Wednesday, 20 July 2016

Legend of the holy zombie homeopathic water diviner of Eglwyswrw Pome for the day

Homeopathic water diviner, Ifor ap download, was convinced his hands held the memory of an invisible twig. Eager to demonstrate his miraculous ability to find water in Wales, he marched up and down the street of Eglwyswrw, a spring in his step, arms held out like a boxingkangarooaftertherack, and gurning and groaning like a constipated zombie. Such was the level of concentration.

It turned out to be arthritis, which he couldn't have, as he had already been not-taking the strongest underdose unavailable, and thus, 100% cured-in-advance of all the things he had never not-medicated for, he gamely strode on, only to trip and fall face down in an Alzheimer's puddle - containing oxygen, but unfortunately not the compatible memory of it.

His acupuncture air holes failed and he sadly drowned. But, as logic would have it, his voodoo doll sprang into life, and to this very day walks the street of Eglwyswrw gibbering vacuous nonsense to all who would hear the 'Good News', like an over tumble-dried shrunken Jesus teddy stigmata walking pin-cushion of inanity.

Here is his pome, shaken not stirred:-


                            HOMEOPATHY
                               PHMEHYATO
                             TEHPHMOY
                               MHHEOYP
                              OYPMHE
                                   POMYE
                                     EYOP
                                    YOE
                                    OY
                                       Y
                                     

*Warning!* The next verse is even more powerful and should be read out of the reach of children stored at room temperature:-










Monday, 9 May 2016

The Rubaiyat of Idris until he got bored

REJ:- Are you bored yet? -

Idris:- No -

REJ:- Dammo -

Idris:-

Wake! The Golden Prophet of the skies
Has yawned and closed a billion blinking eyes
The ashen moon its sickle-harvest done
As night-owl flown in fright from lovers' sighs

The Phoenix tore a feather from the Sun
And master fletcher Time His arrow won
Through hourglass curves the golden bow let fly
And melting now and then the wax begun

Upon a marble 'cross the blanket high
In circles straight around the curving sky
The figures waxed upon the setting stage
And moulded lines of thought to wonder why

Said one 'My friends 'tis clear how this must be
The stage and play was set for such as we
My legs the perfect length to reach the ground,
The ground the perfect length to reach the sea'

Another drunk in love with Art opined
'I see the hand of genius behind
The palette mixed to wholly fill the view
Such perfect feasts on which my eyes have dined'

A third was cut to play as Newton's fool
And thought he saw the light-show heaven's rule
'By dot to dot I draw upon the sky
And line by line draws back the winding spool'

REJ:- How about now? -

Idris:- Not yet -

But Fate and Fortune for the record breaks
As Destiny with light for dicing shakes
Upon the wheel the marble drops to rest
And one by one the House wins back the stakes

'Tis all a shadow show of light and dark
With candles flickering smooth to make the Ark
And creatures conjured on a circling sea
A faery play upon a faery park

The conjurer is hid in cloak of fire
Around the magic lantern of desire
The candle smooth projecting from within
The smoke and glass-reflecting rising higher

Old Omar on the page of Samarkand
In silk words robed by fair Fitzgerald's hand
In glory bathed among the naked threads
Unwoven then rewove in candle heads

The minarets called djinn to holy prayer
By magic lamp in mosaic written there
And lit the marble mirror chandelier
The metaphor enow for life of air

For magic words magician be desired
But magic never has a wand required
And genie prayer for metaphysics true
Will answer physics never need inspired

The writer having plucked the Phoenix quill
With golden pen may write the world at will
True scripture makes one glad to Timeless die
The Sentence in four letters coloured still

REJ:- If you're bored, change the rhyme scheme -

Idris:-

What wouldst thou write, O candle god
Upon a newborn page?
What wouldst thou write, as Sentence melts
And actors merge with stage?
What wouldst thou will, the Fire of Life
Still burns, thy will be done!
- The Phoenix cries quicksilver tears
Upon the setting Sun -
What willst thou true, immortal flame?
Of heaven or of hell
The Time is nigh, the arrow flies!
To strike the quivering knell
What - *clunk!* *Ooof!* -

REJ:- Sioned! Idris has been bored again! On the sofa -

Sioned:- Put him out with the recycling -

REJ:- But it's not bin day 'til -

Sioned:- I meant the poem.

