FEELINGS
ZEEPCKCEZZ Radio in association with Manurex Turbo 88 tobacco now presents "Feelings"!... There may have been times when you felt that you were alone, or that no one cared... well, that is probably not an incorrect assumption. But don't rush into anything rash, don't slash your wrists or take an overdose. Instead, talk to us here at "Feelings"! We are here to help... You see, we really do care, you know... we love everybody, no matter who they are; WASP, Puerto Rican, black and, yes, even Polish!
So we're sending out a message to everyone all over New York tonight! That's YOU, wherever you may be!... Remember folks, a problem shared is a problem doubled minus the square root of 164 divided by N to the power of 23 times the cosine of the population of New York plus E equals MC squared... which by our officially ratified digital calculations means that you could be baring your soul to well over eighty three million New Yorkers tonight!...
Impromptu radio jingle cuts in, in the background we can hear the station controller giving the announcer something of a reprimand... cough cough, hmmm... sorry!... Are you the kind of person that wakes up on Monday morning, wishing that you'd thrown yourself out of the basement window, while you had the chance, at the party on Saturday night? Perhaps you are in need of companionship, a friendly voice to discuss fiscal policy with? Or maybe you're a Central Park jogger, whose training shoes have finally reached the end of their marathon? You could even be starving and not due another welfare cheque for a week. If you feel that you are an insecure stereotyped misfit, pick up that phone and call the Manurex Turbo 88 hotline to "Feelings" and listen to the reassuring tones of the ZEEPCKCEZZ psychoanylist, Professor Joe Kowalski... Joe, or Joe as he likes to be known, is our very own resident president of paternal sincerity!...
Okay folks, the Manurex Turbo 88 are now open and Joe is ready to take the cup of your problems to his lips... after a word from tonight's sponsor... Manurex Turbo 88 commercial is followed by Joe and tonight's callers in earnest conversation (with Kowalski coughing violently at random)... Hmmm, I'm smoking a pipeful of Manurex Turbo 88 right now, y'know and I'm really relaxed. My mood is stable and my mind is swimming with love for all you people in the human race out there in the Big Apple...
So let's have caller No.1... uhh, Hi there, caller No.1!... Are you there, caller?... No no no, I'm here, heeheeheehehe!... What is your problem, caller?... My voice gets travel-sick... Could you explain your problems to me, caller?... Well, whenever I phone long-distance, I get dizzy and sick. I mean, if I had to phone my attorneys in Akron, I'd just die!... But caller - if you'll permit me to be this informal with you - it's not your voice that's travelling as such. What I mean is, your voice is just vibrations, it's not part of your body... What? You mean my voice isn't mine?... Sure it's yours, caller, but it can't get sick!... Yeah? Well, it says dirty words, don't you think that's sick?... What words are those, caller?... "Sparrows in the john!"... Oh I see! Well, er, why not light up a pipeful of Manurex Turbo 88, caller?... That goddam English stuff makes me throw up!... Hmmm, well I'm sorry, caller No.1, we've got to move onto another caller now. Goodbye and remember that a problem shared is... Garbage! This station stinks! That tobacco stinks! And you're all a bunch of finks!... Hmm, poetic in a Bronx kinda way!
Okay, let's have caller No.2... uh Hi! Dat "Feelin's"? Yeah, well I got dis real problem wid my buddies, y'know? Well like dey keep invitin' me to parties on da condition dat I get dressed up as a rhinocerous. So like dere I am in dis huge rhino suit, I'm now like a regular customer at da "Zoo Suits 4U" store off Broadway, an' I can't get in da door of da apartment an' da stairwell's too narrow an' like I gotta spend da night in da underground car park an' - Joe? Are ya still dere? Somebody let me outta dis costoom!... Oh! We appear to have lost caller No.2, so I'd like to put out an urgent appeal to every citizen. Um, if you see someone struggling to get out of a rhinocerous outfit, that's probably caller No.2, so give him a hand and maybe a chocolate-chip cookie!
