KNITTING CLOUDS IN A HEAVENLY PLACE

time-travel-3 

Renata preferred apricots, blintzes, caviar, a little vodka at times, over ailing nightmares

she hated avid weevil’s in porridge, harvest after harvest that bore so little food

preferred the Fabergé romance of ‘St Petersburg’ over ho hum ‘Petrograd’

 a knight in shining armour kiss above being wrestled to a Bolshevik’s floor

Julian calendar’s October revolt put pay to all that she preferred

the day Red molested White, desire and daydreams died

‘Peace, bread, and land’ the big man’s assurance

Renata never believed that for a single moment

squirreled away diamonds, silver and gold

found ‘Peace, bread, and land’

in a place of opportunity

across an ocean

far away

 

oh, how even now, Renata so misses her Mother Russia

‘Peace, bread, and land’ the big man’s assurance

‘Peace, bread, and land’ in exchange for quashed dissent

no man, woman or child feasts its soul on such a dirtied dish

 

through a window in a joint far removed from logic and sanity

one where little matters and death’s door bell often rings

Renata watches intently, listens, absorbs, is saddened

now a new big man gifts words, place of opportunities words

words of flawless White displacing arbitrary Red

positive, negative words

‘back then is new now’ words

 

Renata knits cumulonimbus clouds these days

sings to herself the song a wasted partisan once sang

 

‘…Let no one build walls to divide us

Walls of hatred nor walls of stone

Come greet the dawn and stand beside us

We’ll live together or we’ll die alone

In our world poisoned by exploitation

Those who have taken now they must give

And end the vanity of nations

We’ve but one earth on which to live…’

 

that the songs message still rang true made Renata cry

 

The verse above borrowed from Billy Bragg’s version of ‘The Internationale’

8th MAY 1945

paris4

a standstill, crystal clear night

under the amorous impressionism

of a chaperon moon’s intimate ogling

the lioness and the lamb renew an affair

settled almost as one upon Pont de l’Archevêché

sharing the of the last Gauloises, looking down and out

at the magic of perception over nature, the alchemy of the Seine

wishing they could turn back time, gather up those far apart lost years

deciding finally a discreet left bank boutique hotel too good a thing to neglect

now that the white dove has come home, the birds of prey flown away, a war done with

REQUIEM FOR A GHOST

My son George at zoolonaudio.wordpress.com composed this. I rather like it!

Zoolon Audio

Not too many words today, just a short (2:21) piece of classical music (with a movie trailer in mind) I composed and produced. Hope you like it.

For musicians out there wanting affordable, royalty free, top quality samples, my Zoolon Audio website is at www.zoolonaudio.com/

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Copyright © 2016 Zoolon Audio.  All rights reserved.  Unauthorised copying, reproduction, hiring, lending, public performance and broadcasting prohibited.

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GOODNIGHT VIENNA

vienna1

It pains me so to live here in Vienna

A place where I dare not say ‘Goodnight’

You see saying, ‘Goodnight Vienna’

Means the ghost of my being must take flight

 

Out of sight of this wondrous city

Planet Earth, the universe too

Into the storms of the cosmos

Away from all that I knew

 

When I was some weary traveller

When I was a soldier at arms

When I played the ‘grandest’ piano

When I was seduced by your ‘come-hither’ charms

 

Those are the days I’ll remember

Should memories travel with me in ethereal space

So then, ‘Goodnight, dear Vienna’

And goodnight to my lover, who wore the black lace

 

 

THE COLLECTOR OF MEMORIES

ballet

Since Dawn of Time’s first chilly mists were devoured by a greedy, rampant Orange, I have been collecting the apt recollections of those poor wretched souls about to lose their minds to the unforgiving void.  By preserving such memories, I ensure that upon departure at least a small snippet of the mort being is not lost to the nothingness.

