Category Archives: Writing

In ancient times cats were worshipped as gods; they have not forgotten this…

The Alternative Advent: Day 8

bailey catsThe Secret Life of Bailey Cats—

There’s danger in the air…

When like vampire bats,
there’s tacit catsent
circumventing other cats’
nose for a scent—

And feline-combat
who’ve their bents made too fat,
Hell dis-management’s lent
dire rules supplemental:
cos unless you’ve not noticed
they’re all derangemental…

So it’s war for clan Bailey:
‘no fire fur first’
for engagement is lore—
before who comes out worst—
we’ll see three pick on one:
in a fight to the last paw…

The sound of discrete feet(s)
abound are coming
from somewhere(s) over there-
It’s Fritz: she sneaks around and sits;
I think sensing purring in the air.

Then a sound disturbs her.
Potts smells catburger.
and Jabber,
thinks he’ll have her,
to himself.

So by stealth on delft paws,
she beelines for the doors
between Jabber’s hind legs
and Pott’s jaws…

Sandwiched tippy-toes to mind her
she’ll be sure they’ll not find fur
to lead them;
cos they know
she’s frightened of claws.

Tri’s pounces were announcements,
she’d discredit then denounce them—
any cat who had motives
less emotive than hers.

No tit-for-tat, prattle-splat
at this or spat at that
or bric-a-brac
and cranny.

She’ll take a look
in every nook such are
snooks-a-cocked, uncannily.
Guggie’s slink was succinct
and instinctively trying.
her cruelty ensuredly unindemnifying.

So when she offered to nobble
Fritz’s mid-thorax bobble:
an offer as kind as maligned by design.
“Fluff?” Frtiz thought ought,
not be enough—
had Guggie
tried to “break me—
in half!”

She puffed
and waved away the axe—
and immediately.

Declined…

With revolt in her steps
you can bet that she crept
like a colt from the bolt
(e)scapegracely.

A prima facie evasion,
from oedemas and abrasions;
Fritz was not
in way, shape or form
porkholt.

Although Fritz found the chasing
at times too defacing
she was so gracefully pacey and
If I’d’ve seen her,
I would’ve timed her.
but that’s before she’d seen
gleaming
and sheaningly gleaned
the dreamcat
catkilling
machine:

Guggenheimer…

No matter how much cats fight, there always seem to be plenty of kittens…

Abraham Lincoln
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Cosmetic labels are linguistic wonders…

And we’re still following on:

What other literary form serves up so much suggested promise while remaining— for legal reasons no doubt, so thoroughly content free?

It’s unfathomable really…

IMG_4691 fix 222Unfathomable perhaps, but it also just happens to be both a trick and a rhetorical question, because everyone knows there’s not a wider selection of swill to be found anywhere in the world, than on wine-menus. But while descriptions of wines at least only pushes the boundaries of creative writing without affecting its taste; with cosmetics— mainly in the hair-care range, there seems to be a desire to push the very boundaries of nature itself— which isn’t nearly so tender to the tongue.

So much so, I feel my dream qualification is finally on the verge of being realised: the field of un-natural science, where I can finally combine my skills to create a superior face-cream that “reduces the appearance of being a raddled old hack.”

A major supermarket chain has in the meantime created its own wonder of nature with its exclusive: Physique hair-care range, which “cleverly uses magnetic-like forces to create the style you want.” Quite how cleverly and magnetic-like, remains to be seen, but I distinctly recall something about attraction and repulsion as long ago as ‘little’ school, and while it would be the perfect means to keep the proximity of boys and girls’ faces to a minimum, the last thing we’d want would be a generation of boys’ heads being thrust together uncontrollably, particularly at such an impressionable age.

Maybe the Volume Collection just employs good old-fashioned electro-static forces— the force that dares not speak its name in applied trichology since being implicated in the dreaded “fly-away hair” scandal of ’87 or more recently— as proposed right here, with the unlicensed testing on old-aged pensioners: an essential read I assure you.

And then there’s the Control Collection for smooth sleekness, as opposed to that ‘other’ type of sleekness that lacks both? Perhaps it was developed for bonces with surface tension issues, we may never know. I on the other hand have more reason to fear:

Gukk: using the strong nuclear force to stay all day

Which doesn’t sound much like a barn-burner to me; rather something you’d evacuate the whole farm for… and then at least give the surrounding villages a heads-up.

At least it’s not as mind-bogglingly stupid as responding to “permanent, light reflecting colour”.  with totally non-light-reflecting hair dye; for a completely natural look..

Natural look?

It would reflect darkness for crying out loud!

Which under some circumstances, I agree might be cool! If it wasn’t so f@#$%*£ stupid…

Besides. I have a follow-up!

I used to love a bit of mouse with my vampirism until the cat started looking at me funny…

From Woman to mouse:

It’s a very odd thing—

As odd as can be

That what ever Miss T eats

Turns into Miss T.

