Legends

A few weeks ago something prompted this to pop into my head and now I can’t remember what. It definitely gave it context, I remember that much. Anyway, the show, as they say, must go on; so to compensate for lack of reasoning an alternative timeline for your contemplation follows the verse.


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Smokin’

Following on from Fern Stone’s last guest post, where misogyny was taken to task, the poem that ‘started’ it all.

On top of the sexism, there was also the by comparison minor failure to recognise someone else’s art as a finished piece and appreciate it as it should be beheld.

In The Medusa Protocol II what constitutes art is central to the conversation at Kirsty/Medusa’s apartment; ‘how alike a painting of a bowl of fruit is to a real bowl of fruit doesn’t reveal the first thing about how good the art is,’ etc. Both there and previously here (Brigitte Bardon’t: Radio Songs; a Review) I’ve quoted Martin Creed:


“My work is about fifty per cent what I make of it and fifty per cent what people make of it. Meanings are made in people’s heads. I can’t control them.”


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Geezers and Goldfish Bowls

In the early 90s I worked London’s markets; the following is an account of true events (continued from: Songs T Taught Me and the Mystery of Charlie Chaplin):

Spaces always look smaller when empty; something in this case helped big time by the stage being hidden behind a curtain. The area once full of merry drinkers now occupied by a solitary pool table, five ‘chaps‘ drinking and smoking round it.

It’d become one of those pubs where unless you knew someone already there, everyone there would assume you undercover plod worthy of a good stabbingup. The fact one of us was a loud Aussie doing nothing to allay suspicions; on the contrary, what better way for a rozzer to hide than appearing to be from a different country.


Last thing to do: turn tail and leave.


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Fruit Baskets; a damning indictment

Before fruit baskets it was just a bunch of grapes the sick got given. It made sense that while in hospital with nothing to do they’d have plenty of time to tread grapes for wine, a drink essential to healthy wellbeing, big pans left under the bed for anytime they fancied a little squish of fruit beneath feet and between toes.

However, thanks to advances in medicine the sick are no longer as ill as they used to be, and these days can be given whole fruit baskets so their time convalescing can be spent creating not just vino but also all sorts of juices and smoothies as well.

Who knows, but at this rate it surely won’t be long before the unwell are able to operate micro breweries and small artisan patisseries while recovering too.

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Introducing Fern Stone: newest kick-ass poet warrior on the block!

While out for a scroll the other day across the groups and pages where poetry is shared, a post caught my attention.

Someone wrote of previously having dropped a poem directly to the group, only for someone else to . . . Let’s not mince words. The ‘someone’, Fern Stone, is mid-twenties and female; while the critic male and heading the wrong side of middle-aged.


Cringe worthy stereotypes abounded from the latter with unabashed aplomb.


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Songs T Taught Me and the Mystery of Charlie Chaplin

In the early 90s I worked London’s markets; the following is an account of true events (continued from: Horses for Courses):

In Croydon my attempts to give socks away were met with outright resistance:

‘He don’t like the ones with elastic at the top’

‘Too thick; will make his feet sweat’

Replying, ‘how about for another much loved and cared for family member, such as a cherished grandchild?’ did nothing to entice the taking of free socks.

There was nothing for it but the songs T had taught me:

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