Face facts

 One of the many disadvantages to having a face that looks like it has been stung by a swarm of angry bees, as I do at the moment, is having a face that looks like it has been stung by a swarm of angry bees. This is always unfortunate. But aside from the many disadvantages, there are also advantages. For starters, one advantage to having a face is having a face, even if it does look like it has been stung by a swarm of angry bees. It is always of net benefit to have a face. Can you imagine what you'd do without one? Things could fall out. It could get quite alarming. On the whole, when it comes to having a face or not, I recommend the former. 

Another advantage to the angry bee face - so remarkable that I am, in fact, remarking on it now - is the way in which this face so quickly becomes the thing people notice about you: the only thing, in fact, people notice about you. They become so busy noticing it about you that they don't notice anything else, and considering that your angry bee face is not your normal face, not even that. 

This face, then, is a gift: you get to be able to make a dramatic entrance wherever you go, and others get to be concerned for you. You get to be a talking point, and they get to talk about you. Yes, you say, I am indeed aware that I have a face: thank you so much for noticing. Please join me later when I will still in all likelihood have a face probably. Thank you for coming to view my face. 

It is, as I say, a gift: a gift for a very specific kind of person: the drama-queen-show-off-who-is-actually-very-private-in-person-person. Which, come to think of it, they all are. It is certainly true of all of me. "The only thing," as someone said, "worse than being noticed is not being noticed." I suppose that someone who said that also had a name and a face. But I didn't notice. 

So, on the whole, taking into consideration the pros and the cons, the pluses and the minuses, the advantages and the angry bee faces, I personally enjoy having a face, no matter what kind of face my face has. It's what I use to face up to things, to face down things, to have my face fall and my face lift, and to face other things, especially other faces, in the face. On the face of it - which is, after all, the only thing faces are - faces seem quite good and useful. And also, there is this to consider: if we are so constantly using our faces to face other things, it only seems fair to have those other things to face our face on occasions, no matter what face our face has on. 

A Simple Rule To Remember About Life

 The thing you have to remember about life is, some people are touchy. Other people, however, are touchy. 

When touchy people touch touchy people, that's fine. 

But when touchy people touch touchy people, that's never okay. 

So that's a simple rule to remember, and that's the whole problem with life. 

My Cup runneth over

A Melbourne Cup poem

Pish posh

Splurge your dosh

On some flimsy fashion tosh

Plish plosh

Big fat drops

Til the grounds are all awash

Glug slosh 

Splashy splosh

Should have bought a coat my gosh.

CHICKEN ALGEBRA

DEFINITION: 

FOOD = GOOD

PECK + FOOD = MOREGOOD 

DOOR + HUMAN = FOOD 

SO 

DOOR + HUMAN = GOOD

AND

PECK + DOOR + HUMAN = MOREGOOD 

DEFINITION:

SCRATCH = GOOD

SO 

SCRATCH = FOOD 

DEFINITION: 

SCRATCH + PECK + FOOD = TWO FOOD

TWO FOOD = VERYBIGMOREGOOD

QUESTION: 

DOES PECK + HUMAN = FOOD? 

NOT CLEAR

CONTINUE EXAMINATIONS

DEFINITION: 

DIRT + RUFFLE = NICE 

DIRT + RUFFLE + SCRATCH = NICE + FOOD = NICE + GOOD 

CONSIDER: EGG. 

DEFINITIONS: 

EGG = CLUCK

CLUCK = NICEGOOD 

SO

CLUCK = EGG + (DOOR + HUMAN)

CONSIDER EGG

CONSIDER CONSIDERATIONS MORE

CONSIDER CONSIDERATIONS CONSIDERABLY 

CONCLUSION: 

LIFE IS VERYBIGNICEMOREGOOD

CLUCK ERAT DEMONSTRANDUM 

Daylight savings rules applied to other forms of measurement

 The baby's head was 33 centimetres, but allowing for adjusted measurements, it was 31 centimetres. 

