nonsense prose

Fool’s Gold Part 3

Where could it have led to? The king must surely know by now.

Sadly, not.

The strangest thing so far has been the disappearance of the cockroach’s money-sac and its subsequent reappearance in the blast furnace.

You’re aghast. Surely nothing’s happened?

It’s done – this morning! Down in the street towards the harbour! The black flag unfurled!

We were bundled out neck and heals – and so you see me now – licked and cheated.

The water-loon. It lays its eggs in early April.

Scarcely have I seen a more vacuous element. Do you mean to say this is watchulimina? I’d never have thought it.

Between times they flayed a little contrabass and simulated a pagenzo. It seemed to radidate from an indicular variation.

There’s lemons, tea and borage. If that’s not enough then deprive me of my sickle. Your need and all that.

Bagpipes, clearly and correctly.

Values, today, are somewhat different to when I was a young man. You’d scarcely believe it, but…

You resemble a coelocanth – it’s the truth – plain and simple. Just like.

Must we?

Don’t for one second think I care. I’ll prove to you what it is about him. I suppose you think you know him? Well you don’t. Take it from me. He puts on a show. He’s not like that. Underneath he’s different. Do you see?

You act so sad. What’s changed?

Only thrifty more sages shall pass. If they don’t they’ll suffer. Or not. I scarcely care. What about you?

Silkily and waxed over sideways.

Draining my giblet.

The most provocative whiskers I’ve seen since our childhood in the Punjab. If only you could find someone they’d fit.

I’ve been.

Has it any pockets?

Mysteriously slow approximations of a significant latitude proceeded at quite a rate. Until the aforementioned dovetail was eventually consumed and the apprentice bakers returned to their digs.

Sweet-smelling sedge, in handfuls. Do you want some? What for? Have you none of your own?

This is a bicycle. That’s a chain-saw. Do what you want with them.

Plunging parakeets…

Not sixteen this time.

Can you dance the polka?

Tiltly, love tiltly. Ah’d straighten it aht if I were you, love. Go on – it’d look be’er – ‘onest.

Scamp! Mischievous little rogue! If I catch you in here again I’ll bury you in the orchard – head down.

She’s the one wearing the kilt – over there.

Drums started to beat in all the houses. I was trying to get the stains off an old shirt when a ragged young urchin ran past me on the pavement. Where are you off I cried. He stopped and gave me the most pathetic look.

Such a universe – lah – it’s a one.

Meet me by the precipice.

I like them.

Winches at sea. Pots of plenty. Haul me in Sally my boy.

Here, look at the latest one. It’s the stuff isn’t it. Great job. What do you think, Castrox?

The weight buckled and he fell Splat! on the carpet. Before I knew where I was the poker was in my hand and I belted him one.

Coastguards have ranged up and down the shore all night – waving to the right, waving to the left.

Who mentioned dream-boats?

Meanwhile the moon had risen, milk-pregnant, serene in the ice-filled canopy of the sky.

Fish – filleted, please.

Don’t be stroppy, sarge.

I’ve rummaged in the garbage for 6 hours. Can’t I go home now?


Whisk me off to a Polynesian island. I think I’ve just wet myself again.

He drank it?

Angular man. A triumph for modern metaphysics.

Listen to this record – it’s one of my favourites. Do you like it? Shall we dance? Your hands – they’re so cold. Here – warm them on my shoulder-blades.

More lichen.

In the conical flask.

You must not betray your country. For what, after all, have you lived? Tell me that. Where’s the good in it?

It’s here.

Where is it?

I hate drama – of all the convulsive nightmares that might occur to a diseased, maggot-ridden brain it is surely the greatest and most prevalent these days.

Take your wristwatch off.

Administered by her own hand, they say.

There was a railway, with a train in the distance. We were out collecting ice. Hacking it up with pickaxes and filling our rucksacks. That’s all I remember. I’m going to sleep now. Will you turn off the light or shall I?

In a sense, that’s true.

Who did you say?

When you’ve bent your diaphragm in I’d like you to place all the pegs on this small table.

A still fermenting brew.

He’s a man of distinction by all accounts, but watch out for the ferret he keeps underneath his shirt – it’s called Graham and it packs a venomous snuffle.

Dingy exploit on raft adrift in weed-tangled nightmare
Decrepit governess dropped from eighteenth floor window
Contemptuous newspaper proprietor ripped to shreds by mistaken mob

He’s at the dentist’s.

Clichés are to a nation’s tongue what ivy is to a tree. And that’s why these things are dying. The new image is too contrived now… Are you listening?

You’ve pulled the bedclothes over your head, I can see. But it won’t do you any good. I intend to punish you. Severely. Severely punish you. Do you understand?

He kissed me. My two top buttons were undone. He kissed my bare shoulder. I can’t describe how it felt. I felt like an ice-lolly. And then he smiled at me.


Playfully so. I can’t deny it. …Will you accompany me to the tram terminus – I think I left my copy of Dirripinny’s Autobiography there.

There’s no need to feel proud that you’ve caught syphilis. Not even a sailor would be proud of that. I don’t care if she was a princess – it’s a filthy disease and I hope you suffer hard and long.

Ebeneezer Scrope, sir.

A witless witness, if you’ll excuse the pun.

In garages throughout the country where unseen mechanics gaze surreptitiously at glamour calendars and bored garage owners plan excursions to cricket matches and embarassed car owners loiter hopefully fingering nervous credit cards like atrocious hands in poker games.

