Separated At Birth.

MyHeritage: Family trees - Genealogy - Celebrities - Collage - Morph

11:44 AM - 4 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

The Old Man And The Seethe.

The Old Man And The Seethe

I'm a, 'man of the world'; i've seen a lot of things to uplift, inspire and terrify me in my forty seven years. Sadly, this morning I saw something that left me depleted. I'm still in a mild state of shock.

I was driving through a small village, with it's tight busy roads, when the traffic slowed down to allow a bread van to make a delivery to the Co-op supermarket. The car in front of me had three people in it. As we waited I noticed the driver twist round in his seat and visibly scream at the person in the back seat. He was seething over something, obviously. He then grabbed the person and lashed out at him. The person didn't retaliate, he was totally overpowered by the driver. It was a horrible sight, made more so by the realisation that the victim was an old man. A frail looking old man in old man clothes. I felt sickened by what I'd witnessed.

The traffic freed up and we drove on. The car in front took the road to the left, I carried on going straight ahead. I was shaking; with anger and a feeling of hopelessness. I just hope the driver doesn't have a wife and kids, I thought.

I don't know the circumstances as to why he was hitting the old man, I don't need to know. Maybe the old man was a nasty piece of work, that's irrelevant. Nobody 'deserves' to be assaulted like that, regardless.

Not even the seething bully? That's a tough one. I've always said that if I had kids and anyone laid a finger on them, i'd willingly swing as punishment for the revenge i'd mete out on the abuser. Would that make me as bad as the bully? Probably. It would be an act of supreme ego, don't you think.

Who am I kidding, I couldn't harm a fly, but I truly wanted to drag that driver out of his car and stamp on his face this morning. Not that it would have solved anything.

There's a traditional Buddhist meditation called the Metta Bhavana. It has five stages. The fourth stage requires focussing on a 'difficult' person, an 'enemy'. It's the hardest stage to truly put into practice. You know the words, but can you do it? I've practised this meditation for the best part of fifteen years now; but as I get older the distinction between truly understanding why a person is the way they are, and simple 'stiff upper lip' tolerance gets increasingly hazy. You can be lulled into suppressing your true emotions under the guise of 'understanding'. That's not healthy. Nothing remotely wise about that.

I'm as confused about people as I ever have been. Why should I try and understand a bully, what is there to understand? A bully is a bully, even if they were bullied themselves.

I can partially console myself in the knowledge that an abuser is a pathetic, impotent creature, lacking the confidence (for whatever reason) to be themselves. 'Power' is only a means to more 'power'; 'control', only a means to a lack of it. 

I still entertain the 'hate fanstasy' of mashing the driver's head beneath my boot, even though I know I don't need to; but to be totally honest, I enjoy it.

Anyway, I'm confident he'll 'cop it' one day.

9:27 PM - 7 Comments - 12 Kudos - Add Comment

’the empty centre consolidated’ I,II,III,IV

'the empty centre consolidated' I,II,III,IV,

The following is something I was playing around with in 1991, just running images into each other to create some absurdity and maybe get to the truth of.... something. The idea was not to think too much, just let the bubbles rise and pop. There's a story in there somewhere, i'm convinced. The lack of punctuation is deliberate, but there's space to breathe if you wish to do so.
My original intention was to 'fly-post' the 'empty centre consolidated' series in various locations around town, posting over the previous one with the next addition.









Copyright. Burroughs. 1991.

3:38 AM - 2 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

Totally Wi-yaaad

TOTALLY WI-YAAAD

Victoria - 'What time tomorrow?'

Urgu Brosh - 'Er, about twelve I suppose'

Victoria - 'Ok, see you then'.

I never got to see Victoria. She'd planned lunch for us, and I was to meet her boyfriend. I'd met him briefly once before, but didn't really get to know him properly, he seemed like a nice chap though, very communicative.

No, because about half an hour after putting the phone down whilst preparing my stir-fry, I began to become aware of a heaviness in my stomach. I was hungry, but didn't fancy eating. Even the sight of a Quorn chunk began to rotovate my innards. I ate most of the stir-fry with resistance. Then it happened. Without warning I found myself bolting upstairs to the sanctuary of the porcelain where I evacuated profusely from mouth and anus (at the same time). I won't go into too much detail, but I am convinced I lost a couple of pieces of vital viscera in the process.

