An Extreme Case Of Pareidolia

A friend of mine said this to me once
It was quite a while ago
So I'm paraphrasing..

Here's what he said..

Oh I wrote this poem once too
It was a long time ago

He brandished a piece of air
And I asked at the air 

Only once

He nodded sagely

Only once
It didn't do anything for me..no offence but

it just wasn't me..
A bit pointless poems..

Although to be fair..it got me laid.. funnily enough..yeah yeah

She loved me for what I read out to her
I genuinely felt all of that..
all of that stuff for her..
And all those feelings just gushed right out
Almost like it wasn't me

I still think of her
You would have loved her too if you met her..
I hope wherever she is she is having a great life..
Those few weeks we spent together
They were just bliss
And the thing was
I'm sure at the time I knew it..

He trailed off wistfully
And I probably nodded

And replied

Yeah

And he probably affirmed

Yeah she really loved me for what I read out to her that day
Now..looking back..I wish..maybe..
Oh I know I can't now..
Long time ago..

His memories seemed to drift around us
Like a let-go balloon
Waiting for someone
To clutch its string
And pull it through golden fields..

But as I say poetry is like a time-waste for me..

So I tried to lightly console him

Oh but it got you a lovely girlfriend..

Yeah you're right you know
And it got me a holiday too
She invited me to stay at her dad's place in Saint Tropez
He had a casino and a yacht..

It was a bit embarrassing..

How so

Well she made me read my poem out to her dad
And I remember I said to him but I don't really write poems
And he said no don't worry I don't really either..He was a really cool guy..

He gazed at the window
Or maybe out the window
And I'm trying to recall for you which
But so sorry I can't remember
So I gaze at my mobile phone
Where this poem is gazing back at me
And it doesn't seem to know either..

So I read my poem out
And he shouted bravo in some
French words
And we all laughed
Just all laughed
And he gave me three-hundred euro-quid
to bet down at his casino
Where I won my year's travelling money
And I bought that evil motorbike..
Never again..

I'll never write a poem again..
Not sure what you see in it all..

He looked again at his empty hand of poem

So did I probably

And then
He said

The nineteen-nineties were mad weren't they
Looking back now they feel so..so destined..
I dunno..

Probably a few moments of silence..

And they were so pre-9/11 in every way..

I probably nodded an hmmn yeah I think I know what you mean

Before asking

In the past did any of your paintings ever land you a girlfriend

And he replied

..Hmm that's a good one..
Oh I suppose so
But only in an indirect free kick kind of way..
But painting

It's just me..
I just love it
You should try it sometime..

And I probably said something like

I know what you mean
Poetry for me is painting
I paint through my thought-shapes pictures of words..
It's also something I just have to do sometimes
It isn't for anything..

He concluded..

And that's our problem
There's no hope for either of us then mate
We should have grown up by now
The fact that we don't do this for anything is the scary bit..

And I'm sure we both laughed
And one of us probably looked out the window
While the other probably gazed at their empty hand of poem
And I can't recall which one of us did which..
And we lost touch with each other shortly afterwards..

Poets Should Be Teachers Like Submariners Should Be Bricklayers

Izny the Zepoleene
Wasn't very good rhyming words
But was very good rhyming clouds
Now how many poets can beat that

Mimzy the Triximeme
Wasn't too au fait tilling fields
But was very good tilling cows
So how many farmers have seeded that
                                                          ahem

Please note
Mizmy could also tile cows
And the cows graciously enjoyed grazing mosaically their untilled fields
Mooing gentle shimmering chessboards..

                  
    ..Only to be check-mated later

      By the abattoir gentleman

His first pre-dawn task
Happy-finishing the milkmaid
 Clasping her buttocks 

  with his clammy
       thrumming tactical bingo-numbed mugwump fingers
beneath the Ben-Day Dot reversing twilight..

