IF YOU LISTEN HARD ENOUGH YOU MAY HEAR A VIOLIN

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Led unwittingly perhaps

Yet led nonetheless

On the merry dance of

Debauched obsession

A naked one at that

Across the square of indignity

Feet long since

Apathetic frozen stumps

Immune now

To anything the carpet of snow

Carried on the wind and

Born of Mother Russia

Could exacerbate

 

The crack of the horsewhip

A whip held in the hands of

Uniformed assassins

More than stings

Skeletal bare thighs

Of the numbered ones

Young

Old

Male

Female

Those of newly found

Indifference

Jockeying them along

On the odyssey

To the inferno

Where love fell afoul of

Detestation

 

Time stands still

All these years on

A monochrome vista

No pigeons

Not a place for dreamers

 

If you listen hard enough

You may hear a violin

 

THE WRETCHED TALE OF VINCENT COALBUNKER’S RUNNY NOSE

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Until August 8th last year my life was going swimmingly well. I had well paid employment, a girlfriend whose beauty was the envy of my chums and….oh yes……I had chums as well.  Whatever that date, August 8th last year was the day my nose began to run. Initially just a drip, then as the day wore on the drip become a flood, then the flood became a veritable waterfall. Armed with a box of tissues I took myself off round the quacks to see if he could prescribe me any medicine to relieve my plight. Sadly he could not. Even medical specialists afforded me no help basically saying that I was stuck with my runny nose for the rest of my days. August the fucking 8th.

At first I had no realisation as to how my life would change so dramatically for the worse. I was soon to find out though. Yes I should have had an inkling when just a short time into my runny nose phase my elder brother Cedric invited me to attend his stag night along with a bunch of his cronies. I turned up at the venue a little late I recall as I had forgotten my box of man-sized tissues and had to rush home to pick them for my snotter was gushing something chronic.  Anyhow I must admit to being more than a little excited to find the venue was a pole dancing club. However just as I settled into to a chair and placed my box of tissues upon my lap the very pretty young lady who was about to remove her clothing in an erotic style as a pre-requisite to swinging from said pole bellowed out, “I’m not fucking performing in front of a pervert. Look at him he’s got tissues and I’ll lay odds he’s going to masturbate when the lights dim the dirty bastard. I know his fucking type.” With that a bouncer collared me and dragged me away eventually chucking me into the gutter yet not before punching me hard in the guts. Even my brother and his friends called me a ‘sicko’ and said they never wanted me in their company ever again. Word of this got out and now, even on Facebook I have no friends. My girlfriend disowned me as well putting a note through my letterbox just saying, ‘It’s over.’

I tried to look on the bright side yet it was with a heavy heart I went into work the next morning. At the time – when I had a job that is – I was employed as a life guard at our local swimming pool. Obviously I had my box of tissues with me so as to prevent my ever worsening nose torrents from polluting the pool. It was a Friday and as I sat poolside upon my high chair I realised it was the ‘ladies only’ synchronized swimming morning. I’ve always particularly enjoyed see all the pretty girls in their cozzes. However this morning the beautiful Amanda, the team leader spotted me with my box of tissues on my lap and demanded the manager sack me that instant as a leisure centre was no place for a weirdo. It was thus that I lost my job.

Depressed somewhat I meandered home yet feeling the need for a little sustenance I popped into Ethel’s Café and ordered up a takeaway bacon sandwich. And then events turned for the worse. I found myself a bench to sit on and having consumed my lunch I was taking time out thinking of my plight with, of course, my man-sized box of tissues upon my lap when a group of very angry, fierce even, women ventured toward me. I thought little of it initially then the first of many punches and kicks left me – nose still running like a lava flow I might add – in a crumpled heap on the pavement. The police eventually arrived and arrested me on the spot one copper saying, “You filthy piece of immorality; you scum bag. How did you think you’d get away with it sat right outside the gates of a girl’s only primary school? It’s little wonder those mum’s went for you as they did. You’d be better off dead.” I protested my innocence yet presently I am out on bail awaiting a trial date. I have been told to expect a custodial sentence though.