Mostly, there is little of note to gather up. Just random details of new-borns, love lost, torn petticoats and fine sand between toes, yet every so often as I collect such memories, I unearth a golden nugget.  Such was the case with Nicole. She was Parisian and of advanced years and wilting mind when we met. By then she had become a bedbound glorified wizened carcass in a spick and span care home within the Quartier des Invalides.

Before the war, a then sweet, wily Nicole wore the ballerina’s tutu, danced in the grandest of venues, yet come the days of ‘needs must when the Devil drives’, she became a hip waggling, leg kicking streetwise showgirl who favoured skimpy costumes decorated with spiky pink dyed feathers performing her art in a seedy, yet not without a certain panache, Revue within the 9th arrondissement. For a while she was the talk of the night-time revellers, her cancan on the raised dance floor ending in the splits, deemed legendary by one and all. She counted Chevalier himself as a former lover!

I listened intently, captivated by the antique ivory framed racy, almost erotic photograph she had of herself in her heyday, upon the bedside table, as with rattling breath and muted speech she recounted the tale of that part of her life she treasured above all others. Uniquely in my experience, that time was when she lived her life as a dream when in a short-lived coma following an unfortunate ponderous tumble from the floodlit stage back in 1939. With eloquent words, given her condition, she uttered thus;

“Initially a nightmare, my dream, out there in the ‘somewhere, everywhere’ heavens above, under the accursed extra-terrestrial bleakest canopy of violent intent, a giant shock wave storm held sway over all that was known and unknown. In the rusting wrought iron and peeling leaden painted ruins of last season’s insolvent fairground, I was a redundant fortune-teller, speaking clichéd platitudes to deafest ears clowns, long lost to the rogue taxidermists witless alleged craft. Then, as I worried for my sanity, my very being even, within the blink of an eye, a paradise was mine for at the far perimeter of this place I noted an elegant timber doorway with ironmongery furnishings and a key intact. 

Upon opening the door, I found myself in undulating pastures green. Sitting comfortably in the Vale of Near Distance, a snow-white marble château of immense proportions. It was in that château, abandoned it seemed, that I discovered in dreamland anything was possible. Young obedient handsome fellows to waltz with me until dawn’s first light, bathing only in champagne bubbles, saddle horses to carry me hither and yon, a scarlet macaw to discuss the politics of the left with, even a chandelier sturdy enough to swing naked from as the fancy took. Most of all though, I could be the eternal prima ballerina.  From romantic to classical I was mistress of all styles. I recall I even danced that silly Harlequinade, me Columbine and…” Nicole suddenly and surprisingly paused at this point, turned her life weary head my way, stared into my quizzical eyes and continued, “…you, you were the Harlequin. What a wedding night we had,” she sniggered, “I could have happily stayed in my coma with you forevermore. Never once did I think we would meet again, at least not in this terrible ‘real’ world, yet now here you are looking so well, so young, with me time ravaged and at death’s door. What must you think?” 

“I think Nicole, you are the most beautiful creature that ever lived, I remember you as if it was just yesterday.” Of understandable necessity, I lied, for the here and now was the only occasion we had ever met. I afforded her a kiss upon the forehead, then at her sleepy eye’s behest, a smacker upon the lips before taking of my leave.

I shed more than just a single tear for Nicole when journeying back to the place of primal chaos I call home. What is life if not an extravagant aspiration?

THE SAD DEMISE OF JESSICA DOWNLOW – THE TREE HUGGING SUICIDAL POET

tree-hugger-8

(Episode 1; Season 2)

Throughout my entire adult life, I had always hoped that humankind would one day see the big picture. That one day soon everyone would be a vegan like me and all the sweet little furry creatures of Planet Earth would be free to roam the continents without fear of being scoffed.  A vegan life isn’t an easy thing.  With a degree of certainty, I acknowledge that my veganism has cost me dear. Some 37 of my 45 lovers (well I think it’s 45, but that’s not counting the one-night stands when the worse for organically produced sparkling free-range Conference Pear wine and my annual Glastonbury Music Festival escapades) left me because of the flatulence that goes hand in hand with my ethical vegan diet…well that, and my reluctance to shave my naturally hirsute armpits and all places south thereof, so some have commented.