Morphing now rapidly into a kinetic
Hulk killing-machine post-Heathcliff

 Deployed James Blunt secrets still echo-throe her
inside her post-coital ears

A delicate sunrise
       A circular-saw screeching

      Cow eyes silently beseeching
         Squares polka-dot Pollocked

                Stun-punched and Picasso'd 
 Curated into Cubist frozen fractal Guernica-smorgasbord
 by Evensong..

                                                                      

Cixxy the Nipineem
Wasn't very good with the ladeez
But was great at pulling daisies
Now how many Alan Titchmarshes can do that

Please note

Cixxy also once allegedly pulled Alan Titchmarsh

Observe
I said allegedly

And that allegedly is a VERY big ALLEGEDLY indeed
So please note that dear litigious post-rock poetry haters
                                          Thank you so very much

Now the question remains
Where did Cixxy allegedly pull Titchmarsh to
This being a matter of some fierce and dissonant discourse and debate..

You know

   the Alan Titchmarsh fan community 

       is a frighteningly fractious and recalcitrant place..

One theory has it
Cixxy pulled Titchmarsh into a hedgerow
The other
Cixxy threw Titchmarsh over a windmill
Which makes much more sense to me
As
Nipineems often throw objects of their desire over windmills

In Nipineem culture you see
Throwing someone over a windmill
Is a sure-fire gentle-hearted method of breaking the ice
Especially when you throw someone over a windmill
And they smack side-on into a frozen pond

And as we all must acknowledge 
Titchmarsh is the uber alpha male
Thus likely to excite and trigger
       bursting Nipineem hormone bubbles
Small allegedly this time
But big allergy
Especially if you suffer from hay fever
And don't do elegy poetry..  

   sad swans
pill-popping pylons swaying in corn circles desultory ducks

      the thwack of leather on willowy nun  the pissed parson pressing grapes at the fete

a flying screaming
to-be sneezer
smashing into a frozen pond..

                                                        Typical phoned-in imagery
                          of countryside idyll-dystopia twenty-first century wonder-porn...

     Okay     Now    
That's a Hank Kingsley Hey now
Post-rock poetry groupies
Imagine being thrown over a windmill
And smashing yourself through a frozen pond
And having a sneezing fit
After breaking above the marbled glass waves of shattered ice..

                                  Now
Does this second scenario make much more sense to you too
Let us have a fierce debate
But no violence please
We all know how these
Titchmarsh-thrown-over-a-windmill
                                   head-breaks-pond
                                           sneezing-fit debates can escalate

You've been there

Yeah I can tell

Me too oh me too

incidentally,,

For
Nipineems
The windmill
Came before the chicken and egg
Windmills and
Nipineems both being lacto-vegetarian

                                                                                                                  random thought..

..for there are no rules to invoking romantic rainbows..
end of random thought..

                                  Now
May I ask you one question please
Okay thanks
                                  Hey now
                            Here is another
Has the legend that is Titchmarsh
Mentioned this controversial biopic episode in his sneering
And perhaps seething
No-holds-barred
Warts-and-all
But generous-to-a-fault-that's-me 
                       I-can't-help-myself autobiography

Frankly
I haven't yet invested in his ghost-written autobiography
I mean how on earth do ghosts manage to even hold a pen..

I wish this poem had an end

But where does that begin..

Now here you go ladies
Gird your loins
Ugh
Isn't loins the most horrible poetry-word
Probably in any English language
Gird your lions
Yes
That is much better
Ladies
Gird your lions..mooo
That lion roared moo because it has mad cow disease
Bee Tea Double You

So

Ready yourselves

Seamless post-rock poem-gear-shift in..

T-minus 5

4

3

2

1

..

Blast off..

