logochrysalis web site

Lie-tter to Dennis

Dennis this is for you - the librarian that has kept my letters for thirty years
and in deed i would be keen to see them and their musty dusty surreal imagery of word
and line. Now that the first line is done Den there are a few things that you might
find odd - the first you might have already noticed is that you are henceforth
Dennis
Denny
or simple Den
and i know that this is going to be confusing but just remember those three names
and that'll be YOU and it ought to be pretty obvious its YOU as it ought to contain all
those nuggety little granite-hard chip filosophies of yours but it doesnt because i
deliberately forgot them and instead your two only friends in the world of beings Brant
and I have put in OUR saws instead - and i know that life is full of disappointments the
sort that your parents should have told you about had they not dissowned you and sent you
like Romulus or morelikely Reemus to the wolves - i digress - but there are also quite a lot
of people you dont know herein so i'll get straight to the nub of things with David.

There is a picture in the Louvre called Oath of the Horatii allegedly Neo classicism but
in fact 3 revolutions in a single picture and has David's signature been written by the
figures in it ??
It has a long diagonal which in fact becomes an arc and rises to a point something to
which we allude later in this book for that is what this is - a book and you are in it Den
3 figures raise their arms to art the shaddowy figure at the back given of his sword is you
because you have not constructed the book and are merely its librarian and because
you are also its secret but the other two are its main combatants and protragonists.
They are the closest of we three brothers and yet they love and hate and spit and spat
though in a playfull kind sometimes condescending way and other times they punch each other
- the one at the front , the thuggish ugly looking one is me, Mike, and the pretty one with the
golden can upon his head is Brant and we have all in our different ways sworn to forego
the power of self protection afforded by our swords although you'll notice that i
cunningly still have a staff in my hand - that is because i am the main author of this
story and it is my duty to protect the women on the right who represent the glory
and the truth of our achievements to be revealed and relived and perhaps reveered and
maybe reviled in this our tale. Receiving our swords in mock surprise is David
who is there as the representative of art he surely is - as were his four bears -
or wolf cub and three bears - as shown.
In this picture the thugish looking one - me - is traight - the other two are homosexual
and David - well who knows ??. and Me and Brant and Den [that is you Dennis} all moved
furniture together in Boston.
Now Den, a lot of faggots and queens are going to be wondering later on in this fairly
factual account of the time we spend together on this stressed little planet why the
bejesus two, by and large pretty nice gay blokes were friends at all with the [ruthless,
sometimes he-thought-but-no-one-else-did funny, devious, crude, irascible : Brants addition]
clever English straight guy and
the answer is
that they needed to be pretty laisee faire about the things that happen to us in this
life partly in working out 'who they were/are' in the first place because being homosexual,
particularly when you were young, Den, was a crime [legaly a fact !]- bit like being
black in the Alabama USA of the last three centuries only not so surface-obvious.
I guess the journey to the Horatii picture begins not in say Davids Jerusalem or Salem or indeed
latin Rome but roaming through 'the Spain of dull Cervantes'
with Joan Nixon who can run faster than the old beat up toledo of Robby Blythe's we're in
- a triad soon to become a duode or a diode.
Joan had a nasty racing horse training accident at home in England and though an amazing
sprinter is left with all her lithe beauty but dulled wits and this is irking me
and finalised when she complains of having eaten to much and a pain in her stomach
"my tummy hurts i think ive eaten too much what do you think it is "
"i think its because your full of shit Joan " i reply
and the air cleaved by what i crassly thought was funny, parts and with a vanguard of
French motorcyclists off she slips in silent Barcelona.
Gone the recipient of the daft but hard worked poems i used to send her in Leigh in lieu
also gone our petrol tank which has split and as we wait for a replacement in Catleloonyer
so you turn up Dennis.

We're in a bar in the olde ramblas of before the tourist kitsch when it was a dock and a home
to seamen and rough transvestite flamenco queens. Dennis you are trying to chat Rob up with hindsight
i suspect while i am alone reading the Tribune Herald of New York which has some later significance
in this story that an authors aside - anyway i am accosted by a whore she asks me if
i want "f***y wucky sucky wucky" and rubs my leg.
I am amused by this game so i ask how much and then say
"what for all 3 of us" indicating Rob and you Den in the corner oblivious and beyond earshot
"no Hugh " she replies
after a bit of anglo spanish bantering i ask her where she learnt her english as so far in
the hinterland of the spain of there is no lingual-englacide despite the fact that some of our fathers
joined the red brigands and tolling bells of within living memory revolution turned bad and
despite the fact that we are in its quarter - Catatonia - the land of cat and crescent moon.
"noy Glostah" "gloucester" i repeat "yah" and "you do this 'f***y wucky' there"
"hyes good trayde"
a new england - a decadent Angleland of depraved top hatted gentleman like Isombard
United kingdom Brunel dropping his trous and slipping her one by the back of the station flits
across my naive mind - as a kid we travelled through or stopped there and Cheltenham on the bus on the
way to Cornish wet glory holidays a by the pounding seas from Witney and never had
i suspected - never ... that was the most appaling memory of that spanish year as
it destroyed my unity of childhood and its fluffy clouds were blasted by the sick
winds desease and storms of what else might be lurking in the broken bottle shards
or sodden stenchfull like a blooded johnny bag in the evil alleys and thin skyward
views between the alley walls - what shape the clouds seen in full ????
and so it came to pass as we drove up to Paris where we dumped you Den - you invited me
to America you and Brant and I, to be the american dream and move furniture in Boston in what you called a truck Den
that was just a beaten van with its spurious steering and raggety hull and was you
in transport form - you demur, but it was Den, just as now i am a sports car small and light and a heapy
tax free van so things are learnt and some forgot and some forgiven and some fourbear.
Which returns us to our picture -
although later there will be the tale of mafioso and the filling of the keyhole while you and
Brant cluckled on like tutting aunts or scaredy children and asking general anguilo to
shift his "effing cars" and the trip up north the cheap shops in Maine - do you remember Den ??
thirty years since i've seen you - you weren't easy to find - i looked on the web several years ago
using Boston and then San Fran on the eastern seaboard as key but the lock was not
undone it was only when i tried your full name and realised the politicking stand had come to
nothing i new that was you - confirmed when i read the list you heralded as your achievements
being Bobby Kennedy and thus the irish mafia personified a laugh i laughed i laugh
and you regaling me over the phone with your stowing your libido on a russian barque tale -
not many would see the humour in that first glance but im so pleased you havent changed
as you are always so full of droll and so much fun misunderstood
I thought Brant would be dead - he struck me as the sort who would either have copped out
of the real world by either addiction to life enhancing:life destroying drugs - or dead
by association with say accountancy or law so amazed i was to hear that he'd become
a poet but then what do i know
and heres his site logochrysalis.com
logo chrysalis yes Den you wonder what thats all about - well
a chrysalid

is a mush of unrequited chemicals and becomes a butterfly or moth to most and moths go
out and do the night with musk and the poetry of secret dawns whence they must hide

and logo
On St Stephens day was Heraclitus born, the 27th December in the calendrical of the east -
Heraclitus invented logos and thought it meant the fluid and the font of universal order
and was obviously a maniac - the sort who would look inside his fridge to see if the light
was on even though he knew the logic of the switch must have turned it off
and his descendants are even Stevens to this day -
whereas the So-farists got lashed on herbs and residues of mushroom piss and
used the term to mean intercourse - that hippie Aristotle chatted it to extinction
laughter-hung braying laughing all the while the dope inside his body coursed an
intercourse into art only part interpreted by Rembrandt and not by hells-knot Heller
though his books are great and beloved of this author.

so there you have it defined ....
the secret nearly moth that talks - how many of those have you seen in dreams Den ????
because this is a motiff in a merry canister of literature forged by the slight
of hand para{by the] lies of carloso and the castanets - Carlos Casteneda -
"The Lesson of Don Juan" no less
- and llevado and lavado [trans:born and washed} of a heritage ago in
Barcelona's ramblas ehh ???
any way to stop this rambling i emailed Brant and thus we make your books first
charter - the discourse will be open on my part and i will edit it as i see fit
but then i shall hand the staff to Brant and inform him that this is his task -
and so the long batton passed to him his memories we require - and some honesty
though honestly he's a smart dishonest boy and given to lying unless
we paddle him with that stick - either way here are the contents of our discourse

first letter to brant - i prod him a bit as im interested to see what sort of
reply i get from a poet

letter to Amorica
about 30 years ago i remember Brant (im not sure we needed the 'n' then ) as a brash
but intelligent and lively youth - imagine my surprise then to see Freddie Mercurie's
urbane brother where Brant's drug addled image should be.
Where New Yorkers have expectorated the Iggy Pop of poetry they got the slick half
formed "ANT FARM" from the poet of the patrons of prada.
In the meantime his english nemesis and erstwhile workmate [thats a utility bench here
in merrie olde england] had made the long journey through the mists that foolish
people describe/deride [delete as applicable] as culture in the long search for
the "seven magpies" a theory he was latter to propose to one of his erstwhile sons.
In the long car crash that was his life he returned from Amorica to be apprenticed
into the computer trade and thusly was subsumed into the house of many programmers.
It may seem odd to you that an ugly man may have a beautiful partner and this can
indeed only be true if he is either very stupid or fashionably wealthy so with this
in mind imagine do you think that such an englishman might be either of these things ???
correct - he stupidly chucked in a rather lucrative job to pursue a long held
ambition to become the "greatest horse canvasser since equus"
[your epitaph to me Den your english colleague(?)]in a fit of panic he married and
was able by a miracle of geneticks - [not yet fully explainable as
in the fashion of great religous fables] able to produce a son, fully formed
and by the lustrous name of Toby - the very same name as a jug he'd so admired
in the Cancer Research Charity Shoppe.
And so it was that burdened with a wife a mortgage and a young son that he endeavoured
to become Prodigal of Painting. From across the verdant slopes and troughs of
keen fields from the precarious branches of a distant tree you might have been
able to spy him at night slavishly subsuming the contents of Fra Pacioli's
"Divine Proportione" or the divine proportions of Frances Pacciolli undressing
by the window if you looked 2 houses to the left and indeed after some diversion
and a lot of complex maths he did discover the golden rule of painting
this may be sumarised not in an algebraic formula as he had hoped but in the form of a
little black cat which he painted as a present for his sister and reproductions of
which earned him the respect of some 60,000 and 2 houses - one of which was to
become his wifes sole property in the document later to become known as the
"divorce settlement" [the settlement being her house] Unfortunately he got to
keep the son. They had lol {which means "lots of laughs" and not the "lots of love"
that you old people and 'new worlders with one gammy eye' seem to misinterpret it as}.
They two would go and do strange things together like feed the ducks then take
their snaggled catch and flog it to the local pub in exchange for a beer each
- such is life in poachers englande.
Sadly
the ex-wife remarried and the boy was taken to that more responsible household
fortunately not before he had learned all about being a hooligan which will
stand him in great stead as life [as a transvestite nun] i am certain of that !!
Even more sadly our englishman then foresook the path of the great arts and
wandered aimlessly through the Zen of motorbike restoration sinking back into
the quagmire of programming and collating objects from the local household refuse
site in the very rooms where once a child had laughed.
Many girfriends tried vainly to clear those rooms but all have failed ..
however the god of ebay has called to our limey and more recently two great
innovations have occured once more he has taken up the brush of his calling
[is that an oxymoron i hear over there ???] and having been thrust ignominoiusly
upon the heap of unwanted souls and dead programmers produced
Portraits 2008
in an attempt to resurect the devils of the little black cat in human form
he has also produced several books of grate poetry for his mother.
Sadly though much downloaded these will prove too subtle for anything but
the most unstrictured mind - i leave you with this thought and brief history
script by mike burr
a man fully alive
--->

well Den i had to wait a merry old time for a return and indeed i thought i'd
over egged the cook with the heat of rudeness and possibly by writing a dumbity-down
arrogant self-indulged letter littered like flies with lies and the lice of
humdrum existence however well potted or potty...
i get no reply and after say a week i assume its spammalised into atmospheres of
nothing and i think of desparate measures like writing in the header
"i owe you money from 30 years back"
and seeing if Brant is bright an oeuf to calculate the interest or broke-en oeuf.
so i send another in which i invoke the 'ghosts of Dennis past'
and having consorted with the friends of facebook(myspace) of chrysalad , my interest
in one Zayra Yves who sounds like a nuttybird and maybe an entertaining replacement
for the lovely but departing Beverley Bee my beau and best mate possibly ever
the email reads as follows

dear Bront
first - a bit of news from merrie old england that made me larf
Henry Allingham - europes oldest man celebrates his 113 th birthday
he is blind and consequently living in a home for the blind on
englands south coast - so to commemorate this feat of longevity
and visual distress some council wit decided to have a portrait
made of Harry - this will be presented to the city of cardiff -
which is in wales about 150 miles away -
they hate anything english there by the way which is why
we send our most hated prince to become prince of wales
either in the hopes that they terminally affect his health or
that he learn how to outwit and outfight allcomers there
and thus prove he was worthy of the crown of england in yester year -
a convoluted version this tradition still lives on -
we now call it Rugby football
ok also
do you actually know Zyra Yves who has posted as a friend on your
facebook sight or has she just pasted her glamorous face and
unstrictured if slightly dimensioned mind there for the
purpose of promoting her own poetry ???
regards mike b
by the way Dennis gave me your details
do you and your partner see much of him ???
--->
(incidentally after writing this both Mr Allingham
and shortly thereafter Harry Patch the last of the great and forebearing warriors
of the trenches and skies of WW1 died - the aftereffects of surely the most
horrific war in history ??? and one which my grandfather fought practically
from start to finish and had medals - not as many as our current crop of brave
dukes and princes though - and withered calf as proof of an explosion nearby
left his right thereafter disfunctional leg barely strong enough to dandle
a child upon - the severed part became a root in Belgian mud and grew to be
a tree and copse of memory that skirts the graveyards serried ranks of white)
an afterlife ???
and after death there is life ...
Anyway - while were waiting for Brants reply i want to tell you about my friend Rob
of the toledo - Robby Blythe - he wasn't always my friend - when we were at school
he was in a different class and he had two best friends Ken Stroud and Steve Shorland
[Steve was one of Bee's first long term boyfriends ! - you'll meet Bee later Den]
well when we got to the age just before sentience i.e. about 16, Ken and Steve
decided they didn't like Rob and i guess since they'd all been friends that long everybody
at what was our small school numbering 60 odd thought there must be good reason for
this. So when Ken and Steve started the campaign of hatred that coursed the school
EVERYONE pretty much without exception went along with this, ostracising Rob, and
resulting in him acquiring the nickname "squirm" and a lot of other unpleasant epithets
relating to the contours of his face and his size, nearly as small as me, and a lot of
hatred - i felt that i hated Rob . Rob had been at tiny-skool with Loz and Loz who
was and is very funny was and is a friend of Robs and of mine and wanted to go out
and play football with Rob.
It felt like everyone was looking at us and i felt uncomfortable
but went out with Loz anyway, and there over by the bike sheds was Rob all alone
'in goal' and we booted the ball at him - at first angrily on my part, and gradually
i began to realise as Loz and Rob bantered that Rob is a very very funny and really
nice bloke and i had a realy bad revelation of the sort where inside you know you've
been a
Pretty Nasty person for the Wrong Reasons.
And this had two consequences -
Rob still tolerates me 30 years on even though he doesn't like some bits and
despite/because of the fact that i accidentally found him a nice wife
and the second
was that because i had this bad revelation i went home and asked my mum about it
and that is the first thing you should know
IF YOU FEEL BAD ABOUT SOMETHING TELL YOUR PARENTS ABOUT IT
and the second lesson is
IF YOU ARE A PARENT LISTEN TO WHAT YOUR CHILD IS SAYING
and
Do Not feel obliged to answer and
Do Not pass Judgement and
Do Not say anything Negative
then if you know a lot about firstly yourself and secondly about life
which nearly everybody doesn't - then think about how you and/or your friends
are going to best help your child to help itself through his/her dillema
Now if that sounds like pontificating then that doesnt conform to the advice
that i pontificated on above - and it may not be totaly sound advice and
you may see lots of flaws in it - but this is MY {and Brants] Book to Den
and i [and Brant] get to say what I like in it so if you don't like it
- dont read it! [ignore him as i need the royalties:Brant] - bin it !

anyway to get back to the emailology [i made that word up - like i make up a lot
of Special Lies later on [bas***d]]
and Den at last there is weblife and i get this :-

16th june 2009
Mr. Burr--
Well, well, well! How many years? Over a quarter of a century, I'd say, but still
I'm not 113, though sometimes feel blind. It seems a life time ago you were skipping
down Boston's Freedom Trail and I was charging down country lanes near Hemel Hempstead.
Actually, many lifetimes ago. Facebook? Hell, I didn't even know I was on Facebook!
Though I do have a myspace. Where are you living? South coast? I've a poet friend who
hails not far from Brighton, though, speaking, her "A's" are Northern,
not the Southern "Ahhh's." She lives with her Birt husband stateside now.
I've been promising to drop in on Dennis for months on end, but keep breaking my pledge,
as something always comes up to keep me from breaking away for a few days.
Funny how the Internet can dig everyone out of obscurity. This comes a quite a
surprise; though, having an elephant's memory, I knew instantly which crazy
Englishman would have to be writing.
Cheers,
Brant
P.S., Please send my regards to the venerable Henry A.
Treat him to a ha' pint on me. At his age, more would probably make him pee on himself
before he could make it to the loo!
--->
Brant came over here on a short trip I was living with my parents then and i
invoked their almost edgeless hospitality. I still have the sepia stained
pictures of Brant and my mum standing aside the gates of some fusty
Cambric college but oddly the thing that Brant liked most was our drive
through the claustrophobic lanes and hedge won fields and birds pecked
slopes and rook rent woods and cow draught rivulets across the Chiltern Hundreds
via Chalfont and the Latimers before the incipience of the Land of Giants
criss crossed and obliterated the venerated greensward with Huge Motorways -
to slough my dad from work in Slough in his car which we had borrowed - a brown Daf 55
a legend powered by rubber bands that being its gearing and its motive genius.
Make of this email what you will but Birt the Brit sounds good as epitheting
and as for his wifes nothern ass -
who knows it may be beautifull and hard compared to our soft southern ones ???
the email - touchstones of commonality in english friends and memories -
fingers gently reaching out like god and adam in the vaunted roof
or spiders touching tippy toes on thin white webs more like !!
and by the way Henry a wouldn't he be pissed off and delight us with a punch or two
on Brants soft nose if he were here and young again
then 19th june
Brant sent a flier as i guess im on his male list - sad sick boy

Tues. 6/23 7 PM HYDROGEN JUKEBOX
Poetry / Music Reading Series Brant Lyon, host
"Huron Club" @ SoHo Playhouse blahdy blahdy blah

The Juke continues to rock with two great featured acts this month:
ANNE CAMMON and THE FATOOSH ENSEMBLE (Farid Bitar, Miriam Stanley and Brant Lyon),
workin’ it with the Hydro Juke improv band, Davey Patterson’s THE NE’ER-DO-WELLS.
And, as always, a great OPEN MIKE.
Come hear POEMusic explode on the tongue in a high-energy cabaret atmosphere.

June 23: ANNE CAMMON w/ Roger Lipson, sitar + THE FATOOSH ENSEMBLE +
Davey Patterson's band, THE NE'ER-DO-WELLS
--->
and i see POE Music and in an halucinogenius moment i see the pendulous scythe
of Edgar Allan descending on the poets and off their tongues do fall and gently
picked and garnished up they're touted round the hall as lunch and canopees
to the twingly twongling of Roger Lipson-tonguesoffs sitar i can see its notes
become words
and the words take form

"Each day just goes so fast
I turn a riynd, it's passed
You dont get time to hang assign on me

Love me whilst you cane
Afore I'm dead old mane"

only in the un-Beatle'd version, i am you Den,
and Brant is singing like a turtle to you
and fast in the first line is substituted by 'quick'
and passed by 'a dick' and so on into obscenity

and thus euro-indo polyrythms become a tasteless gay ryhme
but possibly worse is yet to come Den and queens and fags and straightos
i notice that Brant is one of the Fatoosh Ensemble
and send him this - well i was pissed at the time----

mike to brant
which ones oo which is sh and who is fat ??? in which case wotz wrong with "fattush"
i also note hydrogen is the lightest form of air so presumaboy a hydrogen jukebox
is for the lightest form of muso-airhead -
im into classical guitar myself but can see nothing wrong with improvised jazz
as long as its never played -
people also say almost exactly that about the music created here in this house
many said it was unlistenable which i took to mean years ahead of its time
{i.e. dont play it now and just when its time has come - bin it !}
i would fly over if i had strong enough wings [and of course enough lucre ]
as i would like to take part although since New York wasn't ready for our
"punk bandage outing" i doubt its ready for any of the other little stunts we seem to
get involved in regularly over here - tried to persuade my son we should go out with
green ears the other week - but then i dont have to live there (sheffield)!!! -
ive just been abusing the solvents - here is one of my latest works -
the accompanying pic which i'm just doing is possibly more bizarre -

ITS MY BIRTHDAY on the 30th june so you could send Me a Poem by way of Tribute -
i'll be 31 again -
i bought myself a Leica camera body off ebay to celebrate only to find it didnt work
to my amazement the seller insisted i take it to Leica
(nearby) and get it sorted at his expense - he's 73 and when he dies the
last of the people with a conscience will die here in england
ok have to put things on ebay now - they include an admeda breast pump
which came as most of the stuff here from our local tip - once a recycling centre
but no longer cycling as the council have told them nothing must leave the site

ok warambooora to flying doktor over and out -
ill leave the roger-ing to you
script by mike
--->
The Leica never gets repaired -
and i the immortal words of seventies icon and pop star Sandy Denny
'Who knows where the time goes' - you can see the answer grafted and not crafted into
the fatuous fatumail above and i dare say if you had a computer you'd while away
all your idle time wandering about the world on it ..

across the purple sky all the birds are leaves
among the winter fire-skies like fickle friends a-leaving

at least, Denny, thats what Sandy Denny was trying to write but somehow she
contrived to die before inspiration could correct it and so it is that
her ashes smeared across the winters hearth and recorded in a way
that, though once a friend, have now sunk gracefully to be subsumed
and cast upon the spring of snowdrops where gardens grow anew with
maybe brighter flowers and more bees and more drones
but lesser purity of colour
so when i commend the colour of the music of this house i am recommending deafness
and when i commend the purpose of recycling i am consigning art to that
winter hearth - the flame and anvil of destruction and regeneration
you will see what becomes of this phishing
because that which behoves of our sloughed little nothings
becomes love or it becomes hatred such are the rituals and the ticks and tacks
of co-existance and its oft times soft and necessary compromise

and like three stumpy little legs of the cauldron of the three witches
one is bent and rusted and digging into the sod, one bent in a gracefull arc
and the first is thick and straight,
we were a triad Denny like a soup but complex onions and carrots
a bubbling row with more complex rythms
the complex rythms of the Indus and Horatii
sometimes vibrant some times
jarring

but the aggregate of triad is more consitent than a duad and a duel not so pretty yet
with a bit more Brant bating we might get one
heres his reply ....

mr. burr--
none of us has a fat tusch. sorry to disappoint. doubly, now that i state you shan't
have a poem to celebrate your advancing chrono-delusional ideations--
you are most definitely over 40--at which age many start thinking of Kronos,
and vain attempts to reverse the hands of time, in some deluded effort to use them to
play with themselves. but i will send you a poem i sent to Dennis for his fiftieth
birthday, some fifteen or more years ago--that is, if i can find it. perhaps that
and the duct tape (now balled and stored in my closet) once wrapped around us
mummy-like, as we went out to the that "questionable" bar in nyc's greenwich village,
inspired by the punkish attitude of The Stranglers.
(did you ever go "blanket walking" in public with me in Boston?)
these are admirable pursuits for the public good and pleasurable pastimes.
happy birthday in advance of the day.
remember, you're young as you feel (someone up).
i see you're really taking ebay and milking it for all that it's worth.
no one should lack tation now! /br
--->
this is more like it ! - can you feel the engine in the old Dodge tub-van rumbling
the sqwaughking of rooks in the cabin "none of us has a fat tusch" brrrrrkkkkk
it's your turn soon Denny .. let him have it both barrels for using YOUR POEM ...
it's your SPECIAL birthday poem and he's offering it to me like its some cast off rag
sloughed skin or slobbering johhny hes used to shag some boytart - GET HIM DEN

OK now the excitement has died down and were all a breathing sweat and grime and stink
and a few rags are torn and a few bruised - lets see what happens next
...by the way what does ideations mean Den ?????
"55" i hear you say "same as your Daf - are you deaf"
- "only to my age Den" ....
so i sent him this on our behalf ..

Brunt Loin -
i dont want a Second Hand Dennis poem - are you just a second hand poem Brint ??? -
i suspect i suggested the blanket night as i vaguely remember persuading you
but typically not Den to dress up and go down to the "hank the wank - texas eve"
or whatever that piano plonking do we went to occassionally was -
i also remember we were patently NOT invited to go again as those weirdo's
thought we were odd !!!!!
you might be interested to NO that ive given up lactating now the boys
have grown up but not salivating so have you got any hot-tottie that you might wrap
in that duct-tape (no old mummies please) and parcel over here ????
i like the fact that your emails have a sort of competitive edge still -
i'd forgotten that about you -
and at this point i must add that i have won various prizes heralding
my accomplishments on at least 3 continents
if you include germany as a separate continent
(which the germans certainly do) -
including your own Amorica ,
however i suspect you are prizely still largely in-continent and
struggling for recognition -
well i have a special tip for you handed from artist to artist
and only known to them at the last minute -----

"the only good one is a dead one"

-- this is largely due to the copyright laws
"hang on a minute"
i hear you fatuously (or slimtuously as you insist none were Fattushed)
say
"what about Mozrt - they never had copyright and he wasnt recognised
with prizes on 3 continents in his lifetime"
--- and that my dear trans-colonic friend is because the critics are deaf --
they are deaf to the sound of the streets and its poetry -
they are deaf to the visions of the night -
they are deaf to the wild patina that thinly covers the small sofas
of culture (you might be oblivious of this as Amorica only has about 10 years of it !!!)
that we used to shift for the poorer people of Boston and the like -
so dont expect any money to drop out of the lining or indeed to be
recognised on 3 continents unless that is you can find either
a gimmick or a specialism -
i suggest that your specialism and one that would be really popular
would be to write poems for special occassions such as death of a relative
(about 300,000 people die each day on the planet)
or perhaps on a lighter note birthday poems as there are about 6 billion a year
did i mention by the way that its my birthday soon ???

--->
this must have raised his hackles a bit i would have thought as i've suggested
that he would be best writing birthday ditties and the odd ryhming
cadence for cremation
the prizes on 3 continents is an outright lie - i had an agent, an angel of an agent
called Judy Sprague from out of Springfield Mass, probably not far from where you are
who would take the etchings, wild little things done by scratching the
surface of a zinc plate, covering the plate in ink and pressing
just as you might say make a lino cut or guttenberg the pages of a book -
and the prints - all litho-commercial that you can see on the mike web site
were you to consider leaving the world of water steam and donkey behind you.
Well at one of the big horse shows the third placed horse went lame
and as a surreal joke they took one of my prints
"silent rapport"
into the centre of the parade ring and bedecked it with a prize ribbon
although i did win prizes for the other two i'm unashamed to admit
.. but dont tell Brant that i'm no more prizecious than he ...
its our little secret as i think he couldn't best it and is jealous as you'll see,
but although they're lies they're only words Den, only words, and surely silly little
words can't do any harm ...

Brant to mike
mr burr--
That would be Burnt Loins to you, sir. Despite the fact that you are a veteran
Blanket Walker. But before we ship your order for 'hot-totties' you must first
please specify gender. Certain models come with lactation, others ejaculation,
and all with lacrimation, or without. And, while supplies last: 25% off for your
birthday! Plus a boxed set of occasional poems (300, 000 birthday greeting cards,
and 6 billion chapel cards with verse).
They will arrive by trans-colonic post shortly.
COD.
Lacking a personal trainer/nanny/amenuensis/handler/promoter/or Girl-Guy Friday,
I will doubltless die in Obscurity, NY, though I have made it to Carnegie Hall.
People have asked, how is this possible--specifically,
"How do you get to Carnegie Hall?"
The proverbial answer is, of course,
"Practice. Practice. Practice."
But I have found that hoping on the Q train is much quicker.
Still, once there, it was no easy feat to knock off Bartok, a Scarlatti sonata,
and Debussy's "La cathedrale engloutie," though, to this day the managment there
will not allow me to listen to their recording of the event , so I'll never know if
I played any wrong notes I wasn't aware of at the time
(with the Bartok it's not always easy to tell, anyway!).
I'm still working on a gimmick. In the meantime, specializing in gimcracks.
My sister is equestrian, living out in Bluegrass Country, Kentucky.
She would love to /Br
--->
the first thing i noticed about this
- me being primarily what is termed a dick - is that Brant has generously offered
me his sister.
If anyone had asked me for my sister i'd be reluctant as she is frighteningly strong
being as she has a Mad Horse and i presume it takes quite a lot of strength
to restrain and tie a horse down when it throws a Fit. This implies that either
her beau would be overpowered and his family probably come armed to my place
for redress
OR
dissatisfied, either he or my sister would come round and punch my lights out
as she did to Alan Simpson once albeit "a playfull accident" a southpaw stomach
blow that left him winded for a good few minutes

but on re reading this i hadn't realised that Brant could play so cleverly
- as i would have thought, being unaquainted with the true mechanics of sound,
Bartock to be exactly that - i.e. you take a bar of music and replicate it with the
dull thud of a hammer blow on the keys the sort my sister would be adroit at
- but those Scarletti wouldn't be easy red or be an easy play
- especially at Dr Carnegie
by the way Denny are gimcracks and geegaws synonymous and is this, by one pace removed,
Brant trotting out a whorse joke ??? lol
sorry Den i couldn't resist that - not that you'll know what lol means -
Branty-boy also sends an email flier about a stonehenge pictured Solstice do
anyway i sent him a fairly lengthy reply to both slimutaneously ...

mike to Brant
dear bert lino -
i must thank you for offering me your sister on the occassion of my birthday.

