There’s a sickness
or a ringing
in the early hours of night
and it creeps and creeps and creeps
till you’re begging for the light.

There’s a pinging, pinging, triumph
of wisdom in your eyes.
You have grown and now you know
not to take me by surprise.

It’s a slow infatuation
seems to ebb and flow with tides
or with the special flitter-flutter
of un-all-knowing minds.

(Quote by Spike Milligan)

One very wise man sat and said
That, long before this world is dead
This planet’s problems won’t be solved
By reasoning which, though now evolved,
has got us, where we now do sit,
Afloat neck deep in mankind’s ****.

There’s SARs, Ebola, AIDs, Bird flu
And in the woodwork, West Nile too,
Each replicating viral spat
To mutate, (at the drop of a hat),
To complicate enviro’s stew
Of global degredation’s brew.

Urban spread and over stocking
**** deforestation’s shocking,
Depletion of aquatic life
Intrinsically creating strife,
Industrial pollution’s goo
Ozone depletion... ALL FOR YOU!


Environmental degradation
Means the world’s a weaker place,
Susceptible to malady
Wide spread across the human race.
Those animals in corn fed stalls
Who never get to see the sun
Or graze green grass where honey bees
Are vanquished by varroha’s fun.

Too late to save the Hector’s dolphin
Conservation’s lost it’s tools,
Rastafarian hootchie smokers,
Save the whales to **** the fools.
Governments sell the carbon credits
Everybody smells a rat
Restorations for the birds
And social conscience creamed the cat.

****** greenies own the airwaves
No one gives a flying ****
That good artesian water’s poisoned
By good farmer’s leached out muck.
CO2 in global warming
Sings it’s song of fast decline
Glacial retreat a-roaring
Bass relief in blood *****.

I guess the little children’s future
Most depends on lady luck,
Humankind in mass denial
Most don’t give a flying ****!

Marshalg
In retreat to Taranaki’s green haven in the gales of the equinox.
21 September 2011

(Quote by Spike Milligan)

One very wise man sat and said
That, long before this world is dead
This planet’s problems won’t be solved
By reasoning which, though now evolved,
has got us, where we now do sit,
Afloat neck deep in mankind’s ****.

There’s SARs, Ebola, AIDs, Bird flu
And in the woodwork, West Nile too,
Each replicating viral spat
To mutate, (at the drop of a hat),
To complicate enviro’s stew
Of global degredation’s brew.

Urban spread and over stocking
**** deforestation’s shocking,
Depletion of aquatic life
Intrinsically creating strife,
Industrial pollution’s goo
Ozone depletion... ALL FOR YOU!


Environmental degradation
Means the world’s a weaker place,
Susceptible to malady
Wide spread across the human race.
Those animals in corn fed stalls
Who never get to see the sun
Or graze green grass where honey bees
Are vanquished by varroha’s fun.

Too late to save the Hector’s dolphin
Conservation’s lost it’s tools,
Rastafarian hootchie smokers,
Save the whales to **** the fools.
Governments sell the carbon credits
Everybody smells a rat
Restorations for the birds
And social conscience creamed the cat.

****** greenies own the airwaves
No one gives a flying ****
That good artesian water’s poisoned
By good farmer’s leached out muck.
CO2 in global warming
Sings it’s song of fast decline
Glacial retreat a-roaring
Bass relief in blood *****.

I guess the little children’s future
Most depends on lady luck,
Humankind in mass denial
Most don’t give a flying ****!

Marshalg
In retreat to Taranaki’s green haven in the gales of the equinox.
21 September 2011

Dust if you must, but wouldn't it be be better
To paint a picture or write a letter,
Bake a cake or plant a seed,
Ponder the difference between want and need?

Dust if you must, but there's not much time,
With rivers to swim and mountains to climb,
Music to hear and books to read,
Friends to cherish and life to lead.

Dust if you must, but the world's out there
With the sun in your eyes, the wind in your hair,
A flutter of snow, a shower of rain.
This day will not come around again.

dust if you must, but bear in mind,
Old age will come and it's not kind.
And when you go - and go you must -
You, yourself will make more dust.

- Rose Milligan

“Mrs. Tubb, prepare my raincoat,” he said, “I’m going under the carpet.”
His ears were steaming.
“I’ll be waiting by the hanged stag,” he said. “If it gets to six and I'm still not home, put tobacco in the telephone.”

Down there, at the foot of the stairs, Mrs Tubb’s tears fell to the flattened backwards.
In the middle of the night, whilst she was sleeping,
And without her permission,
He had changed her name to Margot St. Vincent.

