Forty-Two Seconds

Congratulations, and,

Please rest assured,
Your limited edition mp3,
Will be with you shortly,

And will arrive in a virtual-cardboard gatefold sleeve.

And, in delightful edition -

Its very special revolving hole,

Wrapped tenderly - hand-made too!

Will come to you separately,
Posted in a vacuum-sealed, sexy black bubble-wrap.

Now,
We're sorry,

For we are now legally obliged to state the obvious to you:
We know, probably, you are aware of this already, and,

Justin Bieber appreciates your patience and understanding here,

Truly, he does,

For he knows how seriously his special fans,

Love all manifestations of life in this amazing universe so very much:

A universe that created Justin Bieber,

And Justin Bieber fans,

And on the same planet,

And at the same time, means,

Truly,

We Are All One.

But Justin Bieber's lawyers still wish you to know:

Please don't, by accident,

Drop the hole for this mp3 through your hands:
A dropped revolving hole may trigger,

A cataclysmic flux in space-time,

Ripping the entire universe to absolute shreds.

Don't do this in Justin Bieber's name:

He loves you as he loves Canada.

Justin Bieber doesn't want any of his truly astonishing fans to

wipe out fifty-billion-and-one civilisations instantly.

And all for being a little clumsy?

And please be aware,
The person who drops the mp3 hole will be humanity's sole survivor,

(Being the centre of the catastrophe, ironically perhaps,

Means being the only one to escape instant death).

Now that is not good news,
As everyone else, all dead, shall eagerly await their slayer's arrival,
Down and into,

The newly terrible and vengeful black hole afterlife.
And "sorry" and "please forgive me" won't cut it there:
For your forgiving and loving God,

Wrapped as She is,

In the very bubble-wrap of space-time,

Would also have died.

However,

The swirling, melting afterlife,

Functioning out of space and time,

Would thrive.

And yes,

That is really ironic.

Even Justin Bieber's pure and eternal soul won't be able to save you there.

Dear winner,

Please don't let this information spoil your enjoyment of this limited edition mp3,
With its virtual gatefold sleeve,

And its very special revolving hole,
Arriving separately,
In sexy black bubble wrap.

Justin Bieber endorses this message.

********************************

Well,

That was forty-two seconds of your life,
You will never get back.

So how was it for you?

Actually -

Only kidding!

Here you go:
Here's your forty-two seconds back.
Please put them away in a cool, dry and safe place,

Until you need them.

Please use your forty-two seconds wisely,

By July 3011.

If you accidentally consume these forty-two seconds after the use-by-date,

Please fly back in time,
Before your cosmic consciousness disintegrates;
Your local time-warp shaman,

Will be glad to assist you with this,
So don't worry.

(And in case you are wondering -
And you probably are -

Time-warp shamanic practitioners

Will come into existence,

In ninety years and twelve seconds time, precisely,

By which time,

You will also be delighted to hear,
We would also have paid off our current national deficit,
And be invited to join The New Mongol Empire.

The New Mongol Empire?

Oh, don't ask.)

So remember,
Justin Bieber wants you to enjoy his compositions,

And his very special revolving hole,
Safely.

Please be warned:
The lyrics on this mp3,

Contain mild expressions of sentimental sadness.

Justin Bieber,

And The New Mongol Empire,
Endorse this message.

The Swimming Bells

I heard the scream,
So through walls I fell,
A sidewinder of dream:
The swimming bells.

I serenaded stone-white-noise and other idiots,
Where bricks grow.

I love leaning on rain:
Still life on bursting sky:
In every cloud hangs the bath.

Can we parachute from clouds?
Can clouds?

I'll tip my tethered cloud over this one:
A silvery stream liner for dreaming on:
A slidden slumber chandelier,
A wonderful plumping floss flamingo.

Am I insured for domestic cloud explosions?

The monsoon trenches are triggered.

Too late now.

So as I lay myself down on my raindrop eiderdown,

From my concrete floor carnations bloom.

Me And Whose Army Me And Whose Army Me And Whose Army

sickening I know

how. dare. they. do. that. missing children dead soldiers terrorist victims

hacked

Shouldn't. Be. Allowed.

so-called journalists

distraught parents' phones

is nothing sacred

the body bags the salutes the kids watching the widow weep

a floor elsewhere loosens the vanquished lover gripping air

like a mime artist holding a hand

and. then. this.

his mum had a breakdown you know

too difficult to get over:

they must close it down

sick toxic

no advertisers should touch it

and

lo

the righteous indignation's and the its gone too far's

rang around the nation for almost three days British Summer Time

like a caveman with tinnitus lying on the sun bed

(wimbledon had just finished)

but it's a new day tomorrow

life goes on

and that means:

I'll Have To Buy The Last Edition

******************************

(a lapsed hindu scribe writes):

two of a thousand years ago

a bloke pissed 'em off

got hung on a cross

He looked down

and watched an enterprising fellow chipping away at his crucifix's foundation

The Jesus Bloke:

Don't worry my son

Don't try to free me

The Lord will..

bloke bloke:

nah nah don't worry

i'm just chopping bits off for a souvenir

i won't compromise your foundation

you won't fall

i just pray

that it will sell on eBay

i've got some paracetimol if you like..

and forgive me

i know i'm not a christian

but who at the present moment is

i know that's a bit deep

the centurions chuckled

* =

A time will come,
When we can no longer abide ourselves
passing air,
From,
You know,
Down there.

And when no-one is looking,
We will explode ourselves violently timid -
Like a spatula smearing -
Above the dark side of the moon,
(But far away from the Greys' secret observation towers).*

Yet meanwhile,
We shall not pay a second glance,
When kids or grannies,
Fiddle themselves to blindness at the bus stop:
It will just be:
A thing that happens.

And like any workaday entry-point phenomenon,
New and strange target-markets shall be deformed,
That advertisers and marketing people,
Will endevour to consumate.

* = asterisk

Whistler Tear Rockets (The Cubist Chef And The Triangle Sandwich)

I loved you like an astronaut
loves an actress
loves an eclipse,

You haunt my leave like mist.
I drank your trees.
(I hammer orchids still.)

You whirled stark firework arrays:
Whistler-tear-rockets:
Strafing Butterflies.

Like a chocolate dream of incense,
Flute streams slid waterfall lemons..

Lip-read the smile for a walrus,
A dentist lost.

Your nightingales sang with mermaids
of selling my heart on eBay,

This snow dog bewitched.

A shake down by the moon of lamp post light,
And soon simile solitaire blossomed.

My bauble lighthouse,
Your burning hair-tong-eyes
smoked my moustache's tiny tresses to ashes.

The cubist chef and the triangle sandwich.

Like a whitewash of creasing skylights,
You loved me.