Remember, a problem shared is a problem...
Hey! Joe baby! I'd like some urgent advice, please!... well spent! Oh sure, caller no.3, that's what we're here for... Well, I got this rather personal problem... Don't feel self-conscious, caller No.3, problems are our business... Well Joe, I'm not really sure how to put this, but I've just discovered that several of my vital parts are missing... Your vital parts?... Yeah, I think I lost them in the grocery store... Really?... Yeah, like I was by the frozen pizzas, when I noticed that I was somewhat incomplete... Incomplete?... They'd been ripped off!... Ripped off?... Yeah! Clean through my pants!... That sounds painful, caller No.3... Damn right it was painful! I had to pay my bill with real money! I didn't have a single credit card left. My assets had been well and truly stripped!... Okay, caller No.3. I can appreciate that you have a grave crisis facing you at the moment. You'll probably be feeling a little de-stabilised for about seventy-two hours, so why not turn this little trauma around to your advantage?... How can I do that, Joe?... Well caller, what I normally do is pour myself a large bourbon... I'm a Mormon, Joe... er, bourbon-coloured soda, sit back and light up a pipe of England's finest - Manurex Turbo 88, cunningly sensual, mildly aromatic... At this point, an FBI radio broadcast interrupts the show by mistake...
URDLE NODKIN
"What do we do with a pregnant sailor?" he spoke in a primal monotone. "I name this blazing sleeping-bag "Revolto", a brace of abrasives."
Rouge elephants: I am a Major in the Magi. Methane! You Tarzan! Imprisoned for theft of an item, Cyanide, Holy Nide. Slittle Sack Sauna Slat Sin a Scorner Seating Shis Schristmas Spy She Stuck Sin Shis Sum Sand Spooled out a Slum Sand Ssed "Swat a Sgood Spoy Sam Si!"
Owen Spyring, as in scenery, Ilk Lemur Bah Tat, Dr. Goodlaugh. Colour me Enigmatic, less boats moored here.
Artsters! We've been eating neck tar, cruisin' with Huey, Dewey and Louie in freeform nothingness. Doot shung plated grunter, raged burnt sweater goatface, kloop dungeon Klothing Bert, trunk blader young Drerdent, a donkey begins to eat... my uncle... drips like compressed silicone in the corner of the lounge bar, thinking of a motorcycle he once saw in the sea.
"Were you the rung-out git piled under the rug?" said Rodger.
"No, fungus-mug!" said George, "I was in the tank."
Freidrich and Clara rinse out Nota Bene with an ostricot treehorse. In the future, there will be a market for the Viva with caterpillar tracks, Captain Obvious.
Fourteen rats from Cheltenham
Took a coach to Tottenham
To try the dep-sea bathing
And view the crazy paving
And see the new museum.
They got insane delirium
And took a camel trip to Crewe,
But I couldn't and I wouldn't
Well you shouldn't, wouldn't you?
Said the Alien, "Hello Mate!
If you want to emigrate,
I'm afraid you'll have to wait
The flying saucer drivers are on strike!"
"Yes, I know one, he's a tyke,
But his mother makes good cakes,
She collects water weed from lakes
And grinds it into flour,
Which she mixes up for Greens!
Mind the railings sir,
You musn't tear your jeans!"
So the monkey bought a razor,
Which he cut up with a laser
To make topping for the crumpets,
It makes a pleasant change from trumpets.
"Watch it Mate!" the woman shouted
And if he hadn't stood and doubted,
He would still be here today.
His nose was spotty, so they say,
Always singing in the bath
Or playing symphonies on the hearth,
Accompanying himself on the flute
(And Bonko the lizard played the lute).
Several thousand miles from land
In a bunker made from sand
On the Trans-Sahara Ferry.
Oh! There's a marauding jerry!
Woolworth's is the shop, for decent books
Recommended by communities of rooks
Who are more intelligent than crows
(Even brighter are the cows).
