Fall in love with the rich experiences in Hanoi, Phnom Penh, and New Delhi
Fall in love with the rich experiences in Hanoi, Phnom Penh, and New Delhi
Fall in love with the rich experiences in Hanoi, Phnom Penh, and New Delhi Fall in love with the rich experiences in Hanoi, Phnom Penh, and New Delhi 0 SHARES Over the years, Philippine Airlines has been making the world more connected through heartfelt air travel, making everything reachable. Now with more flights to Asia, it gave access to amazing lands, countless sceneries, and people like no other await. Three cities in particular are rich in cultures so distinct, you’ll be in awe over and over again. Once upon a time, the foreign lands of the East stayed distant. Its mysteries remained unknown, the stories of enchanting kingdoms remained fantasies, and its inhabitants remained strangers. And only a few could fly to these… until now. Hanoi, the timeless charm. At the heart of Vietnam lies its capital city, by the banks of the Red River, that blends both the land’s past colonial French influence and the booming of new-age Asia. Hanoi excites with its scrumptious cuisine, pulsating nightlife, and multi-cultural community. The second biggest city in the country, Hanoi boasts a unique kind of heritage, where every sort of experience reaches your senses. It hosts a number of well-preserved temples and pagodas (tiered towers with multiple eaves) like the Tran Quoc Pagoda – an architectural masterpiece. If you’re looking for an out of this world marvel, you can walk to the center of two larger than life hands carved from stone. If there’s one thing you’ll unravel in Hanoi, it’s the fresh and mouth-watering delicacies around the city. There’s the world-famous bowl of hot Pho or Vietnamese noodle soup. Or the Bun Cha or Vermicelli with Grilled Pork around town. You can also try a known local sandwich that’s influenced by French and Asian taste called Banh Mi. The baguette represents the European aspect of the sandwich, while the cold cuts, the vegetables, and the spice top off the taste of the East. Yum! Get lost in the tree-lined boulevards and alleyways of Old Quarter where you’ll uncover all sorts of finds. As an emerging fashion district, you may want to dive deep into the “Paris of Vietnam.” Shop through Hanoi’s growing Weekend Markets and gush over the wide array of fashion items and even food stalls. Phnom Penh, the glimmering destination. Seeing the sights of Cambodia’s lavish capital puts you in a place of tranquility, filled with rich traditions you never knew existed. The National Museum of Cambodia, home to the world’s finest collection of Khmer artistry, is a sight to behold. Every sculpture and bronze piece you see in the museum bring you up to date on the prosperous history of the nation. If you want to see the Khmer’s architectural brilliance, then a trip to the Royal Palace and Silver Pagoda will leave you in wonder. The majestic details will make you appreciate the history and culture of Cambodia. Phnom Penh is a cosmopolitan culinary scene with a plethora of delicious bites and savory food. Try the Lap Khmer (beef salad) for an equal experience of yummy meat and fresh greens. If you’re looking for an adventurous take on Khmer delicacies, then have a plate of Red Tree Ants with Beef. If you’re thinking of exploring the depths of Phnom Penh’s beverage culture, the emerging speakeasy bar culture can be experienced in the hidden alleys of the city. Make your trip to Phnom Penh worth it by taking the time to visit other popular tourist spots. Take a tour of the Phnom Tamao Wildlife Rescue Center and get up close and personal with the endangered animals. For an entertaining evening, catch the Cambodian Living Arts’ Theatre Show and go on a magical journey through Cambodian mythology and traditions. New Delhi, the eternal city. Invigorating and endlessly fascinating, you have reached the gateway to India’s Golden Triangle. One step into this growing metropolis and you can immediately get lost amidst the vibrant culture and folks leading you to an adventure of a lifetime. From New Delhi, take a trip through the Golden Triangle, the tourist circuit connecting the capital to two other cities – Agra and Jaipur. Travel via coach and behold one of the world’s Seven Wonders, the magnificent Taj Mahal in Agra. Or see for yourself Jaipur’s exceptional architecture in theHawa Mahal palace. Widen your reach and discover what India has to offer. India’s love for festivals speaks for how unique and breathtaking their traditions are. At spring time, you can fall in love with the joyful and colorful festival of Holi . Take part in throwing colored water and powder, celebrating the moment of rejoicing and utmost enthusiasm. Come October, you can celebrate the most important holiday, Diwali , a festival celebrates the victory of good over evil. As a result, locals prepare mouthwatering banquets and commemorate the momentous feast with explosions of fireworks in the sky. New Delhi boasts of cuisines so bountiful, you’d want to try them all. If you’re looking for a little heat, you’d love the Mughalai curry, a rich and creamy Indian classic. Its fragrant spices and unexpected add-ons such as cashews and raisins bring a surprising depth to the taste of this meal. For a little spoonful of something familiar, try the Masala Dosa . It looks like a regular pancake, but once it lands on your tastebuds, you won’t stop eating. Dressing like a prince or a princess in a storybook location is easy when you’re in town. You can find a good blend of clothing, jewelry, handicrafts, and the like at the weekly village market of Dilli Haat . Bring out the inner Picasso in you and discover artworks, Indian artifacts, brassware, and more in the Janpath Market . New Delhi is literally sprawling with bustling bazaar streets, you can’t miss out. Create your own stories filled with culture and adventure by visiting three enchanting cities with the airline that can make it happen. Philippine Airlines has opened its new routes to these locations, 4x weekly to Hanoi starting March 31, 2019, 5x weekly to Phnom Penh starting April 1, 2019, and 4x weekly to New Delhi starting April 16, 2019. Even before reaching these majestic cities, start the tale of your vacation on a high note with Philippine Airlines’ comfortable seats, inflight meals, a next-level inflight entertainment system, and a signature heartfelt service like no other. If you’re even planning to take home souvenirs, you may do so with free baggage allowance of up to 25kg for Economy Class Passengers and up to 35kg for Business Class Passengers. So what are you waiting for? The three storied cities of the Asia await! Book now and create your own timeless tales in Hanoi, Phnom Penh, and New Delhi! For more information on Philippine Airlines, visit www.philippineairlines.com, or follow its Facebook page (Facebook.com/flyPAL), Twitter (@flyPAL) and Instagram (@flyPAL). About Philippine Airlines Philippine Airlines (PAL) is the national flag carrier of the Philippines, proud to be the first and longest-serving airline in Asia under its original name since being founded in 1941. Philippine Airlines is a full-service scheduled airline whose fleet of 85 aircraft operate flights to 33 destinations in the Philippines and to more than 40 international destinations in the United States, Australia, Canada, the United Kingdom, the Middle East, New Zealand and all over Asia. It also serves an additional 41 destinations through code share alliances with partner airlines. Philippine Airlines recently received a 4-Star global airline rating from Skytrax, the international air transport rating organization, having proven excellence and commitment to world-class standards across Skytrax’s global metrics that measure product and service quality.
Joyfullittlehippo. My point is that most restaurants that serve a particular cuisine (Chinese or Indian for example) serve one or two items not of that cuisine enabling people to have the choice of what to eat, so for an example a Indian food liking person not to be left out at meal were everyone else wanted indian and also meaning their food preference doesn’t impact everyone else. Vegetarian restaurants dont seem to offer that choice which seems to be a poor business and b forces people to eat vegetarian.
CROTON BUSINESS IN THE NEWS, A LATE WINTER, EARLY SPRING 2019 UPDATE & A RE-CAP OF RECENT EVENTS TOO
EverythingCroton CROTON BUSINESS IN THE NEWS, A LATE WINTER, EARLY SPRING 2019 UPDATE & A RE-CAP OF RECENT EVENTS TOO Welcome to Everything Croton, a collection of all things Croton–our history, our homes, our issues, our businesses, our schools, our houses of worship, in short, EVERYTHING CROTON. CROTON BUSINESS IN THE NEWS, A LATE WINTER, EARLY SPRING 2019 EVERYTHING CROTON UPDATE and RECAP–stay tuned for more every six weeks or so…. –CROTON SHOPRITE’S COMMUNITY ADVOCACY CONTINUES; presents $3,000 check to Croton Caring Committee; more here –FAB NEW CLASS COMING TO CORTLANDT SCHOOL OF PERFORMING ARTS, PROFESSOR ELI’S WORLD ( MORE HERE ) –RENOVATIONS CONTINUE AT FORMER GOODWILL LOCATION FOR FIT BODY BOOT CAMP; MORE HERE –FEED THE BIRDS! celebrated its 8th anniversary in Croton this past December. ALSO CONTINUES TO SUPPORT LOCAL ARTISTS; Molly Heily’s Ceramics are back; MORE HERE –UMAMI CLOSED IN LATE 2018; to become TABASCO MEXICAN BAR & GRILL; more here –A CAUSE THAT IS NEAR AND DEAR TO THE DESSERTIST ‘s HEART; FROM HER FB PAGE: On Tuesday evening, March 12th, nearly 50 acclaimed chefs, over 400 guests, 11,900 cookies and more than 50 donated works of art can be found at Metropolitan West in New York City for the 6th Annual Chefs for Kids’ Cancer gala to raise funds for childhood cancer research. Find out more at www.cookiesforkidacancer.org. AND MORE NEWS FROM THE DESSERTIST; YOU CAN NOW ORDER ONLINE –THE GREEN GROWLER IS UNDER NEW OWNERSHIP. CLICK HERE TO READ MORE FROM EVAN COHEN. –UPDATE ON CKO KICKBOXING; more here –HOLY SMOKE BBQ CROTON has St. Pat’s specials throughout March: $5 pints of Guiness and more here . AND TWO WEEKS OF THEIR IN HOUSE CORNED BEEF AND CABBAGE; MORE HERE –NEW CLASSES AT BENNETT CONSERVATORY OF MUSIC; GO HERE –MARCH 14TH IS “PI DAY” AT BAKED BY SUSAN. MORE HERE –RAGA INDIAN CUISINE (and Ossining’s Good Kitchen cafe, Buchanan’s El Condor too) make the top Yelp listings, Westchester Magazine, more here –WESTCHESTER MAGAZINE; 105-Twenty Brings a Cool New Vibe to Croton-on-Hudson– MORE HERE . –MEMPHIS MAE’S CLOSED IN FEBRUARY; we wish Greg Gilbert the best of luck. –SPRING MUSICAL, SUESSICAL, CROTON ACADEMY OF ARTS http://www.crotonacademy.org/shows –YUKA’S LATIN FUSION website has been extensively updated; their MOJITO WEDNESDAYS AND TAPAS MONDAYS receive rave reviews https://www.yukaslatinfusion.com/happenings/ –CROTON CARING COMMITTEE HONORS PETE TSAGARAKIS OF CROTON COLONIAL DINER; more here . (Decorations from Girl Scouts and The Westchester Balloon Co .) –On January 11th, a Karaoke fundraiser for Purple Heart Homes (Downstate Chapter, Mark Franzoso) was held at The Tavern at Croton Landing. See the photos here . –APPLE FARM/EVELYN’S FARM, watch for grand opening. (In the former Green & Grain/Zeytinia space). Scheduled to open sometime in the spring, possibly the end of this month. They are currently hiring for all positions; 56 Maple Street, call 914-271-1110. –IN CASE YOU MISSED IT: BAKED BY SUSAN & THE DESSERTIST IN THE NEWS—WESTCHESTER MAGAZINE—Delightful Wedding Desserts for Every Season— more here. –BACKSTAGE SALON’s March newsletter now online; also a drop off point for Verplanck Food Bank, and recently renovated flooring https://bit.ly/2SQjO8m –3/21 A.S.A.P MORTGAGE Spanish Speaking Home Buying SEMINAR; more info here –THREE LOCAL RAVE REVIEWS: ****The Mekyabetsu Gomae (Brussell Sprouts with Sesame Sauce) and Softshell Crab Tempura at Asagao Sushi ! ****THE HONEY ROASTED BEETS APPETIZER AT ANTON’S is getting rave reviews; see their most recent seasonal dinner menu here . ****Check out the very hearty, AND YET STILL VERY LIGHT, Meatloaf–not to mention the most tender Corned Beef ever–when available, at Giovanni’s. This woman-owned business on Croton Point Avenue stands apart! –VOTED THE BEST LOCAL SUNDAY BRUNCH BY EVERYTHING CROTON READERS IN 2018: the Sunday Brunch at Croton Grille– More here . AND BACK AT THE CROTON GRILLE BY POPULAR DEMAND; MORE HERE –EXPANDED VEGAN OPTIONS AT THE BLUE PIG; MORE HERE –On March 12th, the following business items are on the village planning board meeting:****Baked by Susan seeks space in the new Benedict Blvd. building; need additional parking****Happy Hearts Take Two (their second location in Harmon) expansion, 10 additional classrooms at the former car dealership**** and a new salon, Salon M. To see the agenda and related documents, click here . –UPPER VILLAGE BLOOMS CELEBRATES 6 MONTH ANNIVERSARY; To celebrate, they’ve launched a new customer loyalty program to thank you for your business. It’s like a digital punch card– you use your phone number each time you make a purchase, and you must opt in to enroll. When you enroll, you are rewarded 2 Blooms. For every $10 spent, you receive 1 Bloom.As you earn blooms, you can redeem them for exclusive items, fresh flowers, or discounts. FOR MORE INFO, visit https://www.facebook.com/uppervillageblooms/ Posted by
Explainer: Is Test cricket dying? Short answer – not yet
Is Test cricket going to die? It is a thought that has festered in the minds of the game’s administrators, players and supporters since the advent of one-day internationals in 1971.
Tests have indeed survived one wave of change after another to hit the game’s shores over the past nearly five decades – through the launch of the Cricket World Cup in 1975, the creation of the breakaway World Series Cricket two years later, and the arrival of Twenty20, the game’s shortest format at international level, in 2005.
But the scope of the existential threat has been magnified in recent times by the changing tastes of the paying public.
The International Cricket Council (ICC), the sport’s governing body, has pinned its hopes of keeping the format alive on the inaugural World Test Championship, which is due to launch in July – but more on this later.
So why is the health of the five-day game, which celebrates its 142nd birthday next week, a topic of discussion at the moment? Read on.
Last month ICC chairman Shashank Manohar said the World Test championship had been introduced to stop the format from ‘dying’. Indranil Mukherjee / AFP The MCC survey The London-based Marylebone Cricket Club (MCC) – the custodians of the game’s laws – recently surveyed more than 13,000 responders from more than 100 countries asking them what their preferred format was. An overwhelming 86 per cent of the fans voted for Test cricket, according to a statement the MCC issued on Saturday.
“Responders still consider the Test format to be the pinnacle of cricket and the favourite format of cricket to attend, follow and watch, with respondents describing the game as the ‘ultimate’ form of cricket,” the MCC said.
While the debate about the future of the long format is not new, what was the need to conduct a survey at this point in time? Presumably, it was partly in response to remarks made on the topic by the ICC chairman last month.
“Test cricket is actually dying to be honest,” Shashank Manohar said during a reception hosted by the Bangladesh Cricket Board in February. “So to improve the situation, we are trying ways and means.”
The MCC’s survey showed responders did not agree with Manohar’s assertion, which will have come as good news to many of the purists who look down on shorter formats.
