Yeah. I wonder why. I'm thinking, Talk radio in the UK came about in the 1970s when the BBC lost its radio broadcasting monopoly and commercial stations popped up. Commercial stations tend to be owned and run by conservatives, so the slightly more laid back or liberal talk radio hosts are going to get bogged down with presenting competitions, while the shock jocks and gobshites are allowed to rant, leashless.
I guess the same thing goes on everywhere. With the Internet I can sample US talk radio too. But wasn't there a left orientated station? One with Al Franken? I forget.
so much for that. don't want to get this shuffled to the train forum
Down the street you can hear her scream youre a disgrace
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
Small bird, white gentle bird, blue bellied, dead
In knuckle grey men’s grip of what is here
And what is gone: Begin a wing beat bead
Of pulse and flight. Trail fire from your cere.
String our senses in your spirit breath.
Blue flame, write life and light our grey ground death.
this is beautiful, fins. and scythetop... i love them both. and "you will run..." goshsakesalive... just lovely.
Invent a character. OK
Give them a name - Sophia Chiesa
an age 42
an occupation and a wage - Pianist works for food.
Give them an attitude to all four. Lost a lot in a war, works for food with what she has left which is only what she has on her back, and the incredible talent within her fingers.
Give them a favourite newspaper and television/radio show - Doesn't know how to read, television/radio not invented yet where she plays.
a specific town of habitation and an attitude to current affairs-. She lost a lot in the war including the idea of dreams, and possibility, and the future.
Then,give them an inherited family trait of which the character is well aware and tries (sometimes unsuccessfully) to check. To fight for her beliefs and die. Her family trait is to die with honor for beliefs. If she survives outside of a war then she has successfully checked the family trait.
Give the character a long standing ambition: Freedom to walk, and only play when she wants to as opposed to when she has to.
Give this character one annoying relative and a partner who are not sympathetic to these aspirations. They are all dead.
And propose something that might enter this character's life that would offer them a way out. Death outside of war. Maybe some alone time among gravestones so she sees others die of natural causes.
There is no such thing as leftover pizza. There is now pizza and later pizza. - anonymous The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
was his chauffeur, you know. I used to drive him around. He was staying up at the Mulranny Hotel, the hotel with all the windows, looking out over the bay to Croagh Patrick. He'd flown in by helicopter. And he owned Dorinish Island, just near here. The island was uninhabited but he thought it could give him peace of mind if he built a house. He said he knew he had ancestors around here, and that put him in great humour. He told me that when he grew up in Liverpool he was raised by his aunt and often dreamed of knowing where he came from. And he loved it in Mayo. But he had his head screwed on, he wasn't this weirdo hippy type, though he had the name of course. Not to my mind. So when I was driving him around he would ask me things about the tides and erosion and getting back on the mainland from where he was. He was interested in the whole place. He'd been out before then, and that's how I met him the first time. He had this big psychedelic caravan out on the island to stay in, and he'd put it on a raft and he'd go out on the sea with it. He was in Ballycroy too, he was. Both times, I think. In fact, he went up to where your father's farm is, and then down to the shore in Fahy, down on the shingle and rocks. And at that time there was more of Grainuaile's castle than there is now, not just the gable and a bit of wall. And he was filming the whole thing on his cine camera. He loved it. And he was walking around the place in his cap and his wellies. One night they say he was in Cleary's singing rebel songs and someone taped it, but it wasn't Cleary's, it was in Newport, I think, if I remember rightly. He went everywhere with me. Here's a photo of him up at my house. A great man he was, down to earth and proud of his heritage. And the last I heard, several years later, he was renewing planning permission on the house and hoping to come back to visit and maybe stay. I had a postcard from him not long before, before he was shot. I think Yoko sold the island a couple of years after that.
And one night I woke,
This Bird had flown,
To a forest in the Norwegian Woods..
excellent prose fins
Down the street you can hear her scream youre a disgrace
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
Down the street you can hear her scream youre a disgrace
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
The similarity of cobblestones to spuds
was always in his mind. Especially these ones,
ringed, holed, wear blighted, dust jacketed
like the book of a staple life. Ah, a student’s town.
New ideas cloistered in medieval buildings.
