The Beast Within

Fireblossom in the Imaginary Garden With Real Toads wants us to "show her what wild thing is hiding within you, you animals!"


An Epiphany

An anthropomorphist called Maurice
discovered he was a Slow Loris.

He complained (through a yawn)

"I wish I'd been born
a fleet of foot racehorse called Doris"

The Unusual Suspects

Tess gives us this Marina Moevs picture "River" to jolt us out of our New Year torpor.
We have met Simpleforth before. He has moved to the United States where we find him being apprehended for questioning whilst amusing himself by still waters.

"Now see here, Simpleforth - you wanna make stones skip across the river and what happens?  You hit a shed.  I mean, how big was the stone, for Chrissake?  Big enough to tip one shed over and pulverise another?"

"Wasn't a stone."

"Not a stone? What then?"

"Hand grenade. Army surplus. Four second fuse."

"I'm tempted to ask what you were doing skipping a freakin' hand grenade. Things gotta be flat to skip properly. They aren't flat, hand grenades, Simpleforth. They're all . .  all kinda . . kinda . . "

"Nubbly?"

"If you say so. Alright. Nubbly."

"And I wasn't trying to skip it."

"You weren't trying to skip a nubbly freakin' hand grenade? So what were you trying to do that you turned one of those fine wooden sheds to kindling and tipped up the other?  Don't tell me you were trying to hit the freakin' shed!"

"No - "

"So what were you doin'?"

"I was fishing."

"Fishin'? Now I know I'm gonna regret this. Tell me. How do you fish with a hand grenade."

"Easy.  You pull the pin and chuck it in the water.  I goes off, and . . "

"You fragg the freakin' fish?  You're on thin ice here, Simpleforth, you know that."

"It doesn't fragg the fish. It blows them out of the water and stuns them and you just pick them up off the bank. Well known fact."

"I'm starin' at you hard, boy. I get a feelin' you're haulin' on my leg."

"Would I do that?"

"Is water wet?  But let's go down this here bomb-the-freakin'-fish road.  How come this dumbass angling demolished a fine upstandin' shed property of the National Park authority?"

"Ah well now!  You must blame Barnes-Wallis for that."

"Don't push me any harder, Simpleforth!  Who's this what's-his-name . . "

"Barnes-Wallis.  In World War Two. He invented the bouncing bomb . . "

"Now hold it right there Smartass. You think you can talk your way out of blowin' up the Park Rangers' refuge by draggin' in World War Two and bouncing bombs and some Wallace Barnes dude."

"But that's what happened here.  I tossed the hand -grenade sort of side-on, right? It hit the water and bounced. Twice. Just like Barnes-Wallis said. Google 'bouncing bomb'. Anyway, the grenade bounced off the water and through the shed window. Totalled it and put the other into lean-to mode. It still stands, but with difficulty."
(Long pause)

"Does that really work? That bomb the bouncing barn thing? That sounds real cool. Look . . there's still another half-assed shed. Bit weakened but still on its feet.  You got any more of them freakin' grenades?"

"Funnily enough . . . "

Open Link Monday

Kerry O'Connor at "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads" welcomes poems new or old for the first Open Link Monday of 2012.  I first posted this poem on February 13th last year (2011, remember it?) for "The Poetry Bus"

Stopping By Settees on a Snowy Evening

(with apologies to Robert Frost.  And his little horse)

Whose couch is this? I think it's lost.
Who threw it out? What did it cost?
It has not seen me stopping here.
It's arm-rests are all stiff with frost.

My motor-chair thinks I am queer
to stop because a couch is near.
I always do a double-take
when snowbound sofas do appear.

It gives my ass a gentle shake
to ask if I've made some mistake.
But frozen couches make me weep.
I'd thaw them with a long, slow bake.

Its pattern's lovely! Cushions deep,
a couch I'd really love to keep.
But - miles to go before I sleep -
So! Leave it for the rubbish-heap.


.

Mary's Mixed Bag

Mary in the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads asks poets to
"Ring Out the Old, Ring in the New"   And why not?

A sensitive fellow called Fells
was deafened each year by the bells
lambasting his ears.
He complained at New Years
"Those ringers should all be strung up on their own bloody bell ropes."

His New Year's Eve antics astound.
He spins round and around and around!
The simple solution?
he makes New Year's Revolution -
till he's dizzy and falls to the ground

(Have a heart, folks!  Every New Year I revolve to write better limericks  . . . )


Tailpiece -
Whilst googling for images of bell ringers I came across THIS!