Chennai Super Kings enjoy the trophy celebrations, and plenty of support, after winning the 2018 Indian Premier League. Rafiq Maqbool / AP Photo Does Manohar not have a point? He does to a certain extent.
The heart of the matter is most people do not have the time or patience to watch whole Test matches, which are played over seven hours every day for five days.
The lion’s share of the viewers come from the subcontinent, form the core of the middle-class, live in cities and have 9-5 jobs. Seeing as this growing segment of the population cannot afford to watch a full game on television, let alone go to a stadium, the long-term viability of Test cricket will always be an issue.
The commercialisation and monetisation of the sport, which began in the late 70s, have given the viewers – and as a consequence of that the players – more options to choose from. There was a glut of international competitions even before T20 leagues began mushrooming around the world during the past decade.
Today, the Indian Premier League, the Big Bash League and the Pakistan Super League have all become incredibly successful among fans not just in established cricketing nations but also emerging ones. And the lure of quick money has spawned several T20 freelancers, while many players have signed white ball-only contracts in English county cricket making their priority clear.
“If you look at the TRPs of the broadcasters, T20 has the maximum TRP,” Manohar explained of the impact it has had on TV ratings. “It is because of being the shorter version of the game. Nowadays, people don’t have five days time to watch a Test match. From 10 to 5 everybody has their own job to do so it is very difficult for them to watch this game.
“T20s get over in three-and-a-half hours, like watching a movie. Therefore, it is picking up very fast.”
Last month, Sri Lanka became the first Asian team to win a Test series in South Africa. Rodger Bosch / AFP Has the survey got it wrong then? It has not, for the number of people who grew up watching Test cricket and continue to love it is still significant. That said, the recent competitiveness among Test-playing nations has probably added to the positivity among the survey’s responders.
The past couple of months have been a great advertisement for the long form, with India registering their first ever Test series victory in Australia, West Indies humbling England, and Sri Lanka becoming the first Asian country to win a series in South Africa.
“Test cricket has had the most incredible year and that has contributed to the strong support for Test cricket,” said Sri Lankan batting great Kumar Sangakkara, a member of the MCC World Cricket Committee.
“There’s huge competition amongst the top countries at the moment and it makes for exciting competition. It is brilliant news fans are backing the great cricket being played the world over.”
Sri Lanka beat South Africa, who had beaten Pakistan, who had beaten Australia, who lost to India, who lost to England, who beat Sri Lanka. And in between, New Zealand have beaten everyone, while West Indies have beaten England and Zimbabwe drew with Bangladesh.
Test cricket. — Saurabh Somani (@saurabh_42) February 23, 2019 Dave Richardson, the ICC’s outgoing chief executive, has himself disagreed with Manohar and provided a strong piece of evidence to support the notion that Test cricket is in decent shape.
“We have got more than a billion fans that follow cricket – 68 per cent of them are fans of all three formats of the game, which means that close to 700 million people are fans of Test cricket,” Richardson said last month. “So it is wrong to say that Test cricket is dying.”
The former South Africa wicketkeeper-batsman, however, pointed to a change in viewing habits. “Maybe the way that people are following Test cricket is different to what it was say 10, 20 years ago,” he said.
For instance, while people may not be able to watch entire matches, they are taking short breaks from work to catch a glimpse of the action. There are those following the scores online, so the interest is definitely there.
Richardson’s point is also instructive in that cricket will continue to offer multiple options of entertainment that fans can pick and choose from. It is not as if those who like spicy Indian dishes or oily Chinese food cannot develop a taste for the Japanese cuisine and the comparatively subtle flavours it has to offer.
Australia is already experimenting with day-night Tests, which might help increase people’s interest in the format. Peter Parks / AFP The solutions Whether you agree that Test cricket is dying or not, there is little debate that it faces many challenges.
The MCC survey did point to key challenges in increasing attendances at and viewership of Tests, including cost and availability of ticket and increased access in free-to-air TV. Also, the long-term challenge for the format is the fact more children are growing up on a T20 diet today.
As a result, it is the ICC’s prerogative to find solutions.
The most noteworthy development is its decision in 2017 to launch the World Test Championship this year. Bilateral series, with certain exceptions such as the Ashes, have been suffering from a lack of relevance for a long time. It is fair to ask what the big deal is about, say, India beating England in their own backyard or vice versa.
Does this make for better viewing?
First morning of #PakvAus . Security guard here, earning his dough keeping the crowd off the field pic.twitter.com/xxYfzljY9a
— Paul Radley (@PaulRadley) October 7, 2018 … or does this make for better viewing?
Boota dropped in the crowd in Kathmandu Corner, on his way to 59 not out. Nepal’s openers at the wicket now, 4-0 in the second over chasing 255 #UAEvNEP pic.twitter.com/VQ63EnNBpJ
— Paul Radley (@PaulRadley) January 28, 2019 The Test championship solution, first proposed in 2009, aims to tie meaningless bilateral series into a larger competition played over two years. In essence, this is the Test world cup. If ODIs and T20s can have their own world cups, why not five-day matches?
There are other solutions in the research-and-development phase at the moment – including day-night games and four-day matches – ideas that no doubt have their own issues but nonetheless are worthy of being tried out if only to make the game more palatable to the modern viewer.
A suggestion worth giving some thought, one that was offered by The National ‘s Paul Radley, is playing Test matches at smaller venues which are easier to fill with spectators. Granted this is for cosmetic effect. But small venues are more intimate; just visit the ICC Academy Ground in Dubai Sports City or the nurseries around Zayed Cricket Stadium in Abu Dhabi to find out.
Broadcasters might be hard to persuade given the logistical challenges of covering matches inside small arenas. But even they will agree stands presumably packed with people will help lift the morale of the players and make for good TV.
Short term shared accommodation in the city for $220 a week Hobart City – Hobart CBD | 1212449885
I am a male, living in a modern 1 bed unit in the city. I can offer until April 30 my living room for someone doesn’t mind sleeping on the couch. The couch is good for anyone under 6 feet height. There is TV, Washing machine, Utility bills and Free WiFi included in the rent amount. The kitchen is the living room, and I cook my vegetarian meals (mostly Indian but sometimes other cuisines too, I am a foodie.). If that doesn’t bother you, and if I like you, I wont mind sharing my food. Interested applicants, please reply with your basic info.
Flavored Sea Salt Market – Future Demand Strategies 2028
Home Food and Beverage Industry News Flavored Sea Salt Market – Future Demand Strategies 2028 Flavored Sea Salt Market – Future Demand Strategies 2028 admin Mar 11th, 2019 0 Comment
Flavored sea salts or specialty salts were re-introduced in the market about a decade ago with the emergence of exotic salts brought in from all over the world. Flavored sea salts were overlooked in the market for quite some time, but with the emergence of ingredient-driven cuisines with attention to detail, flavored sea salts are being recognized by the consumer for their unique organoleptic properties. Consumers are more aware of flavored sea salts and their flavor elevating properties, thanks to the rise of artisan culture. Food culture in developed countries is adapting to the artisan flavored sea salts aggressively, to satiate the consumer demand for exotic foods. France’s fleur de sel and Himalayan pink salt are two of the most influential salts that have raised awareness about artisan salts and flavored sea salts in the market. Flavored sea salts demand in the market is on the rise as domestic hand harvested salts are building a reputation for themselves and building a newfound consumer base which ranges from everyday consumer to restaurants.
Get PDF Sample For More Information @ https://www.transparencymarketresearch.com/sample/sample.php?flag=B&rep_id=52902
A growing demand for flavored and artisan salts indicated towards a perception of flavored sea salt as a healthy ingredient over table salt. The absence of chemical additives and the value-added nature of the salt make it more appealing than the table salt to the consumer. From the manufacturer’s point of view, flavored sea salts are not only value-added products, but with the addition of assorted flavor, they can reduce the salt content that is being used. The lesser salt content required leads to a low sodium intake for the consumer. With multiple government setting campaigns to spread awareness about sodium intake and its ill effects on the human body, this has proven beneficial for the flavored sea salt market.
Flavored sea salts provide the consumer with exotic flavor options such as white truffles, whiskey, exotic Indian spices which lend the product a premium vibe at an affordable price tag. This puts flavored sea salts at a strategic position of choice for the consumer wherein consumers who cannot buy the premium products are inclined to purchase the flavored sea salts to satiate their liking towards the flavor. The blend of flavors in flavored sea salt allows the home cooks to express the flavors beyond the restraints of a single flavor of saltiness, and that is one of the major reasons why consumers seemingly gravitate towards flavored sea salts. For chefs and manufacturers smoked flavored sea salts are proving to be a better option to organically incorporate the desired smoky flavor without the health risks of the smoked product. The purity of the flavored sea salts is one of the major points of attraction for the product too. The prospect of no processing and high purity of the flavored sea salt urges the consumer to choose flavored sea salt over the conventional salts.
Some of the market participants in the global flavored sea salt market identified across the value chain include AMAGANSETT SEA SALT CO., HimalaSalt., JACOBSEN SALT CO., Maine Sea Salt Company., SALT TRADERS, DVC Industries, Inc, SeaSalt Superstore, LLC., saltbird, Bitterman and Sons, Inc. etc
South Indian Restaurant in Gachibowli | Multi Cuisine Restaurant | Skynest (Hyderabad)
South Indian Restaurant in Gachibowli | Multi Cuisine Restaurant | Skynest (Hyderabad, India, Other Countries) Sunday, 09 (Use contact form below)
Awesome Tasty South Indian Restaurant in Gachibowli. Best taste to eat it gives a SkyNest Restaurant Food. All variety available in with yummy tasty Roasted chicken is good taste to eat. All style different food available. For details visit our site.
Website:http://www.skynestindia.com/restaurants-in-gachibowli contact:8297029977/66 Email:firstname.lastname@example.org Location:Plot #200, TNGO’s colony, Behind Q-City, Financial District, Nanakramguda, Gachibowli, Hyderabad-500032 It is NOT ok to contact this poster with commercial interests.
Tandoori Sangam: $7 for Indian Food. Three Options Available (Up to 60% Off) | Toronto Deals Blog
Buy now from only $7 Value $15
What You’ll Get Type of cuisine: Indian
This deal is a very hot seller . Groupon has already sold over 375+ vouchers at the time of this post.
This is a limited 2-day only sale that will expire at midnight on Tuesday, March 12, 2019.
Click here to buy now or for more details about the deal.
The Fine Print Promotional value expires 120 days after purchase. Amount paid never expires. Not valid for Thali, Sweets and Canned drinks. Not valid for Special Holidays and andy gathering parties. Limit 2 per person, may buy 2 additional as gift(s). May be repurchased every 30 days. Limit 1 per visit. Limit 1 per table. Valid only for option purchased. Must be 18 or older. Merchant is solely responsible to purchasers for the care and quality of the advertised goods and services.
Tandoori Sangam 2687 Kipling Avenue Unit #1, Toronto, ON M9V 5G6 (647) 348-0055
Each dish at Tandoori Sangam aims to transport diners to the lively streets of New Delhi or Mumbai. The restaurant’s owner grew up watching his mother prepare scrumptious and healthy meals at home and decided to share his passion for cooking with others. After years of gathering experience and learning from the best in the industry, he made his dreams come true—Tandoori Sangam opened its doors to local foodies. Here, seasoned chefs infuse each dish with rich flavors and just the right amount of spice to create an authentic dining experience. The diverse menu at this cozy eatery spans an array of traditional Indian recipes, from both vegetarian and meat appetizers that whet the appetite, such as bread pakora or chicken tikka, to hearty entrees, including mango chicken and lamb curry. And to top it off, diners can satisfy their sweet tooth with a selection of Indian desserts.
Click here to buy now or for more information about the deal. Don’t miss out! Be Sociable, Share!
Vikram Vij and Meeru Dhalwala release third cookbook, an Indian food lover’s tell all
Vikram Vij and Meeru Dhalwala release third cookbook, an Indian food lover’s tell all By 0
Vikram Vij and Meeru Dhalwala are co-owners of two award-winning Indian restaurants in Vancouver BC (Vij’s and Rangoli). They are also co-authors of two award winning cookbooks ( Vij’s: Elegant and Inspired Indian Cuisine and Vij’s at Home: Relax, Honey: The Warmth and Ease of Indian Cooking ).
Vij, an Indian-born Canadian chef, grew up in Amritsar, Delhi and Mumbai. He studied Hotel Management and trained as a chef in Salzburg, Austria. Emigrating to Canada in 1989, he worked in a series of top restaurants; in 1994 he moved to Vancouver and opened Vij’s, a fine dining restaurant. Dhalwala, his wife, joined him the following year and together they have created a line of successful businesses.
Dhalwala, born in India and raised in Washington DC, has an M.A. in Development Studies from the University of Bath in England. She partners with chef Vij by managing the kitchen and creating recipes for the restaurants including a line of prepackaged gourmet curries, Vij’s Inspired Indian Cuisine, available in grocery stores across British Columbia.
Dhalwala wrote the texts for the couple’s three cookbooks. The third, Vij’s Indian: Our Stories, Spices and Cherished Recipes , published in 2016, was proclaimed by celebrated Chef Daniel Boulud as “A journey in cooking tailored by a master in Indian cuisine.”
This is not your typical cookbook. Dhalwala is refreshingly open, thoughtfully frank, passionate, honest and good-humored. The cookbook begins with a “story” by way of an introduction to the journey that she, Vij and their two girls share from the start of their marriage to their eerily entertaining separation, ultimately ending (post book publication) in divorce. It is a raw and honest account to which the reader is drawn like-a-moth-to-the-flame. Never mind that this is, in fact, a cookbook. Or is it?
Comprised of approximately 50 percent stories about their lives and 50 percent Indian recipes, it is an Indian foodie tell-all. What makes it work is that the telling and the cooking are both first rate achievements.
The refreshing perspective Dhalwala imbues with Vij’s Indian is her approach to bringing wonderful Indian recipes swaddled in a story-teller’s blanket of warm and fuzzy narratives that brings each dish to life. When she points out why she roasts or parcels amounts or finds uses beyond a specific seed, nut, kernel or root, you take note. With her conversational style, she confides in you an education beyond the run-of-the-mill cookbook. And you respond with an acknowledging slight nod of your head, aware that you now share kitchen secrets with a kindred soul who has won your trust with her ability to convince you that she is a masterful, caring culinarian of Indian fare.
230 pages in length, with colored photos, drawings and illustrations, the contents include a section covering Indian spices, staples, measurements, tips for Indian cooking and wine pairings (Vij is a certified sommelier). This is followed by recipes for condiments and complements; snacks and starters; vegetarian dishes; grains and legumes; seafood; poultry; and meats. Grateful Americans will appreciate the handy addition of a Conversion Chart equating imperial and metric measures of weights, volumes and temperatures. In addition to Dhalwala’s running commentary of engaging stories throughout the book, each recipe provides a Suggested Pairings List of other dishes for those intent on serving a complete Indian meal.
