Surrealism hangs over London

Surrealism hangs over London like urinating birds.

Soho at night sleeps in a coffin in a burning video-shop where small wooden birds are continually peeling back the facial skin of sleeping female editors.
Soho is a blue dragon that sucks the penises of Public Schoolboys who are double-sided mirrors that detectives look through at a line-up of transvestites whose breasts jangle as bags of pound coins from which a sludge oozes onto the dinner plates of people eating in Restaurants.

Oxford Street is heaving with bodies like moist sugar that attracts swarms of killer bees who appear like the eyes of Hindus that dance over the buses and Taxi cabs driven by the screeching clitoris of bored German secretaries.
In Oxford Street, as the January sales start the shop windows dummies are rolling on the floor to the sound of road drills as flying green jaws dart along the rows of cameras in the pockets of women’s clothing leaving a trail of fluorescent green saliva lighter than air, floating behind them. A three-piece suit becomes a family of Indian Elephants who pick the pockets of polite women who lie on the shop counter copulating with their leather purses that become potbellied pigs dressed in silver uniforms as twenty-pound notes stream out of their mouths and become stacks of evening newspapers left in the doorways where the homeless are sleeping who dream of the mother city as their last and only friend.

Trafalgar Square is split in two by the hands of hairy Archbishop wears dog collar, garters and tiaras whose fleas sit on top of the National Gallery swallowed by a policeman without any trousers drawing portraits as they fly away like a flock of pigeons.
Let me explain about the lack of slum housing for the poor who wander childless selling matches to the lions in Trafalgar square who consume the glory of the unknown soldier who sleeps like dry straw in the mouths of a Prime Minister who whistles a Mozart tune as he attends a service in Westminster Abby where dead poets hang from the ceiling during Karaoke sessions.

Fleet Street opens up along an unknown earth fault from where butterflies are swarming with petitions. Fleet Street is invaded by millions of porcelain Bulldogs who float down from the sky who are smashed like snow under the feet of Watusi tribesmen who chase the No 15 bus up Ludgate Hill where a giant Winston Churchill is seen sitting on the dome of St. Paul’s cathedral. An earth fault along Fleet Street opens up again and a lost river in the form of a monster made of mineral water climbs out. Subterranean lights are glowing as civil servants the pride of the civil service becomes a church clock whose hands are made of black dung beetles that pour from the back streets where visibility is nil because of thick smoke pouring out of the mouths of bartenders dancing with female chimpanzees to Matt Monroe songs. The Pearly King and Queen walk down Fleet Street as The Evening Standard newspaper sellers booths as Christians lost in the vacuum of their own expectations sit counting toothpicks as their ears ooze the millennium’s nuclear waste that is drunk by sewer rats whose bodies glow like X-Rays as a time machine gets stuck to the tie of a civil servant out buying a C.D.

Hyde Park is filled by crashing hot air balloons made from washing up liquid
.The horses of death gallop in the subterranean caves underneath Harrods; their neighing becomes Irish dancing children whose wooden torsos are collected by the guardian angels of the city with the green eyes and fiery gold teeth. Victorian vampires dressed as old women promenade by the pool where the wedding dresses of Queens float amongst the pondweed and the reeds of the Serpentine. A pitched battle between mounted police and demonstrators takes place above the Serpentine in a surreal mist as The Beatles troop across the flower beds where sitar players pick their toenails as igloos float through the sky and melt and rain down onto the black swans who hide under the gallows that is reopened at Tyburn as press photographers amass to cover a hanging.

Piccadilly Circus is a massacre; hundreds of bleeding Eros’s after a naked orgy pierced by arrows are dying. The refuse collectors in the early morning rain are dumping the bodies into their trucks. Sheets of music shower down from a window that closes suddenly producing a bright flash of light across the streets where the homeless gather singing Salvation Army songs they learn from dreams. A filmmaker turns the camera on himself as he describes how a whirlwind lifts a limousine onto the roofs and snaps where it turns into jelly.

