Says I to my Missis: "Ba goom, lass! you've something I see, on your mind."
Says she: "You are right, Sam, I've something. It 'appens it's on me be'ind.
A Boil as 'ud make Job jealous. It 'urts me no end when I sit."
Says I: "Go to 'ospittel, Missis. They might 'ave to coot it a bit."
Says she: "I just 'ate to be showin' the part of me person it's at."
Says I: "Don't be fussy; them doctors see sights more 'orrid than that."

So Misses goes off togged up tasty, and there at the 'ospittel door
They tells 'er to see the 'ouse Doctor, 'oose office is Room Thirty-four.
So she 'unts up and down till she finds it, and knocks and a voice says: "Come in,"
And there is a 'andsome young feller, in white from 'is 'eels to 'is chin.
"I've got a big boil," says my Missis. "It 'urts me for fair when I sit,
And Sam (that's me 'usband) 'as asked me to ask you to coot it a bit."
Then blushin' she plucks up her courage, and bravely she shows 'im the place,
And 'e gives it a proper inspection, wi' a 'eap o' surprise on 'is face.
Then 'e says wi' an accent o' Scotland: "Whit ye hae is a bile, Ah can feel,
But ye'd better consult the heid Dockter; they caw him Professor O'Niel.
He's special for biles and carbuncles. Ye'll find him in Room Sixty-three.
No charge, Ma'am. It's been a rare pleasure. Jist tell him ye're comin' from me."

So Misses she thanks 'im politely, and 'unts up and down as before,
Till she comes to a big 'andsome room with "Professor O'Neil" on the door.
Then once more she plucks up her courage, and knocks, and a voice says: "All right."
So she enters, and sees a fat feller wi' whiskers, all togged up in white.
"I've got a big boil," says my Missis, "and if ye will kindly permit,
I'd like for to 'ave you inspect it; it 'urts me like all when I sit."
So blushin' as red as a beet-root she 'astens to show 'im the spot,
And 'e says wi' a look o' amazement: "Sure, Ma'am, it must hurt ye a lot."
Then 'e puts on 'is specs to regard it, and finally says wi' a frown:
"I'll bet it's as sore as the divvle, especially whin ye sit down.
I think it's a case for the Surgeon; ye'd better consult Doctor Hoyle.
I've no hisitation in sayin' yer boil is a hill of a boil."

So Misses she thanks 'im for sayin' her boil is a hill of a boil,
And 'unts all around till she comes on a door that is marked: "Doctor Hoyle."
But by now she 'as fair got the wind up, and trembles in every limb;
But she thinks: "After all, 'e's a Doctor. Ah moosn't be bashful wi' 'im."
She's made o' good stuff is the Missis, so she knocks and a voice says: "Oos there?"
"It's me," says ma Bessie, an' enters a room which is spacious and bare.
And a wise-lookin' old feller greets 'er, and 'e too is togged up in white.
"It's the room where they coot ye," thinks Bessie; and shakes like a jelly wi' fright.
"Ah got a big boil," begins Missis, "and if ye are sure you don't mind,
I'd like ye to see it a moment. It 'urts me, because it's be'ind."
So thinkin' she'd best get it over, she 'astens to show 'im the place,
And 'e stares at 'er kindo surprised like, an' gets very red in the face.
But 'e looks at it most conscientious, from every angle of view,
Then 'e says wi' a shrug o' 'is shoulders: "Pore Lydy, I'm sorry for you.
It wants to be cut, but you should 'ave a medical bloke to do that.
Sye, why don't yer go to the 'orsespittel, where all the Doctors is at?
Ye see, Ma'am, this part o' the buildin' is closed on account o' repairs;
Us fellers is only the pynters, a-pyntin' the 'alls and the stairs."

Passes not by a day, that many an e-mail
unsolicited for would not stray--
from only Christ knows where--into
my SPAM folder. Some do sail
there to have a prurient stay,
bringing along many a memento
in an argosy of raunchy piquant pictures.

Some convey commerce, insurance or banking
messages; some the cargo of relationship
carry; while another an ad of ******
bears, still another talks about dealership.

Yet stood out Twain. Two diverse
SPAM e-mails have been berthing,
with goatish gaits and sharkish smirks,
in that folder unrelenting and unswerving.

One SPAM e-mail reads: "Why wait--have
an affair with a cheating wife today."

Sweetest SPAM!

Gorging myself on this fetish
fare free of charge. Kittenish
jades, serve me thy dainties of
dalliance enough!

To rock and roll, rolling in the hay,
making merry heaves, does ever crave
this rebellious flesh--yet, this randy
SPAM e-mail's offer offsets much the mind:

"A cheating wife" desiring to find--
for reasons amourous--a dandy,
a sort of cad.

Wondering muse: "A cheating wife"?
What a magic life!

