Hello! I think I have some crumbs under my keyboard, which probably says something about me, hopefully good things! But it does make using the number 'one' key difficult. Not too difficult though. Not too difficult. Up now, is a continuation of my blog-novel being drip fed to you in tiny little morsels, 'Barbarous Quartet' (A pun on the famous saying(?) 'Barbershop Quartet'). I thought I'd introduce another character, so here we have, well, have a read for yourself. And think 'Gritty' 'Northern' and 'Crime-based'. Or something. (to re-read the first section, click the 'label' at the 'bottom' of this 'post')
Joseph Treacle sat in his bath, the water soapy and grey, like the weather outside (except the weather wasn’t soapy, obviously. Just grey.). Treacle wasn’t a man given over to being particularly morose of a miserable morning, but there was something in the air this bath time. Something, almost foreboding.
As the last of the grey bathwater trickled down the hair-ridden plug-hole, Treacle put his finger on it; the sense of foreboding. Shit, he thought.
‘Happy anniversary, duckling!’ said Treacle as he arrived in the kitchen, and he planted a big soppy kiss right on his wife’s mouth.
‘So, you ain’t forgotten?’
‘No, no,’ replied Treacle, spreading blackcurrant jam on burnt toast, ‘would I?’
‘Aye.’
‘Oh aye?’
Giving his wife another kiss, he gathered up his notebooks and papers. His arms overflowing with miscellaneous work-things, he managed to stumble out the front door.
It started raining. Shit, he thought.
Good 'knight' (ie. 'night')
Saturday 20 March 2010
Tuesday 16 March 2010
Haikus (ie. political haikus)
The art of the haiku is one of the most ancient and beautiful of the poetic styles. And with a dainty, lovely name like 'haiku' who could disagree? No-one, that's who. So with that in mind, I've written a few haikus based on Britain and it's political state today. Yeah, I'm all activist-y and that. I have my say, sure.
For those who don't know, incidentally, a haiku is a Japanese form, which consists of 17 moras (ie. beats) (ie. syllables) and they go in three lines (in our Westernised version) 5 'moras'; 7 'moras'; 5 'moras'. Here is an example, a sort of meta-haiku:
This is a Haiku.
Or should that be ‘an haiku’?
I don’t really know.
So you see, 5-7-5. Perfect.
And now; Political Haikus!
New Labour, you say?
More like New Moral Failure.
Ooh, yeah, politics.
The winter of Hell;
Blizzardy Britain is cold;
Probably Brown’s fault.
Broken Britain waits,
Obama will visit soon,
He will fix Britain.
David Cameron,
Sits alone in his office,
The Tory bastard.
There we go. Political Haikus.
For those who don't know, incidentally, a haiku is a Japanese form, which consists of 17 moras (ie. beats) (ie. syllables) and they go in three lines (in our Westernised version) 5 'moras'; 7 'moras'; 5 'moras'. Here is an example, a sort of meta-haiku:
This is a Haiku.
Or should that be ‘an haiku’?
I don’t really know.
So you see, 5-7-5. Perfect.
And now; Political Haikus!
New Labour, you say?
More like New Moral Failure.
Ooh, yeah, politics.
The winter of Hell;
Blizzardy Britain is cold;
Probably Brown’s fault.
Broken Britain waits,
Obama will visit soon,
He will fix Britain.
David Cameron,
Sits alone in his office,
The Tory bastard.
There we go. Political Haikus.
Sunday 14 March 2010
Coming Up... and A Bumper Issue of Short Poetry!!
Hello, hello, hello. I've been busy for a while, so sorry I've not updated in a while, I will get back on track this week, with some highlights to come, such as... A poem about Iggy Pop baiting (follow me on twitter if you want to know more, see top right); a series of political haikus, since the last one was so much fun; a continuation of my blog-novel 'Gritty Northern Drama'; and, I'm sure, many more short poems of joy - like these - A Bumper Issue of Short Poems!:
17. A Premiership footballer walks in to a bar. I’m not saying which bar. And I’m not saying which footballer.
18. A coiled spring shoots up from nowhere. Or does it? It does.
19. Morrissey ties himself to a chair. 'Now I’d like to see them try and catch me,' he thinks, conspiratorially.
20. Oh! Cruel king! How he sits! With whale-blubber slicking back his hair!
21. A family of woodlice crawl under the floorboards. No-one notices them. Everyone in the house above is dead.
22. A baby hovers in the night sky. Possessed? Is anything truly possessed? Yes, this baby was. It was later burnt at the stake.
