All-Seeing

It Goes Without Saying

The debate was getting lively and from inside the mind Mr. Quote was ready to leave his house. He was fully prepared for the flight. He had been training for it all his life. His wife Chatty was waiting for him at the door. As he kissed her good bye,she was talking incessantly while he remained his stoic self. Noticing his nerves, she softly said "Oscar, don't worry. You'll be well received. We all know you're popular. Weren't you named after Oscar Wilde?" The walk from the Mind to the Mouth was a short enough one. However he wanted to take a steady stride and not rush out. So many thoughts and words stream out too soon. This business was all about the timing. He looked upon a nice neighbourhood in the Larynx. Chatty and he had once thought about getting a rent controlled Statement in that area but he wasn't sure about the area. He was quite vocal about the place failing to strike a chord with him. Stopping to freshen up in a recites-room he took a look at his own inflection and felt good. Confident. He was Wildean and people love Oscar Wilde quotes. He was lucky he was born into such a well respected family.  A piece of food, an obvious out-of-frowner, which had been staying in Lodges, (lodged inside a tooth actually) stopped him asking for directions to the Esophagus. Some people in the Mind and Mouth mistreated such foreign substances in their area but nothing bothered Oscar more than facial tensions so he was only too happy to help. "Follow the path you were on and keep to the cleft, past that Orifice building there and you should be fine!" Oscar then found himself staring at the tooth fields he'd have to navigate across. Lucky for him a breath stop was nearby. Waiting for the next strong Breath he amused himself by reading a newspaper, Tonsil Today which was a publication that was floundering after one of the founding partners had been removed. An editorial touched on the subject. It read: While we will of course miss one of our esteemed editors and wish him well in these troubled times all is still speechy keen here at the paper. We needed to collectively clear our throat as it were, and this was felt to have been the path(ogen) of least resistance. Don't reach for any lymphoid tissues as of yet however, the palate cleanser that we have planned in this issue will not only be a mouthful but shall be quite cheeky in places!

It was obvious this was them paying mere Lip-Service to a disgraced colleague. Oscar sneaked a quick peek at his favourite comic strip Jawbone as the 214 Breath arrived. It was lucky for him too as a saliva shower was just starting. The Breath drove next to Timbre fences and vocal tracts could be seen out in the fields. He heard a Lisp behind him remark, "I'd get the breath more often if the frequency of them improved." They reached the tongue and Oscar prepared himself for his flight. If successful, his Quote would soar in the debate and punctuate some fundamental point that could win the day. He'd hang in the air, having made his mark and would eventually seep back into the mind and be back home before his absence was noted by the Mention family down the street. The tongue launched Oscar and some other Phrases into the air but as they were just getting shy of the mouth, the engine and the speaker stuttered. Oscar felt his body being mangled and distorted as only half of his being was uttered. He was mumbled beyond recognition and as he fell from the argument into the seas of obscurity he thought about Chatty and how she should have married her talkative ex-boyfriend Luke-Quacious. Wildean quips couldn't save him now and due to his now misspoken nature he was wit-out hope as he plummeted to his fate. It was then his panic subsided for a moment and his training kicked in. He quickly looked under his phonetic seating and discovered something that would save him. Placing an item on his back he let his body relax like a slurred sentence. He pulled the string on his Para-phrase and it slowed his descent into the forgotten remarks below.

A Wilde Day from the Off or an Off Day from the Wilde

As the mid afternoon Sun took its ascendancy in an otherwise grey sky Oscar Wilde staggered into a tavern. The great writer was looking the worse for wear after having put the "deca" into decadence, with ten straight nights of drunken revelry behind him, he had finally crashed and the hangover which plagued his fertile brain seemed more important right at that moment, than anything particularly earnest.