To those who seek a high-quality cookbook on Indian cuisine laced with engaging stories of those in the starring roles (the authors, the ingredients, the recipes, the act of cooking and serving, the establishments, the guests), Vij’s Indian: Our Stories, Spices and Cherished Recipes won’t disappoint.
rose petals in the ashtray
Hello, my name is john f b tucker not Permutation minus T Intention = e+ not-e; not e minus mc squared = only relative zero; not water on water = 0 – 0; not “+ x ½ = -” but john f b tucker and I have s rious mental health issues. I am currently dumping my g f for a lack of knowledge on my part as to whether or not she cheated. Trust may be the want on my part but which way does it go – if someone else proposes sex to her, should you trust that she did or did not. Being not altruistic, being instinctive, one would expect it is highly likely that she has cheated. It is starting to impact on my mental health s I begged her never to contact me againe. I just went upstairs to ask James P D Tucker – I said – ‘it’s starting to impact on my mental health and I need your opinion, do you think Mary has cheated on me?’ he said either NO or KNOW or both. I cannot tell whether she’s been w/ my brother, my mate, my sociopathic enemy, w/ my neighbour, w/ my ex dealer, w/ all and sundry. Her mother was a pathological liar and her father, let’s just say had a taste in music that preferred the fiddle to other instruments , so it’s quite likely she is sexually deviant and a liar unto the honest, humane and humble Johnsteroo who is writing this – am I wrong? Anyway, James pd says it’s not very nice treating someone the way I treat him – which is wh t? – he says I dump my paranoia on him. I really must dump her as soon as possible – between the lines, eh? She’s 70 something and I 36. The problem of knowing is an age old quandary and brings up issues such as Pascal’s Wager. I only heard of it, and cannot say whether or not Pascal decided it was safer to believe or not to believe given the unknown. There are of course, or rather is, an experiment into whether or not God exists that just appeared. Mary noticed it first, but I set up the apparatus unwittingly. That is, next to the postcards of art on the wall, and above the fire extinguisher, is a blank space where the sunlight – subaquatic and pulsing – formed an art work of its own. Sooo, already I knew that the universe of stars does not ‘enwheel’ when you look at it, but only on axis unobserved. The same is true for the sun-art. It shifted and shapeshifted too, but only when no longer observed. Observing it, it just grows more avid w/ detail – a wind chime of fractured acid rainbows above a hut on the sea – all made of light. All this is by the by. I just want to know why I cannot be told the truth, and/or believe the truth if the truth I am told is innocent. Maybe my being a writer lends me an excessive desire for truth, as well as an increased likelihood nobody is going to to give me it. The following book represents a lifetime’s about and is categorised on 5 parts: prose, songs, poems, a dreamwork diary, a proof written at 7 years old. I have proven that if you can write an answer to Jim Morrison at the age of 7 – 9, you can have the new creatures. My answer was a proof for the theory of metamorphose conducted on a lump of pollen I could name or identify. Recently someone has stolen the original 7 – 9 year old exercise books from my flat – as well as my watch, my zippo lighter, and someone also left me a death threat saying they would chainsaw my legs off if I did not stop pacing. That was when I first moved in, was first moved in, by Mary, from hers, and when I had akathisia. It comes from GK ‘inability to sit’ and is torture and I had it for 3 years, but how did the death threat person know, for the threat was awaiting me when I moved in? I have also proven that if you write the answer to Einstein in music – e.g. The Road To Heaven by Noj and the Mob – which is my siblings and I – at 12 or 13 – you can have the face of stars, then and for a time, and there were 2 Jewish witnesses gathered there w/ me in Eskdale under the fleck of epic dereliction forever. So if the songs have an efficacy or trespass or game op bet or dare or result, it is that. The poems I have gathered seem more focussed – in terms of efficacy – on the page that bloomed, bloomed, a James P D Tucker doodle, that bloomed pictorial quotes from my second band Oedipus Wrecks, when my father passed. Even a love poem for Flora can, in retrospect, be conceived of as proleptic or preliminary ‘science’ towards this result when it has come true. As this is the last [piece] of he jigsaw I might say that it has defeated me, an equation apropos the exact mixture of Gravity and Lightspeed that defines the page that bloomed. I also might delimit, tentatively, that Lucy in the soul w/ demons is an actual substance – the substance of the bloomings – though I don’t know this. It might also be apposite to note that H20 stands for hypothalamus tattoo and I.T. for instant travel. This book then, well, it might be a waste of your time, but it contains scattered prose pieces, songs, poems, the dreamwork diary, and the childhood proof last of all. I say last of all but this Foreward [an Anglo-Saxon word] is proving the last thing. A feeling of coldness descends upon me, here at the foot of the oldest fell in the Lake District, Black Combe. I miss Mary but at the same time flash up w/ what might be delusion of her infidelity, might be laser guided realism and truth and insight she is not prepared, senescent angel, to admit. It was here that I first looked into a late sunbeam’s dust mote ballet and predicted the discovery of the God Particle; also Sept 11th which I spoke against in 2000, the same year. It is here where in 2008 my fourth band – The Flood – from Cambridge – having fallen up north for a holiday – attested to the proverbial white eyebrow – which is the plough alignment w/ the oldest fell on the night of Mr. Obama’s election – amazeballs. That seems to be the absence of human interference unlike the others, but I don’t know. A note on the title: it’s from my father and should be about Romantic hyper-charge. As you might see in the poem section, I was expelled from a school where I had a mushroom mag – for substances – and also had a bad acid trip whereupon the theme of the poems slightly changed. I start to worry about my mother’s health this very instant and whether she is late back from Millom for a reason. I see an ambulance drive past and start to lose my concentration. I love my mother entirely, and all my family, and this is to be expected. I start to fear jiggery pokery, that my work might be silenced, that someone will take it off the net, that someone wishes harm upon me – Morley, Dave Morley, yes, he might. Anyway, I can’t take much more of this, so shall let you see what lieth here before, one I made earlier so to speak.
MASSIVE CLOCK ON WHICH YOGI BEAR DIES
To break out of frames. To trespass into forbidden gardens. To wash the poison from my eyes. To see the secrets of the skies. To break sum hymen. To make the cops turn in their badges. To go over all the edges yeah. To peer through narrow keyholes into unknown rooms and far-fetched times. To wake the scattered dead fallen in worship to the statue of the serpent crumbled and shrunken. To not renounce the past w/ rapt amazement. To appoint the gods. To consecrate the wounded w/ apology and gentle sadness. To anoint and ordain this dust. To live and to dream for I have called on you to wake. To show how strange and wild wanton w/ wanton promise comes she on an unknown hour like an uninvited guest you’ve somehow brought to bed. To expand history back into the past and never to move again an inch forwards. To run through the memory of Time , ancient , timeless galleries. To always realise we never had time enough to waste or spend. To glory in ourselves like invincible lovers always boundless in new being. To hover motionlessly through the mellow fields. To rise through this careless freewill like a kestrel from its wood. To lust for life as every being should. To have a Poetic Conference w/ Paul. To tell you about pain like some strange unseen vernacular. To make them sound genuine and believable. To forget the past it has no meaning. To look forward to March w/ rapt uncertainty and to not be able to stand the suspense. To let alone the Interesting and Relevant. To go check out the Blue Room over yonder. To write a single in the band Secret Chord H for the new school radio jingle. To have a wank on the chapel altar or not and yet claim I have. To have just come wandering after beauty and green and find how sick the shape she’s made of. To make it utterly Modern. To choose your own self-determined destiny. To harness the colours of the vowels A black, e white, I red, u green, o blue to explore the unconscious on The Drunken Boat. To derange the senses to attain genius. To trip through the arteries of galaxies of memories to galleries where tapestries of slaughter hang from fallen walls through the purple corridor a door is ajar push it open gently creaking opening afar. To beat through the veins of the city in madness. To open poem opium. To say to a drug you fear ‘rape my veins backwards you cunt’. To solve the curious cunt-mystery lying wet and unattended in her lap and plunge down the soft pleasure-triangle. To renounce fidelity to temporal wealth, surface gods of illusions, false gods. To appoint a superhuman narrator to overthrow the conscious self-censor. To make a discovery big as fire on tap. To invent a drug called Strictly Free that does what it says on the tin like Ronseal. To stand alone in Nothingness and dictate the parameters of my own existence like the first principle of God Simulation. To shock w/ truth in art not w/ craziness, to shock w/ familiarity that can derange more than the very strange. To scar sand birthmarks beneath my skin. To trust chaos to babysit my precious things. To beat w/ the Otherness. To float on the artifice of organic emotions through synthetic sounds. To explore alternative histories suppressed by the over-arching meta-narrative. To put my wounds up on bright flags. To plug my senses in the mains tick. To utilise !00% of the brain. To let light look at itself through the mirror of my me. To hair my [R] as is a Barrett sonic machination. To build an every second second and on and off multimedia of mutually assured semi-masturbation, bigger than colour blogger than space, deeper than memes, faster than drum n bass! To write ai feel and crash grand-dad’s A.I. Force plane. To augment the brain waves alpha beta delta omega or not. To take out your eyes and see in all directions at once. To make or not to make smoke speak. To float an hypertext of the word ‘pi’ over the real like an astral body. To open a knicker-soft software inbox in the air. To skin up a colour. To burn and unlearn. To hairdress the dawn. To let the cry cloth hang out forever. To atom-be in the gene-pool. To jump up and down on the spot. To let Steve hypertext your name on Piper or not. To download the lowdown of downtime. To escape the shape of the paper. To obviate not titivate. To melt death and attain perfect listening. To not remove the key from life. To calibrate the key of telepathic grammar. To walk down the ocular nerve. To write in wrinkled, crinkly Christmas wrapping paper. To make batteries out of flannel. To falsify the || | |||| | || | |||| Nirvana barcode shot w/ something like xxfoolx foolxxxxfoolx foolxxfoolx foolxxxxfool. To gallop like galloping water through the cosmos. To be like digital dust lying down on the sun. To tour the underworld. To record on rabbit ears and sand. To give the new dawn a crewcut. To melt evil Hal 9000. To pass through seablood into a calm garden, critical. To confute the lightspeed law of neuroplasticity i.e. it is impossible to remember a new creature, and instrument simultaneous orgasm of man by james bond. To keep a straight line in a time of abject, eschatological crisis. To know what you want and go for it. To dream a dream of beauty as a matter of religion of harebell, sucrose garment, sensory garden songcell halfbeat medium stealhull, Haramel, meltwater angel, flotbeat door, Florida waves, sex-filamentelle, flow. To smile and muse and gaze upon her facebook photographs. To call her Pighammer and grieve. To marry the love poem ending on the mating queen [= motor] and the flower-press ending on cannabis [= dialysis]. To record her an album of drones, drones, on binaural earphones in The Flood [band 4]. To liberate yourself from international unlegislatable grey by acknowledging whom it is that holds all worldly power over you. To redefine love, as, say, a choice of words whose meaning remains contingent, idiosyncratic to its exact mode of expression. To scare the living daylights out of her w/ online messages about the bird we called the juggernaut that wriggled its little wing in the wood, and Grand-darth’s ship that deathful, deathful spreadsheet, both gone under Gondwanaland, alas, before i was ten. To recognise she doesn’t want to know you. To fear the plastic yellow subs secret among us that give themselves away in visions of powder’d light that billow in like magic curtains on the high, karmic wind, in wriggling stone, in swirls of colourful smoke. To hold onto your hat and maintain that w/out pollen albeit divorced from name habits associations by a 7 yr old who “still could not tell what was making such a nose” even at the top of the heaven tree, there probably would’ve been no new creatures nor face of stars and it being illegal represents a de-radicalisation of a unilateral contract. To run that cautionary tale past me againe. To privilege sumptuous consummation over mindless consumption. To replace the postmodern w/ Romantic hyper-charge, to keep on trying to marry the flowerpress ending on cannabis and the new creatures ending on the mating queen in art AND to marry her herself in matrimony too in life, To replace old sense of gay gone under Gondwanaland w/ something like a Lizard King Joint up the fell, to pull Flora herself, to win a Nobel Prize for my life’s average million and deserve it, to record discoveries, to convert heat into light, to draw drugs druid drew drastic againe one day, to do my mother who was sadly drugged and gangraped by a team of Swedish doctors at a party proud, to recognise lucy in the soul w/ demons, your soul, John, is the substance of the eartoons or bloomings an then wash, to make from the situation of being witness ‘in’ and ‘of’ the best ideas of for ‘to’ as in what to do, as in Freedom from and to, to invent many efficacious remedies for boredom, runnings of sensation’s quest up the fretboard of desire, tinglings of sensation itself in the flesh of the fire of doubt. To piss off pastiche parody paraphrase postmodern parrot of parabolic power, whom it seems is metanarrative w/ self-reflexion gone like the witty po-mo glossary in Generation X and also culturally dissecting itself as it goes along, whom it seems is very McTruth and Flies, though we prefer Romantic hyper-charge to the po-mo, to attain and to meet this parameter of God Simulation bleeding gold in headpsace like a programme for the evening’s entertain that gathered its own energies together. To write full of brink death dare w/ mouth shoes random and as liquid icon equidot gone w/ astronaut bell eyes in the middle of muffled fungus language where one bell-lit spoon is colour-blind in the mouth and that means to lipread ‘we’ and to hair ‘them’ for world’s nodes nuzzle and worbs nuds now. To slow down the phet, the faux emotions, hoax meadow and haut cuisine of amphetamine writing into something ‘sober from adverts’, ‘savoury as cheddar cheese’, ‘cleansed in doors rather than deranged in senses in terms of vision’, and to hopefully end it on a high and quit while I am ahead and to keep going and keep getting better and better too. DO YOU WANT TO SEE MY INSECT COLLECTION?
Once I wandered free on a field file, a file field, a fenceless farm w/ no security alarm where all hearts bleed and all arts breed. Light multiplies by dancing there. Now Hell is very quiet, unobtrusive and unadvertised. Gentle face erasing cream, smear it in and let it sink down through the pores of your skin to expunge your deepest down dirt. Get an extra kid for free when you spend 99p. Contact has been made w/ Freefall 0800 down your own blackhole pupils. Maybelline you believe you may be my butterfly queen and Vampires stalk you, stalking walls walk through your dreams. Only Maybelline is devastation the mothership of beauty. Credits at the end of innocence are falling like numberless lists of autumn leaves. Your eyes, two, super-involuted balls, are ingrown in the ocean’s bellyful of wine, down in the sea-bed orchard strewn w/ seaweed monsters clinging to feet. Gnarled treefingers snap so easily. The dramatic monologue of cannabis says Faith and Doubt are but positive and negative energy swirling in the void. Nirvana buttons and pills are going on sale in the foyer. The etymology of Hell is separation, so connection is Heaven. Imagery is born of privation. A rainbow smashed a railway train window. Yeah, so, Every atom ate our eyes, and I hear there’s angelic music inborn in the inner ear. Those whom the Gods wish to drive mad are sent music in their heads. A baby cannot trip because he or she has no memories. I can equate a mutation in consciousness w/ a truth too simple to understand. This particular finger, why this finger here? Dead pedestrians think in fumes. Water clears its throat from the tap. The chit chat and chatter and backchat and natter in the solipsistic kitchen of fiction is ‘phatic’. Outside the fallen autumn leaves are where bears have dipped their feet in pots of paint and danced across the threshold of the paving stones. Motley magnetic fridge letters w/out a question mark in the pack connect into a collective noun. Gunpowder was only invented for fireworks and a firework is a champion sperm nosing up blind to explode bright and wonderful deep-sea creatures in the ancient night. The world is a cool, bejewell’d marble snug in Holy Orbit suckling on a mother sun. A tramp drinks paintstripper to cleanse the doors of perception. A drunkard attacks a wall on an otherwise empty street. A policeman forces himself to come w/ a gun. Hey salesman, slow down w/ that fast food, I don’t mind waiting here for a year.