Radicality in tweed, breath in a blighted skin
of ornate dust. He shovelled the trench in the quad
cursing the piebald faced masonic foreman
who'd ordered him to keep the cobblestones intact
as he scratched out the side of the trench, past
the first clog of black mud to a shallow of brick,
red peering. Head down in the black funk of the bog
at home he'd dug blighted furrows, and found slugs
as big as spuds, spuds as slack as slugs,
one September in Roscommon, under birdwhirl.
Now he dug trenches in an English college grounds
for information cables, he not able to wheel his barrow
over the hallowed green sanctioned for The Fellows
(sightless immortals stooping with rictus grins
like those of feudal barons claiming all a harvest for themselves).
Digging the shallows, he scratched at a bone of ants:
a stench of lime! A foul deed done before, here
in the shadows of staircases and clocks at ten to three.
The bones perhaps were his, and he was his ghost
digging his own ambition, the farmer's son in England,
grown weary and of age among September spuds,
ringed, holed, wear blighted, dust jacketed
like the book of a living death, of a staple life.
Ox-bow lake, calf bestraddled,
evidencing juncus, nardus, festuca,
red and turgid rivulets.
Bogflood.
You were the fort of pine for the Burkes
in Grace's castle, embayed,
when La Rata Encoronada ran aground,
that September.
Wahlenbergia hederacea,
Salix atrocinerea,
these exotic strands bent to river oblivion
are de Leiva's men,
camped in the Doona wood
awaiting the Santa Ana
and passage to an Antrim drowning
Away from Lucan's cull.
The woods are down, the plains are flooded,
La Rata is seen at low tide
In shifting sand
Two hundred yards out now
and the blackred ditches here
bleed young men hacked before shipsail
by Bingham's sword
(ambitious courtly steel
For Faery Queene Cynthia,
Custodian of souls).
Bogflood, tideblood.
All about Jack Daly's grazing lands.
And the waters past Blackrock
swirl, deadglutted to the North.
is good finsbury. i've read at the blissweave forum
your poems of england's fields are very intriguing
thanks
and
Cheers!!
Down the street you can hear her scream youre a disgrace
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
The similarity of cobblestones to spuds
was always in his mind. Especially these ones,
ringed, holed, wear blighted, dust jacketed
like the book of a staple life. Ah, a student’s town.
New ideas cloistered in medieval buildings.
Radicality in tweed, breath in a blighted skin
of ornate dust. He shovelled the trench in the quad
cursing the piebald faced masonic foreman
who'd ordered him to keep the cobblestones intact
as he scratched out the side of the trench, past
the first clog of black mud to a shallow of brick,
red peering. Head down in the black funk of the bog
at home he'd dug blighted furrows, and found slugs
as big as spuds, spuds as slack as slugs,
one September in Roscommon, under birdwhirl.
Now he dug trenches in an English college grounds
for information cables, he not able to wheel his barrow
over the hallowed green sanctioned for The Fellows
(sightless immortals stooping with rictus grins
like those of feudal barons claiming all a harvest for themselves).
Digging the shallows, he scratched at a bone of ants:
a stench of lime! A foul deed done before, here
in the shadows of staircases and clocks at ten to three.
The bones perhaps were his, and he was his ghost
digging his own ambition, the farmer's son in England,
grown weary and of age among September spuds,
ringed, holed, wear blighted, dust jacketed
like the book of a living death, of a staple life.
I really enjoyed this one, Fins! And I liked the creepy turn it took, "the bones perhaps were his, and he was his ghost"--LOVE THAT! As usual, your works are amazing. It's nice to see a new thread dedicated to Ophelia's Nun....and now I'm thinking, "Get thee to a nunnery!"
Forget your perfect offering, there is a crack in everything, that's how the light gets in. - Leonard Cohen
This is an old Zeb and Zak feature from a couple of Christmasses ago. I'll write some new stuff.
PRESENTER: Hello, good morning and welcome to a special Christmas edition of The Squid In Your Fridge. Today we discuss diversity of festive celebration over this holiday season, and interview two brothers who in the course of this yuletide will be honouring their own respective saturnalian practices. We go live to 98, The Larches, Wagtail Crescent, Sidcup, where the Squid is interviewing brothers Zeb and Zak Zeboogle at their home, to ask how they acknowledge and accommodate each others' festive customs.
(Cut to living room scene)
SQUID: So, brothers, tell me: Why is there a curtain partitioning you off from one another, across the middle of the room?