I’m not always conscious of my solid parts. I walk after dreams through Charing Cross Station where trains leap out of the river and land like sturgeons on the stamp collectors stall. With a pair of scissors, I cut the station in two and a flock of black witches fly up into the sky where men watching clocks are floating. Lots wife is brought back and is left as a pillar of salt on a station platform as a herd of donkeys are chanting Hara Krishna’s in the underground.

At the Palace gates, the demon of Eden’s hand is a promise to lie through the eyes of guardsmen in the crystal weight of sky that being brim-full of the thoughts of a Bond Street tailor whose hands are orange jelly that float into the throne room where, in each corner a huge gargoyle with skin of mud howls like a violated orang-utan at the intrusion of a lion carrying a silver platter whose eyes glow with the heat of volcanoes.

Along the Embankment, a demon transposed as a ballerina in a white tutu dances on the high tide to invisible music in the evening mist as a false sunset crashes into the river and swims out to sea dragging a police launch from where a lovesick gorilla recites Alfred Lord Tennyson poems

The lasted exhibition of paintings from the Tate Gallery become objects that a poltergeist flings into the river where art-loving squirrels fish them out and hang them up from the branches of spit covered trees that are thinking of the naked schoolgirls who do their homework in The London Dungeon in kegs of London fog that have been maturing for the London Philharmonic orchestra who will play Pepys’s Diary set to music at midnight as the Albert Hall is set ablaze to the music of John Cage whose effigy is tied to a parking meter where Sherlock Holmes is perched like a green parrot on the live wires of a security camera that watches the great train robbers selling Rolex watches to an old German war criminal who drags a dead crocodile through Wembley Football stadium leaving trails of green dragon breath from a night in Chinatown.


October came in Oran

October came in Oran
And the sun was beating down
Doctor Rieux was working hard
In the plague-ridden town

Orthan’s son had fallen ill
And went into quarantine
Mother and father stood bedside
The plague was now extreme

The little boy lay prostrate
His mother’s face was pale
A hander kerchief across her mouth
The boy was looking frail

You must get your things together
You know how these things are
We’ll take him to the hospital
It isn’t very far

The boy had no resistance
His limps were clogged with pain
Obviously, it was a losing fight
The plague it must be tamed

They took him the concoction
The first test case they’d done
To see if the serum
Would put it on the run

The notaries were observing
The serum under trial
They sat by his bedside
With the serums vial

Now the night came falling
The boy gritted his teeth
The observers sat there hopeful
Hanging by their belief

The boy went into spasms
The tremors took a hold
Through the night in agonies
His body getting cold

Until every bit of strength was gone
But still, the boy fought back
But the storm-wind of the fevers
Gave the boy no slack

Then came a lull
The fever seemed to recede
Had the serum done its work
Did the plague ow leave

The fiery wave of death returned
The boy curled up and cried
He tossed his blankets from him
And closed his eyes and died

His suffering now over
The doctor bowed his head
The priest gave a sermon
The little boy lay dead

Condensed from Part 4, book 3, of the Plague a novel by Albert Camus

The reason why

There’s a war of good and evil
In the battles being fought
The king of truth goes forward
But he risks being caught

Go back to the mountain
Lead us on from there
Do not let the evil
Trap you in its lair

The armies of the king of truth
Then with their battle cry
Surged forth against the evil ones
To win or else to die

The king of truth watched over
Until the time was right
When the lies they told about him
Were visible in the light

And then with a mighty anger
And then with furious might
He vanquished all the evil
Within everybody’s sight

For while you’re called a liar
There’s nothing you can do
Until the accusations
Are broken by the truth

Vedran Smailovic, Adagio in G minor


Apparently, Vedran from Bosnia-Herzegovina would play his cello during the siege of Sarajevo amongst the ruins. He later moved to Northern Ireland.
The music is by or attributed to Tomaso Albinoni. it started as a fragment by Albinoni found by 20th-century musicologist, Albinoni biographer, Remo Giazotto who then finished it.

Es war einmal..

via Es war einmal..