Walter De La Mare, Miss T.

IMG_7102As much as I used to love turning into a mouse, it kind of gets to you after a while. The ears are pretty cute if cute’s your thing, which it’s not, wasn’t or ever likely to be, so I’m looking for something else to be— and if I’ve learnt anything over the last few days, it’s that the female of species is distinctly off-limits.

You could say I’m on the market for a new barrel— a furry one, something that floats and preferably— something that tastes goood. Especially since I am having an extended vowel sound day…

I was chatting with my friend Delfinus some time ago about a similar subject. She’s from Illinois and unfortunately for her, had a peculiar blood condition which left her symptomatic of something rather less than alive, so there was not much else to do other than find a way to laugh at it. This was all pre-vamp chic, so being bitten by a vampires wasn’t quite the vogue it is today; and for a Christian: becoming affiliated with the dark side, had certain social quandaries and a similar ring to a teen-aged boys first foray into Playboy ownership.

Why else do you think we would’ve been discussing eating our neighbours pets?

She was philosophical about it, though it did get her down at times. It can’t be easy making friends with people and then eating them, can it? I’d even toyed with the idea of getting Hag to give her a few tips on what species of flesh tastes best and how to prepare it when you are in a spot— perhaps even consider opening an eatery for other Lords of the Undead, calling it Killer’s, specialising in corpses to go. But then again, I thought it for-the-best that not too many people find out about either of them, unless there were to be incentives like how to carve a wooden steak.

Like I was saying first of all, this mouse charade had to stop. I loved the ‘eeek-ing’ and I loved the fact I got to eat my weight in cheese whenever the transformation took place; but Autumn had started to give me looks. Brave she may not’ve beeen— since ‘positively cowardly’ is the only ‘pc’ in her routinebut when it came to getting a scamper on with only a couple of ‘eeeks!’ to defend myself, there are few realistic stands worth a chance in hell to bet against surviving even if there was nothing remotely regimental about my cat.

This I suppose is still a dilemma, because it’s only a matter of time before I get eaten by something. And if I’m gonna get eaten, I want to taste goood!

Call me old fashioned, but I can’t remember the last time I went to a restaurant and found mouse on the menucat on the other hand? So I think I’m justified therefore, to conclude that they aren’t the best tasting rodent on the face of the earth. I wouldn’t even like to begin to imagine how much meat you’d get off one… Well, not again:

The last time I did, I declared that we should get a discount on the blind ones, only to be told that they were Chef’s speciality— reared in complete darkness in a cage strapped to the back of retired pit-ponies; something to do with the price of canaries spiralling out of control— and since they were gong to be killed anyway, it was cost effective to use them instead of the birds.

‘It all adds to the flavour’, said one old boy. ‘Thems there mices are bloody ‘eroes. Taste better then them others do too. ‘

To which I added very little but a wry smile and decided to try the fricassee’d panda. There is no doubt in my mind, that if they tasted like chicken there’d be millions of them— so dispute that at your peril.

So mouse-meat would not fill you up and in all honesty, would probably be bland. I find rabbit a little bland and they have a great deal more going for them then mice— but they don’t really have enough variation of sound to warrant a full coolness rating; much like the Martians, but they get discounted owing to their leathery skin; and our future monkey overlords who haven’t yet been introduced to the narrative— and besides I’ve already stated that I consider their meat to be a little tasteless.

I suppose what I’m trying to say is, that if I had to eat someone or something, I’m betting it’s the ones I love that tastes better. Take Autumn or instance. My special lady she may be, but if it came down to having to eat her or some dog of the street. I’d eat her. If I had the choice to eat someone I had genuine affection for or a contemptible prick— I’d choose my friend…

This wouldn’t land me in good stead if mine were the only family left standing after a catastrophic event leaving the globe unpopulated. Between the green blood coursing through Toebag’s veins and Hag— I’d rather suffer the fate of the Stephen King’s Survivor Type as opposed to tucking into either one of those two. At least I know I’d taste sweeet.

And so…

Since I’ve failed miserably in my attempt to make a point by neglecting the original reason for making it in the first place and ended up making several completely different ones; I’m not sure whether I should elaborate on my meat theories— which are rather wonderful; further my discussion on the animals I fancy becoming when the moment takes my fancy;  why Hag would make such a poor hor d’eourve; pointing-pictures, monkey kings; the website that does tell you how to prepare rogue flesh when you are in a spot; or why cosmetic labels are linguistic wonders.

I guess either way it’s going to be a busy week.

Back to the dinner plate; for it is my drawing board—

And today my pen’s a knife and fork…

Martian Shock Therapy…

Thematic Semantics: Point A—

Flap you b@#$%&?!