Friday, 29 April 2016

Blue Malthus, Reverend Green

A 'windmill' costs any amount. It pays for itself in x years. It falls apart in y years. If y>x then it is 'free', and indeed, 'makes money'. If y=2x, then we can have two, after y years. Two for the price of none. Other ratios give other times. We are in a far off fantasy fairyland, where Faraday existed, and maths holds true. We are on square 2, of the rice chessboard. Long before we reach square 64, everything is a 'windmill', and we have strayed into 'impractical'.

The letters page of any endearingly quaint 'newspaper' displays the sabre-wit of retired colonels, pointing out that sometimes the wind doesn't blow. Yet somewheres it always does. It may also be noticed that the 'Earth' is mostly sea, and that the sea moves - often as much as twice a day. This must remain a mystery to all contemporary Cnuts. There may be other such 'miracles'.

But can we really afford free energy? Financial experts, for a fee, will calculate the enormous inevitable 'subsidy' required. Energy experts, for a fee, will calculate the relatively greater cost, of free. And sado-masochistic Gaia martyrs, for Aztec lust over others, will preach we must pay. All as if the Sun were somehow metered, and Time cost money.

The cheaper the primary, the richer the world. Cheapest is free, which is infinite wealth. But of course the Sun is finite, and I only mean billions of years. With the economic causes of war, both domestic and 'neighbourly', removed, humans who like employment can have something socially useful to do, before the advent of 3D printed robots removes the idiocy of labour. Humans labour under delusion, and love's labours lost. Some have not even noticed they are 3D printed robots themselves.

Creationists of the non-Physics variety inform us that 'you can't get something from nothing'. Suitably chastised, we exercise caution in our conjecture:- Only if the Earth, Sun and moon existed, and I mean really, would all this be true.






Britannia waves the rule

The Queen put on a mirror smile
And subjects clapped themselves
How tidily each knew their place
Like books on history shelves

Her clockwork toys in red and black
Her happy plastic flags
That wave the spell dominion
Over rocks and body bags

Above the body politic
The head that bears the pounds
So stamps the semeiotic trick
In blood in richer grounds

All noble savage backward tribes
Have built their Humpty wall
Let headless states, then stateless heads
Be fairest of them all.

Thursday, 21 April 2016

Poem for the day

Moses led the Jews to the Promised Land, - the three week walk from the Nile to Jerusalem taking only 40 years. Be careful who you ask directions. Dai Penweddig, similarly 'inspired', left Cardiff Arms Park in 1978, and turned up back home in Ammanford, in 2005, in time to watch Wales win the Grand Slam again. Of the intervening years he could recount nothing, and died that very night, happily thinking Wales were ever good at rugby. But what distinguishes inspired eternal truth from tedious grating psychosis? Wel, according to Idris, it's about three cans...

A spider spun a web of gold
To catch a silver fly
And baser beaten leaden ants
Looked up into the sky

They climbed to make a pyramid
To reach the golden threads
And each the higher climbed upon
The greater numbers heads

The golden Sun, the silver rain
Falls free upon the Earth
And ants who learn geometry
May fly for all they're worth.

REJ:- Hmmm.....I preferred you in the wilderness -

Idris:- It's a money spider.

Monday, 18 April 2016

Holy Text

Self-abasing over head projector humble-modest alter ego unreflective abject-simple, chaste-but-never-caught, pudic anotherwordformodest, Vicar of Christ on Earth, Francis Saint dolittle, has a friend so clever, you wouldn't believe it. But fortunately faith is not required, for although the mechanism of transmission is beyond the feeble proddings of science, the message itself comes through loud and clear, and understanding of the magic medium is not required to hear the magic message, so generously translated...