The pub was sparsely populated, an old man was sleeping, his head near a low hanging lantern and two men were laughing amongst themselves in the corner. Slumping down on the counter Oscar Wilde barked a drink order startling the bartender. This tavern worker was more accustomed to an elegant Wilde requesting a drink with no less than his customary lingual guile. This flat shout would win the great orator no fans. "You feeling alright Mr. Wilde?" the barkeep inquired, a note of quiet worry in his voice. Wilde let out an unintelligible wheeze in reply before burying his head in his palms. "What is wrong?" the barman asked, all social niceties dropping away as his concern mounted. "Today...my good barkeep. I just wish to play the game of silence. I have no insights, no pithy observation, just the black oblivion of closing my eyes to ward off the aches in my head." Just then, two customers that were off in the corner of the bar perked up upon recognising WIlde. The first man loudly posed the question to his compatriot. "It's that fella aint it? The witty writer. Tell him your story Gus" "Ha, yes. I'd love to know what an innalectual like him would say about it." They bounded over to the bowed Wilde with great enthusiasm, Jack giving him a mighty slap on the back as he neared. "Ozcar Wilde aint ya? I know a face when I see it." Wilde raised his head slightly, a disinterested look greeting the pair. "Gentleman..." Jack interrupted. "My friend here Gus, he's got a good story about the local constabulary courting one of them actors dressed as a lady. He stole from the big nosed fella, you know the one in books. Leonardo De Bergerac is it...?"

"Cyrano, " the barkeep corrected, his gaze still downward on a glass he was wiping. "Tell him the story Gus!!" "Gentleman," Wilde cleared his throat. "Let me stop you right there. I do not wish to be made aware of the wandering eye of a Policeman nor the gender confusion he suffered upon his wooing. I do not wish to hear of a crooked Judge absconding with a grey squirrel or whatever fanciful tales you wish me to comment upon. All I crave is the calm of a quiet pub and the ceasing of the the loud music in my brain. This is but a modest request for solitude." The pair were silent for a moment. Gus began, "So you see, this local officer has a flair for the ladies, well most of the time he does. But see with this..."

Wilde let out a groan.

The barman took no notice of the story and directly addressed Oscar. "But the wall my good sir". He motioned to the back wall of the bar which had much writing upon it. "I know, barkeep," Wilde replied his voice a soft rumble. "My witticisms dot that wall and have kept me in much fine ale over the seasons but today will have to pass without a sip from that fount. I am bereft of the muse. She has left me." Jack chimed in. "The muse has gone, left him for someone who a-muses her!" He left out a great chuckle at this, happy with his half stab at a quip. "Put that on you wall." "The wall isn't for quotes adjacent to Oscar Wilde! It's for quotes from the great man!" Gus replied. "Well look at him. He's in no fit state to be wise. So we're going to fill in." "Oh Posterity, how she weeps." said Wilde, his face buried in his hands once again. Gus and Jack began to look around and were mumbling. "Something hum'erus, something funny..."  "Oh! Oh! The wife, the other day was complaining about a candlestick and I says to her, I says, sometimes love you really get on my wick." There was no response from the barkeep or the writer. "Yeah, yeah," Jack continued, "But still you carry a torch for her!" They stood began beaming at their impromptu double act. "This wit stuff is easy," Jack declared. "Somewhere my good gentleman, in some crotty attic, there hang portraits of you getting progressively more irritating."

"Well sorry Ossie," Gus retorted. "We're just trying to liven up an otherwise dull day." They slumped back to their corner seats, deflated at the poor response their antics had garnered.  The barkeep leaned in. "You're going to lose your streak though. You have never darkened the doors of this establishment without spinning some words to wisdom." Wilde spoke up. "Streaks are like...windows...I mean...Comets. Streaks are...Streaks are...arrrgh". The barkeep sighed. "Well I need to put something up there." Wilde was becoming incensed."Put nothing. Put silence." Disheartened, the barkeep looked around for some ink to add something to the quotes wall. Finding only a golden yellowy ink his son had used to colour in a picture of the Sun, he took it to the wall and flatly wrote:   On this, the 15th Day of the Month October, Silence- Oscar Wilde. The barman walked back behind the bar and began busying himself.  WIlde eyed up his handiwork and muttered "Hmm, Silence is golden". There came the faint sound of the cracking of a lantern followed by a loud shriek as the sleeping old man returned to consciousness with the top of his head ablaze! A badly corked champagne bottle behind the barman slipped falling at an angle and began soaking Oscar and the barkeep. The local constabulary, who had a big enough nose himself it must be said, fell in the door of the tavern, his arms around an obviously male person dolled up to pass as a woman. They both fell to the floor. Suddenly a noise came from a less that reputable boudoir upstairs and an entire bedding structure crashed through the roof of the tavern, landing square in the room with a mighty thud. It was a local politician in bed with what seemed like, four pigs. Gus, Jack and the barman all looked at Wilde to note this unusual set of circumstances which had occurred all around them. Wilde just stared with a mouth agape, his hair getting wetter and bubblier from the still spraying champagne. Gus nudged Jack looking to the new bed in the room. "I hate it when our politicians just farm things out like that." Writers note: Obviously this is not the etymology of the famous "Silence is Golden" phrase but I like to think that even when he said nothing at all Oscar Wilde still provided plenty of gold!

