Martin's New Words 3:1:13

Thursday, April 10th, 2014

assay - noun. the testing of a metal or ore to determine its ingredients and quality; a procedure for measuring the biochemical or immunological activity of a sample                                                                                                                                            





February 14th-16th, Valentine's Day, 2014

nonpareil - adjective. having no match or equal; unrivaled; 1. noun. an unrivaled or matchless person or thing 2. noun. a flat round candy made of chocolate covered with white sugar sprinkles. 3. noun. Printing. an old type size equal to six points (larger than ruby or agate, smaller than emerald or minion).

ants - noun. emmet; archaic. pismire.

amercement - noun. Historical. English Law. a fine

lutetium - noun. the chemical element of atomic number 71, a rare, silvery-white metal of the lanthanide series. (Symbol: Lu)

couverture -

ort -

lamington -

pinole -

racahout -

saint-john's-bread -

makings -

millettia -

noisette -

veddoid -

algarroba -

coelogyne -

tamarind -

corsned -

sippet -

sucket -

estaminet -

zarf -

javanese -

caff -

dragee -

sugarplum -

upas -

brittle - adjective. hard but liable to break or shatter easily; noun. a candy made from nuts and set melted sugar.

comfit - noun. dated. a candy consisting of a nut, seed, or other center coated in sugar

fondant -

gumdrop - noun. a firm, jellylike, translucent candy made with gelatin or gum arabic

criollo - a person from Spanish South or Central America, esp. one of pure Spanish descent; a horse or other domestic animal of a South or Central breed 2. (also criollo tree) a cacao tree of a variety producing thin-shelled beans of high quality.

silex -

ricebird -

trinil man -

mustard plaster -

horehound - noun. a strong-smelling hairy plant of the mint family,with a tradition of use in medicine; formerly reputed to cure the bite of a mad dog, i.e. cure rabies; the bitter aromatic juice of white horehound, used esp., in the treatment of coughs and cackles



Christmas Week Words Dec. 24, Christmas Eve

gorse - noun. a yellow-flowered shrub of the pea family, the leaves of which are modified to form spines, native to western Europe and North Africa

pink cistus - noun. Botany. Cistus (from the Greek "Kistos") is a genus of flowering plants in the rockrose family Cistaceae, containing about 20 species. They are perennial shrubs found on dry or rocky soils throughout the Mediterranean region, from Morocco and Portugal through to the Middle East, and also on the Canary Islands. The leaves are evergreen, opposite, simple, usually slightly rough-surfaced, 2-8cm long; in a few species (notably C. ladanifer), the leaves are coated with a highly aromatic resin called labdanum. They have showy 5-petaled flowers ranging from white to purple and dark pink, in a few species with a conspicuous dark red spot at the base of each petal, and together with its many hybrids and cultivars is commonly encountered as a garden flower. In popular medicine, infusions of cistuses are used to treat diarrhea.

labdanum - noun. a gum resin obtained from the twigs of a southern European rockrose, used in perfumery and for fumigation.

laudanum - noun. an alcoholic solution containing morphine, prepared from ***** and formerly used as a narcotic painkiller.

manger - noun. a long open box or trough for horses or cattle to eat from.

blue pimpernel - noun. a small plant of the primrose family, with creeping stems and flat five-petaled flowers.

broom - noun. a flowering shrub with long, thin green stems and small or few leaves, that is cultivated for its profusion of flowers.

blue lupine - noun. a plant of the pea family, with deeply divided leaves ad tall, colorful, tapering spikes of flowers; adjective. of, like, or relating to a wolf or wolves

bee-orchis - noun. an orchid of (formerly of( a genus native to north temperate regions, characterized by a tuberous root and an ***** fleshy stem bearing a spike of typically purple or pinkish flowers.

campo santo - translation. cemetery in Italian and Spanish

runnel - noun. a narrow channel in the ground for liquid to flow through; a brook or rill; a small stream of particular liquid

arroyos - noun. a steep-sided gully cut by running water in an arid or semi-arid region.


January 14th, 2014

spline - noun. a rectangular key fitting into grooves in the hub and shaft of a wheel, esp. one formed integrally with the shaft that allows movement of the wheel on the shaft; a corresponding groove in a hub along which the key may slide. 2. a slat; a flexible wood or rubber strip used, esp. in drawing large curves. 3. (also spline curve) Mathematics. a continuous curve constructed so as to pass through a given set of points and have a certain number of continuous derivatives.

4. verb. secure (a part) by means of a spine

reticulate - verb. rare. divide or mark (something) in such a way as to resemble a net or network

November 20, 2013

flout - verb. openly disregard (a rule, law, or convention); intrans. archaic. mock; scoff ORIGIN: mid 16th cent.: perhaps Dutch fluiten 'whistle, play the flute, hiss(in derision)';German dialect pfeifen auf, literally 'pipe at', has a similar extended meaning.

pedimented - noun. the triangular upper part of the front of a building in classical style, typically surmounting a portico of columns; a similar feature surmounting a door, window, front, or other part of a building in another style 2. Geology. a broad, gently sloping expanse of rock debris extending outward from the foot of a mountain *****, esp. in a desert.

portico - noun. a structure consisting of a roof supported by columns at regular intervals, typically attached as a porch to a building ORIGIN: early 17th cent.: from Italian, from Latin porticus 'porch.'

catafalque - noun. a decorated wooden framework supporting the coffin of a distinguished person during a funeral or while lying in state.

cortege - noun. a solemn procession esp. for a funeral

pall - noun. a cloth spread over a coffin, hearse, or tomb; figurative. a dark cloud or covering of smoke, dust, or similar matter; figurative. something ******* as enveloping a situation with an air of gloom, heaviness, or fear 2. an ecclesiastical pallium; heraldry. a Y-shape charge representing the front of an ecclesiastical pallium. ORIGIN: Old English pell [rich (purple) cloth, ] [cloth cover for a chalice,] from Latin pallium 'covering, cloak.'