Indeed, my last lover, ‘He’ who I truly believed would be ‘The One’, Cedric Moonbeam Rossthythe-Pendragon I think he may have been called, had pointedly told me that sharing my bed was akin to sleeping in a methane gas pipeline and that he could take it no longer.

“But Cedric Moonbeam Rossthythe-Pendragon…or whatever your name is…do remember that methane is a ‘natural’ gas, and ‘natural’ means ‘good’ in my world view. Besides, I could never give up eating raw Jerusalem artichokes or whole grain spelt for any man…you must see that.”

I never saw Cedric ever again. Obviously, I felt suicidal. Often my suicidal tendencies flare up when life disappoints.  It is at these times I seek solace doing a bit of tree-hugging. The trees know everything you see. The trees are my only true friends. Communing with them naked is the best way to absorb their magical energy. I well remember that my favourite oak, the one I call Brian, once whispered that to me, while that nasty Dirty Derek was smoking a fag stood the other side of Brian’s trunk. It couldn’t possibly have been Derek being naughty again who said it though, as he was not prone to an idle whisper…no, it definitely was Brian who uttered those stirring words.

Whatever, it was when hugging dear Brian my new poem came to me.

SONG TO CEDRIC (or whatever his name was)

Destiny had it that the one day

Passing wind would be socially accepted

By one and all, and all and one

And that I’d never again be neglected

 

By all the men I’ve ever met

Be they black or white or sunburnt red

That all would be content to share

Their love for me in my bed

 

Yet woe is me that will never happen

Just one ‘silent but deadly’ fart is often enough

To see my lovers, rush for the door

Whether I’m clad in ethically produced cotton tie-dyed garments, or am simply in the buff

 

I’m feeling suicidal again now. Thus far I’ve tried to top myself 26 times in total. All attempts have ended in abject failure.

I recall that one time I attended a BBQ where the boys were cooking up Linda McCartney organically produced non-GMO soya sausages. It was the fizziness of the organically sourced raspberry cider that caused it I think. Whatever, I could not help but let a massive one rip. Luckily for me I was a good distance away from the boys holding their own spatula’s.  Sadly, they were not so lucky. Many suffered 80% burns when the smouldering charcoal ignited and, in an instant, engulfed them in the fires of Hell itself.  That was the night Dirty Derek was incinerated in the manner of one who had spontaneously combusted.

Anyhow, tonight I intend to set up my own private BBQ and stand close by. That should do the trick as I’m never short of a swift trump!  In the manner of Joan of Arc, I shall say, “Goodbye cruel world.”

SUNSHINE SUPERMAN

aaaaa

Once, so very long ago, or perhaps it was just yesterday, twixt my times with one immaculate cleavage blessed angel and her inevitable lookalike, I had a part time lover of words. Sadly, I cannot remember her name from Adam.  All I can remember are two things she told me as we lay between satin sheets and a comfortable mattress under a harvest moon. Firstly, that “Black shirted extremists and freshly squeezed orange juice, the latter, manna from heaven, the former, the nastiest thing of all, will one day win out.” Additionally, over finest rock pool chilled Chablis and freshest oysters somewhere in Brittany, that, “Patriotism is the greatest pleasure to patriots, yet the single most dangerous thing with regards to the future of humanity.” Why I recall her words with such clarity is quite beyond me. Maybe they feel pertinent? I digress, for I have a prediction to impart!

“One version of the coming of the Sunshine Superman says that he dropped out of the wide blue yonder, landed safely in a pot of gold at rainbow’s end, passed toxic wind, burped a pickled onion burp, dusted himself down before determining to rule the world, the universe and beyond, using the special powers bestowed upon him born of his superhero status.

