Monthly Archives: November 2016

A Stream-of-Consciousness Has Broken it’s Banks (aka The Poetry Thief)

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The Poetry Thief

The Poetry Thief
Is beyond belief
And in a moment brief
He can pick the line from out of your poem
And will be wandering lonely as a gno-em.

Before your love is like a red-red anything
He can be stoppething one of three
And he may even set a cat alight
To see his tigger burning bright
(Nasty man!)
But, his words so recently belonging
To others
Are now his for the wronging.

April is the cruelest month
And someone wrote this wonth
But he now writes that April is
As April does and is better than July because
That’s they way the Poetry Thief works
By challenging the other poetical berks
To explain their lines
Their fantastical twerks
And regurgitating them as his
Not in parody
But in a cage
As of Michael Farraday
Who, as anyone knows, is faraway
The best poet that never wrote
A poetical note to his milkman
Stan, which goes to show
That a stream of consciousnessness
Is okay if you don’t paddle too deeply into it
For the banks may become steeply
And you may drown
And head headfirst down
To its bottom
Where you shall lie
All misbegotten
And distinctly forgotten –
And your final thought:

“Isn’t life rotten
to the core;
I wanted for less
And received
Nothing more.”

Nothing of Something

Question: Is a dolphin a mammal?

Answer: Yes, a dolphin is a mammal.
Answer Subtext: It is definitely not a camel – because a camel is.

Response: Thank you.

Result: I am now wiser and non-plussed in equal measures.

Aftermath: I went and bought some figs that were past their sell-by-date – figures!

Will & Ben (Renaissance Men) #6 – When is a…

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Will: Ben! When is a sheep ‘not’ a sheep?

Ben: I don’t know, Will. Is this one of your silly puns?

Will: Not at all, Ben.

Ben: Okay. So ‘when’ is a sheep ‘not’ a sheep?

Will: When it is a wake.

Ben: Oh, I see- hold on… that doesn’t make any sense at all.

Will: Really, Ben; you think not?

Ben: Well, Will, if you had said when is a sheep not ‘asleep’ it would make perfect sense to say that it was so when the sheep was ‘awake’. It wouldn’t have been funny; but, it would have been accurate. As it is, it is about as funny as most of your usual jokes – which means it is ‘not’ funny.

Will: But, ‘that’ is the point, noble kinsman. It has made you think long and hard about the question.

Ben: Time that I shall never see again, Will.

Will: But time spent mulling over the big questions is time… well, spent.

Ben: Will?

Will: Yes, my most notable colleague?

Ben: When is a poet not a poet?

Will: Ah, touché, mon liegeman. I durst not know the answer to this poser and cannot beat this conundrum of yours.

Ben: A poet is not a poet when he does not know it.

Will: Sorry?

I Saw a quack today, oh boy.

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I saw a quack today…

How so?

Well, I was by the pond. And as it was so cold you could see your breath as you breathed. Then a duck quacked.

How can you say that you saw the ‘quack?’

I didn’t see it. I slipped on some ice and had to go to casualty. It was there that I saw a quack.

You should call him a doctor.

Why, what is wrong with him.

D’oh!

Will & Ben (Renaissance Men) #5 – Love hath…

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Will: Ben?

Ben: Yes, Will?

Will: I…

Ben: Yes?

Will: Love…

Ben: Yesss?

Will: Fridays.

Ben: What!

Will: I love Fridays. Really love Fridays. So much better than Mondays. I don’t like Mondays.

Ben: Tell me why.

Will: Why I don’t love Mondays… or why I do love Fridays.

SD There is a pause

Ben: Will?

Will: Yes, Ben?

Ben: I…

Will: Yes?

Ben: Love…

Will: Yesss?

SD Ben leaves

Will: Ben! Ben! Come back! What (or whom) do you love?

Ben: (from off) You, Will – I love you.

Will: Really, Ben?

Ben: (off) Don’t be a daft bard, Will. I love Saturday mornings!

Will: Thou durst play with my affections, Ben.

Ben: (off) Truly, Will, I durst – haha!

Will: (to self) Summer’s tease has all too short a willy, Ben – all too short.

END

Spy vs. Spy

This was somewhere else – it has been decoded and is now available here. G:)

The Interweb

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Me: Are you a spy?

Spy: A spy? I? No, why would you think that ‘I’ looked like a spy. I deny that I am a spy.

Me: The trench coat; the dark glasses; your hat pulled down low over your eyes; and because you have been sat on that bench for over an hour taking notes and eating a sandwich.

Spy: Eating a sandwich is no crime!
And why am I talking in rhyme?
You are not! What utter rot! I am ‘not’ repeat ‘not’ a spy.

Me: But, you do look like one – a spy, I mean. And that sandwich had it’s edges turned up more than your collar is. You seem like a shady character that could be found in a spy novel; or outside this sandwich bar – which is where we are.

Spy: Okay, I ‘am’ a spy. I don’t know how you could…

View original post 79 more words

I fell into a stream (of consciousness) and drowned.

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Just have to write.
No arguments.
Write.
What to write?
Doesn’t matter.
Just have to write.
This.
And that.
And other stuff.
Just write.
Words.
(Obviously)
Phrases.
Sentences.
Whole ideas.
Or some just barely crunched into a random recognisable shape.

Then pause.

Before continuing.

Or not.

PS This is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end.
PPS This is obviously ‘not’ the start. But, it may be a part.
PPPS And it may not be a poem – does that matter, when I consider myself as mad as a hat.

Alex is an Anagram!

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Axle Thirsty-Work

Alex is an anagram
Of axle
I suppose that so is Axel
He of Axel Rose
Is Lexa a name
That can be the same?
Exla is probably not.
And Laxe doesn’t make much sense.
Xlae is just plain silly
And, hence, so is Lxea and Lxae,
Exla and Alxe…
So, to summarise
My thoughts were just that
Alex is an anagram
And I am a twit!

Yellow Sub-

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Yellow Sub-

We all live in a yellow Subaru
A yellow Subaru
A yellow Subaru

And our friends…
Laugh at us.

Overheard Conversations (that never happened) #1

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Overheard Conversations (that never happened) #1

Sylvie: Did you have Maurice & Aveline round for drinkums last night.

Marjorie: No; we put the ‘Bluebirds’ over the ‘White-Cliff-Richard’s of Dover’.

Sylvie: The ‘Bluebirds!’ Really, Marjorie. Have you no idea of the anachronisticity of that. The Bluebirds are never found in Kent. At least the White-Cliff-Richards of Dover can be relied upon to turn up.

Marjorie: True, Sylvie, very true; and yet…

Sylvie: And yet ‘what’, Marjorie?

Marjorie: And yet, also a complete fabrication.

Sylvie: What! A tissue of lies?

Marjorie: Indeed, Sylvie: I made the whole thing up. Neither the Bluebirds; nor the White-Cliff-Richards; even you and I! None of us exist.

Sylvie: Well, I’ll be…

Marjorie: No. You won’t, Sylvie. None of us shall.

Sylvie: Bother!

Marjorie: Bother, Indeedly, Sylvie; and a big ‘bother’ at that.

Narr: The two non-existent ladies mull upon this devastating news. Then they gradually fade away…