The Deformed Thief
January 14, 2011
.
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What a deformed thief this fashion is. —Much Ado About Nothing, Act III scene iii
In addition to being lazy, I’m a bit light-headed at the moment (fasting, you know) so instead of applying myself to writing a post, I’ll just make do with this. Who has not committed some dreadful fashion faux pas? In the past, obviously: we’re all far too suave now (although I do have my doubts about the advisability of Mowbray’s plaid plus-fours).
Were any of us quite as deluded as Gary, whose capacious denim loons, form-fitting cheesecloth shirt, blow-dried locks, close-clipped beard and hip-shot pouting bring back the horrors of the 70s? Erm…Probably.
Let’s have verse on your own fashion Waterloo.
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politelyhomicidal.wordpress.com 
I wonder why there’s a passport tucked into his jeans. Perhaps he’s going to cross the border.
Looks like he is ready to ship some contraband alright if the two empty lorries are anything to go by – perhaps he is taking the loon to Russia? The jean, I mean.
I suspect it’s his wallet. I seem to remember loons being A. skin tight [above the knees] and B. having no pockets to interfere with the tight-sculpted buttock look…
Doggdirt
The bride looked her best in an apricot sheath
With radiant smile and not much underneath
As outside the registry office they waited
One Saturday lunchtime, collective breath bated,
As Henry the groom pawed the kerb double quick
Regretting the scotch and the toke of Thai stick
To remove a turd – it could hardly be worse –
Ingrained in his gleaming new leather Converse
Original choice, from a glance at the queue
Of West Indian family groups. What could they do
But gawp at the giant arrayed in Armani
And topped with a raiment to shame a Fulani
Witch doctor – lovingly crafted of raw silk
By Saks Fifth Avenue for an Acker Bilk
Whose wife soon informed him that he’d dropped a bollock
Commissioning dress jackets from Jackson Pollock
And promptly dispatched to the Palm Beach Thrift Shop
Where Henry, eye ever alert for a swap,
Espied the dreamcoat with its multiple hues
Slapped forehead, passed Ulysses Grant. “I could use
A jacket like this one in Brixton’s fair city
To marry my sweetheart.”
Whose foot wasn’t shitty.
That’s brilliant Henry. I love “And topped with a raiment to shame a Fulani
Witch doctor …”
Ta, chuck. True story, too (18/08/84).
Yes, complex and vivid. Took me three reads to get the plot straight (my problem), but well worth it.
Superb, HLM, but should there be a full stop after Converse? Or is there a Converse Original and I’m reading it wrongly?
It came upon a midday clear
A moment epiphanic
As the mirror reflected back at me
A vision berserk and manic
Hair wild and long down to my ass
A cheesecloth embroidered top
Satin pyjama bottoms
Over which were laced my Docs
I told my mother often
That this was the type of clothing
People wore in college
But was just met with fear and loathing
“You embarrassed your little sister
That day, windswept and damp
You arrived late to her concert
Looking like a tramp”
The conversation echoed loud
In my thrice studded ears
Above myYasser A-type shroud
Customised with burns and tears
She might have had a point I thought
I really do look ghastly
But would I look any better
In my dress from Laura Ashley?
Loons wide enough to hide a d0g in
are not the trousers to get stuck in a bog in
Rural areas where these fashion faux pas
Meant the 70’s population depended on cars.
So………..
Global warming the current plague of planets
was caused by people dressing like pranits.
Great stuff from the usual suspects.
I really enjoyed that Sister Rosetta Tharp documentary (just watched it on i-player)…wonderful music.
Wild guitar playing ….. from a woman who looked like she just stepped off the pages of 50’s Vogue too.
Admission
I recall with a wince of dismay
a flagrante delicto non-starter
the time I was taught by my lover
that the pants go on over the garter…
Ha. He obviously wasn’t an Irish man who (a) wouldn’t have known the protocol and (b) wouldn’t care as long as you took the pants off.
My fashion decades have included many many bad hair days and inadvisable trends but wearing pyjamas al fresco is up there with the best/worst of them.
He was Italian.
figures
Yours is quite vivid too, Reine. I have a composite impression of you over your fashion decades. Just the nature of the medium I suppose. It will be a lot for you to live up to ;)
It came as a Christmas present:
she must have misunderstood
my standard sarcastic comment
as your doting mother would.
Heavy as a bloody carthorse
the pattern savagely loud
hairy as a Scotchman’s arse
it hung on me like a shroud.
The sleeves, which covered my fingers,
had space for an army to hide,
even now the trauma lingers:
she made me wear it outside.
Back in the mental closet it goes,
and I’ll firmly shut the door,
in terms of the language of clothes
that Starsky cardigan swore.
Very good Melton Michael Mowbray.
Had taped Taggart earlier in the week and watched it this evening. Very enjoyable. I admired DI Robbie Ross and HI said “Yes, I knew he’d be your cup of tea, you like them rugged”… and to think I think he’s never paying attention.
Rugged, Re? Like this?
http://tiny.cc/ixs6n
Ed has suggested (on the literary tattoo blog) that he has, or would like to have, the tattoo:
‘Batteries Not Included’
Tell us more EdT.
and Moon…your comment was a tease. What would you write? Your public wants to know.
And while I’m being curious…
How many days fasting so far, Mishari? How are you faring?
It’s an old literary quote hic – you’ll find it on a lot of packaging for pre-digital electric goods. A comment on the mind-set of those who elect to be tattooed these days. A poor comment perhaps but a comment nonetheless
Thanks, Reine. Yes, I watched it tonight as well. Made a balls-up of my reference to it earlier – it’s Alex Norton who plays DCI Burke, not the other way round. It’s a pity they’ve dumped the gay copper. A decent murrrrdderrrr and some torrrrrrtuuuurrrrrre thrown in as well. Couldn’t be better.
Nice poem upthread. Your style was… individual. Funny how the daytime jammies never caught on.
Saw Alex and Blythe interviewed during the week on daytime TV as I lay languishing on the couch, too weak to change the channel. He is a very jolly fellow in real life. She is still Jackie Reid.
Nothing serious, I hope?
No – thank you – a virus said the doc. Just exhausted and pain all over, coming round. She made me take my top off in front of a male student who was on work experience with her and spent an uncomfortably long time listening to my chest.
Sorry to hear that. I saw the hospital ref. earlier and assumed a check-up or something. Get some of Simon’s dihydrocodeine. Fantastic stuff.
Ah, I’ll be grand. I might like it too much. The greatest pain is to my pocket, a lot of money expended to find I just had to ride it out. Hate going to the doctor, I turn into a bumbling idiot in front of medical professionals. All my vocabulary abandons me and I end up blathering.
I write notes to read from if it’s something important. You get some funny looks from the old lags, but younger docs don’t seem bothered. It’s better than l’esprit d’escalier when you get home.
Anyway, time for me to meet Polly Estersheets. Ciao!
Sleep soundly MM. Hadn’t realised the time; the child is away and we have had a very “undelineated” day. See, that’s the kind of stupid word I would say to the doctor; I once referred to getting the locomotive to work because I couldn’t think of train. Christ.
Night all.
MM Pyjamas with leather/denim jackets are still very popular with teenage girls in certain areas of Manchester ( and elsewhere too no doubt ). it didn’t catch on with the middle classes though so in fashion-world terms it probably doesn’t count anymore.
So Westport couture found its way across the Irish Sea and infiltrated Lancashire? Oscar De La Reine clearly missed her true vocation.