ZAK: Ask Zeb. It's this belief of his that he's made up. Cabovus. It involves getting up first thing in the morning and playing this Sammy Hagar album at full volume, Ten Thirteen, making all these vroom vroom noises, and wearing this false blonde perm wig and a spandex jump suit. He's got this mantra, "Ah'm a reeeeed rockaaaaaa yaaaaaaaa, c'mon lit's git dahn an' have a parrrrrrtttay" and from behind the curtain I can hear people, I swear I can, laughing and shouting "Rawwwwwwk Zebbie bayyyyby", and really, sometimes it gets pretty noisy. Red Rocking I ask you.
SQUID (to Zeb): And what do you say to these charges, Zebedee? Nice jump suit by the way.
ZEB (dancing): Forevvvah in blue agave dreeeeams, dude, we's rawwkin' dah house. Allow me to introduce Raquel - she's a deeply beautiful person from Miami Beach, Florida, we met when me and the boys wuzz jus' roundin' up our last reunion tour ...
RAQUEL (to Squid): Hiiii honey! Aren't you just an adorable lil' Squiddy Widdy? Yaaa. I've known Zebby here since he played that last Van Halen tribute thang down at the Palm Beach Boogie Palace Garden House Hotel Shack place. Ah tell yizz, the joint wuzz jumpin'.
SQUID: Er, I'm sure it was.
ZEB: And this is Conquista, from Mexico City. She doesn't speak much but maaaaan, she daaaaances sweetly.
SQUID: Well hellooooo, Conquista! (To Zeb) Now, Zebedee --
ZEB: Yassss, hit it, brother --
SQUID: Some people might say your particular festival is a little riotous and not in keeping with what others see as a time for quiet, reflective contemplation --
ZEB: Awwwww, like gitt wid duh scene, man. Check out the festival that Zak's got going on. Greyvius. He's wearing a grey shirt, grey trousers, grey socks, grey slippers, grey woollen fingerless gloves, grey nosehair and maaaan, grey tinted spectacles. Probably grey long johns too. But maaaaan, the worst of it is, he keeps this whole danged thang goin' all year long, writin' poetry about hail knows what.
SQUID: Yes, I confess it is a little drab.
ZAK: Only a little? Oh, I must be failing in my mission to abstain from all semblance of appearing interesting ... Yea, I must endeavour to write a poem that conveys absolute absence of vitality, of levity, of humanity ... now, let me see ... let me intone a new composition, an incantation to a discarded fish and chip wrapper... "Verily thus the ink runneth where rain stains the tall/ biro scrawl on the chip packet, one large chips, one small/ and verily thus are my days, blown about the street/ like the grey, forgotten chip packet, underneath your feet". No! I've failed again! There's too much rhyme, metre, rhythm, bounce! I need something that flatlines as a consummate expression of Greyviusness!!! I've got it!!!! "Durrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr, / durrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr,/ durrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr"!!! Yesss. I think I just might be onto something --
SQUID: Hey, Zeb!
ZEB: Yep?!!
SQUID:Open the curtain a sec. I'm coming in with you lot!!!!! Squid's gonna parttttayyyyyy!!!! I'm a Cabovus convert!!!! Let's have a liddle Van Halen twiddlin' goin' on ... Squiddy's feelin' like eruptin' on duh dancefloor!!! Hey, Conquista, the lady who says nothing, you have beautiful eyes. Let's dance and work dat thang!!!! Yeah baby!!! It's a Cabovus miracle, that's right!!! Who needs Greyvius!!!! Let's git down!!!! Yaaaaaaaaaaaa, "Happy birthdayyyyyyyy tooooooooo yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa, uhhh huhhh!!! Rawwwwwkin' dis half of duh living room!!!!!!!!"
ZAK: Durrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr......
ZEB: Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.......
ZAK: Durrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.........
ZEB: Rawwwwwwwwwkkkkin!!!!!!!!!.......
ZAK: Durrrrrrrr durrrrrrrrr durrrrrrrrrrr......
SQUID: And from all of us here at 98 The Larches, Wagtail Crescent, may we wish you.....
'..... Ah! A perfect illustration of the poststructuralist paradox. Does the signifier "Merlot" correspond with the 'truth' of the bottle I polished off last night, or do we hold in our thoughts a different "signified" of bottle-of-Merlot-ness? Perhaps we're dreaming of the same bottle!" -FinsburyParkCarrots
Here! I just wrote this right now. It's inspired by the weather.