Soup and dumplings in a glider
Developing a hamburger that's wider
Than a London omnibus,
The end, he said, to us.
I cradle endless pain in the palm of the weeping child. The street continues, the concrete invitation of spring bird-call. We sit huddled in the nursery... elevenses are late, we suspect the nanny of fornication, but as we are only four years old, we think that means gippy tummy... Walpurgis from the head of the whale, on a special seat in an underwater drive-in cemetary. The boiling pointer, with his red-hot market stall, sell frozen chestnuts to critics of life. The passive hippy squares up his earthquakes in a casserole of flesh and banana wheels. His aunt is a picture of blood drawn on a surgery wall, the doctor walks watery by on his cotton-stick legs. The eroded remaining Madonna points to Bedfordshire from the back of the wooden spoon, like a mascot for an alien or a sterilised hockey-stick. A pocketful of change jingling through the gardenia dimensions, being worms for blackbirds, as the cheque arrives too late and the mountain swats the savage steamer. Sisterella, the pistol packer, the cardbox boarder holed out in five shots...
Real ducks rot on the suburban lounges.
The fish
As it would seem
Wet, though he be,
Is thoroughly fish-like
In his fishiness.
Whereas I'm human
Or so I'm told
By my Mother.
A SLIGHTLY DIFFERENT CHRISTMAS GHOST STORY
Once upon a time, there lived an old wood carver. His name was Josiah Black and all the children loved him, He worked, all day and all night, in his tumbledown Chartist cottage just outside of the village boundary. Although by trade Josiah was a wood carver, he was renowned locally for his wonderful paper aeroplanes, crafted with love and care in his little hovel. The only time Josiah ever stopped work was on Christmas Day, because he was a humble man and old Mrs.Harkness would bring him an enormous goose. In the yard behind his workshop he kept many, many geese, in fact fifteen geese, one for each Christmas going back fifteen years. For Josiah Black the wood carver would never harm his good friends the geese. The village children spent hours talking and laughing with old Josiah as his hands, as if possessed, produced delicate paper Douglas DC5s.
In the little back yard behind the workshop, there stood a rusting pile of microwave ovens like skeletal televisions. It was because of this collection that the village grown-ups threw bricks and masonry at Josiah's bow front window. The microwave ovens belonged to the villagers and didn't really belong in the mouldy yard, but Josiah had an alsatian and the villagers were afraid of alsatians (and plastic herrings, but that's another story).
The most grown-up and violent of the villagers would sometimes demand their ovens back, but Josiah, talking through mike and ancient practice amp, would cry out "Leave me be! Microwave ovens be the work of Him Down There... grr, cooking spuds from the inside out, 'taint bloody natural nor normal!"
"Him Down There" referred to Major Beamish-Croyle, who had lived, since the Bay Of Pigs crisis, in a nuclear fallout shelter under the village green. Many villagers had doubts as to whether two early-thirties Austin Sevens covered in fertiliser sacks would withstand a nuclear blast, but admired his pluck and knowledge of local by-laws: a building without a roof did not require planning permission, both the Austin Sevens were convertibles and the sacks had holes in them.
Old Josiah was looking forward to Christmas and he cleaned and buttered his long jute rope in readiness for Wassailing down the sides of Parson Glonodsidium Carroolooyam's crumbling Victorian vicarage. As he worked, he sang a little song:
Butter! Butter! Butbut butter!
Clean clean clean clean-clean!
And soon I'll be a-wassailing
Like what I do every year 'cause it's tradition, Gawd bless yer!
It was Christmas Eve and all the villagers gathered under the greenwwod tree to sing carols. The village band, led by Gran'pa Tithon, struck up a merry winter's tune and all who gathered, joined in. In a grand procession. the company moved along, stopping in front of each cottage and singing a few merry bars. Little Margaret knocked on each door and, after receiving no answer, all present would hurl abuse at the householders. Only later did they realise that all the householders were in fact in the happy carolling throng.
