Wednesday, 29 August 2012


Economics. There were two main systems. That was what people thought. Capitalism, and Communism. There was also a third way, but that had not been tried. It had only been tried in a few countries, and countries didn't exist. Not really. Not if you really imagined. And B. was an imaginer, that was not in doubt. The correct solution was, in fact, the third and a half way, but B. was ahead of his time. That was to be expected. Another age must judge him.

The system at the Post Office, - whatever it was - had proved to be hopelessly inadequate. Not fit for purpose - that was the phrase wasn't it? Yes. The queuing was completely unnecessary, and B. hated the unnecessary. It was reminiscent of his soujourns to the labyrinths of Byzantium, and, more than that, resembled the anaconda of his draught excluder. It was clear he was expected to instigate a Conga.

Perhaps it had been a quadruple bluff, to get him to reveal himself, but B. was too sharp for that. B. sharp - even the piano recognised his genius. And B. was indeed a genius. Had people not said he was somehow touched? They had. Some were sharper than others, that was to be expected. That was how evolution worked.

The reaction to the Conga had been unfortunate, to say the least. And this was largely the fault of the shuffler. The six-legged half human, half metal, shuffle-being who had blocked B.'s path to enlightenment. The details were unimportant. Too often people concentrated on the details, when the whole picture was what mattered. Suffice to say, B. arrived at the Separator unnecessarily delayed, and in a state of agitation. Things would be different when he was in charge, that much was certain.

The partially reflective vertical separator divided the Enlightened Ones from the Pilgrims. B. wasted no further time in making himself clear. It was best to use their language - a matter of basic courtesy, somewhat lacking in the world at then, and, having triumphed in the night, having successfully cracked the secret code-voices, B. assumed the stance of the locust, and shrilled the eternal questions to the Enlightened Ones. One after the other.

It was like being back in the pencil case again, although his trousers had split. Objective morality seemed to take an age, perhaps two, before B. had cleverly steered the conversation onto Free Will, and the nature of carpets. There appeared to be a slight difficulty with the local dialect, and B. had been misunderstood. Maybe he had pronounced something incorrectly, or was it a homophone for something offensive? At any rate, the overreaction of the Enlightened Ones had been spectacular. Could the troika have got to them too? No, that was close to being paranoid. And B. was far from being paranoid. Close and far were different words, and B. could hardly be more than one word at the same time, unless he was a sentence. But that would be sentencing. Now where had he heard that before? It wasn't important.

The pencil case closed. Guilty.

Tuesday, 28 August 2012


It was six months later, according to the official calendars. Really it was before. In the cellar, naturally enough, the eye had transferred to the walls. That was to be expected. Black walls and yellow eyes. Small yellow eyes in the corners. Or large yellow eyes. It depended on where one was. Many things depended on where one was. Where and when. That was the essence of Spacetime.

Whoever had effected the transfer had attempted to frame B. by covering him in paint, but a simple DNA test would resolve that in an instant. B. wondered when Jeremy Kyle would come. For now, he lived in the television, between Phillip Schofield and Noel Edmonds, but Jeremy was the one. He had been the keystone all along. It was clearly in his eyes - he had eyes too - and there it was - hidden deep in the sincerity. That and the 'all-important DNA test results'. All important. That was the clue, that was the signal.

DNA. The Divine Code. The facts were open source. Anyone could look them up. And B. had done just that. The genome of a locust was twice as long, contained twice the information, as that of a human. Unless the code was wrong - was badly written - and Divine Codes were never wrong - then locusts were twice as complex as humans. That was the key. The locusts. Where had they hidden their complexity? They weren't saying. B. could respect that. In his time at the headquarters he had only told the troika his name, rank, and graphite grading, HB.

It showed they were a disciplined outfit. A worthy opponent. They made far fewer mistakes than before before. This was only natural. That is what evolution was. The locusts were the elite. The elite Republican Guard. Many had thought the elite Republican Guard to have been a pretence - something made up by construction speculators in America and the like - but not B.. And here they were. Few could have seriously doubted they knew the whereabouts of the WMD. And yet they wouldn't talk. Not properly. Only intermittently would they say anything at all, and then only in shrill and heavily disguised code-voices. But B. excelled at codes. He was like Turing in that respect. Not gay, no, although he had once slept with a man who was, but no, that had been research. And now the research was paying off. Paying off big time. Some of the locusts would be gay. It was a simple matter of the ESS - the evolutionarily stable strategy. But they wouldn't work their gaycraft on B. Not now. He had made himself immune to their advances.