“Take off that murderer’s moustache and stretch out on the infamous Chelsea Blackmail Floor.
Ask the biggest bugs to dance,
You may never get another chance.”

The quietly handsome and magnificent Millicent Milligan was feeling rather ill again.
She had been dreaming of the brittle marigolds of Saint Petersburg.
She had been dreaming of pine cones and boiling marmalade.

Her home had fallen into a hole.
It was on the evening news,
But by the following morning they had lost interest,
A mountain had struck a commercial airliner and so no one was much impressed by her Home in Hole Hell.
355 were dead,
And possibly a well known racehorse,
And a corpse in transit who, of course, was already dead, but still, it was vexing for the family.
They found a priest in a poplar tree,
And the head of a hand model at the back of a cave.
(The hands were still intact and were couriered to their agent in a special flask).

Half in, half out of her delicious stockings
Wendice Titian cuts out scissor clippings of her
Sinister yellow sister.

Overnight the years twist.

Edgar Snooker has  heard he is to play ******'s dog on the silver screen.
Edgar Snooker is not a dog.
And the screen was never silver.
And besides, it is not true.
Someone is out to destabilise him.

As posh, brainwashed sausages consult
The Punchline Advisor of Dunkirk,

As the Lord is seen on all fours on His moon
Causing daily electrical police misfortune,

As the masses embark on the clamorous, scattered and impossible journey to disappointed purity,

As her money is without temperament,

As the self-conscious guilt daughter unbuttons her plush helmet,

So the richly magnetised stars are winding down.

As candles whisper in the middle of the road,

As Margot St. Vincent revolves the nickel tap
Of the gas powered knitting plate,

So Father Flynn is inconsolable.
He found a photograph of ****** Bob on top of his wife’s hat.
She denied everything,
Including that she was there at all.
Father Flynn fell for it.
That's faith for you.

the sheer irony kicking pounding slapping biting
from the 19th century, a book entitled the gay science
sits pretty now, pretty with an ironic glee of puffed cheeks
and teeth showing, pretty enough to be a daffodil
smile, and why? why?! but of course the book looks
at 21st century and says: not much gaiety around here,
in the dirge dungeons of expression, maybe i should
be called episteme eulogia / επιστημη ευλογια,
i.e. the science of eulogy, praise indeed,
praised as if dead or dying; where the dionysian madness?
where the randomised polychromatic kandinsky moment
of frenzy? it's all written like vectors of cradle
unto the grave: (a) happend, (b) happened, (c) too
and follow on through to (d, e, f, g)... but where was (a2)
and (a3) a quick moment of (c) but actually following
through into the sub-plot no. 3 tier of (b)?
through and through, i think i'll have to lose all the airy
fairy ******* and dig in, from england all the way
to china, and speak with mao tse tung and emperor puyi
in māori, or sign language, for a bit of a foxtrot,
for a bit of a laugh - should i find any gaiety here,
it would probably sound as dumb as spike milligan's
                                          ning nang nong nim com ****
(shh... they'll discover you're feeding a young angry man persona),
it comes with the face and the age, by the time i'm fifty
i'll just be a cranky old man persona: angry at my bladder,
angry at my legs, my wrinkles my half-witty jests,
i'll be angry at my wife, at my mid-life crisis in the form
of a harley davidson only ridden once, you name it,
anger will turn to crankiness, and it'll be too late to then
poetically confess.

(cheesy)

Woe
Woe
and thrice
whoa
wait a minute
steady Neddy
this isn't a day at the Coliseum
that's been done,

Hear ye
Hear ye
here,
wait a minute
what's going on

Hello
Hello
Hello
and not in a Seagoon voice
Spike spoke
( a Milligan joke )

Okay so it's nearly early but neither late
I am reading the tea leaves
resistant to fate
and I think I might wait
until the sun goes
down.

know that before the **** did crow
he was just another farmyard bird and yet his crowing's been heard for two thousand years.

Religions fooled us,
we
used to go to the Sunday school
shoeless

clueless about Jesus
I thought
miracles were what mam made

We sang for our supper
at granny's,
got a cup of cold gravy,
the old lady was going
quite gaga
but
we loved her.

the evening would thrill again
with
Secombe and Milligan
and who
wouldn't I **** to go back
again?

not sure about that.

