CRUISING WITH SPAMMY BERT
Planky planet fantasy farming systems, pardon me while I reel off a lick... Not the page bearing lions? With a molecular saw, Jesus was a mod. Mug went, "Patio doors? Aluminium windows? Plywood canal folk?" He leapt like a startled faun raincoat. Heifer burger is better than none. "Splasmould, Ike!" said Tina. "Zenus field, Cor! Stripe me pink!"
Malpractice Suite, marooned on a word, the liver and kidneys of a native New Yorker. Sultans! Use Larynx Wife Fodder. Amino-Communism, just think, a man with only one leg can't wear odd socks. Have we metaphor, or was it someone else? I'm forty-one and I've just walked over the moon. "Shirt pocket soup drank cadenza. Moore eared purse, Russian boat cool smell shallow, spile boiled rose snipe." he tried to say. "Get off my pullover, Eric! Eighteen DV cup, tossed doll on a slope, was Doris Day an astronaut?"
Lindsey Doyle, Fronteria and Bacteria, you can't play to harm Monica's at once. Okay, say three Harm Monicas. Worse things happen up trees - perpetrolmotion, I am overworked and understood.
"Please, have you Mister Nurd The Sprocket? Do you want to roll in my absence?"
2000 AD - Trouble At t'Millennium, systematic disorganisation in Dead Pan Alley. Salvadordali sneakers into the cold mugtan wimbloes, vocal attache cases and shrieking clocks sound like snakes with gradient aches, quiche McLatterhorns. Benny fit the Battle of Jericho, aring-tailed colostomy. Colonels in charge of colons, keepers of the meaty voices of the slag beaver, asthmatic tatterdemalions. Your name has been given as a referee, but it will be returned after the game. Handbills would make interesting birds.
I'm as quick as light
And dark as night
And twice as bright
And feel alright
Like a velvet kite
On a building site.
Leban Allsorts, new non-tunes, pubic shadow? Mr.and Mrs.McCrockerdale, makers of cat brain rugs and the one that fizzes when you plug it in, how come you never beat me up anymore?
Anoraksia Nervosa... and Regooliefarramatz lays of a short pass to Codabeautifoglu, he goes round Pistafurgle-Dadgarrassity and Flammabiblicon and crosses to Boobengoosemaster and Languarenkshadow at the far post... De Germatumiggon leeps and punches the ball away, but only as far as Typewriter Rabinowicz, who takes the ball into the area... but he's pulled down by Absurdityflifeovich! Penalty! Alphabettercogmeister has a word with Vimpeldoogenroogenstroog and they decide that Sodapopenski should take the kick... Vitupperembador the referee blows... Vladimerelyanenvelope Sodapopenski approaches, takes the kick... Deddenberrimee throws himself and palms the ball away... but Vodrikemblenschky smashes the rebound past Everglow Fowler-Pavement... The Marine Etudians lose again at the Croker College Courtboolicon!
Many people talk to me,
As if I was a banana tree
And when I answer back to them,
They spray me with pale, cream Snowcem.
Nothing could be nicer than Political Advisor in the springtime! The Thing From Beyond The Typewriter, The Book of Book-Burning, dancettes in my attic turn-down run-out Kermitson. I refuse to worship perfect strangers, shoot the Devil up with liquid nicathane, pronounced Nike-A-Thane. Space is boring, nothing but Nothing everywhere. Rugjerridrel, crandy ex-sea-termites sing Hallo! in hefty voices.
THE VALLEY OF THROLMEEMION
Dark winds of winter cross rivers of gold,
Great oaken forests bow before the rush of air,
The black creatures of Asia take to their nests of teak,
As the weary traveler surveys
The wastelands of the far horizon.
"What terrible beauty crawls and shatters
In the valley of Throlmeemion?",
He pleads and wraps his garments tighter about himself.
"I am not of this world, nor of that, but still I dread Throlmeemion!"
Surely the dread curse of The Unrighteous
Had not at last fallen on he,
The Wise One, in the twilight of his life.
The blood-red sand of this steamy land rose shear
Beneath his iron staff
To a sunken vortex, soaked in dreams and scolded by the earth.
Slowly he began, the descent from The Hallowed Plateau
That would take him into the valley of Throlmeemion
To face his final ordeal, before his eternal doom
And ultimate passing.
