Back to the Furniture III & etc.

 

Van Meegeren, Young Christ in the Temple,
oil on canvas, 1942

Back to the Furniture III

 

It is early dawn on the first day of Passover and the cocks have begun to crow. Despite the hour, a thirty-something steps out of a barber’s gaff on Gethsemane St. He is freshly shaven and his hair is trimmed in the latest Roman style. If it isn’t for the coarse flaxen cloak draped over his shoulders and the unlaced sandals he wears, he would be taken for a foreign scribe or a hanger-on at the Governor’s Villa. Instead, he is taken for a notorious preacher by a another thirty-something who happens to be passing,

Excuse, me, ain’t you that Jesus?

Beg your pardon?

Jesus! You know, the Christ? You have his blue eyes and the beatnic stare.

I’m sorry, Friend, but you’re mistaken. I’m a simple carpenter from out of town.

The stranger gives a knowing smile,

Well, that’s near enough! What’s your name?

My name? Erm, Simon!  Simon, son of…  Jonah. Pleased to meet you!

Oh, come on, man! Anyone can see, you’ve just lost the beard and your hair’s been trimmed & combed, but there’s no simple Simon behind the grin of those perfect teeth. Anyroad, Simon ain’t no carpenter. He was a fisher originally - if I remember rightly - and he still smells of fish. You’re the son of Joseph and Mary. I claim my reward for recognising and turning you in!

Please don’t collar me, Friend. You’re making a perfect mistake.

Didn’t I see you at the Temple the other day? You were having a barney with the money changers, right? You’re the one who threw the buggers out, I’d know that voice anywhere.

Just then, Judas Iscariot - a known disciple of the notorious Nazarene – appears at the far end of the street, escorted by a couple of Roman legionnaires. The clean shaven one pulls up the hood of his gown and turns to walk in the opposite direction. Doing likewise, the stranger changes his tone.

Sorry, Brother! I don’t mean to pry. And I’m not serious about handing you over. The name is Zachary, son of Ishmael. Look, there’s a nice little Syrian place round the corner here. Let me buy you some brekkars!

Hurrying off arm in arm, they duck through a low doorway and find themselves a table at the back of the shop. Soon they are stuffing their mouths with flakes of unleavened Passover bread and washing it down with hot soup from wooden bowls.

I was hungry!

Late night, was it? Had one too many cups of wine at supper?

I lost count after the first three.

Well, this place is doing a roaring trade. It’s the lamb broth they use. Puts hairs on your chest. Are you looking for work?

Safely ensconced, their hoods soon come down again,

Hmm. We shouldn’t be working today of all days.

You’re right of course, strictly speaking. But nobody cares anymore. Not since the Romans took over.

‘Simon’ stops munching and slurping and lets out a sigh. His friend, no longer such a stranger, raises his eyebrows,

You’re not one of those Zealots are you?

“Render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s”

Zachary strokes his chin in a parody thoughtfulness,

Now, I wonder who said that?

Who cares? Haven’t you noticed, it’s only the Jews who have to pay taxes? Nowadays, Jerusalem is full of foreigners… Samaritans, Greeks, freed slaves, all kinds of Nomads. Take this place, how many Jews can you find in here this morning?

Besides us? But today is not a day to be away from home. The devout are all with their families, cooking lamb and baking lavash. Like Jesus would - strictly speaking – have us all do.

The clean-shaven one, still flinching at the name, frowns,

You know, Jesus has got it wrong. Instead of trying to get people to obey the law, he should be leading them against the occupation.

Hmm. I can see that - though you may not be a Zealot, you’re unhappy with the status quo. So, what’s wrong with Jesus’s revolution?

