the hump is so high
but rolling downhill is fun
bring on the weekend!
Knotted fingers work their skill
Sculpting nature’s giants,
As passion flows through hands
Designed to make things new.
Hematic flow from skin to grain
Rekindles life anew,
This touch like cryptesthesia
Animation from the dead.
And now you try to steal this love
To touch another’s flesh,
To breathe life within a kiss
And raise an amaranthine army.
These hands show dried and lifeless
Now splintered from mis-use,
Cut from weeping saplings
And drowned in blood of men.
by CHRIS NELSON
© All rights reserved 2000-2019
The Mosquito had been writing poems for as long as it could remember. Yes, that’s right, a very long time. Literally aeons. Three whole days in fact!
Of course, the Mosquito would accept only heroic verse. To wit, iambic pentameter. Trochee? Anapaest? These were for brain dead losers. Only real men wrote in iambic. Shakespeare, for example. Pushkin too. And now the Mosquito.
He was also a Debonaire-Vervain. The Debonaire-Vervains were titans of the corporate world. Blue bloods. Old stock. The family line went back generations. Weeks and weeks at least. Investment portfolios. Start-ups. Feelers in every pie. The Mosquito had studied at the finest schools and universities. He even lived on a posh arm all his own. Nothing but prime real estate all the way!
Anyway, the following is a poem that the Mosquito wrote for his ravishing wife on the eve of their ruby wedding anniversary. It had been two long, glorious days since their meeting! Where had the time gone? Of course, he was not yet master of his craft, and his style had yet to mature. But none could deny that he was full of ardour and passion, and it showed in his words.
Buzz me not to the buzzing of buzzed minds
Admit imbuzziments. Buzzing is not abuzz.
Which alters when it buzzeration finds,
Or bends with the buzzer to rebuzz.
O no! It is an ever-fixed buzz
That looks on buzzpests and is never buzzen;
It is the star to every wand’ring buzz,
Whose worth’s unbuzzed, although his buzz be taken.
Buzz’s not Time’s fool, though buzzy lips and cheeks
Within his bending buzzle’s compass buzz;
Buzz alters not with his brief hours and buzzes,
But bears it out even to the buzz of doom.
If this be error and upon me prov’d,
I never buzzed, nor no mosquito ever lov’d. *
Naturally, Madam Mosquito was impressed, and instantly gave birth to another fifty bloodsuckers. Oh, these modern women! They don’t waste time, do they? Of course, they’ll say they want a man who’s arty and edgy. But what they really crave is a domesticated homebody who embodies the traditional family values.
But the Mosquito was an ambitious sort. Yes, he’d won the heart of Madame Mosquito and gained her feeler in holy matrimony, but it wasn’t enough. He also wanted everyone on earth to hear his poems. That’s why, after being informed of a top secret mission (Code Name: Star-spangled Mooning) from a fly on the wall in the Soviet Government, he put on his best suit and tie, grabbed his latest manuscript, and caught a taxi to Baikonur. He’d decided that a rocket antenna would be the best stage from which to orate his flowery writings.
Fortunately for him, he was not at all late. The Soviet vessel was still being readied for its maiden moon shot. The Mosquito landed right on the front glass, got himself cosy, then quenched his thirst with a droplet of cherry rum. After this he pulled out his manuscript, thinking for a moment about which poem he’d be proudest to grace the airwaves with first…
And now for the main event! The final countdown!
Ten… nine… five… two… one…
Nine kilometres per second and history was about to be ma—
Because I could not buzz for Death
It kindly buzzed for me
The vessel held but just
Ourselves —And Immortality.*
*Thanks to Shakespeare and Dickinson for the buzzspiration.
As promised, I’m back with a new episode of The Crumbcast.
Believe me, I haven’t been wasting time. In fact, I’ve been doing a lot of work on me. I’ve been moulding myself into a blue-eyed, muscle-bound adonis with curly, golden hair and a honeyed voice that will make your ears orgasm. I’ve been learning French, Argentine tango and how to poach eggs. (Steal ’em or cook ’em?)
Okay, now that I’m the worthy hero of your dreams, you ladies can start showering me with your lacy panties. And you blokes too, if you’re that way inclined. Hell, I belong on the cover of romance novels everywhere! Someone give me a book deal!
What? You don’t believe me? You say I’m still a sad old sap with wild hair, spindly limbs and a pot belly? That even my voice makes crows want to nosedive into a field of landmines? That my writings are your worst nightmare? Not to mention the quality of my eggs…
Okay, fine. So I’m still the same me I’ve always been. It isn’t easy to please everybody. And I only become a parody of my already absurd self whenever I try to. Living up to the expectations of others is definitely not recommended, and that’s something I touch on in this episode.
Anyway, I’m back, and I kinda hope y’all have missed me… even if just a little bit.
PS: To listen to the podcast in question then please click on that picture down there. To view the comic strip that my rambling centres around, then please click here. Yes, it’s real magic in the digital world, I tells ya! No pesky sciencey stuff here!
PPS: Oops. Since this post went live, I’ve recorded this episode a second time. You can read the reasons for me doing so here. Sorry for any inconvenience I may have caused, but I feel it was for the better. Honest!
They wished for a baby boy:
the boy turned out
to be just like them.
who else goes into the mix?
by STEPHEN PHILIP DRUCE
© All rights reserved 2018