Ain’t so good to blow your own fuse.

  

 

She was built like a brick outhouse

Ya,born with a silver spoon in her mouth

Her momma was like an old brown mouse

And her pa was just a slimy stuck up louse.

She was built like an old outhouse

On the top, sharp eyed vultures used to roost

Her brother has gone for a Dead Sea cruise

Her sister wants to let all hell break loose.

 

She was in for life with those smart spooks

A creepy horror in every nook

Her ma never learned her how to cook

She ain’t never even read a single book.

 

No aphrodisiac ain’t of much use

When the true Furies are on the loose.

Do what you can to cook thet goose

Ain’t so good to blow your own fuse.

 

No,those Furies are on the ball

They come looking for us one an’ all.

Keep your face hid and your ego small…

What’s thet dark shadow on your  wall?

And on blue Cleveland Hills

 

 

Coats on the hall stand
Smelling of you;
Coats on the hall stand
Some are mine too.

Hats on the top hooks
Caps that you wore.
Now where you’ve gone
You will need them no more.

My hats will be puzzled,
Hanging there all alone
Now when I see yours
My heart feels like stone.

I found some of your shoes
All covered with green
Now they’re in the bin bag
No more to be seen.

I found half  your pyjamas
The rest are all gone.
I wonder where these hid,
Where’ve they come from?

Last night in my dreams
You were right by my side
We were cleaning the oven
With brillo and Tide.

But when I awakened
No glimpse did I see.
Except looking slantwise
Towards the red  maple tree,

Why did you leave me?
Why did you go?
I held your left hand
And fondled it so.

Come back to your loved one
Don’t leave me alone.
I don’t want to live
Just to hear myself groan.

Touch me with your fingers
Melt my poor, sad, lone heart
I let go of your hand~
Then the agony starts.

Up north in old Richmond
And on blue Cleveland Hills
I’ll remember your dear face
As my eyes with tears fill.

I will lift up mine eyes
To the hills where my strength
Comes down from the Heavens
Endless in length.

Stronger than granite,
Stronger than steel,
Stronger than silver
Is the love that I feel.

Stronger than iron;
Stronger than gold;
Stronger is my love,
For the one I once held.

No ,he was not a Christian

Why did Jesus have no shoes?
He had sent his soles to be heeled.

Why was Jesus kind to sinners?
Because they were not hypocrites

Did Jesus go to church on Sundays?
No ,he was not a Christian

Did Jesus have a nuclear family?
God the Father and  the Holy Spirit.
Was he an only child?
GOK

Why did Jesus not wear trousers?
Jewish tailoring had not got that far 2,000 years ago.

Did Jesus drive a car?
Drive a car what?

Did Jesus write letters?
They had no Royal Mail then and soon we shan’t either.

Why did Jesus go to a comprehensive school?
He wanted to widen his appeal.

Did Jesus iron his clothes?
It was before the Iron Age.

 

How about this atom bomb here in my pocket?
Please, let it drop,I beg you

The News

dsc00069-1-1The entire population of the UK is moving to Uganda.
Great Britain is being turned into a Nature Trail.
Westminster Bridge is being moved to  the Niagara Falls
Or is it Nicaragua?
St Paul’s Cathedral is going to Damascus
St Paul was a romantic poet who burned with no flame
The Queen is having a baby.Next week
The Vatican is being moved to Nairobi
Mystics are wanted .We will arrest you soon
London Buses are still read.
King’s Cross is Henry V111th
Enfield Wash in the River Lea.
Epping Forest is being moved to the Sahara.
Elsynge Palace will be rebuilt in the Gaza Strip where they tear gas!
Theresa May has entered a nunnery.
A new public convenience is being built in Scotland Yard.Can we hang on?
If you want Marks and Spencer it is in Transylvania
I am building  a border with barbed wire in my garden so I will know how to cross it

 

In the pink.

Not dead yet” was a phrase that was part of a comic act here on TV… it’s that odd humour here in England.

If we meet we say:Who are you?

And this is what we answer

Fine thanks.In the pink.