His ears deaf to the vulture's harshest call,
His eyes blind to the ethereal dancing of the hours.
His heart and mind locked in mortal combat,
Truth and untruth in savage battle
Watched by unseen eyes in the sulphur pools a league above Throlmeemion.
No scene nor sign of reality's hand broke
Through the crimson air,
The Wise One rode the diamond scree upon the dragon's lair.
Spiralling ever downward, swirling currents of ice-filled air
Goading and guiding The Wise One ever closer to despair
The White Mountain yawned, a cave appeared,
Guarded by teeth of ice.
The Wise One entered with mantis stealth,
Taking shelter from the biting wind.
In the still cold silence, great thoughts came clear,
For stillness begets the gift of total recall.
Slowly, silently, the tragic story returned
To torture him once again
As tears welled up in his eyes...
His childhood in The Upper Valley, days carefree and long ago,
His first calling unto the magnificent Crystal City
When he had scarce seen fifteen summers,
The Ceremony of the Initiation,
In The Spirit Garden of Zinrahzar
He had received the dreadful gift of Freedom
To bind him like a golden chain, shackled to the Mother Earth.
His tears turned to ice
Translucent splinters of Human emotion,
Falling to the hard rock at his feet.
Out loud he cried to the cavern walls "Have I fallen
From The Razor Edge to this tattered doom for reason?
Or for no reason!"
His cry rattled the sparkling stalactites and drifted
Over the ice fields for a thousand leagues.
No answer came, no voice of Mountain nor of Moon,
For The Wise One stood alone, tortured by his mind.
In The Crystal City of Qualtinor
He had lived many score years
Taking guidance from The Sages of The Inner Sanctum
Great men of Wisdom taught him
To see through the clouds of Mystery,
Until he was at last ready
To take The Oath of Perpetual Fealty
Under The Green Moon of Zinrahzar,
The Deity of Wisdom and Sooth.
For he was The Chosen One, The Wise One
Far above the desipient activities of mortal Man.
For he indeed was The Chosen One,
Found in The Forest of Deodar
By The Giants of Vitrin, those stalwarts with whom
The Empire of Light had been built and ultimately betrayed.
Holding tightly the iron staff, the gift of The Giants.
The true staff forged at the dawn of Time,
Deep in the Forges of Vitrin, Realm of The Righteous.
The Staff, the talisman of The Chosen One
Symbol of Truth and Power.
"Reach out to touch liquid metal, cup your hands 'round the new sun's gold, realise your breath is frosting in the cold morn light of day. Decide to reach out for life as Crucifix and Orb are one, bend to tie the knot of truth, the tube of Thought's caresses. Take stock of the Iron Lung your father wore for life, pull the nail from your eye, pour his blood from the carafe..."
(Tenuous Link) Hear-ye now The Words of Ellis Banoonoo... There was a knock on the door, as the red embers of yesterday's fire blinked like a bashful dragon from beneath the grey ash. Again the sound of mailed fist against black oak assailed my ears and grated the back of my eyes. I had to hide.
The black-oak door bulged and strained under the weight of The Eternal Quastrelaspoid Sparonid Throrfnoordrinills. My head throbbed like Corby before the cuts. The EQSTees lashed at the frail fallout shelter. Slicing through metres of concrete, the very air was rank with the smell of last week's dead planet. I used to be a river until I failed the medical.
The EQSTees oozed in crazy chains through the splintered door. My uncle had five names, he kept them on a rack like pipes.
It's strange what thoughts pass through your mind when a dragon blinks.
"Mother," said Barry, as he placed his helmet on the table, "Mother, I'm going to have a baby."
His mother released her several pigeons.
"Do you hear me Mother?"
"Yes dear, you think you're Typhon the Gorilla and your feet hurt."
The door caved in upon me with duck-like force. I placed the magic helmet of Ellis Banoonoo on my head. It was a risk, a tremendous risk... I was about to wear the sacred helmet of awesome power, the trick cap of Banoonoo.
The air vibrated and glowed yellow and black, then black and yellow, then stripy with ugly floral buckets. Suddenly, I was aware of not being aware. The magic helmet was working, transporting me to the faraway land of Bleebdon Major.
"Whomsoever this helmet shall fit, shall be King of Hungary!"
A secret small voice seemed to be whispering to me, "Indecision is a switchblade wife on a velvet beach."