But this isn't a moan or a cry for sympathy - though i've done enough of that this week - it's about a vivid hallucination incurred as I lay in my sopping wet fever bed that night, unable to lie in a comfortable position to enable even a glimpse of sleep.

My eyes felt gritty, I was begging for respite from this intestinal purgatory. The room was dark and I was seeing squirming flecks on the wall, like psychedelic maggots in a fisherman's bait tub. I remember thinking they would make a nice pattern for a tailored sports coat. I was entering into game existence.

Most people these days have mobile phones, for better or worse. Imagine if all mobile phones had to be plugged into a socket in your home, but had an infinite length of cable inside them, enabling you to go anywhere you desire, but still connected to your wall socket.

I then saw myself climb into my car - phone cable trailing out of the window - and drive to Birmingham International Airport. I was going on holiday to Prague. As I drove, the cable simply kept feeding out, all along the Birmingham New Road and through central Birmingham. On arrival at the airport, I checked in and boarded the plane, with my mobile phone of course. We took off, and few hours later landed in Prague. My mobile phone cable was stretched from the Black Country to Prague. I did all the things you do on holiday; sightseeing, art galleries and restaurants, all with the phone cable snaking it's obedient trail behind me.

Naturally, I wasn't the only person with such a device. As I said, everyone's got a mobile these days, and everyone had a mobile with an infinite cable in my hallucinatory state. Imagine millions of people flying from continent to continent, driving from city to city, travelling on trains and buses, walking around town, doing their shopping in supermarkets, all with their infinite cable trailing behind them in every city in every country in the world. Well, that's what I saw.

I saw thieves tracing people's cables back to their homes and pilfering their possessions. I saw cars driving over and through cables where people had crossed roads. I saw vandals with shears hack away indiscriminately at the mess before them. I saw cyclists garrotted and people walking down the street tentatively stepping over and between cables like marines negotiating camouflaged netting on an assault course. People were cursing and swiping the wires, some were sobbing in frustration. Life had never been so trying.

The whole world was a tangled cacophony of cables. When viewed from space, earth looked like a smooth ball dilligently constructed out of elastic bands by some bored office clerk.

By morning I was feeling much better, if somewhat drained.

Copyright. Burroughs. 2007.