Another SPAM e-mail says its own thus: "View
my pics. Lonely married women--
view **** pics." Indeed and true,
they grip with a serious sudden
poke the soul, like pangs the heart,
those three momentous, wrecking,
wretched words: "lonely married women."

Though content spicy and Libidinous;
yet maddening.
Secret meals seemingly are delicious,
but have a fiery taste.

Where--on Earth, in Mars, or in Hell
are they? Here, in this world they dwell.

Thought marriage is a blessed haven--
a heaven of unfeigned love and lasting bliss.

How could one be married and yet
be alone in life--lonely, who has
crossed over singlehood's borders,
nor is she a widow for bereavement?

A husband did his queen abandon
for a fresh-fangled pawn,
flying away with that new
dove--frittering his fortune away,
as she chirps love in lust songs anew
into his donkey's ears; flattery
displayed, a groovy
guise--

playing ducks and drakes with his riches

until his substance ship sank, like Titanic,
colliding with an iceberg of folly
in the deep of adultery:

making a muck of his wealth.

The flirtatious dollybird no sooner
flitted, then flew abroad at last,
leaving him to drown in the murky
waters of his wreck.

Returned the prodigal man to his hearth
in a sad pickle, with one shirt, one
jean,
and a pair of snickers, to the ever
gracious ***** of his loving Missis--
like a sinner contrite to Jesus.

Whilst a sudden grass widow, his wife
did not covet the companionship,
comforts and copulation
of another flagship--

but was committed to her
vows
to that fun-tossed lugger--
despite the billowy waves,

praying he'd come to his harbour.

The women howbeit in my SPAM folder--
those "cheating wives and lonely married
women", are like Lady Portiphar
pining and yearning for Joseph.

Unread.
Unreplied.

I wonder 'oo and wot 'e was,
That 'Un I got so slick.
I couldn't see 'is face because
The night was 'ideous thick.
I just made out among the black
A blinkin' wedge o' white;
Then biff! I guess I got 'im crack --
The man I killed last night.

I wonder if account o' me
Some ***** will go *****,
And 'eaps o' lives will never be,
Because 'e's stark and dead?
Or if 'is missis damns the war,
And by some candle light,
Tow-headed kids are prayin' for
The Fritz I copped last night.

I wonder, 'struth, I wonder why
I 'ad that 'orful dream?
I saw up in the giddy sky
The gates o' God agleam;
I saw the gates o' 'eaven shine
Wiv everlastin' light:
And then . . . I knew that I'd got mine,
As 'e got 'is last night.

Aye, bang beyond the broodin' mists
Where spawn the mother stars,
I 'ammered wiv me ****** fists
Upon them golden bars;
I 'ammered till a devil's doubt
Fair froze me wiv affright:
To fink wot God would say about
The bloke I corpsed last night.

I 'ushed; I wilted wiv despair,
When, like a rosy flame,
I sees a angel standin' there
'Oo calls me by me name.
'E 'ad such soft, such shiny eyes;
'E 'eld 'is 'and and smiled;
And through the gates o' Paradise
'E led me like a child.

'E led me by them golden palms
Wot 'ems that jeweled street;
And seraphs was a-singin' psalms,
You've no ideer 'ow sweet;
Wiv cheroobs crowdin' closer round
Than peas is in a pod,
'E led me to a shiny mound
Where beams the throne o' God.

And then I 'ears God's werry voice:
"Bill 'agan, 'ave no fear.
Stand up and glory and rejoice
For 'im 'oo led you 'ere."
And in a nip I seemed to see:
Aye, like a flash o' light,
My angel pal I knew to be
The chap I plugged last night.

Now, I don't claim to understand --
They calls me Bonehead Bill;
They shoves a rifle in me 'and,
And show me 'ow to ****.
Me job's to risk me life and limb,
But . . . be it wrong or right,
This cross I'm makin', it's for 'im,
The cove I croaked last night.

“Miss Corde was reading Plutarch by night the books then used to be taken seriously”
Zbigniew Herbert

(Adam Lux – Meditations)

Miss (or already, why not, Missis)
is reading.
So did she before getting married. The revolution of 1960s All is Love is over.
She used to sleep in tents. Why not?
The freedom has to be defended.
Drums, fires, the screams:
“Down with! Who doesn’t jump is.”
Rumble behind the walls. Marat is. Alive? Death? Used to live?
The time is traveling. The crown’s refined hat.
The hair short. With all the colors.
“In a dress like a blue rock.”
Obelisk? Yes! of passing from
necessity to
necessity (for survival).
Mrs. Corde, is reading. The Game of …
She’s dreaming. “All is love”.
The day is the most usual.

Charlotte?
She administrated justice.
The falling stars are glowing.

The original:

Протест (ретроспективно)

„Госпожица Корде нощем четяла Плутарх
книгите тогава били вземани насериозно“
Збигнев Херберт

( Адам Люкс-Размишления)


Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.

