Archive for September, 2010

Why the Souls of the Dead Turn Into Stars

September 25, 2010

Knowing our bright souls will perish

In a minute vivid display

In a merry ring

Skip to the death

But shall not fade away…

…something remains

A glimmer

A spark

Shining for evermore

So that others who come

If others there be

Will know others have been here before

Sign #3: French Anarchist Bio-Fuel, Copenhagen, December 2009

September 25, 2010

This was taken during my “hilariously” disastrous trip to Copenhagen for the COP15 conference and protests (more of which I’ll be giving a comprehensive account of, once I can face the thought). One of the meeting points for activists, which was also a tea bar (although you could bring your own beer and laptop if you just needed to get on the wi-fi) had a bulletin board with info about various actions taking place, times and places etc. People also stuck notices up there if they were looking for a ride, a place to stay, or in this case – the return of some vegetable oil that had been confiscated by the police.

The entire text reads:

“Help us! The Police seized the cooking oil we use to drive our bus. They say we could make bombs with it. Please call the Police and ask for the return of our oil: (then some phone numbers). Signed – The French Activists of Caravan Solitaire”

I just love this hand-made sign. I hope they got their cooking oil back and that Caravan Solitaire was sur la route (encore) bientôt!

Womens’ Magazine Dating Advice

September 9, 2010

Never trust a man who doesn’t get on with his Mater
He’ll either be a woman-hater
Or a chronic masturbator
If he says he’ll ring you up just say you’ll text him
Later..
Don’t!
Then take the next outgoing flight to the equator!
There, sitting on the sunny sands, enjoy a glass of rum.
Be glad you didn’t spend your days with a man ‘oo ‘ates ‘is mum.
It’s likely that he lacks the skills required to make you cum.
And probable he will expect
YOU’LL TAKE IT UP THE BU-UM!

( Author’s note about recitation:  one must imagine the bulk of the poem delivered in a stiff RP, switching, at the 4th line from the bottom, to an exaggerated mockney accent, whilst the final line is to be sung in the fashion of an old umpety-tumpety music hall band, such as used to play in the Victorian seaside bandstands of England, reaching its climactic finale.)