3:19 AM - 5 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment

The Origins Of The League Of Dumb Hats

..> ..>

The Origins of The League Of Dumb Hats

This is an unusual post for me, it's not a Surrealist game or a short story, it's something I was thinking about last night. It's about aspiration, inspiration and devotion. Gandhi, Martin Luther King, the Dalai Lama, Nelson Mandela, Emmeline Pankhurst, people who fearlessly donned Midas' crown and fought back the tide of social injustice with passion and dignity. All very admirable, and I take my hat off to them, but would Jimmy Woodhall? My curriculum vitae is a ragged read, but some twenty odd years ago I used to work in a warehouse, not because I liked it of course, but because I was - and still am - addicted to music, the warehouse financed my heavy habit. Back then it was strictly vinyl, and I took regular days off 'sick' to snap up the latest release by The Ruts or The Clash. 'Go on sack me, and i'll tell you exactly what Joe Strummer would say', was my attitude (still is). But this is an aside. Jimmy Woodhall also worked at the warehouse. He was well past retirement age, but he was from that generation who simply couldn't stop, for stopping really did mean stopping. Jimmy Woodhall always wore a flat cap.... always. The cap was usually lightly perched on his balding head (well, I guessed it was balding since i'd never seen it unveiled) like a prize tumbler. It was his identity, he was 'Jimmy with the cap'. 'Oh, ask Jimmy with the cap', people would say. One morning an office worker came round asking who wanted to go to the Christmas party. Naturally I recoiled at the offer, i'd never experienced such an outrageous demand on my time. But eventually I was persuaded to attend by a fellow worker, who was also a vinyl devotee. I was dreading it but i'd be ok with John, we could talk about music all night. On arrival at the local country club, I was further outraged to find we'd already been allocated places at tables, so I found myself sitting away from John, and alongside people who i'd only ever scorned, along with another person I really didn't recognise. It was only when the mystery man spoke did I realise it was Jimmy 'with the hat' Woodhall, who wasn't wearing his flat cap. Frankly I was shocked. Not just because he was hatless (in Gaza), but because he had a very distinct ridge around his head formed by years of continual hat erosion. I couldn't take my eyes off him. His hat fitted perfectly in the well worn rut. I was aware of the 'Modern Primitive' movement, people who modified their bodies as an act of supreme ego or exorcism, I could never decide. One famous modern primitive was/is Fakir Musafar, who put himself through all manner of ordeals in search of new highs. One of his explorations was constriction. He managed to shrink his waist to 19'', and wore tightly laced corsets and strangulating metal bands around his limbs; not to mention sticking hooks through his chest and hanging himself out in the sun as a re-enactment of the native American Indian, O- Kee- Pa ceremony. Was Jimmy Woodhall a modern primitive in the process of modifying the shape of his head? Well, the Mayans did it, why not ageing Black Countrymen. I decided he wasn't a modern primitive, just a quiet old man who continued the tradition of wearing flat caps, albeit to extremes. Standing at the bus stop one night on my way to see The Radiators From Space in Wolverhampton, (Irish New Wave hopefuls incidentally) I told my friend about Jimmy Woodhall's head. We both agreed it was a phenomenal act of dedication, and something to be uplifted by. Before the bus arrived we'd formed The League Of Dumb Hats. We both vowed there and then to always wear a hat from that day forth. I started wearing a green U.S Marine cap given to me by another friend who'd been to America and had stayed with a family in California. The husband had served in Vietnam, and gave my friend the cap which had seen active duty in the chemical heat of that war. I wore it with a sense of heightened cultural significance. My fellow Dumb Hatter wore a floppy peaked denim cap, made by his mother. It was in the style of Casey Jones and was a couple of sizes too small for his big haired skull. It really did look dumb. My friend ceased to wear a hat, but I never have. If you called on me at any given moment, you'd see me in my Harris Tweed flat cap. If i'm not wearing it, then it won't be far away, maybe resting on the arm of a chair for example. As I write this, i'm wearing my cap. Whether I will ever reshape my head I don't know- that's not the point anyway- but I do know my head already has a distinct shape. Was it shaped by a hat or was I born with it, i'm not sure. I'd like to be buried with my flat cap, and i'd definitely like to lie in an open coffin wearing it, symbolising my intent beyond life and death. I wear my flat cap in honour of Jimmy 'with the hat' Woodhall (RIP), a true inspiration, and embodiment of unswerving resistence to everything lacking standards. May your halo be tweed.

11:31 PM - 6 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

'Leapers'

Leapers

1:08 AM - 12 Comments - 12 Kudos - Add Comment

'Asses In The Forest Humus'

ASSES IN THE FOREST HUMUS

Pushing light, the length of a dream. It's trees over temples for us this archaic afternoon. Dappled like pards we coil in the forest humus. My 'C' and me, high on ambient CO2, locked in colour. All shades bleed into green. Homage to the fearless guardian of the north. Saltlick bliss, the higher taste of rapture. We're not scared of anything or anyone. We know where everywhere is.

In the glade, thief, fox, wood ant. Pan with a hard on jerks with fury. He sprays an ancient oak with pure nature. Call it sap, reckless impregnation, deathless gestation. He's seen it all before a trillion times, but this is the first today. Black death, airships, cracked church bells, World War One, World War Two, 13th century martyrs, Christ nailed, and then exile. From kingdom to species, people don't touch enough. Here in the English Reserve ugly lives smoulder never to burn. How sad. Truth is, in the undergrowth Christ is no one in particular. Tear off the Jesus Animal Mask, a man's got to do what the blood demands. Open up, wear the serpent like a glove, spit deep and prosper.

A proud mare tramples us, her touch is gentle and expert. She is snow blindness sprinkled. Adam chases gasping, the horse mocks his puniness ( I can hear her ). Unclean and ancient, bolt on, bolt on, kick your heels and break. Through the market place, through urban subways, unshod, unfettered, only the living can see you. Light the sky with flying sparks, stand apart.