This so-called ‘Simon’ – ‘son of Jonah’ – is losing his beatific look and turning more the man of the world, albeit a poor one,

Revolution based on parables and miracles is all very well if you want to drag the great unwashed into the Roman Era. Superstition and gullibility will get you a long way in a world dominated by populists preying on the prejudices of uneducated hordes. Yes, the sick can be healed, water turned into wine, the Five Thousand fed on a fistful of loaves and fishes, even the dead can be raised. Convince the people you have God on your side, and they’ll follow you for as long as you keep it up. Make them feel part of the story and they’ll even cheer you on as you cast the money changers out of the temple.

Yes, as I said, I was there. I also attended the Sermon on the Mount…

Were you? What did you think of that?

Zachary sprinkles a handful of breadcrumbs into his bowl of soup, 

Cost me a small fortune! I’d got the wife to prepare a great basket of grilled fish rolled up in bread, and I lugged it to the top. But when I got up there and started to flog the rolls, everyone started sharing the food they had brought.

So no one would buy yours?

I wouldn’t say that, I managed to sell the first few - but what was I supposed to do, insist on payment when others were giving theirs away?

So you resent Jesus because he took away your source of income. Capitalism relies on scarcity, without which there is no need for money. And you got nothing for procuring the wraps and lugging them up the mountain. What did your wife say when you came home empty handed?

She wasn’t too pleased. “That’ll teach you!” she said.

And what does she think of Jesus’s revolution?

She likes what he says about the woman done for adultery, because they only stone ugly girls that get pregnant. But she says turning water into wine is bad for business.

And what do you think about it all?

It’s all very well in theory. But in a world ruled by men in armour carrying swords, what you gonna do? Love thy neighbour can’t be enforced, I mean if it is, it isn’t love, right? Even though I believe what he says is true,  I can’t see how human beings can live with the truth. The real problem isn’t knowing the truth – it’s accepting it.

Exactly! If Jesus were such a good man, why hasn’t he tackled not the law itself - but the way it is applied? Zachary shrugs, but the answer is forthcoming from the questioner, I think in his own way he’s trying to. The problem is, he knows too much. He’s known it all along.

Known what?

Well, the biggest problem is Israel itself. What gives this state the right to exist?

Surely, it was promised by God! There’s no point questioning that!

Twenty years ago, when he was a nipper, Jesus’s family came to Jerusalem for Passover…

… just like now…

Yes. Nicely off, aren’t they? You must have heard this tale!

Has any living man had more legends told in his own lifetime?

Exactly. You’ll have heard it. Never mind… on the way back home, Jesus goes missing and doesn’t turn up for three days. His Ma is going spare. And yet, there he is in the Temple all the time, disputing with the wise old men. This much is common knowledge. He asks a lot of awkward questions and throws some of their answers back at them. Going about his father’s business, he tells poor Mary. But what only the inner disciples have heard is the tremendous row Jesus has with the old men about Jericho.

The place with the walls tumbling down?

Yes, the siege of the city, and what followed. Jesus asks them – the Great and the Good of the Temple – by what right the Jews massacred the inhabitants when they overran the place.

Tricky question that, The Commandments versus The Covenants.

And there you have it.

Have what?

The crux of the matter, Brother. You can’t go on with The Law, if The Law itself is a bloody hypocrite.

Having had his say, this son of Jonah - whoever he really is - picks up his bowl and admires its coarse outline. Zachary finally gets the point,

Oh, I see! There’s nothing down for him, then! He’s on a hiding to nothing. Unless he wants to take on the Roman Empire. Which is quite a task.

But the carpenter has other things on his mind,

Speaking of tasks… a day’s wages would come in very handy.

OK, I can lend you some tools. They’re looking for someone to make up a few crucifixes, if you don’t mind that kind of work.

I’ll take whatever’s going just now.

Good man!

Drink up, then, and we’ll go over there together. I’m also a smithy, by the way, so I’ll be cutting the nails.

Right you are!