I’ve never seen nothing like it. It’s terrific. Bit of a laugh anyway.

We the experts challenge you the laymen to a spot of digging. Any takers?

The epidemic’s started, the street is full of rotting brains that stink like burnt vegetables left to cook for all time itself. Time with a big T and innumerable little dots after it.

Once you start looking inwardly you’re lost and someone else had better start looking for you.

Dropped, spilt and spattered.


By the sea, in a chalet. Sheltered from the raging wind.

Whenever I look out of my window I see a public official sliding on the ice in the street – trying desperately to keep balance and maintain dignity. Here take a look. Is there anyone there? I wish – I do wish I was back at Tresthofs now when it is so cold and the gutters point their frozen fingers matching the pointed railings. There’s so much to do there. Here it may as well be… I don’t know what. There’s nothing to do except look out of windows at people sliding on ice.

What shall we play?

Who is this?

Are you afraid of me?

Don’t think I enjoy this. I don’t need your jealousy – it’s not as if I’m having a good time myself. I hate all this too.

Stop snivelling snail-features.

When will it stop raining?

Pass me by once more and I’ll shower you with pus.

The candyman’s here again. Shall I show him in?

This way, this way please.

So at last you’re here. I’ve been wanting to tell you for ages so listen now. You were related to me through my father’s brother. But that’s not all. Alas it’s a grim tale I have to tell.

She was hanging in a huge basket, strung from the four corners of the ceiling. I waved but she didn’t seem to see me.

What sort are you anyway?

Green and purple stripes with a crescent moon recumbent.

How deep is the dungeon – how sturdy is the oak – how effortless are all your attempts to transfigure the daylight.

Fascinatingly dull.

Someone’s left a dead shrew in my boots again. I’ll wring their bloody necks.

Waking up to a bird’s sonata – it beats everything.

Personally I prefer toboganning.

What sort of hat do you prefer – crumpled or twisted?

If you don’t pause temporarily I shall shake you by the collar-bone until your Adam’s apple comes loose in your throat and pops out of your mouth.

jazz music

Monk Biography

Thelonious Monk, Minton's Playhouse, New York, N.Y., ca. Sept. 1947 8William P. Gottlieb 06241)

I’ve been waiting a long time for a decent biography of Thelonious Monk, one of my favourite musicians and (certainly after understanding some of the things from the book) absolutely integral influences. In fact the one great integral influence when all’s said and done and his impact on Miles as he says in his autobiography

I think a lot about Monk these days because all the music that he wrote can be put into these new rhythms that are being played today by a lot of young musicians – Prince, my new music, a lot of stuff. He was a great musician, an innovator, especially in his composition and writing.

Quite right although I would quip with the last sentence. Ok especially in his composition and writing but also especially in his playing. Listen hard to an album like Criss Cross and you may see what I mean. But of course not just Criss Cross.

Anyway Robin G. Kelley wrote the book and the family looked on him favourably and generally I would say he’s done a good job. I’ve read some other jazz biographies and I know what the failings are of the genre. The word hagiography can often be applied and that’s natural really in that it’s a bit perverted to set out to write a biography about someone you don’t care for. At times the narrative veered scarily towards the tour itinerary list interspersed with odd anecdote of one of the people present. But the sheer depth of research and accumulation of authentic recollection raises it above certain other works which I could name, but won’t.

To put that bluntly. I think a lot about Monk these days. I’ve thought a lot about Monk since I first heard him in 1973. By that time his career was pretty much over. He could still play but it had become meaningless to him. The feeling I get after reading the book is that he just put too much into those 30 years between the late 30s and the late 60s. That was 30 years of a lot of stuff going down. You can’t innovate at that level and that intensity for those many years without suffering some damage. In fact his stamina and physique allowed him to retain his incredible creative power for as long a period as pretty much anyone, (Armstrong, Ellington etc.) despite his massive intake of things which weren’t good for his health.

One thing the book shows is the debt that all Monk fans have to the two most important women in his life, his patron, Pannonica de Koenigswarter but above all his wife Nellie.

hip hop music

more from nineteen ninety five

Here are some more hip hop highlights from 1995.

I suppose Tha Alkaholiks were never going to be all that big, but actually they’re probably my favourite west coast act of that era. (And in my case that’s not perhaps as much of a compliment as it may seem). Later they tried to change their name to Tha Liks because they were being denied airplay because… I suppose because their name seemed to condone a vice. That doesn’t seem like a good idea to me but maybe I have something of Ancient Greece about me. Whatever, they are trying to make a bit of a comeback, with a new album this year. Let’s face it everybody who’s ever had anything to do with music at all is trying to make a comeback. Or will do in the future if they live long enough.

The track is called Daam

Liquid Swords is on the identically-named album. As far as I’m concerned that’s the best ever hip hop album and the last time I spoke to him about the subject a few months ago that is also the opinion of my son. Actually I know quite a lot of people would agree but there are also many great alternative contenders.

So this is by Gza

Smiff ‘n’ Wessun were another hip hop outfit with name problems. The gun company didn’t like the use of their name even though the spelling is a bit different. Also it took them some time to realise what was happening and by then really it was too late, especially as Tek and Steele didn’t do anything all that marvellous with the new name (Cocoa Brovaz). But Dah Shinin’ is a great album.

This track is called Sound Bwoy Bureill and it features Top Dog and Starang Wondah.