For the first time in a century we rise. 'After you', I gesture to 'C'. 'No, gentlemen first', she insists as we head towards the mouth of the animal hole. I grab 'C's hand and begin to run. She squeals and roars as we baptise ourselves in Jerusalem's soil. We leave no tracks. It's raven black but we have never seen clearer. The tunnel walls are smoothed to obsessive perfection by generations of cautious tenants. Tributaries spurt off the main channel tempting further adventure. We rush into a side chamber. A pyramid of bones confonts us. Femur, ulna, tibia, skull. A cave of ancestors ? We retreat and sprint down, down, down, the freshness whips our faces. The deeper we go, the purer the air. All ailments fall away. 'C' is guiltless, and i'm breathing mountains through my nose. All memories of squats and squalor erased, all animation restored. 'C' is laughing helplessly, unselfconsciously, her joy ricochets around the world.

We hit the light running, emerging to affirming heat in a green, gold and fiercely fertile meadow. We feed the sun our defenceless naked bodies. Creeping stems bind our feet, leaving freshly squeezed pigment between our toes.

'C' applauds vigorously. The sound of fracture cuts the leaden air, a salvo to the unseen. A thousand rooks scramble, startled and whingeing.

'There is nothing cold about today', I whisper to 'C'.

She laughs like there was no yesterday.

Copyright.Burroughs.2006.

6:13 PM - 3 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

' Nark Stomping '

NARK STOMPING

PURITANIA is in the grip of Nark stomping frenzy. The Nark ( narccus mythos ) is a loathed mammal that dwells beneath the paving stones of urban Puritania. Every seventeen years between the months of April and June, a new generation of Nark's are born blind, smooth and defiant. Squeezing between cracks in paving stones, the juveniles rise to sniff out their staple food, human sweat. One lick of human sweat feeds a Nark for a lifetime. For the unfortunate human host, one lick off a rasp tongued Nark subjects them to insatiable sexual torment till their last breath is spent.

For centuries Puritanian citizens, from rosy cheeked children to addled geriatrics, have tied up their trouser legs and donned their newly polished stomping boots to wage war on the anarchic sniper. In every Puritanian street people can be seen stomping vigorously on pavements day and night, their limbs seemingly controlled by some berserk puppeteer. To an outsider ( of which there were none at last count ) this appears to be for no discernible reason.

From every Puritanian home, the flag of St. Maimus flutters with national righteousness. The Puritanian anthem, ' Puritania My Heart Ist Zine ', booms from strategically placed sound systems at unsyncopated intervals to create an indistinguishable, ceaseless cacophony of pompous brass.

2006 promises a particularly fierce stomp. State scientists have revealed that a new robust strain of Nark has slid upon the shiny shores of Puritania in an act of beastial solidarity for it's poor one ounce cousin. People are naturally hysterical.

President Stark  has urged his petrified subjects to, ' stomp in excess ', because, ' if you're not stomping, you're a Nark '. Rumour is also rife that a militant group calling themselves the Narkoleptix, have bred a super Nark and are planning to release the fiend into the city's damp cellars. No home is safe.

A point of interest. In over five hundred years of Nark stomping, no one has ever seen, let alone been licked by a Nark.

Copyright. Burroughs. 2006.

4:08 PM - 5 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment

'The Stump'

THE STUMP

Scene.  A stump, dead centre of an endless, featurless cement desert. In a flawless blue sky the sun pummels the earth with relentless intensity. In the shadow of the stump sits a naked Man. For two days he's sat in the shade of the stump,edging clockwise with each rotation of the sun. On the third day at approximately 11-14 am, the Man spies a suitcase no more than thirty yards away from him.

MAN - ( out loud to no one )  A suitcase !

The Man briefly holds  out a hand to test the heat of the sun. He quickly withdraws the hand. Curiosity has bitten however, and he must look inside the suitcase. Tentatively the Man hops to the suitcase, emitting 'eeks' and 'ouches' along the way as the hot surface stings his bare feet. He unclasps the suitcase and eagerly opens it up. Inside is a ventriloquists dummy.