Госпожица ( или вече , защо не, госпожа) чете.
Така е чела и преди да се омъжи. Минала е
революцията на 60 -те. “ Всичко е любов“
Спала е в палатките. Защо пък не?
Свободата трябва да се брани.
Барабани, пожари, виковете:
“ Долу! Кой не скача е“
Тътен зад стените. Марат е. Жив? Мъртъв? Живял?
Пътува времето. Короната е фина шапка.
Косата къса. С всички цветове.
„С рокля като синя скала.“
Обелиск? Да! на преминаване от необходимостта в
необходимост( за преживяване).
Госпожа Корде, чете. Играта на…
Мечтае. “ Всичко е любов“.
Денят е най-обикновен.

Шарлот?
Въздаде справедливост.
Звездите падащи сияят.

“Yo con stik yer O.T. Gaffa
Weer the monkey stiks his nuts.
Dost think I’ll fall fer that agin
No questions ifs or buts?
Fer fore ‘ears now I’ve werked me roe
Thru blood and sweat and tears
And all fer such a measly dough
Werk overtime no fears.”
The Gaffa looked me in the eye
And stood his graernd real firm.
“Wust be better on the dole
With missis on the gurm?”
Cust see he wart in mood fer messin,
He wus beetroot red in ferse.
An I war gunna mess abaert
So I gor on his curse.
“Yo con insult me till cows come um
But yoh wow insult mar *****.
Gaffa or no Gaffa mate
Yo’ll end up in six-foot trench!”
He must a thought it tad absurd,
It war achieving any gud.
So, he said, “Time an a third?”
To this I said I would.
He ay bad Gaffa after all
It jus needed consultation.
We both walked off I dun confess
With mutual admiration.
“Oh, wenst yo wont us in?”  I asked,
Cust I didna ear ya say.”
“I’m sorry I fergor ah kid,
Yome in on Christmas Day.”

Ive been drinking with anybody,
sinning at every party,
bingin forgetting my limits at every opri-
tuinity,
you and me, are soon to be,
like noon to 3,
seducing me,
exclusively,
inducing the,
muse in me,
ya lookin at my soul,
what your eyes behold,
is one half of the globe,
and the other half must be gold,
I wonder after you go,
in your immaculate scull,
if your thinkin of me when dreaming of being with someone fabulous yo,
your figure, shivers my inners,
i wish ya'd get to my dinners,
so I could extend the time with ya so ya into me missis,
your allure is an attraction I relapse in,
and my demure is extracted with interaction,
I know fa sure satisfaction will be in action,
Whenever we explore a fraction of this passion.

One day Skunk said to Fox,
“Boy, do you ever reek!
I have to tell you, Foxie:
You smell worse than last week.”
 
Fox replied to Skunk,
“Hey, you’re one to talk.
I can smell you coming
From way around the block.”
 
Skunk said, “Okay, let’s ask
Ms. Flower since she’s so discreet.”
Said Fox, “Yuck, why her?
She smells so sickeningly sweet.”
 
So Fox suggested Pelican.
“Well,” said Skunk, “if you wish.
But don’t forget that he always
Smells like rotten fish.”
 
They tried and tried for hours
To agree on who could best judge
Which of the two smelled the worse.
Finally, Fox cried out, “Fudge!”
 
Then Fox went on his way,
Wandering back to his den.
“Don’t YOU smell good!” said the Missis;
She even said it again.
 
Skunk hurried on home,
Where he knew his mother would be.
“Mom, do I smell bad?”
She answered, “Not to me.”
 
A moral of this story
Is all about point of view:
Let others be who they are,
And enjoy just being you.
 
Take with a grain of salt,
What others say or think;
And never let it upset you
If they say that you stink!

- by Bob B

„one two three“ go to boulangerie
„four five six“ may be write letter to missis x
„seven eight nine“ my call you deny
„ten eleven twelve“ …i slowly despise rhymes with sheer vengeance..

out of coquetry and out of bravado, i desist our memory,  i will turn to enter
in a new day, without prescribed lies and tainted tricks, without whens without whys, without "be blue" commands and daily ****** „luv-syndrome-disease“
& what in particular corrupts the works and days:
without nasty repressive syndrome as consequence of how ugly artistic comradeship can be.
Yah. just depart towards unknown, under guiding of trembling crescent,
to whatever oddness i will might to face..
O it wont  be worse i still guess...
something wrong with me?
so strangely i rejoice out of any certain cause.. ?
tis is may be shy anticipation of the delight which the read of some few subterranean poems can sometimes make ?
is there „land in sight“?
is here some flower to breath in?
even if it merely about basking in darkness,
not alone, but with sojourner..
my nonsense, your nods, isnt it slightly utopia?
O b s c u r i t y  i s  o u r  r e w a r d. seem be the single remnants to chant..
vomiting and scolding abundance is what only will remain to realize?
isnt it kind of tryst which satisfy the starving one at best..?
O to large demand!.., but still
towards all of futility my worn heart still embrace
the solemnity of unknown..
wish to inhale the solemnity of unknown..
to  enshroud myself with solemnity of unknown..
to chock on solemnity of unknown..