Another was that perhaps it might have been from the highest skyscraper known to humankind he accidentally fell, surviving only because of the handy, ever-present silk fashioned parachute he always had about his person in case of such an event. Regardless, the terra firma peasants, superglued to their positions in latter-day society, were always at odds with one another as to the actual methodology of his unannounced arrival. Some cared, others could not give a toss. The ones who cared were, not that they realized it at first, about to be in the ascendancy.

You see, for far too long those self-same peasants of either persuasion, through hindsight’s bitter eyes, had unwittingly allowed themselves to be the serfs of a bloated, calculating political elite.  Having never been advised to scoff cake in favour of long forgotten stale bread, revolution, in the traditional manner the like of which brought sad ending to the ‘scabrous with inflammation’ red and white lead powdered faced French aristocracy, an alien thing.

Also, too long their caring, ‘pat on the head, it’ll all be alright’ warm God of the new calendar had listened to their pleading prayers, smiled a knowing smile and made copious quill upon parchment notes in finest calligraphy, prior to taking a snifter of vintage port before settling in for the night. Little else. As of this ‘now’ thing, they both wanted and needed the angry, spitting feathers, God of ‘action over deed’ from days of supposed creation. 

Enough was enough. The citadel of bosses, in the eyes of an ever growing, strangely portly but still so, so hungry underclass, needed storming something rotten. The metaphorical knitting needles were out. Madame La Guillotine, revived as ‘a cross on a ballot paper’, would be scrubbed up clean. No bloodstains.  

Enter the Sunshine Superman! Every revolution needs an El Presidente and although it must be noted that he was undoubtedly a little blubbery about his personage, one of his special powers, deigned of birth right, afforded him a cloak of rippling muscle and six pack the like of which no peasant could see beyond.

The gentry never saw what was staring them in the face, stuck in their sticky quagmire of monetary contentment as they were. For it was with consummate ease that the Sunshine Superman promised the hoi polio all manner of pleasing unpleasant things, told them what they wanted to hear in the colloquial language they understood and rallied to. Sunshine Superman did indeed fulfil his dream and the tied peasants were now happy ‘soon to be free from the shackles’ peasants.

Of course, as is the way of things, it would one day all go to worms. One day, a small ‘I cannot tell a lie’ child, not even the brightest kid on the block, yet with eyes that could see, perched himself on the branch of a cherry tree, above the adoring masses to get a better view, as Sunshine Superman made his grandest appearance. The child would note and make known, blubber on naked skeleton, would even observe and share, that promises unfulfilled are not promises in part or at all. On that day, Sunshine Superhero discovered the raw power of the primal rage of the angriest of mobs!  

Being Sunshine Superman wasn’t all it was cut out to be when that angry mob of those who had come to love him plus those who always saw right through him had the raving hump.

Copyright © 1546AD Nostradamus.  All rights reserved

LESSONS OF LIFE & HISTORY

banjo

Cairo smelt of sweet dates, sweat, camels dung, hashish and tangible fear

white noise barter and banter in the bazaars irked her more than a little

also, she noticed that the wily toffs, those gaudy suited moneyed ones

donned the reddest fezzes, wore ‘hammer and sickle’ fashioned cufflinks

bewildered she took the last ocean liner out of Alexandria

across The Med, home to timeworn England’s pastures green

within her productive invention, she saw

towering evergreens mask a nest of ferns

disguise an undergrowth of helpless combs

paint a permanent eventide, never to betray

a murder, self-destruction or a clandestine union

of thickest skinned untamed carefree true lovers

now safe and sound, the bespectacled librarian

read Shakespeare and counted pennies

she loathed bigots, arranged marriages and Chaucer

and, although her mousey disposition indicated otherwise

virginity was an irrelevant thing she could not claim

as her own, less spoken of, timid virtue

on those days when not shuffling dust ridden books

she played the banjo, badly initially, not so later

craved the safe haven of wonderful, wonderful Copenhagen

before a beefy John Bull came chasing

 

were he not immune to the world at large

he could have had her knickers off in a flash

perhaps that was why she adored him from afar?