Oh God, I never wore them in Westport. The townsfolk were not ready for that. Only in Galway where I studied. The trend is also popular in inner city Dublin – I often pass pyjamaed and furry booted young ones out and about as I travel to work but they seem to confine it to their local areas. Theirs are proper full-on pyjamas whereas mine were multicoloured Indian ones … obviously designed for males though because they had a big flap at the front which I had to safety pin. I have never worn pyjamas since either inside or outside the house.
I did miss my vocation I think; I would love to have worked in fashion. I was in a shop recently and one of the customers was surprised to hear I was not the owner on the basis of the advice I had been dispensing. Ideally, I’d like to lecture part-time in middle English and be a personal shopper the rest of the time. Hmmm. …. not forgetting my tambourine playing ambition and my willingness to take on any acting roles that require instant hysteria.
Just in case any recruitment specialists are reading.
When that Aprille with his fashiones neue
Hath decreed that hencefourth alle garmentes blue
Should bee bungèd in the dustbin’s maw,
Ande leggiengs burieed in the bottom drawer,
Thenne to discouvere what wille be the rage,
To Parris make the buyeres their pilgrimage.
Do you know Alison Lurie’s ‘The Language Of Clothes’?
Interesting book (from a great novelist).
The best Scots detective was McCloud (Dennis Weaver). Watching him gallop down Broadway in pursuit of various American no-goodniks did my cynical old heart good.
His kilt and sporran rippling seductively in the breeze and his clarion call of ‘Hoots, mon…see you, Jimmy, by the way…will ye no cam herrre, ye blackguard?’ (You imagined that last bit-Ed.). They don’t make Scots coppers like him anymore–now they’re just dour, grey-faced bureaucrats with angina and a wife who despises them.
God that poor woman must be exhausted.
Ah, no, not quite but thank you for giving me a new object of desire Hic.
I would be disowned if I got any kind of tattoo… although I think I’d fancy a discreet one.
9 days and counting, hic. I feel fine…light-headed and lacking my usual fizz, but the first 10 days are the worst as the body purges all the toxins and unwanted rubbish.
I remember a fellow, used to drink in my local boozer, who had his name tattooed on both arms…presumably in case he lost his memory and an arm simultaneously. Hey…it happens.
I had some excellent roast pork, with spuds, carrots, shallots and parsnips. Baked cabbage with cumin was the side dish. A steamed syrup pudding with brandy sauce followed. I washed it down with Tesco’s Finest Australian Shiraz.
Bastard…go ahead and and gloat…we’ll see who has the last laugh when I live forever.
I’ve been on a diet for a week now. I do have a propensity to put on weight, I suppose, but have always been able to shed it to a degree, usually through a few days’ fasting followed by a few weeks’ restraint. Now the needle has begun going further than one revolution, I’ve been given a book by my everlovin’ (she got two for the price of three – its sticker obliterates part of the original sticker, which now reads “5 French people can’t be wrong”) that advocates protein and nothing but. Apart from a binge today (you can theoretically eat as much as you want), I’ve been eating at least as much as before and seem to have shed some pounds. And euros. I now spend as much on food as I would if I was residing in a FSH and living on room service.
As for tattooing a legend, I don’t think I’d bother. I couldn’t trust myself to come up with something that would exalt me sufficiently to keep it permanently. I know this. I don’t get that drunk anymore.
As far as I know, there is a Converse Original…it used to be called the Chuck Taylor All Star model. Basically, it’s yer Converse Hi-Top (in leather or canvas).
Very ill-advised, Hank. The all-protein diet is basically the Atkins Diet, which is hell on your kidneys and damaging in many other ways. We aren’t designed for large amounts of protein consumption, hence our 30 feet of intestines.
Carnivores have very short intestines, the meat shoots right through. We’re designed for the same diet as the average gorilla or chimp (our digestive systems are virtually identical)–lots of veg and fruit, nuts and seeds, whole grains, beans and pulses and very, very little meat.
If you give me your email address, I’ll email you a copy of Fuhrman’s Eat To Live, the only book on diet, nutrition and health you’ll ever need. Forget the Atkins voodoo…
Ta, Mish. It’s mark@henrymoon.com
Mind you, I lost faith with Atkins when he died after falling over in New York. The guru I’m vaguely following now is Dukan, but I’d be up for reading Fuhrman. To be honest, I just get into the extreme lifestyle kick.
Anyway, I’m allowed to eat veg next week. So I’m off to market. I’m a humanely raised pig that has been allowed to forage!
Check your in-box.
Bad form, Mowbray. *tsk*
Living forever is hard work; I prefer to reincarnate every so often for a fresh start.
I’m truly impressed, Mishari. Are you able to maintain your usual exercise? Do you sleep more?
I hope you don’t mind me asking, but the people I know who’ve gone that long have taken a maple syrup/cayenne/ lemon drink.
hic, the maple syrup/cayenne/lemon formula is for a violent purge of the colon. It works but is primarily for people who don’t eat well to start with and don’t get nearly enough fibre (which is actually most people). I don’t need it because I eat very healthily anyway.
However, I do drink and smoke and (occasionally) take drugs; also, I live in central London and so take in all kinds of toxic crap in the air I breathe, so just a water fast works perfectly for me.
My activity level remains the same (the body has more than enough reserve if only people realised it) and I sleep as well as usual (that is to say, well but with bouts of insomnia…like tonight).
I’m afraid toxicity is high everywhere now. I rarely eat tuna, and never swordfish anymore. You’d think the air quality would be good out here on the rock, but there’s a coal-burning plant upwind in Salem.
And the protein thing is tricky. I feel I need good quality protein, but too much out of balance depletes calcium besides feeling stodgy. You’ve inspired me to try fasting again…probably in March. If I get to four days, that will be improvement over last time.
Do you pay attention to whether foods are metabolically acidifying or alkalysing?
No, not really. The thing to aim for, as far as diet goes, is variety. High-quality protein (beans and pulses, nuts and seeds and whole-grains), lots of green, leafy vegetables and lots of fruit. You’ll also get the complex carbohydrates that you need from the foregoing.
I’m no ascetic (well, rarely) and I do eat meat, chicken, fish, cheese etc; but I’m conscious of their detrimental effect when consumed in excess and keep them to a minimum. It’s no hardship.
I don’t eat tuna or swordfish anymore and in fact, the only flesh I’m really happy to eat is properly-raised free-range chicken and lamb (or mutton), because nobody has discovered a way to factory-farm sheep. I get Argentinian pampas-raised beef, free of hormones and antibiotics and try to stick to fish that are at (or near) the bottom of the food-chain (fresh sardines, smelts, mackerel etc) and when I eat pork, it’s from humanely raised pigs that have been allowed to forage.
But as I say, I eat very little in the way of animal products (flesh or dairy). I have quite enough unhealthy habits as it is.
well good luck with the fast Mishari.
Let’s hope it doesn’t start to infect your vision so you , oh I don’t know, start to misread the names of people posting comments here.
Fasting is a bit difficult for diabetics, exercise and eating properly ( neither which I do nearly as well as I should ) is the way forwards in that respect.
You are inarguably an ascetic this week.
Very interesting, I’d thought of you as a barbeque fiend, and I remember your Spanish woodland pigs. I’ve not heard of that beef, but I’m not a beef fancier. I do love wild Pacific salmon, which is always available frozen. I’m sure I’ve never had a fresh sardine. Herring is used for bait hereabouts, but my father likes pickled herring as a snack, and as a child I’d eat it from the jar.
I’ve never been attracted to tobacco or other drugs, but it would be a good idea for me to forgo the evening tipple for a detox period.
Food fashions change like every other. Herring used to be the main food fish in Britain and northern Europe (the ‘kipper’ is a smoked or salt cured herring). People depended on herring for food and their livelihood.