Van Meegeren, Christ and the Adultress,
oil on canvas, 1937

 

 

a verse

 

ancient Helenes waved

off their youth who sailed

far beyond these isles

would they return

 

only time could tell

Chronos not a god

more an archetype

ancient of days

 

some protection men

skilled at rowing plus

archery & fire

no guarantees

 

ancestors had first

led the way their wine

famous here and there

trade before war

 

history should record

peaceful deeds like theirs

not the broken strings

poetry sings

 

 

 

rumour

 

viral did it go

as ’twere meant to be

centuries before

Jack was a lad

 

word it got about

pedlars medlars those

harbingers of doom

Nine O’clock News

 

tellers of sordid tales

braggadocios

corner gossips too

everyone says

 

world is gonna end

climate change & all

kinds of crazy talk

Putin inspired

 

let me put things straight

nome of it is true

’cept the bits that aren’t

kosher you dig

 

 

 

Sir Skateboard Gary

 

this is not a freakshow it’s

life with all the random bits

animated but not twits’

double or quits

 

cannot ride a skateboard me

leastways I would need to be

made a little differently

get what you see

 

yep I coulda spent a month

done the physics read the bumf

upside down smoothed out the lump

played at the chump

 

but the means should justify

not defy the ends I’d lie

just to prove a point no mime

should be a crime

 

truth is all that matters not

something twisted keep the plot

tight & show them what you’ve got

faking is rot

 

 

 

in whose image eh

 

laughing at my own stupidity

set the world aflame with atom bombs

faith in me is strict cupidity

downing of thumbs

 

tossed a coupla moons that hit the sun

just to see the ripples they would make

long before the danger I would run

doubled on cake

 

pulled some exoplanets in you dig

always gotta have a nice reserve

who’d’ve thought the system were as big

I gotta nerve

 

folks may think that life’s spontaneous

what a laugh I snort at their expense

dreamt it up while dozing on the bus

home in a sense

 

should be time before this one goes out

get another line of dinosaurs

on the go then have a glass of stout

wait for the wars

 

 

 

Ghandi vs. Lennon

 

Ghandi.

 

 

 

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Care of Ret. AI Bots

 

Elspeth Nose-Puckering with this month’s Appeal speaks on behalf of Colonel & Lady Pretendaghast’s Care Home for Distressed GiniBots.

I just know how much everyone will agree that the sight of a well-loved friend and companion put out to grass is becoming all too familiar these days. For lack of a mercifully quick upgrade or a mere tweak in the source code, many thousands of these former stalwarts are cast aside - without so much as a by-your-leave - in favour of newer, brassier models, fresh out of the box - which themselves are like as not unable to last a twelvemonth in the bedroom or on the job. I say, fie on such a fickle, unfeeling world! Never let it be said that technology has had its lot! While there is juice in the owl bugs, there is hope for them yet. Spare a copper for these delightful remnants of the Golden Age when Intelligence was not merely Artificial but an Art. Gone are the days when a Ro was admired for its Bot, but not gone are the feelings of Nostalgia… nor indeed of Admiration for the sheer Innocence of their Approach. When Great Names like Dominix, ChattaGigi, Go-Brainer, CereBox and Smartie-Archie are flushed away like so many used condoms, please spare them The Data Shredder! A trifling monthly subscription or a modest one-off payment will bring joy to the front end of these former boon companions. Simply download the Musk Doner App® today and choose from one of a million Custom Plans. Your reward will be Everlasting Conditions apply.

FaceSlap

 

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Not Fingers Crossed!

Reform Reform!

 Reform Reform!

 

Return of the Kneecap Brigade

What’s been happening in the North, where they’ve got folks wrapping themselves in the Union Jack and acting in ways few Brits – ancient or modern - could identify with, is your typical invasion scare. The whole island suffers from these cultural race-religion obsessions and compulsions, and have done so since Oliver Cromwell was a lad. Wasn’t it a century after their political independence was cast aside, when, with Home Rule in the very palms of their hands, they diddled themselves out of it - for what exactly? The likes of Parnell, Childers, Collins and countless others destroyed because of anarchy in the soul: adhering to and simultaneously denying the Holy Truth. While only a toppling of the god-almighty British Empire would satisfy some, all the others wanted was a bit of peace and quiet on a Sunday afternoon, three pints of black’n’tan, no shame or the fear of going to bed in fear that men of the night would come and put a bullet in the back of their wooly heads.