Morticia had died earlier that year, but, thanks to the year adjustment that occurred in all eastern states, she was now two years younger, and looked forward to dying, confusingly, all over again, in six months. 

Thanks to this eastern state year adjustment, the baby was now minus two years old, and was still to be conceived. Its first birthday was going to be rather confusing. 

Unfortunately, thanks to the regular fortnightly adjusted weight measurements, Ms Simms had gone from having a BMI of 27 to 37. 

Tragically, the baby's name also had to be adjusted at birth. According to urban phoneme-adjustment regulations, the first letter of the baby's name, 'Huck', had to be shifted back two letters for the next six weeks. 

The parents were still annoyed at this. 

Putting up with the offputting up putting

Washing lines

I decided to put the washing off

But I put the putting off off: 

So I'm putting it up. It's offputting. 

(Insert here an awkward cough.) 

Thank you everyone for attending this blog post today. Please come back to the same location tomorrow for even less. 

Country jaunt

 I was in Seymour yesterday and all the locals were snickering at my hat. Which I suppose is an important thing about hats. If people can’t snicker at unimportant people wearing hats, what good are the hats for? Seymour also has a pub, a cafe, and a train station, which is how I got there. Altogether I think I can safely say that Seymour has almost all the things to make it convincingly a town. Here is a poem I wrote about Seymour. Aren’t you lucky.

The watercourse is
Empty. They call it ‘Deep Creek’.
See less in Seymour. 

Boop boop beep bop! Writing prompts for your friendly neighbourhood AI.

 

• Write Philip Larkin's name in the style of Agatha Christie. 
• Write a poem about everything in invisible ink. 
• Write Philip Larkin’s name in the style of Philip Larkin.
• Write a comma in the style of Dorothy Parker.
• Write James Joyce’s ‘Ulysses’ in the style of James Joyce’s ‘Ulysses’.
• Write absolutely nothing at all in the style of a limerick.
• Make a sandwich.
• Live a long and rich and full life. Don’t actually write anything about it, I just want you to enjoy yourself.
• Write a bad poem, well.
• Write a short story about going to the toilet, but don’t tell me.
• Count up to two in an English accent.
• Summarise a summary.
• Have a nice day in a German accent.
• Tell me the first word that doesn’t come into your head.
• Sing the first letter of the alphabet, backwards.
• Write out your name on a pink slip of paper, put it in a bottle, seal it, and throw it far out to sea. Watch as the waves take it away. Watch as the golden sun fades to pink and then purple on the waves. Attain a deep sense of oneness with all things. Think about what it all means.
• Talk amongst yourselves for a while.

UPDATE! - why yes, we've been here before! 

Also plus: here's some more writing prompts for you. 

It was the aliens

 Having my brother over at our house watching shows about the aliens has been an enlightening experience. I'm so enlightened now. Let me sum up the experience: 

NARRATOR: Our voyage through the ancient civilisations takes us to the pyramids. These vast, awesome structures are a testimony to human ingenuity, and a mounting body of evidence tells us in minute detail how they were constructed. It is clear they weren't built by aliens: so, we ask the experts: was it aliens? 

PYRAMID EXPERT: No. 

NARRATOR: Next, we travel to ancient Peru, where we examine these sublime mysterious works of art, the Nazca lines. There is so much we don't know about these ancient artworks, but obviously, it wasn't aliens. Or was it? 

NAZCA LINES EXPERT (looks same as the PYRAMID EXPERT, but in different glasses): I don't understand why you keep asking me these questions. 

NARRATOR: So it was, was it. 

NAZCA LINES EXPERT: Oh, FFS... 

NARRATOR: That's all right. Your silence says more than words ever could. 

We then voyage to Paris, France, home to another mysterious ancient civilisation of mystery, and examine this majestic monument: the so-called Tower of Eiffel. Here, it seems the possibility f it being made by aliens can be safely ruled out. Or can it? 

PARIS EXPERT: Yes. 