(suddenly the room feels all wobbly -----)
i was recently enticed by a similar promise of Seven Sisters, a promise that i
foolishly misunderstood by way of geography to involve witchcraft only to find
that i'd been lured by the folly of a map to an underground station in Londons
"north side" (London has five sides - east side etc and of course a down side
but i digress as ever !!!!)
to find other similarly confused men rubbing themselfes against and writhing
along the blue tiled walls therein. i naturally withdrew my self to the nearest
hostlery "The Blue Nun" pub and immediately ordered a hot toddie
(which is a warm whisky charmed by the thighs of young maiden -
increasingly difficult to find in these parts)
at which point the barman produced an ear trumpet and demanded in language
somewhat lacking in couth that i repeat my order
"A HOT TODDIE" i shouted -
the loudness being indicated by the size of the capital letters (for the
benefit of any blind readers you might aquaint with this letter)
unfortunately he uttered a name sounding not unlike the capital of Latvia
and there appeared from behind the bar curtain a hot-tottie -
full of subtle curves and not so subtle bossom
(does that explain the gender of hot - tottie ????)
she pouted and purred
- then unfortunately i awoke -----

i awake to find myself groping for something that will enlighten your small world -
that will make it somehow brighter and more eloquent -
brighter and more eloquent in its knowledge of physick[s] -
and its to do with the solstice gimmick you sent
"The sun is a perpetually exploding hydrogen bomb that ,
shining, in a poetic kind of way,
brings us a new song each day. Remind you of anything? How about
HYDROGEN JUKEBOX kicking off Summer 2009 with Poemusic blaaah blaah "

unfortunately and i guess [that]"SOMEONE ELSE"[writ] this gem of scientific wisdom -
the sun isnt a hydrogen bomb - the sun is thought to behave on the reverse principle
one known as "fusion"
( pronounced few -shun try that - few shun come on you can do it )
and although statistically there probably is quite a lot of "fission
(pronounced fish - un very good good boy)
due to the crap thats emitted like hot weld and wheel nuts in a car crash
as the suns few shun takes place . this process alledgedly takes small bits and
squashes them under heat - pressure and creates larger bits so say 2 hydrogens
could be made to make 1 helium with some bits left over and so on -
the estimated most stable point being iron
(we have quite a lot of iron but magnesium and silicon are more common )
after this the heavier atoms tend to instability the properties having been roughly
discerned by a russian guy Mendeleev and charted in a form best known as the
periodic table categorising elements by their family resemblance and structure
as for the
"shining in a poetic way to bring us a new song each day"
that does sound like something cribbed from a glee-shoe polish or maybe
an ahmish horse feed advert - either way
im impressed so much so that it is this sort of poem that id like to commemorate
my birthday -
why something so louche i hear you pondering
well - i always get very very pissed on my birthday and the one thing i like to do
is to get rid of the excess alcohol by volume at the end of the day
and in order to help me to throw up
a poem along these lines would be ideal and lateral -
also i would hope that it would appeal to those of a more stupid nature
so that i could guffaw at their lack of sensibility in the matters of language
and its use -
a fact to which you will not be insensible yourself being a man of wit and letters
some of which stretch as far as Carnegie - thats eight letters and Hall is another four -
making a dozen in all - thats a long way for a humble lawyers son to have come -
presumably you also have inherited twelve or thirteen opinions on this subject !!
there is also a miss-translation which an astute amen-uensis of the musical type
would have picked you up on
it should read Debussy "La cathédrale angle-the"
meaning tea at the english cathedral -
presumably Winchester an ancient throne of the Britons where tea has been worshipped
in a ceremony for over 1500 years and by wiccans and moluscs on the same site
for probably 150 million when it was once the oceans flaw (read floor).
the same ocean floor that used to connect us to the now vapid states of Amorica
and particularly the middle states like Tenner-sea and of course its neigh-bouring
states Kentucky being another - so it is with this in mind that i would indeed
still have a geomorphic connection of the subteranean kind that might surface
say in bluegrass at the very spot where your sister is standing -
i dont suppose you have a photo of her (in her more mature years ) naked ????
as this is the best way for a man of discernment to attribute geology to the
psychikos and indeed accounts for the vast number of stone statues made by
those more in touch with themselfes (and possibly others) sometimes refered
to ambiguously as artists ???
--->
now being a man of discernment Den you will have noticed that after a polite thank
you for the use of his (Brants) sister a practice which i am now to believe is customary
in your countrary, i begin the letter with a dream sequence - it was raining but
i haven't highlighted that fact to strongly as this book might get into the hands of
children and who knows which court we would end up in then ??? - anyway every realy good
letter should contain a dry dream sequence in my view - as you will also see later -
now i know you are not as well travelled as Brant and myself - who are prized on
at least 3 incontinents between us
- so i must tell you that Seven Sisters are a constellation
also known as the Pleiades and that the first of the seven - the yellow one on the
right as you get there is absolutely chokka with pubs - the blue one (fourth)
is the one you want and when we go there next we'll drop you off - obviously the
red one is the one with all the books on it and i expect that is where this (your)
book will end up - by the way did i also mention that the Pleiades (pron plier deese )
is also the sign of Taurus and therefore all Bull.
i think i might have made up all that physiks stuff too but Brants not to know so
its our little secret eh and the bit about Winchester tea-worship -
well even Brant who as you can see has very little humour other than his own
would have had a small chuckle over that
anyway lets see what happens next as its my Birthday and im in
The Year of the Daf [actually it was a 44 so i LIED about that too -
i am looking rather fibulous in what is already i suspect your favourite ever book Den
and i hope i'm not recorded this way posteriously and deemed to be at the bottom
of the list when God chooses Good God people for heaven and at this point i must include
somebody else in your book that you wont know but who must be at least as clever as Darwin
for reasons of logic that will become clear immediately
this person is Rob's dad - another Rob that is -
Mister Fisher
[ever so slightly traduced by your naughty and LYING author in a poem]
well - i'll have to paraphrase what happened since i heard it from another hand
if that makes sense
but some Good God people came to Mister Fishers door
i guess they may have been sent by Jehova and not by God as they might then
have had the right answers
but the discussion was about heaven
and Mister Fisher was told he would go to heaven
so he asked about his 80 year old dad who has dementure
and they kindly said he could go to heaven too
but Mister Fisher said it wouldn't be much fun for his dad if he was in heaven
and unable to move and had dementure
so they said he could be young again as say in his prime
well Mister Fisher didn't like this so much as his dad would then be younger
than himself which didn't seem very good
so they had to make his dad a bit older and Mister Fisher younger
but what about Mister Fishers grand dad and his dads dads dads dad and so on
and it was already starting to get dark
then Mister Fisher asked about his still born son
and they said the child had probably gone to heaven already
and Mister Fisher wanted to know if he would be a baby and unable to communicate
or move around or in his prime and if so how would Mister Fisher recognise him
and i think Jehova started to have a bit of trouble at this point and made an excuse
and left but i feel certain God himself will be able to answer all Mister Fishers
questions much as he is able to explain to many states in america how the world
came to be about 6000 years old and how eve was created from adam by a bit of
judicious surgery and DNA manipulation - it did say DNA in the bible didnt it ??
no it didnt but it does say "begat" a lot
"'Biblegateway.com just gave me 139 verses where begat is used- King James version'
according to VOD (rank 614)"
so this is
EITHER
either God using the rather obvious cover up (ie VOD) and is about to correct
the error in the bible - which i suspect having programmed computers is due to what is
programmatically refered to as a LOOP and for the purposes of our fatuous book
lets suppose say God never really noticed the error until about 5000 billion bibles
had come off the presses - which is not at all unlikely with these things as i
worked on a crossover project for a bank where several million pounds went missing
from the trade accounts and if they did ever get to the cause of it i expect
they found the answer in an offshore account somewhere on a small island
under a large palm tree with a large G&T on an empty table on which is also placed
a small white envelope
which when opened said
"God thanks you for your charity"
OR
unlike some of our more illustrious car manufacturers
God is about to call in all the faulty bibles and take out the first 138 begats
implying we dont even know were born
OR
he/she is going to add an exponent to a few of the begats so that there are effectively
about half a billion of them and that would approximate to the age of the earth in the
view of what are known as "right minded scientists" assuming that our predecessors
like rats and stuff didnt live very long - im sure he/she knows exactly how many there
are to get from zero to the sun of god - after all its his/her baby !!! ]
that was a long digression and required a deep breath and a hefty knowledge of maths
to get right the way through it
so we'll take a break
and were back and it is my birthday still
--
--
--
--
--
--
so Brant sends me this but by the time it arrives my birthdays long gone
like it was seven days ago !!!!!!!

Dear birthday boy--

I suggest you stay out of the underground at Piccadilly Circus,
which I discovered one fateful evening many years ago, asking for
directions to Waterloo Station, but finding myself making water in the loo,
instead. Please forgive this tardy response to yours.
I have been consulting with my equine-inclined sister at length
over the matter of her offering of herself to you on the occasion of your birthday,
but as a good Christian woman, she has, regrettably declined.
This, despite that I mentioned you may waive your customary stud fees.
Then I tried to convince her that getting the job done
(certainly less effort that re-shoeing a horse)
wouldn't be much trouble, telling her,
"just close your eyes and think of England,"
but she only retorted,
"It's a well-known fact that the English don't have sex, anyway!"
After which I was, of course, speechless.
For I happen to know that a good paddling at boarding school has been precursor
to many an Englishman's amorous pursuits later in life.
But paraphilias being no adequate substitute for missionary-style emissions, etc
and in order to comply with at least some of your request for a birthday poem,
I still am at a loss to provide an original composition-
-being rather overwhelmed with other non-pimpish duties presently-
-offer instead some topical solutions for the occasion that may suffice.
They all fall under the general rubric of spreading one's seed-
or keeping it in one's seed pouch. Think this through carefully, son,
before you go sowing more wild oats in the fields of Baal.
They are, alas, but mere anodynes for the love-lorn / lust-shorn, not!
I refer not to balms and other topical ointments to soothe the wounds
inflicted by the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune that accrue
with advancing age, but rather something that, contrariwise, may serve
to rub it in! Lovingly, of course. Like Pond’s Extract, for whatever ails you.
Remember the paddle. It may addle, or put one squarely in the saddle. Talley ho!
[Find attached birthday poem]
Your stable master,

Brant
--->
OK so he did send me YOUR BIRTHDAY POEM Den but look at it this way
if he hadn't it wouldn't be incorporated into your favourite book ever
and your Best Ever Book would never realy be quite complete would it ???
so dont be annoyed and stop blubbering ...
any way in my view its quite a nice poem excepting the bit
about the wren hitting the windscreen which i didn't like so much
as ive got a thing about small birds dying - its just a sort of affliction
much like a flinch -

CHAIN LIGHTNING

for Dennis C., 1997

Fifteen, twenty years or so, maybe,
it would've all chuckles and chin music--
a pint of cheap rye passed between us.
Instead it's two diet cokes in the cab of your pickup
parked by the picnic tables at Lake Quannapowit
just farting around. You could say we've
wised up and wound down.
We still know everything don't we?

It's a warm summer's eve and it's fixing to rain.
Five Mississippi. Six Mississippi.
The distance is measured by the seconds
it takes from the bolt to the boom.
One Mississippi. Two Mississ--
they're closing in on us now.
Here we sit in a metal box. By the water.
Near the power plant. With the radio on--
how much smarter can we be?

The rain taps a drum roll on the roof,
so immediate, at the ready.
It doesn't seem quite right light should
travel that much faster than sound.
As if life first delivered each cheesy punch line
then still expected your rapt anticipation:
it's all backasswards, what a laugh.
As if you''re speeding along I-95 to beat it
back home before the rain, and a storm-chased
wren were to--thwack!--fly right into your windshield,
its tiny entrails spread by the wipers
like grape jam on this morning's bialy, poor sucker.
A gruesome mistake a swipe or two
would erase, nonetheless, as soon forgotten.
What will this summer squall wash away?


There's no getting around it; spouseless,
but not exactly loveless, the day after tomorrow
you turn fifty-one.
Every jagged streak of electricity that lights up
the far shore of the reservoir reminds you
of crow's feet, and the night sky rumbles
with its delayed reaction of borborygmous.

Even after half a lifetime of dodging bullets,
slaying dragons, reading labels, taking a number,
and all the rest, nothing--not even Boy Scouts--
has prepared you for this--this indigestion.
Yet you tell me you still wish to know the name
of every flower you meet.

Look forward to your next welter-weight epiphany
(whenever, however that may come).
Make this the year you finally take up oil painting.
Why just the other day, it's true, you say
you told a perfect stranger in the post office
how simply good it felt to be alive.
How nice it is to lend a smile to someone blue.
Should you stumble down life's primrose path,
by all means, pilgrim, pick yourself up
and dust yourself off! And if, by chance,
you get lucky now and then, pause, give thanks.
And count your blessings, remembering to
keep moving on. Remembering that
lightning never strikes the same place twice.


and he sent another poem so lightning does strike twice in the same place Den
- it does
and also i noticed that its nowhere near as odd as the poems i
send to Beverly Bee, but actually quite a nice poem as poems go -
aside from the wren incident which i didn't understand anyway

DAYLIGHT SAVINGS TIME


A cold snap in late April reels you in
glassy-eyed and pucker-gilled, not
a legal catch, quite, thrashing on deck--
you're not done with winter yet, yet
won't throw yourself back in, perverse.

Pollen spews, the universal smell of
estrus sickening. How readily
you took the muzzy bait.
The sea's jouncing waves stick a finger
to the back of your throat, and buds push up
and out their anti-asynchrony everywhere.

The ceaseless, mindless propogations!
Past Labor Day, past Columbus Day,
brittle scrotal pods of milkweed
huddled in the vacant lot ejaculate
as dirty old men.

By the seven o'clock news the lights are on,
and you still haven't handed over your baby yet.
What makes you think you'll get away with it?

--->
i can only assume he thinks i'm a fish judging by the first stanza
he does call me worse than that later but rightin the heron now i am no more than
a little fish to be thrown back
but in the met-her-for of the poem he gets to keep the baby at the end
so maybe that last stanza represents a child of creation
maybe this is what is meant by ideation the Den ???

then i think Brant must have sent me another flier

unlike the lassitude of school days spent sideways on the sofa
watching grandstand on the telly, brain crisped and couch potatoed
i do some home work and see 'who is' and 'what does' on the flier
and then i write a review just like a real life critic would do
and just like a real critic i miss spell names and deliberately
elide facts [in the hopes of a bung financial or the odd sexual
favour or just to put one over someone????]
heres my email to brant
--
email flier - contents explained

Brant Lyon hosts a monthly reading series in a high-energy cabaret
where poetry synergizes with the Hydro Juke Improv Band to explode on
the tongue. Plus Open Mike. July's featured perfomers: Sharon Mesmer,
Jack Wiler, and Larissa Shmailo
---------------------
[mikes pathetic attempt at a review]

CHARON MESMER is the author of the poetry collections Annoying Diabetic Bitch
(Combo Books, 2008), The Virgin Formica (Hanging Loose, 2008),
and Half Angel, Half Lunch -- borrowed from the title of a UK band/album
Half man Half biscuit --
whose rather poor attempt at fame also contained very little content - but in all
fairness their album didnt do 'quality celebrity swearing' and if indeed Charon
does become a celebrity then one hopes she'll add that little something
else to her 'comedy swearing' routine to distinguish her from the average
docker/stoker/porter and/or alcoholic - excellent
though the combinatrixial of descriptions of pudenda and the sexual act may be

jack wiler shows more promise ---

JACK WILER lives in Jersey City and works at Acme Exterminating in New York City.
His work has been anthologized in the anthology of the Nuyorican Poets Café ......etc

you may wonder as i did what being Nuyorican entailed -
pointy ears and a heavily ridged forehead i hear you facetiously suggest -
well not far off it - it means being un-domiciled Puerto Rican
and i had to look up on the web-of-ultimatetruths to find out what this entailed
first off Puerto Rico is Americas 69th state (much as America is China 6th state)
and its officialy incorporated into US corporate law --
so Puertosers get real US passports unlike their mexican-texican
counterparts or Irish/Lithuanian forebears who have to forge theirs.
it turns out that there are more Puertosers in America than in the homeland
and that being in America can be fun and lucrative at the same time -

see the example of Rita Moreno

born Rosita Diabolo Dolores Alverío in CXHumacao, Puerto Rico, to Rosa María,
a seamstress, and Father Paco Alverío whose name is derived from his habit
of variously and frequently bathing publicly in olive oil.
Rita was able to win herself an Emmy, a Grammy, an Oscar, and a Tony and then
divorce them all for a Lenny at the same time wooing Holywoods illustrious
to finalise her career by appearing in "the muppet show" and its sequel
"the golden girls"

or that of Val Ramos

a boy, incidentally, and a native of New York City of Puerto Rican parents who
studied flamenco guitar with spanish great Adonis Puerta who took the flamenco
tradition and the (original) WORD OF The red hot chilli peppers -
by divesting himself of clothes but instead of playing disorganised
diabolical harmonies with only a sock on his knob as in the original
WORD he plays arrhythmic jangling dissonances in only a thong and flying goggles
... that must be art ..
anyway thats enough about the ethnology of jack wiler

to return to our triad of featured poet-artists Larissa Shmailo
turns out to be a web design error - and with no more
substance than vapour - mere HTML --
[end of mikes pathetic-not-very-funny but rather-in-the-keeping-of-professional-critic review]
--->
OK Denny -
we'll see later how Brant promises me Sharon in marriage if i can decode his message
which he claims is on her behest (though i doubt the verity of that )
and how my fixation with small dying birds is metamorphosed into a PUERTO RICAN fetish
i hope for Brant and my sake [there are some horrible things about me too Den - yes
i'm not all sweetness and light in this story as Brant is going to proove to you later
when its his turn to run with the baton] that this, your lovliest book, never
gets into the public domain or indeed God ever reads it
else neither Brant nor i will ever go to heaven or have any friends
aside yourself
again and knowing that you haven't any either
(else you would have won your local election on the two votes that were eventually cast)
- we'll be back to that sad old triad - me wanking and girlless in the small bedroom
and you two married and hating each other in the big bedroom ...
PUERTO RICA !!!!!

well Brant replies and we get some quickfire wit and reciprocation - whatever that means

brant to mike
i see your cyber-sleuthing has gotten you lost in the thicket.
have you found a pair of blood-stained panties, and gotten distracted by putting
them over your head? or are you still sniffing around for the murder weapon?
i wave a white flag in hopes that the men in white suits soon arrive.

mike
once a tampon a time i wouldnt have bothered to reply to that

brant
but, enfeebled with age, you couldn't help yourself, and did!

mike
no i didn't - twice - thats the wonderful thing about alzheimers

then mike again
you could pass on my critique to the Charon -
but if you do, tell her not to be to brutal in her response as i have feelings
- which im prepared to share with her and her alone (don't tell your sister !!!!!)
as for men in nighties, amish mchamish,
i guess we were all descendant from rag heads -
but over here in the uk we english hid our hideousness under trousers
whilst our scots and irish counterparts retain a vestige of that
simian ancestry by wearing what they commonly call a kilt
and we english call a skirt
--->
you see what i meant when i said i dont look too good later on
here i am living in FRANCE (i put that in Den hoping all the people who i've offended
or am about to mortaly upset in this favourite book of yours will go and shoot beurre
in France stupidly believing i now live there and can't read the bits in brakets -
indeed a cunning stunt ha ha halol halollol )
a multicultural society wherin i have near neighbours - especially loads of rag heads
and micks and half jock half chink - from all over the globe and ive insulted a
whole heap of them in one tiny email
- just a few careless words !! - i did sort of warn myself about this
in a negative kind of way earlier in your book so i guess ive learned a lesson already
and were only about a thousand lines in - i should have learnt loads by the time we
finish your loveliest ever book - so now im looking forward to teaching myself a few
lessons !!!
une oeuf - enough

brants reply
sharon is a friend and happily married so that it is best you leave your feelers
to yourself. far as i know, jack does not fancy guys. however remote,
chance that larissa is possibly poly, but still not available.
[and re the skirt/kilt]
which would make you then--what? off-kilter?
[and presumably re the alzheimers ]
really? i forget what we were talking about.
[and re no -i didnt twice ]
i think the english invented double negatives, then americans blamed poor black folk
from the south for their inherited bad grammar.
no, the french. that ne.. pas... thing. or the italians.. oh,
i don't know. don't. don't.
--->
you forget Brant, i know, very droll lol ---
but Den i dont know if you've noticed the note of Jehovian indignation [ by that i mean
righteous indignation as opposed to having-difficulty-with-heaven-dignation ]
when i mentioned Sharon

i know what i said earlier about Brant offering me Sharon but you wait and see -
a worm may turn, Den, a worm may turn and a dog may jump
anyway it seems like fun to pursue this lane -
an aside but not too lengthy so you dont have to take a really deep breath this time
but ... i dont know if you know Den but we used to expend a lot of energy
when energy was free and not piped in from Russia on making Red Jackets and
chasing small dogs across our lovely countryside on horses and with other dogs
- i know this is a bit of a weird concept as you might think that all the dogs
would get mixed up - but no, we painted the 'being chased' dogs red and so we
called them .... foxes (its difficult being english sometimes i can tell you!!!
and it gets worse as you'll see )
any way we'd get pissed and rush around the countryside shouting "vieeew halooooo"
very loudly
- Dennis dont try this in your bedroom -
and blowing small trumpets from which we'd removed the keys with which to play
them properly
and when the chasing dogs caught the painted red dog
they would EAT IT
and that is what is called SPORT - a word we also invented along with a load of rules
and lots of subsections called OTHER SPORTS - which included the girls game rounders and which is
now one of the great games stateside and one in which a lot of hedonistic maths takes
place along with a lot of gamboling or did i mean gambling -
no matter - other sports also includes lots of extraneous rules and a whole heap of
strange games like cricket which has got rules so numerous and
o
b
lique
that only really highly developed cultures can play it - which explains why we always
get beat at cricket by Australians and exchange some burnt bits of wood with them -
and that goes part way to explaining what Englishness is all about -
while we were on about red dog chasing i was going to ask you if you have any similar
concepts in the states but now i remember you do as i saw something on the telly
called "the primaries " which seemed to take a lot from our ideations with
simple furry animals and i suppose it was similar at the local election in
which you stood and the only other two people who cast votes
cast them for someone else -
were you one of those voters ???
weve sort of gotten off the track so well backtrack and see what happens with Brant

dear brunt
re Scharrone -
i didnt like the way you said "shes a friend" first intimating that im some sort
of low life and theres no corresponding way youd introduce us -
anyway i must digress as recently my computer misbehaved - this it turned out was
due to a Registry Error - and that is exactly whats happened to Sharron leaving
you with the misapprehension that she is in fact a married woman whereas
im sure if you arsked her she wouldnt swear to it
--->
i put "swear to it" in because if you didnt already know Sharron does an awfull lot more
swearing than she does content in her poetry shows

then i send a second email

dear brint
presumably CXharons husband is a docker/stoker and or alcoholic and talks to her
in her sleep from whence she is able to swear like Terret his very self with
vocabulary hauled from his Sin-drome with the strange machines of memory and flux
as for Larissa being poly im afraid that didnt translate very well as it would
imply
Either
a formerly low grade version of university -
now sadly uprated by our government to a status that is said to be the
equal of any old Harvard or MIT (budget excepted)
Or
a foreshortening of a product called polyfilla which is used to prepare walls
prior to painting so naturally being an intelligent being and one wholly dependant
on his computer for day to day survival i decided to put the word into babelfish
and found that in most eurasian languages it has no counterpart so imagine my joy
when i translated it from Lithuanian (your forefathers heritage) to korean and it
translated as "||" which i guess is to represent 2 people lying side by side as
viewed from above or snogging like sticks - thank you for that insightful message
brant thank you
--->

and get this

brant- banter
you have succeeded in making polyglot polyglut
or polly, the slut
from lithuania on lithium
or charon
crossing river lethe. or
larissa
a sistah,
larfing, but not flarfing
i'd say more, but i've gone babblefishing.
yours,
polly mor(e for us)
--->
i bet he will get rap - a rap on the knuckles if we were to put this in the
public domain Den - at least Larissa isn't farting(English translation of flarfing)
in this email - which is probably a blessing as not only are the babel fish
rather pongy but they also lie -
well not exactly lie - you see i didnt put anything in babel fish i just -
LIED AGAIN -
and that sort of smells of deceit - but Polly is going to
give him the canning he deserves for sending me YOUR BIRTHDAY POEM isn't she Den

OK so lets see what happens next

Mike to Brant
ive been fixing up a bike for one of my erstwhile sons today
and reading your many doue-entendres reminded me of how cyclic life is
you need to adopt a couple of children as those calembour are collectively
the very essence of what are clssified as
"dad jokes" over here -
by which i mean the sort of things that make the kids larf like lavatories up to
the age of reasonable discernment - then groan (grown) like an aunt with arthritis
henceforth .... only to find - and thats why life is like bike restoration -
that they are inflicting the very self same thing -often with the same alz-hammered
puns - on their own children
i take it either your dad did the same
or he altered the letter of the law according to its needs
ive had a bit of a day of fixing as i have been trying to clear the table of junk
and one of the many things on it is a motor which once drove a proud fan
and which i now thought to make a jewelry polishing device from for my sister
this has involved 2 days of upsetting lathe inaccuracy and lots of drilling
and tapping neither of which i suspect you are very familiar with in their
original form although i dare to suggest you might have accomplished corrupted
variants thereof
... anyway
am beginning to wish i hadn't bunked off "bolt classification classes" as id have been
able to find the jam jar with 5/16th unf swimming on a piece of paper like a goldfish
at the fair inside it - instead in the process of trying to create a bolt i was attacked
by 'garage brown screwdriver' whilst my attention was diverted attempting to adjust a die
and it bit deep into my left hand before i could extract it and exterminate it with a
large hammer- even more distressing was the thread i used the same die to create for the
purposes of holding a drill chuck was too small as sadly there was not enough
meat on the shaft, a complaint ive also heard girls talk about so i assume them to
have secret sheds
- barbiehead sheds -
either way this caused the chuck to wobbulate alarmingly at high speed
with a centrifugal ferocity that endangered innocent kitchen crockery and
shrieking glassware until i mananged to pluck up enough courage to leap
wimpfully over it and switch the power off.
and
england managed to contrive a mini-collapse in the cricket against a foe
even deadlier than 'garage brown screwdriver' namely they who shall be refered to
as "The Oz" (Australia) in a game played on many a vilage green here in merrie england
and known as cricket - the girlie form (aka rounders) of which i believe
is very popular in Nuevo-lithuania and certain parts of america and canada
and is i understand called "baseball" out there - one would have thought baseball
to be some kind of odd sexual perversion but i gather from afficionados thats
statistically its even better [than sex]
--->
among a certain league of gentleman i am in no doubt that cricket is more popular
than sex and so to with baseball so what is it with these ball chucking games
- does the ball represent the self or does it represent a tiny part of the self
like say a ball or smaller still - a sperm ??
whatever it is it seems to be highly addictive among that league of gentlemen

were sort of getting round in a sporty sort of way to something a bit more
sensitive for say yourself, Den, and Brant and that is the issue of children
in my own rather yobbish way i've - well you can't say helped more like made
a bad example to avoid - to a few children and i sort of number 4 of them
as if they were by degrees more special
they are Toby (no foreshortening some may be disappointed to know)
Ryan, Sam, and Rob
Rob is about 30 and lodged here some years back and is the son of Mister Fisher
and has not only inherited his articulate logic but a fine knack of observation
and story telling far superior to my own and would make this book look
mediocre were he able to apply his intellect to it - but sadly children - even of
30 these days have growed up programmed by God with very short attention spans
as if he/she [God] has taken all the begat out of their minds and removed all
the LOOPS but one
the shortest one -
i make a statement about brevity later but it would be very relevant here
Ryan and Sam are the two children of Anne, a former squeeze, and something of a
problem - now if you thought Brant is going to be in trouble then i'm for it
and its going to be Anne doing the slaughtering in the riggs - i try to be honest
but it just wont come so i end up by being devious and naughty and messing
with peoples minds or them messing with mine- either that or i'm crazy -
both are probably true
Ryan is the eldest of the brothers who have both retained their dads name
Their dad went a bit crazed and left them and lived rough causing Anne
a very sincere and hardworking mum to divorce him and re evaluate her whole life
resulting in her chucking in her job as a production engineer and becoming as it
turns out a very sucessfull teacher - a head mistress - no puns please Brant !!!
Ry is a lovely boy and no trouble at all - whereas Sam is sometimes regarded
by his mum as the Devils spawn and had to come up here once for reprogramming
which entailed me sleeping in a very small space on the floor of a then immensly
cluttered house and a subsequent permanent affliction of the right shoulder and neck
not dissimilar to that affected by Marty Feldman in Young Frankenstein - there
might be other analogies - but Sam is very vital and creative and pretty street wise
as Ryan is academic
Toby is my only son (that i know of) and has a disposition similar to Ryans being
very easy going on the face of things. His mum Celia is now married to my former
best friend Geoff and has thus become a Low by surname an issue which caused me
years of grief and in my harpless warped demented undimensioned war with the forces
of Fate severed any chances of my having a decent relationship until the advent
of the gentility of Beverley Bee who with the articulation of some girlie magic
and a persistent cattle prod managed to goad me through lifes chemical dip and
do a bit of healing but sadly not much washing or the other vagaries of
personal hygiene!!!

anyway Den, being you, Den, you may not appreciate the delights of children
or may just prefer to avoid them which i would suggest is the essence of
wisdom distilled however we have to bring new life into this world else
there would be nothing to keep the vagaries of stupid nature in check
and trees will be roaming everywhere lording it and having fun and telling
Ent jokes ent our expense and your book is no exception as Brant and Michaelangelo
and David all and maybe me believe that art should mirror life
so we have to plonk some children on its bookly landscape -
i hope you dont mind all these people you dont know and probably dont care much
about and will probably never meet being in your best ever book Den but someones got
to write it and i guess i drew the first short straw - anyway you haven't got any
friends excepting Brant and I so well have to put some fake friends in and sort
of pretend that you know them enough for them to be in your book - that same book
in which Brant sent me
YOUR BIRTHDAY POEM
- there that distracted him long enough Brant,
Den'll never remember at his age what i was writing about - which was ---
--
ok so what did that naughty Brant send me next (remember Larissa you owe Brant
a good thwackety slap even if you're not sure why - do it - and you Sharon
you WILL owe him a good slap in the near future for promising your body to me
so do it now and get it in early afore he skulls off !!!!)

and then i get this - well its a bit unexpected though it might have been all
that talk of sons and stuff

dear mister beurre
last time i hung out in the GARage (as the english say it) with my dad (r.i.p.),
he was feeding boards into the power saw as i steadied the ends. nearby,
a species of duck--actually cross-between duck and goose called "black brants"--
were strung up by their feet, and dripping blood onto the concrete floor.
they had been pumped full of buckshot at barnegat bay, plummeting from the
steel grey sky into the brackish water one winter's morning near dawn. and
that's when it dawned on me: tool or die! screw it! and thereby hangs the
thread of many tales, gyrating in the lathe of insouciant youth. my father
was not one for making puns, but he did enjoy mine, and in the oddest fashion,
i realized years later, my sense of humor was, as evidenced by my namesake
hanging upside down, hereditary, as we often had many belly laughs tooling
around on sunday drives to bizarre little hamlets in new jersey with names
like ong's hat and double trouble and mount misery (i kid you not).
--->
im feeling a bit guilty now that Larissa and Sharon slapped Brant as he's quite a
sensitive little kettle and got a LOT led into mischief by your naughty author
so maybe hes excused and they were only silly little words in wordplay and
not serious werent they !!!
i feel a bit guilty because i feel ive duped a bit of something private
- like the 'secret never to be told' - in the Seventh magpie ryhme -
you know the ones a bird and two a wish rhyme

ok Denny so you didn't have a proper childhood with people -Wolves just howl
and don't sing Magpie Songs like People do - but you get the ideation dont you ?
anyway Brant has sent me his heart rent email so now according to the unwritten
rules of SPORT i am going to have to do the same and later is where i think i get
my comeuppance as i have to reveal a LOT of bad things ... some of these are mine
own workings and some are the excavations of the devil-baal-behelzebub world in
which were thrown Den, like a poor thrown pot withall the grit and straw and moss
and ancient dust fired in its terracotta self - a pot - Den - a cracked pot at that
heres my reply ...

Dear Burnt
a bag full of puns and then you send me a lovely memory of your dad -
you did tell me this once in the van on the way to Maine -
i also had a very lovely childhood as my dad was a gentle man
when i was five and the bushes were loaded with blackberries we would go out
on our bikes, mine small and red fixed 18 inch wheel and breathless pedaling
the five or ten or sometimes thirty miles through the ragged country lanes around
the grey cotswold blanket market town of Witney with its open moot hall
(ancient for meet - ing place and thence market) and its anglo dutch rooted architecture
based on the wool trade of the Waloons and their antecedants -
brough-market stout farmers of the open campaigns of woodland and rolling
cotswold valleys with their trouted river Windrush and long deserted abbeys,
the bones of pigeon lofts as at Minster Lovell and the Barringtons
my sister always sat on the back of dads green bike in a seat hed made
and dip her toes into the rear wheel with ocassional yelps and blubbering
till one Sunday he rigged up a fabric foil across the rear
wheel that acted as a sail against in the high cross winds of the open hilltops -
out we went and followed thre road like gypsies
- past the stinking barns of great smellstrong and the pigs and braying
cows to pick the blackberries with a song [of my dads contriving]
"blackberry pickers
thats what we are
blackberry pickers
we travel afar"
a song my sister swallowed and with no provocation bar a few jars
will sing today like the yesterdays when she ate more than she ever picked
and came back tanned and berry stained.
One of my school pals lives closeby at Enstone and on a sort of school reunion
ten of us drove the twenty miles to Minster Lovell not the ramshackle minster
by the beautiful river of my childhood but a web of sanitised cream white buildings
empty as the dormers of holiday Japanese and wealthy Americans and absent
Oxfordites west countrying - gone were the patina of the centuries the dogs
and kids and stinking agriculture and its rudsting ephemera
now small car parks and twee cottages rerrofed in the velum of the thatch
- barns turned to homes where once fat muddied pigs had slept -
so all things will change and in the remembering we suppose the world is all
the worse for its passing -
but we are only supposing that thew world is worse for our passing for we
are the embodiment of that existence and as the mysterious chain of consequence
that we adumbrate as time moves forward so we are only a memory and that is all
our strength in our waxing then our waning lives till forgot we exist no more
...
now i feel i have returned your complement in place of the stupid
trivia of etymology and ethnology for which i appologise
--->
there we are, all hand slaps and brothers new Den - a proper triad again unless you're
feeling left out and sulky -
and the journey to Maine started in Old Boston Docks with tea -
Bostons freedom trail ended in the long upcurved phalus or more visualy correctly
perhaps the scorpion sting of bars and dunes and dunnocks that out at P town
Province Town on Cape Cod -
and mutating took its liberal freedoms there for it had, from dim recollection,
a big gay community which is why i presume you, Den, and Brant, wanted there -
i dare say i drove the old tub as i seemed in the end to be the only one
with the reflex to handle it oer the tramtracks of Cambridge on
the Boston fringe, and those ridged and rutted iron causeways that hijacked
direction and stability and threatened us with a wedging in the paths of steel
leviathans, the trams, that swam like ruthless whales mid the wood braded
fabric and their lace copied facades which some mock as mock Gothick and
others love as in say the stone and Munster'd bishoprick of Galveston.
P towns desparate dunes and seedy festuka grasses clinging to the blasted
life among the yellowed grit - the grit that mixed with sea bore holes in metal
and ground cars to polished rust, and thence to dust, blowing out to meet the
whale spouts of Moby and the many - cods. A seedy sediment of culture that
regimented itself as paintings of waves - albeit some well crafted -
but for the most part just pictures of small crashing waves upon simple ochre shores.
Waves that have the shape that David takes in the Horatii but with all meaning
blasted out as if the grit and wind had etched away all the sensibilties
that made the paintings there or maybe sex and drugs had mimicked nature and
done the same.
I had an ice cream and felt like an Emporer himself as by the waters edge i
dipped my toes like King Stevens' King Canute but i never liked the place
pee town
and probably whinned until we left for Maine and the Dodge van cabin talk
turned to the wane-edged boards of my saw mill days and the board holdings for
your father Brant and his fame as a lawyer and to talk of light architecture.
then we are onto the origin of the species

mike to brant
i think that the brants which you refer to are probably called brent geese here -
brent being an olde englishe (saxon) word for "burnt" hence brentford
( a district of london = burnt ford = clearing made by a river fording point )

brant to mike
brant
w/ an A is an old english name meaning "proud one"; from the old norse,
it means "burnished sword", which gives the reference to burning.