In Holland and Germany and around the Baltic in general, rolled or pickled herring is still a very popular street food. In Sweden (or is it Norway?) they have a special tinned variety called suströmming (sp?) that’s fermented in the can and has to be smelled to be believed. Mind you, they also eat Lutfisk, which involves soaking dried cod in lye and also reeks to high heaven (although it tastes good).
Of course, one of the great Roman exports of antiquity was a sort of ur-Worcestershire sauce called garam (I think), that was made by allowing fish to ferment in buried barrels and then draining off the juices and bottling them. The Thais and the Vietnamese still have something similar called (I think) nam pla.
Reaching for the soy sauce to brighten up my burgers yesterday, I pulled down a likely bottle. Thankfully something about its weathered exterior made me smell it before I poured it on – it was Vietnamese nuoc mam sauce, a fish-based fermented juice that smells effing rank. An anagram of “moan, cum”, as the dogg astutely pointed out.
I ruined a stir fry the other day by firing in a generous dash of Lea and Perrins Worcestershire instead of Soy. Tried to drain it off and disguise the piquant and alarmed contents of the pan with oyster and soy sauce but the damage has been done.
My son was appalled when his (German) gf’s parents produced raw herrings for the Xmas entree. He has taken to raw pork, which is apparently very popular in Germany. It just sounds wrong to me.
Raw pork is wrong and frankly sounds revolting. I don’t even like under-cooked pork. I’ve never much cared for steak tartare, either. Although a chef friend introduced me to a raw-ish beef dish that’s terrific. Thinly sliced sirloin, marinated for 24-hours in a 50/50 mix of good red wine and Worcestershire sauce; but, I suppose that’s not really raw.
When I lived on the beach in Hikkaduwa, the locals taught me to put raw sliced fish into a bowl with lime juice, coconut milk, herbs and spices; cover with muslin and leave in the sun for the day; spend the day surfing; come back to the palm-leaf hut and your meal is cooked. Delicious, too.
I believe I’ve maintained a widely eclectic diet, but nothing close to encompassing all that in the piscean realm. Kippers weren’t a staple in either side of my family. Never had ‘suströmming’ that I recall, and lutefisk would have been frowned upon (along with any sort of ‘street food’), but smoked salmon in cream sauce with dill, highly favoured.
I’ll try to get the pH chart to you online. It’s surprising and worth a look.
How long will you fast this time? and how will you break it?
but don’t let me keep you up…
http://www.alkaline-alkaline.com/ph_food_chart.html
This is different to the more exhaustive chart I’m familiar with, but gives the basic information (pardon the pun) just to give an idea.
Sea salt and table salt are polar opposites and cider vinegar is alkalysing while balsamic v. is acidifying.White vinegar is so acidic I only use it for cleaning.
Also explains why mineral water is beneficial, very alkaline.
hic, 20 days (any more and despite my assurances, Inez starts to get a bit frantic) is what I usually do and break fast with fruit, steamed veg, brown rice-that sort of thing.
Reine Worcester sauce mixed with soy is a popular Japanese dip.
Very nice too but you have to experiment with the exact ratios. My irregular attempts are not done scientifically so I can’t pass on any tips I’m afraid
Oops – back to normal
Raw Pork? isn’t that risky?
It certainly is, Ed: Trichinosis is no joke.
I think the raw pork they eat has to be certified and tested and what not. This is Germany we’re talking about, after all.
BTW, Ed, I meant to say, your new all-singing, all-dancing website is very flash. Looks good.
Tar very much.
We are working on a new commercially suicidal show at the moment with 10 performers so the web-site will have to change soon to accomodate details about that.
If I appear snappy or more incoherent than usual over the next few months put it down to the stress of making this ridiculous idea come to fruition. It will be in Greenwich in July probably when you are fishing in Galicia .
I’m completely unsure about raw meat in any form. I couldn’t get to grips with steak hache in France ( a raw egg mixed in with it as well ) and I’m not a fan of rare steak – I can’t work out when to swallow it and chewing it down to a size to make it swallow-able takes an age. I’m not that taken with well-done steaks either although last year in Hungary I had a memorable exception.
Raw fish on the other hand is delicious – a raw herring in Amsterdam in winter is a great combination.
Fine Chaucer-Meets-Vogue, MM. I’ve heard of the Lurie book, probably read a review. So, you recommend it, then?
Good luck with your upcoming travails, Ed. I’m usually here for part of July, so we’ll see.
That spineless twit Ed MilliVanilliBand just declared that any strike action that interferes with the royal wedding would be ‘very wrong’. Like Alexander Cockburn said: “Capitalism is safe in this man’s hands”.
To forestall any misunderstanding I must stress that I bought the hot buttered crumpets, sorry, the Lurie book, as a present. I read it since I’m an enthusiast for her novels. Well worth a warm scone spread with jam and slathered with cream, I mean, a look.
Bastard…bastard…bastard…did I mention that you’re a callous bastard?
What in 72 cut quite a dash
Now looks a sartorial motorway crash.
A floor-length coat made up from old jeans
Costing far beyond your usual means.
The collar, allegedly from a sheep,
Evidence of man-made fibre creep.
The coat’s stitching unravelled by the minute
Revealing the weedy body within it.
In puddles it proved the theory of osmosis
When sunny it proved the theory of psychosis.
Oh floor-length denim coat what was I thinking
I was 16 so I could have been drinking.
The delicious carpaccio could convert you to raw beef; I used to eat the stuff four times a week in Milan, where it is rumoured to increase potency. Last part of Zen tonight, Ratking, which was the first Dibdin book I read, nearly 20 years ago now. Looking forward to it.
True, Simon…thinly sliced, best quality meat, marinated in something for a bit (good oil, lemon and vinegar or wine) and it hardly seems raw at all.
I’m pretty sure Ratking was the first one I read, too.
Following the evolutionary simian precedent, I guess we must be able to digest raw muscle tissue.
It’s the act of eating it that puts me off. To appreciate the taste is a step too far. I’ll never know.
Best laugh so far today:
HLM: ‘I’m a humanely raised pig that has been allowed to forage!’
Most breath-takingly surreal image:
M: ‘When I lived on the beach in Hikkaduwa…’
the opposite image:
ET: ‘a raw herring in Amsterdam in winter’
but I’m with you, ET, in terms of finding a middle way.
Oh, we can digest raw meat but our systems aren’t really designed for it. Meat, especially raw meat, turns toxic very quickly, hence the very short intestines of wolves, tigers and polar bears. When a vegetable rots, it’s not especially revolting; when meat goes off, it can kill you (assuming you haven’t noticed the appalling smell).
Have heard of Lurie’s book, MM, but will now make it my business to acquire and read it.
We went to town for brunch and I thought of you Ed as we passed three pyjama-clad girls at various points – with, as you said, denim jacket in one case, fur in the second and leather in the third. Two of the three were wearing Converse high tops and the third some kind of Ugg derivative.
After brunch, we went to see Blue Valentine starring Ryan Gosling and Michelle Williams. Engrossing but depressing; I cried a lot. Not sure whether my husband was trying to comfort me or shut me up as he gripped my hand. The latter, I suspect. Gosling and Williams are both superb actors I think. There was a scene of stand-up congress from behind and one of the elderly women sitting directly behind us whispered loudly “Jaysus Bernie, I don’t think Michael knows that one”.
The child is home and the cupboard was nearly bare so I made some cheese scones for the tea (sorry Mish), which we ate as we watched yet another press conference over the Fianna Fáil leadership wrangle. The Taoiseach is holding firm and is tabling a confidence motion in himself on Tuesday having consulted the party membership over recent days. Sorry, this is probably not of any great interest to you.