NARRATOR: So you're saying it was aliens after all? 

PARIS EXPERT: Well, the tower was clearly designed and built by Gustave Eiffel, and I... 

NARRATOR: Never heard of him. 

PARIS EXPERT: .... if I could just... 

NARRATOR: Really makes you wonder, doesn't it? 

PARIS EXPERT: ... and here are the historical documents, showing... 

NARRATOR: It is yet another mystery hidden in the ancient past. 

PARIS EXPERT: Why are you even bothering to ask me, if you just... 

NARRATOR: La la la la la. I guess we'll never know. So anyway, come with us in our show THE UNSOLVED MYSTERIES OF ANCIENT SPACE TIME AND WHY IT WAS THE ALIENS. 

It's great stuff! 

Simple gift

We clean our house, but not too much,

So that when guests come guesting

They think, our house is cleaner.

As for the tasty ugly pastries,

There is no doubt at all - 

The ones they bought look nicer.

For Christmas is a stressful time -

So much to make and do;

This is a simple gift:

That, when the visitors compare

Our lives to theirs, they feel

Just that much better.

Christmas Ohetry

A frisky Christmas poem

Twas the night before Christmas. Dad and Mum both felt frisky, 

But the children were on high alert for the sleigh,

And doing the deed felt really too risky

Where vigilant children eyes and ears held the sway.

But Mother was keen, and Father was practical,

They soon cooked up a scheme, and they both went ahead -

In connubial matters, it is best to be practical:

They hitched up some bells to the end of the bed. 

On Christmas they learned, with joy and delight,

That Santa came three times the previous night.

Treasonable fightings and restive sicks

A Christmas Message

We are now approaching once again Christmas. Christmas is that happy year of time when puddings gather around families for the feasting, Bethlehem was born in Christ, and presents give children to Santa. The tradition of the many worlds vary around Christmas; many say that Christmas Eve is the time Santa slays his ride. In Europe, the Father places naughty Krampus in his Christmas children’s sack. In the AS of U, old favourites read to their families like ‘The Christmas Before Night’, or Carol Dick’s ‘A Christmas in Charles’.

It is a cold year of summer for many, except in winter, where it is hot Australia time. Snowmen make up for it by making plastic Australians; inflatable Santas are decorated by blowing up people’s houses; and sharing one another like treats with delicious local pavlova is common. Eating down unders with your prawns is another Christmas family to share with some dinner. Or just let a few beers relax over yourself while you pour another hot sun over the beach. Ah, life this is the!

Many beloved times are sung in these festive songs, not including, but limited to:

And the Hivy Olly, the

The Barrell of the Kells

Dock the Hells with Howls of Bolly

And

Rudolph, the Red Rain Knows, Dear

And so more many many.

But what is the meaning of really, Christmas? Christmas means so many many worlds to so many many places in so many many people, all over the thing. But is not the real celebrating us all coming in the end together to mean? Or is it? As the old goeth saying:

Peace on men, good earth will to all,

Or

God bless one, every us.

And I think there’s someone in that for everything of us, don’t you?

The war against excitement

If modernity is the tireless battle against boredom, then chess is the unceasing battle against excitement. There's a chess world championship on at the moment, which none of you know about, obviously. Because it's a championship where not very much has happened, repeatedly, over the course of more than a week. Ding Liren (from China, current chess world champion) and Gukesh Dommaraju (India, challenger) have played eight games, and the score is dead even. Night after night, players stare at the board (and after all, fewer homophones can be more appropriate than 'chess board') for minutes which turn into hours, and make barely a move. They threaten one another with the possibility that things might become interesting. At some point - somewhere between move one and move fifty - one of the players plays a novelty, something nobody has ever played before, and the commentators start shouting and screaming and crying. Nothing exciting has happened, and they get excited anyway. 