Provide a caption in 15 or fewer words.  Leave as comment.  I will award points and what do points mean? 

POINTS MEAN PRIZES!   

Following Yonder Star . . .

Tess's Christmas prompt is Bert Stern's iconic portrait of a Hollywood icon.  (The idea of putting new words to a seasonal tune comes from Magpie No.20. Thank you, Frances)

Monroe Doctoring

J.F.K from Capitol Hill,

heads down town in search of a thrill.

Finds blonde tottie

sumptuous bottie!

Certainly fills his bill.

Ooo-err!  Star of "Misfits"

sixties best,

star of the Gynormous Chest

self supporting, gets him snorting,

(Bet she thinks "He's a pest.")

All she wears at night is Chanel.

drives her suitors wild with the smell

really flighty

minus nightie

(Wishes they'd go to H***)

Ooo-err!  etc

Finds tonight his backache is bad

(Want to bet that makes her feel glad?)

Pretends she's willing

but pain's killing

daydreams of Jack the Lad

Ooo-err!  etc

Two cupfuls of Panadol

still his interest seems to loll.

Says with sorrow

"Back tomorrow"

She thinks that's very droll.

Ooo-err!  etc

Poor lost lass, she'd never a chance.

Men brought lust disguised as romance.

Flesh inspectors

film directors

led her a dreadful dance.

Ooo-err!  etc

Notes.  President Kennedy suffered much from backache, probably because he found it difficult to get into a comfortable position.  "Monroe Doctoring" is a play on words and on the prompt which our friends across The Pond will surely understand.

A Word With Laurie

Over at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, Laurie Kolp asks for 5-minutes worth of "Ecstasy" 


Be Warned

There was a young raver called Peck
who sampled ocassional ec-
stasy tablets,
which soon became habit
and now he's a quivering wreck.

.

Smile For the Camera!

Tess's Magpie prompt this week is a photograph by Lee Friedlander which seems to break some of the conventional rules . . .

Somebody needs Cartier-Bresson

to give him a snap-shooting lesson.

Her face is obscure -

and that shadow! For sure,

adds up to cheesy expression.

.

 . . but then, as Marshall McLuhan sagely remarked, "Art is anything you can get away with."

Many worthier Magpies can be read HERE.
or read about the French photojournalist Henri Cartier-Bresson.

Wednesday Challenge, December 14th.

Kerry's Wednesday challenge at "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads" invites us to write a letter from a literary character/author to another author or character, etc.  This response is hardly a poetic "epistola" but I hope it fills the bill.

The letter that follows was discovered in the personal papers of the late Malcolm Bradbury, author of the sardonic "campus" novel "The History Man." (1975, Secker and Warburg). It is of interest because at least one of the minor acts of vandalsim referred to actually happened subsequent to the novel's publication.

Dear Mr. Bradbury,

    I enclose a single sheet of toilet paper (unused) from a roll in the toilets on the fourth floor (Sociology and Economics) in the Library of Strathkelvin University.  You will see that some mischievous person has printed a sticky label and stuck it to the paper and the label says "Degrees in Sociology. Please Take One."  I soon discovered that every cubicle in every toilet, both Mens' and Womens' had been similarly defaced with similar stickers and in some cases, every hanging-down sheet of paper bore a similar sticker. And further, some toilet rolls had been annotated with the legend "Economics is a Viola," and some of the cubicles had the same legend in yellow graffiti.  It took me a little while to work that one out, whereas the sociology degree allusion is hard to miss.  

    Since Dr. Kirk got me sent down from the University I have found employment in the City and now command a salary which would no doubt confirm Dr. Kirk's view of me, did he but know.

   Please give my best regards to Ms.Carpenter. I hope things did not go too badly for her.  I was dreadfully sorry to hear that Dr. Kirk's wife had made an attempt on her own life, but what would one expect, married to a self-regarding Marxist like Howard Kirk. The whole business was a perfect exemplar of Henry Kissinger's famous quote  - "academic politics is so vicious precisely because the stakes are so small."

Yours very sincerely,

George Carmody.

Dramatis Personae. 

Malcolm Bradbury (1932-2000). Prolific author. Head of the Creative Writing Course in the University of East Anglia, UK;   Best known graduate -  Iain McEwen.

Howard Kirk   Antihero of "The History Man."  Resolute Marxist.  Impossible to thumbnail. Yer gotta read the book!

George Carmody.  Right of centre, middle class student. The only student in the University who owned (and used) a trouser press! A natural victim for Kirk. 