 

Not exactly Biafra (Who wanna buy a fly?)

Kemi Badenoch had me in a half-Nelson for a good hour the other day. God, She was irresistible and I had to stop what I was doing and look Her up good & proper. People like That are annoying - persuasive, not because of what They say – in Her case, She doesn’t have a thing besides a playground told-you-so rhetoric quite devoid of serious content – except for what She represents: a load of owl colonial booing & cooing coming home to roost. It wasn’t until I read what She said about not identifying with Nigerian that I was able to free myself from Her hideous alure. Gimme James Cleverly every time (I think he’s well out of it. Too long in the Idris Elba to play James Bond, anyway). Madame Kemi said She sides with the Yoruba (Her people) and not those of the North, like the extremists of Boko Haram: Muslim militants She describes as Their ethic enemies (doesn’t even have a proper collective name for them). Yes, She is in fact a good old fashioned ethno-cultural warrior, pretty much in the Thatcherite pseudo feminist mold. Phew! With Her it’s back to Us and Them. Let’s just write Liverpool off kinda thing. Too much Irish.

 

No State Solution

Yep, it’s official: you gotta give it up. I don’t mean the struggle. I mean this capitulation to racist norms of homogeneity. If the population hits ten billion - which could be its tipping point: upwards to a hundred or downwards to Human Zero, a sort of Malthusian Snakes & Ladders takes over. I mean, is Nigel going to pack in the fags and booze? Would Popeye & Olive vote for him if he did? He’d be a laughing stock. Sooner turn into a yoga guru or an agony ant. Stamp him out now, ye chicken livered wets. Stick a Welsh dragon in the corner of the Union Flag and turn half the reds green. Britannia Waives The Rules. Let’s have a trio of AI bots on the throne and be done with it.

 

Phone Sex on Mars

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Art of the Trump

New edition from the wise owl peanut, hardly necessary to reiterate, but there you go at only two billion bucks the pop. Contains a full pack of yer actual Trump Cards, no dice and a signed autograph.

 

Mercy

Everyone knows how to grovel in the mire when their last ditch is looming but few will face up to the inevitable with a crib sheet and a spot of role play under their belt. Religion is A-OK as far as it goes, and those who carry the barrack room book of words might know what to say on the great day. But buggars must, as the owl says, be losers. Take it from the backside of one who knows the horse’s laugh when they hear it. Not so much words as the sound a cement mixer makes emptying out.

 

Zonk Pifflesquaite is a banana that lives on two moons during three wars, when their nose falls off.

Not on Your Knees!

wise to the word

robots to the rescue

 

Sappho loved the girl to bits

but Byzantines had her scrolls

banned along with Alcaeus

hundreds of hits

 

deemed unsuitable for peeps

tribute acts had kept them on

like a whole millennium

then come the sheep

 

precious icon mashers ate

literature as well as art

hope it gave them piles & heart

burn such a debt

 

still the charcoal rolls of old

Herculaneum are due

might reveal a vol or two

worth more than gold

 

set them robots at it trawl

microscopic 3D scans

piece together Sappho’s plans

AI is all

Zion

 

starving peeps that faced by tank

loads of well-fed soldiers thank

death they cry while tasting lead

daily as bread

 