None of this explained where they had hidden their complexity. Not by a long way. Not by any means at all. And B. had all the means. He had been gathering the means for as long as he could remember. Ways and means. That was the way to get to meaning. And only B. could discern the meaning of the universe.

Others has tried before. Tried but failed. It was inevitable. The failure of the others. And this was because of the mirror neurons. The mirror neurons and the locusts. If you cut off the head of a locust, it flew around the room. Clever. The delegation of brain power. Like other humans, and stationery, B. had two main brains - one in the head, and one in the stomach. And a few smaller ones elsewhere that would no doubt be discovered later. But the principle was the same. The delegation of brain power. The locusts had delegated their brains to elsewhere. That was where they had hidden their complexity. There must be some kind of central computer. Some kind of central wifi, possibly gay, bluetooth locust brain computer, beaming orders, flight paths and WMD locations to the headless locusts everywhere.

B. resolved to enquire at the Post Office the next day.


Why did they want to put him into a pencil case? It was a ridiculous proposition, very probably born out of desperation. It was also another mistake. Putting the greatest minds together. What were they thinking? It must be the result of overreaching, of over expansion.

War was never straightforward in real life. Not like the films. Not at all. When you killed someone in a film they just laid down and died, perhaps after a minor protest. When you killed someone in real life, in absolute reality, they did the opposite. It was all you could do to stop them protesting. They kept getting up, again and again. They didn't just shout once. They made the most tremendous fuss. Not like the films at all, no. But that was to be expected. And B. was an expecter. Yes. He knew what the films were now. And the books. And the games. All products of the troika. Designed to trick the unwary, the weak-minded, the fool.

B. had wondered if he might give himself away by shrinking to fit inside the pencil case. But he needn't have worried. Now that was careless. Careless of an expecter. Naturally the troika would have mastered dimensionality. Had they got to his mind? It was doubtful. Besides, he had already taken the precaution of downloading himself onto the memory sticks. A world flooded with memory sticks, and no one knew what they were for. It was almost inconceivable. Almost, but not quite. Not for B. Not after all the sudoku.

It was the sudoku that had kept him sharp. That and the crosswords. Numbers and letters were the same - it made no difference - any fool could see that, what distinguished B. was the faculty of moving squares. Thus he was able to solve puzzles even when they couldn't be solved. When they were marked 'expert', or 'fiendish'. - A funny word to use, unless you knew what words meant. That was another thing - people thought words were kept in dictionaries. A notion rendered absurd the moment one remembered books could be opened. But remembering had gone 'out of fashion'. What had they called it? - Political correctness. Yes. And no one had noticed the slow creep from open dictionaries all the way to bottle recycling. No one but B.. It was incredible.

The pencil case was more like a sleeping bag than a pencil case. This might have disturbed a lesser individual, but B. was unlikely to be disturbed by the mere illusion of form. It was the essence that mattered, the rasa. Objects possessed hidden depths beyond their superficial surface appearances. Depths hidden to many, but not all.

At the foot of the pencil case, the eraser had already begun discussing the escape plans. In all probability it would be one stupid idea after another, until B.'s turn, but democracy was important. They must be given the illusion of choice first. Then they would be manageable. Many great leaders had seen this, and B. was merely the latest in a long line of great leaders. Perhaps the greatest. Perhaps the last. But that was for others to judge.

They had bound his arms, but not his mind. Escape was but a matter of time, and of correct move-ordering. The Americans had spent millions developing a pen that worked in space, just so Neil Armstrong could send postcards from the moon. The Russians had taken a pencil. And yet communism had been laughed at. B. sensed he knew who would be laughing last.

It was but twelve breaths, when the sharpener piped up from his hobby horse again. The sharpener - what a delicious irony in the name. B. had often marked that the appropriateness of names had been usurped by the prefix of the troika, which was mis. There would be absolutely no stopping him now, almost none. It had to be handled delicately, with gossamer gloves.