After eventually being released from my overnight cell and at my lowest ebb I popped into the local Spa shop on my way home my nose running worse than ever. You see I was in urgent need of a man-sized box of tissues as mine had been confiscated for forensic testing. Whilst in the Spa shop I picked up the tissues and decided to rent a DVD to watch later on. I chose Brokeback Mountain as it happens.  In the queue to pay I soon became aware that others were looking at me in a strange way. First to utter words was old Grannie Fitzwarren stood behind me. “I know what you’re going to do when you get home and don’t think I haven’t seen what you’ve got in that basket, you depraved, disgusting, sick low-life’ she said with her face in mine. With that Jenny on the till screamed a scream of fear whereon Mr Patel the owner of the shop told me that I was distressing his patrons and promptly barred me from ever shopping in his establishment again.

The next day I decided to take an afternoon constitutional. My walk took me past the local cinema where I was taken aback by a poster affixed to the door. It was a mug shot of yours truly bearing the tag, ‘NO UNACCOMPANIED ADULT MALES CARRYING A BOX OF TISSUES ALLOWED IN THESE PREMISES.’ My heart sank to read those words. Salty tears rolled down my cheeks and a tsunami of snot gushed from my nose. I realized then that I was a broken man.

Is there no place safe for a man alone with a box of tissues? A woman with a runny nose would get all the sympathy in the world. Why me?

 

 

San Francisco To Lower Golden Gate Bridge To Curb Suicide Attempts

His Facebook page is a veritable home for nutters in temperate climates.

SOZ SATIRE

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London’s Tower Bridge demonstrates it’s famous “Pinball Flippers” anti-suicide equipment.

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The city of San Francisco in The United States have announced that they are going to lower the famous Golden Gate Bridge, which spans San Francisco Bay and links it to The Pacific Ocean, leaving it suspended just 3 feet from the water in an effort to deter would-be suicide victims from leaping to their deaths.

The bridge, often macabrely referred to as The Bridge Of Death, has claimed over 1,400 victims since it was opened in 1937 and is the most prolific suicide site in The United States.

The Mayor Of San Francisco, Ed Lee, told reporters last night. “We feel it’s time something was done to deter people from taking their own lives in this way. Being dubbed the suicide capital of America is detrimental to our reputation and downright bad for business. We aim to start…

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SOME YEARS LATER A KNOCK AT MY DOOR

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A local man it was

So I heard

After the event of course

He told the police

They would find me there

 

What with me being  

Faint-hearted

I did not need much talking down

Surprised I managed

To climb so high

What with my vertigo

And all that

 

Later on

Wrapped in blankets

Sipping tea

They even gave me a biscuit!

I apologised

For the inconvenience

I had caused

And went about my way

 

Some years later

A knock at my door

They took me away

For crucifixion

Atop a hillock

 

They were drinking hooch

And speaking of things

I could not understand

Although from the snippets

Of conversation overheard

I determined

They were certain

I was innocent

 

Even so

And despite the fact

I had cured cancer

They named me a charlatan

Claimed my feat impossible

Ignored the evidence

And feasted

With the masses

Who had gathered there

Feasted

On my slow demise

My very public death

 

Perhaps I should have jumped

That day

So long ago

 

Perhaps science

Was a bad career move

In the first instance?

THE MYSTERIOUS CASE OF JESSICA DOWNLOW THE SUICIDAL TREE HUGGING POET & PC ROBERT BOBBY aka ‘BOBBY BOB BOB’

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JESSICA’S STORY: “I just knew it would turn out this way. There was me in the deepest part of the forest enacting my 55th suicide attempt by way of supergluing myself to a tree and becoming at one with it when lo and behold who should turn up but ‘Bobby Bob Bo’ our local policeman. I thought this might happen when he had, just a few days earlier spotted me carrying that gross of superglue out of the Poundland store. At the time he had said to me, ‘‘Oi Jessica what are you doing with all that superglue? I trust you’re not going to try and top yourself again – I shall have to be keeping an eye on you luv.’ Yet for once I’ve got it right for part of the tree I now am and I must say it feels rather glorious, so very natural to be thus. ‘Bobby Bob Bob’ cannot save me this time.