[2000 – 2001] FIRST THINGS FIRST
Postmodernism’s theme dissolved into message, dissolution and Simpsonification of £ove and the opposite of Romantic hyper-charge. Money is flying white spark passing through borders of osmotic porosity in the dark, not just neutral means of exchange. You are a liberal human subject of embedded liberal capitalism. George Monbiot says even your breath is ‘costed’. The sovereignty of the State is not overthrown by the TNC in the borderless economy because the state still makes the decision to go to war. The war is a war of misplaced vengeance and ego-parade. In Chaos Theory a Strange Attractor lingers on the border of chaos and order and is often born of spontaneous self-organisation. I found this out on poetrymagic.com. Birds are now thought to be what became of the dinosaurs. David Morley says slowing dawn bird song reveals a sophisticated thematic series of rhythmical beats. Music not only aids memorability, but precedes sense as an agent of understanding in poetry, as in the natural world. Post-structuralism I redefine as two fold a) the condition of text extends to any object b) the condition of language unto itself extends to any text . This is to give artificial insemination to two torn and bleeding fragments, but original and new. Deconstruction is a dream, letting the eye become distracted by things not meant to be in the text like when Frankenstein’s monster learning the language in the hut becomes Caliban. Yes that’ll do. The anti-dactylus is present in the line ‘the heart TRAmelled and RAMMed on the AN vil bleeds visions’, two soft, one hard so the emphasised syllables find a short A rhyme scheme at moments of natural stress in the rhythm, w/ invective monotony written into its musical configuration. Music is warm shaken air rattling the labyrinth of the inner ear. F sharp major is said to be the happiest key, C sharp minor the darkest. Gatsby is, yes, an infradiegetic heterotopia or chronotope opening up into panchronic panoramic overview. To unite the quadlibetical and esemplastic would be good as to be diagonalised by omnijective interface of co-imagination. Random access co-imagination is diagonalised by omnijective interface. Fusions are said to be the future since English and Crew Dpts merged. To write an academic essay as if getting gradually more drunk. Amis says throw away the top, Rimbaud hiccup to the ripped ship at the window. Yet fusions have always existed. The musical scales were codified by scientists for example. TEFL TO YOU
Crows can talk. Crows, dogs, horses, these are our friends, also trees. The Chinese plant 1500 square miles of new trees per annum, the Ethiopians less. The languages of African black people are quite unrelated to those of the white people. Chinese is distantly akin to a North American tribe called the ‘Utta’ Family. Chinese has 400 root words; w/ tone that changes to 1200 words. The Ancient Greek for water is ‘nearos’. Ancient Greek for ghost was ‘kopsiche’, meaning a feeling of coldness. From that we derive ‘psyche’. Ghosts can travel in time. One scholar visited Ancient Greece and found the Greeks were tremendous actors. The Greeks did not name their children until quite old, and named them after their Gods, for example Hippocrates, meaning Lord of Horses. The Romans were much cruder: Brutus, meaning Stupid, Naso, meaning Big Nose, Crassus meaning Thick Head. It is from them that we derive the offensive N-word. Roman Literature was more about the author: letters, diaries, memoirs. Greek Literature was more public and political. Celtic Literature was more like the Greeks. They were both good at novels, and had higher intellectual faculties than the Romans who were more utilitarian. It is possible the Celts used to rule North Japan, and Fujiyama comes from Celtic for fire. Bees can count. Evolution as a theory is wrong, there is no such thing: there have been people on earth for 55 million years. ‘Neander’ means new man and ‘Neanderthal’ means new man’s valley. It is thought that Neanderthals had towns and government. The Neanderthal’s brain was 1600 cubic centimeters; modern man’s is 1700 cubic centimeters. Every planet has its own colour. An express train travelling 60 m/p/h day and night would take 6 months to reach the moon and 200 years to reach the sun. Stone Henge used to have a round, wooden roof, hence the Knights of the Round Table. They [archaeologists] have found the remnants of a town just down the road. Stone circles were theatres and centres of government. A lot of scholarship gets it wrong, like M. I. Finlay from Cambridge, for example. London is the top university, Cambridge some way down the list. Esperanto and Volopuke are artificial languages. Parnassus is where Delphi is situated in Greece. It is 9000 feet high. Helicon is near Delphi, something like 25 miles away. Olympia was the most important centre in Greece. A 9th Century earthquake brought down the buildings. In the 19th Century, German archaeologists there found 1500 oak trees. They did a good job, the Germans. Chronos is the father of Zeus. The Oracle of Delphi often gave ambiguous answers. Alexander the Great was a very short man, only 5 feet tall. He looked like a beautiful woman. Calliope, muse of epic poetry, means ‘beautiful face’. The great poet Sappho was the tenth muse. Greek literature is not dead. There were three novels 850 years ago. The Turks didn’t take Crete until 1664. Dante was Celtic. Leonardo Da Vinci was six foot four and had blue eyes. You’d have to be 200 miles from the star Prosion to have an earth-like climate. The Iliad had 4 or 5 authors. English literature has one central figure, Shakespeare. The Greeks, however, had 3 of everything – 3 comic poets, 3 tragic poets, 3 historians, 3 scientists. The biggest body of literature pre-English was the Greeks, then Sanskrit, then Arabic, then Chinese. Discoveries have been made about Mercury. An asteroid approached. Mercury, it was discovered is 3.7 times heavier than water and 6 times denser than the earth. There are ice-caps on it. It’s too hot for humans but there might be plant-life at the polar regions. Jackdaws can speak. They belong to the thrush family. In America there are 3 types of swallow. Cancer the Crab sign people have wonderful memories, are fond of kids, like sending comics and books to children in hospital. Henry VIII beheaded 2 wives for not bearing children. It was his own fault. He had syphilis. Syphilis was brought over from America, was rife amongst the Red Indians. The novel ‘Swan On A Black Sea’ came at a rate of 3000 words an hour, in automatic writing, detailing life after death. It is in the Cumbrian library system. Cumbrian policemen don’t like it if you are taller than them. Poor Dr. Criffin was hanged for murdering his wife. He was innocent. We cannot bring him back. If you keep on good terms w/ the neighbours, you can’t go too far wrong. The Odyssey was 200 years later than the Iliad. Lawrence of Arabia says the Odyssey was the ‘first novel of Europe’. Pirates were often chivalrous, kidnapping people for the ransom, and returning them still when paid. Greek actors wore a head-dress like the Native American Indians, a long cloak and buskins – they must’ve looked very impressive. Comic actors wore comic masks of course. 50 Greek plays have come down to us from around 900. The Byzantine Greeks were very clever at preserving literature. They had a kind of artillery called ‘The Greek Fire’. A young, German archaeologist wrote ‘The Flood From Heaven’, reckoned Troy was destroyed by a tremendous rain and not the Greeks. Plato said that Atlantis was Troy. We owe the myth of Atlantis to Plato. There are a lot of earthquakes in Greece and Japan. Their landscapes are quite akin – a lot of woodland and hills, difficult for farming. Policemen can’t mind their own business at all. Birds are now known to be highly intelligent, like dogs and horses. The star Syrius is now sparkling bright but in the Iliad it was bronze [Book 22]. It must’ve brightened by the time of the Odyssey. A lot of the Odyssey is science fiction. The word ‘schlapen’ comes from old Gothic, to sleep. They reckon they’ve found mist on the moon. The universe is very mysterious. There are no problem children only problem parents. ‘Echo grammanon’ is Greek for ‘I have written’, and ‘habeo amore’ Latin for ‘I will have to love’.
[Yewdale Ward] COINAGE FACTORY FLOOR
Granted it is from the cruder Romans that we derive the offensive N-word. Still, agovernment is the opposite of government O stars the government that truly speaks for us and after @ is coined by James P D Tucker in the international language alphabet, comnambulism is for the online plankwalking eye and that too seems Latinate. Mary says the coolth is the densened air in shade under trees, which is about densening in both form and content. I can read in dreams and smuggle language out too. Contriment is the opposite sentiment is Latinate, don’t forget to watch the DVO backwards. Dramatocracy rule by fictive character, which is Greek, e.g. by Biggus Dickus who is Romo-Anglican . Effluvient coinage has gone from the dictionary and print or was always imaginary, emocracy is rule by emotion, eartoons are done w/ no hands, enwheeling birds not technically real, ecstasaved is probably not good thing to become. One white E was: to leave a blank page poem in the magazine Poetry Now and in the editorial just say [John is dancing w/ aliens in collective ecstasy]. Filence is golden comminque e acute. Yes buildings indwellable are surely better than indomitable in the film, and Jim would surely dig the witness ss much if he was here. To use your invagination is very Kurt Cobain in a way [and seeing as imagination is a muscle after all]. Medicine-man in the medieval-cinema for M, whom it seems is where qwerty ends in the garden and the stars and the proof. N is for the 17th Century Mains, namezapped don’t get it, outnirvana’d is selfexplanatory. Pollen’d is all Flora’d and perfume’d sunset too w/ French Beauty Spot apostrophe d. Purveyant is not ‘in’ but ‘of’ The Lords marrying lines of shining conveyance w/ perversion, voyeurism, surveillance, I.e secret notes on hypervision arranged as medias compression w/ antecedents in Greek gods. Still [R] stands for room for creativity in the synapse the Romantic stance that creativity is not all mappable predictable in advance, room for drip drown dream dragon drop to drop or not. Reification is Latinate from res = thing. While skunkfoot = putrid demons excreted through stone, skunkosis = not just monkygrass speech whom it seems is in exacerbation w/ the psychic-rash but the eroticisation of the psyche as a female plant and sexual member. In some respects anything to do w/ the psyche has to do w/ the Greeks. Ancient Greek for ghost was kopsiche. It translates literally as a feeling of coldness. It is from this word that we derive psyche etcetera. Ghosts can of course travel in time. One scholar visited Ancient Greece. He found the Greeks were tremendous actors. They wore a head-dress like the Native American Indians, a long cloak and buskins. They must’ve looked tremendously impressive….So-kiss-to-fated is exemplified in transphiloquisation which itself = not just the sublimation process of advert/ animal for the adimal for ic went across philos flying, flying. O ‘noetic maundering’ is not new but old, while Bic = Aphex acid + plastic yellow sub from Cornflakes, not bad for a right handed gentile. The word neologism itself seems kenning of Latin and Greek. Boast is burnt toast when a substantive I am afraid to say, [and moop is of course Noj and Mobbian for soup, traditionally made by Mumbo-jumbo, as opposed to Badmunch, whom it seems are both, well, OK is the world’s most popular word,] over and out testing testing 123, welcome to my presence and its intensity, the poet makes himself the intense centre of a brave new tense through a prodigious cleansing of the sense of the Glastonbury fence, and to fee is a mixture of feel and see obvs, and the River Goyt might be described fairly as Anglo-Saxon vowel sounds meeting Celtic thought-patterns. The Celts named the valleys, the Vikings the mnts. The Celts are said to have had higher intellectual faculties than the Romans – who were more utilitarian – and to have been more akin to the Greeks – whose literature was more public and political than the Romans. Aggregate is when you collect a fretboard run of word-combinations, say, for the cars arriving in the drive w/ a loose, Betfair jingle of shingle lifted from the big, flat bird-table, and ideally it chimes like bells reverberating up in the fells and strikes a warm, psychic chord. Another example may be found in the beck’s neck or necklace or necklace noose of notes and stones in technicolour shoals as it ludic dreams down to the BBC tears; or even in the ug art of ‘I was an art smuggler son’, I mean the glug of the jug of ug as you guiltily culpably gulp it down. To river can be a verb applied to the senses given either synaesthetic conflation or distinction w/in esemplastic unity. Re-nerving is not an official word, but to do w/ the soul’s peregrination, w/ house-transplant and plastic surgery of the soul in the library corner, and was coined in a car roving over the earth – her CNS – around the foot of Sea Ness that once was Seer Ness after a seer and his trance. ON THE OTHER SIDE
Will sovereignty State still determined decision war computer speak style Rimbaud [translated by Mathieu] Milk Water Whisky Wine Escape Enter Space Return and Delete literature release serotonin mangle windshield divine palpitations of ego-loss nowhere sexless to leave prism in hypervision post-poems spill “Liquis” omnijective interface wind, rain and wine emotions poetry replace politics Romance governance automated conveyor belt of poesis prophesying supple Apple juice smooth Orange juice merger kiwi fruit salad bowl cold, numinous, interlocking grid or system by which to live supplant tree roots Parliament erect House of New Creatures driverless cars reverse lightning bolt God Simulation witness utopianism not lead to terror Fakeazade free from tap wander less lonely in cloud quench thirst on soundcloud raindown “hello?” inbox problematise interior world art above politics poetry about poetry bad poetry sci-fi secondary to human condition mind the gap on neo London skyline imaginative sympathy new co-imaginative sympathy drug called Strictly Free enact physical poems on body draw drugs druid drew dregs drastic big as fire on tap the dance music of seeing and imagery psychotechnological and psychosensitive split physical and metaphysical Instant Travel other thing I.T. stands for pollen Portability holds open the doors across the Jungian fact becoming fact dashboard The Road To Heaven by Noj and the Mob still be going in emergency please break glass and exit or draw on this dystrophy of darkness soon coming to your screen. ROOM OF FINE ADJUSTMENTS
The Tate says Fate is not a collection of dead stars prefiguring new starlings and given artificial insemination. As Chance would have it the Lego Movie runs on w/out any eyes. Movies are not collections of new starlings prefigured in dead stars and given artificial insemination. Fate is not a collection of dead photos dancing on tiptoes for indomitable illusion and spurious semblance of infinity. I, the alphabet, chance to dance, to jazz behind your eyes. Chance is a novice silkworm stumbling on the idea of rhythm, of society, of scattershot potluck opacity. Fate has the moves of the body of Caliban about it, where Chance who blames Fate is ethereal, Arial and more like the movie. Arial is not a collection of dead photos given artificial insemination, dissimulating the ego-loss of sea-change. Caliban can be a collection of sounds that bamboozles you w/ the vice-like pleasure it has amongst itself. Hollywood is not the dread x-ray of all things that are false. Camera flies above us, like a Greek God, seeing only Names below: county, town, university, department, corridor, room of hyper-specialist. There are no cameras in the locked attic, breeding, and gas does not satisfy their longing for omniscience, breathing. Chronos is the father of the Zeus, not the American Indian Chief who in all the media-world seems most authoritative and certain to win Best Director. W/ bats we do not trap people under our lens, w/ bats we cannot record, cannot spy on people, cannot derive the power of the Gods. I like Gulliver’s Travels and Goodbye Ruby Tuesday, goodbye. Now my attention span is Pan flits slits its wrist of reason runs free sits in the bath; the truth-fairy meanwhile flies in the space preceding recognition, like when waves crosses the FTSE in drugged up, mangled, primal, sublimated, entombed imagery before the gravitational pull of the Taxonomy ‘The Juggernaut” as we drive past. THE SEA-CHANGE
Gone under Gondwanaland the mad naked dancers on a hill. The houses gone under the sea-change wreathed in green and brown. The cinema screen is Unreal Pterodactyl w/ wings spread and golden armpits, and I am the witness in, and of and to The New Redeeming Features. Now we are gathered to appoint Poseidon head of the BBC, now ask if Calliope is face of stars for jargon, now we are gathered not to be Priapic in the Velvet Underground Station. Thank you for dialling 911 you have reached the Velvet Underground. Now Dionysus flows through London’s vein and vine, mixing ecstasy, White Russians and skunk to see if the crowd have drowned. We are lingering long in the chambers of the sea-change, like on Love Street by lithe demons wreathed in green and brown, until the acid flashback voices hear us and we drown. Not to acknowledge this thing of darkness mine own. Fear not the sounds of the isle hidden in the shrubbery. All things shall be well and all manner of thing be well, when the rose petals and the ashtray are one, that is not in stunning juxtaposition anymore but one, like lion and lamb lying down in John. O hasn’t this sea-change really begun againe, the goal is plain I was thinking of the whole universe’s complete Transmogrification againe. Full nine to five, thy mother slaves in the dirty hive, while I thrive off death, who hones pearls, sells records, bootlegged Velvets on the street corner, where before there was a door. Death had no mates at school but became the perfect entrepreneur. I would certainly believe in another death. Death is the G-spot of the brain. PET FOOLS
In The Lords By James Douglas Morrison Ralph is a symbol of democracy, Simon is a symbol of mysticism, Jack is a symbol of the devil, and Piggy is a symbol of Reason when he dies at the foot of cliff, w/all his well meaning mediation and speech w/ hyper-protected pact of -co-operation and civilisation is but a thin veneer belied by dark, arational forces sooo wear an emotional condom
before you fuck my mind m n. Nietzsche coined ‘moral hygiene’ but said ‘I see a woman get me a whip,’ so shouldn’t we decline ‘a yes, a no, a straight line, a goal’ – his key to happiness? Sartre said ‘man is condemned to be free’ meaning he has freedom of moral choice, but that choice is effected by and effects all other choices in a ripple. If morality is based on judgement as those Ancient Greek sophists would claim, who decides whose judgement is right? Surely not the korma police! Arrest this man he talks in curry, He keeps it in the fridge he’s like all the plastic yellow subs are black and the night is gone gone gone, yeah. Even the doors film is emblematic of a paranoid meltdown into post-euphoric psychosis. In Heart of Darkness the river is the snake leading into the unconscious. Existentialism being all about faith is no more philosophy than a light sabre. Philosophy is sterile, like epistemology is knowledge’s systems of signs and not poetic language’s researching search-engine tides via Greek for ‘letters’ – and scatological sadly is not scattershot logical – so the poet goes beyond knowledge’s bounds. The demarcation of sheer cleverness/
moral-compass could be instructive or could be reductive and may or may not have any antecedents in Dionysus/ Apollo, whom it seem in the play are gone Jim and gone Ray and Popper meanwhile is transmitted as well as genes, as well as Syd and the doors that is.