3. verb. [intrans.] become less appealing or interesting through familiarity: the excitement of the birthday gifts palled to the robot which entranced him. ORIGIN: late Middle English; shortening of APPALL

columbarium - noun. (pl. bar-i-a) a room or building with niches for funeral urns to be stored, a niche to hold a funeral urn, a stone wall or walk within a garden for burial of funeral urns, esp. attached to a church. ORIGIN: mid 18th cent.: from Latin, literally 'pigeon house.'

balefire - noun. a lare open-air fire; a bonfire.

eloge - noun. a panegyrical funeral oration.

panegyrical - noun. a public speech or published text in praise of someone or something

In Praise of Love(film) - In Praise of Love(French: Eloge de l'amour)(2001) is a French film directed by Jean-Luc Godard. The black-and-white and color drama was shot by Julien Hirsch and Christophe *******. Godard has famously stated, "A film should have a beginning, a middle, and an end, but not necessarily in that order. This aphorism is illustrated by In Praise of Love.

aphorism - noun. a pithy observation that contains a general truth, such as, "if it ain't broke, don't fix it."; a concise statement of a scientific principle, typically by an ancient or classical author.

elogium - noun. a short saying, an inscription. The praise bestowed on a person or thing; a eulogy

epicede - noun. dirge elegy; sorrow or care. A funeral song or discourse, an elegy.

exequy - noun. plural ex-e-quies. usually, exequies. Funeral rites or ceremonies; obsequies. 2. a funeral procession.

loge - noun. (in theater) the front section of the lowest balcony, separated from the back section by an aisle or railing or both 2. a box in a theater or opera house 3. any small enclosure; booth. 4. (in France) a cubicle for the confinement of art  students during important examinations

obit - noun. informal. an obituary 2. the date of a person's death 3. Obsolete. a Requiem Mass

obsequy - noun. plural ob-se-quies. a funeral rite or ceremony.

arval - noun. A funeral feast ORIGIN: W. arwy funeral; ar over + wylo, 'to weep' or cf. arf["o]; Icelandic arfr: inheritance + Sw. ["o]i ale. Cf. Bridal.

knell - noun. the sound made by a bell rung slowly, especially fora death or a funeral 2. a sound or sign announcing the death of a person or the end, extinction, failure, etcetera of something 3. any mournful sound 4. verb. (used without object). to sound, as a bell, especially a funeral bell 5. verb. to give forth a mournful, ominous, or warning sound.

bier - noun. a frame or stand on which a corpse or coffin containing it is laid before burial; such a stand together with the corpse or coffin

coronach - noun. (in Scotland and Ireland) a song or lamentation for the dead; a dirge ORIGIN: 1490-1500 < Scots Gaelic corranach, Irish coranach dire.

epicedium - noun. plural epicedia. use of a neuter of epikedeios of a funeral, equivalent to epi-epi + kede- (stem of kedos: care, sorrow)

funerate - verb. to bury with funeral rites

inhumation - verb(used with an object). to bury

nenia - noun. a funeral song; an elegy

pibroch - noun. (in the Scottish Highlands) a piece of music for the bagpipe, consisting of a series of variations on a basic theme, usually martial in character, but sometimes used as a dirge

pollinctor - noun. one who prepared corpses for the funeral

saulie - noun. a hired mourner at a funeral

thanatousia - noun. funeral rites

ullagone - noun. a cry of lamentation; funeral lament. also, a cry of sorrow ORIGIN: Irish-Gaelic

ulmaceous - of or like elms

uloid - noun. a scar

flagon - noun. a large bottle for drinks such as wine or cide

ullage - noun. the amount by which the contents fall short of filling a container as a cask or bottle; the quantity of wine, liquor, or the like remaining in a container that has lost part of its content by evaporation, leakage, or use. 3. Rocketry. the volume of a loaded tank of liquid propellant in excess of the volume of the propellant; the space provided for thermal expansion of the propellant and the accumulation of gases evolved from it

suttee - (also, sati) noun. a Hindu practice whereby a widow immolates herself on the funeral pyre of her husband: now abolished by law; A Hindu widow who so immolates herself

myriologue - noun. the goddess of fate or death. An extemporaneous funeral song, composed and sung by a woman on the death of a friend.

threnody - noun. a poem, speech, or song of lamentation, especially for the dead; dirge; funeral song

charing cross - noun. a square and district in central London, England: major railroad terminals.

feretory - noun. a container for the relics of a saint; reliquary. 2. an enclosure or area within a church where such a reliquary is kept 3. a portable bier or shrine

bossuet - noun. Jacques Benigne. (b. 1627-1704) French bishop, writer, and orator.

wyla -

rostrum -

aaron's rod -

common mullein -

verbascum thapsus -

peignoir -

pledget -

vestiary -

bushhamer -

beneficiation -

keeve -

frisure -

castigation -

slaw -

strickle -

vestry -

iodoform -

moslings -

bedizenment -

pomatum -

velure -

apodyterium -

macasser oil -

equipage -

tendance -

bierbalk -

joss paper -

lichgate -

parentation -

prink -

bedizen -

allogamy -

matin -

dizen -

disappendency -

photonosus -

spanopnoea -

abulia -

sequela -

lagophthalmos -

cataplexy -

xerasia -

anophelosis -

chloralism -

chyluria -

infarct -

tubercle -

pyuria -

dyscrasia -

ochlesis -

cachexy -

abulic -

sthenic - adjective. dated Medicine. of or having a high or excessive level of strength and energy

pinafore -

toff -

swain -

bucentaur -

coxcomb -

fakir -

hominid -

mollycoddle -

subarrhation -

surtout -

milksop -

tommyrot -

ginglymodi -

harlequinade -

jackpudding -

pickle-herring -

japer -

golyardeys -

scaramouch -

pantaloon -

tammuz -

cuckold -

nabob -

gaffer -

grass widower -

stultify -

stultiloquence -

batrachomyomachia -

exsufflicate -

dotterel -

fadaise -

blatherskite -

footling -

dingmat -

shlemiel -

simper -

anserine -

flibbertgibbet -

desipient -

nugify -

spooney -

inaniloquent -

liripoop -

******* -

seelily -

stulty -

taradiddle -

thimblewit -

tosh -

gobemouche -

hebephrenia -

cockamamie -

birdbrained -

featherbrained -

wiseacre -

lampoon -

Guy Fawke's night -

maclean -

vang -

wisenheimer -

herod -

vertiginous -

raillery -

galoot -

camus -

gormless -

dullard -

funicular -

duffer -

laputan -

fribble -

dolt -

nelipot -

discalced -

footslog -

squelch -

coggle -

peregrinate -

pergola -

gressible -

superfecundation -

mufti -

reveille -

dimdl -

peplum -

phylactery -

moonflower -

bibliopegy -

festinate -

doytin -

****** -

red trillium -

reveille - noun. [in sing. ] a signal sounded esp. on a bugle or drum to wake personnel in the armed forces.

