Posted:10 Mar 2010 00:30 +0100
<p><strong>For some reason I associate March with insanity. I think this is Lewis Carroll's fault, in fact I know it. This March is featuring the most hostile wind imaginable. The type that makes your nerves retract and leaves you stumbling around, bent quadruple like an arthritis-ridden bumble bee. I even purchased some bumblebee antlers as a makeshift disguise, figuring I would attract less attention that way, for unadulterated I would obviously look rather amputated, but my son destroyed them in a fit of male creativity. So, now only one antler remains. And don't even think about thinking that they are not called antlers! You know they are, deep in that shallow, gangrenous heart anchored uncertainly in the dilapidated harbor of your chest wig.<br /></strong></p><strong><img width="300" alt="" src="../img/Great_Britain.jpg"></img><br /></strong><p><strong>Yes, sorry, couldn't resist. Wigs, Wham!s and all other words starting with or without Siamese ewes, will nevertheless be swept away by those brave enough to venture outside, especially those very strange, inbred beings that wield umbrellas in order to furtively steal other people's eyes. I suspect it is them who stole the eyes of the wind and abducted his fianacée, and that's why he shrieks so lividly and scratches your cheeks on passing, hoping to find his lost love by the touch, but too high on his own hysteria to actually pay attention to what his nails come into contact with.<br /></strong></p><p><span style="color: rgb(128, 0, 128);"><strong>March Hare</strong><strong>:</strong></span><strong>Boy, I sure hope this doesn't get into the private eye newsletter!</strong></p><p style="text-align: center;"><strong><img width="300" height="261" alt="" src="../img/06_Fliegender_Robert.jpg"></img><br /></strong></p><p><strong>But all cold things must come to an end. Thusly, as someone once said, they know who they are, so must the wind and this soliloquy. In anticipation of Easter, we can make it oval, and pretentiously refer to Joseph Roth who said mourning is like an egg, without beginning or end. So here is a Lewis Carroll inspired poem.<br /></strong></p><p><strong><span style="font-size: larger;">The Mad Lovers' Song</span><br /><br />She thought she saw a poet<br />With languid azure eyes:<br />She looked again, and found it was<br />A boy who'd lost his soul.<br />"I'll help you on your quest," she said;<br />But he thought that she lied.<br /><br />He thought he saw a princess<br />That wove him nets of glass:<br />He looked again, and found it was<br />The image of his heart.<br />"The one thing I regret," he said,<br />"Is that it's such a mess!"<br /><br />He thought he saw an exit<br />From his solitude:<br />He looked again, and found it had<br />A livid attitude.<br />"If this is Maya's veil," he said,<br />"It's an odd hue of blue!"<br /><br />He thought he saw a reaper grim<br />That knitted knots of maggots:<br />He looked again, and found it was<br />A well without a rim.<br />"Were I to sink in this," he said,<br />"I doubt that I could swim!"<br /><br />She said she would wait anyway<br />For the devil to decide:<br />If he should stay or run away<br />Or take some cyanide.<br />"Poor thing," he said, "poor silly thing!<br />A demon needs no bride"<br />"Poor thing," she said, "poor silly thing!<br />You're just a boy disguised"</strong></p>