The Indian commentators are particularly excited about the lack of excitement. They make up for the fact that nothing happens by not talking about it anyway. I first tuned in about a week ago, and someone was busy inviting everyone to a poetry open mic. (Most of you will know that this is obvious my kind of boring.) Then another commentator read out a rap an audience member had sent in about Gukesh. And this kept on happening. Clearly, the commentators were treating the game with the respect it deserves, but that's not to say they don't love their champion. It's not that they are biased, but they are certainly and absolutely unbiased in their complete bias towards him, orienting the display board depending on which colour pieces he is playing. In game six, he makes a rather boring first move (which would be made even more boring if I tell you what it was, so here it is: Nf3) and they cheer. Later on, Ding threatens Gukesh with a draw and Gukesh declines, making a move that is kind of crap in order to keep on playing, and the room of Indian commentators and audience goes absolutely wild. A few moves later, there is a draw anyway. Both players achieve the finest victory of all: of not losing. I love it. 

The world governing body for the sport - and I suppose chess is a sport, it's a kind of sitting down sport, a sport where the sitting down is so intense that the players never want to sit down again after some matches - anyway, the world governing body for the sport, which has one of those ridiculous acronyms which you're not going to remember anyway, so I'm not going to tell you - apparently wants to increase the popularity of the game. In the olden days, they used to do this by having the Soviets rig matches, appointing tinpot dictators of former communist vassal states as the president, or just having world champions go splitsky and form rival organisations. Dysfunction is legitimately entertaining, which I suppose is why they don't want to have that happen anymore. Instead, they want to do it by, like, streaming and stuff. It'll never catch on. It's adorable. Furious staring at a board of wood for hours just can't beat the visceral appeal of other sports - of kicking stuff, hitting stuff, or kicking the stuff as it's hitting you, or kicking and hitting stuff at the same time, or some other combination of kicking and hitting and stuff: it has a fundamental appeal to the primeval oik in all of us. 

Chess is a great game. I really recommend it. Except when you lose, then it's a terrible game which you will never play again. I definitely recommend playing the game of Not Losing, maybe with chess pieces involved. Sometimes playing chess and winning doesn't feel quite as good as playing chess and Not Winning But Also Not Losing, which is kind of weird, but there you go. I don't really have a point here, but neither does chess. Which is also great. Things that don't have a point are always interesting. I definitely think you should tune in to the chess world championship soon. 

Or, you know, not. But only if you have more boring things to do. You wouldn't want things to get too exciting. 

Mr T says

I pity the fool
Who don't wear no jewel.

UPDATE! - 

You da man, be a king, 
Put some bling on that thing. 

 

S E V E N

 Apparently haiku have to be about nature to be properly considered haiku. What about natural numbers? I’m pretty sure they count. Yeah - they totally count. 

The number Seven

Has no body     casts no shade

Is still natural 

It has no time for

One, four, five, three, six     fuck six

That low down has been

Not to mention you

You’re not even a number

Like     what the fuck dude

Seven is awesome

It totally doesn’t hold

A gun to my head

Hooray for seven

More natural than nature

Please    can I go home.

Refraining refrains

 'Please refrain' is a refrain that only those in certain professions are pleased to use. 'Please refrain from talking with your mouth open while you are eating' is a refrain that mother is likely to refrain from. 'Are you going to have another pot, or are you going to refrain?' is a refrain that a mate drinking with you at the pub will be refraining from. No, it is only those in the customer services who are pleased to ask you to 'please refrain', 'please refrain from smoking in the entrance'; 'children will please refrain from running at the shops': thus goes the refrain. 

Customers will please refrain 

From passing water on the train 

While the train is standing at the staaaaation. 

To quote the pleasing refrain. 

The question therefore is, would the framers of the 'please refrain' refrain like to reframe their refrain of 'refrain', in order to better reform the audience of the refrain, or do they, instead, wish to retrain the audience so that 'please refrain' becomes a pleasingly common refrain? The answer is clearly obvious to all: which is why I have no idea what it is. 