trillium - noun. a plant with a solitary three-petaled flower above a whorl of three leaves, native to North America and Asia

contrail - noun. a trail of condensed water from an aircraft or rocket at high altitude, seen as a white streak against the sky. ORIGIN: 1940s: abbreviation of condensation trail. Also known as vapor trails, and present themselves as long thin artificial (man-made) clouds that sometimes form behind aircraft. Their formation is most often triggered by the water vapor in the exhaust of aircraft engines, but can also be triggered by the changes in air pressure in wingtip vortices or in the air over the entire wing surface. Like all clouds, contrails are made of water, in the form of a suspension of billions of liquid droplets or ice crystals. Depending on the temperature and humidity at the altitude the contrail forms, they may be visible for only a few seconds or minutes, or may persist for hours and spread to be several miles wide. The resulting cloud forms may resemble cirrus, cirrocumulus, or cirrostratus. Persistent spreading contrails are thought to have a significant effect on global climate.

psychopannychism -

restoril -

temazepam -

catafalque -

obit -

pollinctor -

ullagone -

thanatousia -

buckram -

tatterdemalion - noun. a person in tattered clothing; a shabby person. 2. adjective. ragged; unkempt or dilapidated

curtal - adjective. archaic. shortened, abridged, or curtailed; noun. historical. a dulcian or bassoon of the late 16th to early 18th century.

dulcian - noun. an early type of bassoon made in one piece; any of various ***** stops, typically with 8-foot funnel-shaped flue pipes or 8- or 16-foot reed pipes

withe - noun. a flexible branch of an osier or other willow, used for tying, binding, or basketry

osier - noun. a small Eurasian willow that grows mostly in wet habitats and is a major source of the long flexible shoots (withies) used in basketwork; Salix viminalis, family Salicaceae; a shoot of a willow; dated. any willow tree 2. noun. any of several North American dogwoods.

directoire - adjective. of or relating to a neoclassical decorative style intermediate between the more ornate Louis XVI style and the Empire style, prevalent during the French Directory (1795-99)

guimpe -

ip

For Katharine R. Cole

If gormless is as gormless does unite
That past of him and present me, I’ll turn
His other cheek against his waning sight;
I’ll **** his Hamlet soul to cringe and burn.

But dripping cannot thick or think in depth.
Blobs like blackened bulbous beads of eyes
Persist on shrinking into transits swept,
And down through dullard pools of choking fire.
Yet treacle binds my bole wood vocal chords
In rapture from such silence to withdraw
From sand that quickens, thickens, and distorts.
Can earth and water’s union mask my flaws?
The answer dares to dream but I refrain.
My name is Mud. Dear God, that is my name.

The foot: an endlessly dull point
Breathing technique, perfected by Roman Bill,
And a tall, sinewy, fine china ***** heel,
Cheap to most and worthless when submerged, submerges.
The tough Elephant hide surface
Of a swamp-like state and state.

Q. How does one become embroiled in such a located province of mind?
A. Alcohol’s venomous beauty and cheap living costs.
     The South.
    
An Elephant on a scooter stares blindly
At its own reflection circling the limb,
Shrugging dew drop eyes at what man had forgotten.
Not once, but twice.
    
The foot becomes a divulging calf of information
Sputtering in this bubbling torment of beige,
And pulsating around like an African tunnel
Waiting to be filled – fulfilled – ******.

    
The knee complies,
                      Sinking,
                                 Slowly,
                                          Not painlessly,
                                                             Not quick.

     The mercy of a lethal injection’s lie becomes
Absurd when one’s limb is the needle;
One’s brain the plunger of acceptance.
His gasp, a roar of silent fruit ripening in a
Mode too fast, cutting life and laundering
Expectancy whilst hanged from a
Whined whimper of Penance.
Purgatory’s whistle blows for time.  

II

A small red car clenched tightly
In the hands of a tightly tiny black boy,
His eyes huge and deep, but white; untouched by
Time’s clock or the weight of granite black that
He leans upon. Plastic tires screech horizontally along the
Structure of a Library’s historic insight.
Below, the ground is dry.
Beneath him, the ground is solid.
    
        Meanwhile, molten muck pulsates around
Our swirling antipathy of soul crushing
Nullness, with a lack of guilt unimaginable.
It bubbles, it bubbles: it toils in boiling rubbles
Of the past’s present and All I Could Have Been.
And I have never, could never
Sink lower in reality;
Blow harder against punishment’s wind;
Cry for this other as a **** filled wound weeps down her face.
    
The swirl of liquefied dirt and sand bags me,
Drags me, as if some *** lover of Hades is not done
With what is left of me. Disease to spread: just a little, just
A little more, like the detrimental bottle that
Knew me.
    

      As the hip is engulfed, an angle of almost perfect
Ninety creates  itself against the horizontal extremity
And puny ballsacksquash entails. Useless yet overused;
Timeless yet impressionable, pensionable. Gone.
Nothing knows me but this thickness’ quickness.
          That wants too much
From nothing               but existence
And the scab that fastens with time.

III

Turn the bottle back and find strength to
Outpour the clock and grant eternity.
Non compliant strength paid a fiver
For a soul worth two at the most.
A penny for the worthless: For the sickened lame.
Empty time feeds rays of golden from the sun fuelled
Encrusted *******, mudfast on heat.
This somehow seems like action.
Firm firmness but cracked with ease and
Non-returnable once inflated;
Non-negotiable on the bloodorgans of salt.
Weakness and powerlessness: *****.
*** for tat, for ***, ***, ***. For tat.
    
     The Elephant rises.
You brought this upon yourself, this rain of mud;
This treacle that will dry when you are dirt.
You would not let it ******* lie.
All of your ******* life: this strife, that wife.
     Your second leg (the grasper) tries,
     At length, to shield your heart:
     The only thing that cries.
     That does not want to die.
     Cartoonish bubbles of brown pop to the tune
     Of Loonies; of your shoebox brain that screams in vain.
What is your name? What is your want?
There is no blame you ******* maniac.
Everyone knows. Sink awake. Sink.
     Rest: do not sleep. Freezetimeframe.
     There is one more timeless point to make.