Ad verse effects

A friend of mine once told me that "poetry makes him feel ill". Some of the more common conditions like influe-stanza and Janedice or Poe-mentation of the skin are well known but here is a selection of some poetic ailments and injuries that really meter to people.

Tennyson Elbow- 

Byron any further injury, this should sort itself out in no time. Kipling Arthritis- A Rud-Yard stick for every other condition one might face Ben(t) Jonson- It can happen to every man and not in his humerus. Will...em...Shakes Appear?- Carry a medical Bard on your person at all times

Robert Frost-bite - The Road Not Prescribed.

Walt Whiplash- Mobility is the soul of Whit

Plath feet When feet get Hughes and swollen.

Auden-iometry trouble W.H.at are you saying to me??

Severe Back Twain

When life gives you Clemens, make lemonade. 

 Conrad Aching

It's a Pulmonary Symbolism.

The Smoking Pun

Conversation was dead. His body was slumped over his chair when the the lights came back on. Silence was in his element, grinning but despite him enjoying the situation, it wasn't clear if he was the murderer. The last thing anyone remembered before the black out was a heated conversation about a burning issue, that of smoking. Cigar had piped in with his view while Pipe tried to get the last word. He was close but no Cigar. As master of ceremonies Conversation had been trying to be fair to all parties. He kept the language clean since Nico was still a tine-ager but when it came to the issue of Cigarettes all the relevant parties were lacking the proper social filters. "Smoking kills," Theory proclaimed,"And there lies the proof!" "Any idea who the murderer could be?" Query was concerned. She had been asking a lot of questions lately and nobody liked that very much. Theory flailed around the room while pontificating loudly. "What we need to do is find out the final quip before Conversation died. We track down that sense of humour and we find the culprit!" Everyone stayed quiet. The scene had been a mess of people shouting their views and trying to come across as more important than they were by blowing smoke.  "We never should have invited that man Tobacco and his 'Lobbyists' to this get together," Count Finite, the Lord of the Manor sighed, speaking to his trophy girlfriend, a model by the name of Tally Marks. "I believe Tobacco is involved in organised crime!" Tally was all set with her rich paramour but couldn't resist some idle gossip. "Well honey, I've spoken to Tobaccos wife InHayley and she seemed very passive in general, even the fact that she heard second hand about this party tells you something. I'm not so sure she knows what her husband is up to. Total smokescreen." Theory was concerned about his ability to solve this crime. He was just a layman, a working Theory, not a definite Explanation. He had failed those exams, because he could find any references or cite himself. "Everyone had a reason to kill Conversation, the guy never shut up," he wondered aloud. "Slip of the Tongue had tried to slip out earlier but that was just cause she was having an affair and was afraid she'd incriminate herself. Why she ever left Schtum is beyond me but I guess she didn't like being a kept woman." Suddenly the lights went out again and Theory was stabbed. "That's one theory eliminated," came a chilling voice from the darkness. His body dropped to the floor but this time the killer had been less careful. His first smoking pun that had killed the conversation had been said in a mysterious tone. The exact line was "That's just how Mr. Tobacco rolls..." followed by Conversations final gasp. No-one could figure out the identity or even the gender of the voice. But happy with his quip about Theory, the murderer had let a slightly grand accent come through and a tone which was distinctly snooty. As the lights came back up, the whole crowd turned to the same person. It was such a cliche, they were annoyed with themselves that they hadn't thought of it already. Who was always being picked on by Conversation when he was making jokes? Who had, due to his past been led ashtray and had definite loyalties to Tobacco and Smoking in general? It was so obvious, the evidence could match nobody else. The Butt-ler had done it.