mike to brant
i dont know which streetmyth-cookbook/ dragonology you got the
burnished sword = burning from but burnishing has nothing to do
with the application of heat - the root word brent can also be
spelled brant as this is largely oral tradition and has roots
in its precursor eurasian it may also refer in later anglosaxon
cultures to branding either as tribal recognition / slave ownership /
or as a means of recognising criminals the latter used to survive in
some middle eastern and african cultures

having just had a look brant may also refer to a steep place = hill
or presumably scarp - i think ive heard this term used when we lived
in rural witney ( i was quite yound then ) to refer to the face of a
scrub covered local hill and assumed it was a reference to the type of
locale implying steep and rough but not wooded scarp
--->
i'm afraid to have to fess up to being rather liberal with facts
especially the slave ownership/crims !!!
and as you might have noticed quite a lot of the emails come adorned
with star juice from the constellation of the Severn Sisters
though in this case MOST is true.
and also sent this which is also nearly TRUE

dear brent
looked the name Lyons up on the web as suspected it came from france rhone-side
in fact its normandy derived from the town once owned by the normans (and thence by
the english untill c 1430 and that pesky maid )
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lyons-la-Forêt
lyons-le-foret near gisors which makes you a "frogeyser
male heritage event" - Lyon is a famous name over here for their
Lyon's golden syrup packaged in a green and gold imaged can which had a
lion with bees on it this represented the lion which samson killed and thence
bees sprang forth being exampled as spontaineous generation and possibly
the roots of an ancient and superceded reigion /belief as often happens in
older writings to accomodate the usurping of another culture
[and happened a lot with our pagan british festival dates when christianity
over ran that]
the Lyons famous crest is often cribbed for films (usually in red - why ???)
they were well paid for their part in the battle of Hastings
[incidentally cavalry played quite a big part in this battle -
the horses can be seen on the bayeux tapestry ]
and you can see from this link were emigrees to Scotland
www.houseofnames.com/xq/asp.fc/qx/lyons-family-crest.htm
however im not sure of the reliabiltity of that info as when i looked up
Burr i got the following
Burr is a name of Anglo-Saxon origin. It was a name given to a determined person.
The surname Burr is derived from the Old English word burre,
which first appeared c. 1330
[mikes note - this is definately incorrect as the name appears in the great
norman account of the wealth of england the domesday book actuallly 2 books
and is much older but certainly rooted in germanic - its also a more popular
name in scotland compared to its extreme rarity here in england and in swedish implies youth
so i guess its true origin {rough and youth) may imply the rawness of youth though why this
is a family name i dont know ]
and has taken the spellings of Bur and Burr in modern English.
Shakespeare used the word to describe a person who
"clings like a burr" and is "difficult to shake off," but this sense
of the word is probably much older.
you told me about the boards because we were discussing the style of architecture
i had a book about american architecture which showed the vermont style of church etc
and i think we were witnessing the very beginning of this style and the fall and as we
neared Maine. those wood fronted wainey edged board style of building which is
probably more bavarian in origin we possibly seen at p town and at dennis's mums -
you didnt tell me about the geese just about holding boards for your dad -
i had just finished working at a saw mill in the uk before going touring in
europe whence i met dennis etc so knew quite a lot about how trees are turned
into coffins, fence post, and usefull timber - we also went to one of the covered
bridges -possibly one used in the film the horse whisperer ???
from memory the walloons came over here circa 1600 to escape religous persecution
(spainish catholicism which then owned by proxy holland and belgium and relied
heavily on revenue on dutch merchantile success in the east indies and later the
hudson bay thoughy they may have been independant by then ) - they bought with
them the ability to process wool which then no longer needed to be exported
via canterbury (still famous for lamb though the only sheep there now are
visiting the cathedral) and this kick started the industrial revolution here
as the production of clothes began to use the steep slopes of parts of england
and harnessed its water power - later the crude one shot explosive and thence
steam engines the result of draining the tin mines in cornwall
and developed by captain savory and thence Newcomen
(savory told him about Papins "kettle" and the blacksmith used the idea to
make the first engine) etc etc
in making metal you need to fold heat fold etc as part of the annealing process -
my grandfather was a smith before becoming a boilermaker and the japs make
very famous swords this way - it then looks very black and often pitted
from hammering etc - by polishing (burnishing) the burnt surface is removed
and the object becomes bright and shinny - bran=t --- brand -- firebrand
and all related as stated relates to tribal relationship[ as per tatooing
= rites of passage] - and or ownership (slave ) ...etc
--->

brant to mike

mike--
if i told you that in the van en route to maine then you have the
memory of an elephant, because that's one memory i don't recall.
thanks for the lyricism of your piece--i'm always interested to
know what the waloons may have been up to in days of yore.
why should robin leach be the only one to report on the lifestyles
of the dutch and flemish? and, of course, i'm thrilled whenever
someone is able to use the word moot in a sentence (because the
opposite is most often the case), never mind give a little background
on its derivation. i'm not being facetious here, truly! i gather, then,
bicycles and you go way back.
brant

witney. scarp. love these words! yes, i forgot to mention the other
derivation you mention here.
i think from a baby name book--admittedly not the most reliable source,
so thanks for the additional info--fascinating. burnished, however,
in the sense that as a sword is tempered by fie, it is then polished
afterwards, presumably, though this may be in error. still in all,
"burnished sword" should never be confused with "polishing the knob"!
--->
well Den Brant did tell me many things but i dont recall him telling
me of any other close relative than his father, who he'd said was a famous lawyer,
and this has set me to wondering if that solipsis is on my part or his -
not that it matters - but whose mystery is it ???

brant to mike
verrrry impressive--good luck with the patent. trouble is, intellectual
property often gets stolen. even Einstein, who worked in the patent office
could have told you that (since he stole some his own wife's ideas to
formulate his own theories). but if you grow rich and famous thereby...
more POWER to you!
well, i must say i've never had the pleasure of such an encyclopedic
explanation of my name to include vermont church architecture, waloons,
and woolgathering in merrie olde all in the same breath. though i have
rattled my saber in far-flung places, it now lacks the rapier speed and
edge it once had. i do tend to keep it in my pants more often than not,
nowadays. i guess we did do some trotting around new england while you
were here, so you could visit the place names already familiar to you
from mother england. i do recall you saying that boston reminded you of
leeds. what would be the derivation of your family name, then? sounds
anglo-saxon enough. from my father's side, very waspy names: eaton,
wooley, beadle, harlan (or is that last irish?). lyon is gaulic, though.
with an "s" i think it would be irish, but none belongs there.
from my mother side, mostly teuton: mawby (orig. mowbray), keyser.
--->
sadly my dad was party to the patent of many ground breaking developments
in his Smiths Engineering Salad Days before the company was overrun with
old man Smiths dunderhead accountant and ex-military nephews - who safely
ensured the decline of the business by getting rid of patents such as -
the digital watch ... gift to the Japs
the body scanner - sent to GEC's Hearst research
....... as it was felt too few would be made to be profitable
electrostatic clutch - to Renault still undeveloped and wanting
the peizo crawler - a gift to Ray Dudding an ex-GEC bloke and UCL lecturer who wanted
....... dad to give him ideas for student projects all those years ago
....... (it is used now but not the way dad and i devised it which was - Smarter)

and many more as the cost of patent holding was prohibitive if you want
to cream an excess into divvies or maybe a cash account somewhere on an
offshore island on a table where a G&T awaits etc etc
but then the Chinks and others too just ignored the right of patent
to walk through its open door as the cost of enforcing it lies with
lawyers like Brant's dad and the other vampires of the european law.
We'll worry about that if we ever get there - i wanted my dad to do it
so that he could have another child at 80, a nice one,
and be appreciated by just more than myself for his method and his genius.
I am intruiged by Einstein and indeed my father tends to side with him
but the logic of the railway train and doppler suggests its
BUNK
and as for 'stolen from his wife' - i think Brant, you'll find Newton
first outlined the idea - but no matter
i have long nothing discussions about the nature of the universe and
the mysteries of its structure with another which i hope will be
a very special future tale some years on and one at least to vie with
this Your Favourite Book Den and one in which we visit the Pleiades.
but in the here and now one of my old work mates DT, apty acro-named,
and whom i hope well meet later ...
his email contains the ...
'send my name to Mars' courtesy of NASA mail

http://mars9.jpl.nasa.gov/msl/participate/sendyourname/index.cfm
"send your name to mars" - i put Brants name in

Thank You
brant lyons
for your participation.

Your Name is heading to Mars!
Certificate #: N2M400266268
Click here to view and print your certificate of participation.
--->
brants reply
i agreed to pimp, not participate. i'll drink pimm's, while you try your luck.
--->
mike then says
all i did was enter your name - honist
ok i also bought the blue touchpaper and some matches -
it should actually read
"NASA in association with Fiat" as Fiat now own most of the motive companies
in europe. Vauhall here in nearby Luton and nearer to the Lithuania-kinderland
{read Hamerica}
theyve just had a bid accepted for Detroit - Chrysler and Fords tractor repair unit
i dont know if youve ever seen the Jaques Tati movie
where hundreds of people emerge from a fiat -
but they are planning to take the Detroit factory with them to mars
and are looking for drones (sorry operatives) to man and woman the
Mars factory - after all Mars is red which according to Lovelock
[Gia theory which so confounded NASA] means theres no life but plenty of iron
[= steel brant steel ]
the unfortunate thing is that in the Jaques Tati film the Fiat has crashed -
an all to familiar experience with their vehicles and thats why they're so rich
as you then have to buy another one - not because you want to but because after
cars and life there are only more Fiats - theyre ubiquitous everpresent Fiat is
God - Fiat is good etc etc sorry must have watched one of their adverts once too often
--->
brant replies
i am anemic. iron-poor blood, and so can't make the journey,
by fiat of my doctor. how, ironic--i feel like marshalling
(martialing) my resources to make it at least to vauxhall,
if possible.
--->
mike to brant
Dennis is anaemic not you Brant - the definition of anaemic is a knee high irishman
sure. vauhall mars uranus! --coincidentally sue ranus is here now - stage name -

Florence and the Machine

they're on the telly
direct from the Raviolli ballroom
shes wearing some black net curtains and hollering out of tune
theres a harp on stage playing with itself and the violinists are natural blondes -
permablonde - and look like the croatian football team of 2006
[read slightly psychotic - probably the warbling and the drugs]

shes ironically followed by an advert to clear blackheads -

maybe you can just squeeze Florence in the bathroom and she goes spat all
over the bathroom sink - no need for divorce (unlike Charronne ) and is gone
the horrible warbling echoing off down the plughole

Florence disappears like a zit
the smallscreen replenished by "dirty sexy money"
Drama about a wealthy family of New York socialites and the lawyer who tries
to keep their scandals hidden
its a sort of multi-racial "dallas" but with less oil and more cows
half the cast look like "seriously mixed up fruit" to crib the details
of one the mid entertainment adverts

--->

brandt replies

"man, a cot!" he, the exhausted italian, said after dancing all
night at the Ravioli. lynne guini, his tango partner, and masseuse
at spa gettty, said in her unaccountably french accent,
"zee tea is served,: then asked, "what's on the kava telly tonight?"
i know... i know... these puns are a pizza crap.
--->
Brant loves word play - he knows words i haven't even dreamed about
even in nightmare lexicography dreams where the letters leave and
you can never quite catch up with them - like leaves that blow across a
winters lawn - or friends who've lost touch long ago - that turn
leaves into eaves
architecture into art
and gone into one ..
and when were in the van, Brant provides this entertainment free
and thats why i write to him - because i don't care wether you like
it Den, or anyone else [God forbid] who might chance to read this -
thats one of the things i really like about Brant his cheery word play and
his by and large unbiggoted congenial brantness are like a hug and
the handshake of deception that crowns you the favoured favourite among
his many people. Brant has many friends and he can pick and choose
whereas i have some i can make and loose and you Denny
don't have any at all
except Brant and I so you'd better say you like this book - and a
whole heap of other nice things too!!!!!
--
--
--
now im feeling sorry because i've upset you Den with a few stupid
and repeated little words about you not having any friends,
except Brant and I, and i can only appologise and learn another
lesson about maybe being a bit more diplomatic - or rather positive -
and just stick to nice platitudes for my real friends eh ???
even if you haven't g.... slap
OK so now a little time has passed and i need to email Brant
thats because like the metaphor of the metamorphosis of
'small birds dying'
into
'Puerto Ricans'
ive turned my
'getting junk from the dump' obsession
into a
'telling Brant about every little minutae of my life' obsession
in the hopes that someone who is smart with words might be able to
craft an answer to this problem - Did i mention Brant also works with
Nutters trying to help them help themselfes to a mug full of that
understanding of ourselfes that either makes or ruins our whole
existence - that either broaches the placenta and lets the liquid flow
all cares gone with its fetid waters and like rebirth - grow anew
OR
brings self anhialation and the crippling slow depression for which we
need and call "right minded scientists" to fix with drugs like lithium

you may judge for yourself but now i send Brant a party weekend
email - the sort of thing Brant does every weekend
and i do once in a while
and the only time you've ever done it Den is when we took you to the
"Hank the wank - tex-mex" Blanket Walker thing and by association
everyone thinks you're weird like Brant and i -
except we moved off to New York and to England and don't
have to live there amid all those wierdos still.
Brant sends me a mail with pictures from the "eating as many Hamburgers"
in five minutes as you can contest somewhere near Boston
the photos are good and are credited to you Den but when i look on the web
they would appear to be the copyright of someone else ??
can this be true
either way
i thank Brant for his copyright picture infringing email
and slap an email on the end regarding the one party weekend i get invited to
a year because i get drunk with often Serious Consequences weekend
the same email that ive sent to a few of my other pals

Mike to Brant
dear Blunt Rhyno
naturally i was most distressed by the photgraphs in the "consuming america" contest
- as you may not know we in Britain have been back on Rationing since the collapse
of all our major banks and Amorican capitalists fraudulently creamed the skin off
our wealthiest philanthropists leaving us in a state Biafran -
fortunately another import from that side of the altantic seems to be rendering
food unnecessary as we are all going to die of swine flu.
in the meatime have made some hey ....

still recovering here on tuesday from the effect of 2 parties on sat -
1) the all day roadtech(former work place) "family day" a somewhat fever-filled
day for those without kids trying to condense the excesses of a lifetime into
the canister of a single day - i cycled there - about 20 miles - took about an hour
consumed a fair amount of various combinations of pims and vodka and assorted
alcohol laced drugs {with DT and Paul} then proceeded to try and cycle home avoiding the Plod
(colloquial term for gun touting sheriff in your part of the world ??)
by using some of our major highways (sounds like an oxymoron -
well i certainly was breathless ) - unless you are feeling younger than
you look
dont try this
i managed to blag a car ride to the the second party in Berkhamsted
one of my hockey mates 60th -
unlike your author he is also a prominent freemason so there were plenty of
solid looking middle class folks there (most of whom ive known for years and
it seemed avoided me like the aforementioned swine flu )
however i was on an arranged "blind date"
i woke up Sunday to find myself strangely alone and glued to the sheets - sadly
not as the result of lots of lots of self abuse but because i fell over in a field
got very muddy and then climbed into bed with everything on - mud included -
i thought in that un-slumbering(slime-burr-ing) moment that i'd lost the use
of my legs and i can now vouch for its adhesive properties.
you might gather that my date either didnt find me very interesting and
or wasnt spectacularly engaging or just maybe might have been ever so slightly
insulted by the fact that i told her she was quite ugly but in an intruiging sort
of way - probably not the right thing to say if you want to have any sort of
conversation with someone again - also you might infer from the above
i had to walk the ten miles home this very nearly involved me swimming the canal
to wake up one of my erstwhile allotment-gardening friends to crash in her barge
but mercifully i thought better of it
---
- sunday we had "musick on the moor" near the A41 in hemel - thats where bands
stand on a black north african playing terrorist songs - or alternatively they
dont stand on a black north african and then sing jolly little ditties by ABBA -
(where are The Clash when you need them ???) - needless to say my returning from
France pal Rob, Bee, and i had a couple of beers - the hair of the dog that i bit
i suspect - and met loads of suspicious looking hippies - quite a few of whom
i know
-----
very disappointed that you dont seem to have the aquaintance of Zayra Yves
who might actually lie somewhere in the intruiging categories of beautifull and
interesting simultaneously - and you may believe a feat only achieved by yourself -
this would be an error
---

other adventures
a few weeks ago i went and spent about a week with my son toby in sheffield -
this also turned into an alcohol and antic fuelled week somewhat to his friends
amusement the highlight being where i apparantly twanged the bracers of some
league football playing guerilla/gorilla in one of sheffield finest and survived to tell
the tale - and also involved several random drives into the lovlier parts surrounding
i.e the peak district

----
have made a few wacky paintings - as these are paper based its necessary to seal
the paper from the oil in the first layer using a varnish - this is full of nasty
solvents - the sort that did for Van Gogh hence the acid nature of the pics -

how are things with you Brant ???

--->
i've edited this slightly as its even more drivelsome in its real time uncontrived
fullness - i didn't just send it out to Brant - but to the other 4 people in the
world i know who live or are willing to be contactable on the web to see what
they'd pick up on.
Many years ago before i became the full and rounded (well slim actually)
person that i am now i used to paint pictures and sell the prints thereof.
Several things happened - at 'slow times of the year' i didn't sell very many at the
malls where i generally hired a barrow so to pass the time i used to paint even
more pictures that we werent going to sell very many of. Then i realised that my error
lay in the fact that i went to school and my teachers and my dad told me that
I SHOULD BECOME A ROCKET SCIENTIST
even though i was really good at painting and at writing and at the age of five had
produced a prodigious work about a battle at sea involving two dreadnought class
ironclads and inspired by a truth in which my grandfather having fought at Galipoli
and being shipped out with dysentry got torpedoed
[we have that sort of luck in our genes]
to be picked up by a dreadnought - well the story started OK and then when he got
rescued the dreadnought was confronted in Greek seas by a German dreadnought and
just like in the Ben Hur movie with Charton Chestwig the dreadnoughts approched to
almost toching distance before firing
there i'm afraid art ended
you may recall i said the bible had 139 or something "begats" in it
last count - unmodified
well the rest of the dreadnought story was a genesis of
"then the German guns fired"
alternating with lines of
"then the British guns fired"
and the LOOP was an infinite obsession and as you can see has lasted to this day
filling the rest of the Woolworths red lined schoolbook with
conversion charts from pecks and bushels into metres and yards
and furlongs into furloughs in fine black tablature on the back
and rolling out across a half a lifespan. No other dialogue was necessary.
to get back to the point
i SHouLD NoT HaVe BeCoMe a RoCKeT SCieNTiST [disenvowled]
but i had that sort of maths and physics at my fingertips along with a lot
of experience of being stupid naughty smart-arsed arrogant and drinking and
making a lot of noise all gained at the taxpayers expense from Kings college
in the Strand's London. I can't remember how or when i first became obsessed
with finding the perfect structure for a picture but it must have been on
one of those mobile phone moments when i had to ring my then wife from
some lightless lifeless brittle sanitised airless shopping malls to tell
her not to make any more picture frames as we were unlikely to be needing
them - a feeling somewhat akin to but not of the magnitude or significance of
IMPOTENCE.
So i gradually began to develop the obsessive notion that i might find
a structure that would be so appealing to the addled brain of the viewer
that i would sell more prints than the shells fired in the tale of the dreadnoughts
so many so, that we might retire from life and i could do
REAL ART
just as i am now - where you dont take any money for it ergo
you can please yourself - [you can make any crude allusion you like at this point
what do i care ????]
This obsession becomes ever more complicated obscuring the real problem
which is my gradual inability to paint and which some decry as artists block
but is really a suicidal response to the dreadnought battle with
the demons of creation and so is known as a burning out
- a guttering hell or a sinking ark to art -
- a relinquishing of the sword in the Horatian Oathing pic... etc etc

back to brants reply to my bingeing weekend

mr. burr--
pimm's. pimm's. pimm's. if only i could drink from the cup of pimm.
but i plod along on foot, not circling the velodrome of life,
and stick to kentucky bourbon, for the most part, instead. you
are allowed to wear dirty clothes to bed; i believe that is an
old tradition from the u.k. (or, more accurately, ireland).
dennis cloherty just had his own birthday on july 9th. i did
send a card, left a phone message, and email, but as of this
writing, am unapprised of his actual survival into another
superannuated year. perhaps he blagged a plod and they went for pimm's,
only to get so blottoed that... well, you obviously would
know more englishisms than i---use your filthy imagination
and finish the story a l'anglais. i do approve of your son's name,
provided that it is the nick for tobias. very classy.
a slew of facebookers have beckoned me this week, so perhaps i'll be
associating with ms. yves, after all. or not. i do hate the
hi-maintenance obligations of online socialization.
i teach sociology (and english composition) at a trade school a
couple nights a week, so tend to be anti-social after batting
the brains of dunderheads. are the young folks in english as
lazy and stupid as americans? america gets what it deserves--
which is to say, the empire will collapse one day soon under the
weight of its own indulgences. that, and hi-speed hot dog eating.
when you feel, send me a link to have a look at more of your art.
cheers,
brant
--->
ok so i LIED about Brant teaching nutters how to find their lives
but i feel certain he can, and if thats not delusional i'd like you
to best it !!
i dont feel he's providing the in depth answers that say a good
social worker [i.e. sociopath] or a wisdomiser [wizard] or a life coach [bus]
would if i sent say him/her/it some thing like the following comments from
different sources ill-icited as the result of the last email
e.g
"..not sure you are quite sober yet.."
"..thats disgusting --- i bet you havent washed the sheets.."
"..you are such a brilliant slob.."
"Good to hear that with great drunkeness comes no responsibility,
that is the school of thought I have long since subscribed to.."

and each containing some valuable life changing evaluation and are
heaped with positivity and wise advice and which i can take forward
words like
"brilliant"
encouragement in the form of an excusemail - a your obviously -
"not quite sober yet"
and usefull advice [sadly at the time of writing still on the pending bed]
"wash the sheets"
and life-style/drug of choice[does tea count ?] affidavit supportmail
"..great drunkeness .."
along with a lot of negativity and damnation which i'll ignore and is
a sort of enervating my positivity of charactar which i feel is almost
unique in our Sterile World - so good on me ! - and i know you'll be standing
and applauding Den as your one of that brotherhood too - and therein
lies another lesson - thats why you've got no friends excepting Brant and I
of course but then were such self contained egotistical arogants that we
don't care what you think and thats why we forgot your nuggety little
filosophies at the beginning of this -
your book Den
we just worked with you and thats good enough for us isn't it Brant -
and i expect is very much the feeling of a war verterans reunion when we meet -
totaly disparate natures from totaly disparate backgrounds with no other
connection than a dodgy old Dodge van and a tennement in Bostons east end.
Anyway im fed up of writing this and you Den not being able to contribute
- not that we would want somebody who can't read or write because he grew
up in the company of Wolves making any sort of illiterate contribution
to this, his very own favourite book, but it would be a lot easier to get your
approval on things if you joined the 21st century - learned to write and got
on the web - then we wouldn't have to come and see you at all and we'd all be
a lot better off, certainly financialy .
and thats the subject of my next email

mike to brant
i think we should buy Dennis a web site for his birthday - they cost about 10
dollars a year here - then if he can be persuaded out of his cave he could
go to the local library (an idea which might appeal to his cobwebby arcane mind)
and join the webmail community which would be a f***ing site less expensive than
ringing him from merrie old england or driving up from NY pleasant though
it is to see his withered flesh and leave him without excuses regarding keeping
in contact with the civilised world (thats us by the way - and i dont mean U.S)
-- [ps -- i hope you didnt send him another one of your used poems as a birthday
present ] i dont mind paying but you,ll have to go to Amish-land and persuade
him its a good idea !!!
mike
--->
i know its got my name on it but Brant inveigled his way into my brain and
put the bad words in my mouth - honest

brant to mike
that's the problem with Dennis---he's already got a bionic chip
that allows him to interface with his computer directly,
which he seems to need for life support. if only he had wi-fi
capability he could move around, but he's rooted to some ergonomic
swivel chair, i fully suspect. and yes, i sent him that re-cycled
old poem for his birthday because i'm "going green" (with mold!).
amish is a good as a mile. have you seen the mennonite men in nighties?

--->

i know we've written some unkind things about you Den but we only meant them in a
kindish kind of way and anyway we've let you see them now so its not like we're
saying these things behind your back [well i know we might just be accused of that at the time
but were not now !!]
- and also this is the nearly the bit ----
where Brant tells me Sharon is available for marriage and thats much more interesting
and thats a FACT !! an arranged marriage hereafter knowed as a 'Rebus Error'
oh and by the way wi-fi means there are no wires attached and a computer is an
electronic abacus but can do a bit more in the right hands, which is not you Den
but it would be nice to think of you look-longing deep into its lcd screensaver
and saying fondly
"in time you might come to love me [IBM 3270/Dell GX240/Toshiba Satellite rev 5]"
"unless your heart be absolutely given elsewhere"
Trollope
which is exactly how my now ex-mother in law would describe my now ex-wife and her
affair with my now ex-best friend Geoff. I'm going to summarise this into a few
meagre paltry lines rather than ramble on gormlessly as is my want and because
i like the sight of my own words in a way that a father loves its children.

People grow older and don't necessarily hold the same expectations or views
that they did when they were younger.

That line or two is one of
THE THINGS YOUR PARENTS NEED TO TELL YOU
because it has consequences. Very important consequences especially if you
have children.

IF the glue of compromise is strong enough or if you are fortunate enough to
develop in the same way as your partner then you probably wont have too much of
an issue with either your issue or your partner and is possibly why some tribes
still arrange marriages for their children on the (one would hope) altruistic
basis that if the parents get on OK then their children will be able to, an
argument full of as much derided truths as it is of hollows.
IF you develop differently -
then this will be a problem in the same way as if one of your legs got longer
and the other didn't - get the ideation ???
well you could go and live on a hill and only walk round in one direction
OR
something radical has to happen, something analagous to the spontaneous
creating of bees from the carcass of the dead lion in the Sampson myth.
All the little bits have to buzz off -
except hopefully they have to form more than one, lets say two, complete nests.
This is known as a trial separation or a D I V O R C E as so plangently
retold in many a country and western ballad.
Now since i'm not the best mum in the world i'm going to email my friends
Barbara and Sarah who are right there in among the 'best parent' and
'best young parent' awards and ask them for their opinions which i'll
incorporate with their permission in this, your best ever book Den,
because as you might now be vaguely aware this book is all about the
joys and pitfalls of life and sooner or later other people may see this
book - if only because they are incriminated in it - and so
it is intended to be All This Things Your Parent Should have Told you
and probably didn't as they were too busy trying keep balance and walk
around a hill with one leg longer than another and you on their shoulders.
And i know that you'll be generous and allow these other people to make
points in YOUR BOOK Den - even though you dont have any children or any
partner issues because you dont have any friends bar Brant and I -
well just close your eyes Den and imagine were all friends - everyone
in the whole world - and thats what heaven will be like Den and you'll
know lots of people who'll really like you and won't avoid you because
you were almost a Blanket Walker in Boston or some other stupid trait like
the colour of your skin or your nuggety little opinions or the God you
like to meet with or the dreams you share or your accent and the slander
that issues from it or the iritating little ticks
like picking your nose at the dinner table Dennis !!!
- they wont mind that - it'll be like the party i am going to tell you
about in the 'dream letter' later in which Brant gets all the information
he needs to get his siciologists/sociopath/lawyers son head on and analyse a tiny
part of the sum that totals all my obsessions.
I dont know if i've mentioned this Den but im what is knowed as a Nerf
i do Just e Nerf to get by - to keep other people reasonably happy
but otherwise in my own little universe - im a slob - as you can see
from the ambling rambling nature of this Your Best Book which would be
so much better if someone succint and precise had written the three
to ten lines with it could be summarised instead of a slob of a
bumbling layabout - the same one who will incite Brant to get a proper job
and stop working. I'm not entirely to blame, my parents also have a part
in it, and that part began in my livid recalling on a bus journey - probably
young in the Witney of my 5 - 10s - if it didn't then it was earlier and
makes the story more remarkable - but i think i was about 5 or 6 and very
small as i had to be balanced on a bus seat and watched - [it was Witney
my mum asserts as she remembers it] - anyway i was tottering on a seat my
mum and sister in the seat behind me. I am sitting next to what appears to be
a giant of a woman in my recalling and she and i start to talk - at five i
am precocious and can hold a fairly adult conversation, not unlike the first
part of the dreadnought story before the begats, and this woman and i are
chatting and everybody on the bus to Turnip town is all ears - because
thats all you had to do to pass your day in the yokel england of the shires
of yesteryear, to know or guess or gossip - anyway this lady starts to
lead the from the path of conversation about things and after a bit of
patronising asks a rather more personal question about our family
but its the patronisingly sly inveigling lead up that iritates me and
so i say very loudly
"you've got a very large nose " looking and possibly pointing at her almost
prehensile snout
and this leads to much mirth and sniggering on the bus
whereupon she turns to my mother with a sort of Jehovean indignation
and says "do you always let him talk like this"
and my mum says quite precisely and clearly so that everyone
including myself and probably primarily myself can hear
"he can say what he likes but he must be aware of the consequences of it
and take responsibity for his actions "
no more no less and everybody is silent
no one cheers no one cries no one coughs
now i'm not sure wether that was the RIGHT thing to say but all you mums
out there can see how i turned out and i bet some of you, the
laise-fair[frog: let do] sort, are looking at your kids thinking
HELL
well your children may turn out to be a bit mischievous but they won't be
too criminaly insane - and as long as the guidelines are simple and open
and honest and supportive they'll have a lovely life full of un-braided
unbridled fun and love you for that kind of upbringing too i suspect
[based on a sample of about 2] and that in my opinion far outweighs the
naughty bits - only perfection was built by/meant for angels.

i think thats enough about kid stuff so well return to the Brant mails
Brant send me one of his poems -
well why didnt he do that in the first place instead of sending me your
birthday poem Den as its very appropraite for a birthday poem for me

DRAGON HUNTERS

Andrews plunked down the needle of his phonograph
And Caruso bellowed in the desert air.
Gifts of rancid butter fell through the arms of nomads
Visiting Wild Ass Camp, spilling fermented mare’s milk on the ground.
He chuckled as they ran shrieking back to felt-covered yurts,
Hands covering their ears, and thought of letters left piled on his desk,
Envelopes slit open with an insouciant swipe of his hunting knife:
A man’s proposing to wait his table wearing a tuxedo; another,
Perfumed, with a locket-sized photograph nestled inside its folds,
From a woman who promised to create ‘a home atmosphere in those drear wastes.’
Mandarins had looked down from the Great Wall in bewilderment
When the dragon hunters in their wind carts laden with spare tires, tons of
Tinned goods, and jugs of gasoline, sped past; and motoring out on the gobi toward
Hard-scrabble lamaseries, bands of marauding brigands, a few days after
The expedition’s vanguard, a camel caravan, loped in, honked through
The streets of remotest Urga, then veered off the Silk Road
Into the uncharted Pleistocene.

The great explorer leans back in his folding canvas chair, pours himself
Another brandy from his canteen—Very Special Old Pale—and admires
His beloved Flaming Cliffs set ablaze by the setting sun.
Granger may hit pay dirt again, as Olsen had, unearthing another skull of
Protoceratops andrewsi.
The crew had extracted fourteen skeletons and twenty-seven skulls of titanotheres
From the dinosaurian dirt around Ula Usu easily a plucking daisies, almost.

Crouched on his haunches in Mesozoic sand, Granger exhumed eons with his trowel,
The Cretaceous Age swept forward with the delicate strokes of a sable brush,
Its vestiges disinterred by the gentlest scraping of his dental pick—what Olsen’s foot
First stumbled upon now required Granger’s patient hand to plunder.
Granger held his breath to lift three partially broken fossilized eggs from their
Ur-crypt;
Visible through cracks in their shells, two contained the embryos
Of gestations aborted 145 million years ago.
Exposed in the loose sediment Olsen had cleared from the ledge above them:
The disarticulated skeleton of a birdlike creature that appeared—in flagrante delicto—
To have died raiding the nest.
Andrews and Osborn came, disbelieving, to examine the ‘sandstone concretions.’
Granger has wrapped the prize more precious than Fabergé
In burlap soaked in plaster of Paris and re-nested them in a wooden crate cushioned with
Summer-shedding hair yanked from the Central Asiatic Expedition camels that
Winced with tears welling in their gentle, obliging eyes.
Obsorn will name the skeletal remains Oviraptor philoceratops,
.. ‘egg thief that loves ceratopsians,’
And in the name of science and the Museum of Natural History
Andrews has conceded, eggs are eggs.

O sole mio! O sole mio sta ‘nfronte a te! It’s my own sun that’s in your face!
Caruso echoes off the walls of Flaming Cliffs that slowly darken in the sun’s weakening rays,
As Andrews strokes the feathers of his pet vulture perched on his lap—
.. Quanno fa notte e 'o sole
Se ne scenne… but another sun that’s brighter still—its feathers
.. ruffled ever so slightly
By the soft breeze kicked up at dusk.
--->
Den its appropriate because hes effectively called me a dinosaur rediscovered
in some obscure dry desert -
which must be a meta-four on our emailship -
and hes posited himself as the great discoverer which since he works part-time
as a sociopath i can sort of understand - ok i dont really as i would think
you have to be one to understand one
- nutty -
anyway wasnt Andrews supposed to be the inspiration for the inspired acting of
Harrison Ford in Raiders of the Lost Arc
i also notice hes mentioned that im found in Gobi and i am a bit inclined that way gobbey
in truth thats several lessons ive learned there - the way other people see
me isn't quite how i see myself as i always thought i'd be Harrison Ford [except that
i also wanted to act a lot better so i could earn a proper living after Arc]
and thought of you Den as the dinosaur and Brant as the beautiful flaming cliffs
anyway
well never finish this book if we keep on meandering all over the place like this
so ----
Den this is the bit where i get offered Sharon in marriage -
and this is the bit Sharon where Brant offers you to me - i hope you and your
husband are reading this together and your man hasn't just crushed your hand
with rage and hurt it, he's so angry at Brant !!!!!
Brant sends me a flier with black and green one with the O at a jaunty angle
---------------------------
HYDRoGEN
JUKEBOX
Wed.7/29 7PM
15 VANDAM ST NYC
BTW 6TH AVE & VARICK 1 BLK N OF SPRING 3 BLKS S OF HOUSTON
E to Spring, or A,B,C, D, E, F to W. 4th
Tix: $6 @ door or $7.25 online @ sohoplayhouse.com
The Juke rocks the house with three great featured acts this month:
SHARON MESMER, JACK WILER, and LARISSA SHMAILO workin’ it with the
Hydro Juke improv band, Davey Patterson’s THE NE’ER-DO-WELLS.

And, as always, a great OPEN MIKE.