All of a sudden, I understood the message in the music, which seemed to be saying "I've left your dinner in the oven, don't forget William's cuttlefish."
Watch me! I balance Manhattan on my nose and drink three pints of Brobat, for I am the Red-Nosed Rainclown of old... Watch me! as I float icebergs in my navel without moving my lips, for I am the Red-Nosed Rainclown and my head revolves freely... Watch me! when I wear size-twenty boots backwards on my hands and do a trick I learned in Africa... For I am the jolly old Red-Nosed Rainclown, the prat and the pendulum...
William's cuttlefish watches movies in the dark
While he waits for the new moon in Central Park
Or was it Dundee?
Don't ask me!
The shifting sands of time
Pile up around my ankles
Till I can't move.
I am a frightened crested grebe,
Fishing for excuses
With a bent beak.
It was Wednesday,
Susan was buying shoes
In the High Street,
Near the statue of St Ogladale.
I shouted in the deep reed-beds of unknowing
With the harsh bleat of involvement...
FENDER STRATOCRUISER? A KIND OF TYPEWRITER, I BELIEVE, M'LUD...
Ladies and gentlemen, what you are about to see, feel, hear and witness is the latest, greatest, most wonderful visual effect since the invention of imagery... That's right, the Ackroyd & Bennington Horizontally-Opposed Multi-Function Hi-Definition Television Screen.
Thrill to the sight of almost-living wild animals, swoon with delight as your favourite cartoon character jumps up and down in fourteen fabulous colours, fall over and be sick as the famous Tokyo Bullet Train fails to stop in the one-and-nines. Look at the person sitting next to you, look how dull he is compared with our Hi-Definition Total Experience Instrument.
The twenty-first century is only three-hundred years away with Hi-Definition. This is what Mr"N" of Dorking had to say about our product. "My spots and ugly tennis scars have almost disappeared and now I'm dating at least fifteen girls at once!"
The Hi-Definition screen features "WonderWatch", a unique facility allowing your eyes to see your favourite programme while you're at work... You can use your Hi-Definition Heat-Seeking Goggle-Box in your car, in the supermarket, behind the oil-drums in Harrod's, or on the beach (Of course, you'll have to buy one of our Biggawatt nuclear generators to power it).
Earn extra cash by showing Hi-Definition movies to your friends. Sit back and watch your romantic wedding video on a screen twice the size of Dorset. No need to wear uncomfortable 3D glasses or cumbersome breathing apparatus. Note the word "Deaf" in Hi-Definition - Yes! We have some of the most powerful speakers in the world!
Hi-Definition Videorama, the world's highest television (insert picture of the Chinese expedition bivouac-ing on the volume knob).
Oh cloud, I wonder?
Lonely as you?
Why are you?
Lonely?
I'm not!
Why then are you?
Alone or not,
As the case may be.
But, then again,
If you're lonely,
But not alone
Then why do you
Wander,
I wonder?
THE GIGANTIC TIT EMPORIUM IN SOGGY CITY - Girl's linctus, lap boner tortoise sooker soona, piltdown palindrome, South Surrey and the Wretchees playing Ingersoul. Scullinex makes your ears dream in crackle-finish denim. Megathic, that's Brett Mildew and the Deteriorations. Misanthorpe, do you speak in erectitudes? We are DEVO - D.E.V.O. R.C.E... Earex, erect in a spoot of builbu, is a bad bad plague on the dusty pre-credit road of no response. I speak in difficult tunes, tralala exaggeration stretched beyond the where...
Rod'n'pole music: Silver Tongues and the Shins, the demi-monde of the sugarbowl, it's like sarong whiting David Colemanations, nothing but the bestial. If it's dead, it must be good. The dictates of fashion eat your beans...
Smart Art - Admiral on a charge
> Miralon Age
> Mirage
= verbal erosion... Fancy a bit of nasal sex?
Five days in an American fun furnace, two incarnations as a decoy duck, a product of Brokenheart Plastics Ltd. Mad to mediocre, Venos Splendoris acutation rim. The coming of the blanket reduction simply complete, the girl commandos called The Lurex Berets... Explain-A-Stick: the mentally stimulating adhesive... Fresh fried stick men, the walking pontoon, a pontoon of men and a forceful yawn. I'm into Total 34 Goodwood Road, I feel like a leftover from a modelling agency, I wonder what my foc'sle say?
