polythecium Zool. Name for a colony or zoothecium of certain infusorians, in which the loricæ are united by their stalks.
It’s nice to see loricæ united at last, after so much strife in the zoothecium. And let’s hear it for stalks, whose unifying role is all too easily overlooked.
We could learn a lot from certain infusorians.
Next weekend, 8pm sharp(ish)
Venue: Either Town Hall or St Cloud’s Hall*
Music by Val Vague (to be confirmed)
Admission: $8 (adults); $6 or $5 (unwaged and/or dependent/elderly**)
All proceeds in aid of clarity.
*We’ll let ya know.
**Proof required, in some cases.
I keep thinking
today is tomorrow,
and that yesterday
was the 12th of May.
Funny the tricks
the mind can play.
My sweetheart’s eyes are flashing stars
that can guide a ship to shore.
They can also beguile
with womanly wile
and litter the sea floor.
January snow makes new buds grow.
Winter squalls, spring appalls.
Easter freeze, June sneeze.
Rain on 22 March, east wind at around 4pm on 27 May.
A horse without a hat is like a frog without a newspaper.
In Filbert Street, two votaries of Staggering Bob are lying on the pavement, sharing a flagon, not demurely, but with warmth and companionable glee.
Lady Gossop, prinked and prim, approaches to a safe distance and admonishes them with shrill voice and tap-taps of her parasol on the flagstones:
Disgraceful! — public street! — spectacle! — reeking! — be off with you! — well I mean!
Votary 1: ‘Would yiz lige a zrink, Mizzuz?’
Votary 2: ‘Enny sbare zhange, Mizzuz?’
Votary 1: ‘Enny zhanze of a ride, Mizzuz?’
Prinked and prim pirouettes and minces quickly away, clutching her parasol and her dignity.
Votary 1: ‘G’wan outta that ya fad-arzed fuggin bitzh what-else-are-ya? Here, gimme that!’
Votary 2: ‘Zhe vanzies you!’
Lady Gossop turns a corner and suddenly feels cold.
I was drawn to her
like a moth to a tomb.
But I’m still fluttering,
words of hate,
but airborne and free.
He wazzled up her gandy vinge,
and tambercassed her voorey,
then he yalled her daldy sallet
with his stellogossic turey.
She just kept snoring
like a brewery.
I had a brand-new kitchen fitted,
and showed it proudly to my Treasure.
She said: ‘That surface won’t last very long.’
Bought a new sofa: “Is that a stain on the cushion?”
My brother got a new job. “But it’s still a very junior post.’
My uncle left me 40 grand: ’No one ever left me any money.’
I hope my Treasure will be happy,
It’s hard to find much humour
in a suppurating tumour,
but my love brings out
the very best in me.
Gonna take her to a diner,
where I can undermine her
with my tangy wit
and saucy repartee.
First course is melanoma,
served with crusty papilloma,
and formed into a syphilitic cake.
Then a rampant carcinoma
or a galloping sarcoma,
and the sweetest angioma
they can make.
Don’t judge me:
It’s called palliative love,
and I deserve a diploma.
My mind is raging tonight:
a wounded shark trashing
back and forth in the sea,
pained and directionless.
I see my blood spill out
and my pulsing heart pumps
more and more
rage into my flaying, trashing,
— don’t care who I kill —
— just let me live —
just let me know that
your cruelty is not for
Are you plagued by the Fall?
Try new Camus, for people who feel left out.
My sweetheart’s as fit as a butcher’s dog.
If it ended there I wouldn’t care,
but that’s just where it starts:
She chases trucks and barks at ducks,
and licks her nether parts.
Twin spheres conjoined in a single orb:
My sweetheart’s rear is a true reflection
of Mother Earth in Mercator’s projection.
They stole out in dead of night
(though they knew it wasn’t right),
to slake the fiery passion
in their blood.
They met at Lovers’ Glee,
went behind a big old tree,
and proceeded with their slaking —
Just then a storm came from the east,
clouds rolled in like Jehovah’s beast,
and lightning tore the earth
and sky to shreds.
It was raining hogs and plovers
when the lovers were discovered,
lying dead beneath
the old come-uppance tree.
Egyptian goddess Nitoris
Was famous for her —,
cos it stretched across the Nile
for almost half a mile.
You could twang it like a string
on an old violing,
and make music that was
My sweetheart kisses like a frog
feasting on flies: Tzip! Tzip! Tzip!
It’s called ‘precision kissing’,
and apart from never missing,
it eliminates all wear upon her lips.
She was never very tactile,
so the long-range guided missile
is crucial to her armoury d’amour.
When she wants to show affection,
I just take evasive action,
but I don’t know how much more
I can endure.
Dad, what was there before Google?
Very little, inquisitive son of mine!
Not much is known about pre-Google, son, but some reports have emerged:
In 1971, a coterie of hotheads in California were reported to conjoogle without koogle, but only among themselves, of course.
Two years later, a Bavarian farmer was arrested for trying to smoogle a joogle of hoogle inside his very own MacDoogle.
More bizarrely, the froogal monks of St Anselm’s Monastery in France made their own proogle on the premises, away from prying eyes and search engines — but this is now illoogal.
A well-turned phrase
has the power
to blaze —
of the deep malaise
of the crazy maze
we live in.
A tergelled milgar
fell from a darp,
into a calty marbon.
The marbon fealed
and the halbon nealed,
so the milgar zilled his quarbon.
The sky cries
in my sweetheart’s eyes,
and rivers run in her nose.
Torrents spout from her blubbering mouth:
Saves money on a garden hose.
The Oven of Love has cooled.
in my larder
harder and harder
The steam that rose
has all condensed,
In Paris, Voltaire’s dog has been involved in yet another attack on members of the public. Three people were injured when the dog struck during morning rush hour in the Rue de Richelieu, close to the Palais Royal.
This is the latest in a series of seemingly unprovoked attacks on the people of Paris, although some terror experts are claiming that the cur has its reasons.
how could you do so?
I think, therefore I am.
A bit prinky,
don’t you thinky?
‘If you’re dim — damn!’
Most people can’t think,
but they can still am.
My sweetheart’s eyes are torches that adorn the gates of Hell.
Her nostrils are the trumpets that bid the dead farewell.
Her mouth a gaping cavern in the wastes of Connemara,
You should see her before the mascara.
and shot him
in the head.
fed her chickens on
the Dickinson Lexicon of Vowels for Fowls.
They howled and growled.
and called for wet towels,
but a trowel of vowels
is good for the bowels.
God needed an angel
for his heavenly home,
so on June 22, 1955,
4-year-old Kyle Dunbar
was taken from his bed,
over a four-day period.
His body was found
under a pile of stones
near Junction 12.
His eyes were missing.
— You got Donald Trump’s autobiography?
How to appreciate ballet:
With a mallet.
— Have you got Wole Soyinka?
— No, it’s just a cold.
I am crafting poison
for my sweet,
so she will die
that all the
will seem like
just a moment