Rod Hull

taster of london with nick 05Since its inception, I’ve found myself plodding along at a far steadier pace than I had intended— especially after a lay off as long I had; but I’m pretty sure I’m enjoying myself upon more than just similar lines. As such I’m more than willing to play more. If one is able to do after all— it’s criminal not to; so do, is what I’m doing.

I had intended to weave a little Welles into my thoughts— but it’s far too important a thing to have lost, wasted in ridiculous so soon without a little context to grease the tracks first— besides, if I keep it up, I’ll have exceeded half of all the probabilities I’d originally set myself, and in the hood of all likeliness— I’ll be lucky to fill the other.

Although, that being said, I do have the odd treat up my sleeve— it’s not as if I have it planned as much as it’s more a case of learning to fly again by jumping out of a plane with someone with a parachute beside me asking, with some urgency I might add, ‘why aren’t you flapping?’

So, from the springboard of planes and parachutes, it’s quite possible to take monkeys, aliens, world-domination and even woman around a peculiar semantic merry-go-round; such are the contextual marvels of alternative thought. But like all good things, we must start at point A. And for the next few days I’ll be following a thematic-chain which will no doubt lead me right back to here, past through and perhaps over some of these most inevitable of categories.

The reason for my desired launchpad is owing to the quasi-obssession I’ve had for many years with the first 45 minutes of Jeff Wayne’s War of the Worlds. It has a tendency to collapse in on itself during the second half which is hardly a crime as there have been many very good works falling short of greatness owing to a lack of lustre in their final third— but for three quarters of an hour we are treated to one of the greatest voices there’s ever been narrating away with his life, very much in the balance— we even get to hear him say whoosh— which makes the fee for the CD alone, worth an admission.

If I had Richard Burton’s voice for a day, I would make my million and retire— so long as my ‘million’ was pounds and not just trilbies for a secret army of chimps; which would be quite ridiculous. There’s not a scenario I can imagine where I’d actually be able to keep an army of chimps secret. And it’s not through a lack of trying.

Anywise, the Martians have this great war-cry. Actually, it’s the only thing they do say, which is probably why they’re so angry and destructive in the first place: it’s a cry for help, an out-shout for a better vocabulary: we want your planet and your dictionary. It certainly resonates far stronger with me, than some nonsense about the proliferation of their species.

But instead they caught a cold. But not before crying ooohlaaa! a few times, which is actually pretty creepy as it is. However, if you isolate it; run it through a few filters, transpose it a little then play it a little louder than is really necessary, it becomes positively disturbing. And what is especially alarming is if you allow your computer to cry it out whenever it feels like it.

Half a dozen times a day I used to hear it and every time I’d get one of those wtf moments— you’d expect after a while that the nerves would take a bit of a shredding, but it actually became quite therapeutic, particularly when it provided an excuse to leak sentences…

And with that, we’ll just have to see where it takes us.

We will peck them to death to-morrow, my dear…

H.G. Wells, The War of the Worlds

It’s one of the finest things we do…

Write about our lives, because not only do we reveal our minds through revelations our thoughts provide us—

But it gives us an incentive to be honest…

cass twig air up hangingIt’s almost impossible not to consider the value of thoughts with the fairly steady flow of them; their rudimentary worth, relevance to our lives and the importance to the people who have them. It’s easy to see how distorted a thought can become when left to constant re-examination and how faceless victim/culprit dichotomies are given grounding by a name or a hover-card. If the last few weeks has demonstrated anything, it’s how something as simple as a pen-stroke can release the burden and stresses they invariably cause. I’ve had glimpses into how fears, confessions, pains and crises can be put right by words creating deeds by changing little parts of the world. And I shouldn’t be surprised: we write about things and repeat ourselves about things that have meaning to us.

It keeps me humble…

There’s nothing normal about growing up with dragons in the pantry…

Maturity is something sometimes, some of us have to grow out of—

When growing up is a small price to pay for surviving it…

one way dirtyMost nights I wouldn’t remember falling asleep. A curious state of affairs for such a rare occurrence, but had it been a regular household, I’m quite sure things would have been most different.

On a typical day, and I use the term lightly, I’d be up and about early so as to avoid any unpleasantness, but this particular had come and gone and it was midday before I awoke; almost three before stirring with any conviction. And I was in an horrendous mood because of it. I wouldn’t have even been able to put ‘why’ into words without sounding hyperbolic.

Upon reflection, I merely chalk it up as being one of those things childhood throws at you to give you excuses later in life for underachievement or lack of ambition.

I remember thinking it was a little warm for the time of year until noticing an orange flicker, licking the bottom of the window. I just assumed the house was on fire again and went back to sleep. This would have been fine had it not been for the sound of screaming and the smell of dead babies. Heat is one thing and tolerable to a point, but knowing where to draw lines and when to erase them is a life skill that should be treated with priority. My pen comes out with the stench of death. So I told them.