Back in the sanctuary of the shady stump, the Man begins to operate the dummy, which he instantly names Archie.

MAN - What brings you to this outpost of hell young Archie ?

ARCHIE - You willed me here.

MAN - Me ? Shoorly shome mishtake ( the Man laughs at his own joke. They're always the best )

ARCHIE - I'm the joker, you're the straight man.

MAN - Sorry

ARCHIE - Why do you sit here day in day out ?

MAN - I'm trapped

ARCHIE - By what ?

MAN - The sun

ARCHIE - How long do you intend to sit on your blistered arse ?

MAN - Till the sun dies, never to rise again

ARCHIE - You're full of gas

MAN - I'm riddled with molten pain

ARCHIE - Tonight I will take you to the edge of the world

As the sun drowns in the evening sky, Archie rouses the Man from his sleep with a single slap across the face.

ARCHIE - Let's go to the edge of the world. 

The Man leaps to his feet obeying Archie without question.

ARCHIE - First, promise me you will keep your eyes tightly shut till I tell you to open them.

MAN - I promise

 After a brief walk Archie lays an arm across the Man's chest and orders him to lie face down.

ARCHIE - Open your eyes, look down

The Man opens his eyes to sunlight. He's peering over the lip of a flat disc placed on a stone column. Below him a green pipe hisses and winds its way across a manicured lawn. Next to it lies a pair of garden shears. The sound of children squealing excitedly fills the air. Swallows dart and dive for insects. The Man shuts his eyes and begins to laugh uncontrollably at his years of self imposed stupidity. The Man has conquered the sun.

Copyright. Burroughs. 2006.

6:26 PM - 4 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment

Clak - Sping ( Dedicated To The Comedy Critics )

CLAK - SPING

6:56 PM - 2 Comments - 1 Kudos - Add Comment

'The Urinal'

 'THE URINAL'

The Scene. Two men are standing at a urinal. One is the 'Boss', the other a laconic, insectiform  'Office Boy'.

BOSS - I had to be firm with you this morning. We can't have people  wasting company time when they should be working. Nothing personal you understand.

The Office Boy turns and looks at the Boss but says nothing. The Boss' flow of piss is abruptly cut off.

BOSS - (  concentrating hard to restart the golden flow ) You're an odd one. Are you nervous of me because i'm your boss ?

Long Pause.

OFFICE BOY - ( slowly, deliberately ) You're not my boss.

BOSS - I'm your boss when you're here.

OFFICE BOY - Not here, not anywhere.

BOSS - We all have bosses.

OFFICE BOY - I don't.

BOSS - You need to face facts son.

OFFICE BOY - You're scared of me. I'm not scared of you.

BOSS - ( puzzled ) What !

OFFICE BOY - I see a new born child before me. Shitting itself and wailing for it's mother's breast.

The Boss is silenced.

OFFICE BOY - I see you in the playground as a ten year old being beaten by some ugly coal merchant's son.

BOSS - Ok, stop this nonsense.

OFFICE BOY - I see you waiting at home for your wife to return. You know she's with that vulgar sales rep.

BOSS - ( punches the hand dryer, hot air roars out. There's a patch of piss on his trousers ) Look son, i'll let this little incident pass...

OFFICE BOY - (  interrupting ) Why ?

BOSS - I could sack you you know.

OFFICE BOY - Your face is red and bloated. You need exercise.

BOSS - Right you little shit, fuck off, you no longer work here.

OFFICE BOY -  ( smiling benevolently ) I will leave, but i'll always be with you. I love you. And when no one else leaves flowers on your grave, I will.

The OFFICE BOY  calmly walks out of the toilets, leaving the BOSS standing frozen, palms held heavenwards. The dryer has stopped.

Copyright. Burroughs. 2006.

8:31 PM - 2 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

Straight Down The Pipe.

STRAIGHT DOWN THE PIPE

I'm a big boxing fan, so when I heard that one of my favourite TV personalities, child castrato and 'Songs Of Praise' presenter, Aled Jones, was a keen boxer, I arranged to meet the personable Welshman at his local gym.