Black was not a nickname back back back in Camden lads but my leather jacket was and is still ink black. I’m going to put a blank page poem in the magazine and in the editorial just leave the comment flat [John is dancing w/ aliens in collective ecstasy]. Got cained w/ the Rose Twins againe in break, break, and went all wilfully thrillful on illicit tiptoe or tightrope mission furtive in flight w/ the sniper on Piper in nifty mufty sunnies to hide the red-eye gravy leaking on the reeking. Why would my colour’s colour be gone under Gondwanaland-green but for YOUR eyes you whom
it seems doesn’t really care for the horseman, you the mating queen in the centre of the rehearsal
for death that is the circle, the Game, when Play’s gone insane and you don’t disqualify my Rimbaud quasi? Oceans smile w/ liquid eyes and fill themselves w/ rain againe or maybe all I need is a length of metal chain or only when the ship is ripped is the sea a she and the water water clairvoyant daughter please show us your ragged silken eye Nirvana-blue as Buxton Pole: there are options here, see, where O is not a ghost vowel, no but U is a ghost vowel opened unto the gloom under sliver moon I slide her over and if full fathom five could not be another number, it could be that Virgil said ‘there are tears in things’, or could be for fucking luscious orgiastic regal angel.
 WHAT IS POETRY?
Poetry is perception’s defamiliarisation [Russian Formalism], intelligence’s distillation [British pragmatism], an experiment into more or even less advanced thinking and feeling. Poetry could even be described as a form of plastic surgery of the soul in the whispering library corner and re-nerving of the body out there on dark earth w/ her CNS too [Ted Hughes] equally. Poetry hypostasises a substitute universe replete w/ all the senses, into which we descend catabatic as the cinema audience immersed in a liquid dream. Poetry ideates a kind of sparetimecontinuum.
Through poetry we can relive real life, live out wish fulfilment. Poetry can be an aid to memory like a ribbon bound to a finger. Where, say, The Great Gatsby could be described as an infradiegetic heterotopia of chromatic chronotope pertaining to panchronic and panoramic overview poetry takes that end as its first port of call and begins in medias res – or can. Poetry’s keys can include the key of indulgence e.g. nostalgia, lethargyspirals of the soul, but indulgence in a positive way – or the key of Portability stretching across the fact becomes fact Jungian dashboard as the Apotheosis of Form. Poetry can ascend to a height where Prof Quentin Ponsonby is diagonalised by omnijective interface of random access co-imagination [me]. Poetry is not by any means always an outpouring of emotion more terrible than the sun congealed into a readily understandable system of signs for systems are not always trustworthy [O Rimbaud don’t go!]. Poetry can use !00% of the brain – and typos can be dolphins inside an engine. Poetry is not drawing on your skin, not writing inside books in a psychotic episode transcribing ‘voices’ in your sensory garden. Poetry is potentially the esemplastic fled away w/ the quadlibetical. It is often language given semblance of ineluctability [Shakespeare]. It can be but the loose Betfair jingle of shingle lifted from the big, flat bird-table when cars arrive in or leave mother’s drive (in other words it can chime like bells, reverberating up in the fells and strike a warm, psychic chord, all which exemplifies the aesthetic principle of aggregate from the builder’s yard). Poetry is often an impossible concentration on the irresolute verge of the silver forest laced w/ ecstasy [me]. It is also allegedly systolic and accusatory-toned by immutable law and necessarily so but still bound by no authorities eh [Hofmann M]. To some poetry is defined as the opposite of the bus ticket [Neil Curry] or the opposite of money [Dave Morley] or of bling; to some it is an alternative currency to rival w/ money for the role of the real [one of mine I’m afraid]. Coming from poesis which is Ancient Greek for ‘something which is brought into being’ it is not therefore something whose only certainty is the selection of a tiny poised pause at linebreaks instead of letting the red-bleeding type writer inside a pingpong ball run on [Pound]. Of course it is frequently pointed towards an aesthetic ideal of the thoughts of the highest man in the words of the common man [Wordsworth/ Auden] which is both transcendental and w/ egalitarian inflections to its self-conception. Poetry may even be the ash of yesterday’s cold green fire wrapped up in yesterday’s newspaper and put in the right green bin perhaps especially if it came in a strange unseen vernacular arrowed straight from the godhead. Poetry is a secret imaginary world full of adventure whose password is ‘garden’. Poetry is conceivably, yes, a word-world gone polysemic and polyphonic too w/ the multifarious possibilities of hermeneutic autonomy [me againe]. Poetry is almost inborn w/ a playdough-like plasticity of definition written into its Protean DNA [me]. Poetry is beautifully the angel of self-sacrifice holding to a kind of righteous biodegradability at the core [all mine]. ‘They’ as in individual poems may be machines for re-reading [M Hofmann] or reading reading itself [me]. Poems might even be people up on the roof who’ve been up there for months fixing the TV Arial Arial O step over the edge if you Ca Ca Caliban and in all types of weather [all me]. Poetry could be made to be more to do w/ the peregrination of souls [Dedalus/ TSE], or the telepathic bridge over the grumpy sea. Poetry could be all about the exacerbation of the senses, the arraigning and inveighing against mssrs dogma slumber and torpor, the scrambling of hierarchy, [O Rimbaud don’t go!], the atrophy of normalcy into the visionary. More often than you’d know at first poetry can be the concealment of the secrets of hypervision. Poetry could be an antidote to mongoloid doldrums and days dull as dish water or washing lines. It can still possibly become the love-inspired-wineslick-in-a-dream-meet-experiment- lyricism of the heart. It is language that bamboozles you w/ the vice-like pleasure it has amongst itself as a collection of sounds [Caliban]. It is not just nervous affliction, not self-propagation, not ego-parade [Simic], nor is ‘why not?’ a very good apologia or rationale. It is the making of psychic map of mapless space [me], and I also am quite liking Michael Hofmann’s “unwritten, never-to-be-written style paragraph” as definition. Poetry is also counter-logical flight from mundanity, predictability, psychological tedium. The poet must go beyond knowledge’s narrow trammels. His or her art is like the piratical raiding of the iron dawn of its blood, and the emancipation of the petrified stone. The translation of feelings meanwhile is maybe the MOST exact and wide-reaching umbrella-definition at once. Poetry is a belief in cataclysm as catalyst for the cat that sat on the matt, in privation as mother of imagery, in intimation w/ death as portal of discovery, in violation as the square root of beauty, replete w/ Promethean antecedents. Poetry could open up a warm wheel of synaesthesia turning the very rain itself into anaesthesia. The neuroaesthetics people don’t quite say ‘where rain falls falling reigns’ but something like it, namely ‘if it fires it wires’. As a general rule of thumb cliché hurts eternal, and dawn springs internal first and foremost, and the property of truth should transcend the need to sell a story as evinced by some journalism/ reportage. Poetry could release serotonin, yes, serotonin from its knickers in your brain. Poetry could be called the alchemy of perception, or the pilgrimage to Parnassus, or the reporting to God on the senses. It might well underlie variable modes of perception, or even, seeing as it is essentially what you make of it [Marcus Shaw], poetry might be be made, say, into an every second second and on and off at once, bigger than colour, blogger than space, deeper than memes and faster than drum n bass multimedia of mutually assured semi-masturbation! In other words words in otherness; and when two of them meet and connect in Holy Orbit it forms an image. The only Dorian mode poetry has got is indeed words which are what but astronaut worms re-entering the mind’s ear or the condoms of the world lingering lost long on Love Street. Poetry should be announced from atop bins in supermarkets, dangled from trees in strips, made out of unused piles of bricks e.g. the Linear that is ‘planning permission to build pyramids of new found land.’ can be unpoetic and more specifically counter-poetic; at the same time I believe it impossible to write an anti-poem though I might be wrong, for example, prose might be defined as an anti-poem, although the image of the anti-poem in my mind is like a Strange Attractor from Chaos theory that lingers on the border of chaos and order often spontaneous self-organisation like an anguila eel named after devil for appearing in puddles on rainy days. Poetry can be born of rigorous indolence, of Slow gestation inside the sun, even amnesia of the logocentric and hegemonic. Whatever love is, it is also a choice of words whose meaning remains contingent, idiosyncratic to its exact mode of expression, hence the art of poetry is also an art of love, and changing a word changes the charge irreplaceably. Unlike philosophy it is not sterile but impassion’d and alive; unlike your mate questioned as to whether your gf snuck our on you cheated on you w/ him – or asking her herself – it does not proceed by a kind of farting out of the wrong orifice; and could be a kind of speech-form like lightning walking on collapsing stilts. If water dreamed as it slept perhaps it would all be in poetry. The poet can be like liver-function of language. The poet brings his own intensity, vibration, emotional frequency or wavelength, to words, like every musician is unique. The poet makes himself the centre of a Brave New Tense – through a prodigious cleansing of the Glastonbury fences that contain the senses – to attain the apolitical dream of The Future State of Poetry as now and here and real and feeling as love is, and life is too. Poets run from a new bird that wriggles its little wing and then return to the wood to hunt for it, to give it to the world, and find it gone. Poets may believe that life is merely the B-side of love. Where in science truth is to be falsified through which nothing is 100% true only the best theory at the time, in poetry there is truth-to-itself through which anything can be 100% true if well made enough. Poetic truth is like the truth of the individual constituted of its own inner nature. In poetry and the natural world alike music not only aids memorability but precedes sense as an agent of understanding: for example dawn birds’ song slowed down reveals a sophisticated thematic series of rhythmical beats [Morley]. It has been said prose is dialogic poetry monologic – prose expansive poetry compressive [Fry says poetry is the prosaic compressed] – prose inclusive poetry exclusive. Poetry is not a competition. You’ve heard of action painting there’s also action poetry I am sure of it; you’ve heard of method acting there’s also method reading and method writing I am sure of it. Poetry dramatises soul-in-the-making, as in the psychodrama Un Saison En Enfer. Freeverse is poetry deriving form from content, took a long time to invent, and is therefore bound in historical fact. A soul itself is in many ways a solipsistic kitchen of fiction. If to replace the archaic, gone, Romantic sense of the word gay is its ambition that would be a quest, game, bet, dare, efficacy, trespass, dream, cause. Motivation is more Darwinian – to do w/ instinct/ nerve – than motive which has imputations of psychoanalysis and remaining clandestine. The effect of LSD is itself a physical poem enacted on the human subject; the drug called Strictly Free [imaginary] may also enact physical poems on the body. Poetry likes debt-erasing, ground-levelling, anti-capitalist movement but at the same time struggles to stomach or shoulder or tolerate the death count involved in something like Sept 11th. . Poetry suggests implicitly that it is in being what you dream you are that you attain your true self and enshrines the impunity of being what you really are [which is only what you dream]. Poetry touches the heart-valve of the stranger or friend the same w/out discrimination. Poetry can be found even in a text message saying ‘liquid crystal meth’ or ‘I wish I had sky’ sent from A to B in the ego-loss breeze all electrified w/ prayers marked return to sender, chattering airwave ghosts, sybaratical female e-mails like sylphs andcetera. Poetry can perform cinematographic super-freeze or close distance, space and time between things alike. When Dave Morley writes ‘the heart-trammelled and rammed on the anvil bleeds visions’ he is using the anti-dactylus, two soft, one hard, and the emphasised syllables are the tram, ram and an, meaning the line finds inward, short-A rhyme scheme at moments of natural stress in the rhythm, and there is invective monotony written into its musical configuration and do you know what the technical term for this form and content convergence towards mutual self-evidence is? Only poetry, as far as I know. Whether poetry started w/ cave paintings or pre-exists them in the aubades of primates atop trees and their stomping dance on the ground [Hughes] I do not know. Freedom and not poetry is the bicycle riding itself. The law and not the world is a pig w/ broken wings to sittingroomify. Poetry can be a torch of culture passed down generations; or a medium of sheer recalcitrant being – or revolt. Automate conveyor belts of poetry may exist in the future, carrying truth from room to room. The earliest English poem is by Anon and begins ‘well-wrought this wall: weirds broke it.’ Writing being rewriting [Pomery] one might write well wird this ward words woke it walls walk it may weirds break it open.
