Category Archives: Nonsense

Harvey and the flying machine

Ahhh..I am so tired. But, a story I will tell you,  for your little ones.

Harvey, of rabbit fame, thought himself a rakish Jack of Knaves. Such a suave countenance should by no means go unheralded. He built himself up to be a legend in his own mind. “I am Legend”, he said, having heard that somewhere before. He made himself a hat of green felt with a snakeskin band and a feather stuck into it. “Hah! A feather in my cap! Always knew it!” he said, as he carefully fitted it and pulled it down over one eyebrow. Then, clapping his hands gleefully in front of his full length mirror, he gave his moustache a Dali twirl to complete the picture.

Just last night, he had had a dream in which a thing instructed him in the building of a contraption that would endow him with the freedom of flight. What is more, it suggested to Harvey that, if he embarked on his maiden flight at a certain hour on a certain night, he would gain the means to become The Power, and would rule over all the hamlet of Glynn, neatly nestled on the shady side of the mountain and down into the Valley of Dim.

As we know, Harvey was an excitable lad, and grandiose dreams such as this one do not happen all that often to us earthlings.  “Yes.  Yes!”, he said to himself.  “I can build the machine.  But what am I to do in the middle of some godforsaken night while putting around the rooftops of Glynn?”  Three more days went by, and The Date was but a week away, when Harvey was favored with chapter two of the machine dream.

The marvellous contraption, if built correctly, would provide Harvey with more lift and hovering power than he would need, and, best of all, it would fly in absolute silence.
That was important, as you shall find out in a minute.  The dream thing told Harvey that he was to build a small box of brass with a hinged lid that could be locked.  He was to take this with him on the flight.  “And, at three of the Wee” it said “Ye shall touch each tree.  And then, ye shall light on each chimiNEY.  Open ye box, collect a second of its smoke, see?  Close fast the lock on the lid, then go ye to the next, ’til all is done.  Aye, it is thirty and nine, hear me?  I’ll tell ye more, the night before.”

Harvey went into Glynn in his finest outfit, feather in hat, smiling and saying Halloo to everyone he met.  He collected all of the peculiar things he would need for his tinkering, and pedalled back home, pulling his little cart behind him.  By Caturday’s Eve, all was ready, and Harvey indeed was surprised and excited because he had piloted his “Dragonflyer” on a short maiden flight.  He went to bed early, without tea, for he knew he had to be alert and ready in the wee hours of the morning.  Besides, and more importantly, a dream story was yet to be told.

¶n the chimney smokes of Glynn (his dream master said) dwelt the darkest secrets of every man and woman therein.  Harvey’s box of brass would be the collector of those secrets, and he would hold The Power of their knowledge.  He need only speak discretely to a few of the townsfolk.   When it became clear that Harvey knew things, it would not be long before he could install himself as The Grandee of Glynn, or so he thought.

In the darkness of Caturday’s Eve, the flight of his Dragonflyer was true, and before dawnlight, Harvey’s deed was done.  All was still, until the mutterings of thunder were heard.  A seed of panic was planted in Harvey’s mind, and he set off homebound with haste.  But, as we know, persons who have bad intentions seldom succeed.  The dragon contraption flew as promised until the sizzling bolts of lightning shot their spears at the unfortunate pilot, and one could see his panicked progress in the strobelights of the storm.

All at once, a stray bolt struck the brass box! Harvey was stunned but not electrocuted, because of the thick gloves he had worn against the soot and heat of the chimneys. But the force of the bolt threw him and his box out of the craft, toppling them a hundred feet into a mound of hay bales by his barn. The dragon flew away, doing crazy pirouettes in the dawn sky.

Sore and disheveled, Harvey found the box and went into his house.  The box was still locked. He set it on his kitchen table, then decided to go upstairs for a much needed rest (even though it was broad day).

That same morning, while Harvey was snoring upstairs, the people of Glynn were waking up a little later than they usually did.  Their little children were, of course, up at their normal time, that being the crack of dawn, but they could not wake their snoozy parents until some time later.  That was because something curious had happened during the night.  For some reason, all of the Moms and Dads felt strangely light, as if a weight had been taken from their shoulders.  They were happier than they had been for many a year.  Of course, that was simply because not one of them could remember the secrets they once held, or the sins they might have committed.  When they went out into the streets, they greeted neighbors they had not spoken to for a time because of remembered grudges that were now swept away.