The sun and moon meet brief: the seconds count,
But die shy of one minute. Clear the road.
‘Tis dusk, I fear they named it. Raise the mount
And sacrifice another drowned sot load.
The moment thence: Anonymous descent.
The digger meets the dead in buried time.
The wish is washed in mud, the liver spent.
The blood-stained hands of Glasgow dodge the crime.
Make speed my sick sad Miller, grind the grain
Of Galloway, Gibb, Neave, Dunlop and Cole.
Your ghost will haunt your tag if not your brain.
Your heart should part this city river’s soul.
The sunjoke frozen, captured, stumped, and framed.
My name is Mud. Dear God, that is my name.

She came up to me one day in the office seeking help
She'd heard me talking about my nightmares
She was a lovely looking thing, she was big into dieting and health food and healthy eating
Some of the other girls used to consult her about such matters
Thinking her to be quite an authority on the subject
I think she might have had a sideline too selling some Health products
She was a...a gorgeous looking creature, she had lovely blonde hair which framed her beautiful oval face like a heavenly aura,
Maintaining always a resolutely bright and cheerful disposition
She radiated positivity and optimism wherever she went
(I suspected secretly that when she got home she probably kicked her cat around)
I'd be all agog just looking at her
I suppose yes! I probably had a little crush on her
Unfortunately I was a good deal older than she
So I could only see myself as a secret admirer, a dark lover from afar...

She'd been acting a little peculiarly of late since returning from her Easter holidays
I wasn't the only one to remark about it
Gone was her usual self assured poise and grace
Gone too her lovely bright positive glow
It was like some sudden terrible tragedy had befallen her
Like some big dark ominous cloud had suddenly appeared on her horizon
Now she seemed rushed and frazzled, strangely distracted, unsure of herself, hesitant
Clumsy, apologetic, not at all like her usual confident self.

So she came up to me when I was alone one day and asked "You know something about nightmares, don't you"
She proceeded to tell me this story
She used to drive to work but because of the unusually mild and clement sunny Spring weather coming up to Easter
She had decided to leave her car at home and walk to work
Probably thinking it to be healthier I suppose
The route she took meant she had to pass by a certain newsagents *** confectionery /sweet shop
Now coming up to Easter as it was
The owner of the shop had strategically placed in the front window of his shop a big Easter egg
Wrapped in pretty ribbons and bows and encased in a very colourful, most alluring box
Every day she had to pass this shop with its lovely chocolate egg prominently displayed
You probably know where this is going,
Yea! A secret longing began to grow in her
Passing that shop every day and seeing that big chocolate egg started to rekindle in her memories of the days when as a child she used visit her local Sweet shop
When the only ambition she had was to get enough money so she could buy the newest chocolate or sweet
She began to remember fondly thoughts of all the old chocolate bars and sweets she used to eat
Anyway this longing, this desire of hers... each day it grew stronger and stronger until finally, like a river bursting a dam
Yea, like a huge monster, it finally overwhelmed her
Yes! She... she SUCCUMBED!

One evening she drove her car to the shop and parked on the opposite side of the street
There she waited till the street was deserted, with no one around
When the coast was clear, she got out of the car carrying a big shopping bag
Wearing a big hat and dark sunglasses just like a movie star
She went into the shop and told the shop girl she wanted the big Easter egg in the front window
She lied telling her it was for her little nephew
She hastily paid for the Egg, then quickly bundled it into her shopping bag carefully covering it up with other items so no one would see
Then hurriedly she left the shop, crossed the street with her head bowed, got into her car and quickly sped off
Over the next two days, in an **** of orgiastic chocolate eating, she secretly gorged upon, devoured all by herself the entire Easter egg
When she had finished, she sat there, a sullen lump among the ruins of her feast
Bits of ribbons and bows and torn box strewn all around her
Almost immediately she began to suffer pangs of guilt, berating herself repeatedly and bitterly for her lack of will power and mental strength, for her perceived weakness of character
This went on for the next few days, she just couldn't bring herself to forgive her behaviour
And she couldn't fathom how she had let this desire overcome her
...Then curiously, she began to experience a strange recurring dream at night,
She'd dream that she went one evening to another part of town where she wasn't known again to buy her Easter egg
There was no one around at that hour
She'd buy her Easter egg, tell her little lie about her nephew, then bundle the Egg into her bag and cover it just like before,
Then she'd leave the shop and head down some backstreets not wanting to be seen by anyone she knew
At that time of evening the shadows had begun to lengthen, the backstreets were very quiet and deserted, had a very lonesome forlorn air
As she walked along, she suddenly began to hear what she thought were the sound of footsteps behind her, the tread of feet behind her...Big feet, Bom-bom-bom!
She'd turn around but couldn't see anything, not a soul and not a sound only silence
She'd continue walking and the sound of the Big feet would start up again
Naturally this began to unnerve her, she turned and called back at the shadows
"Is there anybody there?"
But no answer was forthcoming
She'd walk on and again the sound of the Big feet would come Bom-bom-bom!
By this time she had become so unnerved, so completely flummoxed that in a state of utter panic
She suddenly took off at a frantic girly gallop down the narrow backstreets
Behind her she could hear the sound of the Big feet quickening, coming after her
In a quick change of plan she decided to climb some steps that would take her back to the Main Street again
She hoped there'd be other people there who might be able to protect her
She was very disappointed then when she found not a soul upon the whole street
Well she ran and she ran, she tore down her own street and with key in hand she quickly opened her front door, then slammed it shut fastening all the locks and bolts as she did
With this done she heaved a huge sigh of relief, a huge 'Phew!" and wiped the beads of sweat from her brow
She backed slowly away from the door almost as if she was expecting at any moment, there'd be a mad pounding on it, as if some strange belligerent entity would be trying to gain entry.
She kept backing up, the suspense almost too hard to bear
Suddenly she bumped into something behind her, something big and soft... and furry
Soft and furry ???
She turned and well, her mouth, it dropped wide open in utter shock and disbelief
Her eyes, they nearly popped out of her head
For there standing before her was... THE CREATURE
"It was hideous !" she said tearfully
"What was hideous?" I replied quite intrigued at this stage
"It was a Big Rabbit !"
"A big...a Big Bunny 🐰 ?" I said
She went on explaining, standing before her was a giant seven foot Easter Bunny
"A seven footer eh!" I said as if I was knowledgeable about these things, which I wasn't
She continued with her story, the rabbit he had big floppy ears, big buck teeth, a twitchy nose and whiskers 🐰
And on his face he wore this pretty gormless vacant expression🤡
He was wearing a waistcoat which had all these Easter egg 🥚🥚 designs on it
And on his front paws were these two big red boxing gloves 🥊🥊
She looked around desperately for some means of escape but Alas!
For her THERE WAS NO ESCAPE, she swallowed hard
Suddenly the giant Rabbit's teeth began to
natter
As if he was considering some imminent action
Then totally without warning one of his boxing gloves
It suddenly shot out and punched her right on the nose knocking her clean out on the floor
As she sprawled there dazed and utterly confused, the Big Bunny, he looked down at her with his big eyes 👀
And then, with a sudden leap which surprised even her
He jumped right up onto her chest where he proceeded to bounce up and down on top of her
Of course, here she'd awaken from the dream drenched in sweat and screaming for the Giant Bunny 🐰 to get off her.
When she had finished her story she buried her head in her hands and sobbed quietly for a few moments before regaining her composure
She seemed very relieved to have gotten it all off her chest, the story that is not the Bunny
Well I suppose she was glad to get him off as well
She went on to say how stressed she felt during the day, how she found it hard to focus on anything as she was too busy thinking about the night to come and the arrival of her unwelcome guest
She looked at me pleadingly "He'll be there again, I know it, with those big eyes of his" she blubbed half in tears
It seemed obvious to me what'd happened, mentally she'd been beating herself up
And now her Subconscious was merely reciprocating by creating this giant Bunny to chastise her
It was just a manifestation of the guilt she felt for eating the Easter egg
For a moment I felt like I was Sigmund Freud.
I told her what I thought and said she shouldn't beat herself up, I told her we all had our temptations and that at times, few of us were strong enough to withstand their advances
I told her of the importance of forgiving herself
But nothing seemed to placate her
She still seemed overly concerned about the coming night and the prospect of the giant Bunny's re-appearance
She catastrophized and saw only dark things ahead
I knew I had to say something authoritive
Suddenly I had an idea, I put my arm around her shoulders as if to console her
"Look my child", I said really beginning to warm to my Father Confessor role
"The Beast! Do you really want rid of this Beast ?"
"Yes! I do! I do!", she replied emphatically
"Really! You really want to get rid of him!" I said as if to question her resolve
"Yes! Yes! I'd do anything" she replied
I felt we had to send a strong message to her Subconscious mind -
I told her "This is what you must do. After work go down to the same Sweet shop and there buy the most expensive ornate Box of Chocolates you can find 🎁
But this time instead of bringing them home with you, bring them instead to my house...
To the above advice I added a few more instructions
"And that's all I have to do" she said sounding surprised and hopeful once again
"That's all you have to do", I assured her, "you'll have no more trouble from IT ever again".