I wish I was a train set
On stun,
Waiting at the railway station
Of your heart
With a one-way ticket to your throat.
All the things I ever wrote
Are on the six-fifteen
To Paddington and Evesham
Changing at Bracknell.
A neat arrangement of bananas, the number of things, a spitoon of oons, a path of tracks, the clinical condition of a scrapyard, Professor of lice and similar crawling creepies... John Bull Wayne attachments coke a nutshy, the boil orchid Turnipola.
Double Crossing Ahead... El Vehemo, 'ere, nose and throat?... Turniplene, Oh go on! Be a bear, be a funny dog! Bierritz!... What's strawberry flavoured and indistinct? That's right, a blur-monge! (hectic pathos) Austria font fern hoodle.
"I don't know!"
"But I know!"
"But how do I know?"
"I just don't know!"
"Ah, but if you know..."
"Half of concrete!"
"STEEL MEMBRANE!"
"Well I don't know!"
"Do I know?"
"WHERE APRICOTS FEAR TO SPLIT! If you know what a question is or what a straight line thinks when it is drawn and quartered in a mirrored squeal of plinthian self denial...""But I know!"
"But how do I know?"
"I just don't know!"
"Ah, but if you know..."
"Half of concrete!"
"STEEL MEMBRANE!"
"Well I don't know!"
"Do I know?"
"Hedgerows on toast, freezing wet dustbin focus," said the favour salesman to the draft enema quotient. Rudy was a slot machine, Ohio!... Love Silo No.9 Select Cushions say, "............." (well, what did you expect?)
Gorillas and toadies say, "Damn your own routine!"
Let's all get into (things written in) brackets. It's erratic/pneumatic, like a blimp in a hurricane, tiny water-wings floating on the surface of a jar of mercury. Can you do this? We play for the people (in an elevator full of sand), Verminous metabolism (a nice way to spend a weekend). Literal thinking, tell the truth sideways, sift anchor thanking, grasp the nettle (by the thong), I wear my name on my face... Contested oath, Letraspray. You saw me standing there (but you never mentioned sprays). Get settled in (for a fortnight). Drawlpindi, my clothes have gone nova, parabulba, facewords. This man just searched me (looking for rakes), Booboo LaFumpht, taiwani river... Tangahalachappi is onto it into open it.
THIS
SENT
N'SIS
RITN
INFO
LETR
WORZ
SENT
N'SIS
RITN
INFO
LETR
WORZ
The smallest enormity (gossamer girders), the maiming of the shrew, Dalek scorchpad, pollage. I am pleased to be later. Apricot wheel appeal, apricots in ectoplasm, rabbit parts in birchbark Scotch X... Cretan truckers gather trumpets, trumpets in New York, truckers trying trumpets, trying New York to see if it fits.
Another poem
Not unlike the last
Prosaic piece.
Some may decry this poem.
It's part of me, my poem,
But to me, if only me
It makes sense.
Anyway, I like it.
Gangsterismo en Espana, Football Club Ugly de Espana, I'm just the uncle of a reaver, with my own coal costume and a coat of ratchets, IDL goot! The majorette and the minaret, think about you for a shilling? Hi niddle hi niddle hi atus!
Hi there! I'm your new superlight-drive Acme starship salesman. Send us only £90,000,000,000,000,037.81 a week, for a short term of 387 years and last year's Acme Aldebaran model could be yours! Of course, you have to give us your old one in part-exchange... Just sign here... No Sir! You have to sign with your nostril, otherwise our offer is null and void!
Doctor Doctor, I'm an ultravert! I must express my being in a peppermint world!... Cat's Liver Sandwich Part 2: Gulliver Strangles A Planet. Strawberry tusk, an inch to catch a cold. Silly cone, obtuse oblong object, tiring triangle, servile circular egg lapel. Iron air millionaire, soda pop chorale silent creeps the meadow leach through the saline stare!
Come on then! Where's your NAME? Gone swan, swank in a red potater... Darling, let me carry you over the threshold of pain... And other dots, hindlegs, Rodger, it's Tuesday! Apostropher to Royalty, flatulentil soup or kestrel, radio-controlled sausages, Kestrolite! Sainsbury's closes - it's the end of the food chain! Nolching with the nothings in the Neverglades, Erudite adhesive, du rabble overalls, Bacophiles, Gray's Elegy in a countrissotto (or should that be a seaside rissotto? The last rissotto?)... Well, here we all are stuffed into this rucksack!