  • Feeling groovy.
    Could be worse I suppose.
    Think I’ve got that bug that’s going round the Food Bank
    Still here…give is a wink
    Still alive,apparently
    I flunked.
    I am in the theatre.Pass the needle,nurse.
    I would have fallen over in front of a bus except the dog would miss me.Besides I am the driver
    Not dead yet.Must try harder
    Could be better at maths if she learned to read first
    Why do you frisk?
    Have we been i traduced?
    You look vaguely familiar.Are we married?
    I think I met you once on the Underground.
    How unkind of you to ask.
    Is that cat glued to your head or is it  a transplant?
    Do you come here  frequently
    How did you say you care?
    Have we met or are  you  on TV? Did you see me?
    I’ve booked a hotel in that place that’s been flooded.Bow wow wow are you?
    I say,old boy.How nice you asked.I’m fine I just got married again..I I have a lot more news…..ah,well.I never liked him much really,the bastard.
    Where have you been all my strife?
    Do you know everyone leers?
    Are you hiding anything? I can only see yout eyes.You seem to have three.
    I can see gold lights all over the place.Is it Xmas?

Art and poetry

https://www.tate.org.uk/research/publications/in-focus/pegwell-bay-kent-william-dyce/art-and-poetry

 

IN FOCUS

Art and Poetry

FIONA STAFFORD

“When William Dyce visited Rome, he was astonished: ‘In truth, to me Rome was a kind of living poem, which the soul read unceasingly, with the soothed sense which poetry inspires’.1 In comparison with the bracing climate and rather more austere architecture of Aberdeen where Dyce had grown up, the warmth, colour and sheer magnificence of the Eternal City was overwhelming. To describe it as ‘a kind of living poem’, however, suggests not just the visual artist’s acute perception of the city’s distinctive appearance, but also a deep sensitivity to the overall tone, history and special atmosphere. Dyce first travelled there in 1825, a year after the poet Lord Byron’s death. Born in 1806, Dyce was only a few years younger than the poets John Keats and Percy Bysshe Shelley, so recently buried at the Protestant Cemetery when Dyce made his initial visit to Rome. He was thus part of an era in which the very idea of ‘poetry’ was broad enough to encompass any imaginative response to the world, enabling Shelley to include Raphael beside Homer, Tasso and Bacon in stirring references to the ‘greatest poets’ of all time.2Artists of the Romantic period could rise as readily as writers to the ideals articulated by Samuel Taylor Coleridge in 1817, in praise of Wordsworth’s poetry:

It was the union of deep feeling with profound thought; the fine balance of truth in observing with the imaginative faculty in modifying the objects observed; and above all the original gift of spreading the tone, the atmosphere, and with it the depth and height of the ideal world, around forms, incidents, and situations, of which, for the common view, custom had bedimmed all the lustre, had dried up the sparkle and the dewdrops.3

For Dyce to describe Rome as a ‘living poem’ would not have seemed odd to those nurtured on the grand ideals of the Romantic period, and although subsequent decades saw a diminishing faith in poetry, and indeed much else, the influence of Coleridge, Wordsworth and other stars of Dyce’s formative firmament continued to be felt. John Ruskin, for example, presenting a Victorian readership with Modern Painters (1843–60), still drew inspiration from Wordsworth, including more quotations from the elderly poet laureate than any other source. The third volume, published in 1856, was prefaced by lines from Wordsworth’s The Excursion (1814), lamenting the modern tendency to neglect the soul, which Ruskin considered as relevant to readers of the mid-century as to those four decades before. Modern painters, he suggested, should look to Wordsworth for inspiration in the fullest, most spiritual sense. Dyce’s own analogy between the experience of visiting Rome and the ‘soothed sense which poetry inspires’ could only have been made by a poetry lover, and throughout his artistic career he frequently chose subjects with literary dimensions. From his early sketch of Puck 1825 (Aberdeen Art Gallery and Museums, Aberdeen) to his late portrait of George Herbert at Bemerton c.1860 (Guildhall Art Gallery, London), Dyce demonstrated his interest in poetry; but even works less obviously indebted to specific sources often suggest a deeply literary sensibility. As the Art-Union observed approvingly in 1844, he was one of the few modern British painters who considered it ‘as much their duty to read and think as to draw and paint’.”