23. A juvenile crocodile plays hopscotch with his pals. He cheats. He is cast out of the game. He is sad. He cries. Real tears.
24. ‘Tally ho!’ cried the Queen, drunkenly stumbling about the palace, ‘Tally ho!’ Everyone else had gone out for the night.
25. Given the circumstances, Paul was lucky to get off with a double life sentence.
26. Once upon a time there lived a man.
27. A duck sits, considering himself, his pond, and what constitutes ‘duck-feed’.
28. He lounged in the hammock, ironically. He was a haddock.
29. ‘Terrible. Terrible, terrible, terrible.’ And all this from a nun with a gammy knee. (A Runner Reflects.)
30. Concubines; I wish they were still socially acceptable. Then my wife wouldn’t be so upset.
31. Consider this.
32. A man named Larry sits atop a church. He claims he wants to get closer to God. That’s fine. But did he really have to sit with the point of the spire going up his arse?
And Finally, a small 'story poem' as a bonus feature, sort of thing.
A zoo in Berkshire.
The 'Monkey World' Section.
A grouse flies, fluttering up from a nearby scrub (ie. bush)
A monkey sagely observes this, from behind his cruel cage of iron.
Savagely, the monkey flings shit at the grouse.
The shit misses
And lands 'pon a Land Rover in the car park.
The grouse's plan had worked.
17. A Premiership footballer walks in to a bar. I’m not saying which bar. And I’m not saying which footballer.
18. A coiled spring shoots up from nowhere. Or does it? It does.
19. Morrissey ties himself to a chair. 'Now I’d like to see them try and catch me,' he thinks, conspiratorially.
20. Oh! Cruel king! How he sits! With whale-blubber slicking back his hair!
21. A family of woodlice crawl under the floorboards. No-one notices them. Everyone in the house above is dead.
22. A baby hovers in the night sky. Possessed? Is anything truly possessed? Yes, this baby was. It was later burnt at the stake.
23. A juvenile crocodile plays hopscotch with his pals. He cheats. He is cast out of the game. He is sad. He cries. Real tears.
24. ‘Tally ho!’ cried the Queen, drunkenly stumbling about the palace, ‘Tally ho!’ Everyone else had gone out for the night.
25. Given the circumstances, Paul was lucky to get off with a double life sentence.
26. Once upon a time there lived a man.
27. A duck sits, considering himself, his pond, and what constitutes ‘duck-feed’.
28. He lounged in the hammock, ironically. He was a haddock.
29. ‘Terrible. Terrible, terrible, terrible.’ And all this from a nun with a gammy knee. (A Runner Reflects.)
30. Concubines; I wish they were still socially acceptable. Then my wife wouldn’t be so upset.
31. Consider this.
32. A man named Larry sits atop a church. He claims he wants to get closer to God. That’s fine. But did he really have to sit with the point of the spire going up his arse?
And Finally, a small 'story poem' as a bonus feature, sort of thing.
A zoo in Berkshire.
The 'Monkey World' Section.
A grouse flies, fluttering up from a nearby scrub (ie. bush)
A monkey sagely observes this, from behind his cruel cage of iron.
Savagely, the monkey flings shit at the grouse.
The shit misses
And lands 'pon a Land Rover in the car park.
The grouse's plan had worked.
Saturday 6 March 2010
The Unsolvable Mystery of the New Folder.
Wow, terrifying. I was just browsing through 'My Documents' and a phantom folder has appeared! It is cryptically titled 'New Folder' and contains no documents. I wrote a poem about it.
The Unsolvable Mystery of the New Folder
Scanning through ‘My Documents’,
My eyes are all a-quiver,
An empty folder – ‘New Folder’,
Sends forth a dreadful shiver,
Crashing, rolling down my spine,
The folder – empty – that is fine.
From whence did you come?
Oh, folder of Hell.
What can I file (in you)?
Oh, folder of Hell.
Did you deign to spawn yourself, like some awful Kracken?
A Kracken crashing through the bracken with the aim to simply slacken
My Bowels?