.get to a million get to a million...
it's no dickens or a shakepeare... but...
get to a million get to a million...
it's not your everyday tabloid column...
but... get to a million get to a million...

all words outside of the italics...
said... really... real... slowly...
         Eeyore: sore...
                           i like how...
sodden sad i am with... a spike
milligan rendition of...
by the barrel of the rhyme -
this nonsense has to... be gloated...
float... 'ted...
             ballloons and buzzing... etc.

and those italics?
   gerbil on asteroids... and on steroids...
and... on amphetamines...
basics: on a cocktail...
   nibbling ferociously...
so ferociously that...
                      the tongue disappears...

i already have a: tomorrow will be...
"good"...
i don't like being pandered...
and this is that story of
a princess sleeping on twenty matresses...
agitated by an uncooked pea...

needle in the haystack for me...
this most perfect day...

   i'm using this old post-soviet
piece of equipment and...
it works brand new...
none of the samsung cheap ***** made
in china...
if i'll have my may...
and the garden needs no imporvement:
a new shed... blah...
it already looks like a building site...
i managed to tranfer a tonne of
birdseye pebbles from
the service road into the garden...

imagine the fate... of those...
sentenced to: kamieniołomy...
a quarry... i'm not exactly deluding myself
in the act already deluding me...
a hammer... perfecting what was
a farmers' suntan just below the elbows...
so i rolled my sleeves up...
for compensation...

   imagine sentencing a man to work
among stones... friko! gratis!
for... the "blessing"...
       but if i take the walk...
this, walk... i'm keeping up appearances
up to a point... then the masquerade is over...
nothing to hear but ***** horses...
magpies... woodland pigeons and crows...
nothing of assorted competing
propaganda placentas...
no cushions: no bed: count sheep...
that, tiresome, task?
how about making out: complex
"geometry" from clouds...
see castles? see swans?
see devils charging into battle
having donned the men-yoroi?!

the past... and so much for the romance...
the vikings should be known as:
the warlike gypsies... ******* pikeys and all!
sword for a harmonica...
a longboat for a... heap of castanets...
and... that... accordion? no?
the new... "napels"?
the violin... the new sax...
new: yo! ollie!
    *******...
  
         - i said i'd ******* walk it!
i did it once come sunset...
i said... i did it once in reverse: got lost:
feet became muddied...
i returned...

             this is where we'd part...
i'd ******* from the B175...
parallel to the orange tree pub...
next to the bower house...
   when walking? no point taking
the B175 up to A113... no... seriously...
there isn't...

into the havering country park...
how many times...
did i walk this "short" and "narrow"...
letting off the body known
that the breath is bound
to a duality of soul...
and "more lungs to uncover...
major major"...

       exercise: gym: pristine **** film
perfect... swimming is fun...
riding a bicycle is fun...
the rest remains a vanity project...

         i might as well be hoarding...
so from having made an exit via
B175... i end up coming back into
contact with traffic... at...
via hainnault forest of course...
at... A1112...
          
when it was especially crisp...
and winter was the *****...
watching the widow and widower swans...
at moonlight...
that's the only:
that's the best time to appreciate swans...
come a fullmoon... come the trickling
of mercury into the details of:
ghostly white: for the worth of swans...
and none other...

  and if i meet a Wordsworth on the way?
i'll strangle him with a shoelace...
hell... i'll hang him by one...
tell 'im to sniff a boot on the way out...
and a soggy sock: for practice...

from what i read:
so much for the countryside while at the same
time having... to entertain...
the garden prior to the fall:
a ****-buddy of a sister...
the foreboding mid-west...
televangelists and a-o.k. ******:
   like that physicist... who said:
brother and sister have a get together:
as long as: rubbers included...

caricature on the simpsons...
google-whacking won't even allow me
search results...
then again: sloppy seconds...
    'ere we go: lawrence krauss...
simpsons guy...
  
robinson crusoe ahoy! quick!
sink... this... ******* ship!
let's me it look like a melodrama
for environ... mentalists...
let's make it look like a beached
whale... rather than a ghost wreck
holding lost secrets of lineage:
among the arabs? muhammad ibin...
         ibin...
among the jews? yeshua ben...
   ben... blah: ibin! blah ben!

- so so much for solo...
  solo violin, solo piano...
solo... rubbing chicken with carribean
**** sauce... slaughtering a lamb,
kosher, also solo...
    ham solo... solo: project undertaken
with concern for...
no concerns except for: solo...
soloist... soliloquy... solipsism...
bored mushroom head: kanughonzagi
shimoto hiroshimmyshimmy oops...
bulldozer... machine 'ed on... 'ed off...
a party twick: don't look so surprised...

that's: "not me in your third person"
gemoetry...
well... within the trinity, secular...
of the son, ego, the father, superego...
and the holy spirit of id...
jerking off is on the same platitude
of performing *******...
in verse of reverse: eating an oyster
or a floral "pattern"...

here's to not having to find strangers:
notsably pakistani men willing
to convert...
thank be for the jews: at least they can't
convert you: ****** in them the concept
of being chosen...
like this mirage of static...
perhaps the wind does disturb this
equilibrium... then again... does it?