"Every bloody Christmas oi calls meself a toit-fisted ol' bastard," said Old Jarge, "an' then comes to knowin' that if oi baint at 'ome, oi must be out singin' bloody carols, if yer knows what oi bloody mean!"
The snow fell heavy and thick that night and by first light the trees creaked 'neath the weight. All was silent and still. not even a sparrow would risk the sub-zero wonderland. Plumes of woodsmoke stood, like dirty lorries, frozen upright, from cottage chimneys. In Deerleap House, old Swassesson, in nightshirt, three pairs of ski-mitts and bodywarmer, held mistletoe up to his piranha fish and placed his purple lips to the glass. The village was rising up, children woke up excitedly and cried, "Oh Mummy! I've got a My Little Pony!" and parents replied, "That's your foot, dear!"
As Parson Glonodsidium Caroolooyam opened his velvet curtains, he shrieked in terror... a ghostly figure hung motionless from the vicarage brickwork. Swathed in glistening white, with an insane grin frozen on its face, the foul apparition dangled like an ice-cream. It was Josiah the wood carver, frozen in mid-wassail... and on his back (eurrgh woooo woo!) a Hitachi microwave oven!
SPEAK TO ME OF RUBBER GEESE
Bert and Doric Column, tuck yourself out! Fried nought, Mate! The Daily Sunail, speak to me of rubber geese! Whacko! And up she rises! My accordion! It breathes! Portable soup, Tuxedo Siding, Bleach and Gringo, Matt O'Grosso.
I was standing on the corner of Seventh Avenue. It was raining. It's always raining on Seventh Avenue. When we were young, we were so poor, my sister had a council wendy house.
When hamsters play
And frolic and run,
The raccoon sits by,
Just eating a bun...
Fly to Ireland via Ear Linctus! Zeeno eel lubricant, sublimating cats into yachts, non-secateurs. The burden of reality rests lightly on my gloved shoulders.
"Shift the locusts, Jimmy!" said Doora, "The drarft is atroshas!"
"This summer I plooted some doors, just for a larf, you understand, but I spart dolaps now. Shame, isn't it?"
The pine trees that sway
And the old, disused card,
Are solitary figures
Like sentinels on guard...
The Sunken Foal Club... In these days of modern injection moulding, I would have thought they could have made containers without rectangular holes. But - and I quote from my vast inexperience - I completely grow before valves of huge kelp-like eels, that surge like inexpensive whelks, flying flightlessly in huge flocks, as the moon sinks gently in the west.
This could have been world-renowned, but harmful grades rendered it into sludge before Flaming Trunk Jeffries could weed out the vital question, "Have you ever considered the problems involved, underneath of course, of halving Rumanian polyester?"
And the baby that cries,
Awoken from his sleep
And the old welsh farmer
Is shagging his sheep...
When Mother Nature dies
And the world is at an end,
When brother kills brother
Then I'll be your friend...
Red is the only colour that you could possibly use as an alternative. Preserving fluids are only temporary under halved conditions, unless used in conjunction with the scratched lines. Drererererrrrerreeererrert! Beware of the neologist, drivel safely. Gravity is a form of bondage without whips...
"Look at her! She's snail-bait!"
For this is our life,
Our creed and our colour
And when Art finally dies,
Mankind will be duller
When hamsters play
Then all things are well,
But when their fun stops
Then we'll all go to...
THREE LEGS, IT SEEMS
Three legs, leap in a relaxed leg
Four coats, hanged on a dream
Eleven eclectic hemispheres
Rotate vastly, backwards to the cold stream
Three legs wait, abate the blade
Plastic Cronlin in sight awhile,
Three legs removed to walk near fruit
Three legs tied to ten scratched rulers
Three legs are gone, ghastly greatness
Eleven sacred calves, unique all.
Three legs, split to limp units
Taken in by matriarchal clear vinyl porcupines.