I’m all for living and let living, but when the latter means nothing of the sort and the the sanctity of life, human or otherwise is being defiled and I’m able to smell it; it makes you feel somewhat responsible, partially. It was why I’d bought them the febreze in the first place.

I didn’t get much of a response beyond the cackling, but deduced it must have been Toebag and not Hag who was responsible for the foul emanations: she’d probably slaughtered the babies she sat for and brought them home for a snack.

Toebag’s more reasonable when it comes to this sort of thing then Hag, who tends to break her victims’ spirits before desecrating their flesh. I never quite understood that at the time, but with advances in science the way they are, it’s quite possible it had something to do with the heterocyclic amines or polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons released during the initial stages of absolute terror.

Needless to say I was curious, a state of affairs rarer than lack of sleep— so when I finally found the temerity I was looking for hidden under a stack of witchcraft today and my heat retardant spectacles sitting on them, I decided to investigate. Sure enough, there was Toebag, horns erect and tail swishing, breathing fire and what have you, tucking into a vegetable curry and not the twins from the previous night. That, I thought, was the luncheon of a sick and depraved animal— and I wasted little time in telling her so…

Hag was there too, slouched in a curtain of rasping flames looking fiendishly dull, so I took the opportunity to mention that I was concerned about the effect of excessive heat on my trousers but was forced away by a collective shriek that knocked my specs clean off.

It’s bad enough having to share a house with a couple of demented bat-wings who find it innately pleasurable to torture people and singe them for making reasonable inquiries about the laundry, but there’s just no need for pyrotechnics in the house. I distinctly remember being told as a child not to play with matches, and here were two up-grown blasphemers revelling in Satan’s unholy winds, hurrying me into the kitchen to make my tea before my face dissolved.

I was so on edge I even jumped at my own reflection in the patio doors after popping outside to see the rabbit who was oblivious to whole thing and Autumn was no where to be seen, obviously in fear of wasting one of the nine lives she was saving for more desperate times. Those two always gave me the impression that they’d gladly remain neutral provided their respective body weights in biscuits everyday was satisfied.

As for me, I scowled and cursed a little, which was customary even then, avoided the flaming projectiles that were aimed at me and drank my tea in peace.

Where it seemed to me to be much more quiet—

Must’ve been the tea…

The Hopefuel Range & the not unseens…

The Grand essentials of happiness are: something to do, something to love, and something to hope for…

Allan K. Chalmers

hopeI prefer to think in terms of the not-so-grand essentials that work just as well. We cannot put a quart in a pint glass after all, because abstractions of such can never agree and invariably come back to the same thing: something to hope for.

Reinhold Niebuhr wrote:

“Nothing worth doing is completed in our lifetime. Therefore, we are saved by hope.”

Which is pretty gloomy stuff, but goes on to state that:

“Nothing true or beautiful or good makes complete sense in any immediate context of history; therefore, we are saved by faith.”

Which is more or less exactly the same thing— all the while making a non-essential argument about ‘grand things’. It is however, more than likely that he’s saying— it can be no more separated from patience than from the form itself. You see, there will always be a little something along the way to chew.

Like the devil said to Noah, it’s bound to clear up.

A lack patience is the reason liquor was created; made in mind for those who wanted a hundred beers but only a small pocket to carry them in. It is the original vendible distilled— sometimes many, many times— in order to promote a little optimism in its users’ lives. There should however, be more— something that doesn’t consider one’s innards to be comestible.

The Hope Springs flavoured Waters range would be a step in the right direction, particularly for those with a more delicate sense of taste; preferring a cool and smooth beverage as opposed to something that thinks of you as foodwhich is why there should be a Hope-I-don’t-Bloat range of dietary snacks; or perhaps an educational device: The Hope-I-Float swimming trainer; an invaluable tool for first time paddlers.

But there should at least be something for those of us who are concerned that our child or childs will fall for the wrong ‘sort’: the I Hope they don’t Elope parental handbook, would deal with that, providing the reader with all those woes, a tender examination of possible solutions— and if all those fail; a how-to-guide composed of violent recriminatory advice entitled: Acrimony before Matrimony.

Personally, I’d prefer to see something on the lines of:

Hope on a Rope

It would be less retentive than water, with fewer calories than food; you’re less likely to get drunk and drown because you’ve forgotten your arm-bands; and no one’s father is going to shoot you. Instead, you can just lather up and rinse and drip-dry, safe in the knowledge that you need never hope you smell well, again. Or simply, wear your hope and make it real— we wear our hearts from time to time do we not?

Porro fides est rerum sperandarum substantia, demonstratio eorum quae non videntur—

Which is probably the most elegant of all definitions: the substance of things hoped for and the evidence of things not seen…

Hebrew 11:1

It certainly has a better ring to it than Pope-soap.