An alien crash-landed in
Taplow
His crease-free silver space suit
      hung from his saucer's back window
Creased
By the busted furry robot
Bouncing off the helium-3 air-bags
And so luckily for him that visible interior vacuum-atmos-ambience
        fit right into the
              Taplow sales rep groove

The sales reps racing to
Taplow singing
Squeeze My Baby Aubergine
Noted the crash-landing saucer
And almost stopped to watch this strange tableaux
But they didn't
I admire that

They didn't travel all the way to
Taplow
From as far away as
Langley
Only to witness a typical alien sales rep saucer-crash-land tableaux
Even though the alien wasn't a typical sales rep at all
No
He was actually an archetypal atypical alien area sales MANAGER
Who was once subtly depicted in a tapestry
Bayeux
Back in the day when archetypal atypical alien area sales MANAGERS

                                               rodeo-rode around in Agarthan chariots
                                              And made their go-faster-striped ass-racers 

                                               piss in plastic bags made of parchment-reeds

                                              to be thrown carelessly outside the

                                             Dinky Donkey drive-in amphitheatres                                              Nothing changes eh

This is the end

As Jim Morrison famously once sang

This is the beginning
His admiral father less famously might have conspiratorially whispered
In the
Gulf of Tonkin
And that's a very speculative musing there

            my post-rock poetry haters..

https://youtu.be/CIrvSJwwJUE
The End

When Tony Sneezes..

Truth catches a cold
Then TTIP appears, no fear -
Remain without hope

I'm Going To Write A Poem About You

Childish I'm sure
But the way that pavement cyclist 
Pedestrian-pranged me his signature 
I became his press-ganged human speed-bump
Suffering concrete-kissing discomfiture
Well he certainly deserved nothing less
than the back hand of my pierian
So as the pebble-assed smurf pelted away
Revolving dalek camera on his pompous high viz head
I brushed myself down
Bracing myself for what I am called here to do
So of course I shouted after the piston-peddle ghoul
I'm going to write a poem about you
            Yeah you
                          You

Cab drivers waved and saluted
A high street nun ran from across the street
Just to kiss my hand
A police officer nodded then walked on by
We reached a mafia code-silent understanding
She even threw me her pen

Immature I know
But my annual performance review left a taste bitter
Yet again informed I wasn't short-list-quality promotional candidature
Apparently singularly undermining the rise of the firm's added-value line curvature
And somewhat fazed by another HR ninja
Her reptilian wax-line grin 
              all herbal teabag voodoo reasoning
Gifted me the spiritual cue as of a dream
So as I turned and strolled out the room
I'm going to write a poem about you
Boom

The shop steward hooted 
Offered me exclusive black label vodka undiluted
Two babes at the tea point blinked me the sauciest of winks
A glimpse of nocturnal promise 
Probably no methinks
But perhaps a lingering warm embrace
An admiring sloppy kiss
Do earnest-brow rhymes emit such subtle pheromone
Is poetry actually for this
If only at sixteen I had known this
      If only I had known this
             at thirty-six


On a distant parallel earth I've known
Conflicts are always fought with verse
The only distant shock waves emanate from startling sonic couplets
The only missiles flying are sirens' missives mystic
We listen
They listen
No bullying
No murder
Just rhymes
Or blank verse
Should nothing else work
Not sure whether blank verse or violent death is worse
I pray for the semi-innocent witnesses of performance poetry sometimes
We all know performance poetry isn't always a victimless crime..

The crime scene cordoned off with police tape

The body tagged under the sheets 

And that's just the poet

The emcee in the corner pleads with the detectives

A smoked-glass stretch limo snakes slowly by outside

A poetry agent in the back snuffs out his cigar

Observing the aftermath sits back

Whispers something enigmatic to the chauffeur

Who then races away into the feral and starless night..

And once upon a time I said
I'm going to write a poem about you
It was while she tipped tinned spaghetti all over my head
Before magically brandishing
                          and then smashing my new laptop                                            repeatedly over the bedstead
                                                      But it was okay for her to do this she said
                                                                             As it was her bedstead


Case for the prosecution closed
I was tried and convicted and living dead
I should have fled but instead
I raised with her this terrifying prospect
I'm...going...to...write...TWO...poems...about....you now
All pregnant pause in italics for emphasis 
                                                      with the TWO capitalised for added dramatic effect
Harold Pinter on the decks
She laughed then
I doubt that she's laughing now..