Vaulted, exalted, snorted plastic pie,
A real ideal, Catch?
Crowded legs try desparately to touch
The clothing of the Saint,
Cubes collect cornerless brown recesses, but yes!
Electric Trainset Pump Station Blues
Modal gates await in hushed membranes.
Cry "Shet Meleanah!" down funnelled legs
Throw theorem to the winds,
Dustbin cries, "Outrage!"
Pages removed, by only three legs real
Thrice three legs real, lear three throuse gates
Moan cakes arrive, Festernal... the cream melts!
Jean Harlow, Christopher Marlowe, Chief Inspector Barlow...
We've got you taped, play for real!
Three legs watch, three legs know
We've got you, three legs! Lay plaster!
Graffiti a foot, tape up, lead out!
Bake the Zebra Dalinian Theorem
Giraffti, goading pony for left brains
Black Germany seeks bloated pustules of new rain.
Apache, lest we die.
All levels normal and fly on
Fly paper Pan Am, yam wham bam,
Boomala whipcord yam Pamela am!
Those are his, his is missed by sun,
Sausage detected glass case for future referencial
Word line straight circular oblique gas leak
Word spoke, spoke stuck in wheel, wheel round
Round three legs
Three legs, it seems.
Sharon on the sticks, and Duke De Kayde, extreme in all goats, ALIVE! rides east on a mule of crystal blue gadgets, its face glittering in the dark of the chrome moon's exposed genitalia.
Blitz the Ritz with a queue for coal, strutter of toads! Whip it! No, bounce a toad Muldoon arranged in three, trounce a cake, wire my electrode, Doc!... Mount Ararat was in our garden actually. It cost us four pounds to have it removed by the council. I wish we'd kept it!
Conecane Bent Eleven lept skyward, the old "Mac Lozenge, Bronchial Pneumonia, Coughing Up Pus, Love Serenade Blues" was played again. We smoked LOTHAR cigarettes. Look at that for Consulate exhemence, got blotting paper in my bones and string in Tomatose sauce. Thole Thole Tholarex, bite your lifebolt in the dreg... Sporting columnists again, Navis?
Sam! Sam!
It's not fair!
Who told you
That my bike
Needed mending
Or that you
Could borrow it
On Saturday afternoon
To go see Maggie's
Home movies.
I never did.
The albatross walked on GRANITE WAVES ONE HUNDRED... don't wake the brawl, least mona toly coost... don't these purgative thudding rhythms get to you, Broco Nale? Beat bleen pictures bag, as big green cartons shoot straight through radio loger mutant dryers. Just two touch the wet body of a snail in last Sunday's gravy. The light-sensitive antenna revolved around a central point, eleven Elven lesbians eardance, iridescent globes set alight the KONEL grate-ash in piles. The globe ignited ELECTRIC! Below (an order), the Thirsking Furlit, like light in a coating of cocoa-dots, bone in a turning toilet by the stream, Jelly Dean.
"Jelly Dean, Jelly Deel, look out! Look out! Look out! Look out! There's a super view!" Rococoa table mats squirm, as I scream, "Icenic Naylor Jokes!"
"Eleven Goat," the Raven said, "Old boat was alive!" but reassured the dove. Electric mouldering transcondutional seating arrangement of topless tilebiters. Calloused Scenic of the Thlit, like a lecturer full of meteorites, seeks similar in the London Area...
KEVIN... STOP... YOU CAN NOT MARRY... STOP... THAT SLUT... STOP... RAY ILLINGWORTH... STOP...
Perennial sloth green amoeba sloth, the binoprismatic exude mire-coated, coated creativity... well, that should go down to the sea again, to look at the bile and cride! Got to look at the bile and cride! Got to surf in my tightening clothes, in my lashing McCaw phenomenon, on an ongoing Bite hair tonic Silesian moat.
I suffer from kidney trouble.
It troubles me, this kidney suffering.
Troubled kidneys make me suffer.