Full bar available.
------------------------
yes Sharon you know the one ...
yes thats the one above and it doesnt say Sharon Willby Bride of Burr
does it !!!

and above the attached flier is this branto-mail ..........
the incriminating one ----

mike--
act now! space is going fast. afterwards, a bike race. and three-legged,
or potato sack races for those you don't pedal or poetize. maybe even
potato salad and pickles! though that is subject to change and weather
conditions. sharon has asked specifically for you(r hand in marriage,
i mean your hans in mare ridge).
br
--->
sorry Den but im going to have to break off and have a quick chat with Sharon
now Sharon ...
i dont know if you are going to slap him now or send your husband round but
i should wait at least a couple more emails as it Gets Worse ...
i know he's only trying to encourage me to go out to the shows but surely Sharon
there must be nicer ways to offer the body of one of your best poetry pals
to some runty rude ugly idiot - and an Innglitchman at that - thats tantamount to
well - i am lost for words for once -
--
--
but not for long - heres my reply and its to be followed by Brants repost and the
attached 'Rebus Error'
mikes reply and this is going to get me into reciprocal trouble at least as big
as Brants - trust me i'll soon have the bruises [hopefully not physical] to proove it
now you'll have to bear with this email as it contains
"my obsession with the minute detail of my life" that im sending to Brant
in the hopes he can solve its mysteries [because he is a professional sociopath ] obsession
--- indeed a nested obsession -----
and because it contains a Very Important dream sequence ---

mike to Brant
i have changed my name by deed poll to Hans and am waiting at mare ridge
which is near Pulborough in West Sussex and theres no sign of her
nor has anybody heard of her here thus i am still Hans solo
(full name Hans I Koordination Burr-Solo)
by the way did you mean
Mad Mare Ridge in New Haven County, Connecticut
on a more poetic note i utilised some of the inspiration
in your poem and the broken discourse of Janet Hamill
to create something for a previous
(dont tell Sharon shell be curiously jealous)
the rationale behind the poem is that the beneficiary
the lovely Anne it would seem sends me dreams when she is upset
these are sometimes very pleasant and in fact our relationship
was almost pure dichotomy - wild dross interspersed with
supreme moments of light and joy
unfortunately brilliant though she was at the mechanics of reconcilliation
poor she was at the healing i so badly needed when my soulmate and erstwhile
wife Celia divorced me and which was so acutely and maybe lovingly applied by
my next Beverley aka Bee (shortly arriving in Lome ,Togo - hence "girl togo" etc
etc)
i gradually left Anne as she/we was verbally tending to violent and dislocated from her
she stole someone elses husband (though this was happening while we were allegedly together)
and is now married to him - reasonably happily i suspect as i rarely receive these
cerebral communications but there was a time when i would be recipient
then a few days later she would come round with her blue guitar on the pretext
of me showing her some chords ??
i enclose a letter to her (the drunken idiot refers to Heinrich the lodger , Polish and
found collapsed on our return from the cinema on what was either a leverage against the
now husband or a not-really reconcilliation date )
and you'll have to bear with it as it contains a Very Important bit at the end relating to
The Afterlife
>>>>>>>>>> start of anne mail
i share a secret dream with you 16th - 17th july
"i live in downtown USA - not hilly enough for san fran and slightly seedy in the way
the us can be though my flat is quite new and in a group of about 4 -
out the back in the quad is a bright mustard yellow van an american camper i sold to
a guy round the corner . i have to go out and have been promised a lift in the
grey pick up by either my neighbour or tennant - its a favour as shes on the way
somewhere else and i hear her leave .. i quickly follow and know shes just gone
round the corner
as i go right at the top of the road some 25 yds then right bizarrely in the road
is the same mustard yellow van cut in half exactly along its length at though
balanced perfectly upright on 2 wheels, 45 degrees to the curb in the middle of the
road - im slightly perplexed .
another 4 brick low-terraced tennaments and i round the corner and look down
the hill ..
there a single deck bus some 50 paces off a few sparse kids and an old couple
disembarking ..
the edge of her grey pickup can just be seen away from the road on the right behind
the bus stopped to pick up maybe her son or daughter and as it drives slowly off i run
with the speed of the slope thinking i may be able to get close enough by the bottom
of the hill some 400 yds away to catch her eye in the rear view..
i havent or maybe she wants to spend some time with her child and im walking back up
the pavement on the left although i am to turn right halfway up to the hill to get
into town --
then i see you - youve come looking for me on your husbands black and beat up hand
painted harley hard tail with its tatty side car and wide braced handle bars
- you look like a babe -
20 some-thing thin and svelte, your lovely long blonde hair blown slightly back
and a pencil skirt just above the knee, a tank top the colours but not the style
of the yankee flag - i know the lovliness beneath the thin veneer of clothing
and smell your beauty - a way off you are smiling enjoying the freedom cruising -
i dont want to be known to you entirely so i change my face to look like someone else
- im hard like stainless steel and crack muscles from hard work and the tireless
wrestling with life - so easy when one is young and invincible - i am thinking of
changing the clothes so as to be completely unrecognisable - but i dont - and through
my tight t shirt you look and there is a vague sense of recogniotion of that body
as you do sometimes when you feel the vibe of something very deep, incarnate,
and cant quite put your mind to when and how and why - you smile and look me
up and down as you drive past with a look of slight interest
as if "yes i would bother if i hadnt arranged to meet an old school friend
in 20 minutes"
as if it were that important - "see and be seen" as my work mate says
which i take to mean its like a sketched line in a note book to use if
chance to meet again or tear it out screw it up lob it on the sidewalk
let the wind bowl it down the street if unused in useless years to come
like flotsam "

i used to share dreams all the time like calling wailing sounds of plaintive sobbing
when you were finding it hard some 3 or 4 years ago
you hurt me so when the material fact of you and your blue guitar pretext and your
short dress temptation and your lacy knickers were there in the corner of my kitchen
i knew well the heady smell of love and sex but also foreboding
and sittiing watching a film paralysed with fear of both wanting to hold hand
but not wanting to, [like] wanting to dive into relentless waves and with the joys the
currents surging forces be thrown like playfull fish but not to perish in the icy
surf -- and that drunken idiot blocking the doorways to what ???
i took it for an omen and settled for the lovely but alone dreams of which you
were unaware ---
we walked down a bridlepath/lane in somerset - that was a true ruby dream -
the glorious sunrise and the shock surprise of birdsong -
but then the dream-link was severed - i thought it was the room i was in
i thought that everything was location location location - but it wasnt -
and then maybe the beasts or higher beings of a nether world had sabotaged
that pipeline through the mythic ether and the mysterious conjugations of time
and consequence that rule the subconscious world and though i heard from you on
occassion in the world of here and nowthe magical empirical umbelical chord was broken
- then maybe a year ago i sensed that in the way that rivers paths are altered by the
fall of rocks or made dams that water seeps and water finds and though much weakened
the link reforms and in maybe 2 or 3 dreams this year we have been thrown together
not always in a way that is as pleasant rambling, as in the dream above i am a
changeling
OR
in the dream say 2 years back in time when i announced to some in a
village somewhere that i wanted to divorce you
AND
neither are you the only motive force in that dreaming
in one Rob is dying and dies but only a few minutes before me and i catch and
overtake him on a steep staircase to what i sense is an afterlife -
we more or less enter a room at the same time - i think
he was asking directions to say the lou but i turn right at the head of the stairs
and walk into a large and fantastic party - someone is entertaining on an improv
stage - i walk over to the right and am handed some sort of drink - its not alcohol
but its euphoric and i walk straight up and put my arm around the waist of
my girlfriend and im greeted as this fact is known even though i have no idea
who she is or who her friends are or where they come from or what colour they are
for mere shape is unimportant
though everything is hapiness - a fat isocoleescly [traingular] woman is giving
lessons on a stage - a funny call and answer on how crossword puzzles are constructed
one of which i answer humorously and am greeted by howls other people call out answers
- and so the dream goes on ...
i dont recall them all [all the dreams: i dont have that many ]
>>>>>>>>>>>>>> end of anne mail
the poem of which this is a consequence is as follows
you'll have to bear with it
with a brief hint at the lines you et al inspired (sick)
------------------------- start of poem
green

the far flung yellow
hauled its vibrant hues (spirit)
the soul of cosmic rhythm
to swim among the seas of men
the sky was azure blue they said
and so the day was green so green
and in the vessel of the body so the soul did sail
its vassal and travail
had stowed its hold and natures oceans
plashed its hands across its ill kempt deck
baptised by waters blue and green
baptised by waters blue and green and pail (pale)
hypnotic patterns from the slowly sailing clouds
defined its rationale
and entranched the modal lullaby of cumulus and surf
and to their slapping drum shhh drum
within the warriors of sleep arose so by and by
they dream they said they dream
and in the dreaming seas evaporate
and ectopic shells do fly
through the mythic ether and the wondrous birds of time
and consequence that rule subconscious worlds
whose raptored past laid down in earth now lifted
as of dust raised in a silent whirlpool
turbine grit and modest tempest round and round
and on the updraft rising
so the aeons wings do soar and soaring
propel the dreaming up and back and back
through vast collisions slow inclusions
preceeding starry nights of billions gone so gone
before the yellow sun became
and we were shapeless energy
formed in the wake and foam
as creations motion circled wave went out and out
upon the journeys of infinity
and of the flotsam in its lee
we are but some flotsam in its lee
baptised by ethers red and mauve and blue and green
and wed in far flung yellow
we sung as unity
by and by
through thin vortexing veils
accreting mass and shape and hue
the sophisticants of heritage and trial
have bought us here to this entopic now and now
though bonded placeless shapeless forms are we
beneath the waves beneath the dreaming
clouds and surf and skies
upon this day so green so green
where envy lies but not together
here in physicality
like darkened light it lies in dreams
sublime it lies in dreams

------------------------- end of poem
exhumed eons with his trowel,
The Cretaceous Age swept forward with the delicate strokes of a sable brush,
etc = raptored past laid down in earth now lifted
and from Janet Hamills [on the flyer] = the lines
Baptized by a spray of distant sky.
In sympathetic response.
The surface repeats the hypnotic patterns of my longing.
sort of begets "baptised by waters blue and green" etc


back to your request to get on my bike and be there
sadly the exigencies of life require that i be here for my sons summer
and Bees exheunt and Sarahs lift to the airport
and Pauls help in welding the van
and Michaels insistence that i lathe his steel tripod bit and Dilli's picture
and so on
also there is the confederacy of Dole by which i get the 50 quid a week that
goes largely to my subsistence which means that i couldnt be in absetia for more than
about 2 weeks - which would be nowhere near enough time to do justice to your charity
or that of the lovely sharon and thanks to whom i have the time for this email etc etc
but we have the joys of communication and it is such a pleasure to be able to
write to you if sadly not to Dennis and to share that beauty of creation which
you have embodied in your poetry and which is more incarnate in my pictures ???

many thanks
screed by



-
--->
well that was the 'dream letter' and contains the fat lady and mikes heaven
revelation etc for the benfit of doubting Jehovans -that is what heaven is like
its a Big Big Party so get ready to let it all go - and muslims hindus etc
you get to drink something much better than alcohol and i can't see that its
banned in any of your great codex's on how to live your lives your way - this
heaven can accomodate eveyone - and even Jews and Palestinians and Protestants
and Catholics find themselfes being themselfes and yet perversely at the same
time being nice to each other and having a GREAT TIME ......
it also contains a small obsession and a heap of consequnces ...
ok now heres Brants reply and the 'Rebus Error'

Brant to mike
dear mr. burr--

i regret that you have not been able to locate Sharon.

you will not find her at mare ridge
have you seen petticoats rising like helium under the bridge?
or, without Sussex, if the night is dark, dank, and damp,
look for her come-hither smile
on the wrong side of New Haven town, under a street lamp.

actually, she has declined your offer of marriage, afterall. unless,
of course, you are smart enough to decode her "dear john letter," which
is attached as a Rebus. though the Rebus is actually my own, she has given
express permission for me to send it to you as a test of your love for her.
(she is not only coy, but cautious, and caustic, not given to lost causes.)
you must provide the "translation" of the rebus--that is send it back in normal,
readable english, after which she will re-consider your offer to have her
re-shod at a blacksmith's of your choice. (aside: i had no idea there was
such a place as mare ridge!)
the day is green... the blue guitar... new haven... (or would that be hartford?)
,,, i suspect that wallace stevens has also had some influence here, rolling
the dross of dichotomy (halved cars, halved lives) into a wistful ball of joyful
circularity. i like the poem. perhaps i'll read it in absentia.
do you know of any readings near you? i'm thinking one day i'd like to drop
down in merrie olde, if the fates allow. my brit friend jane, would certainly
know, or another, geraldine, who still lives in the u.k., but i like to
do things on my own steam, without being beholden.
togo? i was destined to go there some 15 years ago--had a big itinerary planned
through mali and cote d'ivoire, but never made it out of dakar and senegal,
so i have unfinished business in west africa.

flinging yellow from afar,
brant

DEAR JOHN REBUS

bee leaf hit oar knot eye donut sea ewe fir mare ridge
mat (ear) reel bud isle of view hen knee whey beak hose hour
mine czar sum hutch all hike wad dew youth ink weekend fine
din half rend leap awl lather reef weed own loaf itch udder
inn off toot tithe on ought owl thin cab out mean yew why
lie lame eat hound tools lee pond his weak ken hall weighs real
high hand dough chew fork edit
--->
i provide translations later on but if youre nutty enough to have gotten this far Den
you might as well have a crack at it - close your eyes - imagine you are a Kockeny
and read the rebus letter - open your eyes and read the letter - and listen to
the sounds the words make - i'll give you a start "believe it oar knot .." gettin' the
ideation ???? -"believe it or not I do not ..." !!
well its bloody easy for any old lagger and lugger like I who's seen as many accents as
there are passing trees on a river but you'll note theres something deeper than
the mere river here - were sailing down old well ventured paths - like those of
the Illyard because to win Sharon I have to undergo a TRIAL - and i'd probably
have to slaughter her husband who would figure as say a Labarynthine Bull or
maybe a Large Boar. And this is knowed as 'the Challenge of the Poets'
because in real life no one is that keen on risking their life to marry a
woman they haven't even talked to and who is reknowned for being so uncouth that
you couldn't take her home to your mum and who has a lot of wierd and now dead relatives
[because you killed them ] and is very recently made a widow by you ... etc etc
let alone one youve never even slept with - that would be crazy --
and that is the way of poets !!!!
and that is why Brant and i are poets and/or nutters/sociopaths/lawyers issue/etc
because we can talk the good talk without actually having to ever DO anything
and that is why Den
you are a Communist
because you used to share everything you ever had with us if we wanted it
and that is why we are your friends
and why you don't have any other friends in America because they think Communism
is a kind of leprosy where you loose bits and may not get anything in return !!

i digress
heres my reply to the ill concieved trial of the rebus and the REBUS ERROR

mikes 1st reply to sharon (shy ron) -
iron hay maze date eye showed being ray seat hove searches slovenly let are
button east eye aim pussy tiff ally them an witchwood berate four yew force attain
has know tone lido whisp ache similie liar lea butter mustafa gown toothe say musk
cool off lit rate your ewe cane real high own meat ooze sea oar tree tea dead rye tar
van yews bint retied beef hour beak oars eyes all oven year two bay beam whore the an
hen knee won wood gnome

2nd reply explaining the use of accent and asking for forgiveness -
as deB rant hazed old mayday essay car fay date dare easy low tar Po were to Rye cans
diego enlist end today po entry handy car fey ester Nigh oracale Poo eats Calf eh eye half
lou kid upper bout dePort oh Rye canned come unity hand day horse hutch suck cess foal
pee pole eye fought data show deco pea dumb hand soay (allowed ?) row oat meal hove lie let are
adze a fie war swan often Reek hands weave hay Poor to Rick hand lee alt sow eye hopper
tit haze damask eat hay mar chew ouzo him press iron non yore art
pee hessian wode ewe hiss mean inn bard day war day "pal larva" assay fin kiss arse hay
differ went mean inn Inn glitch

3rd reply - begging her not to marry Mr Rebus on account of compromising consequences -
pea peahess (fabricated definition known to many a palaver = female partner
who cannot hold her bladder function on a long drive)

dune hot my ray JoineRy bus eschew we lend wither stew pied neigh me (Shah wrong gRey bust)
me in why lie wheel chain german aim two Solon sow henna wheeze mar eyed end sum of a
blow keys traitor chart yup day wheel arse key or neigh man day wheel ear ewes hay
Shah wrong Sir long hand day wheel fir cough

--->
okay not easy to read
so a translation of the whole lot is below
-bollox I lost it --- sorry Den

Den i have to tell you i injured my chuckle muscle[thanks KennyD for the anatomy] laughing
whilst writing these Mr Rebuslys or Sharonophemes but i won't be laughing later as we see the
consequence of my indescretion ...
to paraphrase the 3 letters
I have thanked Sharon for the use of her body - much as i
did with Brants sister [are we seeing a pattern here Den??] which i am now pretty
certain is a custom in America and i'm looking forward to meeting someone who is
quite closely related to, but not married to, Zayra Yves - the slightly unhinged
bird i mentioned in one of my first emales ...
then
explained my lack of grammar on account of my PUERTO RICAN obsession and
then
implored her to not to marry John Rebus and although ive made up a fatuous reason
about her ending up with a stupid name the real reason is that i believe you are
only allowed to be married to ONE PERSON at ONE TIME in most of Amerrycar and
in my limited understanding of US law you get thrown in jail and get a sentence.
Whereby you are likely to get raped by Russian dykes or butch female jailers.[end of sentence]
And i want Sharon to still be ..
a Virgin Bride draped in the US Flag when i get there ..

and by the way Brant, Bee says its ok for you to go to togo and be with Bee if you
can get your dentures around that ... as long as you dont write anything slanderous
about the english as you'll soon see were very very protective about our English
heritage as you'll see, if not so picky about our brides ..

Brants reply to the three Mr Rebuslys
Dear master burrts
lovely. anything with scarp in it gets my vote. also plantains.
i'm overwhelmed with work, and too stressed to decode your several
rebuses, plus probably not clever enough to get them except in parts--boy,
did i ask for it when i sent mine--what a mistake! you're a grand googler
--by now you must have googled wallace stevens and come across his famous
"man with the blue guitar", which also contains (if i remember correctly)
the phrase "the day was green." hence my reference to him.
--->
Being a bit of an ignoramus Den, i wondered who the bejesus Wallace Stevens
is or was so i looked on the web and was
MORTIFIED to find him defiliing -well probably defiling - one of our Innglitch
Heritage Sites - namely 'The still unravish'd bride of quietness'
thats also a metafor for Sharon [conveniently forgetting her loud celerity swearing]
and is also the first line from
Ode to a Greek Pot -
[and this may have meant more than we know as that lot were into all sorts of
- PECULIAR DRUGS ] -
by our very own Mister Keats
here is Wally's feeble Jar Anectoade
---------------------------
Alectrode of a Jar

I placed a jar in Tennessee,
And round it was, upon a hill.
It made the slovenly wilderness
Surround that hill.

The wilderness rose up to it,
And sprawled around, no longer wild.
The jar was round upon the ground
And tall and of a port in air.

It took dominion every where.
The jar was gray and bare.
It did not give of bird or bush,
Like nothing else in Tennessee.

signed ... Wallace Arthur Stevens [RIP]
-----------------------------------
i felt as if Wally had tipped the contents all over my Innglitch heritage carpet
and refused to clear it up [as per the sheets upstairs]
and i felt honour bound as Englands representative in Sharon [USA] to defend our
honour and also take a dig at all that lot down the road in Berkhamsted where
my mate had his birthday party and nobody gave me a lift home - remember -
and so i fell over and got the sheets all muddy !! that Berkhamsted

mike to Brant
i read a few of the Wallace Stevens poems and felt obliged to repay his theft
of our jar
----------------------------------
On The Jar that Wallace Stevens Stole from English Shores

a bucket handle snapped in Berkhamsted
near the place where conquerors were crowned
and like a crown it rolled in arcs upon that slovenly scarp
disturbing man and oak and nettle raven lark
until it rested on a point that arc

the gardens of the earth they took its shape
the trefoil and plantain dive beneath its axis
but as the years roll by the secrets of its perfect shape
a riddle solved inside a cave of air it raises
a quietude of robins sang its praises

now the bucket gone also all the things that took its shape
perfection rolled away as fake but not temporal
to take a new dominion mong the very earth and air from which we came
to understand is all to understand the dead yet never dead
like all else in Berkhamsted

signed Mike Algernon Damn Your Yankee Hide Burr
----------------------------------

this is a long poem by Wallace's brief standards and it does rhyme
ok Yanks - your reply please in poetic form only !!!
--->
im sure the sublety of this won't be as lost on you Den, as it was on Brant,
because he didn't realise that the Norman Conc was crowned at Berkhamsted
and the ravens the incorporation of the welsh crown [and symbolically
kept in out tower] and that plantain = planta genista from which the
plantagenets took their name
or that the riddle of the cave of air is a sly dig at the structure
and at the same time a smart arse prod at the critic-o-philes of wally
intimating that its a lot of air [read windbags]
and in the same vein of silly humour that robins (who incidentally
often nest in low containers) sing its praises

an aside :
the bird in Teeksarse which i presume is only a few thousdand miles
from Tenesseeee and is called a robin we Inn glitch would call a
blackbird here and is a reference to his '13 ways to take a blackbird'
poem - ok, perspectives then, but its only words
and that is splitting hares.
end of aside

so this poem reply has a lot of culture as well as a sly dig at that
lot in Berkhamsted - 'dead yet never dead' .... take that Berko and
make sure i get a lift home next time else there will be a lot worse
heaped on your village and my bride Shaza says 'dont chew fork edit' !!!!

and Brants reply .....

Brant to mike
oops! i read this after 'tother
so, regret to say (please don't tell my mother--
she being dead some thirteen years,
would require a seance for that)
i'm feeling overhwhelmed and smothered
by the burr-age of your wit i mean s**t, that bringing tears
to my eyes, to read of scarps and fat-
uous allusions to Mr. Stevens,
cannot offer other reasons,
trefoil or quadrenary even,
to further try my hand, so simply fold.
--->
OK i LIED again Den you see Brant totaly got it - but we both knew
you wouldn't so i had to explain it - for you Den, not Brant - no he
understood it because he's spent a long long time in Inngland and
hs aos vvccl vr
pardon
well i said it quietly because i didn't want you to get upset Den
but
HE'S ALSO VERY VERY CLEVER
even if i am disappointed that he hasn't joined in the spirit and
proffered a Mr Rebuff on Wallaces behuff.

oh i found the translation of the Mr Rebuslys

mike to Brant
here are the translations of the Rebus Replies -
youll have to forgive the translations as the original
was written by an obviously illitrit eejut

iron hay maze date eye showed being ray seat hove searches slovenly let are
i am amazed that i should be in receipt of such a slovenly letter

button east eye aim pussy tiff ally them an witchwood berate four yew force attain
but honest i am positively the man for you for certain (curtains)

has know tone lido whisp ache similie liar lea butter mustafa gown toothe say musk
as not only do we speak simile-liar-ly but must have gone to the same

cool off lit rate your ewe cane real high own meat ooze sea oar tree tea dead rye tar
school of literature - you can rely on ma to se you are treated dead righter

van yews bint retied beef hour beak oars eyes all oven year two bay beam whore the an
than you's (you have) been treated before because im a loving you baby more than

hen knee won wood gnome
any one wood gnome

as deB rant hazed old mayday essay car fay date dare easy low tar Po were to Rye cans
as the Brant has told me there is a cafe that there is (are) a lot of Puerto Ricans

diego enlist end today po entry handy car fey ester Nigh oracale Poo eats Calf eh eye half
they go and listen to the poetry and the cafe is the Nuyoracle Poets Cafe - i have

lou kid upper bout dePort oh Rye canned come unity hand day horse hutch suck cess foal
look(ed) it up about the Puerto Rican(ed) community and they are such successful

pee pole eye fought data show deco pea dumb hand soay (allowed ?) row oat meal hove lie let are
people i thought i should a (have) copied them so i wrote my lovely letter

adze a fie war swan often Reek hands weave hay Poor to Rick hand lee alt sow eye hopper
as if i was one of them Ricans with a Puerto Rican lilt so i hope

tit haze damask eat hay mar chew ouzo him press iron non yore art
it has made it a muchozo impression on your heart

pee hessian wode ewe hiss mean inn bard day war day "pal larva" assay fin kiss arse hay
p.s - would you explain what you is meaning by the word "palarva" as i think it has a

differ went mean inn Inn glitch
different meaning (in) Inglitch

pea peahess
p.p.s

dune hot my ray JoineRy bus eschew we lend wither stew pied neigh me (Shah wrong gRey bust)
do not marry John Rebus else you will end up with a stupid name (sHARON gREYBUS)

me in why lie wheel chain german aim two Solon sow henna wheeze mar eyed end sum of a
meanwhile i will change my name to Solong so when we are married and sum other

blow keys traitor chart yup day wheel arse key or neigh man day wheel ear ewes hay
blokes try to chat you up they will ask your name and they will hear you say

Shah wrong Sir long hand day wheel fir cough
Sharon so long and they will fir cough
--->

well Denny, a lot of Culture and a lot of laughs - this is well on its way
to my vision of heaven and were still here on earth and its bound to be much
better there ....
but what were attempting to do next should not be attempted by the untrained
because were going to do some amata psykology - thats amateur psychology
in proper Innglitch and to do that were going to do
'stream of consciousness'
a well gnome and much lauded technique by sociopaths and other medicks

mike to brant
ok your turn to send me something
do it like a stream of unconsciousness - you can always refine
it later though i rarely do [refined !] so each poem takes no time and thats
the way to improv (e) ????
you will find that you can only do this for Solong
(as i indicated to Shazar) but then i go to painting or occassionaly
pick up the 'notblue guitar' and have a twong (thats a discordant twang)
by the way how did your evening go - minute by minute - or quackleee kwickleee
send me something about your mum that would be nice
incidentally i wrote ther departing Bee a poem as well today using
the shaza phonemetic in part - lets dedicate that style to her and name
it after her - your call on the name as your very good at that sort of fun ----
heres the poem and its called leaving Bee
(her name is Beverley but she insists everone call her Bee)

--------------------------------------------------------

Leaving Bee

reeve ass oft ears slovelny bereave hurst doff tea has
eschew sleeve in metaphored egret cocoon tin intend
mar bees donut seed etch udder non eve rag in
fort ease day why tam hands graph yurt
go rave year deb aeon nit taint cull head at
fawn huffin four knurr thin be sofa shurety
ease isle of view bean ice end hall mike hisses
toss titch hay round dew lichen way borer saw phut caw coon oft
dow nice spinner way bar dhow nobby
top rot ectoplasmic be wing beat ooh
key pew say fob essay fromage gin ant hill elf
butter mustafa hall ice end mine are toby myan art
hassle low view bay bellow few bay be be


and if this is self indulgent blubbering then let it weep
let it weep in the remembering and let the tears spill down the cracks of incomplete
let them seep into the dessicated earth and flowers new and green and tall rise forth
and laugh upon the sun their shaddows be long cast and touch your outline
to light caress your shoulder in the evening afterglow of far away
across the seas and under heavens prow we sail the thrilling plaintive ways
our plasmic owners call and yet a part of you may call through mystic paths
its rides the void and enjoins us in the dreaming dawns
of astral souls and weeps into our living world

--->
and you'll noticed that i'm smart enough to now be fluent in two languages Den
thirty five less than Brant and a couple more than errrm anyway
lets avoid a certain indescretion and move forward Den , move forward to
Brants reply

dear blurr
my response just before this was off the cuff and composed instantaneously.
so, at my age, you are askng for calisthenics in the summer heat.
but, before i essay, to answer your question--which i think refers to
last night's proceedings at the show?--it was splendid. larissa and
winged it without rehearsal, and the muses must have felt no one should
be embarrassed, but rather proud, and i'd have to say it was inspired--
worthy of taking to the recording studio.
minute by minute
a musical sonnet
was spun on the stage
and, being all the rage,
we basked in applause
for the worthy cause
of smailo's brodsky--
a venerable ruskie
that inspired her verse
and, none the worse,
made commies of mommies
that ordinarily would never
listen to poetry so clever
in middle of july in the heat
recited to mr. lyon's jazzy beat.

i'm attaching a seriously sentimental poem--well,
two--about me mum. ...well, i have to find them first. next email.
brant
p.s., i'm not charging you for copping some of my rebus words!
they are poorbably better appropriated in yours.
--->
this is the point where i found out Brant had a real mum - i really dont remember him
talking about her - but hes such a slapper - thats definitively a tarts reply
anyway i'll incorporate his mums poems - by the way Den if they seem
familiar don't be surprised as he's probably sent them to you already but with
your name substituted where his mums was and 'old girl' for 'old man'
that sort of thing 'beak hose hays cert art' and he did that already with several
of the best poems in this book and just as i'm going to do for you at the end of
this book to proove that we Innglitch know how to prostitute ourselfes as well
though you've probably seen our former leaders Ann Tony Blurr and Tongueoff Brown
over there in the USA quite often and at least subliminaly understand this already ...
so back to something a lot more pleasant than poloticking

Brants poems about his mum

The celestial alphabet she wrote was more calligraphy than penmanship.
Each o a perfect round as though her hand had traced
the harmony of the spheres; an l or t, upright buttress of the firmament.
Downstrokes of her lowercase j’s or y’s constrained to exactly one space
below the line—it’s clear a line dangling further down would distort
the symmetry of her upstroked letters that stood at regulation height;
and violate the pious dictum every school girl knows: Neatness Counts!
Even a reminder taped to the fridge, or grocery list was written with her pen
in a reverent caress, quill’s ink kissing vellum illuminating manuscripts.
My mother’s lifelong devotion to The Palmer Method—its cursive ciphers—
perhaps revealed to her her soul’s own shape.
Whose eyes did she imagine might behold that majuscule for margarine,
those soft round-shouldered uncials as in ‘remember milk’ inscribed as if
in The Book of Krells? What empyrean order forever disallowed
a scribbled note?
Arthritis cramped her hand the last years before she died so that
the roofs of capital M’s collapsed into dilapidated huts,
and check endorsements the bank teller compared to her signature on file
had devolved to chicken scratch.
By then she’d dedicated herself to an artless alphabet:
The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog.
Each keystroke of her electric Smith-Corona imprinting perfect imperfection.
~ Brant Lyon

ok so i was an itsy bit NORTY and added in an extra letter in there

poem 2 by brant

and which ends in ....
My mother and I both held up broken bones like trophies.

poem 3 by brant
1.
Mrs. Johnson lies in the bed behind the curtain beside my mother’s
and says it’s Chinese New Year today.
For the next twenty-four hours she won’t stick out her tongue or surrender her vein
to May Lee’s hypodermic. Only May Lee can jab her flesh with such tender cruelty.
Only May Lee shows her such indifferent mercy.
Like clockwork, she has nailed Mrs. J back on the cross every day as though
she would abscond, transcend, were going somewhere.
Tonight she’ll just have to endure stony Sister Frances,
or the surly Jamaican on the late shift
who spills the pill tray on her lap without so much as an excuse me.
May Lee has taken the day off to celebrate.
Patience. Good fortune.
You will go on a long journey in The Year of the Rat.

2.
As I enter the room Mrs. J is the first one I greet—exchange a few pleasantries
good neighbor policy)—then my heart is pulled—no, it’s led—to the window.
I lift up the blind and watch two tired eyes struggle to focus, cracking open like
eggs hatching, tentative, reluctant to let in the afternoon light
that glints off the car tops
in the parking lot below, and freshly woven shawl laid over the ground overnight.
Look, Mother. It has snowed.
Yes, blinding. So white.

3.
Two years ago and nearly twenty years later, my father, broke, dispossessed,
came hat in hand to ask my mother to take him in.
He believed his pension, her alimony, two Social Security checks, and her
big soft spot would be the better to make ends meet.
She feared his repulsive habits, untrustworthiness, incipient doddering and slobbering
(he would talk baby talk to her pet dachshund!), or the thought of him
still caching porno mags under the bed, would disrupt the serene rhythm
she’d been tapping out for six plus years of hard-won sobriety; would wrest
the remote control from her hand.

Though the money may have figured in (he would no longer have to duck
out of family reunions anymore), having declared a ceasefire, they could possibly
attend to the pre-extramarital business at hand. What business?
It was embarrassing at first: like as a child,
walking in on your own two parents f***ing:
mysterious; now simply a private matter between consenting adults.
There was nothing going on, of course—separate rooms, separate beds.
But who’s to say what a man and woman feel, since childhood having lived their life
in thirds: together, apart, together again, when, the quarry flushed,
returns to the same spot?

4.
He regales the nurse’s station with stupid jokes.
At first they were too busy, now they almost look forward to his daily,
sometimes twice daily
shuffling down the halls of the oncology ward.
He always took his greatest pleasure destroying things, worshipping the golden calf
in the fields of Baal, bailing out when her years of drinking
and rehabs got to be too much,
then stewing in the blasphemies of middle age.
Now, returning, he looks at her with the bewilderment of not quite knowing how
to keep it together anymore. As though the tubes and wires, the tangled tendrils
of the I.V. tree wrapped around her arms and neck, were the only thing that
keeps her rooted, keeps things from
completely coming apart.

5.
It’s Sunday afternoon again and Mrs. Johnson’s church lady friends have come
all gussied up to chew the fat and make their usual gossipy din.
I inquire how she’s doing—she says she’s a little afraid;
can’t make the stairs anymore,
will be needing to move. O try to think of something thoughtful to say about home.
Boar. Monkey. Rooster, Sheep. Dog. Ox.
I stare blankly at the garish wall calendar May Lee has hung over her bed.
Never mind Mrs. J. I want my mother at home.
My mother at home in her own bed.

6.
I think how their chatter must disturb her, the way sounds overheard while one sleeps
infiltrate and transmogrify the syntax of dreams.
The morphine bag drips over the bed. It is a form of Chinese water torture boring,
droplet by droplet, into my forehead.
Now she looks through a scrim of loosening associations: Who? Where? When?
I pick out what’s wilted in her FTD bouquets and announce this morning I spotted
the first spring flowers (though the equinox is still another month away):
Snowdrops, their delicate heads bowed, looking back down at the still-hard ground
as though to say, See there! Against all odds, we’re here.
I bend to kiss my mother’s cool dry forehead, and without pretext
kiss it again and again.
I wonder what turbulent waters flow behind it, then think of snowdrops instead.
Mother, please tell me.
Or is it too soon to say?


