It’s summer: the weather is scintillating (for a change); so what could be better than ice cream?
I Scream at Ice Cream
poem
Old Hat
I did something the other night not done in an age; socialised with friends. Then I did something never done before ever: forgot my hat. Once, I didn’t even like hats; though that’s another story, for that it was a hat is neither here nor there; the point being, I’d hitherto never lost or mislaid an item of personal attire. Some thoughts on the grim calamity:
Continue readingI want to lick your face
There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you for a long time, but just haven’t found the right words or way.
Today that changes.
Zen vs. the Art of Consistency
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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Uncle Sam’s on Mars
Some possibly tongue in cheek thoughts on those celebrating the latest invasion of Mars.
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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Big dreams and worst nightmares
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.
Washday Blues
Perspective is a powerful thing; capable of making even the most modern technology feel a wretched inconvenience.