SONGS OF IRREVERENCE AND IRRELEVANCE
THE ROAD TO HEAVEN BY NOJ AND THE MOB REVISITED
See white is the highnote if it’s up to me,
cascading down to the deep blue sea.
Will blue trousers over the Trouser Blues
fall down on the Excellent News?
Music penetrates is-ness,
renovates sensation’s quest.
Out in the desert the pigeon-stars
ripe w/ new creatures won’t bring out the Tsars.
Water splits but the desert’s dry.
Stonemouth silence chewing-gums by.
Why the high note seems to be white
is the sideways gravity in the smile of night.
The Super String Guitar was electric and was smashed.
Transcendence is the dream of anything squashed.
You’re going to get a dog w/ a laser brain.
L to the pregnant snorkel = mc squared.
Impairing the wild pear tree to tears.
Impairing the wild pear tree to pears.
Flutter in the sideways gravity of the smile of light.
Phew for a minute there you lost the screen.
E = L to the pregnant snorkel
E = L to the pregnant snorkel
L to the pregnant snorkel = mc squared.
Flutter in the sideways gravity of the smile of light againe.
 THE REVENGE OF MARTIN VICIOUS
I can see Death and black flippers
coming out of his senses and say
‘come closer you fucking terrorist,
come closer you fucking terrorist,
come closer you fucking terrorist.’
It’s because I live a life of all time leisure,
all drugs pure and the radiance just right.
I might be wrong but then I might.
[Millom] LIQUID ICON EQUIDOT
The doors computer game, I found it hard, it was hard to find. Luck blames the winner. Chance blames Arial, Fate blames Caliban. When dad dies it is the end of an era; when an era dies it is the dawn of a new age. Door, a miracle in the divine corridor.
I met the mating queen in the flesh and all our things are bound to mesh, we’ll bore the audience you and me, like ‘A Trance Of Stalks’ by Prof. Quentin Ponsonby. Cue well, queue well,
trial etcetera, blow etre. To mute the hairing dream or not you fool, that is the question. Armon door, big, fat pig threaten tight coolie. O pheramoanie, O pheramoanie, I found your name echoing in a cave.
When the pause on the superglued tape reel was properly ‘Radiowed’ the object was melted in the dark blue AGA’s top oven, the hottest one. Drums, bass, guitar, pores, wood at Harecroft Hall. ‘Go’, a beer, an e-mail beer. G, a purple no, feather, quest, live on air. O, a soaked hole, a sealed, sacrosanct soul, holding the door open. Diamawrite the diamaright. Hold wing, bold wing, gold wing, told wing, sold wing, shoaled wing, holed wing, cold wing, fold wing.
I met the cannabee it comes from Rontaur. To pick it up and rain w/ it, to pick it up and rain w/ it, would be clever. Welves have been freed. Each artistic day gets better ‘eels’. Jobin Hood, it must be Hell, besuited slave, get back to the wild wood. Keen the Bear was an all-encompassing twig. The notion of inbox affects mind, inner monologue, narrative, truth, soul and sky. Interpellate the fractured mirror.
Garlic and sapphires in the mud, try any triangle twice, try any triangle twice. Pollen or Gollum or Millom or column or Lennon gone under Gondwanaland. ‘Joe Steam’, he got up before dawn, ‘walk on’.
English is broken like the first séance Watford has spoken like the first girl praise for your mourning praise for the ceiling praise for some celery together we cry.
Meaning is not a delusion like Time. Meaning is an emotional content given mere exoskeleton w/ words. Mine Lemon ring tone got a tear up the front. I have soon met Siren-cester but not Silen-cester, wonder if they are sister and brother, ‘or pooled’. John F B Tucker, meanwhile, the name, is a poem. Okally Dokally Computer, listen. Kime away, give it all you’ve goyt. Barrett, sans Barrett, compress sans Barrett
My hammer’s gone under the ocean, my hammer’s gone under the sea, my hammer’s been woo’d by a notion, o bring back my hammer to me. Scramble hierarchy and disorder for order is happiness and this is an order, California.
Viking hool, which the fox is snowing off in this garden, ‘this temple’? Follywood sign in the hills don’t stink, Follywood violence is peace, Follywood traditional unhappy ending, watch Follywood movie fall apart follow feelings, Follywood actor is lunatic poet. I took my phallus to Fuckingham Palace, I did not do it in malice, Alice. Hook, beak, a Minotaur’d break, book signed by lake, bend the cake.
E feet walk in a sensuous graffiti of blind white light. I like to think of past lovers w/ fond infection, still infectious. Be a do a late one too, crash a verb w/ many souls. Hymen of air, silences stare through windows at gardens, prepare. Reach the wood, be an ache, sight a beck, box will break, mead shoot out, get him in.
The effects of global warming on the unicorn must read astray. He told a soul about the horses, clap. Paper dreams blue. I’ve got the whole world in my hands, got the whole world in my hands, I’ve got the whole wide world in my hands, I’ve got the whole world in my hands.
Microwave pop symbol sings ‘lessen the lesson’, can you finish it? Non-E changed. Apologies are good. Be dust, trust. Mud be a sail, mud be a selfie, mud be a person. Vageenias myway glocky, goot. Me write funny fair liquis is what happen. My a fun it questions. Howed arsewell begin? Beenius. Word. It must be. Bat. Try at. Do some pill thinkle fucking something muttley. Let me fuckles meamust.
Fee the red
beat the swivel
gore a bean
what the money
turn it warless
loot the wheat
cheaple the bottle
crash the hash
bone it good
own it a problem
deal the country
marra the tryst
pull up a cloud
drug the word
read your text
see the guns
on the earth
leg it away
meet the mushroom
chain the laser
sever the O
free the bread
not the ‘doh’
we the law.
[C/ Em/ G/ F/ G/ C] BOOM
We are the velvet e’s
we’re shitting in Cuntington’s letterbox
the Roman Rd below
beneath us as we fry
[exit bass organ of The End] THE FIREGUARD
[A Russian folksong]
Freedom rules art and
science loves too,
equals love equals and
love equals love,
the crown grows upwards
from the green,
I am only standing
w/ a banned bird above,
already the elements
have mudflaps for names,
Hollidot is a peaceable,
“compress sans everything”
is for Hamlet in flames,
and only the static caravan
knows a half road Rontaur
opens up only the static
aim for the crows
the pole itself is
already Robert Lowell WHISPER
‘I haunted to fir music from a black hole by Jesus Christ
but the guys sent a pirate laughter a carrot and through
the conch to outer space singing ‘I won’t always
be an orange just because you’ve sectioned me,
no I won’t always be on Orange just because you’ve
sectioned me, but at any given time I’m working in a crane.’
And Jesus said ‘Syd by Ray in a way, Spiderman’s
handwriting has been too obscene, I rake the blade
over the wishbone of my legs, Breakfast All Day/
gay teachers can still lay eggs, and I won’t always
be on Lemon just because you’ve sectioned me,
and I won’t always be on Lennon just because you’ve
sessioned me but at any given time Oedipus is spying
me up in the shower, why I’ll break the speed of speed,
rendered squander never priceless, i’ll never speed
againe, at any given time i’m a rare, aquatic insect.’
[Hackney] THE INVISIBLE KING
[A psych trance song on soundcloud w/ production by Dr. Robert L G Tucker]
Who do you think’s the invisible king?
His name is writ on a butterfly wing
A fireface moon and a frozen rock sun
Collide in a dream and the dyes start to run
But you are still haunting her honeycombe’s shelves
Where vaeiouls are our souls and these words can be cells
You are who you love and not who you are
So set the controls for the prettiest star
The wings of a butterfly will bear my weight
One can be savage and one can be great
My temple is simple it’s inside your brow
The international language IS the new religion now
To sleep on the ceiling w/ feelings of love
Or sleep on the feeling w/ star-tracks above
Say is the wick worthy of the flame
And as play dies and becomes the Game
Is ecstasy mc squared or a dove
Is numbness to love just as painful as love
And while I’m uttering crushed butterflies
If you ask no questions you’ll hear no lies
[Whicham Valley] FIRREN RUNES HOLL
I read through the news,
hats off to your blues,
a chimney falls under my head.
I stomach the wood
that tastes very good,
like mopping up gravy w/ bread.
I glow for the coal,
don’t bury your soul,
backwards in age I get high.
I’d change for the house
that’s quiet as a mouse
and emblazon six names in the sky.
I’d slip through the skin
of a thesis as thin
as the Rizla it’s in and be born.
I’d burn and unlearn
what names people darn,
w/ tyger-tongue scream of the dawn.
I’d sip on White Russians,
wine white and South African,
and amble to 360 vision.
To take out my eyes
and see in all directions at once
was but one general direction.
[Whicham Valley] THE FLOOD MEDLEY PART TWO
Di di dit di di dit di di dit dit dit bring bring bring bring.
I have hunger, i’m in want, maybe all I need is a new pair of shades. I’m going to get your freshness back, plug my senses in the mains. Flee the world on a midnight plane, get pretty much fuck’d up, dance w/ the aliens and the insane.
To float on the artifice of organic emotions through synthetic sounds. To expand my threshold of Negative Capability. To explore alternative histories suppressed by the over-arching meta-narrative. To put my wounds up on bright flags. To utilise !00% of the brain. To let light look at itself.
It’s only blood, it all comes out in the wash, but I still learn not to cut my self when I shave, cut my sake when I shake, covet my ape when I shape, Stony Blur, I lose it every heavy day, I still learn, not to covet my self when I say, Sony Blurred, have to a have a word, the music and rhythm and colour’s in your eyes.
Crash your party on LFT, it stands for Lucy on the sea w/ demons and me. Crash your fashion police car into the truth I love you I love a search for much small proof. Crash your pirateship into a monster if you can still believe that you’re free. Planet x comes back through you, all the darkness floods back through. Wish I was away w/ the cloud-shape, the cloud-change, the fairies, the spaceship and the starbeams.
Paul has invented the Anon Throwaway Poem as a colourful new online form, and I say it could become an alternative currency to rival w. money for the role of the real.
Simon says violence can not contain me. Simon says the inner ear is a labyrinth. Simon says the word ‘Goyt’ represents the infinite held in the colloquial.
That bird in the wood it was definitely a horse, w/ solar spike I can use the Force, no R2D2 to open my doors, i’m just trying to win my Star Wars.
Mumrah Shredder Megatron Texas Pete Greenback Mr Burns Vader Vader they were all there they were all there.
Free the sparrows. Nests and cages dissipating, off to Africa, calm equator. Sleep in frozen rock wake in sunburn, I am the wind-cry robed in shadow.
Away away away away in farthest Spain. To Execute the plane.. You’re playing you’re messing you’re fucking w/ the real.
Apple juice, apple juice, and sweet little pretty pink things. Apple juice, apple juice, and sweet little pretty pink things. This black girl says this song is about pleasure.
Drug me sideways, drug me north and south, drug me east and west, drug me all around, space is big, and the edge is the middle, and the middle is the edge, and John is gone, he kept his pink pyjamas on.
Skunkfoot is putrid demons excreted through stone. It’s not the same as monkey grass speech m n.
Fell up a tree landed badly on the wine old nobody came for me I didn’t mind it I felt fine, trading stories w/ the chief of the black bird spies no age in a cage for a minimum wage in a world of lies he says cheap cheap squawk squawk it’s all just talk it’s all talk. WE COULD BE SO HAPPY
no Codeine or Diazapam
I got ruin’d you got wrecked
let’s just say yes to each others plans
we could be so ha ha ha happy
we could be so ha ha ha happy
Buproprion and Fluoxetine
a total loss of all language-is-thought-control
it’s just some sedative
we’ll hide away under snow
I wake up dying for some
junk food to save my hole
when all the money has run out
and our housing contract expires
and the pigs come to track us down
the night will be filled w/ burning fires
the night will be filled w/ screeching tyres
the night will be filled w/ burning lyres
we could be so ha ha ha happy
we could be so ha ha ha happy
[Cambridge] SYMMETRY LIPS
Symmetry lips symmetry lips
kiss me quicks need a fix
make me feel natural and real
cuts heal w/ a plastic seal
I’ve been in your heart and danced in hot rain
I’ve been in your heart and danced in hot rain
now consciousness is everywhere
now consciousness is sentient air
the sky falls apart into place
I crave to sleep behind your face
everything in its proper place
live where the sky and the river freely give
live where the sky and the river freely give
[Cambridge] AIR RAID SHELTER
Air raid shelter, we’re in it together,
let’s not get entrenched too deeply,
fear and pain’s our only motivation,
got to break free from that habit apathy.
Clinging to loveless, sweaty, rubber limbs
won’t cure your heart, it’s a painful art,
air-raid shelter, we’re in it together now,
wrap me away in your womb-sand duvets.
I see this world from outer space minor,
s fe d stances found
all our solid, common ground,
echo grammanon, habeo amore.
Dude won’t your spaceships come to find me,
pull myself back to the centre,
attack on all sides, hold you
so tight now that there is no time.
[Leamington Spa] THE FUN POLICE
Well The Fun Police came through the bedroom wall,
said ‘no gaseous music down the hall!’
My purple patch was decidedly blue,
I said ‘we’re not allowed to mix w/ you’.
Soon water went for a naked prance,
it was then that Dedalus started to dance.
They’ll cuff you up in the radio station,
put the microchip of peach out into the open.
Well it’s a crying shame about The Fun Police,
they said ‘take off your snakeskin jacket please’ –
I said ‘I’m going to win the Snowbell Prize’
joking and smoking in their growing eyes.
Effort is inversely proportional to success
so the Fun Police cried and just said ‘YES’
so we beat them on the head w/ a beastful flower
and soon introduced them to the transience of power.
[Warwick University] THE FLOOD MEDLEY PART 1
“If Freedom and peace of mind are what you’re after, you’ve made the right choice, w/ BT Talk Together w/ an unlimited number of local evening and weekend phonecalls.
If sorrow sighs upon your shoulder….
Enter binaural earphones, down on the Cambridge chalk grassland floor, recording everything.
Mantra of a madman:
“I am, I can, I am, I can, move over, try harder, die Mara;
I can, i-kitchen, I.A, O, behold her, banana Nibbana.”
To meet w/ the otherness, best go get a party dress, or play a stone live in the wilderness. I’m going to beat w/ the Otherness. Suddenly their brain is an alien visitation. Suddenly I am the Imposter againe. Lying in secret wait of myself knife ready to treat the pain.
To scar sand birthmarks beneath my skin. Shall I sever my face w/ razor blades to show you some ugly truth w/in? well I should but i’d prefer to spoil your flawless body w/sin. Two new humans made for life no default buttons to wipe any slate clean.
If sorrow sighs upon your shoulder, find yourself another lover. Manoeuvre over backyard fences, angel where do you hide tonight? i’ll make maps of the stars to find you, soft caressing breeze to guide you. If you can be in my dream, can’t I be in yours too?