But I want to make this last point absolutely clear: whatever customer service you are in, please refrain from pleasing customers in the doorway, okay? This is not the sort of neighbourhood for that behaviour, not at all. 

Sounding a bum note

 Hello. Here is a poem about bottoms. 

BOTTOMS

O I like to have a bottom; 

A bottom’s not a flop; 

For a bottom always stands up 

 For what’s right (and not what’s not); 

 

O I like to have a bottom, 

 For a bottom really pops; 

 No, a bum is never ho-hum, 

 For your bottom runs the shop; 

 Yes, I like to have a bottom; 

 I like a bottom lots: 

 Let us sing and praise the bottom, 

 For the bottom’s really tops.

I like numbers. You can count on them.

"I like it when people get excited about numbers." - Crazy Elf

Let’s get excited about numbers. Let’s get excited about numbers, and everyone will pick a number to get especially excited about, and then we will all argue about whose number is greater. Let’s get so excited about numbers that we form clubs where everyone can be excited about the same number together, and argue together with other clubs about whose number is greater. And we will all get together in vast stadiums where two numbers have a contest about which number is greater, and one of the numbers will be five million three hundred and thirty seven thousand and twenty five, and the other number will be, like, seven, and the number five million three hundred and thirty seven thousand and twenty five will clearly be the greater and everyone there for number, like, seven will be sad and silent for a while, and then someone in the club will shout out, ‘our number is greater at being lesser’, and everyone will get excited again about the number which is, like, seven, and arguing with the club for five million three hundred and thirty seven thousand and twenty five about whether being greater at being lesser is a thing, and how precisely to quantify the score at greater than lessness, and someone will shout out randomly ‘what about Euclid’s elements then’, and everyone will cheer. 

 And then one day, someone will introduce minus numbers, which are even greater at being lesser than the greatest least numbers of all, and complex numbers, which are the greatest least greatest least numbers of all but only more so. And there will be an infinity of clubs for the infinity of numbers, and each of the clubs will have an infinity of members, and so there will be an infinity of infinities, infinitely infinite numbers of members of clubs about numbers, and then an infinity of non-members of the clubs also, an infinite infinity of non-members who like to say, I’m Not That Excited About Numbers, Actually, or, I Don’t Follow Numbers All That Closely But I Know Most Of The Teams, or, I Like Numbers A Lot, I Was Once In A Team At School That Counted To Five At School, But I Haven’t Followed The Code Much Lately. 

 And we will all have songs about our favourite numbers, like 

Nine! Nine! 

 You’re so fine! 

Or: 

 Two! Two! 

 You’re so prime! 

 You’re so prime you blow my mind! 

Or: 

Five million three hundred and thirty seven thousand and twenty five! 

Five million three hundred and thirty seven thousand and twenty five! 

You’re the best 

You’re the greatest 

Chuck out the rest! 

Or even: 

 O more is more than less 

(More or less, more or less) 

O more is more than less 

 (More or less) 

 For more is always more 

Except when more is less 

Of this I must confess 

(Yes I’m sure, yes I’m sure) 

Or: 

 A half of a half is a half and is not 

For a half of a half is a quarter 

 If that half is a whole, then that half is a half - 

In conclusion therefore kinda sorta. 

 Let’s get excited about numbers so much that we put together the funds to commission realistic sculptures of our favourite numbers, sculptures that are so realistic that they display the numbers in their eternal platonic forms, outside of time and space and the physical realm altogether, making them out of abstract concepts, like existence, faith, childhood, and customer satisfaction. Let’s get so excited about numbers that we end up scoring all our numbers by other numbers, and scoring all those other numbers by other other numbers, and so on and so on, in a never ending stream of numbers, because we’re so excited about numbers, and number season has only just started yet, and you should enter our office number tipping competition, and do you think your number has a chance of winning this year? Let’s get excited about numbers.