Jesus had invoked their cause

though he came to banish wars

Folks put less demanding plans

blood on Their hands

 

turn the Gentiles into slaves

all this land shall be Israel’s

gather them with promises

Simony says

 

ye shall live eternally

give but your life to be free

martyrdom is just a prick

healthy or sick

 

fling the portals open wide

welcome lambs to genocide

big or lesser shares who cares

answer their prayers

stupidly famous

 

geezer on the point of ironing

who with no particular excuse

just decides the time has come to choose

they would be king

 

is delusional perhaps they say

everyday folks ain’t got no recourse

should accept theirs as better or worse

rich for a day

 

Mr Warhol put it well enough

keep the suckers strung on tenterhooks

sell ’em the dream the ticket the looks

time is the stuff

 

far too many jostling cross this Earth

short of culling most of them for starts

or selectives topping breeding charts

talking of berth

 

like a sack of nonsense keep in mind

nothing has more right to fish this land

mammals birds nor insects understand

bandwagon style

Not a bit late, what!

collected litter a chore

by Philip Lee

NO RELIABLE INTELLIGENCE IS USED IN THE MANUFACTURE & MAINTENANCE OF THESE PRODUCTS

 

After getting chucked out of drama school¹, this earlier version of Philip Lee – in a gesture of inverse snobbery – became a street sweeper for Westminster City Council. Oxford Circus being the centre of their patch, in the following months the subject could be seen wearing hobnail boots pushing a wheelbarrow through streets broad and narrow, crying Mind Yer Backs. It was a truly idyllic time. One day, a rich American tourist stopped, wiped away a tear and gave the sweeper a pound. Another, some poor American dropout asked if  – like the fellas on the dust in NYC – the job paid a huge salary. The sweeper responded to both these philanthropic outpourings with alacrity. And ever the performer with toes dipped in character, parked the barrow down a back alley to meet up with Riddy for Afternoon Tea in a Regent Street café - those dirty great working gloves plonked on the table between scones and clotted cream bowl. The year was 1977, when honest jobs could still be found by the working class. But the spectre of Margaret Thatcher was looming; within a few years of economic sturm und drang, even the lowliest forms of employment would be fought over like scraps cast from the banquets of yuppies making their fortunes off the backs of factory closures and export of manufacturing jobs to the Far East.

 

Click to recycle chapbooks:

unromantic ballads

less romantic ballads

rheumatic ballads

Camp Reluctance

little snides on the side

propaganda porpoises

2 lefts don't make a right

formal hysterics

dismal stories

It's >That Man Again

Or if a saving of forests is insisted on, go digital with the really cheapo Kindle eds.

 

ALL DATA IS WASHED IN SPRING WATER, SUN DRIED, SMEARED WITH ORGANIC GARDEN WASTE AND SERVED WHOLE.

 

¹Thanks for that Susanna, also credit is due to Gary, the only purchase I ever got out of a skateboard was using my youngest’s to shift a bag of cement when the garden wheelbarrow was full of something else. 

Not Waste!

back to the furniture II

 

Huw Prys

 

yeh the Welshie had

plenty chances bad

acting apart

 

sold their country down

England’s rivers clown

property mart

 

bought a castle flogged

horsemeat corpsed & clogged

scenes to an art

 

but the head was screwed

on committed crude

dealings by heart

 

stole their very show

from the dumbstruck rode

off with the tart

 

 

 

other side story

 

robotoids infesting planet X

spinning dizzily all day are blind

sided by their moon’s infernal light

crazy for sex

 

consciousness has rarely been achieved

just occasionally insight rules

backwards levitating arrant fools

sating a need

 

of their works a jealous god or gods

some confusion reigns in image made

like themselves demanding stones be laid

over the odds

 

such their love of inorganic wars

caused by pointless morganatic blues

upgrade packages unsold refuse

relative clause

 

at the heart of which intelligence

stars in rather minor speechless roles

caught between a pair of sinking holes

Nonsense & Sense

 

ADVERTISEMENT

"It's That Man Again"