It is a shame that I will never again be able to write poetry however I can ‘think’ poems and pass on my words subliminally to any punter dropping by and giving me…..er….or should I say the tree that I am a part of a jolly good old fashioned hug. In point of fact I feel a poem coming on at this very moment. I have at last found true happiness I think.

‘BOBBY BOB BOB’S’ STORY: I was proceeding in a northerly direction through the Shagger’s Wood on the lookout for Jessica Downlow who I had spotted a few days previous armed with an unusually large quantity of superglue. Given her propensity to attempt suicide at an alarming rate and given that her place of residence had been empty for a number of days I thought it best to seek out her whereabouts and make sure she hadn’t done anything silly. Jessica has a track record in this regard. In the knowledge that she loves nothing better than to hug trees I decided to commence my search for her in the woods. Regrettably, and despite searching far and wide there was no sign of her. Approaching the centre of the forest I did spot a tree that seemed to have within its trunk a perfect image of the female form. I contemplated this for a moment and had just got out my mobile with a view to taking a photograph that I would later post on my Facebook page thus outdoing the cats, kids and cake brigade when I felt compelled to go up right close to the tree. It was a really funny feeling I can tell you – almost as if the tree was calling for me. The next thing I knew was that my uniform was scattered around me on the forest floor and there I was stark bollock naked hugging the female form that was the very foundation of said tree. Imagine how taken aback I was as events played out as they did. You see – not that anyone back at the station would ever believe me – I swear I heard the tree commune with me in verse. I will never, ever forget the words I heard. They went…..

I am at one with creation now

And part of this great oak

You will feel my words, not hear them,

And the emotions they may evoke

 

For I have gone and topped myself

And am now part of the cosmic flow

I’ll no longer need pets and lover’s

Not me, Jessica Downlow

 

So poor Bobby Bob Bob

Do not weep for me

Come back any time you wish

And I’ll give you hugs for free

 

Well I thought to myself, what a load of bollocks that was. I hastened to get my uniform back on with some degree of urgency in case someone spotted me without a stitch on entangled with a tree. Innocent as my situation was the boys down the nick would have had me marked down as a pervert if news of this ever got out. Anyway, what with the shock of it all and once off duty I went down the pub and got totally bladdered. Still haven’t got a fucking clue where Jessica’s got to though. Evening all!

 

 

Dorking To Stage “Sharia Law Summer Fete Of Retribution”

Nearly didn’t reblog this as it puts my own satire to shame – not that I’m jealous or anything!

SOZ SATIRE

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Excited townsfolk awaiting the result of last week’s Grand Raffle And Prize Draw

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Following the imposition of Islamic sharia law last month, the sleepy Surrey backwater of Dorking have announced details of their forthcoming summer fete in the parish magazine. Written by hand in Arabic, using the blood of slain infidels, the details are as follows:

9.00am – Grand opening by The Lady Mayoress Hermione Lawson henceforth to be known as Ali Akbar Muhammed-Smythe.

9.15am – Adulteress Stoning. Mrs Amy Sturgess from 35 Lavinia Avenue will be buried up to her neck in the children’s sand pit and subjected to a barrage of bricks and rocks for smiling in a friendly manner at the milkman

12.00 noon – Children’s Kidnapping Extravaganza. A number of pre-bubescent girls will be bundled into the back of a Toyota Land Cruiser and driven off at speed never to be seen again

2.00pm…

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BAD TRAINERS CAUSE BLISTERED MORALS

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The unbelievable truth of tiny things

Is that they are as big as we are

An anomaly of sorts

 

Wayward is the spider

Who swaps its web

For a caravan

Reserved for only

The gypsy moths

And they care just for linen

And the moon

 

I took the path willingly

Ignorant and alone

Guided by the groomers

Of the innocent

To believe in

Unproven things

 

Matters not now

Bad trainers cause

Blistered morals

 

The unbelievable truth of tiny things

Is that they are as big as we are

An anomaly of sorts

 

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

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Yes my friends it is the summer solstice and that is the very best day of the year to take a swift tree hug I can tell you. I truly find this day the druids treasure so very much; this longest day, shortest night the day when trees pulsate, abundant with messages just for the likes of me and the other devoted tree huggers. So why then am I so totally depressed this year at this time of what should be celebration? Well I’ll tell you. Only last week I fell in love for the umpteenth time. The only difference was that my would be lover was almost a decade my junior with an appetite for carnal pleasure that for once in my life matched mine. My God we were at it night and day – I even found I had to diarize my bouts of embracing the perennials so as to give some order to my otherwise frantic days of erotic delight. 