I am a fan of carpaccio too Si. With some rocket, lemon and a shaving of parmesan. And I love sashimi – your dipping sauce would be good Ed. Best of luck to you with the show, may your bravery and talent be rewarded.
Talking of meat rotting, I was reading today how people in the c17th believed in the Aristotelian concept of “spontaneous generation” – that is, sometimes animals just appear out of nowhere, without any need for reproduction. The classic case is that maggots are “generated” from rotting meat.
The book states: “Johann van Helmont, the discoverer of carbon dioxide, produced a recipe for making mice out of cheese and dirty linen.”
I remember reading that in the 17th century, it was widely believed that swallows were spontaneously generated in the mud at the bottom of ponds, which accounted for their disappearance in winter and re-appearance in spring.
Personally, I believe that politicians are spontaneously generated in think-tanks–no human agency is involved…and it shows.
When Michael Gove was on Question Time last whenever it was I looked in the audience for the person who was operating him via radio-control. He’s remarkably life-like ( over 1000 realistic movements apparently ) although someone has gone a bit OTT with the varnish on his face.
Eric Pickles reminds me of Jabba the Hut ( or Pizza the Hut as Mel Brooks called him ).
Ah, Spaceballs – worth a thousand Star Wars.
Cameron and Osborne are relying on Aristotelian theory to improve the economy. Two million jobs will be spontaneously generated by the private sector. In the distant future people will laugh scornfully about this deluded concept.
Brian Cowen’s press conference made the UK news, with a longish section about Martin.
The whole episode has been a “longish section” and it ain’t over yet.
Why did I not know about Zen before tonight? I’ve seen the Irish guy (Michael McElhatton) who played Hueber (?) on stage a few times. He’s very “versatil(e)” . Good comic actor.
As a student, I had a summer job in an industrial laundry where all manner of linen came in from hospitals and hotels. The lads were the only ones with stomachs strong enough to shake out the maggot-infested sheets and tablecloths before throwing them in the washers. Absolutely revolting. I worked on the table linen ironing and packaging machine if anyone is interested. I am always impressed by a well ironed napkin – not easily achieved at high speed on roasting hot machinery.
We worked second shift. Finished at around eleven most nights and made last orders at the pub around the corner. On Friday nights, we worked til midnight and started again at 6 a.m. Lots of discarded napkins with uneven edges on a Saturday. The supervisor, Mike, used to go ballistic and scream at us that “if ye weren’t so busy drinking and shagging, my job would be a lot easier”. He was a rough diamond but fond of us in his own screaming maniac fashion.
I should think Zen’s on IPlayer. Good series. I must say CSI has gone right off the boil.
My daughter did some chambermaiding last year. The stuff they found in the rooms was frequently horrible, the highlight being, left in the middle of the bed, a sex toy. Used. My kid wore industrial-quality gloves at all times, but one of her colleagues didn’t like the powder in them and went natural, until she picked up what she thought was a brown button from the toilet floor.
Oh dear God. People can be vile. What happened to basic manners? I usually make the bed and clean the bathroom before I leave anywhere.
Reine, you can watch episode 1 of Zen here:
http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b00x9b8g/Zen_Vendetta/
…and episode 2 here:
http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b00xgpk5/Zen_Cabal/
Thanks Mishari. I’d like to see those. It has an unusual feel about it.
When a potato rots, in a dark corner of the larder, it gives off the smell of a dead rodent under the floor, but I’ll admit this is an exception among vegetables.
Moon, are you really a giant? or is that just relative to West Indian family groups?
I see Pickles as porcine and Jabba as amphibious, ET.
Second what Reine said, and if you need opinions along the r&d route, I’m sure we’ll all be delighted to chime in.
6’5”
Spectacular. I have a few friends at that altitude. One of them remarked memorably years ago that tall people get no sympathy, whereas small people evoke nurturing.
I suspect there’s truth to that, at least I’ve never forgotten it. Certainly true in terms of expectations of our children.
You’re at that point where everything needs adjustment to fit properly, desk on blocks, that sort of thing. It’s a nuisance, but well worth seeing to.
When my son was about 17, I got him an extra-long mattress so his feet wouldn’t hang off the end. He was so delighted, I wished I’d done it sooner. His poor ankles had been hanging out there in space.
I’m consumed with guilt now; D sleeps at a diagonal (on a king size bed) in order to fit his frame in. What a bad mother I am.
No, Re. I’m won’t allow that. If he has a king size, he’s not hanging off it.
What could you do beyond that? Anyway LE is only 6’3.
We should share birth stories sometime (probably not here ;)
Mine can be encapsulated by a scream.
I think it’s very enjoyable (I haven’t watched tonight’s episode yet).
Apparently, you can’t watch BBC iPlayer in Ireland (unless you’re tech-savvy enough to use a UK proxy server)), but you can download the 2 episodes you’ve not seen from:
http://hotfile.com/dl/93767071/a63087d/Zen.1×01.Vendetta.HDTV_XviD-FoV.avi.html
http://hotfile.com/dl/95581951/6e7c1de/zen.1×02.cabal.hdtv_xvid-fov.avi.html
I recommend the Michael Dibdin books that they’re based on, too. Mowbray didn’t get on with the books, poor chap. Watching him attempt to insert them into his DVD player was pitiable (though amusing).
I hope no-one had the misfortune to hear Cameron on Radio 4 this morning.
The man is a bigger liar than Blair which is no mean achievement but doesn’t seem remotely bothered or contrite when his lies are pointed out to him. Osborne is the same whilst Gove does a little cross-eyed look before carrying on which suggests that his wiring has picked up something which doesn’t compute.
“wiring” – you can tell I’m au fait with th digital world can’t you?
I’m happy to say I missed him, but what can one expect? Cameron is an ex-PR man–lying is what he does. As a PR flak, he’d tell you his clients weren’t pissing in your soup, they’re adding liquid sunshine.
Evidently, the prick is in the House today, defending cuts to the NHS–you remember–the NHS that was ‘sacrosanct’ and ‘ring-fenced’ in all his campaign guff?
I think (and hope) that we’re going to have an election a lot sooner than expected. Pity Labour have such a putz for a leader.
I suppose we should be grateful that his arrogance means Cameron gives the game away so easily but such arrogance also means reasonable debate isn’t worth bothering with. This morning he had no answers to the accusations put to him but made sure he ended on a “Britain is great” speech. Infuriating.
MM’s point about the Aristotelian growth of millions of jobs from nothing is extremely well made as well as grimly funny.
Just listened to the vomit-inducing Cameron on Today (iPlayer). All this bollocks he spouts about giving patients ‘power’ and ‘choice’ is risible tosh. If you’re a patient with, say, cancer, ‘power’ and ‘choice’ are irrelevant: you’re not a doctor–you don’t know what treatment and medication you need. You just want the best treatment and medication available.
As for Cameron’s contention that bringing in the private sector will ‘bring down costs’, this is so absurd as to make one wonder that he has the effrontery to propose it.
Check out the US, you moron. That’s what happens when you turn it over to the private sector: costs rocket, a huge portion of your population can’t afford medical care and the ones who can, have their treatment dictated by insurance creeps looking to maximise shareholder profits. The shareholders would prefer that you just go away and die.
The man is either A. a complete imbecile or B. a scheming, lying scumbag–quite possibly both.
As for Cameron’s bullshit about ‘bonuses haven’t been finalised’ in the tax-payer owned banks and his ‘I do want to see…’ and ‘I do hope..’; one doesn’t know whether to laugh or spit–I did both.