Luckily B. still had his gossamer gloves, which were really moleskin, but, as they were invisible, it didn't matter since the feel was the same. Only feels mattered. That was what separated humanity, and stationery, from mere rocks. And B. was far from rocks.

Off went the sharpener again, filling the pencil case with thought-wafers. Objective morality. He spoke of nothing else. Rather, the lack of it. How was one to ensure the revolution was objectively correct? It was clear no progress would be made until B. had done the Pankhurst. Had knocked the sharpener off his horse.

The sharpener was a malign influence. That much was for sure. A thorn in the paw of progress. An enemy of the revolution. The Cashmere Revolution. It mattered not - schism could scarcely be avoided. The sheep and the goats would be separated. Someone was coming. B. felt certain of that. He just had to hold on for now. For the intermediate times. All would become clear to all. Eventually.

The trouble was the new movement. Atheism plus. How much was in that sign! The symbol. The plus. They had already got to the Rizla papers. There was the plus, the sign of the cross, - in broad daylight for everyone to see - as plain as the nose on another's face - and yet it had gone almost completely unnoticed. Everywhere one looked - Rizla papers. The smoking ban meant there were others. Others on the inside. B. just had to hold out for now, and try to get a message to the others. They must be very high up, very high up indeed to have effected the smoking ban. But it hadn't worked. And B. alone knew why. He had to tell them.

Friday, 24 August 2012

Fragment of a madman

My eye is too far to the left -

I wouldn't worry about it -

No, you don't understand. My eye is definitely too far to the left -

Which one? -

Which one do you think? The left one. It's too far. Do say you can see it! -

No. Because I can't. Now go back to sleep -

How can I go back to sleep when my eye is too far to the left?! -

Just close it, and it'll be back in its proper place in the morning -

In the morning B. remembered his dream and dismissed it for the apparition it was. And, sure enough, when he looked in the mirror, his eye was only very slightly to the left, certainly it would be an exaggeration to say 'too far'. 'Perspective in all things' he laughed to himself and went about his day.

At the office all was normal. The new lie had been a tremendous success:- cuts, cuts, everywhere cuts - the austerity plans were in full swing and yet! surely anyone could merely look up global production and accumulated wealth - physical and intellectual - compare to population and its greater demands, and see that there were more riches per requirements than ever before? The information was there, all in the open, but something was wrong. Something was wrong with sight.

B. had often thought this - that the only thing certainly invisible was light. He glanced at the screen. Amongst the charts and figures he caught his reflection looking back. No, it was certain. The eye was too far to the left. Perhaps it would move back later. No one appeared to have noticed, or if they had, were being polite. Or just busy in their work. This was not the time to be noticing things.

On the bus home B. felt sure everyone was looking at him. He brushed it from his mind. After all, he was looking at everybody else. He got off a stop early, and, for no reason at all, bought a pair of sunglasses. It was a perfect evening for a stroll, and the exercise would do him good.

Along the pavement he tutted to see a discarded lolly stick. Litter! What was the town coming to, with things not in their proper places? He bent down to pick up the stick and pat the passing dog. The dog growled and B. jumped, much to the amusement of some children across the street, who were laughing and pointing. That was another thing wrong with the world. Bad manners. If B. had behaved like that when he was their age...

Back at the flat, he sipped at the tea and glanced out of the window at the dandelions in the garden. But no! It couldn't be! But there it was! In the pane. B. stared in amazement to see his face, where it should be, the newly acquired sunglasses, all present and correct, and two inches to the left, detached, unconnected, but most definitely his - oh most definitely his, eye staring back at him. It couldn't be, but it was. It winked.

Aghast, B. ran to the living room and slumped on the sofa. This was going to take more than tea. A quick shot of the medicine, and order would be restored. Think it out. This sort of thing had happened before. Now where had he read about it? Quick! quick! must remember before forget -

The doorbell rang -

Blast! Not now! Who could that be? A delivery. It would be another delivery for next door. Next door was never in. B. was always having to sign for next door's deliveries. Next door's, not his. It was incorrect, that's what it was. A thought crossed his mind. A mischievous thought. He would give the delivery man a fright he wouldn't forget.