F sharp minor detunings – a Flood jam on earphones has picked up a sensory overlay, a clickety clickety clicking pecking order bird, like something from Autechre, going over the top. I say it’s a quote from Morrison’s poem The New Creatures namely ‘the red plastic chopper from Cornflakes blazed over/ succeeding the plastic yellow sub and more and many more’.
 BAD DAY AT THE OFFICE
Such a bad day at the office
down the pub to get pissed
though I can’t afford it
we’ll never get a pay rise
stay up till sunrise
call in sick in the morning
spend the whole day mourning
underneath the covers
Where the fuck is Batman
Sugar candy Mnt
waiting for some action
heard it brings good fortune.
Papers want a scandal
tell them truth
if you can handle
what a fucking headline.
where in Hell is Tinkerbell
somewhere alone and dying
dawn calls in sick in the morning
what’s the use in trying.
Don’t believe in dying
It’s shocking and appalling
it’s four in the morning
and paradise is boring.
 SAD HYPOCHONDRIAC
I know she’s only a phone call away,
maybe she’s got something to say,
anyway by now her number’s probably changed,
seems even numbers can’t just stay the same.
You always used to say to me,
to love someone truly is to set them free,
you were always better than me
you were always better than me.
I know she’s only a daydream away,
transient rainbow not made to stay,
only made of sunlight and tears,
beauty like that should last for years
You always used to say to me,
to love someone truly is to set them free,
you were always better than me
you were always better than me.
I’m just a sad hypochondriac,
I’m just a sad hypochondriac,
I’ve made a scar and it is not red and black,
got to give the big boss Fear the sack.
 TOPPLING ALICE IN CHAINS
Confess yourself then when you’re all destroyed all that’s left is joy. Confess yourself then when there is no more all except an open door…
Alas the day doesn’t matter anyway for there is a night and heart beats are bold and hold me tight and night is blessed and filled w/ questions cannot guess what will happen next o maybe death.
Liquor and drugs taking me down infecting my dream the perfect girl and all the world the universe- hearse is in your soul whole, the universe-hearse is in your soul-hole.
I have found you you’re the teacher of my heart there’s only one one and though my mind is endless old my tender heart is foolish young and my timeless passion’d wars of emotion have begun.
Lovers and fools are breaking their own rules in the game. Mad children play unaware of and end to their game. Sailors are losing the world and riding the breeze. Pirates and whores are looting the waves as much as they please. Angels and thieves are kissing at the tips of the trees. Say is the candle worthy of the flame? If you see they key please don’t be afraid to be free.
She said her name was freedom and love is born in chaos desirous for your whisper your hypothalamus controls the universe and H20 stands for hypothalamus tattoo.
Don’t be afraid there is no death only change let’s pretend, let’s pretend that tonight there is no end of play, and tonight I only believe I only believe in tonight so throw your cares away and travel w/ me, travel w/ me, travel w/ me, like Jim’s portable Rimbaud [translated by Wallace Fowlie].
[1999 – 2000] DREAM W/ OPEN EYES BY SECRET CHORD H
[Oundle School radio’s first jingle, 1999.] .
Last night it seemed we couldn’t sleep but maybe I was dreaming.
The world expands inside my hands it’s getting heavy.
Of all the treasures I could choose I can’t seem to decide.
Today the shade was washed away where I would hide.
Dream w/ open eyes. Come below and we can fantasise.
Now that i’ve stopped telling lies come below and we can fantasise.
Last night it seemed we nearly died but maybe I was dreaming.
It made me feel s alive and s in love.
Dream w/ open eyes. Come below and we can fantasise.
Now that i’ve stopped telling lies come below and we can fantasise. KILL BY OEDIPUS WRECKS
My eyes sting,
my teeth are bleeding raw,
too much thought to make me sick.
Stinky clothes and mouth become
my skin and all these fruits
I want to kill.
Give my hope,
surrender to the tide,
you can take my remains.
But I must go,
to wash the poison from my eyes,
before I kill.
[ Kilburn, 1998] SNAKE SNAKE BUTTERFLY BY OEDIPUS WRECKS
Snake snake butterfly,
lay me dead and close my eyes,
lead me to the other side.
Give me your alibi,
give me chains to stop me fly,
give me night to soothe my blinded eyes
so I can see the secrets of the skies.
We must rise,
freedom falling from our eyes,
it’s a perfect time to die,
and it’s okay,
baby we’ll go insane,
but don’t reach out too far for the flame.
Snake snake butterfly,
lead me to the other side,
she waits on the Other Side.
[Kilburn, 1998] VITAL SIGNS BY OEDIPUS WRECKS
Smile like a smile just to smile,
cast to heaven for a while,
let’s rip holes in the boat,
throw the captain overboard,
throw the angels off the bridge,
death comes and stops me getting
bored of life’s soul-machine.
What we need is energy,
show me all your vital signs,
what we steal is what we need,
what we need to feel alive,
for I’m alive w/ vital signs.
Back to Hell to plunder wings,
let the ritual now begin,
come and ride the waiting beast,
ride it into the fire,
ride it to the waiting feast,
my baby’s waiting to get higher,
to get higher, to get higher
What we need is energy,
show me all your vital signs,
what we steal is what we need,
what we need to feel alive,
for I’m alive w/ vital signs,
yeah feel alive w/ vital signs.
Come again there’s lots to do,
don’t you know that I love you?
[Kilburn, 1998] OCEANS SMILE BY OEDIPUS WRECKS
Oceans smile w/ liquid eyes
and fill themselves w/ rain.
Don’t just say the first cunting thing
that comes in your cunting little brain.
Flow meat to the resurrection
while the blind get crucified
my weapon Sony loaded in my eyes
Death will come on silky wings
but I for one will not go,
My soul is endless, oceans severed
and keeps a perfect O.
Flow meat to the Resurrection
while the blind get crucified,
my weapon Sony loaded in my eyes.
Drink the ocean w/ your tea cup,
give your heart to it far out,
if oceans smile w/ liquid eyes
then they’ll give you a shout.
Flow meat to the Resurrection,
while the blind get crucified,
my weapon Sony loaded in my eyes.
[Kilburn, 1998 reconstructed] THE GHOSTS LAMENT BY OEDIPUS WRECKS
I”m the only one left,
left to shoot my own gun,
this is the dead land,
crack a smile and curse the sun.
Death awaits to fuck me.
Give me bliss and give me kisses.
Death awaits to save me.
The ghosts lament the guzzler men.
Come on baby
you know it’s easy
don’t say maybe
let’s go crazy.
Devastate the fuck-meat.
Give me blue sand and give me missus.
Death awaits the same me.
The ghosts lament the guzzler men.
[Whicham Valley, 1998]
MOTHER IS DEAD BY OEDIPUS WRECKS
Fuck this fuck that fuck that fuck me yeah
I wish that I had been there
been there to s ve Jesus
i’m sure he meant to please us
mother is dead
mother is dead
mother is dead
we’re young and filled w/ semen
we’re going to break sum hymen
we’ll make the cops turn in their badges
we’re going over all the edges yeah
mother is dead
mother is dead
mother is dead.
[Kilburn, 1998] ORIGINAL GRIME SAYINGS ON A GCSE FOLDER
Sullen silken sulks,
we drink the same rain,
spit is clean
and so is dirt.
Normal is boring.
Do it later.
God made speed to save us,
God made hash to help us.
Break out of frames.
Even a dick
gets big erections.
The sun hanged himself
from a length of daisy chain.
The universe is a projection
of the mind, spills Calculator
Ptom w/ innocuous vision.
He says G is green
on the red electric guitar.
Broken halos fall from angels,
you see them on the floor.
wet, electric eyes…
A salmon escaped
the ancient net.
A secret semen sniper
on Piper At The Gates of Dawn
accrued to the procession.
A carfume whooshed
from the unicorn’s bottom.
Why did the juggernaut
wriggle its little wing?
To break on thru’
to the other side!
I am the Burger King,
I can eat anything!
[1995 – 1998]
From THE ROAD TO HEAVEN BY NOJ AND THE MOB [1994 ORIGINAL]
Not squawk squawk gaggle gaggle bongles has still got the stones and Barnes has scored a chicken on The Road To Heaven by Noj and Mob.
L to the pregnant snorkel. L to the pregnant snorkel.
Ossie the dog should be sleeping like a log. Goes round and round chasing his own tail. Only goes upstairs for a trail of Maltesers nice round and pale.
We’re on the road to heaven, happiness awaits us there.
Flutter in the sideways gravity of the smile of light. Flutter in the sideways gravity of the smile of light. Flutter in the sideways gravity of the smile of light.
|| | |||| | || | ||||
POEMS OF SMALLNESS AND STRENGTH INVINCIBLE LOVERS
I’ll tell you how strange and wild
W/ wanton promise comes she
On an unknown hour
Like an uninvited guest
You’ve somehow brought to bed.
All night we’d
Sit and think of history
As if it hadn’t passed,
The great wars and the ancient peoples
And all the silly fears.
We’d think of how much we’ve changed
And how much we’ve remained the same.
We’d think of moments of mine
We somehow shared and how I longed to live
In circling illumination of all those moments,
And softly I wished
To expand history back into the past
And never to move again an inch forwards.
And to run through the memory of Time,
Ancient, timeless galleries.
Often we’d sit and think of speaking
Or retiring to bed or even sleeping.
Always we’d realise we never had
Time enough to waste or spend.
So we gloried in ourselves
Like invincible lovers,
Always boundless in new being.
And if I seldom spoke in sad regret,
She would turn and smile
As if to boldly offer
‘Come take my hand,
And we’ll wander across no-man’s land.’
 AURORA FLOREALIS
To forgive our sins falling like leaves. We have seen this all before, Time tumbling away into sleep, seen this darkness drop and these ruins murmur. Her primal scream is her mating call. The rhythm of the river Goyt beats blood to my head like a cold muscle.
To live in circling illumination of all those moments, fragments gone. Soft and loose like yellow pencils scribbling dreams as they arrive. Sudden and still like a dawn behind a screaming veil where silence is born and all that’s loose and tight and all that’s light is light like first morning w/no night.
To wend my way so slow to Freedom and soft infancy-Lunacy w/ harp-sure eyes. Down opening quiet I am drawn down long and alone and my friend and my foe recede into deep sleep. There is joy in things and smiles not grins like butter but like butterflies.
To live the last poet’s last poem. Light shafts in its distilled sleep. Night arrives like a ghost. In the time between the daybright and the twilight. Stoned alive out on reality’s starry faultline. Shuuuush, useless, priceless. Inky skies like streaking gold. The green kingdom around me opens up to the starlit laughter.
To have just come wondering after beauty and green and see how sick the shape she’s made of. Desperate for sex w/ a dream full of ladies. Face to face w/ a rapacious angel. Her kisses were like stolen dreams. Semen spills like silver water. Leap upward from this we will together be strangers again in fecund sunshine. Tonight it is your right to judge by heart alone.
[words 1998/ order 2019] I KNEW THAT SHE LOVED ME
I escaped last night
into a heightened dream
from a dull and longing sleep
and the stars murmured
their cool ballad
to the approaching sky.
Secrets hung like ghosts
in the corner of my wanton world
all blurred and drugged too deep
and I knew that she loved me
from her invisible motions
and the dagger in her soft reply.
The questions concealed in her eye.
Her smile a luring prison.
Her blink a beautiful danger.
Her breath a poisonous magic.
And I knew that silence
would soon let slip its whisper,
knew that fantasy
had never been so real,
and I knew that she loved me
because I knew everything.
 RUDIMENTARY EARTOON THEORY
YES I wrote on the road to the solar eclipse,
what colour is white? Smooth and tight!
What colour is blue? Be true you!
I invented the Shadow Page Poem
in the blue roadbook, where waves
[squiggle] crossed the FTSE [squiggle]
and parked and wriggled its little wing.
John and Paul, hitching to the eclipse
of the sun, past Black Head, to Lizard Point
procured some LSD the night before, whereupon,
as I wrote during the eclipse itself –
Every atom ate our eyes. Now
on the edge I rest my head, feeling
feint as F.U.C.K touched in steam
on glass and dream a cure for pain.
Chain is made from same as key.
If it comes to having a logically worked out
system of priorities by which to live:
1. The emerald princess is gloating in the gorgeous
green oasis in the desert.
2. Smoke made ancient ghost-faces in the
dark upstairs in the old servant’s quarters in the barn.
3. Plunge the needle into the heart of the brain.
 [no name]
through the arteries of galaxies
of memories to galleries
where tapestries of slaughter
hang from fallen walls
through the purple corridor
a door is ajar push it open
gently creaking opening afar
then into the crumbling tumbling temple
stumble through and fumble on
across the stone across the floors
flat like graves pattern’d in shadow
onwards upwards notice the window
above all stained in glory-orgasm
w/ the cross of Christ
and the face of you
Holy you like some
ragged tearful stranger
bled to the world just to say
anyway there is no truth
give up now and turn away
it’s all too late you mustn’t wait
follow the shadows into the shade
head up high up to the altar where stands
a candle forged in Rome and
follow it upward and finally
then find the flame.
 from AN INWARD PRAYER
Blessed is night w/ its centuries of bright, burning eyes
Blessed is connecting to the big white dream
in moments of bright, empty enlightenment
when suddenly awakened you open reception
to Dark Dream Radio and the Infinite Broadcast
Blessed are its electric currents, the channels
of rhythmic ecstasy, for Music , Sex and
Idea are the elements of miracle
Blessed are the 4 Pillars of Time,
Milk Water Whisky Wine. Blessed is
the poet not struggling through headache
but strung out in harmonious rhythm
like a chain of music from star to star
Blessed is sin if it kills Ignorance
Blessed is the wavering emergence of Now
The friendliness of meeting a stranger
The strangeness of meeting a friend
Blessed is peace as blessed is ‘FUCK!’
Blessed is the rapture of the slender moon,
and the danger in her wanton thigh,
blessed are we for our daring tongues,
for being in love w/ being in love
Blessed is our small advance
beneath an ocean of weeping stars
for Time is all that Time can prove
Blessed is thought as absence of thought
So in the dark over-soul of Night
above us all and counting Time
that thought behind the back of your mind
Let’s just say you looked into my eyes
and saw the glimmer of the gates unlocking
No let’s just say I came and saw and
you almost heard my Soundless Word
Blessed is word as absence of word.
 From THE BOOK OF WORDS
V-A-E-I-O-U-L I say the word
vowel using every vowel sound;
y.p.o.r.t.n.e is the opposite of entropy.
Birds speak in gagazookzook and
bongeteebing bong, but man is words
and ‘man’ is a word and words
draw bridges across metaphysics
and words make connection between
the first and third persons, maaaan.
In the distractionary of metallurgical
origins of birds there are many
cavepaintings in words but fluvient
coinage, fluvient coinage, has gone.
The medicine man in the medieval
cinema thinks indwellable the opposite
of indomitable when it comes to movies.
 SHEER INSOUCIANT FAITH
[After reading the red on black JE DOUBTE DONC JE SUIS atop the Pompidou Centre in Paris]
Il faut que je m’en aille
w/ sadness in a backward eye.