If I’m ill I don’t want to shop around I just want someone to make me better in the best way possible. If Cameron was remotely interested in the NHS he’d be looking at ways of improving that aspect not finding ways that outside people can make money out of it.
Sorry to raise you temperature can I offer this beauty asa a way of lowering it again? I’ve probably posted this before but you can’t have too much Norstein imho
This is great too but probably only if Yuri Norstein is a hero of yours
Hilariously clueless article on Hillary Clinton’s ‘feminism’ by Madelaine ‘Bubblehead’ Bunting in today’s Graun. Bunting contends that ‘…She is the most powerful politician to advance an explicitly feminist agenda.’ Really? Let’s see…
Gitmo still open for business
USA ramping up for war with Iran, Yemen, N Korea & Venezuela
USA re-arming & re-training Georgia
USA building missile silos in Poland, aimed at Russia
USA secret black prison in Bagram doubled in size in just one year
USA Camp Bondsteel in Europe being expanded as a military nervecentre
USA military presence in Afghanistan increased – despite pledges to step-down
US support for Japanese illegal whaling remains staunch
Yep. Those zany feminists–what’ll they think of next? Well, actually ‘…On countless occasions since arriving at the state department, Clinton has asserted that the rights of women and girls are now core to US foreign policy…’. Yeah, right.
Unless, of course, you’re a Palestinian woman or an Afghan woman or a Haitian woman or…still..never mind, eh? because according to Bunting ‘…She mentioned women 450 times in speeches in the first five months in office.’
This may come as a shock to you Madelaine, but whether a politician mentions something 450 times or 4.5 million times means less than how many times my dog farts.
Instead, count how many times Hillary mentions the repellent Saudi regime’s treatment of women.
Or as Robert Fisk puts it in The Independent:
Get a grip, Madelaine. Idiot.
I can never think of Hillary now without remembering ‘the bald presidential twat’, courtesy of HLM.
Probably A Good Thing, In Hindsight
Once mundane, now many-coloured convert,
a chromatic car-crash of blob and line
generated through contingent design,
my pride, my child, my tie-dyed T-shirt.
Surely this swirling abstract would assert
with more authority than my star-sign
the certificate needed to combine
with space cadettes at a Hawkwind concert?
Oh no. On the diurnal laundry quest
meddling maternal hands rooting in my drawer
found the glamorous garment lurking there
and mistook it for a sweat-stained ancient vest.
Ignoring its beauty, its magic lustre,
they tore it into psychedelic dusters.
A charming traipse (or should that be an aimless stagger) down memory lane there, you old hippy…remember: smash the state…and pass the spliff.
Rocking.
Poetic discipline brings order to the wildness of youth.
Simon Hoggart was in good form today on that idiot Cameron’s latest speech:
A bit unfair to the Politburo, who would at least have had the good sense to build a WEA on the playing fields of Eton.
Oh, Jesus…
I won’t be watching that one.
Wonder if Cameron thinks of his own kids as ‘human capital’? What a horrible phrase.
Nice poem there, MM.
Thanks, Simon. Any news from the Rooshians?
No, nothing from the Russkis, but just this morning got an email from Qatar, who want me to fly there on the 28th. Bit warmer than Ekaterinburg…
Disco Balls-Up
A catsuit seemed a good idea
For the ’70s dazzle disco
Floral, spangled, low-cut front
Straight off the streets of ‘Frisco
Big hair, falsh lashes, lots of kohl
Completed the angel look
And my platforms from Vintage Vixen
Would keep Charlie on the hook
Meanwhile, Bosley, J-Boz was lisping
Into my gold hooped ear
About whether he could use my cleavage
To smuggle in his gear
A drugs mule in a catsuit
Was thus my maven metier
And as I approached the bouncer
I got sweatier and sweatier
Safely past the entrance
I dashed off for a pee
And having wriggled out of a catsuit
I flushed a ten spot out to sea
Pretty good, that. Metier/sweatier – inspired.
What’s a ten spot?
ten quids worth of hash rolled up in tin foil.
Thank you. Not a patch on the tie dye.
I loathed disco. Fantastic story though.
Having put my dashiki and coke bottle glasses in an earlier poem, I haven’t much more to confess.
What about you Mishari? Anything sartorially ignominious you care to share amongst friends?
That fringed velvet cod-piece, perhaps?
And Simon? a Zoot suit?
Just caught up with MM’s Whan that Aprilllll… . Most enjoyable.
Yes, MM shows a definite flare (sic) for medieval balladeering.
I had some slick dancefloor moves back in the day. Fond memories.
Oh, yes indeed…I’m tinkering with a piece on a blindingly white, linen Armani suit that I was deluded enough to buy in the mid-t0-late seventies. I cringe when I think of it.
Are you really a prince Mishari or just very rich? The kind of Armani suit it was de rigeur to let it all hang loose in?
It was Andreachi who told the world of HRH’s blue blood. I wasn’t surprised: certain similarities to our own Prince Charles had long been apparent to me.
I’m a very humble man…I daresay I’m the humblest man in Western Europe.
You are a gem of humility, there’s no doubt about it. If you have any other Armani stuff, I’ll email my address and an SAE!
The fabric was lovely, a sort of rough-woven linen with nubbins but the trousers were flared (it was virtually impossible to get off-the-rack trousers that weren’t back then) the jacket-lining was a violent purple and the jacket had these weird half-moon, slash pockets. This was before Armani was all that widely-known and I thought I was one hellishly cool fellow…Jesus…a white suit…I ask you. I looked like Al Pacino in Scarface…complete with scar.
“I looked like Al Pacino in Scarface. ” … and what, might I ask, is wrong with that?
I am going upstairs, and I may be some time.
I predict you’ll be about 8 hours. I see these things for I am not as other men [You can fucking say that again, chum-Ed.
Were you a pimp as well?
I always thought the ‘Prince’ talk sounded a bit junior for Mishari. Too diminutive.
I guess I missed that one by a mile.
So, Armani suits are expensive? They aren’t Eastern Establishment (in the Boston sense) so I wouldn’t know. My only impression is that they wouldn’t have back vent(s).
I’m feeling fairly humble myself just now.
What I really want to know about is the scar! Its story and location, please, Most Humble One.
(Sorry about the pimp joke. x)
Oh, it had back vents, 2 of ’em–I wouldn’t buy a jacket that didn’t. It was, I suppose, very expensive at the time (for an off-the-rack suit) but I’ve no idea what Armani suits cost now…I haven’t bought an off-the-rack suit in years. Scar down right cheek, no real story, just an altercation that got out of hand and a useful reminder to not let my attention wander when I should be concentrating.
Yes, double-vented is best.
Sparse on detail re your scar, but I did have an idea it wasn’t from chicken-pox.
That’s a chilling litany for Madeleine Bunting.
On Cameron, I wouldn’t trust his ‘choice’ euphemism either. It could portend restricted access to care for those who can’t ‘choose’ to pay a premium.
It’s insidious language because choice is in fact a therapeutic consideration. For example, a patient must be the one to decide whether to opt for a high risk procedure rather than conservative management.
There are many scenarios where a patient’s choice can be a factor in healing.
I have a friend who opted for prophylactic radical mastectomy (no evidence of cancer) because there was a family history of an aggressive form. The cancer was subsequently found in her breast tissue at a diagnostically undetectable level. I’m sure you’d agree that such treatment could only be the patient’s choice, even though it proved lifesaving.
You’re right about ‘choice’. Of course, Pie-Face Cameron doesn’t mean it in any recognisably useful way. It’s just a buzz-word that slimy politicians use, like ’empowerment’. Politicians must be judged by what they do. By their fruits shall ye know them. And what Cameron’s doing is attempting to hand the NHS over to his pals in the private sector. It’s what Tories do. Cameron’s use of the repellent phrase ‘human capital’ was telling–that’s what people are to Cameron and his ilk: commodities to be exploited for profit.