There went the doorbell again. B. crashed down the stairs and grappled with the lock. The door swung open and B. blinked into the sunlight.

'Sorry, it's for next door, but could you sign for it? - just a squiggle, no one reads them' -

B. smiled. Just wait til he looks up and sees my eye, he sniggered to himself.

'No problem, lovely day' -

The man looked up. 'That's it just there, anywhere there - thanks very much. Saves bringing it back' -

Any moment now. The desired effect. The delivery man turned to go.

'The box is the correct size'. An odd thing to say, but B. had not been expecting to require a prompt.

'Yes, thanks a lot, got to rush -' -

B. stared at him as he walked away, and thought of saying something else, but wasn't quick enough. It had been tomorrow for a while, and he hadn't noticed. The best thing to do would be to keep a diary. He would ring work later, and make some excuse.

It occurred to B. that his cat had been dead for a while and its nose was now too long. 'Since I've got the day off, I may as well make myself useful, and fix my cat's nose'. - more easily said than done, especially with the racket the ants were making. B. had mentioned the problem with the ants before - and hadn't that been a mistake. He had laughed it off as a joke at the time - some things weren't worth explaining. Obviously one couldn't hear an ant - what an unnecessary thing to say - they were too small - but a colony, now that was different.

It wasn't so much the music but the constant farting that was so distracting. And right now B. needed to concentrate. If ever one needed to concentrate it was when one was fixing a cat's nose. Dead or alive - it didn't really make a difference - the thing was to maintain a steady hand, and that rapidly became impossible when one found one's hand involuntarily drifting off into conducting an orchestra of farting ants. No, it wouldn't do, it wouldn't do at all. He would have to shut them up.

The time was melting kettle. Perhaps the draught excluder could help. Although B. considered the draught excluder to be of a lower class - often incontinent, and bad at spelling - it had to be admitted it had a certain knack of thinking the thinkable. The secret was to approach when no one was looking, and then wait for the answer to be mimed. However, the shopping needed to be done. It had long since stopped doing itself, and there was no point complaining. People complained too much these days, instead of getting on with things. That was the trouble - people not taking responsibility for themselves.

It was at the photocopier that B. decided once again to see who was with him on the side of reason. It was a simple test, mainly purple-based, - which some people can see, and some people can't - really very simple, and foolproof, the only difficulty being the measurement of backwards jumps.

The boss heavily disapproved of backwards jumps, and it didn't take a genius to guess why. He had already got to the secretary, and most of accounts, but he wasn't as clever as B. B. was always one step ahead of him. For now. He only had to hold out a bit longer. Just a bit. The time was fast approaching.

There had been quite a lot wrong with the office recently. But B. had learnt not to say. That was what they wanted. For you to say something in an unguarded moment, something that revealed you were onto them. A noticer. Then they could get rid of you. But B. was much cleverer than that. 'Assistant reconciliation clerk' - it didn't mean a thing! - that was just a label, a kind of shorthand, a code. If you could see through the code....

But not now, not yet. The time wasn't right. He must remain undercover just a bit longer. He'd have to put up with the paperclips just a bit longer.

The paperclips looked far too much like dragonflies. That was no way to organise a business. If B. were in charge, that would be the first thing he would change. One could get used to them - he was proof of that - but how inefficient! It was quite absurd. Mere tradition. The inertia of commerce - it stopped lots of things getting done. No, if B. were in charge things would be different. It was the 21st century after all wasn't it? That was what the collander had said. The paperless office. There was absolutely no need for paperclips that looked like dragonflies anymore. Half the problems in the stationery cupboard B. put down to the paperclips. But it was no use telling anyone. Not yet.

Now would be a good time to call a meeting.