the year the angry mob sang the monsters praises

in the graveyard, where the good and the great rested

stirrings from high above, had the deceased turning in their graves

wondering just how such an event could have happened

it was a Wednesday, late autumn when she concluded

here, there and everywhere there would be a price to pay for this

come the spilt blood of Western Europe’s repetitive revolution

willing martyrs, since time began, live that dream

self-same Wednesday, a cloudless night of moonbeams and salty spray

she waltzed with an imaginary lover at the end of the outcast pier

to the heart-stopping gnarly waves inherited orchestration

and the ‘stay up late’ choir of libertine gull’s own savvy chorus

wondered if a foetus knew of fear and laughed in its face?

she was pregnant, of course

by whom? that was the question

looking back, I found it easy to respect her

much harder to find common ground

A LAWN UPON WHICH TO PLAY CROQUET

croquet

as of just a few deep purple night skies previous

those who were content to be the silent ones

predisposed to obey the curfew’s insolent bell

proffering an immaterial no-nonsense code

had died without a whisper

even the others, those who coughed and snored

plus, as was to be expected, the anarchists and fools

had vaporized in an instant

disobedience often comes at a high price

only the heartless wind from the east toughed it out

still rattled ‘kissed goodbye’ shutters

still blew hither and thither the peripheral debris

the presently adrift cafes had aborted

come closing time that day

the mother of all craters was contrived

a dazzling missile from the sky? likely enough

whether delivered by friend, born of error or calculating foe

the answer mattered not a jot

to the only mortal left living

her scepticism revealed in her ‘please help’ prayer to self

before the happening

her dancing eyes and captivating disposition

ensured any man was hers at the click of the fingers

not now though, in ‘the now’ a yearning for just necessities

a hairbrush, clothes that were not shredded, toothpaste

a lawn upon which to play croquet, her much treasured beret

another human being to talk with

not a lot to ask

yet in the circumstances

likely too much

“What is love if not the eternal juvenile’s juvenile flame?” she was unaware of her talking to herself adding, “The brutality of love counts for everything, choices and infusions, everything. Why, why am I here still…how can that be?”

she gaped into the abyss where once was a township

her quiet remembrance interrupted

about faced

both saw and heard

in the near distance

under a mind-blowing shaft of whitest light

the Cheshire cat grinning

smartest uniformed young soldier boy

a fiddle mounted twixt crevasse of jaw and shoulder

singing his gentle anthem as sweet ballad

 

“Sing us a song of love and hope

Sing one of war and peace

Sing us a song of destiny

Only then will this nightmare cease”

 

as more than a little anxiety vanished

superseded by safety’s warm glow

an unkempt gal of crushed aspirations

joined in the chorus of ascendancy

one that those dead and gone

would never know of

 

 

 

 

 

RANDOM THOUGHTS OF ZOOLON

I see George has been blogging once more

Zoolon Audio

1

(photo I took somewhere in Loire Valley, France – near the Troglodytes)

RANDOM THOUGHTS OF ZOOLON

Subject: Sunglasses

I think I’ll wait until dusk before I look at the sky again

Although I worry that my sunglasses think they no longer have a purpose

What they don’t know is that they are not redundant just yet

If the roof falls in, or gets blown away on a sunny day I may find I need them

I think I saw them moving this morning.

Now, a PEN MASH;

All sounds in the video are directly sourced from what you see on screen.  Here, I wanted to explore the creation of sound to reveal what one can do using, subjectively, mundane sources, namely just a pen and my fingers.  A simple idea, yet accomplished by manoeuvring the pen and my fingers to create bass and synth sounds, then time stretching the sounds…

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