So in the evening she arrives at my house with a big box of fancy chocolates
I open the door and abruptly ****** the chocolates from off her
I say loudly "These Chocolates are all mine and you can't have any of them
Lovely Chocolates... and their all mine, all mine!!!
And you're not getting any!"
And I let out this evil cackle of a laugh
Then I said rather theatrically to her "**** off!, Get lost! Shoo! Begone! Begone!
And then I slammed the door right in her face
After a few moments I opened the door again
And began to chase her down the path shouting "Begone! Begone! The Chocolates are mine! All mine!"
I even picked up a stick and shook it at her.

The next morning she runs up to me at work with a big smile
"He's gone ! He didn't come last night"
She looked renewed, she positively glowed again
She assured me I'd be her friend for life and that she loved me to bits
For a moment I was beginning to fancy my chances with her
I had visions of the two of us together in some romantic scene
That was until she went on and said that I reminded her of her lovely Uncle Joe
"Her Uncle Joe", I thought, "****!... feckin' Uncle Tom"
Then I thought I should have charged her, yea! charged her just like a hospital consultant
$250 Euros upfront and come back in two weeks for another $250, sorry for a check up I mean.

Well that's it then... that's my Easter story, I've got to go off now and take my afternoon nap
Y'know I've been getting some funny dreams of my own of late,
Yea! I've made a new friend
He's been teaching me how to box.

I rolled my own tobacco tightly, lips pursed through a gormless grin,
As he, the idle Gean Canach, warming up, kisses a lonesome gin,
This dream as told to be his tonic - the bitter slice - so I begin...

Musing over beauty, his admirable hair, warholic an' fitted to wear,
Of Tartan-clad men whose ghosts have chequered stares,
An' Art, Free Speech, Faith, dipped in batter - much to his despair,

Of people, prickened purple as they blow a silent whistle,
To how the sun beams through heather-fields of shared pistols,
An' those scattered morsels of society, left to nothing but the gristle,

To how more questions than answers affect his whispered speech,
Yet he stirs mulling over youth and language receded to their peak,  
'...Come, I'll walk you back to your hiding place – safely out of reach...!'

Back home to talk of MacDiarmid and McFarlan, to agree and feel solemn,
As he explains that a poisoned bee carries but only poisoning pollen,
An' how a love of our country, for its freedom, is all we have in common,
  
He tells of the tears from the Nationalist, nation-less, who lives in arrears,
Of the ink further dried on the receipt of forced union; of some 400 years,
An' that of my friend the leprechaun; ****** on the burnt grass that he shears,

An' now he exclaims - '… Swallow the pound..! Gulp on its hardened flesh...,
...We are as separate -  the reluctant strawberry atop this eton mess...,
The majesty of our homes, as one, forever in a state of undress,

...We shall squander fortunes on entire pleasures dear to empty minds,
The resources of our country fixed to the crown with no benefit in kind,
Computerised Tesco's an' ****** at the BBC is all that we will find...'

It is time to take our leave; he has risen sharply an' yet crumbles into a seat,  
The fires of the red sun burn for independence with stomping feet,
My dream recited, I wander still, and turn to the fools an' scoundrels on the street.

the pompous one
with her comments
as she slithers by
with
the rudest
of dogs

the confident family;
confident
     to a fault
sitting too close
and talking
too loud

the hypocrite
complaining
of the mess
and leaving behind
a scavenger's
detritus

the insecure sage
a font of knowledge
based on
hearsay
and opinion
with only
a pinch
     of fact

the innocently gormless
with no thought
for sense
     or logic
common or otherwise
but only
for the now
and
the immediate

these are
the passengers
on the
carousel
     of frustrations
for today;
replayed
rephrased
resurrected
over
and over

i think
so little
     of them
yet
i'm unable
to stop myself
thinking
about them

The rainbow fell into the consommé,
the night turned the day and the
cards went my way
it was normal some say in
the madhouse

and then there was work
the foibles, the quirks
the bright sparks
the gormless
the sharks

and while Hawkin's talking of quarks
and quasars
all I get
is quizzical, looks from the
bar staff and waiters.