Mayhap I’ll never know, old bean,
I could not hope to guess,
From whence ‘New Folder’ did appear.
One answer pops up to my fear,
An answer to my strife.
I’ll simply click ‘delete’, my dear,
And thence can sleep at night.
Please share any similarly fear-striking stories of technology going 'mad' and thus foreshadowing the inevitable demise of humankind at the hands of machines in the 'comments' - thereby ironically playing directly into the hands of the machines.
The Unsolvable Mystery of the New Folder
Scanning through ‘My Documents’,
My eyes are all a-quiver,
An empty folder – ‘New Folder’,
Sends forth a dreadful shiver,
Crashing, rolling down my spine,
The folder – empty – that is fine.
From whence did you come?
Oh, folder of Hell.
What can I file (in you)?
Oh, folder of Hell.
Did you deign to spawn yourself, like some awful Kracken?
A Kracken crashing through the bracken with the aim to simply slacken
My Bowels?
Mayhap I’ll never know, old bean,
I could not hope to guess,
From whence ‘New Folder’ did appear.
One answer pops up to my fear,
An answer to my strife.
I’ll simply click ‘delete’, my dear,
And thence can sleep at night.
Please share any similarly fear-striking stories of technology going 'mad' and thus foreshadowing the inevitable demise of humankind at the hands of machines in the 'comments' - thereby ironically playing directly into the hands of the machines.
Wednesday 3 March 2010
A Blogpost From The Future!!!
I can bring you a world EXCLUSIVE! This is from the future! It is the introduction to historian William Samuel's book; Lust For Death: An Exploration of the Cannibalistic Cule/Pop Feud. It will be a remarkable and poignant analytical masterpiece, which uncovers some of the shocking truths of the infamous feud. It will be published in 2020 by The History Press.
‘We all know how it started, with Anthony Cule taking umbrage with the famous and famously popular adverts for Swiftcover Car Insurance, that re-launched the career of Iggy Pop, and launched that of his hilarious puppet double – Iggy Poplet. Quite what provoked the foul tirade remains unclear. We know Cule had no previous contact with Pop; indeed, Pop when asked about Cule in 2010 said, simply and inimitably, “Who?”(Q Magazine, April 2010 edition) There will always be theories as to what sent Cule spiralling into this ugly rage. The one which seems to stand up to most scrutiny is that of simple professional envy. Indeed, up to his death in 2014 (more on that later), Cule refused to apologise for his statement published on his infamous (and critically panned) ‘blog’ – ‘A Rational Fear of Sharks.’ – The statement included the incendiary question, now so commonly parodied in pop culture, “What’s the matter, Iggy? Can’t hack it anymore?” (http://hellobiscuit.blogspot.com - retrieved 15/03/2020) – The question, indeed, which launched a thousand tweets (mostly from outraged Iggy Pop/Iggy Poplet fans).
And we all know how it ended. At Glastonbury 2014, with an emaciated Cule being dragged onstage during Iggy Pop’s famous headline act which truly re-established him as the star we all know him as to this day. Cule had, quite rightly, been held captive by Pop and his (yes, pun intended >) Stooges for 18 months at the behest of an outraged public. The final hour of Pop’s set comprised, as we all know, of the punk maestro methodically devouring Cule whilst the 200,000 delighted fans at Glastonbury sang ‘Kumbaya’. Pop was excused of murder on the grounds of, what the French call Crime Passionnel– A crime of passion – and justifiably so.
What I intend to explore throughout this book, is the middle ground between these two events. The exact circumstances of Cule’s captivity, how Cule recklessly continued to provoke the juggernaut musician, and the multi-million pound lawsuit that concluded with Cule being legally obliged to clean Iggy Poplet with his tongue. This is the fascinating and surprisingly dark tale of an internet feud, which turned into a cannibalistic war. This is Lust For Death.’
I hope, in the future, you will buy this book and discover the truth for yourselves.