--->
Are you crying Den - they are poignant and i dont think they're particularly
sentimental. I recently agreed to paint a portrait of a friend of a friends
child that died a cot death - this raised 2 issues
firstly how do you paint somebodys dead child - a child you haven't personally
held even though you know how small and fantastic that is to have them rolled
along your forearm tiny warm and bliss in weeny little blankets and everything
in microscopic detail - well i tried not to make it sentimental and i tried
to make the former child a livid living entity and that was hard - very hard
and i guess brant must have found it very hard but may be cathartic writing
those poems in his mothers homage and remeberance
Brant thank your lucky stars - the Pleirdes - that you dont suffer from obsessions
- obesity and fattushness maybe, obsessions no, - because if you did you would
still be writing poems to your mum right now in the many begats of poetry
and in them you would be joined forever because in obsessionland all things are
joined forever in a big spiritual soup which some of my friends are going to
find rather uncomfortable on account of my rather louche and cavalier attitude
to personal hygienne
Brant hasn't really obeyed the rules of
'stream of consciousness'
but i quite often do as you might have noticed in these unstrictured ramblings
and begats and now im going to read part of one of his poems and go for it -
a toboggan run on the lugge of literature with all its luggage thrown around
and all its baggage like gravity to a slippy exhilaration and creations
mushy end and i want it to be nice and for them to be together in
their own lovely heaven pulling wishbones in the kitchen and all the
dreams come true as they slide and elide through the afterlife
if there is one
and then they can come and join our party Den and have a REALLY GOOD TIME


mike to brant
ive just written a poem for you based on 6
poem 3 (yr of the rat) [that you wrote for your mum]

behind your kisses

behind your kisses there are no troubled waters
the sound of a brook ushered by smooth stone and silent trout
to its gestured greeting with the larger pools and so they make their way
through the continuity of transformation smooth and subtle
and accompanied by birdsong for in the night not all is black
and the 5th blackbird is trilling sweetly with its double chords not all alone
as echos play from farther mountains and chinese walls a distant plangent call returns
maybe not an echo but other voices on the farthest circle of that worldy reason
the white blood of snowdrops absorb the lovely sound and thrill becomes a root
a root becomes a chord a chord becomes a motif maybe birdsong maybe a word
for there is such joy in commune as all things know though we know so little of their meaning
and in that celestial turning you will always be the smaller sphere
for a child is always a child to its mother who knows much more than she suggests
a child may make a fake the maker knows its own and for the most part
loves it for its quirks and secrets all the more
and in those kisses it will feel the whole deception and the truth
kisses both of chaos and of order born
--->

and then i also sent this

mike to Brant
and as of Sharon you must send the caveat that you first sent me - your indignation
and protectionism and thence your forgery of the rebus letter on her behalf -
but send it to her anyway - she will be annoyed for sure but maybe you two
have similar (sort of oblique) things that dont feel right -
shes let go into a void in insubstiality a mask -
but im not sure youve let go Brant -
i had to explain to my son all our troubles when my wife
and i split - he was about 4 years old and you could tell it
was troubling him - his grandfather was sort of implicated in that
he was a minor sort of paedeophile to his daughters and i thought
that might be responsible in part - i told Toby all this which
enraged people not least his nan (mother side) and mum but did
not alienate them or my son - however when hes realy drained he
stays with his mum so even though she turns a deaf ear to his
somewhat wayward behaviour partying drug abuse etc
i know but she cures -
hence youll have a better understanding of why i
wrote what i did -
fathers are largely incidental to a childs
existence despite their inflated view of their importance -
but support of both parties and honesty goes good way to fortifying
it and so will it always be
--->
Den we're back to children again so you can go and have a cup of tea
Boston-style [they sling it in the sea - must be better with salt??]
while i discuss this vexing issue with myself
hang on Den do you know anything about animal husbandry ??
you do !!! bongo
pigs specifically
oh ok
well let me enlighten you - no its not going to be something fatuous
about the police force - its about the hairy sort and in a perverse
turn of metaphore they're 'the hunted one'
there is an administrative tablet a seal depicting a male figure,
hunting dogs, and boars
originating from Mesopotamia and about 3000 BC with the dawn of writing
and its concomittant social revolution. There is the tale in literature and
wether allegory or culled from prior cultures it still exists as the
stella of the Greek styled Calydonian boar hunt on the capita sarcophagus - Rome.
And in 1600's europe there are paintings by boar hunt specialist Snyders
and by the studio of Rubens that add to the myth - bloody great big unkempt pigs
with bristles down their backes and weighing about a third of a ton - two and a half
metres long - huge and awesome and dog killing man manglingly dangerous - im not sure
how dangerous on the bear scale but there aren't many great legends of bear hunts
are there ?? and in the greek boar hunt tale a lot of them go along ...
The caledonian tale is an allegory in which the people of Calydonia do not revere
the heritage of the countryside and gods and laws. Angered and with some support
presumably some mercenary, ,some emapthetic, Meleager[Mclarger] usurps that
authority and in doing so is pitted against and kills his three mothers brothers
and although unsaid they would have been creamated on a pyre. His enraged mother
one assumes whose kith and kin her son has killed then
'does for him'
and has him cremated which must have upset MacLagers bird Atlanta as she's at
home hungry - why ?? - well somewhere in this non vegetarian tale is an excuse
to hunt and kill a pig - which appears in a clearing at the beginning of the story
and whose roast annoys the three alive but soon to be dead and roasted brothers
and the soon to be dead and roasted hero
- quite a lot of meta-four-roasting in one Anecdote - but then those Greeks weren't
knowed as smart four nuthin.
The Caledonia to which the tale refers is obviously the ancient forest land of
Scotland not far from where the great Bard was born and a place peopled by fierce
and driven folk and i think where some of Brant other lot came from as he told
me they were also clan Andrews - anyway they were Scots
Scots who will as soon punch you in the face for not drinking with them
because they've generously filled you full already with their hospitality as they
would punch you in the face for drinking with them
because they've had too much of your hospitality
- either way you get a flattened nose - a behaviour that goes part way to account
for the Scots talking weird Innglitch and being great discoverers,
obstinate skirt wearers, and oft times funny clever strange and obdurate or silent
cousin-friends. Unsurprisingly they also turn up in open spaces regularly as
Drunks
and we've had a sucession of them here. The latest stray in the open space that was
the market with her battered grey suit and her umberalla and her papers papers papers
strewn that make the concrete soft a-bed amid the row and passing nightlife is Sue
about 50 something nut brown hands and slight alloupetia on her forehead or at
least a pigment defect exacerbated by the suns solsticed rays. I used to go and give
her predecessor - the old boy down there a tithe from my market stuff amany saturdays
ago and i can tell you he was a serious alchy - all scots no teeth and turn turn turn
in an instant
So why did i tell you about Greek legends - well confronting lets call him Gordon
was i would imagine like the slaying of the Calydonian boar. It took a fair bit of
guts/bottle to walk up to him through his maybe haze of recognition or barrage
of fir coughs and wainey cars and ocassional missile projection but once his
Addledness had got glim recognition usualy through a coin-to-be-booze he was OK
and often boring as Delilahs whole and briefly very funny in his rambling and
once you had that attention then you could give him
FRUIT - yes fruit - no not acorn mast
mostly apples or grapes whereas Sue is a banana girl. I tell Sue who is very lucid
as i hand over a dollar and a few annas that i didn't like them much as a kid
because my dad 'the poisoner' fried them and i came to hate the taste.
Sue then tells me of intruiges with her two one she would cover the annas with
batter and chocolate and the other didn't like Brussel sprouts and so she would
mash these and tell the kid they were cabbage.
"why didn't you just give her cabbage" i asked quite naively
so why do we feel the need to deceive our children
its because
'its for their OWN GOOD'
and whatever that means depends on OUR circumstances more often
being a good parent is all about responsibilities
one of my mildly autistic and loony friends asserted the other day at a dinner out
that one first responsibility was to other people
i assured him in no uncertain terms with language that wouldnt have disgraced
my lovely American bride that he was cretinous in this assertion and he asked me
why i had been so rude and left -
well Mike Barwise - in Dennis's Best Book - this book you might find an answer -
and one part of it is -
our first responsibilty is to Ourselfes - thats because if you aren't functioning
correctly you are a Hinderance to those around you - like going into the boar hunt
with one gammy eye, lame, and spazzed reflexes bit like Scots Gordon of the drunken
square. If you've got children you just cant afford to get pissed and lurch around
with them - they learn it as normal not the least of crimes, but as parents and probably
partners too we all know we have to have our own time , our own space and to be
selfish - but just for a while till we've recovered from the exigent needs of every
other time stealing b******d pesterer. Try telling that to your kids
that you've had enough of them and you wish they'd go and die some where - just for
a day or two while your feet recover and your sanity seeps back through your scalp
and you're no longer sleep-spent. Now im going to have to reveal to you some bad things
When my son Toby was a very little baby i was at home looking after him and he started
crying - no problem as i used to swing him in an arm cradle and sing him an
"eek squeek eekety creek" song and that was fine
well he didn't stop crying and i got more and more worked up and anxious
He seemed hot so i took him up to the bathroom and cupped some water in my hand and
poured it down his throat and he still cried but didn't seem upset so i did this more
and ended up putting his mouth under the line of the tap - and he would stop crying
and sort of burble then start crying and he still didn't look distressed and he was
half gasping - and i realised in a moment of cognition THIS WAS MADNESS - an its a
madness about which i have not nightmares - but wakemares because i love him so much
and could so easily have killed him - it might have been a moment of genius as he
almost certainly was dehydrated but i know that i'm lying to myself if i use
that excuse
and this Den is one of the things YOU SHOULD TELL YOUR CHILDREN BUT CANT
you should tell your children but that takes real guts because although they say
they do
they might not absolve you deep down and you'll know it
and they'll probably know you know it
There's another incident, about which Toby fully knows as he still carries a scar,
and is sort of funnier and not as dark and maybe i'll relate that later as its
rather blokeish and girls may not understand it.
That was a horrible thing for me to relate whereas i don't suppose you felt too
bad about it - and thats the way of words, they can in no way do justice to what
say Brant felt as his mother died, and those are the very things we have to try
and express - not necessarily because someone needs to hear them but because we
need to hear them and this is how Brant the sociopath and medick is going to help
me with my obsession - the one that first surfaced as two dreadnoughts fighting -
sanity and insanity all in one sea and still manifests itself today in strangeways
as 'helping other people' - i dont mind that or indeed helping them in public.
A lot of people would balk at that and this is not rooted in modesty - don't
fool yourselfes
SCUM
[now thats what i call PONTIFICATING !!!]
its actually because deep down YOU haven't actually got the guts
and the humanity both to walk up to Sue and her ilk or your neighbours who are old
and ill and hand them the metaphor of a dollar and a few bananas
its not so bad to give a quid to charity from the safety of your telly once a xmas
where you dont have any Real Involvement at all and you can feel smug about it and
i suppose thats about as good as an embittered synic like me thinks it gets -
and if you were walking up to homeless Sue you'd probably be working for a charity
and then you'd want to put her in a home because she will die of exposure to our
sometimes inclement weather here in Angle-land
and for the Sue's of this world its because 'its for their OWN GOOD'
and that is why Den when we were in downtown Boston near the reflecting church
and we went and talked to and helped the man and his mate in the wheelchair with the
maggoty legs i knew you had humanity - just like my mum and dad have it and
if our children see it theres a chance they'll have it
and if they have it i'm sure when were having our big party in heaven everyone
the big fat lady who's going to teach us how to do those cryptic crosswords
will be just that bit livelier and funnier and more beautifull than she is already.
Well Den i had a bit of a rant in which i'm afraid i let go and called an awfull
lot of people - almost a quarter of the world Den - 500 million people ?? - scum
and i'm going to have to make a 'begat exponent' of appologies.
Then Den, you must be feeling rather smug as you came over quite well in that bit
and maybe thats part of the reason why you're the dark shaddowy figure at the back
of the Horatii picture with which we started and your actually a very nice bloke,
if a little bit lacking in friends, in this your favourite ever, more so now you've
had a few compliments, book.
I have to say Den after the last few emails Brant has gone a little quiet and i
hope he wasn't one of those people i called scum - i dont think he was when he was
out with us riding the surf in the old dodge galleon and sqwaking in the rigging but
as i alluded to earlier you're never sure where the current will drag you in this
life or if the tide will turn and leave you stranded.
so i sent him this as weve just shipwrecked on an island

mike to Brant
ive put the poem on my web sigh-t - ive gifted it to your group [the logos]
presume this is ok and you dont mind the looneys who may invade "mikes secret"
space to invade yours as well
- there is one section of pun in it that is very droll - i partly got the idea
when i looked up rebus to see wot it implied
------------------
Ode - or a Grecian Isle

where pines do corruscate the passing airs and sing the cormorants
pure as cerise pink whose wailings filter them with heady musk
an islands pleasure far out beyond the bounds of men
pround its mounds lay enfolded in a distant dawn that herald Usha
exotic fruits and rainbows tongues to ply and play around its caves
within its husk of beauty

the trickle of small watered brooks on whose banks the ancient beaver play
has left its hoard of shells wherein the oyster once had puffed its gills in pleasure
among rocks offending pools or chasms in the cloven wooded slopes
where acidic stork now long dead was never born to bear its child
exempt the child of joy

on some far het-trodden isle the zephyr myth has traveled like an odour
on the mound of dung connundrum calls : is its size or the loudness of its crowing
of maternal facet where opines do not corruscate and why do men think
oars will row them to that isle culled paradise that need no chickens
or ass the burden of the brutal farm
signed by Mikeodious
hope you like the puns
--->
I suppose id better explain that this is a rise take of our grate pot poet
only instead of Ode to a Greek Earn - its a corruption around
Ode to a Greek Isle, which would imply Lesbos, Den and ponders why blokes
think it would be such a Grate Idea to go there ??? and since i used to
meet quite a few of its inhabitants while playing SPORT
i'm fairly certain they would have landed on barren shores
- correct them if i'm wrong girlies.
and talking of slapping i completed my painting of the cot death child
and everyone liked it so i got this email from Dilli
Dilli is a lovely little girl/woman that lived just up the road with
her mum and brother the pair of whom sort of knew us for ages.
She lives in emotional pink heaven with her best bloke Dan and i think
its his brother and one of her best mates baby that died a cot death.
My occassional friend, lets call her Wye, told me that some research had
sort of indicated that the heart goes from automatic to being self or
brain controlled at about this age and they think thats its a failing to
transfer from one system to another that may be responsible for the
heartbreak that must be cot death. either way they're all pleased
so i sent this to Brant

i thought this definition might amuse you - i did a painting for Dilly as her pal
(and my ex school mates granddaughter) died of cot death so having done it
to everyones satisfaction Dill invited me to a slap up diner and

i replied a slap might be more appropraite

she sent "whats a slap "


heres the reply

ok maybe the wordplay missed you but you said a slap up dinner - knee way heres a de
finish shun of a slap

a slap
is where a girl often for no apparant reason moves her hand
quicky across some part of a blokes anatomy usually his face
resulting in an ouch sound

a slapper
is somebody who does this with regularity and therefore can be
assumed to go out with many blokes (unless her bloke is a maso-kissed )
and ergo has sleeped with many blokes

a slipper
is somebody that a bloke can come home to and slip into comfortably
is usually old and smelly with a few more holes than normal

a schlepper
is similar to the above but with gangrenous sores and a few
fingers/toes/appendages missing - the schh refers to the sound made
when you take the lid off

hope this has cleared up any misunderstanding you have regarding the Inn Glitch language
ps dont try reading any of my poems as judging by your Kumunikayshun
you wont have a cat in hells chance of getting past the first similie and
theyre full of it - i mean wit - sorry i mean sh**t

mike

--->
and the last bit on the end turns the whole email into a slap
and though i think its very funny and a great metaphor i'm beginning to understand
why for instance girls leave me for what seems scant reason to troll off on the back
of a vanguard of french motorcycles
its because i have very little consideration for people who are better off then myself and
i like to make their lives a bit more miserable - i told you there would be some bad
things about me in here - just to redress the equipoise of happiness and sadness
of love and anger and so on and also because it keeps people at a sort of 'theres
something dark in the woods approach with caution' distance just as you do Den
with some of your brutal cutting observations of people to their faces
and this is another reason why Brant and i are your friends because were interested
in ourselfes and other deformed and peculiar objects not regarded as commonplace
because we feel we can maybe find some gem, like the pearl in the deformed oyster,
and learn or maybe steal something from it, some secret of the universe of the type
so succintly practitioned by your humble second best friend in the search for the
perfect picture structure maths adventure i told you about earlier -
the transmutation to alchemists gold, chrysopoeia, and aparently there is also plant
alchemy or spagyric by which you can turn say
a rose into something taller and which i believe historians believe might turn out
to be the 'fertilizer' of the famous Olde Wurzel-world sng - can you tell i'm
struggling to write this now that Brant's stopped talking to me and i don't have
his clever dick emails to fill the time and space ???? -
any way lets give the olde pig a kick and see what we get

mike to Brant

this is priceless - i dont think you could do much better
(by the way tell Shaz its obviously ok for us to get hitched here )

Serial bigamist spared prison term

Print Story

A former glamour model has walked free from court despite admitting bigamy
for the fourth time. Skip related content
Emily Horne(pron: horney ??), 40, was described by Judge Mushtaq Khokhar
(pron: Mistake Cocker) as a "man-ipulative woman" who had "underpined the
institution of marriage".
But Horne was given a 10-month suspended sentence at Manchester's
Minscam Tiara Street Crown Court.
The judge said he had decided not to jail her because she had made progress
in [his office in] the last six months since being prescribed with medication and a date
rape drug.
Speaking outside court, Horne said: "I am feeling great. I have been vindicated."


link
http://uk.news.yahoo.com/21/20090727/tuk-serial-bigamist-spared-prison-term-6323e80.html
if you dont believe me ...

Brants come back

dear two-timin' Mike,
oh, great. saves you both the airfare to salt lake city.
yours,
Susan Boyle's secret hubby

mikes reply

ones timing and slipper -
[and i make a realy great quip about brevity here
but i dont think you're ready for it yet Den - its not for the untrained ]
--->

OK so Brant and i have traded a few insults which doesn't sound good to me
and in a while hes going to claim hes not in because of his 27 correspondants
i dream of having 27 correspondants Den and i bet you've never even said hello to 27
people - well he wont be corresponding with Sharon anymore though he might be corresponding as
i write with her husbands anger - wallop -
by the way did you notice how i called him a 'slipper' - that was a bit generous or do
i mean gangereneous???
he's jilted a lot of people and i don't just mean you and your brother -
i mean Susan Boyle
and thats heavy tabloid stuff - i dont know if she realises shes no longer his squeeze
and is just a pale blotch on the mirror of discards ??? well she'd be in good company
as we've just got rid of our cricket captain and consigned former ashes hero Michael Vaughan
to be cremated and added to the urn which contains the wood and chattels which we
exchange with the Oz depending on the outcome of a lot of drawn games of
cricket and known as
The Ashes -
the ashes currently running has an incredibly ancient cultural background
you see a lot of people talk a lot of uninformed nosense about
'our nationalo gameo'
being soccer
but in essence it isn't because the rules of soccer aren't yet complicated enough
to satisfy
the True Englishmans Stout Heart
and although football, as we rather curiously and confusingly, call it here has some
good rules like offside which are really difficult to interpret properly, and direct
and indirect free kicks, they just don't have an-oeuf of them
whereas cricket has bag loads
and fox hunting had even more and they were WEIRD like the 'vieeeew haloooo' in fact
so complicated that people and foxes died interpreting the rules so mush so that the
European Health and Safety Executive had to call a day on it -
metaphorically they Ate It - so fox hunting is dead !!!
i digress
long ago when the earth was having its thousandth
birthday for the 3 billionth time in the pleistocine and saurage
of Neanderthal man, Krikit, now prounced and spelled cricket, was invented
it didn't have any rules other than
when two tribes go to war
and i can hear the singing of its lovely anthem in the distant disco'd hills of
when i was even less than a mere sperm
when two tribes went to war they faced off and unlike now where
their king or leader stands at the BACK in what some of our
four bears might think - A COWARDLY POSE - their kings and
generals then stood at the
FRONT
they stood facing each other in the across the clearing of forest
with the rumble of smitten volanoes and behind them in the damp and
lushness of the undergrowth heard the frinxy frenied roars of dinosaurs
eating small furry animals - just as historically and correctly depicted
in the great celluliod film starring Ursula Undress with its slightly
too polka dot bikini dress code error - '1 million years BC'
yes 1 million years Bee See
and they took it in turns to throw a series of large boulders at each other
shouting vieeeew hallooo or ug according to
their tribe
and that IS CRICKET
No those aren't the current rules i hear leagues of gentlemen demur
but
THAT IS THE WAY OF CRICKET
that is the way God handed Abrahmin the great stone
you see unless you've talked to God you wouldn't know these things
but Abraham taked to God and was loved by God because after a lot of begats,
too many to mention here but about 3 billion, Abraham was Gods son and believing
the world had come of age and could read a few simple words God got a bit of rock
you would think it would be slate and maybe a bit of chalk and he wrote down
the rules to everything including SPORT on it. He gave it to Abraham i expect
and then maybe found Abram smudged it with his tears or something - well i'd cry
with ecstatic joy if the creator of the world had just given me the rules to
everything and id read it and one of them stated
THOUGH SHALL NOT KILL THY FELLOW MAN
i think that in the end God had to put them on separate stones and sort of etch
the words in, but since ive never seen them, i can't vouch for the verity of that
all i know is that you have to go up a mountain to a certain height or be in
a certain place at the right time and if God loves you he will give you some
stones with writing on ..
that is one of the ways of God and dont chew fork edit
what has this got to do with cricket ?? i hear you ask
well the rules of sport got smudged and so in the fullness of time we english
were i suppose given the 'Sporting Ark of God' only like all beaurocaracies
and remember India would be unemployed if it werent for us as we gave them
not only a huge burden of beaurocracy but also invented railways so they could
take it all round India - well our leaders - the ones standing at the back
in wars and stuff that i told you about - well they decided to modify the rules
and they invented the 'no ball rule' which is where the bowler
thats the 'ugee' in the forest clearing version
chucks the rock at the 'vieeeeew' er
and oversteps the boundarys of good taste and advantage
- i.e. gets too close
and Gods representative on earth in cricket called an umpire shouts
"no ball"
well in that circumstance the batsman in the modern game isn't out -
which paralleled in the original would have meant the vieeeeew er cant die
which as older prehistoric eyes and probably God himself
regard as
TOSH
if a rock hits you you die - you are out - and so it should be in cricket
well now you can be out because then the beaurocrats added an amendment to the modern
game that said a fielder could throw a ball (read viewer and rock) in such a
way that you could be out (read dead)
OK confusing isn't it - have i said being English wasn't easy -
well it has a historical precedent in the development of religion
it wasn't for no reason that your not so stupid illuminator
wrote
THOUGH SHALL NOT KILL THY FELLOW MAN
that seems pretty unambiguous doesnt it and it is unambigous and written on a stone
by God himself because he didn't want any misunderstanding
so why you might ask yourself as you turn on the telly are there loads of
people killing each other in the supposed name of God
well all the world loves a beaurocrat else they'd be unemployed like they were in India
before we British got there
and so the beaurocrats of religion decided to add their own codas to accompany
the music of God, little motifs which sang pretty songs of
its OK to kill a Saracen .... and called it 'the Way of the Christain'
its OK to kill an Infidel .... and called it 'the Way of the Muslim'
its OK to see the blood and seed of Protestant and Catholic
strewn in rivers across Belfasts concrete streets - and called it 'the Way of the Sectarian'
..................... or "the Way of the Freedom Fighter" or some other nonsense
or the blood and gore of Americans Jews Palenstinians Iraqis Kurds
Ghanistanis Tibetans Tamils Chinese mangled by technology - etc etc -
where in fact the word on the stone said
THOU SHALL NOT KILL THY FELLOW MAN
simple straight to the point message - not easy to misunderstand !!!!
three times it has been written and i dare say denied many more while
cocks crowed etc etc
but saying it is pointless because those same men whose fourbears stood at the
front in the original game of Krikit are now standing at the BACK and pushing
that mass of people among which you are numbered one to yourself but nothing
to them - yes they are driving the world forward - not a world of
God and the tablets of stone - though the spirit lives on properly in some people
who can accomodate another view point without feeling the need to chuck the rocks
of disunion and ignorance at it - it lives on and Martin Luther and Nelson Mandela,
both black you'll note, have proved it in our time as much as men can be expected to
though im sure they'll say they ain't perfect themselfes
they had the opportunity to kill people but they defined a path through the
weeds of bigotry and ignorance,
a clearing in the ancient forest, and the tribes walked forward -
their leaders at the FRONT and they shook hands
or some similar gesture of fraternity
and thats the way God wanted it and its lithography ...
but this does not mean that all the woes of the world will magically disappear or
people stop killing people because of principles or slight or greed and so forth
because to make the word of God you have to be honest with yourself and work
hard at that understanding - nothing comes easy in this life or without its
retribution somewhere down the line of consequence.
So, for example, Chink Leaders and particularly Son Of Dung it's probably not
so smart to slaughter your children in Tianamen Square as it upset
an awfull lot of people - there in China and elsewhere.
And though you can try an rewrite history in your own image i have been promised
by Higher Forces that the preceeding sentence will be all that remains in the
histories of the fullness of time, and thus, should you believe in
Eternal Damnation - you will be there.
[7/10 pontificating eh Den]
Well Denny - im finding it hard to carry on without Brants help so i think i'm going
to have to tell him soon that he's helped to write your BEST EVER book thus far.
Which is probably going to send him into paroxysm's of fear regarding the Rebus Error.
Then i'm going to hand him the baton with which we've beaten him a bit for lying and
being lazy in respect of what should be HIS BEST FRIENDS and he can either beat
the pages furously because he hates the truths and deceits contained herein
and will will call him Chimpion hence forth ...
OR
he can run with the baton like the true Champion we know him to be

but we'd better change all the names first elkse he might put it in the pubic
domain and then well all get sued by lawyers like his dad, and ill bet he will be
the first turning evidence and plea bargaining and all that weasley stuff ......
how many years ????
- no it was Brand wot wrote it all onist i cant even spel propa guvna

well this is the end beautifull friend - oh no i was supposed to write that on
Jimmy M's Door


from mike and Brant


THE END


--
--
--
--
--
--
--
--
--
--
--
--

well I LIED again Den, and if you were half computer-witted
you would have known that the bar on the rhs of your screen indicates
that this writ so FABly book is by no means ended
Brant sent me a flyer


so i sent Brant this in respect of Sharon and i disappearing to the Moromon
Kapital, Salt Lake City where i presume - along with the many wife proclivities
are encountered lots of others and in preparation ....

DB (dear bront0lyon0)
I decided to put 'wife swapping' in as a search on the web and found homerf.org
a historical heritage site which gives all the lowdown on wife swapping
It began in 1941 so insight says with american pilots and their wifes(APAWS)
On the same page i also noticed Lady Kara4U an unusual surname whose emblem
coat of arms and armorial bearings i cant find in the proper listing
DB (DeBrants Poorage)
however her recumbent position and the wide suggestion of her legs
and, unusually discreetly for me as were talking Inglitch upper class,
innermost thighs are indeed consistent with the female aristocracy of which
your four bears the Lyon family were a famous part. I am by no means sugesting
that this has ushered on down through the ages and the genes like a naughty
schoolgirl tart of a trait and into yourself but you might have hopefully
noticed signs of it in some of your unmarried female relatives - particularly
those suitablow for me to take along to the Midwest-solstice party of the
aforementioned email.

I must also beg of you again Brant to GIVE UP WORK as i think this will
potentially damage your health

Also in my own inimitable unmutable Innglitch way i obeyed your Curran of Flyers
and took a looksy who is on it
and following the Roger Sederat (presumably this is tennis ace Roger Federers
poet pseudo-name) link i read one of his poems which in a labyrthnthine way
led me to look up the phrase 'Shirazi boom boom' and was surprised to find it
wasn't the effect of a hangover but a reference to Muscate Ibn Sharazi the
well known, but not to sloths, interpreter of the 75 Surah and gate-exit
of the Kurran. Looking up the battle hardened wisdom of the Greate tome {Koran}
i discovered this to be a reference
(rough translation Yawm Alkeyhammer ??)
to our exit from this world and to the world beyond - previously revealed to me
in the Anne mail 'dream thingy'
[which you are yet to interpret for me when suitably Unemployed],
as a big fun time party with lots of virgins and a fat woman teaching the art
of crosswords. I was rather taken aback to find that not only is EVERY ACTION
taken into account in the great reckoning - but also EVERY WORD.
Now this seems a little unfair to me in light of the Sharonophemes we sent
because the words themselfes i must remind you went something like this

"bee leaf hit oar knot eye donut sea" etc

which apart from hit are by and large quite nice words on your part
whereas i have written

"mite yelper beat stealy ass slovenly fey sand ironwood loaf twos nog
hit hand hex chain jerbil"

which contain some not very pleasant words and have left me wondering wether
for instance using even [the ratty use of] the word jerbil in this context might
lead to eternal damnation and quite a lot of burning on the butane fires of hell
or worse still an evil lingering festering life - possibly one without Fox Hunting
- an unthinkable existence for an Innglitchman and one which would leave him
feeling - well - impotent or unimportant.
I greatly like Rogers poem by the way "Iradiant Darwinds" and even though i
did not understand it i felt it said all i ever wanted in a poem and was very
pleased to note that he is a professor and keeper of our noble language - in
America.
--->
Ok first theres The Invocation To Give Up Work
and concentrate on the proper job of loafing around
then at the end
was a bit of a snidy facetious Innglitchh dig - the "in America" bit
and i hope Roger's going to get his retribution in later as i deserve
a slap for that alone and there's going to be a lot WORSE Den dat i promise you ...

i receive the following reply

Brant to mike
Dear Mr Beer
yeah, Roger's all right. i think he is probably the only one who writes poetry
that actually accords the repect of checking out others'.
all is scriven in the ethers, so please release those gerbils from the
captivity of richard gere's anal cavity! (apparently even his holinees the
dalai lama has failed in his attempt--so the fate of a half a dozen rodents
depend on YOU!). or if they are already at large, please excercise good
husbandry skills and herd them into a cage where they can tumble manically
on a little aluminum wheel while you kindly replace the cedar shavings on the
floor of their habitat. this will do much to burn up bad karma, but may not
guarantee that you will be otherwise singed by fire and brimstone for other
misdeeds. now, i suppose i should read roger's poem too, since i invited him.
quite agreed: work is deleterious to health! now, inasmuch as i was a caesarian birth,
i cannot say much about the compass angle of any of my ancient antecedent
pronated legs, other than it may not have been wide enough to accomodate my
unusally large ____. in the birthing process, that is, of course,
in case your mind just ran into the gutter. of other relatives--
married, widowed, or spinster--i can assure you have not been caught
in bed with any of them.

you still need dough to loaf, baker

who is baker and why does he need money to be loved -stud ???
--->

by the way i explain the possible interpretation of the dashes in ..
"unusally large ____"
a few hundred lines further on when we get to talking about
the meaning of Politicks.

Any way this is the point where i being Innglitch and
having been gifted the key to "Gods Ark of Sporting Rules "
decide an amendment is necessary yes i
CHANGE THE RULES
and [sort of] let Brant know what they are ....

