Reality has a sick sense of humour…

I had a dream last night that I was hallucinating; or maybe I was hallucinating that I was having a dream. It’s hard to tell what is really the case but the first option sounds better so I’ll stick with that for the lack of any empirical evidence.

I was walking through a garden chatting politely with the hedge which was sipping tea delicately from bone china cups and eating jammy dodgers. Darting, perching birds composed of elegantly cursive calligraphy cut through the air and that left fine ink footprints, like tiny pen scratches, wherever they landed. In a tree, a serval stretched out along a branch discussing philosophy with an iridescent green woodpecker. Upon being spied it stretched sinuously and padded on silent feet behind the trunk and into nothingness. The woodpecker simply whistled innocently and examined the bark of the tree far too closely. In a dark corner a little girl in a blood stained dress with a necklace of dolls heads was playing with a boy made of mud and broken toys. I took care not to look too closely at what they were playing. It involved lots of screaming and knives.

Over the hedge I saw traffic lights, this signals covered with eyelids, blinking red, amber and green in turn; each set of curled eyelashes catching the gentle breeze. The signals were ignored by the traffic which was marching in step down the road under the blind gaze of a uniformed policemen, featureless apart from a pair of glossy, mirrored sunglasses.

I turned to my companion and asked him if he saw what I was seeing. He told me everything was normal and I was just seeing things, but I saw that suppressed smirk on his face telling me he was in on the joke reality was playing.

So; can you see what I see?

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First lusts

I suppose it says a lot about me that my first crush wasn’t the bohemian art teacher with the pendulous and unfettered breasts or even Sam Fox or any of the other early eighties top shelf totty.

Don’t get me wrong I got my fair share of the tattered porn mags that were passed around behind the metaphorical bike sheds. And yes I did say magazines, remember this was the early eighties well before the internet when a boys best friends was the kays lingerie catalogue – psssst page 28 if you look really hard there’s a bit of nipple that’s not been entirely airbrushed out. From there your ascent into manhood climaxed, no pun intended, with the purchase of your first top shelf magazine. How I pity the youth of today missing out on this essential rite of passage; nothing builds character like buying a copy of razzle from a matronly old lady who bears more than a passing resemblance to your grandmother.

Anyway back to my first crush – well he first person to have my libido rap, rap, rapping on the inside of my testicles was the inestimable Colonel Wilma Deering. Even now I’m not sure what it was. The Farah flick? The glossy make-up? The white spandex? Or maybe the barely concealed dominatrix character? Despite the fact that twiki the camp, comedy robot sidekick was probably more in my league my pre-adolescent fantasies were filled with a heady mix of space born daring do and excessive fornication.

At times I even idly wondered if clambering into my parents chest freezer really was a viable way of meeting girls.
Of course first lusts never last but I still there is a warm corner of my libido given over to kitch sci-fi crushes where Colonel D has permanent residence.

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Ode to the follicly challenged

Each morning I’m reminded,
We baldies have a sartorial edge,
Hair free and care free,
But for the odd spray of pledge,

You may point you may laugh,
With your curly long locks,
At my shiny bald pate,
Teamed with sandals and socks,

Once I was like you,
With your tresses of gold,
Look at your future,
When you too are old,

Those potions, that unction,
Head massage frenetic,
They won’t change a thing,
The hairline’s genetic,

Each strand in your hairbrush,
Each strand in your bed,
They all take their toll,
In your expanding forehead,

But don’t you fret,
Dry that tear of sorrow,,
It’s just proof of the adage,
Hair today, gone tomorrow!

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Lurve…

There’s that look that you want to punch. Equal parts smugness and doe eyed dreaminess topped off with a healthy dash of self satisfaction.

The trouble is, it’s gazing back at you from the mirror.

You always swore to yourself you would never go down this route.

Love hearts, stuffed toys and visions of white wedding dresses could surely be only a matter of days away and then all would lost. Where had it gone? The rock hard certitude at the core of your being. That unmovable anchor of your life, washed away by a torrent of raging hormones.

Now you are just going to have to resign yourself to the loss of your rebel loner status. All that hard work that you put in to wrap yourself in a cloak of bemused indifference and hold yourself above the rabble would surely be wiped away by a single smile from him.

Dammit.

Life could be so unfair at times.

You would never be able to hold your head up at the back of the school bus again. Turning your back on the smug, hateful face taunting you in the mirror…

…you smile at the memory of him slouching so endearingly round the edge of the school yard…

…it’s so worth it!

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Not my favourite poem…

Having just read “26” I feel like I’ve had an aesthetic experience roughly akin to being happy slapped with a kipper while having my underwear filled with live hermit crabs. I sit down slightly shakily, torn between contacting trading standards to report this mess passing itself off as a poem and sheer horror that not only did it get written but also published. Surely an indication of a civilisation in decline?

You would have thought that given the starting premise of coming of age and boy meets girl some feeling and emotional context could be forthcoming, but no. Instead you get what appears to random collection of words with all grace, meaning, style and flow meticulously beaten out of them. But the abuse doesn’t stop there. Having beaten these poor innocent words into a flaccid shadow of their former selves they are now roughly crow-barred into a form approximating a poem. And I do mean crow-barred. A word to would be poets out there — randomly breaking a sentence in the middle

does not make it art.

Just when you think that things couldn’t get any worse the abuser, as the author will henceforth be known, takes the klunkiest metaphor possible and shoehorns it into the middle of the unholy mess (with a section in parenthesis believe it or not) leaving the reader feeling like they have not only been pushed to the floor but repeatedly kicked while down.

This pile of word detritus is not only a dearth of art and creativity but an actual black hole. Upon reading it you can feel your soul being suck away from you leaving the world a little uglier and a little greyer than before.

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Visitors…

Space invaders want our women!

Saucer-men abduct farmer’s cattle!

Really I don’t know where to begin. Firstly all you primates look alike to us; we wouldn’t know which your women are even if we did want them. And as for the cows; rescuing them is closer. You should hear what they say about you. Pervert farmers can’t keep their hands of our breasts; steal our children’s food and murder our young men. It’s a testament to their pacifist ideals that you haven’t been wiped out by an army of irate bovines.

We has such high hopes. Really we did. When we got that pretty trinket you sent bigging up your achievements we thought we would come take a look at earth. And what did we find. Not as bastion of art and culture with the welcome mat out but a planet of paranoid apes who can’t even get on with the next population centre let alone another planet. We had even bought the receptacle of crystalline sucrose that seems to be the ritual welcome gift on your planet. Well that got flushed out the nearest airlock I can tell you; there was no way we were going to land on your uninviting corner of the cosmos.

Of course it would have been churlish to make a snap decision. After all you could have just been having an off decade. So we parked up in orbit and kept an eye on Earth. I’m afraid nothing that has happened has made us think that you will be any more inviting to little green men from Mars. Oh and while we’re on that subject, we aren’t green, we aren’t from Mars and size isn’t everything. So for all you project bluebooks and SETI initiatives — that gave us a good laugh by the way, the fact that you consider yourselves intelligent — don’t expect to find anything until you can show that visitors are welcome.

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Autumn

As the last whisps of summer condense into the mists of autumn,

Far horizons are obscure and sharp colours muted,

Nights on the town become evenings round the fire,

Rush and hurry becomes slow and simple,

Time to take things easy,

To break out warm clothing; warm food and rich ales,

The days still defy the impending season with flashes of warmth,

But it’s a losing battle.

Only a matter of time.

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