BURROUGHS - Hello Aled. I never knew you were a boxer.

ALED - Oh yes. Every week after recording 'Songs Of Praise' I pop along to the gym for twelve rounds with Stephen Gateley.

BURROUGHS - Stephen Gateley !!!! Boyzone !!!???

ALED - Aye. Hard as fuck is old Gayboy.

BURROUGHS - God !...

ALED - And he's not gay by the way. He only said that to get the part of 'Joseph' in the West End.

BURROUGHS - But how did that....

ALED - ( interrupting ). So you want some boxing tips Burroughs. ( Aled lands a playful but irritating slap across my face ).

BURROUGHS - Er, yeah.

ALED - Ok, first things first. This is boxing, not synchronised fuckin' swimming, and you're going to get hit.

BURROUGHS - Right.

ALED - So keep yer fuckin' hands up. Parry, shield, roll the shoulders, slip and weave, get me ?

BURROUGHS - Think so.

ALED - Next, footwork. ( Aled begins to bob around in front of me ). You need to be light on the feet when attacking, defending or counter attacking. And to get the fuck out of the way when you need to. Ok.

BURROUGHS - Yep.

ALED - And come out swinging. Jab and cross punch. Make them quick, straight and with some weight behind them. Ok.

BURROUGHS - Er...

( Aled slaps my cheek again. I feel mildly violent ).

ALED - Keep your chin down Burroughs or you're a fuckin' goner. Teeth slightly clenched. Elbows close to the body, like this, see.

BURROUGHS - Got ya.

( Once more Aled catches me off guard and lands a sharp blow to my ribs. I feel slightly winded actually ).

BURROUGHS - Ok, thanks Aled. I think i'll go now.

ALED - Oh, one other thing ( winking ). The birds love boxers. Bollocks to firemen, it's boxers they want. Makes them feel all protected. It's the battle scars mate. I have a different chick every night me. Mind you, some weird fuckers out there. One bird wanted me to sing 'Walking In The Air' as she sucked my cock. I mean, I sang it like ...

BURROUGHS - Right, i'm definitely going now.

As I turned my back and walked away, a rasping sound echoed around the cavernous gym, followed by Aled's hysterical laughter. He'd broken wind.

Copyright. Burroughs. 2006.

4:56 AM - 3 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

Blasting Thoughts - Patience Strong Meets The Vorticists.

BLASTING THOUGHTS - PATIENCE STRONG MEETS THE VORTICISTS.

The following is an unlikely marriage between greetings card guru Patience Strong, and those terse, boot boy maulers, the Vorticists. Who has the stiffest right arm ?

THE BLASTING OF NATIONS

Why should we be troubled by universal fears ? Mercenaries were always the best troops. We have our own dear Island that for a thousand years has stood, a strength to others, the Mother of the free : Our Cause is NO - MAN'S. We only want humour if it has fought like Tragedy.

Let us then recover the loyalties we lost, repeating and reclaiming, we discharge ourselves on both sides, their trust, their friendship before it is too late. Beyond Action and Reaction we would establish ourselves, recapturing the spirit that made this country great.

'' And God said, a blasting of nations shall be of thee ''. Genesis 35.11.

YOU'LL GET BLASTED

You'll get by believing the One who walks with you. The promise God has given. We are primitive Mercenaries in the Modern World, the Word forever true, set up violent structure of adolescent clearness between two extremes, that He will help and heal you though tested you may be, steel trees where the green were lacking, shaped upon the anvil of life's adversity.

You'll get by believing, paltry mechanism which serves as a purge to over - numerous humanity, for it is faith alone that moves the highest mountain and splits the hardest stone...It is the Vortex of will, of decision that begins. However fate may try you, doubt not, nor question why. In the individual it kills arrogance, self esteem, pride, though much massed against you. Set Humour at Humour's throat. Stir up Civil War among peaceful apes. Have courage. You'll get by. And bring to the surface a laugh like a bomb.

IN BLASTED HEART

Deep in your heart, the knowledge is there. The TOY of circumstance, the plastic substance. You know what is right. The Vorticist relies on this alone. You know what is fair, it represents, in mechanics, the greatest efficiency. The compass within does not lead astray. Every emotion presents itself to the vivid consciousness in some primary form. You know what is good and you know the way.