As for Harvey, well… he smelled smoke, and then he began to feel very peculiar.  Downstairs he went, to discover that the brass box had flipped its lid.  Its secret smokes had inundated his house, and he had already breathed in too much of them for his own good.  He ran for the door and threw it open, then the windows!  Harvey slumped into his old livingroom chair and, if you were a little mouse or a fly on the wall, you would have seen his eyes bulge, his hands quiver, and his head shake back and forth.  He muttered strange words that were like a foreign language, then ran out in his striped pyjamas.

It turned out that his flying machine had, after doing various accidental manoeuvers ,
fallen into the same pile of hay that had saved Harvey.  Still shaking and muttering in his blue pyjamas, he got onto it and took flight into the wild blue yonder.

Harvey was never seen again, and Pandora rolled over in her grave.

Mister M.

 

 

We mumbles,
yes we mumbles,
and oftentimes we screams.
Depends a lot on Mister “M”,
Director of our dreams.

We stumbles and we fumbles,
through the achy breaky pains.
And he always makes us stay inside,
excepting when it rains.

Now, quite a skimpy imp he is,
but never is he humble.
He Keeps us down and out of it,
no matter how we grumble.

He takes delight in malady
and worthiness a-crumble.
Remembrance of normality
has taken quite a tumble.

We hear that even Superman
could not defeat the imp.
We’ve got to learn to think again
to cure us of its gimp.

So, fight its stories drear and dark,
and give it no more place.
Unhappiness, his mortal mark,
may leave but little trace.

25: Go ask Alice

mmm..
was it that hot dog I had off the coffee truck?
wrapped in plastic
smelled a little funky
ate it anyway
found a peanut, found a peanut
found a peanut last night
dee leery
del eerie
delirium I am in, that’s it
-why are my toes so far away?
cords of gristle connecting to ankle pulleys
oh man
gotta gotta get outa bed
I have too much juice
-where’s the floor? there’s only an escalator
always a scared of those things, no confidence
-does my Auntie dote on me?
-hahaha what is the antidote?
step on the steps, fool
move your legs in the proper rhythm
oh geez here we go-
but I am too speedy
the escalator must be stopped for repairs
and I do a smashmouth on the doorknob.
oh momma momma this is real
one tooth too short, the rest is up my nose
bright blood on two of my hands
take away take away show in the light
this must be the antidote
it is a technical knockout
bye bye

These aren’t the ‘roids you’re looking for

hey!

I just got back from pikkapak

and I don’t know why I came.

It’s an asteroidy bric-a-brac

like in the viddy game.

It’s big enough to have some fun

but you gotta come out early

(just before the morning sun)

to catch the hurly-burly.

Their party time is two-four-seven,

and no one ever sleeps.

And nobody will go to heaven,

but no one ever weeps.

Now, if you’d like to visit there

to wash away your worry,

well…brush your teeth and comb your hair

and get dressed in a hurry!

The next conveyance leaves at five.

Be waiting at the station!

And try your best to look alive

to pass examination!