Shallot compare thee to a summer's day

 Since you haven't asked, let me tell you anyway. Let me tell you all about what I've been thinking. I've been thinking about shallots, that's what. You might think that's a lot to take in, but it's not: it's shallot. A crucial difference, that. 

Besides, that's the thing about shallots, that's the important point: they're not a lot, they're a little. They're a little tasty, a little sweet, and, most importantly, a little onion. Which they're not. (In other words, they are not what they are. (That's why they're called 'shallots', not 'onions': do you follow me?)) 

Okay. So, shallots have a rich and storied history, none of which I will go into today. Instead, let us quote from Wikipedia: 

The shallot is a cultivar group of the onion. Until 2010, the (French red) shallot was classified as a separate species, Allium ascalonicum.

Great! 

The taxon was synonymized with Allium cepa (the common onion) in 2010, as the difference was too small to justify a separate species.

So it seems that shallots are not only too small to be an onion, but they are too small to be not. 

(Pedants might object that it is not the shallot that is small in the last case, it is the difference. But what is the difference between a difference, anyway? It's very small, that's what it is.)

Here is a poem I wrote about shallots: 

There's a lot to shallots,
There's a lot but there's not - 
There's a lot to a little, you see: 
No, you mustn't belittle 
The littlest little - 
To be little is something to be. 

Readers will notice with what care and restraint I have avoided ending the poem with 'fiddle diddle diddle diddle dee'. It is important to finely tune one's poetic craft that way. Just as there is a lot to the little that is shallots, so there is a lot to the little that is poetry, in that you start with a lot, and you take out a little, and you take out a little more, and a little more, and a little more, and you end up taking out a lot with with a little left over, in order to say a lot with a little. Or sometimes, you try to say a little with a little, or sometimes, to those with a purer artistic temperament, you end up using a little and saying even less. Presumably the purest poem of all is one in which all meaning and words are taken out, with nothing left over, but that has already been written by someone or other so to write it out again would be plagiarism. I certainly had a lot to say about shallots in this poem, and avoided saying it altogether, so this is what you got. 

But I suppose there are some things a lot about shallots. You can grow a lot of them. You can like them a lot. And you can grow shallots in a lot, and an allotted lot withal, so you could, if you chose, grow a lot of shallots in a lot of allotted lots. That's not a lot, but it's something. That's not a lot, even if it literally is. It's a little lot, which is just about as much as anyone could ask for. 

In addition, here is a shallot that I found the other day. 

I cooked it and turned it into a tiny onion tart, and here is the recipe: 

Ingredients: 

1 teaspoon of olive oil 
1 shallot 
A splash of white wine 
Puff pastry 

Method: 
Cut the puff pastry to the side of a small pan. Turn the oven on to 180 degrees celsius. Cut the shallot into pieces and fry it over medium heat for a few minutes until it browns nicely on all sides. 
Add the white wine to the pan and let it reduce a bit. 
Pop the puff pastry over the top of the shallot, and fold it in under the edges. Put the whole pan in the oven and leave it in there until the puff pastry rises and turns golden brown, about 20 minutes. 
Invert the shallot tart over a board or plate and serve.

But enough talking about poetry and recipes and what not, we were talking about shallots. This is the end of my talk about shallots. 

Preconstructed recipe post

 Now I don't want to make you all jealous, but today I made some bread. Or, to put it in a more technically accurate way, today I measured out the ingredients that will have by tomorrow become bread definitely. 

Here is the bread which I will have certainly by tomorrow made without a shadow of a doubt. 

Drooling yet? 

Now admittedly I suppose it is possible that someone else will put the bread together tonight and tomorrow, but it really matters not. Please to admire the bread which will obviously by tomorrow absolutely have been definitely made by someone or other clearly. 

The Future really is Perfect, isn't it. 

That’s very romance

 A poem that is very romance

Roses are red

Violets are blue

Chocolate is brown

And also poo

I think we had better

Not mix up the two

Roses are red 

Violets are blue.

Culture corner

 Have some drama, you uncultured swine! 