ZAK: “Death grey swathes of cloud veil lay
Their weight upon the day;
Oh sun, don’t come this way to play!
I’m whey-faced, yay, and fey.”
ZEB: Waheyyy!
Soooooo gaaaaaayyy!
ZAK: Shut up, oik! You’re messin’ wid me aura.
I’ve channelling here, like Derek Acorah.
I’m trying to write about the weather,
Thinking up some wise and clever
Words. So could you cut it, mate?
ZEB: Ain’t it a bastard, spring’s so late?
Usually, in March, I get the garden
Ready, and I make a start on
Barbecuin’, stove an’ bricks
An’ chicken’, and I get some chicks
An’ get ‘em dancing’ on tequila!
This feckin’ snow’s a partayyy killer!!
Will this winter never end
For me to have away my end
With Pammy Sue and Peggy Mary
(even if they’re rather hairy)?
ZAK: No, I need the snow in April!
Misery’s my sacred, staple
Diet for a poet’s toil!
ZEB: I like my wimmins on the boil.
In bikinis, lookin’ mighty!
Sun and swimming’ pools, alrighty!
ZAK: This weather’s what you just deserve.
Zeb, you are a shallow perv.
ZEB: Kinder words were never spoken.
Hey Zak! I think the clouds have broken!
You can write dem winter odes
But I’m a gonna get me loads
Of ladies on the patio.
Pass the ‘phone an’ watch me go!!!!!
Come on Zak, cut out that act
Of actin’ deep, it is a fact
You’ll go all cross eyed, lookin’ starey!
---- Ah! Hello! Is that Peggy Mary?
ZAK: Dammit, now my S-A-D,
The iceberg of my poetry
Is thawing from a grey to blue.
Hey, what’s up wid Pammy Sue?
All this talk of girls and garden
Has given me a great big har--
ZEB: That’s the spirit, Zakky Boy!
Poetry’s a useless toy
For men who want to get their fun!
Firin’ up the bar-bee in the rain!
This spring’s gonna be fantastically
passionately and wildly insane!!
Zeb’s got sunshine and tekee--laaa on dah brain!!!!!!!!!!
:D:D:D:D:D
'..... Ah! A perfect illustration of the poststructuralist paradox. Does the signifier "Merlot" correspond with the 'truth' of the bottle I polished off last night, or do we hold in our thoughts a different "signified" of bottle-of-Merlot-ness? Perhaps we're dreaming of the same bottle!" -FinsburyParkCarrots
Firin’ up the bar-bee in the rain!
This spring’s gonna be fantastically
passionately and wildly insane!!
Zeb’s got sunshine and tekee--laaa on dah brain!!!!!!!!!!
:D:D:D:D:D
Tekee-laaa sunrises on dah pat-ee-oh, a charcoaled schmorgishborg on dah bar-bee, ladies in tiger lilly sun dresses an' aqua-marine bikini's dancing the grey right out of the winter's chill and brining on syrupy sunshine smiles...and what is this??? Zak's thinking like a tree! Sounds like it's time to do some gardening, a humina humina! Good on ya, Zak-a-ree! Hee Hee!
So much fun!
Forget your perfect offering, there is a crack in everything, that's how the light gets in. - Leonard Cohen
[Bite me,
Love me,
Let It be,
Doctors fuck me,
In a tree]
So you say you're special,
loving kind.
I search it.Ya know.Really do.
You're breath,
it smells so...so...so....armored.
I gave the soldier a flower.
I watched a man die,
No, that was a lie.
I watch him die,everyday.
Just turn on the TV and you'll see a massacre.
If we didn't carry our own weapons,
where would we be?
Don't fists provide fury,
and hearts provide love?
A kinda "mix" of the two.
You're going about the fight
the wrong or right way.
Reversal.Double negatives.Psychology.
Dreams mean nothing.Visions everything.
A lost pain of a friend,
and I'm dreaming of peace with Richard,
and a trip to see the ocean...
For it happened today;
A ghost whispered,smell of sweat
sold and bottled in a plastic,
unrecyclable cup for too expesive of a price
with some myrhh jsu to keep you in the game.
Yea,you can sarcatically play,but,
you'll [only get caught.]