Ann Carpenter.    Another Kirk victim but not before he . . what's the expression . . . has his evil way of her.

Barbara Kirk.     Howard's wife. One wonders how such a nice lady etc etc etc . . .

The novel is set in the University of "Watermouth", U.K, but if Bradbury didn't intend the University of Sussex in Brighton, UK - at the time one of the UK's newer campuses, I'll eat a roll of toilet paper!

The printed stickers stuck on toilet rolls were real enough. The incident found it's way into "Radio Times" reviews when the novel was adapted for TV with Anthony Sher brilliantly malign as Howard Kirk.

"Economics is a Viola"?  Think string instruments.  A viola is like . . er . .  er . .  a big fiddle,  geddit?

Strathkelvin.  A university town in the Scottish central belt. Its University, and indeed the town itself  are no more or less fictional than those of it's august neighbours - Edinburgh and Glasgow.

Don't Panic!

Tess Kincaid's picture-prompt this week shows us one of life's Unfortunates stuck between a rock and a hard place . . .

Thinks: "Now if the tide is going out, the boat will be carried out with it, so unless she gets back with the choc ices pretty damn quick, we'll be stuck with no boat on the perishin' beach all night. And I left my cell-phone in the rowboat. And my swim shorts. When I dived out the perishin' boat I never expected to end up here! Alright for her. She waded ashore and asked me to let her bury me for a bit of fun. Why didn't I bury her? Why is it always me? How did I end up with three University degrees and still end up buried by my wife tit deep in sand? Why don't I think before I travel about in bloody rowboats? Why don't I think before I let people bury me? Why doesn't someone invent a voice-controlled rowboat so I could call out "Here Boat! Jaunty Jane or whatever your name is. Come and get me out!" Where's she got to?  Bet she's eatin' my choc-ice as well as her own."

Thinks: "But on the other hand, if the tide is coming in, that will bring the boat closer and pretty soon I'll be able to grab it by the rowlocks and haul myself . . .  Oh F**K! No I won't! 'Cos I'm stuck in this sand and no one to dig me out till she gets back.  The tide will. And I'll be. Where is the bloody cow?"

Yells:  "Au secours!  Mayday!  Anybody there?  HELP!"  etc.

Magpie Tales#94

The inspiration for this Magpie comes as usual from the always inventive Tess Kincaid at Willow Manor who invites us to lunch with this George Tooker picture.

Boss, Smiddy and The Rookie took their lunchbreak on an old red settee that had followed them to the station-house in a previous blog.  The settee sat on the station-house roof and Boss, Smiddy and The Rookie sat on the settee to eat their sandwiches.  It was a good place for lunch. It was six floors up so the Captain could not see them.  They had hauled the settee up there themselves. They were a great team.

"Boss - what's the fillin' in yo' sandwiches?"

Boss lifted a corner of bread and peered. "Cheese slices, Smiddy. Again!"

"Mine too," said Smiddy.

The Rookie said, "And me. Same as every day." 

All three glared at their limp sandwiches. Then at each other.

"I'm pissed off with cheese slice sandwiches every day" Boss said.

"Me too, come to think of it."

"And me" said The Rookie.

"Then this is what we'll do. We're six floors up, right?"

"Right."

"Right."

"So we each tell our womenfolk - look, if you make up cheese slice sandwiches one more time I'm gonna throw myself off the station-house roof. Six floors. Splat. End of salary. End of pension rights."

"Great idea!"

"That'll get some action!"

They hauled themselves out of the settee. They made high-fives. They punched air. They were a like-minded, co-operative team.

Next day lunchbreak they settled into the settee. Boss bit into his sandwiches and delight spread over his face. "Now ain't that something! Spicy chicken and bacon with some goddam piccalilli. That's what I call a sandwich. How 'bout you guys?"

The Rookie bit, and rolled his eyes.  "Man oh man! That's gotta be parma ham sliced wafer thin with cottage cheese, shallots and hint of garlic. Wholegrain bread, too. I'll sleep all afternoon!"

Smiddy bit down on his sandwich, said "Oh f**k, not cheese slices again!" and got out of the settee and vaulted the roof parapet and vanished from view.  The team would never let each other down.

Boss said, "Must of forgot his wife's away visitin' her Ma. So he's been makin' up his sandwiches hisself."

"You  reckon?  Poor old Smiddy. Splat - just like that, eh?"

They carried on munching, then Boss said, "Might as well finish his cheese slices?"

"Might as well," said The Rookie. "Waste not, want not. Can I drive the black-and-white now, Boss?"