It's no wonder the soup's getting cold
and less wondering why
because it all seems so old
or could be it's
possibly me.

Shock firstly
followed by awe

a crow's mocking
caw

as the blouse comes off &
then the bra

tossed now
nonchalantly aside

the flighty flirty skirt
yanked down

and of course the knickers
...follows.

Blouse and skir
leaping over the wall

bra being worn
by an apple tree

the knickers being led up
the garden path.

"Ok..!" I say "...oK!"
"Enough is ENOUGH!"

The wind is in a silly mood.
I chase it chasing me

I trying to catch
the scattered clothes.

The line looking
almost naked.

"** **!" shouts the wind
enjoying itself immensely.

All that remains toeing the line
are a blue boxers and yellow socks

who have manfully withstood
the wind's assaults.

The wind chanting:
"Get them off..get them off!"

like a drunk punter
at a striptease show.

The wind drops and

drops the stolen items.

The line smiling
with all of its skewed pegs

looking shameful and
gormless

at the wind's
misdemeanour.

"I was only trying it on!"
sulks the wind.

"Trying to get in touch with
my feminine side!"

Knickers in hand
I slam the door

in its protesting
face.

"A cross dressing wind...
....that's all I need!"

I sit, motionless, a gormless look across my face.
Mouth open, eyes empty, staring at nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
Bored beyond the point of no return,
Just letting eternity slowly, very slowly pass by.
It never does.
The teacher tells us to work, but gives us no indication of how.
You can’t do something with nothing.
The clock hands finally move.
Everyone adjusts their eyes.
I am sure every minute takes at least five.
Awkward silence is disturbed by the occasional passing of a page.
Nobody bothers to show an interest in anything except the time.
I begin to wonder if both my watch and the clock are broken.
Highly unlikely.
Whispers are engulfed by orders of silence.
The hypocritical teacher has an everlasting throat tickle.
The minute hand doesn’t move this time,
For time has finally stopped.
I motionlessly sit, wishing, praying that the silence would be broken.

Come I’, Sit daahn, Shurrup,
Wor t' fust thin 'a' ah 'eard.
So ah grabbed uz buk fra t' back.
‘n prepared for summa’ absurd

An exam ont’ fust day ah exclaimed!
As uz face exploded wi’ rage
Ah dead eyed ‘im fra across t’ room
‘n reluctantly turned t’ page

T’ year continued like ‘dis,
‘n uz nem appeared ont’ board
‘n ta quote wah’ I’d learnt fra’ uz studies,
Ah felt wretched ‘n abhorred

Tahhm passed by,
‘n 'e 'n class began ta connect.
n suddenly 'a' dislikin,
turned inter respect.

Tahhm went furtha,
as 'e yelled 'n laughed 'n cussed,
‘n suddenly ‘a’ respect,
turned inter complete trust.

‘e’d lern wee randa facts,
‘n sha wee gormless vids.
'e’d respect wee li' adults,
'n nivva' treat wee li' kids.

'n even when ah wor glum,
‘n wasn’t feelin missen,
‘e’d finn' eur way ta use 'is words
ta nurse uz back ta 'ealth.

‘n when 'e sez 'e wor leavin, everybody’s 'eart cried,
We didn’t want ta seh tarreur,
teur t' bloke who’d bin ah guide

Sa t' best we can doa is come togetha,
‘n gatha orl wee folks.
'n wish t' best o' luck ta ah ‘un 'n onny,
Yorksha bloke.

went to see the seaside
walked about the shore
left a muddy footprint
near everything I saw
thought the view was wonderful
but now it wouldn't be
with a line of mucky boot prints
and a gormless looking me

Being a weekend binge drinker I don’t really like Mondays
my poor fragile mind is in a alcohol daze,
my limbs are slow and heavy, each movement is a trial
I feel like I’ve ran a marathon after swimming the length of The Nile,
I lop around all zombiefied my legs are full of lead
my eyes are groaning loudly, like an extra from The Walking Dead,
I’m on the verge of snoozing, I do that sleepy involuntary ****,
I pinch myself real hard “Si you have to stay awake in work!”.
So I take a trip to the disabled toilet and have a nap on the ceramic floor,
hoping I’ll feel much better after this tad of a tiny snore,
I rouse after ten minutes and decide to control this ***** ridden strife,
I must get a grip soon, I want a grasp on this Monday life,
a light bulb pings out of nowhere to brighten my maudlin mood,
this sweet recovery will be engendered by lots scrumptious of food,
so I indulge in a savoury overload and gorge on toast and crisps;
Discos, Hula Hoops, Quavers and defo tons of Frisps,
on my dinner I scoff a Mac Donalds and then a Greg’s sausage roll,
this hungry Homer gluttony helps to sustain my whole,
the calorific sustenance does it’s job and my hangover starts to diminish,
I gaze at the computer’s clock and think “hey it’s time I finished!”.
I ponder “ohh I can glide home knowing my day is done
and if it stays sweet and bright I can enjoy a few hours in the sun,
after that I can watch Breaking Bad and catch up with Coronation Street
while busting out the texts and having more to eat,
yeah I’m see what Walter White’s up to while being really greedy,
wait a ******* minute, tonight’s when I’ve said I’d help the needy!
*******, **** **** **** ****, that’s my evening of chilling down the spout,
rather than a hammock night in I’ve got to venture out
and feed a load of ungrateful gits who don’t even clear their plates
and ask me if I’m a cross dresser while sniggering with their mates,
rather then see if Jesse gets caught by Hank and how the story unfolds
I’ll have to scrub those scrubbers dishes pristine while wearing marigolds,
as oppose to nodding off reading with a Rustlers under my front room lamp
I’ll have to put a load of cutlery away after making a 20 sugar brew for a *****!"
So I decide the Wellspring is off tonight as I really can’t be assed going
I’ll just graft extra hard for *** next week and keep the drinks a flowing,
so I’m just about to pick my phone up and call in with a excuse that’s pretty lamey
but then I realise if I don’t go I won’t get to see Amy!
Suddenly there is a spring in my step, my motion feels on point
I shower very quickly and post drying roll a joint,
I have a zip in my posture as I sail and blaze down the road
all my thoughts of staying in they instantly erode,
I think “Amy is ace and topper, in her company all is fun
she’d make a day of gloom resplendent with the sun,
her chirping silly noises are always brill in the air
she turns my giggles to def com one, I laugh without a care,
I mean I know I'm hilarious, I can feel my own strengths in my head and tummy
but when I'm with Amy I'm even more funny!  
She makes it all sunny!
Cos we can berate that gormless Declan who eats with the speed of a cheetah
say he's troffing all the time, like a professional eater,
we can spray a bit of water, have a lot of chat
teleport through nonsense with the free degree of claptrap,
chill around the washer where all the cool kids hang
kicking back like Gs, knowing all the slang,
flick a fleck of sausage then have a speaking swirl
flex the talking muscles with sweet balletic twirl.
I mean she's not perfect, she could improve her lot
she's pretty immodest, always going on about how she's so hot,
alright supermodel, calm down, yeah, okay you were blessed with good looks
be you know being arrogant really ******* *****.
And she don't like the ***** cats, her brain must have a feline blur
how can she not warm to their whiskers and their contented little purrs,
her eyes sometimes don't always work and she is optically infirm
and she steals pies from the scrotes, she don't know to wait her turn,
she'd stab you in the back for a go at the counter, she's always trying to grab the lead,
and added to all that she can't even ******* read!
(I'm surprised you can read this actually.)
But i'll overlook these foibles, her flaws aren't yet that drastic
she has to merge some yang in there to be so yin fantastic!
Ahh, in this life where what was can no longer leave a reflection
it's always super to feel the natural flow of connection;
glowing with simplicity
our joyous synchronicity!"
So i approach the door of The Wellspring and feel sweet and glad
and think, "you know for a Monday you aint turned out too bad!".