I suffer from troubled kidneys.
Kidneys trouble me, sufferingly.
Suffer, kidney, suffer yourself!
Take Palladiums in your arms, rock them to sleep. You feed them apricot custard and they excrete Norman Vaughans... Eleven electric Anti-Christ Madonnas parade bizarre, as seen by four surreptitious cranes - Nice!
Tick-tack ladder rack, hone a bird for real! Matching stains on unread books, still the crate of awaiting Hear-styles, yon thrice wire coating!
In my cardboard truss
I don't make no fuss
And in my Playtex Roll-on
I can really stroll on!
Etna carnivore nympho legette thourly! A gown was approached, teach it to sing "Green Blit!" There's an aquabat in my tumbler of Bolat Garblistmerane, Dak my dactolipter amoebiately Spyle! Lit sinse there's no Palomar giant lavatory like vote Taurus-stit!
Tin that galactic tray, like space in a runny silt surprise. Ethnic lions play the tables until the early hours.
"Waiter! Bring me my chariot of gold, bring me my arrows of desire and a half-bottle of Butane '57... have something for yourself!"
"A barren of mules, bartender and make with the Pyrotechniletin Hose!"
"Expand a theory, Eisenstein and make a bear garden."
"Chalk gonex gaseous expletive!"
Giraffe-necked women sing this song, doodah doodah! Bataloon McGuru, so bolanoid, you have a beauty toy, our hollowers. I've graffled pertiniously for the Impersoonwaitingforabus machine.
Her nimble fingers gently fondled Martin's blue rayon shoes, her tunic burst open, revealing her ample sweatglands, Swwwiiisssshhh! The leathern false comedian swept across her un-naked back. "Ricky!" she cried, "my craving for feathers is in my wardrobe!"
Will you mend my computer when you hear the factory hooter? Can you play hopscotch or would you prefer a game of footer? Balite the Mycoon Trone Modono Key! Help me grope my sole, Bono Woe Ko for the mobility side of Kitterell! Coat bowl lat, the cat sat on the lat!
One hundred watt cuddly child-shaped Toyota Bloop implement, electricity exists, believe me! Thorble the drake exploded meaningful... The Martianess of Ballymurphy fought with her own brainful of adrenalin pumas. Curtains drew back in horror, as the Martianess grew her arms long, as a symbol of chastity. Linda Lightpull & The Bardelling Thrones... Binocano below the thard, don't scratch my match, polish my simple spiter... a charming use for an ulcer when taken with two naval officers and a chocolate official bar. "It's my battle!" said the Genitalia, "Onward sward Gatainia!"
Electric my obsession, confession bleet, cut a lamb! Kilowatt Kate is a meal threen kreek cotex baleetent. KRATCH ABYSMAL FLOWCART!... innocent summer afternoon picnics, looking for Wales in the village pond.
My carpet is not quite complete
Without your sugar-beet.
You can bring me to tears
Every time you crash the gears.
Does this really hurt you
As much as it diesels me?
Ma Cissus is a twenty-foot clean bun... Borrow cone only gate movement. Peach mulatto dwarves, bent like quarter elliptic springs, squash their noses against our module. Phosphorescent mucous patterns form in the chilly Plutonic evening air. We aim the Fobor Destructor Gun at the helpless baby Gorgon, but we haven't the heart to fire at it...
Columbigurg: no nipple exposure (sure to motargon the tuni!). Dirty a Tunisian for a trace of goats, singing in the coloured threshold to darkness, biting down hard on the sting of the Sparf, 'cos a Maynard, in my vain, ballutes a sty mike. In my overtaking boots, Vermeer vengeance is a naked canvas painted on a seaside Khaseat, like a plutonium Albanian. Go float your goat in a Volvo, while I rip your phony-album with a telegraph pole coated in self-adhesive ferrets.
That's yer lot for this week! Thanks to THE USUAL SUSPECTS for the endless pile of source material!
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