1: der Sauerkraut.  Ja!  Sauerkraut mit Wacholderbeere ist naturlich sehr lecker...........................................................­.................................................................­.................................................................­.................................................................­.................................................................­.................................................................­.................................................................­.................................................................­.................................................................­.................................................................­.................................................................­.................................................................­.................................................................­................................................................O­h yes, that's the other one.  2: gin.  GIN.  gingingingingin.  g-i-n.  gin.

So, O2 are now 3.  
Thank you for telling me that, 50202.
They are going to keep me posted on changes.  
I can't wait.

Please slow down,
can't you see I'm driving an old *** cart along?

It is when an imagined happiness,
comes momently to the fore,
only to die in a vivid blustering of the weather,
then it is painful to be man.

Harold Pinto Beans

So, was this Aeneas, who called on Jove to strike him dead, or else end his wanderings?  Was this Aeneas who wept on the deck of his ship?

Malcontent breads poetry as flies circle dungheaps and lay their larvae within.  

This was Aeneas, the cheerful man who wept on board his ship.  

Somewhere between College Park and Westland Row I sank for a moment into the earth.

This was Aeneas, the good.  

So, with the chimneys of the city as rosary beads, I shake my fist at Jove, and repeat the words of Aeneas.

Says the young to the old
on often nights,
why are you here?

Says the old to the young
on dreary nights,
I'm here because I strove.  

Says the young to the old,
on dreary nights,
It can't be so.  

Says the old to the young
on dreary nights,
It is, and shall be.  

And before the morning,
time to wretch and moan,
life lifts you up,
when you think you've got it,
and plunges you back down.

Here Now - Where?
There
-Far
          near
  -right of Berehaven.

         Lookout!
  everywhere.
... fast moving.

  - on the right-

followed       by      the left

                          __ A great many places

Yet, not very many.  
But always:

Here Now - Where?

THERE

That's not an allegory, it's ****** annoying.

An Irish judge recently commented that cyclists should pay insurance to protect people driving over priced cars.  

I suggest that idiots in powerful positions in the judiciary should pay insurance for the possible damage that they may cause to this country.

Cycling is the last vestige of the romantic, facilitating free movement with minimal dealings with capitalists, exploitative business people, bus drivers, and the self interested.

my last one - it was very witty.

Scootery dootery do.  
Scootery dootery dootery do.
Scootery dootery dottery do.
Scootery scootery splat.

I had a cousin, or so I'm told,
whose name, in truth I never knew,
He was some three or for score old,
all this, no more, have I been told.

On a Thursday in the sitting room,
he was wont to say that he,
was going down to Grainger's gate,
and t'was his pleasure that none should wait.

It was said by those who knew him,
that this was but a petty lie,
and to this place he remained a stranger,
to this public house called Graingers.

I think it strange that one so old,
should be not so self assured,
as to to cover up his petty tracks,
with this pastime, of drinking black.

And what was it, that he desired,
but walk beneath the city sky,
by Clontarf, Marino, and Fairview,
O cousin, whose name I never knew

To live under,
for a while.

or otherwise.

To tie up my guts and bowels.  
And others.

I hear you're off to Lanigan's Ball.
*Nah man, Mayo.

no

Kindly,

*******.

Sincerely,
Me

Erstens:

Muss ich denn?
Du musst.

Soll ich denn?
Du sollst.

Willst ich denn?
Du willst.  

Zweitens:

Liebst du?
Ein Bischen.

Lebst du?
Ein Bischen.  

Schlafst du?  
Wenn es klingelt, schlafe ich -  
wenn der Himmel brennt, und die grosse Götter lacheln.  
Funken und Hörner, sozusagen.  

Ich schlafe meistens nicht.

Verwundert?

There is a tide,
And it is out.

There was man,
Who was six foot;
There was another,
Who was not.

Seemingly

Would that the earth,
had such a hold,
on body as on mind.  
That mind and mass
were not bonded such,
and in their union,
mutual torment.  
Were they apart,
which preference should I take?  
Which pleasure gives,
the other takes away,
yet when the first supplies not,
the other must do for both.  
What is pain,
less the apprehension of pain?  
What is there to diminish joy,
Without a notion of its end?
The baggage of the flesh,
counterweighs the baggage of the mind,
so would that this dilemma were real,
then should it console.

The moon shines bright at night,
although I know it shines not.  
Cows in yonder valley chew senseless,
and are milked be twisting their horns.

Oh to live, less conscious thought!

There was dancing in the streets.  
Why was that, did they not have a place to go?
No, they were happy.  
Happy?  You'd want to be happy to dance in the street.
They heralded in with their tapping feat_
I don't want to hear it.

Today the Irish people witnessed a lapse of bigotry.  Officials are working round the clock to restore the status quo. The citizens of Ireland are warned to remain indoors.

