June 12, 2004

• Text “Here Be Dragons”
  

  
  

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    We no longer cared which numbers came up, they were all the same to us, really they were. 86-33-471…all the same to us as they stopped the desert from arriving. Another beer, another reefer, makes us one bill to pay and us sitting on some hurt-feelings stone laughing away ay Katerena and the numbers, 89610-513-922365894508478139823900864….
  

  
  

    Victoria smiled, “And it doesn’t harm the rugs!”, wow, the one she has passed round, the tip tasting of her aniseed lipstick…We puffed & giggled & Dave cried “Who forget the fecking tobacco?” Which we all thought funny, especially young Sally, 19 and on her first ever trip off of Earth, as the ship passed yet another lively party on some remote planet far from any sun.
  

  
  

    We docked at the bus stop and watched a large red bus sing, curse, we were too late, hell was arriving fast.
  

  
  

    As I was explaining the funny little bipods to young Susan and George, the rain of fire began, for here be dragons, and the people screamed in terror, and trees started burning and Susan and George (like us stoned eldest) were proper little dragons, the two children flew and sang whilst the rest of us saved the human children but ate all of the cooked adults.

  
  

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  Text: “& it all went pear-shaped”
  

  
  

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    “This strange flower knows when you are about to return home dear, it blooms!”
  

  
  

    “Don be daft lass, been reading too many books!” I growled, my wife was losing it, her Wacca thingies are ok, I must admit all those young women dancing naked makes me quite horny, but this!
  

  
  

    “Flowers are not daft Bert!” Ethel said. 
  

  
  

    “Give over woman, mash thou tea, I’m panting for cuppa, ma tootsies are killing me lass!”
  

  
  

    “I love you flower!” Ethel smiled at me, yes, I am the real Lord Pineapple, forget the shate I write about being a Clowne human, I am in fact a ff % 243 flower!. Ethel (whose adventures I write sometimes on these very pages is sweet, batty as a fruit cake, but sweet.
  

  
  

    (I recorded Bert in first person there as you humans like this thing. (“My submarine is full of eels” Monty Python, funny ya? On telly this text will have some funny little guy running his thoughts on captuns, captains, capstens, oh you know the word. (Start again. I am Lord Pineapple, writer of half of the shate under my name, writer of other half is my ex-three-headed-pet The Sarahs’.(See that couple’e eyes light up when they admire my flower, The Sarahs’ are supping with The Queen and their cousins (The Lucys’ are cloning the US President, and we flowers thought it will be us who will help to rule!
  

  
  

    (Remember humans, check a fecking planet before you land on it. Must go, a tiny three-headed bird is chasing me in my plant-pot around the room, and Ethel is saying to Bert “Look, the things want another dog to eat!”
  

  
  

  (P.S. The brackets needs closing!)(OK))))))))
  

  
  

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  Text Tea.
  

  
  

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    I carry my breakfast mug around with me at work, I hang it across my shoulder tied to string.
  

  
  

    Okey, so it seems mildly eccentric, but I’ve found my cup before now being used to store oil in, and, buried in the ground, used as a golf-hole, and many rather disgusting things. Personally, I think everyone at work in my candle-making factory are jealous of me cos they use half-pint mugs and mine is a one-and-a-half pinter.
  

  
  

    I know it really pisses them off (pun unintended) when I empty the tea-pot into my cup, but I can’t help it, the tallow makes me thirsty. I try to amuse them with an old Derbyshire ditty, said by some to have been wrote by King Henry VIII.
  

  
  

  “I’m a little tea-pot
  

  
  

  Short and silly,
  

  
  

  Here’s my handle,
  

  
  

  Here’s my willie;
  

  
  

  Full me up 
  

  
  

  And hear me hiss,
  

  
  

  Pour me out 
  

  
  

  and see me piss.”
  

  
  

    But it does not cheer them up, not even when I reinact the last line by getting my fat johnny out and pissing over the staff-room floor.
  

  
  

    I am sure at times that everyone there hates me, yet I am a nice-enough person, just a normal Joe who carrys his breakfast mug around with him and wears a fez with a large plastic daffodil on top.
  

  
  

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  Text London. (There’s nowt wrong with a city that names a railway station after a bear.)
  

  
  

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    I hate glass, I spend all my waking time smashing windows and crying out “I’m the stone king, fly me you bricks!” I’ve been down the High many times, not leaving a pane unbroken, not an alarm silent. Its fun, I tell you, to see the street and its cars all boarded up, and the Clowne Carrian saying about gangs of skinheads smashing windows, when the whole town knows its me and respect me for it.
  

