and exploitation

of the population

in the assimilation

and publication

of private information.

The imputation

that the formation

or classification

or interpretation

of the situation

in relation

to self-determination

is defamation

is frankly an abomination.

It’s an irritation

and a vexation;

it causes indignation,

disputation,

and consternation

and no explanation

or commendation

or exaltation

of this vilification

should escape investigation,

castigation,

retaliation,

reparation… and exculpation.

[Ovation]


X-rated

“She inhaled his puissant effluvium as his ardent yataghan wrought celestial music from her dew-lapped, cyathiform calyx. Her conoidal monticles heaved heavenward — ever heavenward! — as he crescendoed — then diminuendoed — in her musky infundibular quaint.”

Phew!

I’m glad I only write fiction.

Imagine the friction

my diction

would cause.

Then:

interdiction,

restriction,

prescription.


Irascible toon

The Owl and the Pussycat went to see

A counsellor,

Cos their marriage had turned pea-green:

He never stops about my pussy, and that goddamn guitar is drivin’ me crazy!!

— And I’m fed up to here with mince and quince! 

— Well, what happened to the five-pound note, eh? 

— Hey, the ring cost a shilling, remember? Offa that pig…?

— Goddamn cheapskate, you are, you are! And we were married by a turkey — is that legal, counsellor?

— Hey counsellor, lemme ask ya this: what da hell is a runcible spoon anyway?

— Yeah, that bothered me too….

Oh my! This is wonderful! In all my years of counselling, it’s the most fascinating case! Beloved fictional characters assert their true feelings beyond the traditional constraints imposed by the genre! Perhaps an article in Divorce Digest…. or a monograph!… a Chair at Harvard!! ….. May I take notes……?

Jeez, Pussy, I’m headin’ back to the Bong-Trees! We’ll talk to that Lear guy. 

— Right behind ya, me owl pal.