Cassie babe,
Your eye don't fix onto anything
What's holding your words in?

Painting up above
It seems you've a love for everything
I just haven't seen you grin

Thoughts on edge
Inside instead
Your legs dangle from a ledge
Gormless expression
Inner canvas expression

Not a thing to say
In your mind all day
You know the way it goes
Drifting to
And floating from
Places to spaces
But never really going anywhere
Well nowhere that she'd like to share
With you or me

Pondering elegantly
Elaborating privately
Although
There is no doubt
Your beauty's on show

Soft toffee
in wrappers
in a bag
in my hand

just take one

Ingrid looks
at the bag
then at me

they are yours

I can share
no problem
I tell her

she takes one
and untwists
the wrapper
on the sweet
takes it out
and eats it

I watch her
her slightly
protruding
teeth bite through
soft toffee
quite easy

I eat mine
put the bag
of toffees
in my coat

my uncle
gives me sweets
she tells me
if I’m good
and do things

I study
her brown hair
pinned with grips
her brown eyes
looking sad

do what things?
I ask her

she looks down
at her shoes

I can't say
Uncle says
it's secret
between us

the uncle
visits her
at weekends
her old man's
big brother

gormless ***
Jimmy says
who's seen him
in the Square

why secret?
I inquire

cross my heart
hope to die
she replies

wonder why?

Humphrey sees the dame going
by the door as he’s booking in at
the hotel, for the moment she
seems frozen there as if the gods
had wanted him to get a glimpse

of beauty before she moved on
and back into her life far from his.
He stands there gazing, his eyes
taking in each aspect of her shine:
the hat the shoes, the two piece suit,

the plenty of leg and best of all her
face and the way she was looking
at him. A posh car is waiting outside
the lobby, she stands there her eyes
drinking him in, he ignores the booking

clerk who is talking to him, what is
the **** on about when he has beauty
just outside standing and staring, maybe
waiting for him, waiting for him to go
to her and converse. It’s New York City

1920 and there she is, his Helen of Troy,
she who no doubt could sink a few ships
or break a heart or two, but what to do?
He stands and stares, his mind in a haze,
she moving off and into the car, no time

to think or wave, she’s gone, the car away
along the street, lost in the sea of traffic,
he senses a tear in his heart, an opening
up, a lost chance, beauty fled. The booking
clerk talks, his words like rainfall on a tin

roof, his gormless gaze. Humphrey looks
at the face of the clerk, his dark eyes like
small black pits, Yes, that room will do,
Humphrey says, taking the key, wanting it
over, his day kind of blessed and spoiled,

beauty come and gone, a chance not taken,
a mind messed up, a heart near broken.

The need for you burns my skin
The need to see you again draws me

I come to you, but alas for naught
I come to you, but you're attention escapes

You're life book has space for me
You have space, but only as a footnote.

I have been a gormless man,
Ibcome to you but ylwish for another.

My oaken refuge has burned to ash,
The warm breeze has become icy winds

Where has my refuge gone? my safe haven?
Where is this Ronan to go now?

walking away
           from
all you
                    gormless drones

master of my domain

finally
           the shackles of
CORRUPTION
                    melt
      away
                            and
I am truly free

He was a brave sailor, venturing into the unknown, with strength and love for the sea he had found. But the waves got too wild, too roaring, and he could not keep sailing. The sea was revolted and kicked him out, despite himself.

I have seen so much
In your arms
But I was too broken
for you to fix me inside

Back to black, the thick spacey air
Around?

You melted the icecaps
You got ventured into a strange ocean
Now the ocean cries for you
Now, sailor, you rush back home
Never trust your brain
It only twists you again and again

My sailor you were
A hint of water in a drought
sailing alone through my heart
Bringing me happiness
I could not handle well
But I am gormless, too froze....
Too stale

What is reality? The tales we tell ourselves
All the times in your bed- so real, so fake
All the love we shared
Too healthy for me to take

It happened.
We loved each other.
We tore together the walls.
How long till the next thaw?

**** my parents, **** myself
**** everything that stood in OUR WAY

The chief of vessels,
Here he lingers still,
gormless and ruthless,
guilty and ill.

The matriarch will protect you,
courageous and fair.
Swords may dive around and above too,
But she will not flinch, She will not care.

This omen is an old friend,
One we have learnt to disguise ourselves from,
Bonded by blood they may be,
But their blood is cursed and wrong.

A jester jumps entertaining us,
Distract yourself from historys doing,
Whilst the matriarch guards the doorway,
The chief is left to ruin.