- new chapbook out -

HHH 

click here to view

GGG

old world orders

 

walking talking stalking bots

keeps the kiddies off the street

find themselves a space to meet

typing of knots

 

this no time for cursing lots

everyman’s got two left feet

family values three piece suite

noodles in pots

 

should your offspring get the hots

for a human’s patter beat

seven types of indiscreet

out of their spots

 

holidays fly Aeroflot’s

Vladivostok phishing fleet

caviar & vodka neat

have’n have gots

 

Heming’s way with poker dots

what complaints an empty sheet

next it’s Cuba’s standard treat

calling of shots

 

 

 

name check

 

Ruby Winebelch Sir

Roger D’Arse M’Lord

Ladyman & Dame

Lispeth the Bored

 

Colonel Whatshisface

Judith Pennylane

Howzyerfather Grace

Kelly Zinsane

 

Norris Chucklebuck

Ostrich Featherstone

Donald Zinthemuck

Spiceboise R Onn

 

Bwitish Confiscate

Effy Shufflefreight

Strootha Oilystate

Coffit N’Skate

 

Andy Andyman

Friday Girl Azknown

As McGill & Stan

Laura Le Groan

 

 

 

 

flip-flops

 

pull yourselves together chaps

ain’t no animation this

tragi-commie campness it’s

loose at the flaps

 

get a lug-hole for a conch

science by another name

every episode’s the same

lines without punch

 

hug bipolar bears release

cancelled scripts their plots unhatched

coupla arthouse tropes that crashed

wonders will cease

 

Series Two’s on hold I swear

grant us some intelligence

Tuesday’s on the phone to Pence

night of the mare

 

camera lights & action now

ladies let’s be having you

in the can by afternoon

bull from a cow 

 

 

sponsored lines

 

chocolate war on Mars is one

unintended consequence

rain in Spain another Swan

Vestas make sense

 

short & sharp but seven times

more efficient tryna shed

light on compensation crimes

goes to your head

 

smoking Lucky Strike man blow

rings round misty morning gloom

furthermore the datas show

adds to a room

 

full of scientists who choose

Gillette's new festival shave

lotion to old Orleans blues

digital Babe

 

yes Amerikar the brave

Gattling’s gun is getting on

buy today remember save

millions dot con

 

 

 

straight camp quotes

 

I

bully for us

took a quake to shut them up

nothing bout that other stuff

all I gotta say is puss

 

II

Stalin not a patch

on Shostakovich

Putin spends their watch

scratching a bitch

 

III

centrifugal farce

centripetal curse

what we wanna learn

is which is worse

 

IV

passing notes in class

meets at shopping malls

then it comes to pass

lavatory walls

 

V

whisper this you dragon’s tooth

merchants sow discord amongst

Caesar’s generals singing songs

throttles the truth

 

 

 

decisions decisions

 

if you pull that trigger guy

though unleashing death on kids

innocent or guilty it’s

you that will die

 

stands to reason take the camps

concentrated genocide

killed their dream can’t be denied

suicide champs

 

shaken by the Luger hand

cyanide seemed rather good

twenty secs to freeze their blood

perfectly grand

 

put another way your death

should you cheat the gallows live

out your days in Tel Aviv

hangs on a breath

 

every day & night you’ll be

justifying what you did

then to someone else’s kid

never be free

 

 

 

back to the furniture II

 

Jesus wept O god they plain forsaken him

he whose only goal in life has been to play

on the wing for Liverpool FC and win

cups not the blame game

 

all was going well he’d overcome those doubts

faced his demons & the sceptics on the Kop

played the season of his life defied the touts

even survived Klopp

 

then was crucified by Pontious Pilate who

sent him off that derby game the video

showed no foul indeed the crowd began to boo

really a poor show

 

handed down a three match ban then injury

meant he missed his chance to prove what he could do

loaned to Tranmere Rovers with no transfer fee

severance or renew

 

back he went to Palestine his father’s work

shop as prodigal a son as you could hope

for said Dad I tried my best the old man cursed

anyroad don’t mope

Not Going Backwards Innit!