Judging by his comments yesterday Cameron has no real idea as to why his new plans are better than what was before in terms of patient care.
The only reason for all this restructuring is to introduce money-making possibilities into the system for outside carbon-based, human-capital units.
I think the Tory’s dream is for a nation of insecure shelf-stackers lorded over by a bunch of moneyed unaccountable-to-
no-one toffs. But that’s just me.
damn these double negatives – accountable-to-no-one is what I meant.
I’m so not wanting to not express myself unlike that.
Don’t worry about it – I didn’t even notice that you hadn’t not done it.
That’s not really not good of you not to have not said it. Not.
This Is M&S Dysfunction
I wasn’t expecting action,
and the weather was cold and wet,
so I had my warmest clothes on
and my two-part underwear set.
Some hours later I was stripping
in an apartment near St Paul’s,
I’d finished all the unzipping
and I was standing in my smalls.
At that moment she turned around.
‘Oh God, you look just like my Dad!’
Then she snickered, and at that sound
a vital piece of me was dead.
I did my best, but in a while
I was out in the street in the rain.
Christians might like his fighting style:
I can’t trust St Michael again.
Ask before you post next time, ‘Joan’. Or write your own.
Who the hell is ‘Joan’?
Mrs M?
“These are no ordinary smalls, these are M&S smalls, brushed cotton interlocking front panel, reinforced pouch extending into double gusset, soft chambray cradling firm buttocks, fleeced breathable nap for maximum comfort…”
Sorry, sorry… got carried away there for a minute.
Oh…you mean Mrs. MM posted that M&S poem without MM’s permission? The hussy…
It’s my current theory.
What the hell is going on?
Wear M&S for S&M
And risk ill-timed flaccidity
Try B&Q for DIY
To harness your rigidity
Oh Joan, oh Joan, you make me moan
When you stand there in your knickers
But how am I to fill my brief
To the score of your shrill snickers?
A special Treet would be to eat
Snickers or other bars
As meat and greet. Rockstar conceit!
I’m Faithfull to my Mars
I know that MM’s partial
To the swirling charm of Twirl
For far from being martial
He’s really a big girl.
You and your Mars, him and his Twirl
Then who will lick the biscuit?
It’s quite a wonder any girl
Would see your treats and risk it
Snap Mishari. All this because we don’t know who “Joan” is.
Perhaps we’re on the wrong track entirely and ‘Joan’ (the Catalan version of ‘Juan’) is a male acquaintance (and versification rival) of MM’s?
Here’s to MeltonMowbray
Who dines on spud and KitKat
Both are cooked the Mowbray way
Deep-fried in rancid chip-fat.
Someone called ‘Joan Terreson’ posted my T-shirt poem above on the baby poetry thread (you should put your ‘Lottery’ up there, HLM) on the books blog. No profile history so I assume it’s Desmond Swords. I have no idea why he did it.
I got it deleted, not that I care particularly, but it’s got nothing to do with the thread. And you should always ask nicely.
It sparked off some good stuff on here, at least. Mrs M’s interest in poetry is zero. If it hasn’t got functions of a complex variable in it it’s not worth looking at.
Complex variables! top of the pops!
Though I’m told they are not
Available in shops.
Poetry! Stuff with rhymes
Not for everyone though
Like lemons or limes
I took it the PH Mystery Novel had commenced,
but it was only a teacup tempest.
Des has the functions of a variable complex;
he’s a veritable personae palimpsest.
Now’s a good time for some German over-the-topness…
Fucking hell, Steven! That’s what I call the ‘hard sell’. I’m astonished it was shown at all (I’m assuming it was, before it was banned?).
I’m not sure if it aired on network (no TV round these parts) though I wouldn’t be surprised (remember the Joiman condom-commercial featuring Uncle Addy, pumping away, equating unprotected sex with mass-murderers or something ?)… but I am sure they made the thing precisely to go viral on Das YouTube!
I just had a look at it on youtube. It’s only had about 50,000 views in a year and a half, which is nothing, really. One of the comments made me laugh, though:
“So, they’re saying Sprite tastes like cum?”
I, too, laughed at this
There’s a very funny bilingual video by Rammstein called, erm, “German Pussy” that I’d post if I weren’t afraid of revealing my louche barbarity with a single mouse click…
Let’s hope there’s a German viral ad for Brillo Pads.
(all of my wittily-louche-and-barbarous reflexes are stifled in the presence of genteel company)
Go on, man…your louche barbarity holds no terrors for us; we’ re even cool with cats in zero gravity:
Righto!
http://video.mail.ru/mail/delta946/German_Pussy/83.html
Kraut rock…it’s all about subtlety. Nice production values, though.
The Germans are masters of… restraint
I feel I need a brillo pad for my eyes now.
Watched that with my son. Marvellous family togetherness. I will now lecture him on the unadvisability of spending too much time watching porn and then turn myself in to Barnardos.
(Sprite-shriveling guilt)
Oh don’t be guilty on my account Steven. I suspect the video will have a few more hits by tomorrow when the sixth year lads hear about it. They may pretend they are extending their German vocab in advance of their oral exams.
I fear I will be humming that tune for some time to come.
My boys have pissed themselves laughing at that Sprite ad. All their equally filthy-minded chums have been alerted. I expect that video really will go viral now: there’s no more excitable demographic than prurient teens.
OK ‘Melanie’, you had me at ‘hello duckie’; i thought you’d requested an intervention; ‘take it down’ Your Community Moderatorness, some hussy id (only you guessed correctly), is stealing babies (as Amiri Baraka calls his poems) brandishing a very recent knock-off of mine, advertizing one’s talent here, on a lovely new-mum’s blog about how AF cries soo much over tinny wimmy’s oscar the dalek dress – wow woo ooh, amazingly upbeat, a happy yappy puppy clone, the younger crone learning still the ropes of being English in language, AF; swapping yummy babba talk ’bout how fabulously talented tha wickle speckle newborn is, special, wise, important baby-poem ‘up for grabs’, advertizing how English ice-queens imbuing Devon & Northants (really, really clued into how ye do it), exude the sound knit sweetly in spoken song, in a poem, Melanie Wight, Melt; ye can you see how sad one is, thinking your poem a splendid example of something exciting to me, on its own merit, your baby-poem (fit for killing), if we so decide; as Baraka says ‘… i’ll just kill you and make another one’; being a poetry goddess Melt, the new you, dearest, deepest comer-on, in a few short years, from plod plod plod to this; accepting a compliment from Mrs T., when I read:
Probably A Good Thing, In Hindsight
Once mundane, now many-coloured convert,
a chromatic car-crash of blob and line
generated through contingent design,
my pride, my child, my tie-dyed T-shirt.