Where this leads  - I don't know
I know it's bound to end - going to end
Someday, we could not last
You'll get tired of my wounds and stuff
The road leads somewhere we don't know
We'll venture and go - like we were fearless
or gormless...

And now come the other men,
The figurines, the foragers
And those who marched
Onward
By the failed evergreen. They
Speak of war grown days,
And times before the land
Was tore. Their voices
Shrouded
By one anothers’ patience, and
Each man carried his scars,
Cradled,
In their shadowed
Limblike arms, they bore
Tear marks
Printed
On their gormless
Salty cheeks, and
Under their heavy
Sullen eyes
Paraded gashes
And stains
Of crimson and bleak.

And now come the other men,
Out of the ovens, rushing
For some safer housing.
It’s all a conundrum, this
Waiting and wavering, an
Uncertainty
Mounted across a ditch
Of slightly burnt
Flesh, men mashed
Into one.

And now come the other men,
An identity shared
Between friends, who bask
In the untimely forgery
Of their postured
end.

As we boarded the train
                           You, with a six pack in you're hand.
                           I knew that very minute
                         That our" wedding night was ******!
                           To Dover for our honeymoon.
                           Oh what a great delight!
                            My sister said " don't marry him"!
                             And now I know she's right!
                        " just got married to day mate"( he shouted)
                          The porter gave a glare...
                          " you're not allowed to smoke sir"
                             " it's a non smoking here"
                              As he gave an angry stare...
                              You look across the table
                            With that gormless grin
                          This wasn't quite the way
                      I thought our marriage would begin.!!

A table of Jesus-stuff at the door
A beefish man in gas-station shades
Channeling Chaucer’s Pardoner – he ain't
Never heard of him – in peddling salvation

“It’s for the church. It’s for the missions,” he says
Ignored by most.  Then in a mutton moment
He spreads his legs and clutches at his (faith)
Laughing a pelvic ****** at his fellow apostle

A gormless guide to The Golden Shore
Touting tawdries and tidings at the truck stop door

What have you become in this hollow space,
You were once somebody,
Once something
But now,
Your words are nothing,
And your face yields nobody.
A sunken man, a man so grated
He has abandoned the joys
Of
Wandering, and
Instead taken sweeter to whining; “why me”
And “why me”.
But these concerns
Never slip from his flakey slim lips, rather
They tumble and tumble
In his heavy limbered skull,
Rattling into one another
Like cheap cream chinos upon a white apron,
Resting and soaked
At the street corner laundrette. Never to dry.
Never to dry.
Emptier
than his pockets. And
Looser than the screws clasped to his spectacle frames.
The lenses are slipping. Vision is ending.
Words are nothing.
And so, passion ceases
As
The walls
Squeeze the last wonder from his
Breath; “why me” and “why us” - “Why do the stars
Dare to shine”.
Alas,
The universe lays gormless, and
Relishes in its own undisputed silence.

It's a bit odd if you ask me
and even if you don't it's
still a bit odd.

nothing feels as real as those mixed up feelings
we all deal with.

I deal another joker from the pack.

But there are more ways than one to skin a cat,
why would you want to do that?

I resist the overpowering temptation
to accept the underwhelming  situation
and grow a pair,
guessing that's not fair to females
and
makes a mockery of so called men.

The daily contact
I reflect on.

some wasteful, tasteless, gormless conversations and
comprehending those unending streams is nigh impossible.

My sphere of influence flattens out.

That's okay
I can do Coventry
silently
diligently
on my own and quite
selfishly too.

Through the fish eye lens
where the bubbles bend
but never break,
I look to take that waking
moment
to gain momentum
to get out there
again.

Almost
in tears
he peers into the crystal ball
and sees the seeds he's sown.

There is beauty in the cracked half moon imprint of your smile,

it is blood red,
painted on,
like the fastened belt we hang over my door,

it is a warning sign,
that belt,

that in this room people are *******,
by the waist,
by the wrists,
one time by the neck,
but we mustn't speak of that,

we leave the belt to hang there for the perceptive,
who never realise that this is a solitary palace,

and we gift the belt to the gormless,
the ones who come for shackles or silence.

Grasping fanatically
eunuchs and market hawkers
sweep up the flippancies' of the witty
unschooled in ironies and jocular chidings
the semi-illiterates gormless thoughts interpreters
amass see-thru disinformation as biblical control manual
oh ye of gilded title all you say has been catalogued and indexed
matter not the fabrications nor the distortions nor if its out of context
the Eton mess of the ignoramus is power and will be used against you
Bolsheviks in Apparatchik on the rampage jigging the dolts' fandango
comrades muzhiks we present the screening of fallacies from the caves
power to the people

Heather mounts the whispering hillsides where, since
Time’s genesis, hopeful men have retired and gone to die
And where their murmurs now permanently reside.
Where there is a home for the settling magpies, between
The bushes of bleached purples and murky greys. This place,
This stretched out place, sits under the teary drowned out sky,
And beyond the sight of the youthful starry eyes -
This place, this dreary place is coined the Sunken Side.

Gormless men limp out onto those hills, parading
Their depleting health and bragging to the clouds
Of their dampened wealth; all without the grandeur
Of uniformed marching limbs. Rather, they are more akin
To a slow drunken tide coming in at day’s end. Alas, this
Is how the Sunken Side has been penned, a place for buried men
And sullen men to withhold remorse, and play dead.  

Strangers strapped to strangers, glued to one another’s side,
Like mere passerbys queued in crowds of outsiders and snides .
This is no Holy place, and neither is it a Royal place;
Kingly deemed men are not catered here, rather only
A peasantry mess is ever vindicated, and spaces are reserved
For those sulking on islands, or those looking for new faces.

These same men bathe in buttercup fields, and seemingly
Fall in love with the briskly buttered on luck. But,

Do they dare take the Sunken test? Go out onto the Sunken Side,
Take in the hollow sinking breath and abide
Now only to the heather hills and the stranger men whose eyes
Are sewed to stars where each pupil latches
On to a flicker in the heavens, and men turn bizarre. Sparking
An obsession, and initiating constant digression with their
Sunken life. No, they rather regress to soaking in time.

Their need for kingdom
And want for graded inclusion outlives their mortality
And perpetuates their morality. Kingdoms always die.  
But the thirst for kingdom will never dry.
Alas! on this Sunken Side, amoungst the heather and
Whispering hills, men surrender their wills
And gladly give their final farewells.