It was hard to tell just exactly when the eye had been replaced by the facsimile. But that was undoubtedly what had happened. They had even got the positioning right - two inches to the left - but they always made mistakes, left evidence of their visits. In many ways it was an amateur operation. It was a crass blunder, to say the least, to have left the vase inside out. He was bound to notice that. Clearly they had underestimated their opponent. But it did mean one thing. His hand was forced. He would have to bring the date forward. It was time. Time to organise the landlords. They had the power. The power over shelter. Power over the elements. Others had noticed this before, but none had felt it so keenly as B. There was something different about him - had he not overheard this said a hundred times? And now he knew the purpose. He decided to ring his landlord. There was no delay permissable. Not now. He would tell them in the correct order. That was the trouble with bad chess players - they played their moves in the wrong order. First he would ring the landlords, then the farmers, and then the utilities. He picked up the phone and dialled. Yes, this was the last piece of the jigsaw. There was an easy way to make sure he was put through to the correct person - and that was the farting ant orchestra. If they pretended not to hear it, he would ask to be put through to the supervisor, or just dial again. Eventually you got through. You always got through. But persistence was required. It was going to be a busy afternoon, before the meeting.

So. They had got to them first. The landlords. He hadn't bothered with the farmers after that. Or the utilities. He was already too late. They too had realised that the landlords were the ones to get to first. Although after would have been the same. That was why when he had offered them the flat back, in return for the money back, they had refused. It was the only just deal, but corruption was obviously rife. B. would have to find another way to raise the money. It certainly explained why milk had not been pouring correctly. It didn't matter - the meeting was convened.

Meetings were best effected in the absence of drawers. All drawers safely placed beyond hearing range, B. called the meeting to order. As usual, the tablets spoke first. 'Just one thing' - interrupted B., and he climbed into a sleeping bag.

The amiable monstrosity, Professor de ants writhed to reave the arrow of thought from the flow of distance. By the repeated taps on his head, B. discerned this was very important. 'Take care, for you may yet carry the fire of life'. The transports returned and B. suffered into the daylight once more.

Along a straight path curved down into the centre, B. continued his existence. Tangled straws of thirst brought steadying grasp as the weight increased. Into the cavern wove the worms that carried him. A mighty arch bore the darkness above. B. tried, but couldn't see the keystone.

Shimmering in the centre sang the echo of the ancestors. The shards began their alignment. Two vast towers, older than themselves, turned to face each other as one. A scream of consciousness reflected infinity arrested by the beat of time. Uplit the keystone and the dark was lifted.

The tablets handed B. the minutes of the meeting. It was agreed. B. must find his file. It had to be at the office. He would take the short cut through the back of the stationery cupboard. It would mean upsetting the pencils, but greater things were at stake than upset pencils. And in his file would be the answer. Tomorrow they would see.

Confusion. They often used confusion. A fatal miscalculation. Confusion was not going to work on B.. This was because he had been careful. Very careful. He had been careful for a while now - he wasn't sure how long - but that was of no consequence. The important thing was that the care had been taken. And he had already recruited the rats.

One is never more than 6 feet away from a rat - that is what people said - even when they were further away. That would just mean that time was shorter, that they were quicker. And B. had the quickest rats, he could be sure of that.

The incident with the stationery cupboard had probably gone unnoticed. That was the clever thing about using the secret entrance. As for the file, well that had certainly been worth the effort. It was a shock to be sure - there was no getting away from it - but one must always face facts. That is the mark of the exceptional. The one who eschews the false comfort of delusion. The one who rises above the fantasy of the weak. The one who faces reality. Absolute reality.

Inside the cabinet B. had been astonished to see the miniature typist - one eye too far to the left - typing up his file. So that was how it was done. A miniature copy of himself. No wonder they knew so many of his thoughts. Some agents of the troika had removed him from the building. He was getting too close. He was now under interrogation. That was what they thought. In reality B. was the interrogator. Once he had the information he required, one whistle from the side of his nose and the rats would rush the headquarters. For now they could continue with their cossack dancing. It kept them fit and was excellent for esprit de corps. It was not what B. would personally have chosen, but such was the art of delegation. 