This thing

He waits for me, each night,
of late,
in the cottony caves ‘twixt longer dreams.
The script:
I’ll be born once more from ectoplasm,
and flutter down on nightwings,
like settling leaves in the cease of the breeze.
He knows I come.
That I can’t stay away.
But I always wish to startle him,
so I slide,
a form of translucent grey,
across his stalactite ceiling.
But he smells me
and smiles a slow smile.
Bovine, feline, canine by turns.
In the voice of The Rock Biter, he says
PULL UP A CHAIR.
Of what form will he be tonight?
Sometimes, we play the name game.
Threenight ago, he was ratlike, but stood erect.
In his black top hat, he spoke sneering syllables,
saying he had eaten five pies and I was to guess his name.
His scaly tail twitched and whipped,
and his sharp yellow teeth champed at the bit
until I said
nimmy nimmy nit not, your name is Tom Tit-Tot.
His eyes grew wide and bloodshot,
and he reached forth with chickenfoot hands.
Screeching in the rat language, he ran about,
like a balloon let go and blubbering out its air.
And impaled himself upon a stalagmite.
I went home.
Just last night, he was all in white feathers,
and was duck-billed.
He wore a blue vest with brass buttons,
and had a sailor’s cap.
I said Where are your pants, Donald?
Whereupon he let out a loud quaaaack,
and pounded on the table.
Whereupon all things bright and beautiful winked out.
And tonight?
Ah yes, tonight.
I must tell you this, writing as it is, from the Seventh Circle.
Tonight, I parachuted as usual, down from his spiny ceiling.
All is damp dripping darkness,
but, in a far corner, there is a golden light.
I hear a rhythmic squeaking, and someone hums along with it.
There sits a small creature, sitting on a stool beside a spinning wheel.
Piles of gold surround him.
PULL UP A CHAIR!  it says.
We’ve much to discuss!
Topics of import, like
is tea better than coffee?
is an apple better than an orange?
what happens to a bubble if it is left to float undisturbed?
if you collect the powder from a moth’s wings,
can you be made to fly?
We mull it over.
Prevaricate.
Debate.
But, it is tiring, discussing such worldly things.
There are no clear answers.
We begin to yawn widely, ready for the second sleep.
I say By the way, you look a little rumpled tonight, Stiltskin.
Whereupon he takes off his pointy hat, throws it at me,
and stamps with one foot on the stony floor.
Our world bursts asunder, and our feet go from under.
Into abyss we tumble, grabbing and grappling,
but all is gossamer.

On editing a post..

I dream of scissorhands.
In this dream, I wake.
I see shredded bedsheets.
Flying feathers.
Bulging batting from my mattress.
My wife stands by the bedside,
saucer-eyed and staring.
These new prosthetics…
She points to the front yard in black night.
Go and trim the shrubbery she says.
I go out, clanking in dangling pajamas.
I know the one she means…
It’s a twenty footer, my pride and joy.
I grew it from seed, I think.
How old am I ?
But it is unruly.
Top heavy, jutting this way and that, like a bad haircut.
I set to work with my digital glittering knives.
(Always liked the sound of scissors, close by the ear,
warm barber’s hands)
I snip and slice and nip, so nice.
What will we see, in the lights of day?
We wonders, yes we wonders.
After all, you’re keeping me in the dark.

Overture

Somewhere I have seen
(Perhaps you know where?)
A parody of a grand theatrical overture.
The thrilling theme lulls to a quiet.
The room lights dim.
The brocaded velvet curtains draw slowly open.
It’s apparent there’s a double, even treble,
Layering of these dastardly drapes,
Each one drawn open more slowly than the last.
No!  Three was not enough; there’s seven or eight.
Finally, in the hushed dark, we are treated to the sight:
A tiny figure, munchkin sized, in a dim grey spotlight.
Dressed in top hat and tux, with a monocle.
The Planter’s Peanut Man comes to mind.
He speaks, in a circus barker’s bellow,
Of the delights we are about to witness.
Challenges us that we are to give a true interpretation of each act
Before we are permitted to see the next.
Promises us that, at the end of ends,
We will be filled with comfort and joy,
And the long night will be worth our while.

Regrettably, my little story is but a metaphor.
Contrived to tell, in an oblique manner,
Of one man’s nightly entrance to the theatre of sleep.
The “thrilling” theme of his wayward thoughts
Begins to quiet, from purposeful exhaustion.
Still fidgeting, he awaits the annoying short circuits to cease their sparks.
The house lights dim.
The curtain tricks begin, but are a little different for him:
Behind each lifted veil, there is a disconnected story.
Each, perhaps, a little more mad than the last,
With demented forms, clearly visible to the mind’s eye,
That he must piece together and make sense of
Before he is permitted the comfort of the lower circles of consciousness.
A dialogue with the peanut man (or his counterpart) is necessary,
And anxious answers must show a cunning resolve
Before the little man opens the next curtain.
At the last (if he gets there), there is a soft and somehow comforting dark.
A pale flagstone path begins to appear in front of him.
It winds a bit, and at its end there is something with a faint bluish glow.
The usual pain in his limbs has gone, but still he walks forward slowly,
Finding an inviting sofa, in plush black velvet, emitting the blue glow of a gas flame.
He knows to lie down.  It is pleasantly warm to the touch.
He listens to a most pleasing sound, like a purr, as he is enfolded
Deeply, in the arms of Morpheus.