‘We all know how it started, with Anthony Cule taking umbrage with the famous and famously popular adverts for Swiftcover Car Insurance, that re-launched the career of Iggy Pop, and launched that of his hilarious puppet double – Iggy Poplet. Quite what provoked the foul tirade remains unclear. We know Cule had no previous contact with Pop; indeed, Pop when asked about Cule in 2010 said, simply and inimitably, “Who?”(Q Magazine, April 2010 edition) There will always be theories as to what sent Cule spiralling into this ugly rage. The one which seems to stand up to most scrutiny is that of simple professional envy. Indeed, up to his death in 2014 (more on that later), Cule refused to apologise for his statement published on his infamous (and critically panned) ‘blog’ – ‘A Rational Fear of Sharks.’ – The statement included the incendiary question, now so commonly parodied in pop culture, “What’s the matter, Iggy? Can’t hack it anymore?” (http://hellobiscuit.blogspot.com - retrieved 15/03/2020) – The question, indeed, which launched a thousand tweets (mostly from outraged Iggy Pop/Iggy Poplet fans).
And we all know how it ended. At Glastonbury 2014, with an emaciated Cule being dragged onstage during Iggy Pop’s famous headline act which truly re-established him as the star we all know him as to this day. Cule had, quite rightly, been held captive by Pop and his (yes, pun intended >) Stooges for 18 months at the behest of an outraged public. The final hour of Pop’s set comprised, as we all know, of the punk maestro methodically devouring Cule whilst the 200,000 delighted fans at Glastonbury sang ‘Kumbaya’. Pop was excused of murder on the grounds of, what the French call Crime Passionnel– A crime of passion – and justifiably so.
What I intend to explore throughout this book, is the middle ground between these two events. The exact circumstances of Cule’s captivity, how Cule recklessly continued to provoke the juggernaut musician, and the multi-million pound lawsuit that concluded with Cule being legally obliged to clean Iggy Poplet with his tongue. This is the fascinating and surprisingly dark tale of an internet feud, which turned into a cannibalistic war. This is Lust For Death.’
I hope, in the future, you will buy this book and discover the truth for yourselves.
Monday 1 March 2010
A Rational Fear of Sharks
I appear to have given myself the weekend off. This will not be a regular feature, by which I mean, I won't give myself every weekend off. What follows is a poem which is an attempt to explain my (crippling) fear of sharks and hence, the title of the blog. I hope you like it.
A Rational Fear of Sharks (Title)
A rational fear of sharks (first line)
Is what I suffer from. You know why?
Perhaps I’ll tell you.
Mayhap you’ll listen.
I don’t like sharks. I am afraid of them.
Row upon row of teeth. There’s just no end to them. (Bit of a rhyme)
And those blankly, bleakly staring eyes.
Eerie. And scary.
Scary. And eerie.
And I know!
Oh! I know!
One is statistically more likely to be killed,
By a coconut falling from a palm tree,
Or having your lungs filled with water,
Than from a shark attack.
But that doesn’t change the fact.
Coconuts don’t have blank, bleak staring eyes or row upon row of meat-riddled teeth.
And I will still swim and have baths.
I hope I will never be attacked by a shark.
Rational.
National.
You may notice that I ended with a rhyming couplet. Of sorts. Rather Shakesperian I thought.
Also, what is it with Iggy Pop a.) advertising car insurance? b.) Having a poorly made puppet of himself do the energetic bits? What's the matter, Iggy? Can't hack it anymore?
And with those celebrity taunts, I'm off to sleep.
A Rational Fear of Sharks (Title)
A rational fear of sharks (first line)
Is what I suffer from. You know why?
Perhaps I’ll tell you.
Mayhap you’ll listen.
I don’t like sharks. I am afraid of them.
Row upon row of teeth. There’s just no end to them. (Bit of a rhyme)
And those blankly, bleakly staring eyes.
Eerie. And scary.
Scary. And eerie.
And I know!
Oh! I know!
One is statistically more likely to be killed,
By a coconut falling from a palm tree,
Or having your lungs filled with water,
Than from a shark attack.
But that doesn’t change the fact.
Coconuts don’t have blank, bleak staring eyes or row upon row of meat-riddled teeth.
And I will still swim and have baths.
I hope I will never be attacked by a shark.
Rational.
National.
You may notice that I ended with a rhyming couplet. Of sorts. Rather Shakesperian I thought.
Also, what is it with Iggy Pop a.) advertising car insurance? b.) Having a poorly made puppet of himself do the energetic bits? What's the matter, Iggy? Can't hack it anymore?
And with those celebrity taunts, I'm off to sleep.
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