---> ----> ---> {= email}
and i wrote this bit in the book explaining to Brant how i'd written a book he
didn't even know he was in and had a lot of seditious things both he and i had
written about his friends that his friends might now see - ergo he'd be in BIG TROUBLE
especially with Sharon
and her bloke
----------------------
well Brant
its a book for Denny - its attached along with the pic the Oath of the Horatii
if you dont like it its ok to give me a good slagging and it was
VERY DECEITFULL AND NORTY to do it and i didnt have the ideation till
you sent the mail about Rebus so its all been a bit hasty - if taken
in the right spirit i think youll find it droll and i really hope den
likes it
as [mostly] its you and i get our comeuppance - though i keep maikng
repeated jokes about you and i being his only friends - particularly
after his election local fiasco -
and i dont want his suicide being down to me because were his only two
friends in the world

and its in his book a lot etc etc

keep a watchfull eye on him

eyeyeyeyeyeyeyeye
--------------------------
I sent the book off to Brant
and Den, he was so pleased to be in the book too he could hardly contain himself
maybe he thinks were going to be rich as a result of it but i think he's
too mercenary to have ever noticed that you and i are sort of KOMMIES - not
the red sort that put people in salt mines and starved their children
but the sort who like to share things with other people - like in the Tolstoy
book where Peirre or Pete or Pater or whatever his name was shares a raw potatoe
with a bloke in prison as i dare say Tolstoy did with some peasant somewhere and
as i have shared fruit with tramps and the 'worst things i ever did' earlier
that i shared with you and Brant, in this your Best Book.
Well Den, Brant has sent a reply so now we can all play together again
and have a really good time - only now that my Innglitchness has got the
better of me and i've explained a few of the rules to Brant we can have a
much better and more even game - a bit like cricket where they pally for 5
whole days and the game always ends in a draw ...
without more ado heres Brants reply

Dear Mr. Burr--
The licentious, libelous, illicit, illogic of your scabrous scribblings have
left me spitefully speechless. But only temporarily, having regained enough
composure to type this response, even as I restrain myself from breathing into
a paper bag, depositing my semi-digested dinner in a plastic one, or arriving
on your doorstep to place yours in one outfitted with a long zipper and large
enough to accomodate your prone and lifeless body.
I suppose I could go on an on about the meretriciousness of your merciless
attacks on my poor friendless friend you so glibly call Den (even whilst you
descend upon him as some heckling hyena, picking at all that pitifully remains
of his enfeebled character, if not his superannuated and withered flesh,
tearing it to pieces for your wanton delight as though he were the last
meal on earth), I must forbear, except to make one correction to the record.
Your repeated reference to my being the son of a lawyer is a grave error.
This is some delusional factoid fabricated by the errant and circuitious
workings of what you imagine to be your gray matter, but which more ressembles
a dust bunny, such as regularly collects under your bed, and other places
in your living situation where your slovenliness extends beyond your
admittedly slack idea of personal hygiene and into the realm of animal
husbandry. I am not, in fact, the son of a lawyer. I have never said as much.
I find the mere idea of it, in fact, putrid and repugnant. Decidedly and
delectably so. I have, though, mentioned being the board-bearing, hapless
duck-goose-like fruit of my father's loins, but never the issue of someone
of the bar. Let's not make this a legal matter, if we can avoid it.
Nor am I, myself, an attorney-at-law.
Nonetheless, I do charge like one, perhaps like a barrister on Grosvenour Square,
which I recommend you entertain, once you are subpoened with my suit forthcoming.
That is, if necessary. This may all be dismissed, however, easily enough,
if you condignly fork over the greenbacks that will effectively get me off

your back. In other words, your words will cost you.
At 36,171 words, read at 6 words a second, that amounts to 1.67 hours
reading time. At an hourly rate of $350, that will be $584.50 (US dollars)
that you owe me for reading every word of your interminably sprawling scrawl
of a scroll. This thing you call "The Best Book Ever," or some other
fatuous title. You have begat too many times, Mr. Burr, and now have
misbegotten. Payable upon receipt. International money orders accepted.
No cheques (please note Innglitch spelling), as I have also heard from
the barmaid at the pub where you've been imbibing and kiting. Bee, Anne,
Susan Boyle, and now Sharon know all about this. And it must never happen
again, and dawn chew fork edit! I will expect to receive these monies by
FedEx or DHL within 72 hours. Failure to comply on your part will mean
that Den will have only one friend left.
Let this be a lesson to you: There are still only 13 ways of looking
at a blackbird, and you have exhausted every one of them by your jarring
prolixity, and having therefore created an irreversible rent in the
etheric matrix of the universe that threatens to annihilate everything from
here to Togo, the Pleiades, and beyond ad infititum, I am bound to now step
in in order to prevent further calamaties inflicted by your unconscionable
keystrokes, and so spare Den the pain of infamy that otherwise would be
reaped by what your fidgety phalanges philanderingly filibuster, buster.
I anxiously await your prompt reply (in ten words or less, rhymed or not,
puns intended, distended, or knot[ted]). If in Amish or Mennonite,
please provide a translation by a licensed Walloon or Plantaganet, witnessed
by notary.
I remain your humble servant,
Mr. John Rebus
--->
OK so he might not have enjoyed the ideation quite as much as i thought
and
the first thing i noticed was that he'd metioned MONEY so without prevarication
lets see what the Grate Filosophers had to say about money
Some moon-ago daydreaming time aback i was looking at the origin of some of the
structure and stricture of art for "mercenary purposes in the alchemy of painting"
- for the large part nicked by us and our froggy friends from such as the library
of Damask-curse and the saracen - spuriously as i raped and pilaged the westasian
web for info i came across lots of interesting things as a stolen inheritance from
the very cultured middle east [while we were still half ape two third barbarian]
among these i particularly enjoyed partaking the edicktum of al-Harith the Basra
born to it poet of the heirs of the Mesopotompas. His grate work
"Thirteen Assemblies from a Blackbloke"
[Al Hariri of Basrah (446-516 A.H./1054-1122 CE): Maqamat, (The Assemblies), c. 1100 CE]
starts with an invocation to Allah to an injunction against the excesses of verbosity
and thence launches into a 400 line monlogue by an un-named market philospher and hero
of the first assembly. I like this as i think hypocrysy is an essential ingredient
in art. This frees the artisan to lie furiously on either conjecture or fact and this
is the essence of story telling. In al-Hariths instance i also like repetition of image
as if Allah had long forgotten the small imperfection of al-H's intellectual stammer
and stuttering and the repetition of repetition of repetition of line and perspective
slight modified may be propelled by the same need that encouraged our own
Shakespyre to oft repeat an idea thrice to pad his ploys and plays, and since
the Man from Avon [sadly no longer a cosmetic fact] could do no wrong in the minds
of the literatee - that cannot be derided as indeed i haven't.
and in the third assembledge the lines

"How noble is that yellow one, whose yellowness is pure,
Which traverses the regions, and whose journeying is afar.
Told abroad are its fame and repute:"

which after much headscratching - which is what happens when you loose a whole
forgetfullness and three memories - were indeed corrupted and polluted by your
gormless tasteless Innglitch fiend of a may be friend from the description of
altruism to that nearer to the assumption of
Yawm Alkeyhammer
into the first lines of his own poem which he, thats is i, Mike sent earlier and if
i may be so presumtuous ran

the far flung yellow
hauled its vibrant hues (spirit)
the soul of cosmic rhythm
to swim among the seas of men

only to find out that al-Harith wasnt refering to the sun
and/or the desert and the spirit of the desert to be more precise
whose spectre and sun i thought i was alluding to ....

"How noble is that yellow one, whose yellowness is pure
Which traverses the regions, and whose journeying is afar. "

and the sun tanned sand dunes which i'd imagined to be like the ones outside
Province Town but a lot bigger and instead of waves, a lot more sand-shaped
sand-made waves - nor fortunately was he refering to any kind of bodily function
he was refering to MONEY
in fact he so obsesses about MONEY
that he writes a second very important money poem almost straight after this
eulogy to money - and the second poem isn't very nice to MONEY
and makes you feel a bit sorry for MONEY as if it were a badly beaten child
well money can be at our party in heaven if you must
but i'd rather it wer'nt and since its my dream and my party IT ISN'T
MONEY is a bit like a solicitor in a divorce case
MONEY stops you talking directly to your ex-wife which you have to do
indirectly or otherwise to make an agreement in right minded civilised
society so that the spoils of your toils can be shared
which is only fair and faintly smacks of Kommunism doesn't it Den
MONEY represents your hard work, unless you effectively steal it as i do from
the state and ergo the 'taxpaying you', dont worry im paying you back with all this
entertainment and half-wit wisdom like it or not,
MONEY enables you to exchange your sweat for say, this Dell GX240 computer,
- which is nice because i can write you this lovely book and even better
i dont ever have to see you,Den or even Brant ever again - because -
striking A COWARDLY POSE -
i can send it through the ether of the ethernet - ie the web
and because i'm not there you two can't beat the living crap out of me for writing
such a seditious slanderous slimyball book - even though its the best book
you'll ever find with a hero is called Dennis in it.
Also
MONEY represents
THINGS WE DON'T REALLY NEED
and this is definitely one of the things parents DO tell you about
but you dont listen to ...
things we don't really need here in England - as so rightly pointed out by
my vegetarian skoolmate Will - includes cherries from Chile - now they have to
be flown in by airplane, and are vicariously alluded to in Wally's
Jar Errant Anectode, which takes even more effort than making Red Jackets and chasing
red dogs round England used to because
first you have to make an aeroplane then
somewhere for it live, then you have to send it on a sort of holiday to see
some friends but in order to do this you need to build
a sun and leave it for millions of years in which time it makes a whole heap
of vegetables which die and rot and collect underground and get hot and make
oil which you then have refine to make rocket fuel
then you have to feed your plane rocket fuel and send it on its holiday in
Chile where the nice friends you have there - oh did i mention the JUNTA in CHILE
which has killed a lot of innocent people, some of the ones who were supposed
to be OK because God wrote about not killing fellow man on a stone tablet somewhere
- anyway they send your plane back from its lovely holiday with some presents
and the cherries which by the way
do grow here in England and
YOU DONT REALLY NEED THEM
but eat them anyway as otherwise they'd go rotten
now you might recall i mentioned that our Leaders - the ones who stand at the BACK
when wars are happening and people are getting killed - well standing right next to
them are their girlfriends - and though they're usually dressed as blokes they're
wispering in the ears of their man, the aforementioned leader, and they're saying
"Ill f*** you real good and hard just the way you want it baby if
you go and get me ____ " and lets just suppose that where that dash is
there was written OIL or maybe soon that dash will read WATER or LAND or FOOD
and so those people who are standing at the BACK - get you mugwumps to get it
for their dirty-bird slapper
and they use some blue guitar pretext
like 'terrorism'
or 'they've got a bomb and they're insane'
or 'that land belonged to your great grandfather and was stolen
from us'
or 'threat to democracy - that same democracy where actually you dont vote
on the important, sometimes daily, issues of that democracy'
and then those same leaders - the ones getting their friends to do some clever
'soul of unconsciousness' talking, have a lot of brain enhancing sex metaforically
while some of your kids and some of somebody else's kids decide to die for that
blue guitar pretext in some muddy hole or arid desert they'd never wanted to
go on holiday with guns etc .. to in the first place
get the ideation
we Innglitch im ashamed to say didn't invent that and its called POLITICKS
but i think you'll know what i mean and i think you'll find that MONEY and
POLITICKS are still in bed together as i write

OK so we've probably upset a few rich people and some slimeballs so we're
doing quite well Den and we're only just started - we get to upset
THE WHOLE WORLD in the end and thats about 6.5 billion people in
this your best ever book
so lets see what i reply to Brant

mike to Brant
ok now that i have got your attention again we can finish this GRATE WORK
and even though Den doesnt look so good in your eyes hes doing a lot better
than in real life , the one where he will soon only have ONE friend because
the other killed him in a what the arabs describe as a Fart-two-ah i believe -
and lets be fair Brant he's looking a lot better than me in said Grate Work
and you are looking like a saint - and you get your poetry read by all sorts
of weird people who visit my websight in search of what is misguidedly
called entertainment and instead find enlightenment or darkness depending on
the sum of the contents of their being - now -
i want you to concentrate on the Anne dream letter whilst you are subliminaly
awake - which i believe is most of the time because this brings up a lot of
unresolved issues that other people , like say Bee , have i your behaviour ?
and its about BETRAYAL -
betraying of principals perhaps and wether compromise and betrayal are justified
according to the circumstances - and will lead us to another issue and that
is if you betray someone in the deeper possibly empty cavities of your
(that sounds bad but its meant generically ) mind is that a material fact
i.e. are we still as culpable - this is also an issue raised by most religions
and a whole lot of windbag filosophers so its obviously a BIG DEAL and a
lot of people want an ANSWER
- by the way theres some thing else i forgot to mention in the book and
thats about the heaven dream
- there are an awfull lot of bad people at that party - a lot of people
who in the annals of world histroy are a realy evil axis - and yet they
aren't bad at all at the party and no one cares what they did and
EVERYBODY IS HAVING A GREAT TIME
just like were going to Brant because were writing the book that everybody
else should have written but their parents didnt tell them enough when they
were young to write it - also
we get to stand at the BACK like our modern leaders and - because
we cant see anything from the back properly - we can write history and
stuff how we like - and that is why were [born] poets
because we can also talk the good talk without actually having to stand
at the front and risk getting killed - EXCEPT
that you intimated i might meet a horrible fate in your fattushwoi
so im confused - DID YOU MEAN IT _ and all that stuff about owing you
begat 3 billion times dollars - and cant you pretend to be a
lawyers son as you're sounding just like one

script by mike on behest of DENNIS
--->
OK so i LIED again Den and told Brant that you asked me to send that
and i know Brant a bit credulous but even HE might not believe that

and i also send him this
mike to Brant
and by the way you said A BEST BOOK EVER - well its only Dennis's best book ever
because Dennis will be the only person who'll find this book remotely entertaining
or enlightening because as you may recall earlier i dissed about 500 million people
and called them SCUM well i think the other 5.5 billion are going to be T'd off
pretty soon and both you and i will have to skull off and 'make ourselfes scarce'
as one of my teachers used to say which in your case probably means wearing a
lot of girls clothing and in my case means being bald and growing a beard so
that i look like ive got my head on upside down
- which i meta-fourically have i suppose - logicwise anyway
"why will i have to make myself scarce" i hear you fattwiouosly arsk
well thats because im writing this book and standing at the back
and so if you dont come up with the goods and some real hot filosophy
im going to MAKE UP A REALY WORLD INSULTING EMAIL and pretend that
its come from you so were both going to be incriminated and 'on our toes guvna'
as the gansta twins-Kray of olde would have said and having to find that
small island where theres a G&T waiting etc -
you can have the cheque thats on the table
then we have to buy our disguises and leg it
script inspired by dennis but written by mike
--->
in which i dont LIE quite so much about the origin and parentage of the email
...
I dont know if you know this Den
but the Germans haven't got proper words for things
that's because according to the rules of language
they are a very Primitive People from a "Land that Language Forgot"
and so in their adverts for say cars you'll find words like
'vorksprungworkentechnik'
which translates to 'work doing complex spring' although thats arse about face
just like Gerry thinking
and which we English being an advanced civilisation fall about laughing at
because we actually have a word
and that word is
"suspension" in english
and "sussys" in some other parts
Anyway you remember at the beginning of this book i mentioned that i was in
the Spain of the cervetha and the dull Cervatine nights with Robby Blythe
Well his mum showed me something the Germans put on her arm when she was a
kid during the war
so i can only assume the Germans don't have a word for Jewish as this was a
Brand
and they must have thought she'd forgotten her name with her being just a
small child, i think they got her to do make a load of things and
by way of thank you for her hard work they gassed one of her sisters and
burnt her body.
Now i know a lot of people , particularly Germans are going to be upset
by this, and anyone who isn't bl**y well should be, but Germans -
YOU ARE NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR THE VERY STUPID NASTY THINGS YOUR PARENTS DID
they are - and they had to take the consequences and a lot of people got
very badly hurt.
So where is this going - well do you remember i said that in my heaven-party
there were a lot of really evil people - but no one bothers much blah blah
and remebering that i'm english and like making up rules
i had a lot of trouble with the rules of entry to my dream-party
the one where EVERYONE IS HAPPY AND HAVING A LOT OF FUN -
and the thing about the english is that until recently we didnt have a constitution
we just had what are called precedents where a case gets tried at a court
and hopefully someone with a modicum of brains decides what should happen
and that is called a precedent because it "goes before" all the following cases
and they can say that was a GOOD decision and thats what we'll do
or
make a new precedent.
So because i was having heaven-rulenation problems, just like the Jehovians,
i decided to look for a precedent and i found one in modern times.
i thought
"what an idiot" when their Leader suggested it and it first happened.
and it happened not too far from the craddle of man, where you and i stopped
being small furry mammals etc and started to become sentient, viz in Africa.
And this idea was undoubtedly the brainchild of a lawyer like Brants dad or
a mathematician
its so bizarre
I don't know if you remember Den, but Nelson Mandela and Bishop TuTu instigated
a Court of Reconcilliation where all those people who'd done really evil things to
their loosely related kindred could go and fess up and they didn't get strung up
and although the relatives of the people they'd killed or hurt wern't very happy
about it, everyone had to get on with things and start living their lives rather
than festering over some past injustices - [read: very nasty things in their past] -
and get on with each other. If you think about this you might see that our origins
suggested this might work, but i suspect it takes quite a Clever person to see
through the mists of hatred and biggotry - and you have to be at the FRONT with no
one in your way to see it in the distant horizons of the past.
Now a lot of religious people are going to be feeling rather smug at this point
and say "we thought of it first " and talk about 'confessions' so then
you have to ask why are Catholics killing Protestants and v.v , and the conclusion is
that either they're not getting proper guidance or that there's a fault somewhere
The fault in their system is that this is in private
an that is NOT confessing and its NOT reconcilliation
- you have to do that
IN FRONT OF THE PEOPLE YOU HAVE HURT

To get back to the point - that is the precedent i have decided to instigate in my
heaven - only im a bit luckier than Nelson and Desmondo because when folk climb
the stairs to my heaven they fess up and then leave all the nasty things behind
them and only the best and funniest parts are left - and that way we get to have a
REALLY GOOD TIME
you have to get rid of all the festering hatred and thats not easy to do and
requires an awfull lot of hard work - but its also very very worthwhile.
Later on we're going to conduct a Scientific Experiment to Test this foolish notion
and see if it will work - which i doubt but does mean - stop watches and
white lab coats and a pillar drill and an averaged sized kitchen -
exactly the same gear that Mister Fishers son Rob
and i used to drill the eyes out of potatoes in our film
"Scientific cookery"
as a scientific experiment can be a lot of fun and NOT performed as per the
fagicide incident earlier eh!! because you have to do it in your own kitchen first


OK its time to send Brant an appologymail because ive been horrible to him

dear former nice friend Bront
dont worry about all that betrayal stuff filosophy -
its pretty obvious to every one that
it's ME that done the BETRAYING - by Betraying your friend ship with a series
of lead-me-up-the-garden-path emails and traducing your for the most part
[though you might have thought about the consequences of the content of the
emails a bit more] - niceness good humour and fine wit and without whom
this, Den's best book, couldn't have BEEN BORN - because thats whats happening.
And i'm very sorry and i would have come out on a plane to say so to your face
were it werent for the fact that ive got a phobia about being very high up for
a very long time and if i didnt have that phobia [or the one about mosquitos] then

- well actually - [thats 27 'well actuallys' according to my sister who counts them
in my conversations and pionts the material fact out - balls ! iritating sista bastad]

i wouldn't have come to see you i would have gone to stay in Lome with Bee
the woman that i LOVE almost more than myself - which as you can see is a heck of a lot
the recipient of one of my best love peoms ever and despite the fact that she persuaded
her dad not to take the 30 quid i offered him as Dowry for her hand in mare-ridge
some while ago and despite the fact that she has no house or equity of a tangible
MONEY kind and has sponged off a lot of people for a lot of her life - including me
yes that is the woman i Love better than all the girlfriends and wives i have ever
had in the entire universal sphere .. and thats quite a lot and would include you too Sharon
so i'm sorry, take off the flag .. and mum if you read this you might think a bit
more about the consequences of your offhanded-ness to the woman i've left a high cost
tennancy to in my will -
the woman who needs to develop and in doing so to go to Togo
and who'd better really miss my stupid life enhancing humour !!!!
and to be able to let her go and still LOVE her so much it HURTS
that is LOVE
and it is not just love - that is also
THE WAY OF THE BEE
anyway i digress
if it weren't for the phobia of high air travel and the mosquito thing and Bee
hadn't kicked me into touch - which she's probably too polite to do directly
i would have likely woken up to an emtpy house with an empty looking envelope on
the next pillow --

well anyway -[this is looking like some of my programming code - sphagetti]
If she had kicked me into touch - get the flag back on Shaza -
then Brant i would have come to see you and directly said
how sorry i am for BETRAYING our FRIENDSHIP - the one which is so strained
that you have offered me a Quick Exit to that party i keep rambling on about
in what is supposed to be Dennis's best book and is turning into a can of
emotional worms for everyone - then i'd be expecting a hug and we could
fir cough and see Den and press his withered flesh around a jar or two
and relive the Mafia story and the keyhole blocking - which was mostly you and
Den doing the moving and a lot of yobbery on my part afterwards when the bloke
wouldn't cough up and we desparately needed the money for the Mafia incident.
Remember that.
Anyway
that isn't the reason ive emailed
you see i want you to write and send me a short email in which you
pretend to have sent me
a large white cardboard box about 2/3 metre long and 1/3 metre in other dimensions
which contains something you found on a flea market in New York and which
the Beninian or Bajun or Domenican or PUERTO RICAN guy that flogged it to you for a
dollar said was
"Bad Voodoo"
- the thing itself being a tatty but very old looking wooden box of maybe the
African kind and which you can describe and
will end up as a metaphor - a message for my son Toby
as you will discover later in this OUR great book to the memory of Den

any way you've decided to post it to me - not that you'd ever do that in real life
as it would cost an arm and a leg
but your best punning letter
no more than say 10 lines saying you've sent a mystery object and now that
you know what the mystery object is that you are sending me -
along with one of your smarty-arsed wordplay emails - the sort that i can't
forge because i'm much thicker with words [if a bit wilder on ideation]
and cant forge else i would have done
and ill promise NOT TO TRICK OR DISS YOU ANYMORE
and if its written in capitals
that also is the way of the Bee - which is similar to the way of God
and which has to be obeyed
script from a much kinder regarding and a bit more honest
possibly your friend again
Mike
ps DID YOU MEAN THAT STUFF ABOUT KILLING ME ?????
--->

and Den WE - i mean I - have followed this with the
"Invocation to Responsibility" letter
and being among the most literarily irresponsible people on the planet
-OK but the environs of Berkhamsted at the very least -
who better sender v'a letter

dear Brant
you might have noticed the words "being born" - im making OUR baby up
as we go (see its going pretty much straight on the web )
and i'd like you to be a good mother/father and not abdicate a responsiblility
you didn't need to have till i started this Rape-mail
please bear with it - i am looking a lot more duplicitous in this than you -
and being English be found 'guilty as hell' while you being American and a son of
England [ergo: young and blameless] will get off pretty much 'scot free'
and while other people are laughing at our folly -
(a joke is usually at someones expense)
there are a lot of QUITE SERIOUS things said in the book - things
which have to be shocking and therefore have to be couched in humour to
relieve that shock
if you understand that let me know
mike
--->

anyway while were waiting for Brants reply regarding the small sarcophagusthing
i told him he would post to me
i'll pass the time with some idle chatter Den
i went to pick my son Toby up the other day and as we glided in the white
topped blue hulled vanlongboat o'er the smooth downed roads and
sharp angular field-round bendings past Bullby hill we came to the village of
Abbotsley a village perched on a small morraine or drumlin - either way some sort
of ex-glacial lump and in celebration of the receeding of the
iCE aGE{DISNEY TRADE MARK prohibits use of Ice Age}
they celebrate with what Turnip-shire call a
Scarecrow Festival
now as we were driving along on the left as you go into the village was perched a
beautiful scarecrow with a painted face and a long blonde wig and a tight red dress
just like the one i bought Anne in Pisa [while she was probably in the begginings of
getting it on with the bloke shes now married to} and it reminded me so much of Anne
- not the scarecrow bit but the figure and the long blonde hair - that i had what
most religious people call an 'awakening' but was a sort of 'mental a-onanism-ening'
Ancient Danes and Swedes you'll love this next bit ----
and i wanted to steal the scarecrow and carry her off with us on a long journey
much as you Swedes used to do but without the raping as we've already done that
mentally in this book and i should think straw would be a rather unforgiving partner.
i digress
now had Rob been in the van - the Rob of the potatoe kitchen drilling experiment
the same Rob who is VERY EASILY LED ASTRAY and quite NORTY - remembering the time
he sellotaped half the contents of a friends house to the ceiling, walls and windows
and ergo one of my erstwhile sons
Well if he'd 'well actually' been in the car 'red scarecrow girl' would be on holiday
with us right now
but Toby
got full of turnip-dignation
and started saying very firmly in an 'i'm quite annoyed' voice as i slammed the
anchors on and turned the old ship around explaining our great plan
"Dad - Dad your not going to do that dad - i have to live here"
and got very heated and so i had to desist even though i'm still a lot stronger
than he and could if i wished hold both his hands clasped by one of mine -
so remember that Brant if youre thinking of killing me with your bare hands -
i have to digress here
i used to arm-wrestle the very loveliness that was/is blued eyed Anne and so
that i might dive into those pools of pure joy i'd look into them i always
let her win - after a bit of a struggle -
at said arm wrestling which gave her boys a lot of pleasure cheering her on and
her a lot of satisfaction in knowing that if she fed me something veggy and i went
loopy she'd easily be able to overpower me in the same way that that my sister
does with her Mad horse when it has a Fit. Only one day many arm wrestles later
i showed the brutish side of my nature and won easily - and that's the very moment
our relationship fell apart - because she realised that i LIED albeit a physical
sort of lie - and she realised that when i trolled off to my house because we
had an argument i was lying to myself about being serious about our relationship
and though i did and still do love her and her sheer determined hard endeavour and
her lovely pink-girliness and offbeat thinking and her warm comfort bed
i still had the maggots of a divorce inside and that needed special healing
by someone who would have found the arm wrestling error funny and who perhaps
had a divorce maggot or two inside herself and despite Annes terrible traumas
at the hands of fate and a husband gone crazed - i think she'd purged a lot of
the evil and maybe i helped her almost to the last
either way i iritated her and thats a material fact and iritating habits
insidously creep into a relationship and blurr its margins and stain its pages
ONE OF THOSE THINGS YOUR PARENTS SHOULD WARN YOU ABOUT
if you haven't already noticed it in theirs ...
anyway Toby told me not steal the scarecrow and
this is classified as one of those things
YOU TOLD YOUR PARENTS AND THEY NEVER LISTENED TO
because Rob and I are going to go on a
Viking Simulated Red Girl Scarecrow Raid
aren't we Rob
oh and by the way Swedes and Danes you were all dark haired once
a vestige of which i believe is gradually returning to the hair colouring
of your heritage [and a paragnomeasia (pun), Den, expoits the miss-pelling of werds
which if you could read and write and had a computer you'd know] anyway
you've basically got brown roots - except you havent .. and the reason for that
is that we knew you were coming in your boats and so we got all the thick birds
and lined them up on the coast and off you went happy as a pilage idiot with them
remember hurdy gurdy men this is the land of Shakepyre and Newton and Scot of the
Antarctic and T E Lawrence so you wern't a messin' with dummies !!!
though you might think Rob and i will mess with one
but in the meantime and since we haven't had much real art or atifice for a while
i've made a lot of reference to Wallace Stevens - the existenceial - but strangely
DEAD American poet and some oblique references to his poem
Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird

im going to put it here for us to contemplate and its quite mysterious Den
I'd never seen it before Brant's email and don't understand what the bejesus it's about
so i think we're going to have to ask someone who does

anyway before we do here's the poem and we'll starcross our legs and close our eyes
and read it - open our eyes and read it - then we'll close them and think about what
we read and then open them because we forgot some bits

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird

I
Among four snowy mountains,
The soul moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.

II
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there were three blackbirds
And of an open mind
Like a tree
That had had three blackbirds

III
The blackbird whirled the autumn winds.
It was a pretty part of pantomime.

IV
A man
Is one.
A man and a man
Are one.
A man and a woman and a many blackbirds
Are not one.

V
I do not know to which you refer,
The beauty of paranomias
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
Or the blackbird crowing
For the hereafter.

VI
Sun filled the long window
With its barbaric gloss.
The Shade of the blackbird
Crossed its friendship frame.
The mood
Traced in the shade
An indecipherable case.

VII
O Fat men of Adam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the shadow of the blackbird
Walks around the world
O'er the men about you?

VIII
I know noble songs
And cadenced, inexplicable rhythms;
But I did not know,
That blackbird was involved
In what I do not know.

IX
When the blackbird flew out at night,
It flew beyond the edge
Of any circles.

X
The might of blackbirds
A-singing in a green dawn,
Even the bawds of truth
Will cry out sharply.

XI
He rode to Armageddon
In a glass coach.
Thrice, a fear pierced him,
In that he took
The shadow of his equipage
Four blackbirds.

XII
The river is sentient
The blackbird is crying.

XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird fell from
The cedar-limbs.

--
--
--
--
--
--
--
You're asleep aren't you Den !
Well since you are asleep we'll have to find out what they mean later
on in this the most Boring day of your Best Book Denny, but at least you can catch up
on your beauty sleep even if you're a mite late in starting.
WAKE UP DEN !!!
Well i asked if Der Brant was Champion or Chimpion
and the answer is that Brant has at last and lots of deliberation REPLIED
XX --- CHAMPION CHAMPION and thrice worthy CHAMPION !!!!! ---XX
OK Den Brant will have read this by now and since he never re-reads anything
we'll mark this up for removal "XX--" as we've given the little donkey enough
carrots for now
and the best bit is that you Den you get to do the editing (see after his email
how you do it using a computer Den - its exciting)
OK now were going to deal with something in Brants reply before we even read
his reply and that is
Provide the Answer Before I Know What The Question Is
and because i am a literary genius i can get away with this but
DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME
as its one of the things that confuses your [aged] parent[s] and
THEY SHOULDNT NEED TO KNOW ABOUT
and can also and otherwise variously get you into trouble and
at work used to refer to as an Assumption - though what the hell its got to do with
religion i don't know to this day.

We're going to go into my bedroom and try to find my Libido

There are several things that you'll notice - on my bed - a sheepskin -
gived to me by a previous amour and a memiore of a past relationship
- a large corn dolly with a rather battered face a long blonde wig and a
red dress hitched up on about her and some pictures on the wall
the pictures are mostly of heads but there is one of two naked people
with rather strange bent limbs that look as though they are
"Doing Ballet" and which in the interests of decency [i hope] i painted
with a limp kn*b and features Bee and Me.
In the unlikely event that there are any virgins reading this next bit
you may find it incomprehensible but sentient consenting adults will understand
that i do not feel in any way inclined to put that limp or more excited
version of that part in any other place than where it was intended to go
{unless she talks a lot of nonsense !!!] so you may understand fully
that excludes that rearmost of orifices which in my view is best reserved
for getting rid of the by products of eating food and i certainly wouldn't
want anyone putting anything into my rear orifice either.
That was fairly tactfull wasn't it !!!
This does not apply to some of the correspondants in this book and which is
not necessarily material to the book as i believe it
TAKES ALL SORTS TO MAKE THE WORLD GO ROUND
and that results in it being better for that diversity and its concommitant
richness of view ..that said in about 1980 one of the many evil axes in the US
government decided that there was a potential problem with its employees
namely those in the CIA ..
as you might have guessed the Germans don't yet have a word for this problem
but about 10% of them are , the english word is homosexual and the CIA code word
was Faggot and the US government ordered the CIA to rid itself of Faggots as at
that time homosexuals wern't allowed to be themselfes which meant that they could
be blackmailed and the US goverments secrets potentially stolen - secrets like
that Jack Kennedy prefered threesomes or foursomes or swapsies (AWAPS) etc
really important world threatening secrets and some that were world threatening
and usually involved bunkers and bombs ...
i digress
they had to get rid of Faggots so they decided to develop a fagicide and go
and test it - not on themselfes but in Africa - so they acro-named it for African
Desease calling it
Aids
and it did indeed kill faggots and lots of people began to die
more tham the 60% in the CIA and more than the 5 - 10% of males in a normal
population - and this is because the CIA didn't know anything about contraception
AND THIS IS ONE OF THE MOST IMPORTANT THINGS YOULL EVER KNOW AND YOUR PARENTS
MUST TELL YOU ABOUT
now the CIA F****d up big time and i dont realy think that its my job to
do your parents job and tell you about contraception here but i may change my
mind before the ending of this book as its VERY VERY IMPORTANT and has implications
regarding the number of people on the planet - thence its resources -
and its health and well being.