You follow the craze of the latest trend. All experience rushes into this Vortex. You think you're a wise one but in the end, all the energised past, all the past that is living and worthy to live, you find you are in a cul -de- sac. Life at last will drag you back, to the rules that you were taught when small. Hedonism is a vacant place. Deep in your heart, you know it all. Futurism is the disgorging spray of a Vortex.

Copyright. Burroughs. 2006.

9:35 AM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

Hilaire Belloc's Last Words.

HILAIRE BELLOC'S LAST WORDS

The following is a Surrealist game i've invented titled, 'Hilaire Belloc's Last Words'. The first line always starts with 'If'. The second with 'The'. The third line is an open line designed to seal the random deal.

The 'If's' were plucked from various popular sources. The 'The's', from Goethe's, 'Faust'. The last lines from Hilaire Belloc's, 'Cautionary Tales'. Chance was the great dictator.

1 - If a picture paints a thousand words,

The overplus of wealth, in torpor bound.

Could spout the Catechism thoroughly.

2 - If I can't have you,

The unerring archer and the stricken prey,

Should turn Tupto - philist.

3 - If you want my body and you think i'm sexy,

The flower embroidered carpets !

Confirmed in her instinctive guess.

4 - If I ruled the world,

The Spirits, forced from the level land to sever,

The Budget and the House of Lords.

5 - If I were a rich man,

The fortune of this hour embitter !

A Brand - new Car with Brand - new Tyres.

6 - If six was nine,

The purest bliss was then thy dower,

And bits of Canada as well.

7 - If you want my love,

The near horizon dims and darkles,

Into a prickly hedge of thorns.

8 - If I should fall from grace,

Then highest, lowest forms my soul shall borrow,

And made the man a perfect pest.

9 - If not for you,

The mighty man, the pedagogue, who's place,

'You have a swelling in the head'.

10 - If I could turn back time,

The essence of my passion's courses -

He dug his spurs into it's hide.

Copyright. Burroughs. 2006.

11:28 AM - 0 Comments - 1 Kudos - Add Comment

The Pussycat Dolls on Guerilla Warfare

THE PUSSYCAT DOLLS ON GUERILLA WARFARE

I recently entered a competition in 'Angling Times', to meet the Pussycat Dolls backstage at Birmingham's NIA. Remarkably I won. Here's what we nattered about when we met.

Nervously I knocked on the girls' dressing room door. I entered their perfumed pit, a cosmetic cave of feminine finesse greeted me.

BURROUGHS - Hello.

NICOLE - Don't you wish your girlfriend was hot like me ?

BURROUGHS - ( ha ha ), Well, yes I do actually.

CARMIT - Don't you wish your girlfriend was a freak like me ?

BURROUGHS - I did actually go out with a freak once, she had three buttocks.

  Silence.

BURROUGHS - So, ...

JESSICA - Shut it Burroughs, we know what you want.

KIMBERLEY - Yeah, let's talk guerilla warfare.

BURROUGHS - Ok.

MELODY - In guerilla warfare select the tactics of seeming to come from the east and attacking from the west ; avoid the solid, attack the hollow ; attack ; withdraw ; deliver a lightning blow, seek a lightning decision.

NICOLE - And remember, without a political goal guerilla warfare must fail, as it must if it's political objectives do not coincide with the aspirations of it's people, and their sympathy, co-operation and assistance cannot be gained. ( the next sentence was sung in close harmony by all the girls ). The essence of guerilla warfare is thus political in character.

BURROUGHS - That was lovely.

ASHLEY - ( ignoring my fawning ). On the other hand, in a war of counter-revolutionary nature, there is no place for guerilla hostilities. Because guerilla warfare basically derives from the masses and is supported by them, it can neither exist nor flourish if it separates itself from their sympathies and co-operation.

BURROUGHS - Right, interesting, i'll remember that. So, are you doing 'Beep' tonight ?

NICOLE -  Were you looking up my skirt then ?

BURROUGHS - Yes, yes I was.

Copyright .Burroughs. 2006.

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