Fsd:- 'In my Father's house are many rooms. And a rather nice ceiling I don't look at too closely.' -

Fsd:- 'In fact there are so many spare rooms - perhaps as many as 12! - it's enough to make Mr. Osborne cry. But one shouldn't cry in church on happy occasions.' -

Fsd:- 'My friend is clever beyond your comprehension. And He has revealed to me, that there is inequality on Earth. For mysterious reasons, poverty breeds despair and descent into fantasy. Here you will find the church ever happy to help.' -

Fsd:- 'Some people have been meekly inheriting vast fortunes in property and money, and using shady accounting to avoid tax. Blood is thicker than water, and avoiding inheritance tax is only infanticidal if you count other people's children, often far away.' -

Fsd:- 'Concentrate, and see the miracle of undiluted blood from water, - transparently the Spirit of dilution of responsibility at work.' -

Fsd:- 'Infanticide is objectively wrong, and anyone who builds their house on...sorry there's a bit of interference....anyone who builds their church on.....sorry I'm going through a tunnel.....Oooh! look at the light!....anyone who by their fruits is a servant of.....sorry, who is this?!' -

*number withheld*

Tuesday, 15 March 2016

Pome for the day

*bleepity-bleep!                            
   bleepity-bleep!                              
     bleepity-bleep!
       bleepity-bleep!*

or is it?

*bbbblllleeeeppppiiiittttyyyy----bbbblllleeeepppp!!!!*

*the sound of no button*

REJ:- Wel, I see from my quadrophonic twatphone, mined by a child slave in Congo, assembled by a yellow slave in China, and hawked at 5000% by a 'genius' we are all to admire, that someone I don't quite know, has had breakfast this morning. Marvellous what they can do.

Sioned says she always keeps her inbox tidy, especially after that virus. You should see her spam folder - I can't remember the last time it was full. etc. I'msorryIhaven'taclue what I'm writing. Gadewch i ni have the pome:-

We've had Empires ruled by Emperors,
And Kingdoms ruled by Kings,
Now Countries politician-run -
The silly rhyming things

And history repeats the times
We don't come to our senses
I only put this quatrain in
To save me changing tenses:-

A farmer grows a bumper crop
- The world enriched in wealth -
Well that was nice, but what the price?
- Collapsed just like his health

A tender fuels the steam machine
And mining is the goal
But wait! - the less he shovels in
The more he's left with coal

A banker plays the fruit machine
He's bought a dodgy token
He ends up bust, take this on trust:-
The house wins, never broken

An expert surely touched by God
Hallucinates World debt
And so we pray, and wisely pay
The absent martians yet

When someone tells you something's hard
And you should look away
It might be that they can't explain
Quite half the things they say.

REJ:- Da iawn Idris. But you couldn't be bothered to change the tenses and make it chronological -

Idris:- I would for a fee -

REJ:- And that's just the farmer from Macbeth, isn't it? -

Idris:- No, it's a different one, just suffering from a similarly inevitably disastrous increase in wealth -

REJ:- Hang on, I'm meant to be the idiot -

Idris:- Something tells me you can still do it -

REJ:- Idris bach! What rhymes with politician? Duw! you really must think before you write, isn't it?! -

Idris:- So an accent makes you an idiot does it? -

REJ:- No, I think it was more missing the rhyme. Anyway, are you going to get into character? I can't do this on my own you know -

Idris:- It's been so long I can't remember who I is. I'll just be an artist type. Say something stupid to cue me in -

REJ:- And Idris! the coal! awful dirty llwch glo indeed! You don't be wanting to speed up the machine with irresponsible shovellings now do you? - you'll dig it all out! There'll be none left -

Idris:- Not really, Richard. You see it was a metaphor -

REJ:- Wel, it would be fiscally impru - I mean - Diawl! it's not easy being an idiot -

Idris:- Try being an artist. Oooh! I know. The coal. *ahem!* Richard! I bring you riches beyond your imagination, and you see only dust! Every word is holy, rent from my very soul. They glitter! I transmute the leaden into gold! The coal becomes the diamond only under the most enormous pressure! The sharpest cuts! Only the sharpest cuts may make the most brilliant shine! The multifaceted reflection radiates a preternatural light illuminating a butterfly broken on the wheel of words that - *Clunk!*.....*Oooof!* -

REJ:- Wel, that's broken it. I never got the hang of it anyway. Screen split clean in half! - a broken fairground mirror. For God and Country.