How very happy I was – I even prayed that this relationship was the one; that I had found my soul mate with bonuses to boot!  However just a week into our relationship I asked him what he did for a living and he, Wayne Purfleet was his name, replied to the effect that he was a lumberjack! Bollocks I thought as I ended the affair forthwith. 

Since the split I have repeatedly asked of myself how I could have even contemplated falling for such a cruel, evil mass murderer of my beloved botanical marvels. It was with sorrow in my heart that I penned this, my latest and more than likely, my last poem. 

OH WOE IS ME

 

Oh woe is me

For I can’t see

A forest in my dreams

 

For in a forest fair

Is where I dare

To offer up my screams

 

For as I hug

That nature’s rug

That is the very bark

 

The energy

Of tree trunk to me

Takes me from the dark

 

Secluded place

Where off my face

Stuck on fast upon loves shelf

 

I contemplate

I cannot wait

For the day I top myself

 

So tonight’s the night then! Yes my 55th bid for self-inflicted ruin is about me and I do believe death on summer solstice has such a nice, even poetic appropriate ring to it. For this attempt I have carefully chosen a mode that I believe cannot fail.  You see I shall venture to the very depths of the forest and find the biggest tree that lies within – for the record a majestic oak – and, with my kit off (it’s the best way to feel the energy emitting from twig to roots and all things in between) I shall superglue myself to the trunk and become at one with the tree for eternity, or basically when I starve to death for no one will find me there. 

I do harbour one small doubt as to the potential success of this attempt though. You see when in Poundland purchasing a gross of said superglue I had the occasion to be stopped by our village policeman PC Robert Bobby known locally as ‘Bobby Bob Bob.’ He stopped me and asked, ‘Oi Jessica what are you doing with all that superglue? I trust you’re not going to try and top yourself again – I shall have to be keeping an eye on you luv.’ I do so very much hope he will not thwart my venture. I live in hope. 

CHECK TOMORROWS POST TO SEE WHETHER JESSICA SUCCEEDS OR ‘BOBBY BOB BOB’ COMES TO HER ‘RESCUE’- that is if you’re not bored shitless already.

 

American Soccer Fan Arrested And Beaten To Death For Appreciating Move By Opposing Team

A post I rather like from Lord Daniel Soz 7th Earl of Whitechapel

SOZ SATIRE

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Two Miami cops preparing to maim anybody with a German surname before tonight’s USA v Germany clash

There was widespread condemnation across the globe last night as news emerged that a 45 year old man had been arrested and then beaten to death in a Miami jail cell after being reported to the police for expressing his appreciation of a shot at goal by Portuguese striker Christiano Ronaldo in a local bar during the world cup clash between USA and Portugal last week.

Fellow drinkers called the cops after Dwight Kincaid from Miami Beach, Florida was heard to exclaim “Hey that was a pretty neat effort guys!” after the Portuguese ace struck the crossbar from 30 yards during the clash.

A spokesman for the Florida Police Dept said last night “Hey shit happens man. The disloyal sonofabitch had it comin’ anyways. USA!…USA!…USA!

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LEMON GLASS VASE

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The lemon glass vase

An empty vessel

Superfluous

In a houseful of fiction

Books imprisoned in trunks

Above and behind

An unlocked loft door

Not knowing what fate

Awaits them

Such bounty unclaimed

 

Vitriol and venom

The rapier tongue

Cuts to the quick

Severs the jugular

 

Suited and booted

I take of my leave

 

Once there was a lemon vase

It is nowhere to be found

 

A recurring nightmare then and now still haunts for reasons unknown