So talk of contraception ended wheres that smart Johny Brant's reply

Brandts observations on the tetchy the subject of filosophy

dear mr. Burgh--

the great swami Beyondabrantananda has this to say about matters of betrayal,
and whether acts of commission, omission, or nocturnal emission may be properly
considered instances of moral turpitude, if not morels in turpentine:

all is scriven on the ethers, even in dreamland.
"as a man thinketh, so is he,"
saith Willie the Shake. [Sheikh ?] thoughts are things, and things are... well, things.
now, inasmuch as you are a moonchild, there is still the possibility that your
Venus placement (if not Mercury) is in the sign Gemini, which makes for a certain
duality, if not outright duplicity! the twins always being good cop/bad cop,
or half-angel/half-lunch (desposited semi-digested in a plastic bag).
that Venus placement (should you be the unfortunate native of that star)
always inclines toward the desire to experience two loves simultaneously,
though opposite in kind--a near irreconcilable dilemma for most, outside of
menage-a-trois situations, which most often eventuate in
"man, ain't i a twat?" scenarios.
the swami is unable to say with certainty which is the case in your sorry case
without recourse to the Akashic records.
Uunfortunately the hall of records is closed for lunch.

otherwise, in re: the reconciliation of evil folks clinking glasses with the
hoi polloi of good chistendom on cloud nine, there may be said this:

little Mikey's bifurcated brain seeks wholeness by bringing the two halves together
by some sort of narcotic anodyne that assuages the intolerable guilt he feels
for having written all those naughty things about [decrepit old] Dennis,
for not having lauded Brant beyond mere sainthood
and into the ranks of cherubim and seraphim of the most holy of holies on high,
but most of all for having--repeatedly,
wantonly, and without any regard whatsoever for the regard of one's precious time,
if not mental health--
violated that most sancrosanct dictum:
brevity is the soul of wit.
in other words, for the time it has taken me to read your additional correspondence,
and typed this reply, it will cost you another $5,687.98
(please note: hourly rate has changed since last writing).

now, to learn more about this and many other fascinating subjects of
spiritual import,
please click here to order "swami Beyonadabrantanada's guide to
perfect enlightenment and penile enlargement while you sleep"
(just $19.95 + s&h, while supplies last)

goneblissdick.com

in this set of cds (a home correspondence course) you will learn everything
there is no know about
"what your parents should have told you, but didn't"
which is why you forget to change your underwear before leaving the house.
most people believe that you should do this "in case you are in an accident."
but this is a complete bosh because if you have an accident
(desecrate [excrable] your drawers), then what is the point of wearing
clean knickers for that?
however, you do know this much already, because Bee, Anne, and now Sharon
have all told me that you haven't changed out of your scivvies since 1976,
or thereabouts. you claim that is so that you won't scare the horses,
but i believe it is more to curry favor with those of less equine and more
porcine nature. a total reformation, dare i say, laundry revolution,
is on the horizon for you, i can feel...

but for the nonce, you are stuck with the Vicar of Wakefield,
poor thing, who is confined to a pen (as in stye--not the ocular
condition, but unrehabilitated habitation) and defenseless,
awaiting the day someone--please, anyone--porks him, or makes bacon of his
superannuated saltback.

if you are unable to afford the home correspondence course,
please remit the fees for today's email reading, or otherwise send
the other monies you still owe me (there are only 24 hours left!).
in the meantime, i can still light some hex-remover candles and restore
your mojo for $5.95. my final offer.

one final note:
should these so-called "mike's secret files" become a bestseller,
as endorsed by Susan Boyle on BBC, then you can forget the fore-said monies owed.
i will then expect royalities from the proceeds.
60/40.
guess which one gets the short end of the stick?

i remain your humiliated savant,
mr. john rebus
--->
Firstly Den, he thinks i'm a Gemini - which is correct - but my star sign is Cancer the crab
the one that sits in its shell and grabs things with its little nippy-nippers
so i reply

mike to Brant
OK lets also just make a financial jotting in the ledger of all things said and good
and misunderstood.
There are plenty of other people here incriminated who could rightly ask a share
of any shekels IF they make the film of the book of the cartoon of the T-shirt
of Dennis's formerly humdrum and dissolute life which we've faked and glammed up
so that his tomstone might read - He Died With Friends
instead of He Died Un-Friendied
and we Brat, survived fine before they made that film etc etc
so in that very unlikely film royalty event i suggest that the result of
the goldsmiths money goes to a better cause than even a lot of plastic surgery,
a proper schooling, new eyeballs and a zimmer frame for Denny
- i.e some sort of proper charity - and "damn your pruin sauce" if otherwise !
save the children - war on want - red cross - any - name a few
and the second point is that i have to go out to dinner with now Toby
who has calmed down after the Turnip-ville incident of a few days ago
and mercifully has been round Other-Toads house as he would have found
a scarecrow in my bed and who knows what embarassments there might have been then !!
and so wont be able to attend to this - your wisdom - for a while

Bye from Mike
--->

boll-ox that little b****d Toby stood me up with a whole load of excuses to go out
with some bird !! i guess that is THE WAY OF OLDER KIDS
and was very well exampled when, only the other night, i went round to help
Other-Toad's mum's live in partner Paul with the refurbishing of old bus event
there were 4 older kids there too Rob, Toby , Other-Toad and Paul's son Matt
( all 18 -> 30 somethings)
and so how did they help in this re-bus refub event you might wonder - some lifting,
machining, carpet upholstering, woodwork --
NO
they got a broom and invented a game where you try and balance the broom
by the pionty end on one of your limbs and jump over a sofa then turn throw
the broom at the sofa and go back the other way , with the sofa dangerously
near the middle of the road ......
- and with a whole heap of odd-bod rules by which the game was played -
Paul had to tell them to Go Forth but since the education is so poor here now
they misconstrued the meaning of the maths of multiply
and we finished the re-bus-ferb job on our own -
and that is also one of THE THINGS YOUR PARENTS SHOULD FOREWARN YOU ABOUT
and is the Way of [Useless] Older Kids

OK Toby has been stood up by his date - or she's found he's went out with one of her
friends yesterday and he wants to go out with me again now - or is a ruse to blag
a meal and get a lift somewhere afterwards - all will doubtless be revealed in the
- 'we have to be there for them' reconstruction sequence later on in this film
i mean T-shirt etc, and in which yet more evidence is collected on the Way of Older Kids

Right now we've dawdled through just a smidgeon of the issue that tends to be Older Kids
we can get back to something of major importance to you Den - and that is the material fact
that YOU the Great and somewhat Friendless Den, get to edit this great book -
your best book ever - which means that you could - if you could read and write and
had a computer and half decent eyesight and sufficient hand eye coordination and a
smattering of logic -
Edit out all the references to you having no friends.
And being of the programming bent i'm going to teach you
The Way Of Programming.
and this IS something your children should teach you - but you haven't got any So as
an Honoroury Son - i've drawn the short straw again.
Anyway - you need to write what is called a Macro, Den, which is a short repeatable bit
of code and i suggest that since i wrote this book and am Very Smart and wrote it
with the repeated phrase "except Brant and I" that you might think about editing this
with a macro and i'm going to help you do that ...
IF
...{you were to delete this phrase then the sentences - which i very craftily varied
...so you couldn't just delete them [reading approximately havent got any friends ..
...haven't any bar ... etc ]
...you would be left with a text implying you'd got no friends at all -
...OR
......would be rendered grammatically incorrect
......and make this book virtually impossible to correct and thus you might consider
......consigning this book to the bin but unfortunatley there are lots of backups
......dotted everywhere .. so due to my cunning you have to .....}
ELSE
...{you must edit "except Brant and I"
...and here are some ways to do that
...you could take the sub-phrase "Brant and I" and write said macro
...substituting in say "Dennis and" and run the macro to test it
...using a LOOP - so lets run it
...OK so it now reads " Dennis and Dennis and Dennis and Dennis and Dennis and ....
...and the bar on the rhs of the computer screen has gone nuts and there aren't enough
...Dennis's in the world to even know - because that is what is called
...An Infinite LOOP
...THEN IF
......{you add a begat 'subscript' to control the LOOP you could say stop the LOOP
......after whatever "you assign to begat" [example 500 for testing purposes]
......iterations - [nerd-speek for 'times'] }
......ELSE IF
........{you might not want say Dennis but A.Dennis etc so that it looked more like a
........real name and not like some divvo with no programming nounce had done the job
........and for this you need an 'initial variable' that corresponds to the letter
........you want in front lets call it % as thats wot they advise in the "C Programming
........in % minutes" book - a classic and dont chew fork edit -
........so lets run it "A.Dennis and B.Dennis and C.Dennis .." looking good isn't it Den
........your creating a lot of real looking friends even though they are figmentary
........but OH NO its got to Z.Dennis and its started again at A.Dennis and B.Dennis ...
........so there are two possibilities }
........THEN IF
...........(you could add another 'control variable' to stop the iterations
...........after say 26 LOOPS - and this would be WRONG as you'd end up with
...........Z.Dennis followed by A.Dennis and this is what is known as a
...........Skoolboy Error in the trade as you need 25 iterations - the first
...........viz A.Dennis will be there by default - (programmers note:-
.....................programmers keep your mouths shut - he doesn't need to know
.....................the many horrible truths out there )
...........anyway
................. That Is The Way and The Zen of Programming...
...........and that might be enough for you Dennis - but lets hypothesise
...........the you are programming something more complex like say
................. 'The New Authorised Bible of God'
...........the one where we have to approximate to the real age of the earth
...........rather than the one currently taught in some back woods states of
...........America and were going to have to devise a lot of names for the begats
.... viz:- "Molecule begat.. begat Gerbil.. Nowah begat ..Jowseph begat.. begat Algernon begat Dennise begat ..Dennis
...........but i think youre beginning to understand why a lot of people end up}
...........DO WHILE
...... {-ing a lot of imaginary programming in Mental ...iNST%ITUTI/ONS
..............- i think even i'm going to have to mull that one over Denny }
...........END
........END
.....END
...END
END
END
its always as well to put an extra END in as the syntax checker/punch room will pick it up
[ Nerds - that ones for you}

An aside : i dont know if you've noticed this in your emails Brant but Denny
seems to be acquiring more and more bad epithets traducing his lovely ageing
balding wrinkly blind friendless ill clothed illiterite humourless self whereas
in the beginning - i mean the genesis of this his favourite book
he was just friendless and that was all - that is before we recieved that large sum of money
from the agents of God to permit/encourage us to write this his best and most likely only
ever complete book which includes him The Original Dennis and PRETEND to be his friends.
But at least he gets to use a computer and edit all those defamatory things out
when we've finished his book. Anyway i hope this bad accumulation of insultes to Dens
ageing balding wrinkly blind friendless ill clothed illitartate humourless smelly self
is not going to end up being another one of Mike's
sick humourless not-very-funny-except-to-him
Meta-4's !!!!
perhaps mirroring but in a bookish jovial matey haha way what happened in real life to
Rob Blythe and mentioned earlier at the behest of his best friends
and was very unpleasant.
Now Denny something unexpected has happened and i think you know who dunnit -
I'm going to have to explain to Brant ----
I can only assume that Dennis has let all this earlier programming stuff go
to his head, learnt to read and write, got cheap laser surgery on his failing eyes,
learnt to programme-ish , blagged his way into an office
full of young adolescent males on the fatuous pretext that he can
write programmes and been working on the spam anhialation software
for one of our major Softopedia Houses as my spammaliser went
KBLONK the other day
whereby i was recipient of this unsolicitied email which for the most part
i reproduce for you faithfully here .....

-----
mrs rose Eayupward

My dear in the Lord,

Greetings to you in the most wonderful name of our Almighty. His
richest blessings shall be upon you forever.I am Ms. rose Eyupward, I am 55
years old from Cote d'Ivoire, now in General hospital Cote d'Ivoire. I am
deaf and suffering from a long time cancer of the Lungs which also affected
my brain, from all indication my condition is really deteriorating and it
is quite obvious that, according to my doctors they have advised me that I
could live for the next four months, this is because the cancer stage has
gotten to a very bad stage. I was brought up in a motherless babies
home, was married to my late husband for twenty years without a child. My
husband died in a fatal motor accident and before his death we were true
Christians. Since his death I decided not to re-marry, I sold all my
inherited belongings for the treatment of this illness and still nothing
better has happened.


Before the untimely death of my husband, he told me that he
deposited the sum of $8,142,758 dollars with a bank.

....[blah blah]

It’s my last wish to see that this money is invested to any organization of
your choice and distributed each year among the charity organizations, the
poor and the motherless babies' homes where I belong. As soon as I receive
your reply and information, I shall give you the contact of the bank.


I will also issue you a letter of authority that will approve you as
the new beneficiary of my fund. Please assure me that you will act
accordingly as I stated herein. I shall wait at your prayerful reply. and
if you know that you will not act acording to my wish do not repply me.
Yours truly,
Ms.rose Eyupward
--->

You've probably received something similar yourself but not i hope from
rose -
as soon as i saw this i realised that that was EXACTLY the sum that disappeared
from the bank crossover project that i mentioned earlier
and that one of the chaps i was working with -
a slick Nigerian whom i had previously viewed as extremely trustworthy on account of
the fact that he used to take me out and ply me with lots of drinks while we talked
almost incestuously about work, and oddly not about ourselfes - was called what i
assumed to be Upwardly and i had assumed this referred to him being
Upwardly mobile
not his actual name .. and have now realised that this was a mispronunciation of the
name you see above. Eyupward
so without haste i scrambled together an offer of mare-ridge -
- sorry Sharon take the flag off -
and sent it, not only through the post but to all the hospitals i could locate on
the web within the bounds of Cote d'Ivoire.
Now you may be thinking that i'm some sort of hypocrite having already admonished
Brant for thinking that he might benefit from the sales of any T-shirts with Dennis's
quite repugnant face plastered across them - we'd have to slip the Che-Guevara-like
bandanna down well below his eyes - and i am a variety of that hypocrite because
a T-shirt sells for about 3 dollars and one T-shirt isn't going to keep me in the
Nerf lifestyle to which i am insecurely accustomed at present -
whereas by renaming myself Mike Charity i can then legally accordion to the terms
of the above email give the money to myself and thus BUY the island with the table
and G&T on it albeit for that kind of cash it would have to be near Poland or Denmark
or Scotland - indeed an unpleasant and not very sunny prospect - but then i could rent
it out to some Mug government as a nuclear test site - and shove off to warmer climes
in the satisfying knowledge that i was irradiating at least one of the Nations
[except scotland which isnt a nation but an annexe of england] whose occupants i
least admire and have a good time in the sun - a long long way away.

In order to properly convince rose that i was the 'man which was right for her'
i knew that the only True Way to a womans heart is through the medium of a love poem
Preferably simple and unambiguous as women can read all sorts of unmeant nuance into
the most unlikely and unmeant of circumstances
and THIS IS DEFINATELY SOMETHING YOUR DAD SHOULD WARN YOU ABOUT
I had to scour the web to find a suitable poem to Rape and one which was in near
perfect D'ivorieees and thus thought i might try one of those from
Antiquity ...
But Lo there's been a knock at the door and thats always the way just when you are
busy on something of massive world importance to you ...
and i have to sign for a mysterious large white box that i wasn't expecting
any way i've put it in the kitchen 4 now as i want to share something that we've both learned
in the writing of this your favourite book Den
and that is
HOW CAN MODERN TECHNOLOGY HELP ME FIND A WAY TO A BETTER MORE FULLFILLING LIFE
and i'll example it with the simple search for an appropriate poem from Antiquity

and who better than straight girl and exile of
Ode or a Greek Isle island and famystic Greek Poet and Odette
. Sappho
. and her ...
. Hymn to Aphroditee
[ ref: http://sacred-texts.com/cla/usappho/xlatall.htm#0]
Ill first outline our method then show how its done in practice -
which of course makes perfect Dennis
........
unfortunately the unorthodox Greek charactars won't go properly into the
notepad ++ freeware which i use and doesn't seem to be showing any signs of wear
and tear - not bad for a freebee - but anyway some of the charaxctars are vague -
cest lavy lavie - whatever will Bee will be ....
Unlike that very brainy Brant who knows about 27 languages fluidly
the only language system i know other than english is
the Method of the Sharonopheme [which we learnt earlier]
and is used a-speculato in Phase 1 - with an appropriate lectopronolation
i.e make it longer and put it in proper english words where possible
thence to Phase 2 the redaction Phase
and since i was also a scientist we'll use babelfish in Phase 2
as i have been reliably informed that this is what 'professional translators trust'
[babelfish advertising literature (editor: R. Eyaupwords)]
and then a finalising in Phase 3
to make sure it is
'logistically and sententionaly coherent in linguistical terms'

.. PHASE 1

. Hymen of Aphrodite
.. I
pai^ Di'os, dolo'ploke, li'ssomai' se
pa dis dollar bloke lissen to me
pah this dollar bloke listened to me

mh' m? a?'saisi mh't? o?ni'aisi da'man,
my mum says mhaint to know is d man
my mum syas i am not to know this is the man

po'tnia, ðu^mon.
portune d man
oportune the man

a?lla' tui'd? e?'lð?, ai?'pota ka?te'rwta
all attitude he li potter que? true to
all attitude he like (a) potter why? true to

ta^s e?'mas au'dws ai?'oisa ph'lgi
t has seems as though d'was a o' is a fluggy ?
that has seems as though it was a or is a fluggy

e?'klues pa'tros de` do'mon li'poisa
hey clasp across the dome on the boys of
hey clasp across the dome of boys of

xru'sion h?^lðes
extrusion hello's/haloes
extrusion(s) hello's/haloes


.. II
a?'rm? u?pozeu'ksaia, ka'loi de' s? a?^gon
are u-poser e you say i, cos lord he's a gone
are you opposed hey you say i because lord he has gone

w?'kees strou^ðoi peri` ga^s melai'nas
why cos he strolled over/strong i'll bet he orgas'me and i knows
why because he is strong ill bet he orgasms me and i know

pu'kna dineu^ntes pte'r? a?p? w?ra'nw
but can na die new untill es better up or anew
but cannot die anew until hes better up or new

ai?'ðeros dia` me'ssw.
aye ere us die me saw
aye before I die myself


.. III
ai^psa d? e?xi'konto, su` d?, w?^ ma'saira
a buzzard he kick onto so the warmers air
a buzzard he kicks onto so the warmer air

meidia'sais? a?ða'natwj prosw'pwj,
me i da says a can nat why bro' so bwy(bwee)
me i do say i cannot why brother so be we

h?'re? o?'tti dhu?^te pe'ponða kw?'tti
how r e o t that i'd you te ponder cuttie
how are you on to that i would you to ponder cuttie

dh?^gte ka'lhmi
d'he gt e calm me
that he is good he calms me

unfortunatley the last fragment of the payrus is
somewhat damaged and to aviod unecessary and perillous
not to say scurrilous translation - which i didn't say -
we'll have to use just the first three stukas(tech term)

so weve now gone through Phase 1 the Sharonophemes
now we need phase 2 the redaction
(English - German - and then back to English to reduce the number of words
- fingers crossed as we may only end up with 2 words repeated about 20 times !!!)

________________________________________________________
PHASE 2

and ive ommited the first 2 and only put in stuka no 3 as example

.. III
a buzzard he kicks onto so the warmer air me i do say i cannot why brother so be we
how are you on to that i would you to ponder cuttie that he is good he calms me
to German :-------------->
ein Bussard, den er auf tritt, also lüften die wärmeren mich ich sage,
dass ich kann, nicht warum Bruder so wir ist, wie Sie zu dem
eingeschaltet sind ich Sie cuttie erwägen würde, dass er er beruhigt mich gut ist
and back from Gremlin:----------->
bus pool of broadcasting corporations, which it steps on, thus air warmer me
I says that I can, not why brother like that we is, as you are switched on to
I you cuttie would consider that it calms it me down is good
________________________________________________________
Phase 3

example of methodology using the second and third stukas -----

are you opposed he you say i, because lord, who it why went, because he is strong patient,
him orgasms I bet and I do not know however can to hes again die or again better
above, before I die
becomes :---------------->
'want me' i say Lord because i am the strong patient that brings delight
***[we cant have filth like orgasm imported into Sappho's grate lurve poem]
and i am unsure that he may do again before [either he or i are dead] we both are dead


bus pool of broadcasting corporations, which it steps on, thus air warmer me
I says that I can, not why brother like that we is, as you are switched on to
I you cuttie would consider that it calms it me down is good
becomes :---------------->
temple of ethereal speech bring me warm breath [i/that i may] tell you i can and i love you cuttie
and calm me to that which is good
________________________________________________________
result:-
Hymn to Aphrodite - Sappho
translated by Micke Burre 06/08/2009

this rich man did not need to listen
to know me and whom i am
and of the man my mother says
"this is right - so right - right now "

"want me" i say Lord because i am
the strong patience that brings delight
and i am unsure that we may have the chance
to do so again before we both are dead

temple of ethereal speech bring me warm breath
that i may tell you i can
and i will love you
cut and tie and calm me to great good
________________________________________________________

and that dear Den is the art of translation
and this IS the Only and True Way of Translation and the Approved Modern Method -
[using the some of the most modern technology money can buy]
And should you occasion to look on the web and find older felonious translations
they give flawed results due to the fact that they had to be done by hand
and i render one such older translation for your amusement :-

Hymn to Aphrodite - Sappho
by Elizabeth Vandriver as recently as 1997

Iridescent-throned Aphrodite, deathless
Child of Zeus, wile-weaver, I now implore you,
Don't--I beg you, Lady--with pains and torments
Crush down my spirit,

But before if ever you've heard my pleadings
Then return, as once when you left your father's
Golden house; you yoked to your shining car your
Wing-whirring sparrows;

Skimming down the paths of the sky's bright ether
On they brought you over the earth's black bosom,
Swiftly--then you stood with a sudden brilliance,
Goddess, before me;

Drivel and TomTwaddlery - and obviously with a lot of words held in uncertainty
- hence the dashes -- Dennis - 4 example
" Don't--I beg you, Lady--with pains and torments "
and i venture one day some fool will try and fill them up
---
Well i've sent off my letters by post to Cote D'Ivorie and my emails
are winging their way through the ether so lets see what happens
because there is such a lot to do to finish this book of yourn Denny ...
i am feeling quite tried and tired so i think i'll have to sleep on it
for now ..
and while im ASLEEP
i have a Very Special Rocket dream
and i can see in my dream a sort of CAD drawing of the Very Special
Rocket or VSR its a shiny white and oblong proportioned 5:1 with loads
of small circles possibly windows at one end and perhaps (it wasnt that clear)
three wheel-like attachments in the shape of say a bobbin full of yarn
one at the front and two on the other corners a sort of posh bubble car,
only nothing like it, and this will be the rocket in which
Mike Goes To Mars
in our next book which is NOT about YOU Denny and in which YOU are unlikely
to feature at all except in the sneaky 'goodbye section' at the beginning
because We will have all gone to Mars to retrieve the name which Nasa
sent there earlier and to do so we will need the VSR the same one my
best scientific pal and i will build based on his ideas and
he and i and maybe DT and maybe Brant and lots of other people will go
and you won't because we didn't type your name in the Nasa
"send your name to Mars"
web page and thus will not have any friends here on Erf but some on Mars
and even though you'll have no means of joining us i expect we will
toast your memory and maybe have a swig of Marsjuice for the purposes of sedative.
So since you won't be with us Den because we've left you behind
and although you thought it was an accident -- anyway -- this is for us boys
well most of us ... and i dont know how much you know about things but right
now but were going to talk about Rocket Science for Men and isn't taught properly
at our noble laboratories of education ..and im not talking about the
salt-peter chemistry of the little squibs that kids play with at parties
but real rockets. Firstly you have to find a good site to launch the rocket
and this means taking the rocket to a good place. Then you should be very aware
that real rockets have complex controls, a lot of which are on located the Outside,
and its no good striking little matches and repeatedly throwing them
into the fuel from underneath, you might be lucky and it might fire up properly but
the chances are it won't to any degree of satisfaction. You have to mess around with
the exterior controls until you get the settings adjusted correctly, then you
have to press some buttons in the right sequence and often because your doing
lots of things with your hands it can be tricky - like a circus act - anyway
now the buttons all activate and the rocket fires up and you have to establish
a firm grip and cling to the with quite a lot of your might and go on a rocket ride.
Well some rockets can be very dangerous and if you are English and were at a
laddish thrash with lots of beer and bravado and crude stories of the type that
are told when wives and girlfriends are in absentia - that sort of laddish -
and you were to try and broach the subject of German Women you will get a blank l
ook from many of the participants and the others will be taking a deep breath
from their beer and looking at the floor probably hoping a large hole will appear.
You see the germans practically invented rockets, the ones that originally went
to the moon were merely rebadged German rockets with an american flag on the outside,
bit like Sharon USA, and the Germans are by and large pretty similar to the English
but a bit tidier and an even more quirky sense of humour that passes the French by, are
more organised and a lot more gregarious a bit more level headed under extreme
stress and possibly a little less foolhardy - on the outside. When i write
Germans by the way im including large sections of Northern Europe stretching
into the white Russia's and not a reference to a country but a sort of family
of tribes. To get back to our rocket = woman analogy for the benefit of our
english speaking sons and so that they can perpetuate this myth - the Germans
don't have enough words to be able to translate any of the above and will be
oblivious of our awe of some aspects of their existence and hopefully our
prior insults - some German Women and their kindred come into the
Very Dangerous Rocket category so be forewarned as you are on board some
thing that goes very fast with a huge impetus and You Dont Know Where Its Going.
So all you kids that nick cars and joyride them at high speed through
the streets [and the kids with sirens chasing too] you might prefer to pack
that up and exchange it for a trip to the Mutterland.
And that comes into the category of
SOMETHING YOUR FATHER WOULD PREFER NOT TO TELL YOU ABOUT.
I think i've discharged my parental duty there and explained with a suitable
annectode, a small part in the Way of the Woman, but im afraid the rest IS all
rocket science as far as i'm concerned so much so that when Sam comes round
he sometimes asks me what i would do in certain boy <> girl situations and the
first time i asked why he wanted to know, he rather facetiously sald that
having seen how useless i was/am in such situations , he did the exact opposite.
Cheekly little b****d. So in future i might spuriously say the exact opposite of what
i was going to say originally and this highlights another thing that children
particularly should pay heed of - DON'T MESS YOUR PARENTS ABOUT AS THEY CAN REALLY
SCREW YOUR LIFE UP FOR YOU IF THEY WISH.
There's something i'd forgotten to say about rockets, they dont always fire up,
and thats OK because they'll always be there tomorrow [hopefully] and its not
always easy to set the controls correctly. This may surprise you blokes but there
is a comms. unit fitted to the diagnostic section that enables you to probe its
memory and ask it relevant questions which it will then answer - probably in an
appropriate and not a missleading way using short short simple phrases that even
you can understand and which explain what you can and can't do to make it work properly.
Then if you still can't get it to work there might be an issue and it might be YOU
or it might be an incompatabilty problem, but these are less common, its unlikely
that the parts are not suitable but they may be worn or damaged in some way - as for
recalls for replacement parts - don't go there would be my advice.
Some of you spent longer than you should in people-time developing counting systems
and i think thats - you Swahilis and Hottentot's whereby your counting of numbers
goes/went thus :- one, two, many - this i can affirm is because science has shown
that when counting began leprosy was rife in your tribes and the norm for a Hottentot
was about 7 fingers total, but they had to find the lowest common denominator which was 3
3 fingers and no toes - elsewhere most early counting systems were based on what
you had attached e.g fingers and toes etc .. and thus mens and womens counting sytems
differed greatly as confusingly as exampled by paying for things in shops generally and
as did the systems of the eunuch who now run most of our banks. And the Good news is
that our children are developing some exciting new maths that interfaces directly with
lexicography and is diverting their attention from the need to count, the latter being
extraneous to their need to exist on mobile technology.
To wit :-
0 = hero to zero, 1 = one , 02 = Your/my two cents worth, 4 = for, 6 = sex
8 = oral sex ,9 = parent watching, 19 = 0 hand, 20 = Location,
86 get rid of/kick out, 99 = parent gone, 121 = One to one
143 = I love you, 182 = I hate you
404 = I haven't a clue[rename that long standing radio show], 411 = Information
420 = Marijuana, 459 = I love you, 831 = I Love You, 1174 = Nude club , 1337 = Elite

some use combinations of numbers and letters but this is far too advanced for the
untrained and for those of limited mathematical abilities almost always results i injury
By the way - the language is called SMS - your guess is as crude as mine i expect ...
Yes youv'e guessed it parents, were going to do some maths homework and catch up on
our children..

9 + 182 = 86 OR 99 .... i think thats fairly obvious (Logical OR ??)
143 + 459 = 831 and 143/859 = 1(!& 1) ; [love plus love = love , divided love = 1 (and not 1)]
Right your on your own now .. but here are a few SMS sums and set examples ....
(459)**420 = 1174 ; 19 * 6 = 2 and {4 <>19 ^ 2 = 6 & 143} ; 99&(8 U 121) = 143
1174 U (143 & (1337*411)) ->= 182 OR 404 ->= 0 ; 1137 -> ((4+6) * 19) - 411

All right
.. thats some pretty heavy set theory and a lot of complex maths for us to digest
but i hope you get the ideation as even i'm finding it tricky and Im Very Smart At Maths
so smart that Turnipville C. C. decided i shouldn't be trained to teach it and i think
some parents may be understanding why !!! You'll be pleased to note , unless you have a
recently impregnated fatherless daughter that there is 3 times more love than hate in SMSland
and this in my view lends hope for a more civilised society so keep up the good work
children and we'll invent some clever machinery to enable you to rediscover your thumbs,
fingers and possibly vocabulary ...namely the SMS predictor for which Rob and I will be
donning white coats, stop watches, safety goggles and utitising a lexicon,
an old fashioned mangle and a small kitchen in our experiment.
Well Den - that is effectively the Basic Laboratory of Science Kit explained
and ill give a brief recap
In the first experiment you Den learned to read .. etc and programme
then we applied the programming to a complex real life task that of editing your book
in the next section i explained how some much more complicated algorithms {even i
don't realy know what that word means Den only that it derived from the name of one
Al Quorisme (pron Alco-Riseme), a son of the Persilids and Uzbeks - very civilised
people until recent times ) should be Correctly applied in the translation of the Sappho
and we also included the use of our freshly learned language the Sharonopheme
so weve conjugated science and languages and that surprisingly is how a lot of
discoveries are made by cross pollenating one discipline with another and is the
reason why
YOU SHOULD NOT WASTE YOUR OPPORTUNITIES TO EDUCATE YOURSELF
and thats something
ONLY YOU CAN TELL YOURSELF
and is why Dennis is learning to read and write and programme etc
and to recap the fourth lesson which mixed languages and maths ... again. Doh
oh yes and before that we had a third where some basic sex education thinly
disguised as le-rocket science took place for the benefit of some boys and not you Den.
Then we had an 'Invocation to Education' and it's all been a lot of fun
Unlike that TOSH they teach you/used to teach you , at skool for those
who can remember that far back or who wern't expelled as i was i'm ahamed to admit
and thereby had to learn myself as they say in some circles.
Anyway we will be doing some more Advanced Science later so dont feel as though youv'e
missed out [yet] more Science that is, as soon as Bee or my mum or
Rob have washed my laboratory coat and muddy sheets [and thong and socks etc ].

We've done a lot of interesting things so far haven't we Den
and now that you've got a job as a programmer, i know you haven't got so much time
to talk to me, which has left me alone with only myself for company as Brant's
hardly talking to me anymore excepting of course when i mention MONEY.
This wane of discourse has sadly led me to the kind of depression often decried as
PHILOSOPHY
and more paticularly the sub-section acknowledged as
LOGIC
and i'm going to share some of my best revelations with you Den - well not the best ones
i'll save that for my Best Logic From Mars book when we get there and if i feel so
inclined ,which i doubt as you might plagarise it. So without further delay

tarradiddle : definition = a trivial lie
eg. "he told a fib about eating his spinach"
thus if we are to read this Logicaly it becomes
.. "fib a told he eating his spinach"
which
Either
.. seems pretty much like the same except that the fib is now defined as
.. the undefined "fib a" where 'a' represents something like say in your case Den
.. "i have very many friends"
.. and in my case
.. " i have never not, not had, undone a not unhealthy reverse lobotomy"
.. which may or may not be a fib, i can't remember
Or
.. fib a, told he, eating his spinach = someone called fib a [example: Fibbonacci Arthur]
.. kin name Fib A - told he i.e. told him something .. while eating his spinach -
.. which doesn't necessarily imply a fib at all

all of this just goes to show how complicated our language is and the Germans must
get in even more of a pickle as the 'vorksprungworkentechnik' of the advert highlights
'work doing complex spring' could be constructed in 4! ways = 24 ways
and could have Many Meanings .. some of which might be construed as Serious Zen Den.
and the Chinks must have it even worse as simple reversing a heiroglyph can change
its meaning and form entirely from say "i have no friends "
.. to
.. "my ear trumpet is made of polonium"
which wouldn't be a lie in your case Den, and ergo, not to be called a tarradiddle.
Now let me example something else of both Logic and FutureLogic
I've just been round Bee's helping her help herself to her dads loft
stowing her semi precious life in plastic bags in readiness for
at least 2 years of age-must and glassfibre fallout from the loftlag.
ive been singing Bee lovely Bee songs

Bee ee ee lovely little Bee

it starts with the first 3 notes of the l'Arlisienne by Beezet
dom dom dom (thats the Bee ee ee ) if you know that
and then the "lovely little Bee" is the first note sort of twice
Bee Bee and... well .. i can't describe it and if i could it would take
i reckon about 20 lines. Now suppose that there was no such thing as
musical notation and we were to apply our wordy description
to say Mozrt's Eine Kleine - it wouldnt be very Kleine - in fact
by my estimation it would be about 73 pages Kleine - kinda long ehh ??
and the quip that i make later about brevity might be very appropriate
here. There are a few people on the planet who might understand the brevity
of musical notation but lets forget that for a minute and now i'll describe
fairly quickly the Oath of the Horatii picture again.
Inside a tall hall,in semi darkness, pillars ten feet apart form a backdrop
like you were in a town hall lobby, an old railway station waiting room or
really old library of the sort you find in Dublin or just a rich blokes house.
In the center of the waiting room stands a man in a grey knee length dress
with a scarlet blanket thrown round his shoulders leaning back a bit holding
out with straight arms 3 swords shaped like a wheat sheaf (x with an i
through the middle)
He's facing to the left and behind him crouching are 3 birds just
out of college who've been knocked out by sleeping gas in a sort of
sitting coma position and to the right in front of him are 3 blokes
The one in front has got a fishing pole held behing him and he's also
wearing a grey knee length skirt
(must have been the fashion accessory of the week in Paris
but then the Parisiennes think they're where art starts and often make
themselfes look right twa*s)
anyway hes got a white poncho on and a third but stunted arm which is
coming from behind him and holds his own waist and which heralds David
as one of the first of the Surreal painters, and many canvasses ahead of his time.
He obscures two other similarly attired blokes and they cast a shaddow diagonaly
across the grey floor, a shaddow which points to the exit. They must be
leaving the party/rave and have to hand back their fancy dress to the guy in
the centre as they've all got their arms stretched out like they've just
handed over their plastic swords and i almost forgot they've all got
sort of open face visorless motorcycle helmets with feathers stuck in
the top like a like a peacocks crest or a punk mohican.
Now it doesn't matter how uncouth you are, if you ever see that picture,
you'll know it straight away from that description - and that picture
is a symphony in colour and symbolism and yet if i were to describe
even a short concerto it would take 73 pages and a concerto is by
common concesus 1/7th of a symphony then you'll see that 2 small
paragraphs and a daft aside about the idiocy of the Parisiennes is a
whole heap of paper less than 511 pages for a musicky thing symphony.
This dopey and ill concieved comparison illustrates how dependant we are
on sight and the vocabulary and library of sight compared to that of music and
therefore a load of sound - and whats even worse is that the sounds
in the abreviated lingo of musical notation are digital - they're
digital because we use a system usually of twelve notes (appologies
to any indian musicians and diatonists etc ) developed before 1600
and rather like a hot headed wife the music didn't harmonise very well
if you went up a few dozen notes but --- in the time of Bach he/they
cobbled the 12 notes they liked best into a harmonious scheme
called even temperament - which is like a good wife
and so Bach wrote the good(gut) tempered Clavicle coincidentally
the name of his first wife, and later to give its name to an instrument in
its own right. Bach was dead lucky as when he started fiddling with
his original Clavicle to get the right scale he couldn't but he'd heard
that some tight fisted man from an annexe of England by the name of
Baron Napier had made a clever ladder out of log with reducing gaps
between the rungs
and he used this scheme and thus these things were called log-rythmic
and thus logarythms.
I've digressed quite a lot there - well the 12 notes are digital
whereas natural sound
i.e the stuff made by whales and ouch noises and scrunch when you
tread accidentally on a snail -
well they are analogue sounds and have lots of notes inbetween the 12
favourite notes of the clavicle and that hasnt even started to describe
their colour and texture - so you can see that we would need billions
of pages to describe even a snail squelch in words and that highlights
even better if we should need to just how little we know about sound -
which brings me to back to Bee -
there are lots of interesting facets to being a Bee and one of the lovliest
ones is how good and how usefull Bee's are in the garden, and whilst being
that busty little Bee in the garden, a Bee has to talk Bee nothings to herself
most of which consist of cursing Mike under her breath i suspect - anyway
in the process of cursing Mike, a lot of Robins have sympathised with her
and come over to see what she's up to and help in something that i wouldnt
imagine condusive to a good garden -
"the slaughtering of the worms"
but then "what the f*** does he know about gardenin'" as my Cockney
neighbour once so succinctly put it when praising Bee's efforts and dissing
some gem of plant wisdom i'd tripped on somewhere
- and in the process of "the slaughtering of the worms" so the Robinhood
have sort of chatted to her and started teaching her to speak Robin
which involves not the loud whistling show off trilling and warbling they
do on the top of small territorial shrubs - but low down in the bushes
barely audible high pitched kettle boiling sort of noises. I can't do this
myself but Bee has been in a few pub brawls in her time and lost a couple
of teeth and its through those gaps that she's able to make very similar
whistly sounds - like a soft version of sailor lurching wolf whistles meet
swizley soft border collie sheep herding pipings - either way
the Robins love it
and talk to her a lot [ i must add that my one went in-absentio and i'm
now unsure wether she uses this as a ploy to catch and eat them but if
she does so then she eats them raw as i've never caught her cooking one]
incidentally Wye told me birds have two larynx and therefore make complex
double chordy voicy noises to which i presume they're very sensitive and
is why i guess they look at us like were Neanderphalic Peewit dimwits
when we try and imitate them. So i presume that say robins and blackbirds
and thrushes and the like have a very sofisticated vocabulary of sound
and if they needed noises on paper and could press a few keys they might
describe Eine Kleine in One Little soundtence.
So we have seen how words can quite easily lie
and weve seen how much we rely on sight and the language of sight rather than
words or sound - we are basically a
sight oriented object
to crib the language
of database classification.
Now in the same way that our children have developed SMS and are getting
Repetitive Strain Thumb Injuries I predict that soon we will be able to
insert images where words once were and indeed has been the essence of
one or two games that appear in the puzzle pages of the newspapers
[which we had before the Time Computers Began kids] where several pictures
together had semantics. If this happens then there are several precedents
the aEgyptian wall-o-glyph and pictogram-o-glyph of ancient grand-begat of Dung
and then we can recede eventually back to nothing as well all be able to read
each others thoughts - which may well save a lot of lives and people like
myself Having to find another planet.