… my old history teacher liked to start and started a longer monologue… depending on the attitude of the students, some bowed out with interest while the others leaned back relaxed… soon the first eyes fell… I thought it was quite exciting… Researchers in ancient pyramids who were subsequently killed by the curse of the pharaoh, or a certain Mr. Schliemann who believed in the legend of Troy, began to dig through a mountain and found at least 12 different Troys, including treasure and gold… what does the weekly Sunday crime scene offer… with the slight mischief of chief investigators and super-rich top criminals… So it was obvious that I wanted to become such a superstar archiologist myself, no wonder if you are driven past a water castle in a pram, from which horrible secret passages protruded… the archbishops of Osnabrück had laid them out, which in the castle far away from their starving and praying contemporaries very gladly drank one over the thirst, ladies accompaniment and buffet of course included… I got stuck halfway and became a photographer… but it’s also very much related to discovery… We are drawn to scary Lost Places and no castle ruins in Germany that are not photographed postcards from bottom to top… So it came that I immediately set out when I got my hands on a photo of that castle ruin that plays the main role here… Spectacularly situated on a rock high above the landscape, below the town of Flossenbürg, which is a not very famous, not to say … shameful… The historical symbol of what people do to other people is … Shortly before the end of the war, German resistance fighters were executed in the local concentration camp…. The castle alone stands above it… it was built in the 1100th century. the archaeologists say… Well, I don’t think anything I don’t fake myself… I have seen and have climbed the whole mountain, and despite the fear of the castle ghost I have examined the plant without regard for head and collar… I’m still going to be famous because I found a contemporary photo in the rubble that shows the castle at a clearly earlier time than the 1100th century… hach , my history teacher would proudly say: Once upon a time my bravest student set out to pull the final truth of the castle out of the dust….Photoshop be THANKS 🙂

Collaboration Song with Chris Hall

The song is in there, it has to be smoothed out, like when you used to get chocolate bars wrapped in tin-foil and you’d smooth them out with your fingers.

Firstly I discovered that by putting in triplets I got the rhythm in place. I’m still not sure about the melody and I keep looking for ways to beef it up a bit. I keep changing the chord progression.

The second part of the second (super) verse is beginning to shape up in a completely different way. It is though a contrast to the first (super) verse of Chris’ poem. It amazes me that she maybe unconsciously formed the poem that way.

At first, I was going to make verse 1 to the minor key and verse 2 to the major key but . . . it’s too rigid that way I think.

The chorus I like it now, but because it is so short I repeat it. Also, the song is only going to last about two minutes and I wonder if this is too short.

The guitar rhythm part is a little better than it was. It too goes through a lot of changes.

chris hall poem 21.05.20

Reading From The Scriptures

The burning voice
In the drowning rain
Speaking from the scriptures
And quivering with pain.

Stooping in the darkness
As only a voice can
Weighed down by anaemia
Like a millstone on a man

Stooping in the darkness
In deaths shroud absorbed
Where eyes are growing dimmer
And the heart is ragged and worn

Speaking from the scriptures
To an audience of silence
Where the waters of oblivion
Hold cells of blood together

And the voice is croaking sick
And whispers from its cavern
Where cartilage is decays
From the shaking it is given

By the maggots in the voice-box
That punctuate the sentence
That curl beneath the words
As the bait that ate the fish

As the worm that ate the sound
As the fly that hooked the noises
And reeled them into the odium
To extinguish them in calumny

Reading from the scriptures
Council to the abyssed
Stood in burning rags of thought
In the ragged flesh of waters

Silent in his whispered speech
Like pellets of  radiation
As around the voice the world dies
Like children sleeping in a nightmare

As the laughter of the strong ones
Has left their plinths of brimstones
And with the lightning in their veins
They extinguish the tonal embers

Where the voice like a ragged poster
Hanging from a billboard
Spoke with clanking tonsils
The speech of a sand-filled tongue

With tears tearing him in two
Like teeth of saws sawing
Cutting him into pieces
Reading from the scriptures