What is this dream into which I am hurled?
Past the fallen road sign saying THINK!
Whom it seems is smitten w/ the
mystery of the single shoe by the hwy.
Sometimes you’ve just got to hit the road and.
The trumpet of inflamed temperament
wears its foreskin on the inside.
The mustard has to be English.
The mustard has to be English.
The mustard has to be English.
And blowing outside in the wild.
Where we’ll all lie prone in green grass. from SCENTS OF SPRING
I love the day the first, fresh, scents of spring
suffuse the air and pervade the senses.
An AEIOU bird toots its hollow horn
outside on the A595.
A celebratory genesis languishes everywhere.
is giving birth,
menstruating season and
Fresh lovers maunder hand-in-hand
and kneedeep in redolent flowers
into shade to take repose by cool, running water.
Sybaratical sylphs swoop in sentient air.
The blue sky arches and swoons, I bridle
the mind and race apace to the shore
where the seabirds scream w/
Rontaur from the ragged rocks, –
is it their love song or elegy?
Waves copulate, make love to the shore,
marrying together stunning juxtapositions
of all unlikely Orders of Being.
Liquid night soon comes,
O sleepless omen moon
who shines like an electric coin
and seems to be in love w/ the sea.
Homework tonight is to remember your dreams.
I prefer telepathy to 10p.
 THE BLUE ROOM
A Russian has a right to a square of red
perceived by someone from another land
and Liberty and Trade go hand in hand.
Smell is the most primal sense, in love,
absent in cinema. Blissful Lovingness
is where all religions meet. Better and
worse are but materialistic, Western concepts.
The Age of Communication momentarily
endorses, means the Age of Alienation.
The opposite is the pre-requisite. The pre-
verbal, the thought-pattern, into words,
via the mechanics of meaning, is dilution.
The condition of knowledge Produces
no triumph. When you renounce the quest
for meaning, you find it, fall back on
meaning-by-proxy. When you lose your
concentration you die. Everything living
shares the same heartbeat in a given lifespan.
The artist is the missing link reintegrating
into a society of worms and the artistic
spirit androgynous. W/out difference no
distinction. The etymology of Hell is separation,
so connection is Heaven and Heaven connection.
The first principle of God Simulation is
to stand alone in Nothingness and dictate
the parameters of your own existence. A
Buddhist monk on acid can shrug it off.
 NOTES AT A REDBLEEDING TYPE WRITER INSIDE A PINGPONG BALL
1. I spoke against 2001 in 2000 on pollen. I also looked into a sunbeam at a ballet of dust motes and predicted the God Particle would be found.
2. I put forth a proposition for discovery as big as fire on tap, for a drug called Strictly Free, and more and many more.
3. Portability is the aesthetic quality stretching across the board as the Apotheosis of Form.
4. Only poetry can frame the first, unformulated spark of appetency in Nothingness preceding Creation [e.g. y.p.o.r.t.n.e?].
5. Jerry Springer has run to rot, reading. Shocking Truth Revealed Inside. Cameramen descend like vultures to eat the eyes of the deadman.
6. I.T. stands for Instant Travel. To be walking along one sunny day when you jump from the jungle to the Arctic to the Sahara.
7. The ABC of aesthetics is not easy. Apple blossom cheek, breath of wine, plates or confetti. He sips on disturbed Nile insect spaghetti.
8. Hypertext at the gates of dawn dot com.
9. Breakthroughs have made by silence in the stars. Don’t let science and its rubbergloved hand abolish sadness gene and dreaming gland whom it seems are only ‘in’ and ‘of’ dreaming land. WHICHAM VALLEY AS A SCRATCH ON A CD
‘A place is its own mind’ – Neil Curry, Knowing Your Place
Well, if a place is its own mind,
this one quietly dreams
and falls ever further behind.
There’s no Tourist sign to tell
how rich in natural and human history
is this valley by the oldest fell.
The church is built on the foundations
of the oldest stone built monastery
in this back lawn of a Nation.
On Sunday the posse of motorbikes
come for the valley’s curves,
the flow of troughs and spikes.
Nature’s scales are diatonic
and from all background static depression
here is her sonic, spiritual tonic.
The foothill Sea Ness I hear
from a white witch, who proofread for
Norman Nicholson was once ‘Seer’.
I’ve seen some things in my time,
the gearbox of a self driving car,
culminating in the preternatural sublime.
The place is the consolation of the bucolic,
its lure telluric but not atavistic,
its Bede demiurgic, its justice noetic.
[Whicham Valley, 2008] READING MATERIAL
If there were paper under my heart there would
be writing on it and maybe it would be red
like the blood-orange warning of dawn-burst
or nuclear fall-out-in-reverse of dusk, whose
scattered, tattered- knicker clouds conceal
real live U.F.O’s, and non-exchangeable
for a raffle ticket when the fiver-river
drones. That page, an underground organ,
w/ its meta-fictional shorthand and triplicate,
surely it would feel shocked not to be legal tender?
[Silecroft Beach] PRANK SUICIDE NOTE FOR A MELTING SNOWMAN
A Yellow Pages
A Yellow Pages will
Death death clean as sugar
A Yellow Pages will suffice as
May I swim back into the water cycle
A Yellow Pages will suffice as a snowman’s
So I never got to invent the colours of the vaeiouls
A Yellow Pages will suffice as a snowman’s suicide note
A Yellow Pages will suffice as a snowman’s suicide
May dawn’s light behead me like a guillotine
A Yellow Pages will suffice as a
Toilet to flush the soul down
A Yellow Pages will suffice
A Yellow Pages will
A Yellow Pages
 BLACKBIRD FLY
Shot one. Enter flying blackbird. Lands on
garden brick wall. Sings octave interlude
of C sharp minor [the darkest key], ascending:
‘don’t rape mi for so li ttle dough’. Flies off.
Shot two: Enter flying blackbird. Lands on post.
Sings octave interlude of C sharp minor, ascending:
‘don’t rape mi for so li ttle dough’. Flies off.
Shot three. Empty street. Enter black
bird, dishevelled, dragging sac of cash, unable
to sing w/ his wings, having sold wing-song
and soul. Only sound now, prison chain-gang
drag of loot in bag on concrete pavement.
[co-authored w/ Tom Grover] WHERE’S WALLY?
The accents of the waves were Seamus Heaney
the cloud-change did not differ for hours it stayed
like search-engines in the big glass day I found
pink in the shadows and splashed and played
in the shallows the plush corrugated velvet sands
stretched out like a woman’s thighs the kites
in the sky were fishing w/out capture or video
games of rapture in the window of wind the stone
thrown rearranged Paul’s God I waved a sea-washed
wand for the dog to chase the dropped ice-cream
melted under the tired sun and the man at the van
gave the unlucky kid a second one, a round cone, gratis.
Hearing that your NHS-gifted DX4400 soul-less printer
makes a noisy whirr redolent of a melody in Ades ‘Asyla’,
you advertise this factoid on facebook, posting hyperlink
to the youtube Ades w/ it, underneath your thoughtful ink.
You don’t know if the youtube melody was clicked or not,
only that your NHS-gifted DX4400 soul-less printer, w/out
even having been turned on, ran clean out of ink, drained.
Yet you bet your life the photo of the leaf, its delicate, vein’d
instructions, still woven in its strong, green sail outside
and wagging in the wind – not death’s breath you decide –
when either liked or not liked on social media, will not
affect the real leaf itself to either fall or not-fall like a vote.
[The Early Intervention Team commissioned me to write an anti-drug poster to go up around the town of Barrow-in-Furness and this poem was written at a screen the NHS provided when it became a purple bleeding screen]
Tate-vowels cut and Eden-drum
and mum blank and wah-wah long,
I didn’t realise it would be that healthy,
to the Tsar. Above his head, a heart beat gonner,
refracting poison finger’d lasers, layabouts the lot
of them, dialling Minotaur-roar and fiftyfifty,
befuddled goyts down the Duchamp,
dreaming of ski slopes, gauntcore
valence amant. That Keatshit in
one ear and out the trouser scared
poor Kitty, melon-meeting, b.j.-ing,
cleaving what car drives itself, door
closed againe, and handless of art, apart
from the empoldered blossom of words. Tiffany
curpled red dull mustard wings impossible yet you
will find them, under porn, tomorrow morning,
your soul lion wind therapy crayons. Cup-
shared skinnydip Bethlehem beware
heart that talks metal, halfware,
dragon, mnts, befriend Turner-points
of fume, whorepenned tights on the Ally Ally
O, back to you on house and the game of 5-a-side.
 THE TRITE MACHINE
If a flower-press ending on cannabis = dialysis,
and a love poem hoping to impress Flora more the motor,
A.E.I.O.U. to the leaves you can
leave on the trees in the winter,
vowels, pure vowels, Immanuel Kant
will come to thee w/ immanence. I see
her face too soon on facebook, marshmallow
lambs of snow saying ‘sex’ not ‘cheese’ to the
camera, rosy cheeks putting Italy holy, other,
non-key sirens speaking ill migglior fabbro
in the background, life a bit of bread
too beautiful bare, wear a veil.
*ketamineguitar* BONFIRE JAWS
Swimming in woollen waves w/ my mother,
watched from the stony shore by my poor, dying father,
self-healing in sea-salty expiation as a laughter
of seagulls flew past in shark mask replicas,
I turned my body away from the beach towards
the peach-stone of a black hole being slowly
sucked into the sea’s watercress-hives and
drowned and forgot that bonfire jaws is holy,
bonfire jaws is bought and sold and silting gold,
leaking out in all directions like mc squared = .
 FREE SEX!
My name is David Bonky
i’m a knock-kneed hummingbird
there’s a tear up my jacket
and I heard an ancient word
the sublimation of the animal
and the advert into the
old neologism adimal
I muse on the unlikelihood
I fly through colours and shapes
lightspeed is my passport
the primates are my mates
a knock-kneed hummingbird table
on which to land and feed
does not seem to me to be
such an unreasonable need
i’ll breakfast on snooker colours
spark a dullard cigarette
insufflation = effluvium
and have no room for regret.
[1998 – 2018] ART THERAPY TABLE AT AN ART THERAPY TABLE
The Periodic Table of Altered States = puddles
Calculator Tomb = clay
FROZEN = fire
BY SENSATION = sea
Random Access Imagination = rain
The Extinction of the Gun = rainbows
Digitalis Principalis = snow
The Death of A.I. from the Spirit of Music = air
A Trance of Stalks by Prof Quentin Ponsonby = grass
McTruth And Flies = light
Not The Future State of Poetry = glass
[Hadrian Unit, Carlisle] PURPLE
Crazy voices told me to write of the colour
purple. In Steiner homes for autists,
Rational but socially inept, the corners
Of the rooms are round and purple
Because it’s less threatening than the geometry
Of right-angled corners. My room
Turned out a little like that when,
As my dying father lay in the attic,
My screen bloomed a numinous purple
Light daubing the walls until
The bedroom – an anagram of boredom –
Seemed like a featherlite love poem shop.
A little girl’s lava lamp of a room!
Sometimes the seeping foxglove aura
Vacillated back and forth between
Purple and its normal screen light,
Refusing to settle for any long period of time.
My bro said I’d caught some virus;
The computer programmer down the pub
Just said ‘dying’ and he was right
For by the time Blue passed away,
Blue being the art smuggling codename
Dad used in his shady occupation,
The computer broke down. R.I.P. data-tree
And farewell luminous dark of half-Denmark!
Now all I can think of to say on purple
Is this: I would put it in my mouth
And I would chew on it like a cow
Grazes on grass, mulchy and blind.
And I would ingurgitate it fully, not
Spit it out like a child his dummy.
I would taste it like her name. It’s
the colour of mystery and sex
And suadade and longing and shame.
And it’s the colour we associate w/ depth.
When I first looked at the colours of the vaeiouls
I noticed the presence of its absence
As if you’d expect it there because
It’s the colour of deep things.
 WATER FEATURE
A table in the back: the [co-extensive/ contiguous] beck
Trots down from the fell’s striated way
Split w/ discourteous unicorn hooves,
Brackish to Blue and dimpling to me.
Singing w/ longkissing sweet-throat birds
It falls two feet into a sound as sweet
As a kettle drum’s metal petals of silver bliss
That bloom mellifluous on the carnival’s street.
One night in Prime leaves blocked the tunnel
And water seeped in under the back door
To scatter an action painting archipelago
Of Blue’s tasteful vinyl on the black-flagged floor.
Poor Ossie the dog was marooned in his basket,
Meaning on the store sign for HMV,
And record stores close down, folk heroes pass
And the beck still lucid dreams to the sea.
 A FROND OF BRACKEN
[a rewrite of ‘A Blade Of Grass’ by Brian Patten]
You ask me for a poem.
I offer you a frond of bracken.
You say that’s not good enough.
You’re not buying it.
I say how mood
Is also a bracken frond
Drooping down and
That is why I chose it –
To represent ‘mood’
This mundane Monday morning.
You’re not buying it.
You want something textual.
I say I plucked it from the fell
Which turns in summer
From russet to green
Like an homicidal machine.
I plucked it at random at dawn.
You’re still not buying it.
I seem to remember a time,
Taking the old bramble road
At the Augustan/ Romantic
Crucifix w/ you
Where a frond
 THE UNMISTED ETHIC OF DAVE MORLEY
Two lines thrown
To an infinite point
But not w/ love
Only w/ life
Not w/ the splash
Of swift ellipsis
Into mystic heated wine
More w/ the crash
Of the face into water
Before firestreaked dawn
Not w/ love
Only w/ life
I want to be clear
Love does not await
Where those fine parallels
Collapse into one
Beyond the burning horizon
For that is a mystification.
 POINTLESS ACTIVITY
Now that university’s long out
I wonder what it is I am to do.
Now that I know, say, The Great Gatsby
is an infradiegetic heterotopia
or chronotope pertaining to
panchronic, panoramic overview.
Now that I know say, language
speaks man and Deconstruction is
a dream. Now that I can redefine
the lesson of post-structuralism as
twofold meaning a) the condition
of being a text can extend to any
object, any quotidian ephemera,
say, a pen b) the condition of being
a language unto itself can extend
to any text, say Frankenstein…
now that I know sooo much
I wonder what it is I am to do.
And I wonder what it is I am to read.
My father, after his PPE degree,
under Karl Popper at the LSE
where he learned of falsifiability
and P1 to TT to EE to P2,
turned back to Whinnie the Pooh.
 ROSE PETALS IN THE ASHTRAY
‘Whw wnough medias gts comprwssd thee resuts of aanything penetrative r negative for those who woud wish to contol the medias.’ – Arthur Rimbaud
K. B does not know fire from fir,
long logopoeia from logs for fertile fire,
Negative Capability from negative equity,
bonmots from pink, French confectionary,
backward f, forward f, equals running through
from the effects of global warming on the unicorn,
the colours of the vowels from alphabet spaghetti,
the Objective Correlative from ironic self-distance,
sprechstimme from kettle steam described as
Ariel returning on Caliban’s leash, singing
‘cunts are dungeons for the depraved!’,
chiasmus from napkin-kissing-gates
silting their electron-haired dandelion-puff,