[Statement:adev]
Cheers an a fag....finnsy....:)
A whisper and a thrill
A whisper and a chill
adv2005
"Why do I bother?"
The 11th Commandment.
"Whatever"
PETITION TO STOP THE BAN OF SMOKING IN BARS IN THE UNITED STATES....Anyone?
Comments
Just editing the last post.
so much for that. don't want to get this shuffled to the train forum
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
this is beautiful, fins. and scythetop... i love them both. and "you will run..." goshsakesalive... just lovely.
thank you
Now, on the topic of the radio, here's just about the best broadcast I've ever heard regarding the medium.
http://www.swldxer.co.uk/bbcr4.wma
It's all about Numbers stations. Mindbending.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Numbers_station
Check out the links above if you've time, I mean.
Give them a name - Sophia Chiesa
an age 42
an occupation and a wage - Pianist works for food.
Give them an attitude to all four. Lost a lot in a war, works for food with what she has left which is only what she has on her back, and the incredible talent within her fingers.
Give them a favourite newspaper and television/radio show - Doesn't know how to read, television/radio not invented yet where she plays.
a specific town of habitation and an attitude to current affairs-. She lost a lot in the war including the idea of dreams, and possibility, and the future.
Then,give them an inherited family trait of which the character is well aware and tries (sometimes unsuccessfully) to check. To fight for her beliefs and die. Her family trait is to die with honor for beliefs. If she survives outside of a war then she has successfully checked the family trait.
Give the character a long standing ambition: Freedom to walk, and only play when she wants to as opposed to when she has to.
Give this character one annoying relative and a partner who are not sympathetic to these aspirations. They are all dead.
And propose something that might enter this character's life that would offer them a way out. Death outside of war. Maybe some alone time among gravestones so she sees others die of natural causes.
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
This Bird had flown,
To a forest in the Norwegian Woods..
excellent prose fins
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
I'm game. What is the Numbers Stations exercise?
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
Just up, a couple of posts on this page.
was always in his mind. Especially these ones,
ringed, holed, wear blighted, dust jacketed
like the book of a staple life. Ah, a student’s town.
New ideas cloistered in medieval buildings.
Radicality in tweed, breath in a blighted skin
of ornate dust. He shovelled the trench in the quad
cursing the piebald faced masonic foreman
who'd ordered him to keep the cobblestones intact
as he scratched out the side of the trench, past
the first clog of black mud to a shallow of brick,
red peering. Head down in the black funk of the bog
at home he'd dug blighted furrows, and found slugs
as big as spuds, spuds as slack as slugs,
one September in Roscommon, under birdwhirl.
Now he dug trenches in an English college grounds
for information cables, he not able to wheel his barrow
over the hallowed green sanctioned for The Fellows
(sightless immortals stooping with rictus grins
like those of feudal barons claiming all a harvest for themselves).
Digging the shallows, he scratched at a bone of ants:
a stench of lime! A foul deed done before, here
in the shadows of staircases and clocks at ten to three.
The bones perhaps were his, and he was his ghost
digging his own ambition, the farmer's son in England,
grown weary and of age among September spuds,
ringed, holed, wear blighted, dust jacketed
like the book of a living death, of a staple life.
Ox-bow lake, calf bestraddled,
evidencing juncus, nardus, festuca,
red and turgid rivulets.
Bogflood.
You were the fort of pine for the Burkes
in Grace's castle, embayed,
when La Rata Encoronada ran aground,
that September.
Wahlenbergia hederacea,
Salix atrocinerea,
these exotic strands bent to river oblivion
are de Leiva's men,
camped in the Doona wood
awaiting the Santa Ana
and passage to an Antrim drowning
Away from Lucan's cull.
The woods are down, the plains are flooded,
La Rata is seen at low tide
In shifting sand
Two hundred yards out now
and the blackred ditches here
bleed young men hacked before shipsail
by Bingham's sword
(ambitious courtly steel
For Faery Queene Cynthia,
Custodian of souls).
Bogflood, tideblood.
All about Jack Daly's grazing lands.
And the waters past Blackrock
swirl, deadglutted to the North.
Fahy. It means "a playing field."
your poems of england's fields are very intriguing
thanks
and
Cheers!!
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
I really enjoyed this one, Fins!