My other half was struck by a truly authentic and inventive Melt, far advanced from the early semesters one read your poetic responses, and did not detect such singularly original arrangements as this: ‘chromatic car-crash of blob and line’, enjambed flawlessly, from a humble foclo of the first grade, through seven semesters spent acquiring five more, universally recognized poetic grades: Macfuirmid, Dos, Cano, Cli, and arriving at the penultimate, sixth grade of Anruth – ‘great stream’ – five years away from attaining your final, highest, most sacred, profane, sorrowful & comedic poetry professorship of (pron. ulav) Ollamh vein, your log n-ech ‘face-price’ for spinning bardic dán, brings to us a collective cultural memory – On Coimgne – bodies and souls formed by our Sidhe, two parents four grands, eight greats sixteen GG’s 32 gee gee G’s and 72 towers on Shinar plain, to Nimrod stretching far back past famine daze – easy to forget, pay lip service to – losing the run of ourself, tripping into a delusionally induced madness, created in brief bursts of abundent imbas from the islands’ ship of states heading straight & two staggering things, some claim, are most furthest from us – Sovereign ”us’ normal people waking to the outline, this year’s Imbolg winning rhymes tipping thru, lighting winter portal-point, spring our practice for the good of natural unity, in these unprecedented times, necessary rhymes from an artist-pool making broke, poetic magic, padding out to a jolly decent dos/cli phase, graded baby-poem, because it is one, in the strictes sense of a narrator equating a tie-dyed t shirt to one of the oh so special baby-poems that thread of celebration through this prose-poem, weaving freely versed, legitimately allowed – in on the basis of that – to toss a bit of reality into the guff of all these approved square playas with silly/serious names, Melanie my darling
Surely this swirling abstract would assert
with more authority than my star-sign
the certificate needed to combine
with space cadettes at a Hawkwind concert?
By now, i am thinking wow, this is so brilliant AF is confused, knowing i’s an indeniably successful ‘experimental’ avant-garde poem, from an anonymous poet who is, actually, pretty fucking good; late-bloomer, but when issues around baby-poems crop up, cleverly Melanie’s mind is on board calling for yummy gummy (weep weep) babba doggerel, the one Yeats composed for his own, eldest child, not the boy he had been supremely expecting thru the runes and mystic chune he babbled with tattwas, automatic writing & AF, owt to lurnch urghm, grrl; soon- she is that talented, suited to a breezy tweet-mode, imitating her hag-muse god@work shut ’em up, knock em blind with a poem, any poem, Editor:
Oh no. On the diurnal laundry quest
meddling maternal hands rooting in my drawer
found the glamorous garment lurking there
and mistook it for a sweat-stained ancient vest.
Genuinely not taking the michael Mel darling, this is in the specific ball park of what it is, the crazee quirky slant drawer/there rhyme bhouy, nutmegging a pretender, AF, wanting only yummy ummmy, and more balls, buckets, floods, tears of Joy: a fucking act mate; wholly bollocks, the same-old same-as crone rival-replacement-fwend of a sniffy English editor, another achingly grrl at tweet, their list of dramas, parts, pieces, entire stock of works existing in a particular artistic field that a company, actor, singer, or the like, is prepared to perform; their literate répertoire runs to tweeting two line communiques, ‘can’t wait for’ blah blah’s next philosophy tract & poetic trieste on in the spiffy shop, let me talk and tell ya’ll aint it just a crock of horseshit, being on one’s toes, language an avenue and cul de sac, swizzed outta there man, by an anonymous Community Moderator acting like they is Jane. Jane fucking Blonde, three potato sacks in one dress, two white cans and a black and white mat
this hand
this hand
Ignoring its beauty, its magic lustre,
they tore it into psychedelic dusters.
A much freer imaginative melding Melto mate, than three year back when we first met and began a (non) relationship that led us to this; a denoument of sorts, all the past nonsense, posturing, acting in Letters of traffic passing between us, journey proved above, thus:
For the moment I can’t figure out the list poem but I’ll browse the book when I get a chance and maybe it will appear to me.
Thanks for the note anyway,
and warm best wishes,
Dear Jerome.
Thanks very much. The rythm of it is there alright in my head, and tho the words may be wrong, summat like
two white cans
my hands
my hands
two white cans and a black and white cat
These words apart from the hands are all wrong, and maybe a can in there, a piece of string I think is deffo in there, but the rhythm of it is similar, bcuz I remember laughing out loud when I read it. I was reading it bcuz it was the first drama class of the second year’s second semester, the modernism module, and we’d been told by the tutor to bring in a piece of art, painting, poem, anything – that held some essence of what we thought Modernism was.
For the poetry module on in the writing side of the course (BA Writing studies & Drama), taught by Robert Sheppard, yr two anthologies were the core books, and I flicked through volume one the night before the drama class and this poem was the first one that leapt off the page (Mayakovsky’s Listen! was the second).
Hope the above doesn’t hinder.
Thanks very much for taking the time to help out a bardic bluffer waffling in Dublin.
Sincerely
The attached “Still Life” by Theo van Doesburg is obviously the poem you’re looking for. Funny but I had forgotten all about it — although it’s my translation — until you called it up. So … many thanks for that, and whatever else I can do, just let me know.
Cheers & best,
Chaos
All muddled up
A glass of tea
Some cups
Some pots
And get a fresh look
at what’s lying there –
This is the shadow
of the shadow of
a candlestick!
A piece of paper
& a can in blue
green
brown
black
white &
copper
An ash tray with
a pipe stem
& a very heavy book
in blue & yellow
with something that looks brown
inside a black can
And the candle there!
The light! The light!
And a mist around them
& their glow
Some spoons
Something that’s gleaming
on the gold rim of the
cups
And there’s another piece of paper
“Courant”
on which lies: a red match
a couple of blue pamphlets
a little piece of string atop
a small red box
And then the cloth!
Half a chair
there in the mist
a little further back
And how the yellow cloth becomes
greengray
& that much softer
And then here
 : and here
here on the paper’s
garish white
are two black nails
one that looks real & one a silhouette
my hand
my hand
a hill with murky caves
in which a rafter lies
between two clumps of clay
wedged tight.
Theo van Doesburg (1883-1931)
translation by Jeorome Rothenberg
Hartley Coleridge. come out, your time is ready, again the brave sat on ass scholar creeps out the pre-ordained exit, whole the rationale and our very own English, this is not
Chaos
All muddled up
A glass of tea
Some cups
Some pots
And get a fresh look
at what’s lying there –
This is the shadow
of the shadow of
a candlestick!
A piece of paper
& a can in blue
green
brown
black
white &
copper
An ash tray with
a pipe stem
& a very heavy book
in blue & yellow
with something that looks brown
inside a black can
And the candle there!
The light! The light!
And a mist around them
& their glow
Some spoons
Something that’s gleaming
on the gold rim of the
cups
And there’s another piece of paper
“Courant”
on which lies: a red match
a couple of blue pamphlets
a little piece of string atop
a small red box
And then the cloth!
Half a chair
there in the mist
a little further back
And how the yellow cloth becomes
greengray
& that much softer
And then here
 : and here
here on the paper’s
garish white
are two black nails
one that looks real & one a silhouette
my hand
my hand
a hill with murky caves
in which a rafter lies
between two clumps of clay
wedged tight.
Theo van Doesburg (1883-1931)
translation by Jeorome Rothenberg
Chaos
All muddled up
A glass of tea
Some cups
Some pots
And get a fresh look
at what’s lying there –
This is the shadow
of the shadow of
a candlestick!
A piece of paper
& a can in blue
green
brown
black
white &
copper
An ash tray with
a pipe stem
& a very heavy book
in blue & yellow
with something that looks brown
inside a black can
And the candle there!
The light! The light!
And a mist around them
& their glow
Some spoons
Something that’s gleaming
on the gold rim of the
cups
And there’s another piece of paper
“Courant”
on which lies: a red match
a couple of blue pamphlets
a little piece of string atop
a small red box
And then the cloth!
Half a chair
there in the mist
a little further back
And how the yellow cloth becomes
greengray
& that much softer
And then here
and here
here on the paper’s
garish white
are two black nails
one that looks real & one a silhouette
my hand
my hand
a hill with murky caves
in which a rafter lies
between two clumps of clay
wedged tight.