  
  

    You see, last Friday, I was a little girl, and I went to the moon dressed as an egg in a frying pan, and on the moon they taught me that Paddington Bear and glass were both evil objects and had to be eliminated, taken from socity and shoy. So every day I patrol the beachs of Chesterfield and snatch Paddington Bears off children and rip out the fur. I do not hurt the children though some have been so brainwashed by the bears that they cry after them. Poor children, I hug them and say sorry, which sometimes make people think I am a pervo. Stupid ignorant fools, but then they never understood Jesus when he told his disciples to tear up all of the Womble toys they could find.
  

  
  

    When it is night time I am in love, for I smash car-windscreens, shop windows, office windows… (never private houses I will not want someone cut by glass or to freeze to death). And I thank Zanzazera, wise Goddesss of the planet ff % 243, that I am normal, and that I for one will be prepared for the invasion of the evil little glass-men.
  

  
  

   

  
  

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  Text Yellow Bird.
  

  
  

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    Bizarrely the three story flat had no windows, the top floor (which was the ground floor outside) had bricked-up windows, and the flat’s other two floors were basements. The top two floors of the building had windows and belonged to an ancient bookbinders.
  

  
  

    Despite the lack of windows, the young couple was proud of their place, it was what they had always wanted, for in years past, their mentor, Lord Pineapple lived five years of his childhood within the building. 
  

  
  

    My wife and I went down some stone steps to see robotic lego playing by itself.
  

  
  

    “Pardon the mess” the man, Wayne, smiled, “we don’t get many visitors, of course thousands look at the building, and the bookbinders have their Lord Pineapple shrine to the visitors, but down here is silence.”
  

  
  

    Wayne and Caroline’s two children were on this upper-basement floor which was a vast untidy living room, with just a self-kitchen at the end. the two children, a boy of about six and a girl of say, four, was sitting with a small three-headed bird!
  

  
  

    “Make good pets!” Waybne grinned. I looked at my wife in amazement, on our planet, three-headed birds were banned as trouble-making pests, and here was one as a children’s pet! 
  

  
  

    Caroline was young, dark-haired, scatter-brained and very clever, she was in the office in the lower basement, to our surprise, she was on an ancient computer that spoke with the old american accent.
  

  
  

    There was no sign of any robots, though of course one must be around to cook and waste-dispose.
  

  
  

    We asked Wayne.
  

  
  

    “The robot has his own room at the top” the man answered.
  

  
  

    “His own room?” My wife could not decide which was the strangest, the robot having its own room, or being given a gender.
  

  
  

    After a tour of the basement, we went to the ground floor and saw a class-one robot making tau-music with his hands.
  

  
  

    Later on, as we left Earth, we wondered if we had dreamt about our visit to the young families flat. We lived in a glass dome, theirs had no windows, and yet they loved their place and their strange alien friends (whom loved the family in return).
  

  
  

    Even now, as I am thinking this for you fellow-humans, I find it so hard to believe.
  

  
  

    This universe will never cease to amaze me!

  
  

   

  
  

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  Text Lepordesy
  

  
  

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  I walk around Huddersfield all day lad, covered in old sheet like, royt, & carrying flippin’ bell. DONG! I’m, a , um Whatheycalledsarah? a leopard? Sometimes I sit in the Cuthbert Centre with a chipped wooden bowl in front of me, & I’m crying, like. Anyroad, I mix with crowds & I’m crying, UNCLEAN! UNCLEAN! & I’m crying out t’ folk to help me, holding  one finger out sheet, saying other fingers 1 nay none. But ot’er day this here copper like, made me take off sheet, but when he found me stark-bollock naked, oh fuck this yorkshire lark! & toadmarched me dressed to police station, I kept shouting: KEEP AWAY FROM ME! UNCLEAN! UNCLEAN!They threw me into a cell, because I had a sty on my eye, and thought I had Lepordesy.So I was back at the Cuthbert Centre For The Sarahs: and making pots of dosh, three heads on one body chum! I can change the hour! I can use the computer to pop out anywhere as a stupid man, that was that day’s diary. & they are putting a tenner in my chipped bowl whenever I ring my bell just so I will not touch them…
  

  
  

  ” Here,” one old gal just said to me, Take a bloody bath! That should been green NO! (Cheeky lass! I showered last year!) Done it! 
  

  
  

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  poems by ff % 243.

  
  

   

  • 1:55 pm
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