Cat-ch 22 - A Poem about Cats and the Internet

  I was thinking about cats, the domestic pet How much space is devoted to these dolls through their odd relationship with the Internet And how they've come to have the prefix, "lol"s

Every Tom, Quick and Furry Every Tab Key leading to a Tabby The whole wide web is in such a hurry We even had a cat known for just being crabby Over them the whole world has flipped Even when kind or when vicious I guess it can be traced back to Ancient Egypt. All the way back to the black cat smugly superstitious. The timeline of the felined The whole kitten and kaboodle From the feral to the sterile kind (Have you ever heard Cat sex? it's brutal) Their retractable claws giving me practical pause and leaving marks on my arms And of their rational cause in stalking distractible jackdaws I could spin you many yarns. I wonder of their nine lives Which one really counts? Purring and scurrying Waiting for the moment to pounce After the climbing of trees, and scaling some fences They'd catch a scent in the breeze Just one of their heightened senses. Landing on their feet however one falls Grooming themselves and their young No wonder they pick up hairballs with a sandpaper like tongue They slink through the night with unique vertebrae Only when they are gone do mice come out to play But the Queens are Glaring at their prey This is the same all over from Housecat to stray. So when I see my thousandth cat picture, I think of songs, cartoons and ancient scripture And it seems no suprise their stance in pop culture Falling for something so adorable is human nature So felis catus would love to be seen as Royal But Dogs should make a big on-line come back Cause the audience would be canine-like , so loyal To challenge this current monopoly of Cat Writers note: I've written plenty of poems about forbidden love. This one is for-kitten love.

Tweeting Action Films With Respect

I don't understand Twitter.  Well I understand how it works and the purpose it serves but I guess I find it hard to utilize it or get too swept up in it.  Thinking about it as a new phenomenon, here are a few classic Action film characters if they had been tweeting about their famous adventures. Die Hard- John McClane  @yippeekiyayroyrogers

You could say I had a pretty "Hans on" weekend. My wife took me back but only after some serious bloodletting on both our parts. #sockittomeplaza Terminator- Sarah Connor @skynetsucks Met a great man but unlike my usual type, the no hopers who have no future, this guy was the only hope from the future. Why are the all the good ones from an alternate timeline?  FML. #judgementdaze The Matrix- Neo @theone55 Stressful few days. Had a lot of trouble with my Agent. Face Off- Sean Archer @wooingdoves I'm glad I have my original face back..but man Castor Troy had some good cheekbones.  Predator- Major Alan Schaefer (Arnie) @notpredator2

Never going back into the jungle again. The mosquitoes are murder. Met an...out of towner. We had words. #wtfwasthatthing?

Kill Bill- The Bride @bridalpower I know, I know. Volume 2 kind of sucked. And Bill was totally wrong about Superman #buddandellesdeathsaresodisappointing Aliens- Ripley @ripleybelieveitornot @alienqueen4realz  @Newt says hi! I hope there's no hard feelings about that whole blasting you into space thing. #INSPACENOONECANHEARYOUTWEET

Batman and the Case of the Circular Haiku!

Thinking about the 1960s Batman series a lot lately, prompted me to consider how often some very surreal threats loomed over the Dynamic Duo. They were to be turned into musical notes or ice cream cones or put through various other outlandish ordeals. So I wondered what would happen if "classic villain" Circular Haiku turned Batman into that most sinister of syllabic sadism?  Will the Maniac of Meter crush the Caped Crusader? Does this (P)rose have the sharpest thorns of all? And will it be Haiku or HIGH NOON for our heroes? Find out in "From the Sonnet to the Slaughter House!" Arkham's gates clattered Batman had to fight his foe Circular Haiku Robin was reading Some dusty Wayne Manor book Message from Dark Knight So Robin read on "Something has occurred old chum Changed into text." "Holy Pulp Poetry! Must find some way to reverse  This nefarious verse!" Batman remembered How in the past he had shown Flair for beat poetry.  Ka-Pow! Zonk! Gins! Berg! Poetry Slam! Zap! Wham! Kero-Whack! Batman freed himself. Back in his body "Haiku you are out of line! Poor deluded poet." Used his punchy prose And Haiku was defeated. "Keep on Reading Kids". Batmobile sped up Haiku was brought to Justice. Arkham's gates clattered...