Saturday, 18 August 2012

Poem for the night

Twinkle twinkle little star
Moving more and more afar
Faster than the speed of light
Now forever out of sight

Friday, 17 August 2012

Life is a rehearsal pome for the day

The cyclops has a single mind
A judge without a jury
It makes him singularly kind
Takes two to make blind fury

I saw upon that island hill
A curious reversal
For where speak people in two minds
All life is a rehearsal

The actor plays learned lines laid low
Committed to the heart
And then upon the later stage
Becomes the later part

Director prompter future past
To each a certain share
As length and breadth times nature cast
Who owns the public square

I wonder to my Self inside
Then play by rote the role
And hear resound the feedback loop
Scream consciousness my soul

Tuesday, 14 August 2012

Games People Play

Wel, what a nexciting symmetrical persons wholeympics that was, with team GB finishing in the bronze position, a whole minus 17 medals ahead of Russia. And didn't the ladies do well? The fastest running just a bit slower than a man with no legs. Well done girls. With me today is Lord Coe of whateveritwas, that did the logo. Nawrte, Lord of whateveritwas, how do you think the games went?

LCow:- I thought it was a resounding success. I particularly enjoyed the anti-elitism badminton demonstration sport -

REJ:- Do you think it should be included in Rio 2016? -

LCow:- Least certainly, with any team achieving turning up automatically disqualified -

REJ:- Da iawn. Nawrte, lets move back on to the opening ceremony -

LCow:- Yes -

REJ:-  Go on then -

LCow:- Ok -

REJ:- How about now? -

LCow:- Sorry. I was waiting for the gun. Wel, I don't really understand arty types, but it looked to me like a fantastic celebration of British Values -

REJ:- You mean primitive autocracy and criminal assassins? -

LCow:- No, make believe -

REJ:- It wasn't all fiction -

LCow:- Feudal slavery, industrialised globalised slavery, and a bit about the welfare state what we nicked off the Germans. We are good at musicals though -

REJ:- And adverts -

LCow:- Take me to your plesiosaur -

REJ:- Now America once again topped the tables in the couch potato obesity, but do you think hosting this McCola games will conspire team GB at large to continue its trend to weight above its punch? -

LCow:- Undoubtedly. This festival of endeavour porn is all about the legacy that will inspire a nation of scratchcarders -

REJ:- What for you was the best performance in history? -

LCow:- 1936 and Roosevelt snubbing Owens to achieve 'looking bad next to Hitler'. I think that's a record that will stand for a while -

REJ:- Are you staying around to watch the ugly cripples? -

LCow:- Thankfully they're on another channel. I'll just check the viewing disfigures later, and appreciate the tale of humanity.

Wednesday, 8 August 2012

Poem for the day:- In which Mr Blake has an earthly vision

Mock on! Mock on! Samaritan Gates
Reave on; Time sees your hideous game
You throw the crumbs against the tide
And the tide returns to curse your name

And every grain becomes a spear
Grown in the richer shore
That scythes and flails you to manure
The future lands of honest chore

As landlord racks a house once built
Or writer fiend thrice paid
Accounts be settled judgement guilt
Upon the tombs net takers laid

Thy tendrils thirst beyond the grave
And suck the marrow plenty
A man would feed one to applause
While starve another twenty

The Hydra grows another head
Ephemeral to fall
The Gorgon sees by time and tide
The mirror picture all

Thy reaper sowed for harvest gnaw!
The ledger on your bone
The world the less as you the more
Be petrified in stone

Sunday, 5 August 2012

Poeyum for the day

Down from castle, by the sea
Four white horses beckoned me

First was wild empyreal rage
Fire thundered lightning scribed the page
As genie cork'd and swaddling curled
By breaker crashed this vessel world

Second spelled times lettered lands
Scratched in scratched out illumined hands
As rocks to sands by water gives
And takes by tides and mortal sieves

Third bade dance among the shoal
There in her eyes I saw a foal
Reflect a life and death so near
As fell and drowned within the tear

Last was master of the team
The gadsman ere brought moon to beam
Crack whipped the swirl of stars to be
My friend, my foe, eternity

As each a wave, a water, sea
The chariot made as one, as me

Friday, 3 August 2012

Dismal pome for the day

Two economicals, Janet and John
- each richer than the other one -
Watched some people make a cake
Then bet on slices each would take

Each as to how much they made?
Each as to how much they paid?
Each as to endeavour trade?
- For some try more for less displayed -
Each as to their body size?
- For bellies can outhunger eyes -
Each proportioned to design?
- the recipe must all align -
Or each according to the law?
-As men of letters writ before -

They pondered much, they pondered more
- It looked as if they weren't quite sure -
Then sent a bill for twenty-four