A piece of doggerel prose in rhyming couplets for St George’s Day.
Durer’s St George and the Dragon. The crowned princess is lurking behind a rock. With a pig.
St George fought the dragon and killed it — or did he? Such doubt could make patriots go weak and quite giddy. Did he rescue a maiden and liberate a city like Perseus, it’s said, in ancient antiquity? Or is it a myth, a tale for the gullible from powerful leaders who claim they’re infallible?
The truth is that George has a past that is murky: perhaps Cappadocia (that’s now part of Turkey) or Palestine claims him. Yes, Christian martyr — but slayer of dragons? Well, that‘s a non-starter.
He’s patron of England, the Knights of the Garter, Teutonic Knights, Reichenau, Gozo and Malta. He’s chief saint of Portugal and also of Genoa, of Moscow and Beirut and, yes, Catalonia. God help us if they all decide to go fight, for how will George know who is wrong and who’s right?
Yet it’s the far right who often invoke him…
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The quality of spam is much declin’d.
It droppeth as the state of public discourse
Upon our eyes and ears is daily ‘smirched.
It blasteth him that gives and him that takes:
‘Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it ill becomes
The thronèd tweeter in his office,
Whose textspeak shows the force of ignorant power
(No attribute to awe and majesty)
Wherein doth sit his wanton spiteful thoughts.
But spamming sits below this septic sway;
It is embedded in the hearts of those
Who think to embody the soul of wit itself;
Their online power resembleth trolls’
Whose cruelty seasons hate.
If ever forced to try out swordplay
I’d fail to be a Cyrano.
And as for impro wordplay,
expecting puns? Oh, sirrah, no!
Clash of steel best fitting crossed swords
(whether epées, foils or rapiers),
flash of real wit suiting crosswords
(often met in broadsheet papers):
all would go from bad to worse
(same as when I’m writing verse).
I’m as like to win a duel as
write a gem fit for a jeweller’s.
Things come in threes: he’s about to drop her off at the shops when he realises he’s left his phone at home, so can’t liaise about where and when to meet up.
Next, after he’s filled up the car with petrol, he discovers his wallet is in his other man-bag. At home.
After some frantic running around the money problem is solved when he spots her coming out of a shop. But later, returning from a visit to the local library, he finds his everyday glasses are no longer on his nose — and the library isn’t open for another two days.
“Is it nearly time for the pillow over the head?’ she murmurs, sultrily. And so it begins.
She drew the diary from her shoulder bag, and its weight seemed portentous.
Feeling a sudden chill she picked up the poker with her other hand and stirred the glowing coals, breathing new life into the fire.
As if on impulse, she deftly threw the book into the flames.
Take that, 2016! she thought, fiercely.
Flash Fiction Fifty Five, a story made up of 55 words including the title
Original spam (provided by Lizzie Ross)
Asking questions are in fact fastidious thing if you are not understanding something completely, however this piece of writing gives good understanding even.
Spam transformed from Nonsense to Sense?
Asking questions are in! Fact!
Fastidious thing, if you are not understanding something completely!
However, this piece of writing gives good, understanding even!
• Thanks to Lizzie Ross for another entry in my first and only Spam Poetry Competition
Please note, the closing date for entries is the last day before eternity
Maps for transforming nonsense spam
Genuinely when someone doesn’t be aware of afterward its up to other users that they will assist,
so here it takes place.
Nonsense → Sense
Genuinely, when someone doesn’t?
Be aware of afterward!
It’s up to other users that they will assist so.
Here it takes place.
Acknowledgement: Lizzie Ross for competition submission
if some one searches
for his essential thing,
thus he/she wishes to be
that in detail,
so that thing is maintained
A recent, recycled entry in my ongoing spam poetry competition
Do you have a favourite bit of spoetry you think qualifies? Post it as a comment below; please note, it will only be considered if it ends up in my spam folder.
He’d never been close to death until then.
Yes, he’d seen dead bodies – his grandma, his father, a body in a road. True, this was death, but death as it had happened to others, deaths already tainted by premonitions of their passing or tinged with the innocent curiosity that characterises the young. This was not imminent death as it might apply to him: a moment of reckoning, a brief interval pointlessly proffered to put his house in order.
For those who’ve lived through it, even if memories have faded, the Cold War was a time of surviving on a precipice. Sometimes its edge visibly crumbled at one’s feet, as it did during the Cuba crisis. Sometimes there was just a feeling of vertiginous malaise watching grainy news footage of CND marchers, whether or not they were really cranks or communist stooges.
But one day death really came knocking at his door of his consciousness. It began with a huge hole opening up within his chest: this first inkling of dread was immediately followed by absolute certainty that this was the point of no return. There was rarely any sound – rather like newsreel and archive footage then – but instead a white light banishing all subtlety of shading or substance. The blinding was only temporary as the eye strained to make out a skyscape in which a growing and rapidly expanding organism gradually revealed itself. Sometimes it might be a roiling brain obscenely expanding upon its stem; or it might take the form of a superheated fungus, its cap haloed by multiplying lenticular clouds, the annulus a secondary fist about to fulfil its threat.
This dire image he knew as prelude to a period of slow, lingering extinction when mind and body succumbed to invisible poison. And as heavy limbs and numbed brain feebly but ineffectually struggled with debilitation and despair his being would rise up from the depths of lethargy, surfacing trapped by the sweat-soaked sheets. Awake he would relive the images, so real it was hard to believe they hadn’t just happened; and bit by bit the realisation would dawn that there had been a reprieve. Annihilation hadn’t yet occurred, even though it would only be a matter of time.
Time: it had been decades since he had last had the dreams. Somewhere around the eighties they had faded away like morning mist in a river valley. But surreptitiously, secretly, they had crept back closer and closer to his unsuspecting consciousness, conspiring with the worsening crises here, there and everywhere. And as atrocity after atrocity and bellicosity after animosity obtruded into current affairs his dreams became darker and his fears became stronger, until the certain knowledge of man’s inhumanity and unstoppable stupidity took physical form and death exploded into his vision and its dark cloud rolled once again.