All entries for November 2005
November 26, 2005
Wank is a mountain in the Bavarian Alps, by Garmisch-Partenkirchen in Germany, close to the Austrian border.
It is 1780m tall, and is served by a cable car, the Wankbahn, which in twenty minutes takes one virtually to the peak (valley station 728m, mountain station 1742m). It is possible to spend a night at the peak of the Wank, in an inn called the Wankhaus which was built in 1911. Many English-speaking tourists travelling in nearby Austria make a detour in order to go to Wank.
November 23, 2005
Two new poetical forms.
Pantoum – Canis Lupus
Teeth rest on the skin
caressing the larynx.
You seem to fall asleep
in a palimpsest of smoke.
Caressing the larynx
under a lilac haze,
a palimpsest of smoke,
distant moon beyond the lattice.
Under a lilac haze,
curled like chitin shell
in the palimpsest of smoke,
sleeping muscle breathing still.
Curled like chitin shell
we will not escape;
sleeping muscle breathing still
as the sky, the idle clouds.
We will not escape
from the poem that you read
to the sky, the idle clouds,
your breath like spirits rising
from the poem that you read.
You seem to fall asleep
your breath like spirits rising.
Teeth rest on the skin.
November 22, 2005
“Oswald, you are a weak man. Perhaps it is time to face that.”
Oswald and Mr. Kovacs regarded each other cooly. A waitress began to approach but decided that to do so would not be prudent. Oswald stirred,
“Yes, I suppose. Weak. I often need help opening jars and suchlike.”
“I don't think you understand me, Mr. B.”
“My name… is Oswald.”
Mr Kovacs removed his secret agent shades, revealing keen, piercing blue eyes. He reached into his voluminous trench coat and pulled out a brown manilla envelope.
“Inside this brown manilla envelope,” said the Hungarian, “is all you need to know.”
Oswald took it and examined it with trepidation, noticing some pencilled numbers on the back: 365 721. He met Mr. Kovacs' gaze and then opened it up. Inside was a photocopy of a page from a certain Tolkein novel. Oswald reeled, for the first paragraph read:
end li! sha wus shronkon: e slandar ilf-wemen, clod on samplo whete whese gontla vuoca wis suft und sud. "I pess tha tast," shi soid. "I wall demenush, ind gi onto thi Wast ind rimuin Geledruel
“Yes, Oswald. The Lord of the Rings, with all the vowels re-arranged at random. If I'm right, you have nine copies of this book hidden at home. I have the tenth.”
“Then you must have met Bernard,” said Oswald.
“And what did he tell you?”
Oswald took this in. His first thought was this man has ruined my day. His second thought was this man could ruin my life.
“You can't tell anyone. Really you mustn’t.”
Mr. Kovacs just laughed and finished his frappuchino. “We'll see. Meet me outside the bank at noon. I'm sure we can come to a mutually beneficial arrangement.”
“Yes. I do like those sorts of arrangements, Mr. Kovacs.”
Oswald sat there for up to three minutes staring at his coffee cup. He then sat there for a further three minutes staring at the numbers on the envelope. He got up and went to the telephone booth in the corner of the cafe, and dialled: 365 721. Two rings, and then a voice, low and syrupy:
“What's the status?”
Oswald, a keen reader of spy thrillers, replied, “The Package is en route.”
“You know… the Package… from Kovacs.”
“I didn't order no damn package.”
And the voice hung up.
Oswald's trip to the bank was uneventful. His head was in the clouds and his stomach full of butterflies. The one thing that reassured him was the weight in his coat pocket, cold and metallic under his fingers: a lunch banana that he had wrapped in foil. Kovacs was waiting by the ATM machines. Oswald took the initiative.
“Why did you give me that phone number?”
“Phone number?” replied Kovacs.
“Yes: on the brown manilla envelope!”
Kovacs looked puzzled for a second, then remembered. “I was doing the Sudoku before you came, that wasn't a phone number. Now mentally prepare yourself. There is somebody I want you to meet. That's right, Oswald. I didn't bring you here to extort you out of all your money, but for something much more significant. That said, if you could spare me a fiver for some lunch, I'd appreciate it.”
“Certainly. Who is this man? An associate of Bernard's?”
“You could say that.”
A black limo pulled up in what seemed to Oswald a ridiculously intimidating manner. I could make a run for it, Oswald thought. But he got in the limo nonetheless.
November 19, 2005
Fuck and shit. The world hates me and my dreamy dream girl has left me for some annoying shit with bad hair.
My limbs are all dying and rotting away
My fingers are covered in green
You stuck rusty nails in my eyes today
Or at least, that's how it seemed
Now pain bleeds from from the corners of the night
Since you left me on my own
You broke my heart in the wake of your flight
You also broke some of my bones.
If you're reading, Miranda, I fucking hate you.
breast of lamb, chinese yam, cut of lamb, fluid dram, giant clam, give a damn, golden gram, hoover dam, leg of lamb, little slam, loin of lamb, paschal lamb, persian lamb, picnic ham, rack of lamb, razor clam, steamer clam, tinker's dam, tinker's damn, uncle sam, viet nam, water yam
This poem is v. personal but I have decided to blog it anyway!
Your eyes are like a million stars
That burn so blue like the moon, or Mars
Your lovely hair is like a stream
A curly, blonde river, flowing through my dream.
You remind me of the sunset's gold
And other things from nature
I'll stay with you until we're old
I'll never say "I hate ya"
What do you think!