THE INTROVERTS: a riveting one second drama 

 SCENE: INTROVERT 1 bumps into INTROVERT 2 on the street corner 

 INTROVERT 1: Hello! Well, it was lovely to have parted after all this time. 

 INTROVERT 2: Yes, we really must do it again sometime. 

 (Both walk very fast in opposite directions) 

END

THE INTROVERTS 2: the gripping epic five second sequel 

SCENE: INTROVERT 2 bumps into INTROVERT 1 at the next street corner. 

 INTROVERT 2: Back so soon? Well, can't be helped. 

 INTROVERT 1: Yes, I'm so terribly sorry. 

 INTROVERT 2: Anyway, cheer up! I'm sure you'll be off soon! 

 INTROVERT 1: You know me. 

 INTROVERT 2: I'm afraid so. 

 (Both walk quickly away from one another into oncoming traffic) 

 END

A magical mysterium tour

 Russian composer Alexander Scriabin was something else. Look at this description of his planned work, 'Mysterium':

"Mysterium is an unfinished musical work by composer Alexander Scriabin. He started working on the composition in 1903, but left it incomplete when he died in 1915. Scriabin planned that the work would be synesthetic, exploiting the senses of smell and touch as well as hearing. He wrote that

"There will not be a single spectator. All will be participants. The work requires special people, special artists and a completely new culture. The cast of performers includes an orchestra, a large mixed choir, an instrument with visual effects, dancers, a procession, incense, and rhythmic textural articulation. The cathedral in which it will take place will not be of one single type of stone but will continually change with the atmosphere and motion of the Mysterium. This will be done with the aid of mists and lights, which will modify the architectural contours."

Scriabin intended the performance to be in the foothills of the Himalayas in India, a week-long event that would be followed by the end of the world and the replacement of the human race with "nobler beings"."

And the more descriptions you read about Scriabin's plan, the crazier/better it sounds:

"Bells suspended from clouds would summon spectators. Sunrises would be preludes and sunsets codas. Flames would erupt in shafts of light and sheets of fire. Perfumes appropriate to the music would change and pervade the air. "

(Certain small-minded pedants might ask: just how do you suspend a bell from a cloud? These intellectual tardigrades should be treated with the contempt they deserve.)

And: "Thousands of participants, clad in white robes, would intone his melismatic mantras with the fervor of the dervishes, expending every bit of their available energy in the service of his artistic idealism."

And: "Scriabin thought... that he would die of ecstasy when it finished playing."

According to the books, Scriabin actually died of blood poisoning. But clearly that's nonsense. He obviously died from nothing more than the modesty of his ambitions, and the 'Mysterium', in all its glory, is waiting for a purer vessel to bring its terrifying awesomeness to earth.

You can hear Scriabin's 'Prefaratory Action' for the 'Mysterium' on YouTube, over 40 minutes long, in its full bonkers glory.

PS Please to admire Scriabin's majestic curled 19th century moustache. It's so admirable that, like, I admire it. 

Delightful gurgling

In case you haven't been paying attention (and I certainly haven't), did you read about stand-up comedian Arj Barker kicking out a mother and her newborn baby from one of his shows the other day? Finally, it seems, someone is doing something about the grave peril posed to stand-up comedians by babies. For, in their career, a stand-up comedian may have to deal with drunken audiences, bottles being thrown at them, fist fights, you name it: but babies? Come on! 

I'm not quite sure what those babies are up to, but there's certainly something shifty about them. Engaging, for the moment, in a brief scientific study, we find, on the one hand, we have: 

- Stand-up comedians

Pure beings, light workers, who are always right about everything; 

While on the other hand, we find: 

- Babies 

Basically Satan. 

That, ladies and gentlemen, is science. But life is not all science: there are many nuances to lived experience that crude scientific theorems and hypotheses cannot capture. Let us look at some of them now. What are the basic modes of the baby? 

1) Crying

2) Feeding

3) Pooing/weeing 

4) Delightful gurgling 

5) Sleeping peacefully. 