PRESENTER: Hello, good morning and welcome to a special Christmas edition of The Squid In Your Fridge. Today we discuss diversity of festive celebration over this holiday season, and interview two brothers who in the course of this yuletide will be honouring their own respective saturnalian practices. We go live to 98, The Larches, Wagtail Crescent, Sidcup, where the Squid is interviewing brothers Zeb and Zak Zeboogle at their home, to ask how they acknowledge and accommodate each others' festive customs.
(Cut to living room scene)
SQUID: So, brothers, tell me: Why is there a curtain partitioning you off from one another, across the middle of the room?
ZAK: Ask Zeb. It's this belief of his that he's made up. Cabovus. It involves getting up first thing in the morning and playing this Sammy Hagar album at full volume, Ten Thirteen, making all these vroom vroom noises, and wearing this false blonde perm wig and a spandex jump suit. He's got this mantra, "Ah'm a reeeeed rockaaaaaa yaaaaaaaa, c'mon lit's git dahn an' have a parrrrrrtttay" and from behind the curtain I can hear people, I swear I can, laughing and shouting "Rawwwwwwk Zebbie bayyyyby", and really, sometimes it gets pretty noisy. Red Rocking I ask you.
SQUID (to Zeb): And what do you say to these charges, Zebedee? Nice jump suit by the way.
ZEB (dancing): Forevvvah in blue agave dreeeeams, dude, we's rawwkin' dah house. Allow me to introduce Raquel - she's a deeply beautiful person from Miami Beach, Florida, we met when me and the boys wuzz jus' roundin' up our last reunion tour ...
RAQUEL (to Squid): Hiiii honey! Aren't you just an adorable lil' Squiddy Widdy? Yaaa. I've known Zebby here since he played that last Van Halen tribute thang down at the Palm Beach Boogie Palace Garden House Hotel Shack place. Ah tell yizz, the joint wuzz jumpin'.
SQUID: Er, I'm sure it was.
ZEB: And this is Conquista, from Mexico City. She doesn't speak much but maaaaan, she daaaaances sweetly.
SQUID: Well hellooooo, Conquista! (To Zeb) Now, Zebedee --
ZEB: Yassss, hit it, brother --
SQUID: Some people might say your particular festival is a little riotous and not in keeping with what others see as a time for quiet, reflective contemplation --
ZEB: Awwwww, like gitt wid duh scene, man. Check out the festival that Zak's got going on. Greyvius. He's wearing a grey shirt, grey trousers, grey socks, grey slippers, grey woollen fingerless gloves, grey nosehair and maaaan, grey tinted spectacles. Probably grey long johns too. But maaaaan, the worst of it is, he keeps this whole danged thang goin' all year long, writin' poetry about hail knows what.
SQUID: Yes, I confess it is a little drab.
ZAK: Only a little? Oh, I must be failing in my mission to abstain from all semblance of appearing interesting ... Yea, I must endeavour to write a poem that conveys absolute absence of vitality, of levity, of humanity ... now, let me see ... let me intone a new composition, an incantation to a discarded fish and chip wrapper... "Verily thus the ink runneth where rain stains the tall/ biro scrawl on the chip packet, one large chips, one small/ and verily thus are my days, blown about the street/ like the grey, forgotten chip packet, underneath your feet". No! I've failed again! There's too much rhyme, metre, rhythm, bounce! I need something that flatlines as a consummate expression of Greyviusness!!! I've got it!!!! "Durrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr, / durrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr,/ durrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr"!!! Yesss. I think I just might be onto something --
SQUID: Hey, Zeb!
ZEB: Yep?!!
SQUID:Open the curtain a sec. I'm coming in with you lot!!!!! Squid's gonna parttttayyyyyy!!!! I'm a Cabovus convert!!!! Let's have a liddle Van Halen twiddlin' goin' on ... Squiddy's feelin' like eruptin' on duh dancefloor!!! Hey, Conquista, the lady who says nothing, you have beautiful eyes. Let's dance and work dat thang!!!! Yeah baby!!! It's a Cabovus miracle, that's right!!! Who needs Greyvius!!!! Let's git down!!!! Yaaaaaaaaaaaa, "Happy birthdayyyyyyyy tooooooooo yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa, uhhh huhhh!!! Rawwwwwkin' dis half of duh living room!!!!!!!!"
ZAK: Durrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr......
ZEB: Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.......
ZAK: Durrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.........
ZEB: Rawwwwwwwwwkkkkin!!!!!!!!!.......