Noteworthy

The character was in searing pain. Thin skinned and only half formed he lay in a foetal position at the bottom of the writers imagination. He needed fleshing out. The oblivious creator was waiting for his next coffee before he'd continue to muse on the brand new being he was willing into existence.  In his local cafe, notepad and pen at the ready, the writer was also hungry. He walked over to the menu and considered the specials of the day. Half jumbled thoughts of a fractured back-story danced around the characters head. It was agony being barely a form but this was the forge all characters had to pass through on their way to either notoriety or obscurity.  He scrambled around in the dark, trying to find a story hook to hold onto but this must have been the beginning. He was being born before the world he had to fit into had been created. He then found himself on an empty white plain. "Hmmm, Should I have soup, or something a bit more tasty...?" The woman behind the counter stood ready but the writer was proving frustratingly slow with his order. Linda, a girl the creator fancied sidled up to him at the counter. "Hey, how is your day going?" The writer smiled, looking down, losing his train of creative thought. The character could see his creator and this woman talk but it was as if they were on the other side of a tunnel, the picture of them getting further and further away... Running one hand down his body he could feel his underdeveloped aspects. His guts were spilling, literally, "out of character". Where were his motivations? His distinguishing features? He kept thinking this was the cruelest way to be. The long wait towards narrative... It was then, he felt a hand grip his own. Looking up through blinkered, squinting eyes, he saw a half familiar face. It looked like the woman his creator had been speaking to, but slightly different. Somehow the figure was more beautiful, like an idealized painting, an unrealistic impression of that person. Linda sat with the writer and they made awkward small talk. He pushed the pen and pad across the table a bit, wanting to give his companion his full attention. The beautiful figure pulled the unfinished character up on to his still unsteady feet. He felt like a deformed creature unsure of what to do in the face of such conventional beauty. He looked away sullenly. The figure put her hands to his face and said in a comforting tone. "I'm the Muse based on that Linda creature out there. I'm here to help you in this strange new world." The character allowed himself a smile as he stared into his rescuers eyes. "Where did you come from?" he asked, his voice feeble, undefined. "From the margin," the Muse explained. "My...I mean her name..was written there and from that I grew. I guess coming from the template of a person has given me a far more solid form than you as an original creation." She beamed a nice benevolent smile at him . She leaned in for a kiss "This is just the beginnin..." Suddenly the two characters found themselves submerged under water. They couldn't breathe and began to thrash around. The Muse frantically looked around trying to find a dry scrap of paper to cling to. 

"Shit!I'm so sorry!" Linda said as she was trying to dry the piece of paper. She had spilled her bottle of water all over it. "I've ruined your work!" "Don't worry about it," the writer said. "It was nothing really, just some random thoughts and notes. Actually my phone battery has died but here...if I could take your number..."

A strange black object with an ink stained nib began to scribble something near the bottom of the page. Cradling the barely formed character, the Muse tried reaching out for what had been written. It seemed to be a collection of numbers but the "0" or the "8" would have been the ideal life preservers for the drowning couple.  "Urgh..." Her hand pushed closer and closer until she could feel the tip of the ink. It was just out of reach. No matter how hard she tried she couldn't close the distance.  Reality itself seemed to fold over as the top of their world began to crumple up. A drop became a wave and bombarded them. The character and the Muse looked back to where their possible salvation had been. The island of numbers was gone. It had been torn away.

Chilly

The smile in the dark Of the potential dangers the safe shores framed by your beacon glow the sun gilded sheen And your rhythm  chimed like the heartbeat of stones along that country walk The blue of the sky softening to something chilly above us . Some narratives I would never cling to, ghost stories in the teeth of fiction The touch of a hand in that false night grants an audience to such things. Shoo away the onset of heavy dusk til the song of morning sounds.

A Salute to the King of the Tribes

When the spirit had form

the time the muse danced

it traced its steps

using the faint light in the storytellers eyes

they thrived in a furnace

where the kindred slept

embers giving rise to the warmth of song

the blanketing of a voice

the stars flung so far into the eternal ink

One could weakly grasp  and clutch only the trail

of a moment

the passing laugh, the hushed hello

the stillness of the quiet beat after the performance

this peace should only be disturbed

with the diviner of memory

the precious pause of the last few years

The King is ageless

his spectre pure in its remembrance

the King lives on in the shadowy brethren

the King illuminates and is in turn illuminated

by the ever lasting song

the gathering of the like minded

the tidal pull of the inevitable encore

A salute then for the man, the King

his endless energy, hemmed in by no earthly shore