SOMETHING WITH ICE-CREAM IN IT
Davidson sat in his office on the twenty-ninth floor of Chocolate & Banana Ripple House. In front of him, on his desk, were yet another set of catastrophic monthly sales figures. He was the man ultimately responsible for the Mobile Ice-Cream Division of Snell & Ferguson's food and pharmaceutical empire. He was required to produce results and to produce them FAST! Davidson was chewing his third pencil of the morning (he preferred HBs in times of crisis), when his secretary buzzed him.
"Davidson!"
"Oh Mr. Davidson, Mr. Atkins is on his way up to see you."
"Thanks Marie! And, ur... can we have two coffees please?"
"Certainly, Mr. Davidson..."
He got up and went to the window. It was a sunny day and St. Paul's, half a mile away, was chiming ten. The city bustled about its business, twenty-nine floors below him. Davidson made himself ready for the inevitable. Atkins only showed his face in this backwater of a department, if there was something terribly wrong with the business end of things and it was usually Davidson that served as a convenient scapegoat in times such as these.
Davidson adopted his "Efficient Departmental Supervisor" persona, knowing that Atkins would, in seconds, be storming into the office, without first granting his victim the benifit of a warning knock on the door.
"Oh hello, Mr. Atkins!" he exclaimed, in the approximation of surprise he usually reserved for occasions such as this. "Do you want a word in my cornet-like about something?"
Davidson knew perfectly well what was coming, but bluffing superiors with mock calm was one of the first rules in his book. No monthly sales figures would break the habit of a lifetime, however unsuccessful a lifetime it had been up to now. He had learned to fear the man, now sitting on the other side of the desk, with the Torquemada smile on his face. Indeed, ever since the Sundae Development Course they had both attended many years ago, he had been wary of Atkins' loud voice and no-less loud suits.
"This is the fourth month your figures have been down, Davidson! Dammit man, this is this the longest heatwave since records began! Now you know that I don't have to tell a man like you, Bertram, what consistantly bad figures mean! Shape up, Bertie, or you'll be due for the de-frosting!"
With that, he stormed back out, bumping into Marie and spilling two cups of coffee onto the deep, white, shagpile carpet.
"Er... make that one coffee, Marie."
Davidson slumped back into the Neapolitan leatherette office chair and sighed a sigh which is recognised throughout the city as meaning, "Why me?"
The trouble with Atkins was, he wouldn't take "Why me?" for an answer. Given five minutes, between volleys of abuse, Davidson would have liked to have explained that the company's marketing policies were still in the pre-Sky Ray fifties and that we should start to move with the times. Atkins, however, was one of the "We've done it this way since the company was founded, why change now?" brigade.
Being in the Mobile Ice-Cream Division meant that Davidson was primarily responsible for the company's fleet of two-thousand brown and yellow ice-cream vans... two-thousand J-registration Bedford vans, which, he had to admit, were way behind the competition's early-eighties models...
- Those deviants are the slimy bastards who are trying to take over this fair planet. Yodblurt barn danga danga danga! They want to dematerialise all the baked beans. They take the beans from innocent worlds and then they do a yoger-posture and they drop their stomachs and surround the planet with methane gas... It's bloody diabolical, the whole human race destroyed by a cosmic fart! What can I do? How can I save civilisation?
- But Mrs. McVitie, be reasonable! You only had your ani-pruritis done last week... the Doctor said you had to stay indoors for a fortnight.
- Sod the Doctor, where's me Psycho Zoom Corset?
- These Earthlings are so stupid, so bloody primitive, so bleedin' terrestrial, so arsin' common.
- Someone's let off! Don't waste the precious methane!
- What is our Screlcocoa Bing Gerk reading, Mr. Starcupboard?
- Mong ding ting ring glib log tin ribs, Mr. Bimbo!
- Singalong With Sid Smith & The Beaker People!
- There's a woman with a blew helmet on at the door, Mr. Thork! Shit! It's that bloody Mrs. Lorraine McVest, the nicest woman on Earth! Yikes! Horst zoon baboom beam, bilch bilch ba bobe buck, Privett Edge!
That's it for another week, folks! Thanks to Gold Lamé, Sniltweasel, Shelfy and anyone else whose particular style I failed to recognise. Plenty more next week!
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