Ye Olde Linoleum Shoppe

Tuesday 16 April 2013

A Bad Dose of the Sonnets


Hello folkingtons, delightful to see you again. Three more poems - and yes I haven't a clue what any of this is about or where it's going, but I must say being a poet is a real blast, the money is spectacular and sitting in my underpants smoking gitanes at four in the morning c'est tres moi!


SAXOPHONOSYNTHESIS

The sun's a solar instrument
At the angels' beatnik gig
But if you want to hear it
Daddy-o, you have to dig.
For the music flows in silence
From the tip of heaven’s eave
And quietly it jives through air
Below to waiting leaves.
The leaves they vibrate twigs,
Twigs and branch and bough,
Down the tune keeps beating
Past the locus of the plough.
Until, where trees are fastened
To terra firma by their shoots
There you sense that music
It goes Rooty
                         Toot
                                    Toot
                                                Toot.


* * * * *

* * * * * * *



AND ALL THEY EVER FOUND WAS MOTHER HUBBARD'S BONES

Old Mother Hubbard
Went to the Cupboard
To feed her minature poodle
When she got there
Inside lurked a bear
With his big hairy bum in her strudel.
YUM! YUM!

* * * * *


THE TRUTH ISN'T

Eve eloped with the snake
(Left one rib I.O.U.)
Noah’s ark did not float
(Leaky two by twos.)
The Tower of Babel reached its peak
Avoiding liquidation
(Two Mormons climbed to the top
Then offered God salvation)
Abraham’s sacrifice
Isaac did not survive
A Japanese whaling boat
Ate Jonah alive
And walls around Jericho
Israel did not uproot
While Goliath with a sheep
Cleaned David off his boots

And that's the truth despite the plain
Bible contradictions
Those Mormons rubbed the Lord up wrong
Now truth's stranger than friction

* * * * *


Until we meet again - keep chewing on those gitanes.

Tuesday 2 April 2013

MORE BLEEDIN' POETRY




Fond friends - lately it appears sweet Polyhymina, the muse of sacred poetry, refuses to leave my ears alone. I might only be lifting a broom to innocuously beat the cat out of the chandelier - when (quite without my conscent) the Goddess seizes hold of my Eustachian tube and discharges a sonnet or (more often than not) a filthy limerick, into my cerebral cortex.

I am, in short, becoming a poet (well, it can hardly pay worse than archaeology can it?)


My first poem today is a short reflection on L.P. Hartley's immortal line -'The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there.' Please read on.


THE PAST IS A FOREIGN BODY

Last night I passed a foreign land.
How it got up there
I will never know.



My next poem is a stirring ode to death and birthday cake.


BURIAL REQUEST

Oh say you'll serve buns at my funeral
Jellys and chocolates and cakes
Marshmallow top hats
Lots of sugar and fats
To keep the folks sweet at my wake


- My wake
Feed them all sweets at my wake


Strew my coffin with icing and candles
Then ask all assembled to puff
Like and exhaling choir
Extinguish those fires
So's I won't be the only thing snuffed


- Thing snuffed
See that those candles are snuffed

Make my end a sugar rush festival
Let the tears be frosted with fun
That's all that I'm sayin'
But if you find that profane
Nail me up on a hot cross bun

-A bun
Let me die for my sins on a bun

BURY  ME  IN  CAKE


My final poem today comes with a colourful illustration which would be oddly suitable as a bookmark.

Captain Cheese
By mistake the navy knew him
As 'The Corsair Captain Cheese'
On account of the prosthetic
Mounted just below his knees.
It was that adapted flagpole
The error had been built on,
Since mariners oft' spoke of
That pirate with the Stilt-on.

That's all for now darlings. Thank you for your continuing ability to read.

Hello

My photo
Ireland
I am a descended from a long line of conga dancers. I occasionally wear shoes. I gave up going to the toilet twenty years ago - it's a filthy habit. I have a pet bunny called Mucky - he's a filthy rabbit.

AND NOW FOR SOME SHAMELESSLY DIMINUTIVE FACES IN SMALL SQUARE BOXES