"Earth to earth
Ashes to ashes
Dust to dust"

Undertaker wipes hand on trouser leg
wipes away the
Earth
Ashes
Dust

Dear Lord!
Yes?
Oh, hello, I didn't think you were listening.  
I was
Evidently.
I always listen
Well... goodbye then.  
*Yes, goodbye

-time passes
-it does
-yes, dreadfully

Who is to say,
we cannot break our bond with the earth,
that we are too strongly tethered?
Not I for one.
Nor stone age man who leaps to death in mimicry of the birds,
nor the prisoner who, in confinement,
looks to the sky,
framed with the walls wherein he lies,
and says to himself, or herself, nay, I cannot fly.
And could I fly, I would touch the earth again,
or else burn up in the stratosphere.  
Nay, nor the wild fowl, who may traverse 100 miles at a stretch,
ere they return to the earth.  
Nor ashes carried in the air and bourn away upon the trade winds.  
Who would admit an eternal debt to the earth,
which by every step we repay?  
Least of all them overcome with wonder,
at infinite depth, at scale, at cold beauty,
at the splendid simulacrum of the cosmos.  
Who then would hold me back by a leg or an arm,
who would through envy deny a splendid assimilation with the vasty domains of the other,
for what word, what momentary vocalisation of the earthbound
can in all justice give it name?  
But in good faith, commit my body to it,
and I shall move throughout the eternal regions,
and circle in infinite revelry.
Deny me not this wild vanity,
commit not my body to the earth,
and I shall not call you cur, who walks upon the earth,
and there for evermore is tethered.

On Dollymount Strand there is a man,
who picks up sand in his hands,
and lets it slip through his fingers,
and fall back to the earth.  

Fie, Gentle soul,
preserve your wit,
and carry on humanity
to the next ages
with your enduring symbolism.  

Rest not day or night, let sand slip through your hands, and save me from contemplation of my own existence:
Wretched state of terminal reciprocation.

It was observed today
by the wily crew and me
that the lowest rent in Dublin
is for two metre plots
in a place called Glasnevin.

So....
Well
So....
Well then
So....
Indeed
So....
So indeed
I must point out...
Please Don't.  
I won't.

They're dropping bombs on Syria.  
It's Tories to the centre left,
or ****** policy to welfare,
my neighbour to my neighbour.  

397 to 223,
or 40 million to the rest.

Hey man, I was just down at the club, and I heard some swingin' blank verse.

Ah sure it wasn't long
last Saturday night,
before I was dancing out on the green.  

I stepped the dance
to general delight;
And I danced the skellemesago.

But not before long
I drew there a crowd
who thought me rather odd.

And sure says I
to two poli-ce-men,
It's only me dancing the wherligig jig.  
  
But with menacing look,
says one to me then,
You'll come right along with us.  

Yet being inclined,
to dance tru the night,
I skipped my heals and fled.

It was such a fleeing,
as think you might,
That I danced the Irish trot.

With fine trotting trot
as ever was got,
I danced away from those men.  

Yet intent they seemed,
On following me,
And dancing the rufty tufty

So up tailes all,
we three did go,
and the maid peept out the window.

So Val, now I guess,
it's Val Donican for you.
You've given up the goat, and now
you're walking taller than all of us.  
You're guitar strings are silent,
yet my heart strings still ring for you,  
but no amount of cod liver oil
can bring you back.
So Val, rock on.

an inner essence flitter away to the wasteland,
and dwell in the hermitage of my thoughts and resolutions

A glass of wine is a fine thing,  
Unless the wine is bad.  

A pint of plain porter is a fair thing,
Unless it isn't very nice.  

A smidgeon of whisky is a grand thing,
Unless the whisky is sub-standard.  

A glass of ale is a proper thing,
Unless the ale is too warm.  

A little gin is an excellent thing,
I have never observed an exception to this rule.

Most people sweat euros and pounds,
I sweat coffee and gin.  
Here I am, in the ooze of my existence,
Laughing and smiling,
counting smiles on my fingertips,
quantifying my existence:
fizzle and pop, smile till you drop.

There walking the length of a promenade,
from one end to the other and back again,
or labouring in vain in some little way,
in plot of earth or garret shot right through with light,
throwing dust sheets over all the old furniture,
in that old country house somewhere far off,
and finding the labour light for the season that’s in it.
Or dwelling in folly on another thought,
giving over to the human brain to the taxidermist,
master and subject to the other organs.
So found upon a hill in a lonely place,
above all the lands of the earth
surveying the wasted days of yore,
and waving goodbye to the sun.

Waist: 32'
Inside Leg: 34'
Outside Leg: ∞

Quoth Arthur.  And below him, saw he all manner of nasty things.

Reasons for the 'no' vote: shipbuilding, NATO/EU membership, David Cameron would be very upset, etc... ad infinitum...    

Reasons for the 'yes' vote: It would be far more interesting for the rest of us to watch Scotland make a hames of the transition.

Geoffrey Saucer

Siegfried Bassoon

W.B. Yeast

Sylvia Bath Tub

Adrienne Ditch

James Joist

Samuel Bucket

Edgar Allan ***

Bertold Brechtfast

Robert Rope Burns

John B. Very Keane

Sean O'SuitCasey

Sir Thomas Grievous Malody

Percy Shelley Beach

Terry Hatchet

Iain Canal Banks

Erebus

I want to go home.  
You are home.  
I am not, this is *****.  
Go home then.  
I can't, I'm already there.
Case and point.
Lock, stock and barrel.
That's right.

It would tie your brain up in a knot,
the clink of glasses on the barman's grate,
and the tones of creaky Dublin croaking,
In darkness, mourning the death, of the daytime light.  

It would I say, to grasp the slender neck,
and to lift it, smiling, glancing beyond the glass,
at winking eyes and clinking pints of plain,
My brain is in a knot, when I think of you.  

I held you on the banks, of the  royal canal,
knew then what all the bards and lovers mean,
say it was the light reflected in their eye,
I never did hear tell, of eyes to rival glass

Yet confound revealing daytime light,
you are liquid of the night, stout and dark,
rebuke me not, till your own brain too,
Has been left in knots, by the dark slender boy.

Splat.......hissschocktawwwwwham......fizzzzz

gin-***/gin-***/gin-***/gin-***/gin-***