Salt #1

Salt #1

It’s not my fault

that I purchased the wrong Himalayan Rock Salt.

I will tell you to your face,

it wasn’t easy to pur-chase;

but, the odds were defied – and yet, you still cried.

pink!

I didn’t even think

that the salt should be pink –

like a panther

that is positively pink.

And now you tell me

that I’ve had too much to drink

If I think that Himalayan Rock Salt

is any colour other than pink.

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Ideas #1

Ideas #1

Ideas

pop up

at random moments;

often when least expected;

when you have no way of recording them;

or when they are inappropriate to the occasion that you are attending – a wake, for example.

Your mind has been ruminating upon all the available data that it has been fed…

and,

this has led

to an inevitable

“Ker-ching!”

Though not always about quite the thing

that you were, in truth, expecting.

#Letters – Deconstructing a Poem

#Letters – Deconstructing a Poem

If you take every individual letter

from this poem

and put them in order of amount of use

it doesn’t make the poem better,

to be terse –

it makes it worse!

–:/–

And here are the component parts:

Iiiiiiiii

ffff

yy

ooooooooooo

uuuuu

tttttttttttttttt

aaaaaa

kkk

eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

vv

rrrrrrrr

nnnnn

ddddd

ll

mmmmmmm

hhh

ssssss

ppp

bb

,

w

!

Letters.

Letters.

Letters

make the words

that make the sentences

that make the words go round

the world.

And I bet,

that an alphabet

is better at aiding that

than a black cravat.

Which is kinda weird;

but, as I’ve said before,

it’s what I do.

The Lonely Words in the Woods.

The Lonely Words in the Woods.

I must go down to the words today,

the lonely words in the wood;

the ones that just aren’t used enough;

and not because

they are no good;

but, because they are so shy;

and no one goes to visit them,

and if someone does, they cry.

The words all hide

amongst the trees,

they keep themselves unspoken;

solitude is the thing they crave,

a silence likened to the grave,

or a morning quite unbroken.

I must just go,

to see they’re safe,

check they haven’t wilted;

for they had worth

in better days

before their use was stilted.

I must go down to the words today,

the lonely words in the wood.

Pond, James Pond (Part 2)

Part 1 is here, please read it first – G:)

Pond studied the message for a few seconds, committing the information to memory, then he ate it. He now knew the three special items that ‘R’ had provided Pond for his imminent mission. He gathered two of them up and left the apartment with a caffeine-fuelled enthusiasm that was firmly controlled by his serious expression.

‘The game was afoot!’ As Sherlock would have said – Sir Arthur’s words upon his lips.

Reaching the lobby, Pond noted the Prussian spy still attempting to complete the crossword in his newspaper. Pond didn’t break his stride and leaving the hotel, turned left onto Princeton Boulevard. Bond took the pair of glasses from his inner jacket pocket and donned them – instantly, he was connected to the Comms Department; a small screen started relaying images of the spy following him straight to his visual input; and a tracking device was initialised.

Pond marvelled at R’s devices – minute and efficient, way in advance of anything that the ‘enemy’ had to hand – whoever the ‘enemy’ might be at any given time.

The glasses were updating Pond on all of their uses as he strode along Princeton and left into Charles Habsley Ave. (43rd Ave). The spy was following at a safe distance, along with a support team of another footpad and a vehicle manned with two grey-suits. ‘Four men’ thought Pond. They have scrimped on nothing to accompany a person on a short stroll around the block.

Pond popped quickly into Hermingham’s Book & News Emporium and switched with his lookie-likie, Mort Haroldson, who, with newspaper under arm, seamlessly took over Pond’s stroll around the block.

The real Pond walked swiftly through Hermingham’s and out of the fire escape – his dull battleship-grey Lincoln Continental was up and running – it fitted him like a glove. He eased away from the store’s rear and was soon heading out of the city to his rendezvous with V.

Haroldson had passed Pond a small paperback. This hollowed-out book enclosed a length of filament wire, a handy flat blade knife and a variety of small, ingenious tools and gadgets – all of which, Pond was being educated via his glasses at this very moment.

Driving with every care to be unnoticeable – along with the car’s changing numberplate to confuse plate-recognition technology – Pond left the city and headed East.

Stopping at a roadside motel. Pond swapped his dull Lincoln for a two-wheeled vehicle that would get him to his rendezvous a lot quicker. Donning the silver helmet, he quickly re-entered the flow of traffic from West to East and opened up the motorbike.

TBC

Poetry Face

See ‘dodgy’ picture here – lol – G:)

I, have a Poetry Voice;

I have to use it,

I have no choice.

I also have a Poetry Face,

I wear it now and again,

but it’s a bit of a disgrace.