ZAK: Durrrrrrrr durrrrrrrrr durrrrrrrrrrr......
SQUID: And from all of us here at 98 The Larches, Wagtail Crescent, may we wish you.....
ALL: A VERY HAPPY CABOGREYVIUS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Let's hear it for Zeb and Zak! Encore!!!!
Gotta luv dos guysss!
*clap* *clap* *clap*
Personally, I prefer Davey Lee (gimme some a dat Yankee Rose, sweet cheeks), but to each his own!
ZAK: “Death grey swathes of cloud veil lay
Their weight upon the day;
Oh sun, don’t come this way to play!
I’m whey-faced, yay, and fey.”
ZEB: Waheyyy!
Soooooo gaaaaaayyy!
ZAK: Shut up, oik! You’re messin’ wid me aura.
I’ve channelling here, like Derek Acorah.
I’m trying to write about the weather,
Thinking up some wise and clever
Words. So could you cut it, mate?
ZEB: Ain’t it a bastard, spring’s so late?
Usually, in March, I get the garden
Ready, and I make a start on
Barbecuin’, stove an’ bricks
An’ chicken’, and I get some chicks
An’ get ‘em dancing’ on tequila!
This feckin’ snow’s a partayyy killer!!
Will this winter never end
For me to have away my end
With Pammy Sue and Peggy Mary
(even if they’re rather hairy)?
ZAK: No, I need the snow in April!
Misery’s my sacred, staple
Diet for a poet’s toil!
ZEB: I like my wimmins on the boil.
In bikinis, lookin’ mighty!
Sun and swimming’ pools, alrighty!
ZAK: This weather’s what you just deserve.
Zeb, you are a shallow perv.
ZEB: Kinder words were never spoken.
Hey Zak! I think the clouds have broken!
You can write dem winter odes
But I’m a gonna get me loads
Of ladies on the patio.
Pass the ‘phone an’ watch me go!!!!!
Come on Zak, cut out that act
Of actin’ deep, it is a fact
You’ll go all cross eyed, lookin’ starey!
---- Ah! Hello! Is that Peggy Mary?
ZAK: Dammit, now my S-A-D,
The iceberg of my poetry
Is thawing from a grey to blue.
Hey, what’s up wid Pammy Sue?
All this talk of girls and garden
Has given me a great big har--
ZEB: That’s the spirit, Zakky Boy!
Poetry’s a useless toy
For men who want to get their fun!
ZAK: Rawwk, mudderfuggs! Bring on the sun!!!!!!!
Firin’ up the bar-bee in the rain!
This spring’s gonna be fantastically
passionately and wildly insane!!
Zeb’s got sunshine and tekee--laaa on dah brain!!!!!!!!!!
Tekee-laaa sunrises on dah pat-ee-oh, a charcoaled schmorgishborg on dah bar-bee, ladies in tiger lilly sun dresses an' aqua-marine bikini's dancing the grey right out of the winter's chill and brining on syrupy sunshine smiles...and what is this??? Zak's thinking like a tree! Sounds like it's time to do some gardening, a humina humina!
So much fun!
Love me,
Let It be,
Doctors fuck me,
In a tree]
So you say you're special,
loving kind.
I search it.Ya know.Really do.
You're breath,
it smells so...so...so....armored.
I gave the soldier a flower.
I watched a man die,
No, that was a lie.
I watch him die,everyday.
Just turn on the TV and you'll see a massacre.
If we didn't carry our own weapons,
where would we be?
Don't fists provide fury,
and hearts provide love?
A kinda "mix" of the two.
You're going about the fight
the wrong or right way.
Reversal.Double negatives.Psychology.
Dreams mean nothing.Visions everything.
A lost pain of a friend,
and I'm dreaming of peace with Richard,
and a trip to see the ocean...
For it happened today;
A ghost whispered,smell of sweat
sold and bottled in a plastic,
unrecyclable cup for too expesive of a price
with some myrhh jsu to keep you in the game.
Yea,you can sarcatically play,but,
you'll [only get caught.]
[Statement:adev]
Cheers an a fag....finnsy....:)
A whisper and a chill
adv2005
"Why do I bother?"
The 11th Commandment.
"Whatever"
PETITION TO STOP THE BAN OF SMOKING IN BARS IN THE UNITED STATES....Anyone?