..as long as poetry is yet not dead

Thy heart let her grace succour
Thus still thy wandering sight
All thy promises to her honour
Adoring her with thy main and might

Bring her misdeeds to a loving light
To her ears alone such acts reveal
Let rumours and rancours take flight
Rebrand not your angel a devil

Though thou art the head and above
Yet give thine Missis respect due
Daily, dude, many an alluring dove
Thou wilt often see, but none is new

So *** in the dark alley eschew
Your body from immorality refrain
For thine lady thy love ever renew
Every day her affection warmly retain

In thy choice work and woman exult
Glory to God give for every blessing
And him praise for thy labour's result
Sated be with your couch and calling

He’d only just raised the dustbin lid
When he saw the woman’s head,
And what had impressed him most was that
It felt as heavy as lead,
It looked on up with its open eyes
With a stare that couldn’t see,
Which made him fumble the lid and cry,
‘It certainly wasn’t me!’

He thought of the woman the head had been
Before they’d parted ways,
An older woman, but shorter now
Than he’d seen in former days,
He was on a nodding acquaintanceship
With the husband known as Jim,
And thought of him as a friendly bloke
But they’d still be hanging him.

He’d been on the ******* round for years
So he knew most everyone,
But never a severed head before
Had been found on the ******* run,
He hadn’t an axe to grind with Jim
It was just Jim’s lousy luck,
A man should allow for one mistake
So he tipped the head in the truck.

Then Jim came out and he waved at him
And he smiled, ‘Good morning, Joe.’
While Joe smiled back, and he gave a grin
And said, ‘How’s the missis, Flo?’
‘She’s gone a little bit flighty, Joe,
Gone off for a spell,’ he said,
‘That tongue of hers, it was getting worse,
I’ll swear she was off her head.’

‘Well, ain’t that just like a woman,’ said
The man with the empty bin,
‘I see you’re light on your *******, are
There other bits to put in?’
‘Plenty of time, I’ll see to it
For the next time you come back,
I haven’t had time to sort it out
But I’ll bring it out in a sack.’

The following week he got two legs
And the feet were fairly strong,
And after he dumped them in the truck
He drove two doors along,
The bin outside held another head
Of a girl he knew as Tweet,
‘It seems to be catching on, ‘ he thought,
As he drove along the street.

He didn’t think to report it
It was no concern to him,
He only collected the ******* that
They placed in a standard bin,
There wasn’t a line in the regulations,
Not one that he’d read,
Of what to do when a bin was due
And it only held a head.

That street was becoming notorious
For the wives that went away,
Off for a spell to Dingley Dell
For a well earned holiday,
And Joe has quite a collection now
That lines his mantelpiece,
While Jane, his beau, says they’ve got to go,
Or she may well call the police.

David Lewis Paget

King Ahasuerus desires a mate
'One chooses Esther one thinks she's first rate.'
Later he's soppy and showers her with kisses
Then honours his promise and makes her his missis.

Haman gets an earful ; the King's in a strop.
'You're history you hear us. You're for the big chop.'

'Oi, Haman, I'll miss you
Just Like a used  tissue!'
Mordecai's very cheerful
Though once he was fearful
'Oy vey,  I'm relieved
The Jews are reprieved'

Jeer and boo with a passion
Nibble hamantashen
(Poppyseeds are the filler)
That's the gansa  megillah



Miriam Troth 2016

Yeah I know.
This is supposed to be hard.
This ridiculousness
Has to get me
Thinking I really miss this
thing I felt. She
Ain't gonna be my missis
It should hurt me deep
But it's gone.

See, I feel empty.
Nothing's really going on
My mind tells me to be filled full
Of painful stuff
I should be feeling ill. Pull
My hair out
I should want those pills? Bull.
I don't feel a thing.
Cause it's gone.

That scares me.
It doesn't feel normal.
Why don't I feel oppressed by
This lack of pain?
Should I be feelin stressed? Try
To brush it off
But I really must confess I
Can't see anything to brush.
Cause it's gone.

I guess I can forget.
Maybe I'm really ok.
I can't dwell on the past no
That doesn't work
I can't be living fast though
That's dangerous
But this day could be my last so
I'm gonna move along.
Cause it's gone.

In fact I gotta move.
I won't just sit here.
Maybe I should run away to
Some place nice
Somewhere I can stay. New
Me to be
New kinda way. You
Won't find me again
Cause I'll be gone.