Theo van Doesburg (1883-1931)
translation by Jeorome Rothenberg
Hopefully this will be how it should appear, a bit of code (that creates a space) stuck out because i mistakenly typed  : (with a colon) instead of (with a semi-colon). The lightest error can create an ugly flawed baby-poem one must kill, remove all trace of one’s failed baby poems.
ha ha ha
I noticed on Poetry editor Don Share’s blog, Squandramania, first, how italicized words can make all the difference, because they occcur in the poetic consciousness of our general reader, prepared to be impressed and not know why – when the author knows what codes to render flawlessly, most things spoken we could dream about, and in this one, again, without the italicized words, this first wave modern object in free verse, that most poetry puritans were resistant to at the time, and also, Rothenberg’s editorial decisions, may well have pimped this baby up beyond what it originally is, i dunno (not having seen the orginal Dutch version), but I do know the eye that wrought this baby to live in English, is king of the crazees, head avant, forward edged Californian poet (i think), certainly UCL is home to that chunk of AmPo history and current streams of cutting egde bonkers, we all have learned. From your own MM, i learnt we are all unique, from blackbirds in the back garden with CS, to this whopper fluid free verse strewn together more authentically than most, even though you are semi-taking-the-mick, as we all do, imitating the crazees and out-barmying ’em with our plod, plod home, music within, poetry soul, you got twisted Mel M, man. Call the cops.
Sorry. I won’t publish Mel Wight again without your permission MM.
Fuck your apology, you prick.
“They may pretend they are extending their German vocab in advance of their [wait for it] oral exams.”
Boom boom…yeah, I clocked it, too. That Reine…she’s a scamp.
I’m shocked, to be honest
I have, in a demonstration of brain-shrinkage hitherto unsurpassed by mortal man, just managed (in an effort to hone the perfect pencil-point) whittled my pencil down to a nubbin so small that I can’t hold it to write with–mind you, the point is just right…maybe I should go to bed.
Mishari of the Tiny Nubbin.
I hope that’s one of our non sequiturs, rather than a general shrinkage affliction.
Just a dobby week for nubbins…
You’ve obvs been getting pencil-sharpening lessons from the Third Policeman Mishari.
Also writing???????????? With a pencil????????? I thought my continuing dalliance with brush and ink drawing was old skool.
I like writing (and sketching…oh, alright, doodling) in pencil. One has more control over the end result. Press down harder, darker colour; use the point, fine line; use the edge, broad line etc etc…and I like the smell of pencil-shavings…perhaps a bit too much, which explains why my last pencil is more shavings than, erm…pencil.
Did you hear the latest wheeze from this government of none of the talents? Early intervention bonds? The utter fatuity of the idea is quite breathtaking. It was outlined by some government bozo on Today this morning and promptly exploded by an academic who actually understands the subject.
You’re speaking with a fellow convert here – I draw a lot in crayon. A lovely variety of line and some quality shavings too – lumps of wood at times.
After Cameron and Lansley and…. oh the whole fucking shower of right wing bastards a few day’s ago I’ve avoided listening to Today. Too depressing.
Remember a couple of months ago, the new commander of NATO forces in Afghanistan said that they were ‘…turning the corner…’ (after 9 years)? Well, here’s how things are going on the ‘corner’:
It’s one hell of a corner.
Hell indeed. Horrific beyond imagining. I realise this sounds futile and maybe even vain, but I have a pair of bright lapis lazuli earrings and think of the Afghan women every time I put them on. The stones are somehow a concrete connection to that bit of earth.
I’d like to see some examples of these sketches, Pencil Mishari and Crayon ET. Have you ever illustrated a thread with your own drawing, M?
I’m especially partial to sepia Conte crayon.
Mt grandfather did lot of quick sketches in N.Africa in the 40’s for a book that was never published. He was a terrible writer, but the sketches were wonderful.
There’s a whole bunch of my brush and acrylic ink drawings on Steven Augustine’s Endless Thread ( number 7.0 I think ).
I went to check but the page is so full of barbaric loucheness that my computer gave up the ghost trying to download it. My laptop can cope with the volume of texts, images and YouTubery but that’s nowhere near me at the moment.
The crayon drawings don’t scan particularly well so I don’t bother with virtual versions of them. The acrylic ink paintings come out better but I could still make uses for why they are better in the flesh.
Thanks ET! I’ll make a point of hunting them down when this day lets go of me…
Gosh, M, haven’t you heard the President’s slickly-cadenced, super-cynical speeches which are opportunistically reminiscent of Martin Luther King’s…?
That creepy Cameron is up to no good. What’s he building?
I popped a few films in the post for you yesterday, Ed, including Baaria, a Sicilian film you might enjoy. ‘True Grit’ is a terrific film and you’ll want to see it on the big screen.
The version I’ve sent you and MM is what’s called a ‘DVD Screener’–it’s what the studios send out to the critics before the film’s actually released. It’s perfectly watchable, though. You might like this, off an LP I played to death when I was 16:
Thanks very much – I will see True Grit on the big screen.
Did you catch The Social Network? I enjoyed it a lot but wasn’t sure if everyone in it was meant to be quite as repulsive as they were or whether it was just me being an old git out of touch with what passes for cool these days.
Justin Timberlake is spectacularly unpleasant in it – full marks to him if that was his intention. I kept thinking that usually Hollywood actors try and get their roles made more sympathetic – if that was the case then his role as the guy who set up Napster must have been truly repellent in earlier versions of the screenplay.
The bloke who set up Facebook makes Warhol look like a fully-rounded character. Again I’m amazed his lawyers didn’t complain over the portrayal of him as a morally blank dickhead with no idea what empathy might mean.
I did watch it and my reaction pretty much mirrored yours: I kept thinking ‘Merciful God…what are these repellent creatures?’ The only character who was marginally sympatico was Eduardo, mainly because he got fucked over by so many people who were even less likable than him. What a fucking crew.
Poor America, where people like this and the Winklevi are looked up to–I wouldn’t feed them to Pongo.
Sociopathy as a strategy (or tool kit) for success is most definitely “in”
Fuck my old boots…I just had a look at that Alison Flood article. So…Grauniad employee has baby…wow…just, y’know…wow. How did she do that?
Judging by the number of drooling articles the Guardian publishes about Apple, I’m guessing Steve Jobs had something to do with it. That’s what happens when you keep your iPod in your twat…miracles.
hic you can find the drawings on TET 6.O chez Steven’s endless thread.
Anyone looking for the EDWARD TAYLOR’S DECENCY MEMORIAL GALLERY on TET should click no further than this link:
http://staugustine2.wordpress.com/2010/04/23/the-endless-thread-6-0/#comment-3360
Want to feel 1,000 years old…?
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/magazine-12209143
It’s déjà vu all over again…
Vaguely in the context of the thread topic, I am crestfallen to have missed Mary Portas: Secret Shopper, a new series of which started tonight. I was home by nine for a change but clean forgot about it. She’s quite the ballbreaker, though gone off balls herself.
Four more Ministers have tendered their resignations here in the past hour or two. The country is in meltdown. I may offer my services as interim Minister for Foreign Affairs and go on some fact finding missions before every last penny of George’s money runs out. Anyone need rashers, tea bags, Tayto, TK red lemonade..?
Will you get me some tweed pyjamas?
I’ll weave them myself.
Fair play t’ya…not too rough a weave, mind. I don’t want to chafe my delicate bits.
Don’t worry, I will be putting in a silk lining for them to nestle in. Better get the loom in from the shed … ‘night.
Poem at bedtime
“Westron wynde when wyll thow blow
The smalle rayne downe can rayne–
Cryst if my love were in my armys
and I yn my bed agayne!”
anonymous
I’ve always loved that poem.