Well that was a wonderfull insight into FutureLogic,
which i think ill name after my self call Flogik Buurusaurus as there
were several special eggs just like the ones Harrison Ford uncovered in the Gobi
and by the time anyone uncovers this book Den, chained to the walls and
beaten in your dungeon and with certain phrases heavily biro'd out, they won't
need YOUR book or even understand it and i'm wondering now wether Rob and i
shouldn't invent an image translator so that we can convert the said book in
advance and thus be a precedent for future generations to covet -
not knowing quite what it is of course !!!!
and this brings us to the really big dillemma
WHEN DO I CHUCK SOMETHING AWAY
and sadly i dont think in the Sharonopheme
"aim pussy tiff ally them an witchwood berate four diss"
and highlights another problem of Flogic namely Set Theory ..
That was an awfull lot of Science and Logic and i bet a lot of thiko's
didn't like that bit very much, i'm not even sure i saw the point of it
but the Good News is

Brants sent another email - the one i requested of him to PRETEND to send me the
box which came the other day and i put in the Kitchen and haven't opened
yet 4 a very good reason .... it might contain a BOMB ...


Brant to mike
dear michael--

by now you should have received a white cardboard box (approx. 2/3 m. X 1/3 m) by post.
please let me know when and if you do recieve it. the package contains a little
something i picked up at the 26th flea market in nyc this past saturday from a
wolof guy (claiming to be from haiti or the dominican republic--his story kept
changing with each re-asking) that i otherwise see weekdays flashing faux rolex
watches, some half dozen wrapped around both forearms, from under his jacket.
he is a purveyor of african art, dubious in provenance, from his native senegal.
for a mere dollar he talked me into buying a wooden box containing the ashes of a
spider monkey from the comanche region of his country, a few cowrie shells, some
kind of hard nut wrapped in red yarn, the skeletal remains of a snake, and various
and sundry small objects that i cannot identify. the box looks a little tatty
because, he told me, it has been passed down from generation to generation in
his family, but which has only cursed it with bad luck. he believes a new owner,
preferably by a white man (and i can think of no man whiter than the likes of you
in anglo-saxony england), would lift the curse. this last bit of info shared with
me only after he had relieved me of my dollar and pressed the box into my hands.

i now pass it onto you. i think you have more experience in objets d'art from
west africa than i do. at any rate, i hope that you are instrumental in putting
an end to the misfortune of one african family by its inheritance.

yours truly,
the lion king
--->
Den, that email doesn't look very Brant-like so i'm going to send it back
requesting a better one


mike to Brant
this email below doesn't look like one of yours as it doesn't contain any of the
smarty arty puns and stuff you normally put in

a) you have sent me a bomb and wanted to use sculduggery of lawyers-son words to
.. fool me into thinking what you had written was of a semi legal nature and
.. therefore real and therefore i'd open the bomb without the proper prophylatic
.. measures

b) or it has been sent here by Dennis who has already read the book and is very
.. annoyed

c) i've slandered someone else eg sharon jehova god allah the germans chinks irish
.. scots elizabeth vanriver larissa bee anne rob other-toad matt david wally and so
.. on

d) none of the above

e) none of the above excluding d)


and am therefore going to get someone very stupid to open it 4 me once you've sent me
the proper sort of brant-mail with all the puns in it !!!!!

best wishes - very sincerely and slightly ill friend
mike (not at the behest of Dennis)
--->
Only i forgot to attach the email

mike to Brant
sorry forgot to attach the email
--->
and while i wait for Brant's reply i'm seriously thinking of putting the box on xxxx !!!
meanwhile i write a letter to DT my erstwhile work pal as now i haven't got more than 2
friends left in this material world due to my puerile deceitfull duplicity -
[but get to go to a good and everlasting party of my own designing afterwards so
what do i care ] - as i wish to take up 'heavy drinking' as a hobby to help me
while away the spare time i didn't previously have because lots of people -
many of whom are defamed slandered or libelled above - don't write to me anymore ..

mike to DT
dear dave
i would like to add a section to aforementioned letter [now somewhat revised]
to include a bit about addiction - which is kind of why i wrote to you in the first place
{although in a later section we will all be flying to mars to retrieve the names which
we foolishly input on each others behalfs and are now on said red planet - and thus
you are commemorated in that motif}
if you dont want to be named you might consider the following
-------------------------------------------
i XXXX did ....

=== 3 pages of text describing what it is like to drink to the point where a bit of
you has to be removed in hospital probably due to that drinking ????

and i XXXX lived to tell the tale ...
(all monies i'm afraid to charity and not to any of the authors in the unlikely
event of any one wishing to produce the T-shirt of the said tome)
-------------------------------------------
and we substitute XXXX with somebody elses name - eg PAUL BRASTED and don't tell him
until its too late - we could also add some lies that might get him in even more
trouble with his wife and see him with an EVEN BIGGER black eye than the one he
was sporting on her behalf at the Roadtech reunion day

regards 'pauls former friend and possibly soon to be punched by him '
Mike
--->
I also tell My Best Science Pal Ever, the one whom i'm going to help build a
spaceship so that we can retrieve our names from Mars, about the white box
{possibly a bomb} on xxxx as a recruitment technique for
'the trip to Mars by which we regain our names'
which may end up in a physical reality or more likely end up as a dull Cervantine
proverb. At the mention of white box My Best Science Pal Ever tells me about the
translator 'Freevoice' and its messages of hatred whereby the supposedly IBM
sponsored software talks of blowing up a white train [viz white box and bomb}
which he has mysteriously bought from a pakistani guy at one of opur electrical
retailers i then tell him how my dad related a tale to me one day my dad worked
in electronic engineering at Welwyn Garden City, England with an Irish guy Brady(?)
and one day Brady asked my dad if he could take a package for a friend of his
to The Young Pretender pub which is close to us here in Hemel high street many years back.
Later my dad is working in America and is relating to a very good pal of his Vince,
the tale of how Brady now working in LA drove my dad very rapidly form his Texas base
to Los Angels across the desert - with no cars around at about 125mph to be pulled over
and nicked by a helicopter from nowhere for speeding- bizarre ehh -
and then Vince says to my dad
"ahh Brady now he was the head of an IRA cell in the UK"
and those of you old enough to remember about Irish people blowing each other up in
the names of freedom and patriotism respectively with bombs will know just what
this meant so when my dad thought back to his innocent package delivery
HE WAS VERY ANNOYED
because i suspect i got a lot of that 'thou shalt not kill' from the first
little cell that fertised my mums egg - only by way of a series of allegories -
and this again raises the spectre of how culpable are we in things were not entirely
cognaisant of ?? that is not the issue just yet
My Best Science Pal Ever thinks that the white train is a reference to the train
that blew up in Spain which was a Basque affair and Basquet case i believe and
very nasty resulting in deaths and bad injuries to people still to this day -
so Basques and Spaniards please try and find a way to resolve this issue so we can
all go back to having fun again - either way the Basque people aren't very Pakistani
looking but its got lost in the ideation
and at this point i'm going to have to make a proper Invocation ...
"God i hope this spacecraft were going to build doesn't have little flaws in it
like the 'Basque people aren't very Pakistani' flaw i mentioned above with all
the relevent details pertaining" -
i'm given to understand by my religious friends that you have to be very pernickety
with invocations otherwise in the unlikely event of the miracle happening it can fail
because you got the Invocation clause and intonation slightly wrong !!!!

No matter the point is that the Freevoice translator is asking its teacher to repeat
all sorts of terrorist phrases like 'blow up the white train' and which i interpret
as the people of the white empires and by implication something like America
England Denmark Sweden Germany
but not scotland because that's an annexe .. etc...

either way My Best Science Pal Ever related this to the police, who said claimed
they had a lot of intelligence and this wasn't part of it and by inference that blowing
up particularly white trains or teaching our children the language of terrorism
might be OK here in the UK ?? who knows how the minds of those in authority work
well i think we've got a good idea.
Recently one of our more rightwing papers decided to tell the voting public what
the left wing politicians were creaming off in illicit takings and would result in
any other person residing at one of Her Majesty Pleasure Palaces with the epithet
Fraud posted on their cell/chalet/mansion door .. then they found out everyone
was doing it and turned into Real Journalists for once in 3 decades
and Published their findings.
This has caused uproar and a few token head rollings but no change as any cynic
might expect but well done Daily Torygraph for trying and so My Best Science Pal Ever
goes on to tell me about various English inventions which have recently been on the telly
and how even though they are used extensively and with out failure (i hope ours is
going to be that good though i'm having trepidations) but strangely get subsumed
by the Americans or otherwise disappear in their favour and leads him to think that
POLITICKS and MONEY are indeed still sleeping together
the same two that result, as i put it,
in our kids blowing up a lot of Iraqui kids and vica verca
Palestinian kids blowing up Jewish kids and vica versa
and so on
to wit My Best Science Pal Ever states that in his version of heaven
God isn't very pleased and despite all his best efforts Mankind doesn't seem to
be getting civilised as quickly as its getting technology - and although his God
really likes technology he's a bit dispondent - as all this technology resulting in
bad things is like Not being able to find your best friend
and this is the point
where i exhort him to watch the film
Little Miss Sunshine
because I'm going to do my bit to make that world a happier place just as that film
encouraged me to 'let it all go' not worry about what other people are doing but to
be happy and help others to be happy
AND THAT IS ONE OF THE MOST IMPORTANT THINGS PEOPLE SHOULD TELL EACH OTHER
I've strayed from the original purpose - our Trip to Mars to Regain our Names
and i suggest that we should stop off at the Moon on the way as i have a prank
in mind - as you might have come to expect - and in that prank we take with us
on our journey a plastic parrot and a flag not unlike the jolly roger
and we land on the moon at the place where the Americans dumped their car/moonrover
now My Best Science Pal Ever thinks we should bring said vehicle back and chuck it on
the White house Lawn - but i think this is rude and instead that we regale the
said vehicle with the accoutrements of Piracy
and in doing so begin the somewhat quiet revolution of the type started so
admirably by people like the Luthers and their later day Saint Martin Luther King
whose speeches still bear listening to and should be incumbent in the education
of children worldwide with perhaps contemporary modifications which in our present day
would say American and Taliban/Pakistani/Iraqui/etc in Ireland say Catholic and
Protestant or in the middle east - Jew and Palestinian/Iranian - or elseswhere -
Tibetan and Chinaman or Tamil a ....
the list is very long but you get the ideation
OK so now while were awaiting the Recruitment to Mars venture to materialise into
something more factoid and since my clothes have been washed [by somebody else of course]
were going to conduct an experiment and its the First Experiment we mentioned
Rob and I are standing here ...
stop watches and white lab coats and a pillar drill and an averaged sized kitchen
What were going to do is build a primary school for little kids using bits of old
junk from my kitchen, a bit redolent of those kids programmes from the post-war
1960's where we had to make the best of what we'd got -which was sticky backed
plastic, washing up bottles and papier machee -
( please dont ask me why children - - have i told you it can be -
difficult being OLD !! )
oh and we need a Bell
OK now weve built our tiny-school and what were going to do is chuck a load of four
year olds [or thereabouts] in the school and were going to ring the Bell -
and they've all run outside into Keens fields at the back here which is to all intents
and purposes like any other school playground but probably a bit greener
and they're playing together
bollox they're not doing what i thought -
you see i forgot to tell you in this first experiment
half of the kids are Jewish and the other half are Palestinian. Now i thought
that the Jewish kids would have built a big wall so they didn't have to play with the
Palestinian kids and that the Palestinian kids would be lobbing sticks over it
but they're not - they've divided up and in fact a lot of The Girls are playing together in
a couple of groups and a lot of The Boys are playing slightly more robust games together
sometimes to impress the girls in a couple of groups and to a lesser degree a few Boys
and Girls are playing together - and they're not divided by any walls and theyr'e all
mixed together - there isn't any separation between the kids based on palestinianness
or jewishness or religion or anything other than the scenario above
THESE ARE THE MOST UNIMPORTANT THINGS THEY HAVEN'T BEEN TOLD YET
because they haven't had the sort of schooling yet which enables them to segregate
on grounds other than boy/girl would be my conjecture -
the one that fully enables them to hate each other and do a lot of nasty things
like slandering and maiming each other, that they and everybody else will come to
dislike so much.
In fact what they seem to be doing is playing with people they like - How Weird is That
im sure you didn't do that as children did you ??
Now it maybe that you've been in a tiny school where One of the kids was a bit loopy
and was always beating up other kids though this is rather unusual among very small
children. And that child needs to go on a holiday, it used to be called expelled
but then that didn't address the childs needs properly it just sent it somewhere else
to cause more mayhem.
That child needs help and it needs guidance of the sort that - when we became sentient
beings long ago in Darkest Africa - our early tribes had to invent a method for
dealing with this kind of problem. I expect the solution was to find someone
with a lot of wisdom and kindness who was tasked to guide this child to man/womanhood
and is echoed down the aeons in the stories of young children being the apprentices of
wizards and the like where they learn that with power comes a heck of a lot of
responsibilty and you can see from this allegory that these children need a lot
of Special Caring and that these echoed stories are sometimes
misinterpreted
as that caring doesn't involve them learning to take their behavioural violence even
further by Killing OR Maiming people and involves them being cast in a Bad Light
in the aforementioned Fables.
OK now weve got the stopwatch ready and weve rung the bell and were timing how long it
takes for all the little palestinian amnd jewish kids to come back to school in their
little all together mixed up clumps - and its ages because they were enjoying themselfes
and schools not so much fun because we dont know how to make it fun and teach
them the things they really need to learn concurrently - anyway -
right now we get to repeat the experiment with all sorts of ethnic types and Yes
the results are the same
and then we get to try it with lots of kids who will have different relgious beliefs
in later adulthood and our tiny-school experiment is exactly the same
and so on
That is the Way of Tiny Kids
and there certainly is a lesson in there !!!!
I should explain that the Journey to Mars is a precursor to a much bigger adventure.
My Best Science Pal Ever and basicaly the inventor of the Very Special Rocket
which is going to get us there has a view of the cosmos that in scientific terms
is greatly at odds with current thinking.
For example:-
One current view is that no man or particle shall travel faster than the speed of light,
in much the same way as probably those self same people were going to suffocate in
Brunels carriages because his trains went over 60 miles an hour and later that no
man would break the sound barrier, and to current thinking is paralleled by the
excessive red shift seen from some distant planets.
It happens by good fortune that not only is My Best Science Pal Ever much better at
problem solving than practically anyone else i know but he/she also had no formal
training in science other than rudimentary and largely un-pre-predjudicing basic
schooling, much as i have in the arts as you will doubtless have noticed and which
is certainly THE way to learn as then your learning and the consequences of it
have a crude foundation and its output is to your own flavour and can take
guidance and succour as and where and when it needs.
This view of the cosmos to which i alluded requires things to be able to move
faster than the speed of light for reasons which will become apparant later
however, this is only a cery tiny part of his ideation.
My Best Science Pal Ever has either created/been created by a cosmos that involves
the following parts that a dimmo in the sciences such as myself have been able to
loosely comprehend and thus send to you:-
Matter and The Constructs of Forces e.g gravity[mass attraction]/electrostatic forces/
magnetic forces etc effectively one force and presumably hence their similarities
are as the result of a 'creation boundary' [his/her choice of words]
that issues forth from its conception many billions of years ago. Far from being the
Big Bang of "right minded scientists" it is wholly benign in its beginnings which i
do not think even create discernable matter [read large enough for us to detect with
what we've got now] until several phases have elapsed from the continuum of whatever was
there and the ellipsis thats starts the boundary creation process going. In this theory
of everything, and you'll get to see just how everything this is at some point, the
boundary edge radiates forth at the speed of light and eventually creates matter which
will in many many billions of billions of years hence create enough mass to stop the boundary
creation process and thus engender a collapse by which all things are returned
to their preoriginal state, a collapse that is a rapid and benign yet instantaneous
process which incidentaly exceeds the speed of light for reasons unknown to this author
- as i said - a dimmo in the sciences.
This theory includes a god, his vision of god and not probably not mine, is that we are
a necessary and constituent part of that god as say a muscle fibre might be to the limb
of a human being, and thus that god may also communicate with us albeit on a fairly
subliminal level and which might example itself by say the production of my daft scribblings
in this Dennis's best book ever. In My Best Science Pal Ever's cosmos he states that
he receives the understanding of the universal sphere from god in the form of dreams,
and something which i myself think is a very intruiging concept for reasons not wholly
understood by me. I have suggested to him/her that these are merely the visualisation
of the concepts over which he has been mulling the last 30 years and involved lengthy
discussions with friends who have a similarly no history of formal education and who
know a lot about astrophysics and the study of the minuteae of the universe than the
average person - the elementary particles formerly known as phlogiston or molecules or
atoms whatever. Either way i particularly like the fact that My Best Science Pal Ever
thinks Einsteinian mechanics aren't so hot - in fact blatantly wrong.
One of the best things about My Best Science Pal Ever is that he wont tell me about
the motion of light
"but i ain't gonna tell yu' that"
being his/her favourite stock phrase on anything which might throw further light on
gods/his/her theory of the cosmos and of which i have all too brief tantalising glimpses.
Being the sort of naughty cunning deceitfull person i am i have tried all sorts of
ruses to divest My Best Science Pal Ever of more information regarding this aspect as
a lot of my equestrian paintings carry a light in them not dissimilar to Vermeer's
and are the result of painting horses in their stables - light for which i would not
only like to know the mechanics but also its semantics of WHY - which may sound odd
to you Den but then you are not an artist - you are a programmer.
In this all too tempting theory of everything, God wishes mankind to travel out beyond
the edges of almost the last of Wallace Stevens circles, and hinted at in the ninth
balckbird, through the benign process that delimits the boundary of creation and by
this means or similar halt the creation process and thus the boundary circle and at the
same time ensure the futurity of us and therefore god him/her self. There may
well be a flaw in the process of thinking here in that according to the vision of
My Best Science Pal Ever's god the process ends and we are thus enabled to concentrate
on building a world whereby we can communicate with our former relatives by, I think ???
though i'm not too sure about this element as its rather advanced for me but bear with it,
By starting another creation process with the parameters altered in such a way that we may
communicate in a more existential way with our deceased and prior relatives - though
i'm not sure wether we get to go back as far as molecule, amoeba, gerbil, chimpanzee,
neanderthal, or indeed what else is included since everything in the world is according
to "right minded scientists" derived from practically one amoebiod many aeons ago
probably over the seas that covered central Africa. The other slight hiccup may be
that the gravitational forces which are party to the collapse of the said known cosmos
in the boundary extinction part of the theory are still present though smaller and i think
i now need to present My Best Science Pal Ever with this paradox and ask why then
gods now faltering static cosmos does not also begin to collapse. I did ask
My Best Science Pal Ever if this were perhaps not also a way in which he/she might
be visualising a way in which he/she could be with his/her dead spouse, and thereby
be a more scientological version of an extended seance or heaven of the type
which the Jehovans were having some difficulty communing with earlier in this letter.
Being of a rather naughty nature i then wrote My Best Science Pal Ever a poem and sent
this via the ether

"and with it change the metrics of all knowledge
death tried to steal his secrets back
...
that the pathways to superbia
are loitered with the walking bones
of useless salamanders and the slaves of salvation
cloned in out-sized suits
take death for what it is
a recognition of our failings and our virtue
see that at your prospect
and from the distant planes of cosmic entity
take his hand and
marvel at achievement"

by which i rather meanly advise My Best Science Pal Ever that death is a requisite
of nature and its means of replenishment and furtherment, which even a believer of
Darwin will assert, but which may exclude many of you in America i gather and
probably a lot elsewhere.
Shortly after this communication My Best Science Pal Ever tells me among our many
cups of tea that god has stopped talking to him/her within the confines of the dream
for reasons unknown to me but has set me wondering wether My Best Science Pal Ever has
actually read the email[which i have come to doubt] or wether because i am part of god
by these New Rules of the Cosmos
and asked myself a very difficult question i have provided a connundrum which god him/her self
is having some difficulty with - Complex Logic Eh [take it from me being a Mickey isn't easy !!!]
= the corpus can't find an immediate answer to a problem =
i believe more recently My Best Science Pal Ever pals god has been spuriously in touch
perhaps leading him to believe he might also tell/be about to tell someone else the
same 'cosmic secrets' and has sparked his fresh endeavours to build the propeller of the
VSR. I have been spurring him/her on to build and reach this plateau of endeavour and just
as in the "Little Miss Sunshine" film, wether it is achievable or not, i believe
that the best discoveries are not wholly there in the exterior world but largely
interior with some help via the agencies of friendship and is closer to the
altruism of my fathers patent. If My Best Science Pal Ever fails there'll be one extra
idiot of a friend standing beside the grounded spaceship and at worst we'll look like
the fools from Cervantes dull epic and others can have a good laugh at our follishness
which hopefully makes the world a happier place - but at least My Best Science Pal Ever
won't be alone. I'm unsure now wether i'm to receive a slap from god regarding the
preemptive revelation of some of the Secrets of the Cosmos which apparantly he/she
has tried many times to communicate but with misinterpreted sucess in the same way
that say ravens may caw - and thats all we hear but actually they are singing a very
relevant song regarding the freedom of the [welsh] spirit.
I have just finished reading this last part to My Best Science Pal Ever who is an
admirer of this author and somewhat more tolerant than most in support of that which
he/she thinks is Great Sport. It turns out that the gravitational flaw is'nt an oversight
and that
My Best Science Pal Ever thinks God may have been contemplating suicide
in that particular cosmos
whereas in mine
God is pitted as per all myths and legends against the forces of Evil.
I have recently sent this Den, yur best ever book out to all and sundry, none of whom i
expect to get to read this stage of the book unless urged to do so by their lawyers.
Also i have found it expedient to put the book into the public domain by means of backup
for my somewhat less than reliable but highly advanced state of the art computer
which is possibly
the most dangerous thing an author can do - in this case not merely for reasons relating
to plagarism - but in this case more dangerous as the Forces of Evil may have
cognaisance of this fact and one would expect the thus to try and halt the progress
of the VSR and our journey to retrieve our names from Mars
or
we may unwittingly BE the agents by which the forces of Evil destroy the Earth
in building the mythical rocket machine, especially in the light of my deceits
or
God may want us to be aware that there are forces of evil abroad, knowing that i know
that my deceits are for the purposes of allegory and didn't exists other than in
the perverse world of logic and didactics versus bigotry, foolishness and naivety
etc etc
and thus
when the telephone rang the other day and there was no one on the other end AND
the number which rang was not retrieveable
I began to ponder these and many other logical developments so twisted and numerous
that all the Conspiracy theorists in the world would be involved in solving well
beyond the perpetuity of the Return of the Boundary and thus left all the lights on
and locked the doors to leave me sweating inside a furnace of a house shivering
with fear and a kitchen knife placed underneath the pillow "just in case".
I realised at this point that i seriously needed madical advice and decided to ring
The Tome of the Great Folispists, metaphorically, and the home of collected Western
wisdom being as i'm too thick to tackle the great works of Eastern wisdom yet as
the pictograms read from left to right and being Western means that they are
reflexive and as per the previous outline in which your Lack of friends became
a Polonium ear trumpet by doing that self same translation, these Chinese texts
are rather baffling. Obviously Wallace Stevens was a little more adroit.
Anyway, lets see how the great Filo-sofists define a triad and who better in modest times
that B Russel - not not a type of sprout, but logicain to Turnip-town where
Toby got his first semblance of education.
In Turnip-town it is only necessary to count to three with consequential ridicule
if you do more. Children are taught this number system whilst following a tractor
across the fields and lobbing the turnips they pick into the back of the cart the
tractor is mud hauling through the dull felt and flat drab skied landscape singing
"One per-turnip, two per-turnip, three per-turnip, more"
and since you only get to count to three that's what your wage is based on -
three turnips and no more - and often not the best ones - so you get fleeced.
Well B. Russel grew up with a mate of his, Frege, frigging around behind the
dull repetition of tractors and cleaved earth and since there was nothing else
to do for the rest of their lives and since they were a bit brighter than the
average horse or tractor or village, they contrived evil games of logic to
that would really confound and annoy the whole of Turnip-town and eventually
get them expelled, running, pelted and scared amid a barrage of rotten vegetables.
One such may be found in The History of Western Philosophers -
"It was customary to identify number with plurality. But an instance of a number
is a particular number e.g 3 - and an instance of 3 is a particular triad"
I'll explain that a triad can be say 3 turnips in a bag or 3 turnip heads in a dodge van
or 3 pork chops in a synogogue - any collection, however unlikely or offensive, of 3 things.
Back to Bertrussell
"The triad is a plurality but the class of all triads[read: all the things that
themselfes are a collection of 3 things] ,and identified with the number 3
[our human word for describing them],is a plurality of pluralities, and a number in
general, of which 3 is just one of many[unless your'e a Hottentot or Swahili or T-towner]
is a plurality of pluralities of pluralities." ....
" From Frege's [pron fridge's] work it transpired that maths became little more
than deductive logic"
now you see why they got expelled !!!! nor is this helping my paranoid bed hugging
knife clinging dilemma. There's also the issue of sending the book to my friends.
Thus far i've had only a single response and the implication is that i probably now have
some friends who are former friends by virtue of them being bored by me sending them
the minutae of a deformed deceitfull life of the form they would rather be distanced
from in their warpless torpid existences. Or they were slandered in the earlier parts
of this book and are not amused to the point of contacting Brants father to assist
them in the courts for redress or are otherwise irked that i should reveal some of
their innermost warts for the attention of the worlds beauticians and will never
forgive me on the inside.
In any event
i now have almost NO FRIENDS
as a result of my indescretions
and this is classified as
SOMETHING YOUR PARENTS ARE NEVER GOING TO TELL YOU ABOUT

So there you are, Den, probably about to make lots of friends sympathising with you
regarding your friendless epithets in this book
and me
your Much Too Bright for His own Good author with practically no friends on this planet
a strange paradox indeed.
Then, Den, i found you had an email address from Brant
and after a few find attached letter and 'please email me back' former friend emails '
and i sent this: -

mike to b, brant, and den
latest version attached
not much added as am awaiting the outcome of the recruitment campaign 'to go to mars'
etc
sent a copy to others ...
have had no response to issue of said book to all those aside yourselfes slagged off
in said book - and to wit i point out that i now have no friends - Den - except
you have lots of friends in what we assume to be the real world and now as a
result of this

EXPERIMENT IN LITERATURE

i have only the friends i NEED in this world
and will mirror my clearing out of junk due to former obsessions later in this,
your best book ever.
as an aside i have a sort of schedule to complete about 50 paintings by the end of
the year 2009 - with a view to getting about 150 together i guess by 2010 and having
what would loosely be termed an exhibition- but is realy going to be a big party -
sorry small party
with almost no friends there - only fibgalleons, geminis and other assorteds, after
a free picture and willing to lower themselfes a bit to get something 4 nothing
either way made 2 paintings today/yesterday
one is of an engineering palamine - cliff who is painted on a round canvass in the
style of say a modern van gogh by utilising the curvature of the canvas to dictate
first the landscape and thence the portrait - and the second is a brute of a picture
of myself at toby's behest - i'll put both on the portraits 2009 tomorrow wether
you are interested or not - the one of cliff is finished - the one of myself not -
probably by a margin . also spent the day by upgrading some of the 2008 pix still
here as those featured on the web are by no means complete as i intended almost without
exception ...

regards mike - kisses to Bee xx - dont be rude Dennis.!
followed rapidly by a second
email as id forgotten to attach !!!
the draft i forgot to attach - doh
and this is where i'm afraid your letter ends
its been a lot of fun writing it but now i have to get on with my life outside of
literature and get back to doing that which i am good at
i am looking forward to the pair of you coming over to stay at soem point - preferably
when toby is not here due to the limited amount of space available - though i'm
prepared to kip on the floor downstairs as per the kid re-programming incident in
that eventuality .

hope you have enjoyed this little adventure in ideation courtesy of largely myself
and that donkey eared lawyers-son Brant

Mike B

Rob has reminded me that i've made a vital ommission from this your
best ever book Den, and by the way thanks for the Shakespeare quotes, Denny
i might back track the 'more things in heaven and earth horatio' to the beginning
of this book and i have plenty of time to revise it now that i have no friends
in the uk.
any way Rob has reminded me of George Pryke, not by way of physique as Rob is wiry
and literate whereas George was short and rotund and hegdehog dumpy illiterate
which is why he worked as a clerk in the dungeons of the
post office supplies: department beaurocratic;
subsection girocheques ;
sub sub section wirral & the islands ;

at dinner times in the

post office supplies cafe ;
subsection food ;
subsection inedible ;

George would sit and scribble away in small noteboooks , presumably adding the
sort of addenda to his grate work which i am adding now and presumably already
known to you as geORGE'S great work of fiction, Den.
i asked various of the other cognaicenti of the gourmet food what he was doing
EXACTLY and one of the Brown Twins - the weird one with the long hair who seemed
to have her finger on the pulse of things in the seemingly and deceptively moribund
there, told me that
"He's writting his Book"
and then various others chipped in with how useless it was in edifying them and had
it been an edifice either the bricks weren't in the right place and George certainly
had one of those bricks missing etc etc in what sounded more like a confederacy
of bile for reasons that will become apparant in a later book - after that is
Letter to the Krell [currently well underway]
Letter from Mars [engine progressing slowly]
and Letter of the Law [some extra research please Den] at the very earliest.
Being the sort who might rifle through this bile in an excremental kind of way
i approached George one day at his giro desk - an action which caused him to startle
somewhat and quickly clodse the large musty ledgers in a moth cloud and dust gale
that glided slowly through the waning window rays as say condors do over dry
and sparse Peruvian vistas and llamas and lemurs scatter.
"i understand you're writting a book "
I enquired and over his small round glasses his eyes shone fierce with the strength
and brightness one might have seen in the shields of the Horatii had they not
renounced them before that sword handing episode depicted so ably by David
and possibly a play upon 'trois gens' (troyens - trojans)
"yes " he answered coyly and i then impudently asked if i might read a bit of it.
He fortunatley had a seminal page enclosed in one of the massive ledgers and was
stealthily able to withdraw it and with, i detected, trembling hand, pass it to me
The first thing that caught my attention was that it was evidently a story of
intruige and one which took event and origination in 'Numich' airport - a crude
anagram of Munich and scene of one of SPORTS great recent disasters and made me
wonder wether this was to be a mystery sporting epic that would leadi my
eager expectations to the salvation of fox hunting at least in literal terms.
I asked keenly if i might read more and after what seemed like the opening of
many many ledgers, dank pages were brought forth and roughly then
painstakingly collated into the ordered whole of The Book.
"ive sent it off to many publishers but they dont seem interested "
he said dolefully, a tear welling in his eye and almost visble emotion pouring
over the tops of his thin round half frame glasses and from his thinning hair
in a vapour that swirled across the void of the desk and directly into my chest
much as the rays pour over and round the flying vulture of the Peruvian heights.
I was living with my parents at the time and thus waited until they had closed
their marital door and the allotted five minutes before my dad/mum whichever
began to snore loudly, whence i began to unravel both the codex and its words.
Sadly i must tell you that i fell asleep and i those waning hours of day
when all is blackness the leafes of paper open in the book swirled around the room
in a vortex, like a hoard of rooks disturbed in the tall tree'd woods and their
coarse caws sang to me in my deep worded sleep ---
a book opened and from its folds came a game. The rules of this game were unclear
but it seemed that those seated around its dark lit table were to draw cards not
unlike those of the tarot system. In the game each player held secrets about and
for the other players, which at some draw of chance they might be required to reveal
to one or many of those fortunate enough to be in the assembled company. And then
with a roll of the dice fate would move on - and in the game some would be healers
and some would be destructive forces and some benign, but the healers would themselfes
in time become oft become destructive forces and the destructive forces almost certainly
change by dint of card to healers. Onepattern seemed to emerge was that often the
healer having fullfilled its task would then become alienated from the destructive
force it had healed and these players separate. In some turns the healer and
destroyer could be the same player but more often they were separate entities
and could be catalysed by others in the revelation process.
A complicated dream not unlike outr logic problems earlier and one from which i
awoke in a cold sweat and began to see why George's manuscript had been slandered
by all and sundry. I returned it to him by way of an internal envelop
with these words.


"Dear XXXXXXX ,
Please find your manuscript enclosed
I’m afraid this isn’t right for me but good luck with your approaches elsewhere.
Yours sincerely, A Loonie"

and has further reminded me that i need to remove some of the bowldlerisation
from the great world of Mister Fisher to enable him to be understood more clearly.
regards former friends
Mike