Harpo Plays The Barbed Wire Harp.

August 8, 2008 at 7:01 pm | Posted in poetry, writing | 17 Comments
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Who are these two strange cats
one silent, sleek and black
the other ginger tom
yowling like some ancient carp
as he plucks upon the Dali harp.

enough, he purrs and
smacks the silver surf
ace creates a wave
some tiny tigger
plays Caliban
in a cave,

Quick shuffle,

July 7, 2008 at 6:49 pm | Posted in writing | 14 Comments
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You gotta give ’em what they want, said F., banging the glass down on the piano but by now I saw it coming so long ago that I held the right hand together, have to be chops, I’m afraid, said Bootsy looking somewhat pale.

He whispers Caliban’s whiskers in my ear and I know straight away what to play, just look around at the weary room, an eerie rattle, what you guys need is a bit of flat out bum shuffle, the deck lurched, you see, son he said, one arm around me staring out to stern at the flat horizon,


October 29, 2007 at 5:23 pm | Posted in writing | 5 Comments
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bang bang he smacks the side of the box,
bang, hurry up
it pixallates static into Caliban,
is it, perhaps played by a younger man,
thundering about context, words
being mere advertisements for ideas
and life being passion,
to stop caring is to begin dying,
all meaning is context dependant
and this word that thought caught
between the observed and the observer
vice versa etcetera latinizations
from the chorus, Alessander, bravo,
the matador and red cape embroidered
with blood, the passion contained,
controlled in a sideways glance
and a quick pat of the hip pocket,
enters quickly with an image which
slips into an idea,
not dead disciplined Zen but
quick Taoist release
experience glistening like the sun on
an undulate Aegean Sea,
shafts of light, multilingual
poet, Alessander erudite,
unlocker of references, The Poet,
Alessander, the first hornrimmed
darksuited, fingerclicking, quickest
fastest cat, Alessander,



October 21, 2007 at 8:14 am | Posted in writing | 2 Comments
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Welcome home. In case I’m off Caliban Gallivanting when you get in I wroted you this note and stuck ‘im on the fridge. There is no beer left, sorry.
I’ll introduce you to the neighbours but first you must must go read Ebby’s beautiful penguin poem, again, if you already have.

So, to the neighbours. Narziss is an absolute gentleman and scholar (and an excellent photographer) and has been a constant friend even though I suspect I embarrass him on occasion with my roughneck ways and excessive bounciness but he is far too cultured and composed and cool to complain.

Ingsoc is a countryman of yours. He is also a very smart and provocative writer. I am sure you two will have many interesting discussions (debates) (arguments?) to the great entertainment of all. Feel free to fire away and at will, he is one of the few people around here smart enough to know that the point of a discussion is to discover the truth rather than prove it, and as a result he has my utmost trust and respect.

Oceanshaman is an interesting character. At first I took him for an old hippy as to my old punk, which is cool because it was reflected in two completely different Taoisms, his, I think, is a practical calming unifying thought to ease a troubled life whilst mine, as you know, is just an excuse for laziness and doing “what though what wilt,” to quote an old and departed friend. There is always wonderful music on Oceanshaman’s stereo, much of which I hadn’t heard before which means, my dear, that I spend a lot of time there.

Crafty Green Poet is a wonderful lady who has also been a great support and constant friend. She is the first ever person to publish two of my doodlings and as such has an eternal place in my heart. They are in her Bolts Of Silk and I am flattered because the company I am keeping there honours me far beyond my capabilities.

And you’re back! And I feel full of life again, anticipation, (one of my favourite words because it is one of my favourite things) and these are a few of my favourite things mary poppins,


Quite arabesque in its simplicity.

September 6, 2007 at 5:35 pm | Posted in pictures, writing | Leave a comment
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Because good grammar is a sign of good manners, of which, naturally scratching, I have few being Caliban in a cave, reading,
How To Operate A Time Machine.
Connecticons connect one screen to another across time, your mind reading to mine writing which is back in time when I wrote it, imagining forward in time to you now ex-readingly patient.
A connecticon.
If I say star light is real, you realise that you’ve always known that anyway the best way to be under a spotlight moon is not caught like a moth but like you live in one.
Now those with an instinctive eye for detail, hearing trucks braking in the distance, will know that you are in the time machine and that instructions for its use are all around you right now and my suggestion to you is to exit via the bloggedy blogroll, roll

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