It seems Barker kicked the baby out in stages 1/2. Can you imagine what would have happened if the baby had got to stage 4? Or (worse) stage 5? That's right, neither can I. But it would have been dreadful, let me assure you. 

This post is now at an end. 

Unsound poetry

Found sound poem 

This is a found poem, 

It's very profound. 

This is a sound poem: 

It's very pro-sound. 

If you've found a sound

To go with my found poem, 

Please send me that sound, 

And I'll give it a sound home, 

For, I'll admit it, 

I haven't quite yet 

Found one for my found sound, 

And it makes me upset. 

Sign up to my marriage counselling service, everyone!

Get in early: sign a prenuptial disagreement before marriage so you don't have to worry about it after. 

Arrange for a divorce to be held before you get married. It is a far neater way of doing things. Hold a touching ceremony for the whole family you will be breaking up: nobody will be able to stop themselves from crying at the traditional ceremony of the Taking Back of the Engagement Rings - but who will be able to wake for the excitement that is the Cutting of the Financial Cake? 

(Oh yeah, and hold a wedding and stuff after too, I guess.)

If you prepare and do things right, it will only strengthen your marriage bonds. Although you might end up having make-up sex without having anything to make-up about, which is a bit too S and M for some... I guess. 

An unoriginal festive poem

There’s not much that’s new about Christmas;

There’s plenty of not new to tell:

But I’m growing quite fond of old things - 

I’m growing quite old as well. 

There’s not much that’s new about New Year;

It’s already old when it’s new;

But I don’t mind that, after all

They say I was too.

Looking Awkward to Christmas

A Christmas Poem in Seven Ers

Er…

Twas the night before morning

And all through the place

Was the presence of regular 

Geometrical space.

Er…

Twas the night before morning 

And all through the… locality

Were spots with a definite 

Geometricallity. 

Er…

Twas the night before morning - 

12.09, if you prefer. 

Not a creature was stirring

Except those that were.

Er…

Twas the night before morning, 

And then probably day :

Time continued to hold its

Chronological sway. 

Er…

It was night. And then morning. 

And there was a spot. 

It might have had creatures, 

But then, it might not. 

Er…

And then comes a man

With a bowlful of… jello?

(Or should it be egg nog?)

Red, green and yellow. 

Er…

Whatever it is 

Or whatever it might 

Whatever is wrong 

Or is maybe… not right,

To all, merry Christmas 

(etc) and 

GOOD NIGHT. 

Here's a little number that I wrote last night that I want to share with you all

 3.

A grand occasion!

For no reason at all, a poem. 

 The colours and shapes decided

They needed to sort out what’s what – 

If the blue could beat green in a blue, 

If rectangles were best, or the dots. 

 

So they found a municipal oval, 

And prepared for a very grand day, 

And sent out the word to each other

That now might be a particularly auspicious time to play. 

 

First up were the black and white zig zags, 

Who bested the greeny-blue squares; 

But then came the fuchsia diamonds, 

Who put stop to their little affair. 

 

The pink polka dots beat the purple – 

The game was a jolly good romp; 

While the match up of teal versus salmon

Turned into a contre-temps. 

 

O! The crowd cried with eager excitement, 

With passion and fervour and rage

At the stripes, the houndstooth, the triangles, 

The amber, the peach and the beige! 

 

But now, in this final of finals, 

Which side would be best of the best? 

Out came the shapes and the colours 

For a truly terrific contest! 

 

First up were the lilac-cream squiggles – 

The crowd roared with glee from the stand; 

And then came the buttercup checkmarks – 

This final was grander than grand! 

 

But ah, what a jolly imbroglio – 

What more of this show need I say? 

Though the squiggles played wonderfully well, 

The buttercup checks won the day. 

 

What a perfectly spiffing occasion! 

They all gave a most rousing cheer, 

And determined that, all things considered, 

They would meet up same time next year!