upon the altar of the sky before me...
a curious "star"...
that it isn't...
it has to be a planet...
i'm guessing that it's either
Venus or Jupiter...
and if my naked eyes were able to
decipher the experience...
from what the postcard of
Saturn looks like: truly:
flesh, blood and eyesight to
compensate:
why do almost all alien lifeforms concern
me with microscopic items?
i had to wrestle a mammoth
i had to overcome a tiger...
i didn't exactly find myself:
finding *****...
champagne and l.s.d. but not
mushrooms...
the fungus hitchhiker of 1960s
psychadelic intelligenstia...

i need to only die this once...
there is no god: there is no god...
"god"...
this is a house... that requires
a breath to deem it: an abode...
a home is a foreign concept in the mouth
of a mongolian horde...
crimea if a capital...

      a tartare steak... a raw herring
in yogurt sauce with apples and gherkins...
a spice for the palette...
if tomorrow is supposedly a day...
i will sacrifice a dream: all dreams!
for a day like i plan for tomorrow...
to come into contact with reality...

no love is ideal... even that of a madman...
or a gisberg... homosexual latex gimp
plaything... savvy?!
two to a rucksack
of the tow of beers i need to give birth
to a quasimodo...

"broken": to have broke - sober -
then drunk... the barking of a drop load
of ******* of an alsatian...

   we so tire... we all must tire so...
such: we! sire: i! oh... but i'm not bargained
to don a crown!
pontius pilate... the escapade
of the thief... of the coward...
or the status quo tactician...

by now... does it... would it...
even... even ******... *******... matter
to parade in all that pomp and desires
for a spontaneity of... ahem...
"spontenity"?!

better worded: i agree: genius to genius...
one would never curse...
etiquette! my boor and bore...
one must be well fashioned
to stage the pirouette of "proper"
knife and fork handling...
as... the napkin is to supposed to be bound
to never find any better use!

the air i want to breathe...
              is it... really...
the complications of chemistry...
curb... no new: every old...
           one always has to find it necessary
to fall in love with paris...
and grow perptually boring
within the confines of london;
apparently all else... vivo per se...
is supposed to "happen" & "here"!

NonsensePoetry á la Corwin
  
    There is a legitimate genre called Nonsense Verse, a form of nonsense literature usually employing strong prosodic elements like rhythm and rhyme. It is whimsical and humorous in tone and employs some of the techniques of nonsense literature.
     Among writers in English noted for nonsense verse are Edward Lear[, Lewis Carroll, Mervyn Peake, Sukumar Ray, Edward Gorey, Colin West, Dr. Seuss, and Spike Milligan.
     I myself seldom write nonsense poetry, but a friend sent me an email with this phrase:
“Each little bench
Is amazingly French….
     I had no idea why he sent it, but was instantly engaged and inspired to write this back to him:

However, each *****
Who sits on that bench
Has a stench
That could drench
Every river and trench
But not quench
Any watery branch
Or prevent any mulching
By belching.
If you agree much,
Have an itch to get hitched*
Keep in touch!

*get hitched; marry.
Nonsense Poetry á la Corwin 8.16.2020 A Senses Of The Ridiculous II;  Arlene Nover Corwin

(***, Drugs, and Rock, & Roll!)
From Royalty, to Rock Stars, To A World Champion, To One of The Goons, To A Potential Future Prime Minister!
Ive already mentioned my encounter with Spike Milligan in Rye, East Sussex, well about 20 years later, whilst living in North Wales,  his grand daughter, 'inadvertently', broke my daughters' arm, with an umbrella! and that my ex wife, was a very distant cousin (x 3-4 times removed..) of ELVIS (Costello), and i used to score my **** of Elton Johns. half brother (don't know what happened to the other half!), and that i once gave my autograph to a former world champion snooker player Alex 'Hurricane' Higgins, and that one of Princess Di's cousins tried to 'bed' me, yes he wanted *** (i declined, as i was still male back then, and still relatively not gay, or drunk! (i like a drink, maybe two at the most, three i'm under the table, four i'm under the host!)), but he had a lovely house, and loads of pics of him with Di in their childhood. and how on my 50th birthday, Paul McCartney, and his then wife, Heather, saved my mother life, and he asked my daughter if the birthday cake was for her, he can't of looked at it properly, as it clearly had "happy 50th birthday" on it (she was about 7 at the time, and lastly, how i nearly 'copped' off with a future potential Prime Minister! the weird thing is, is that all this really happened in my surreal existence....😏🙂🦋💕🙄 by Jemia