:: Newspapers and Rudey Germans ::

Once again that bastion of taste, Metro, has come up trumps. Now owned by the Evening Standard, which is in turn owned by the Daily Fascist, this free piss-sheet is grabbed by scores of commuters on their way out of stations who then realise they’ve been lumbered. Whenever I get a copy I sigh with relief that the previous owner hasn’t done the crossword then proceed to complete the damn thing on my journey home. There is an argument which maintains Metro is something we should be grateful for: a free paper to read on the train or bus or tube on our way into work each morning. However, its positioning – and the fact that it is free – allows Metro to reach an audience who wouldn’t choose to buy a newspaper of any variety. The writers and editors of such a widely read publication should feel a grave responsibility to the general public. Instead we have 8 pages of bellicose rumblings about Iraq everyday, plus a few bits of stale celeb gossip stolen from PopBitch. In order to wash down this indigestible news-bolus, "funny" tales of woe from around the globe are sprinkled liberally through the paper. This is today’s example:

SEX TOY THAT MADE SPARKS FLY

A thrill-seeker electrocuted himself with a home-made sex toy. Manfred Lubitz wired himself up to the gadget, which had a vibrating mat, massage pads and electrodes attached to his genitals, to watch porn movies. Police in Malaga, Spain - where the 65-year-old German lived - said: "There seems to have been a power surge while he was watching a film called Hot Vixen Nuns. And the flat was damp." Mr Lubitz boasted to friends that his Orgasmatron, named after a sex machine in the Woody Allen film Sleeper, "was better than a woman, and a lot cheaper."

I sniggered at this as I do every day, at the tales of weirdness and woe: the man who got trapped in a folding bed, the Romanian factory workers who sold their sperm to make cash and save their workplace from closure.

But I have noticed a vaguely sinister pattern of late. Seldom do the stories have the wry tone of previous examples. They serve only to mock and belittle their subjects. This link shows that the past three such “funnies” have told of unfortunate, incompetent or perverted Germans. This is unlike Ananova, whose extensive “Quirkies” section often dwells on the misfortunes of Eastern Europeans, but has a wider field of derision.

Perhaps it is no coincidence that Metro, ultimately controlled by one of the most jingoistic warmongering right-wing tabloids, has chosen to focus its scorn on a nation which has been overtly critical of the Iraq War. Look out for stories of idiotic garlic-munching Frenchmen and vodka-related Russian mishaps in next week's editions.

This brings to mind an old Jo Brand joke:
  Once a week I splash out on The Sun... Well, it's absorbent isn't it?

:: Today's Fun Photoshop Job ::

Courtesy of Bloggerheads.

:: Mexican Débâcle ::

Opened my inbox this morning only to discover a missive from my errant friend, Red Snapper. Despite her assertion some months ago that she was working for the Foreign Office in Brussels, Red Snapper ended up in Mexico where she plans to buy a bar. In the interim, a lot of product testing appears to be going on , presumably to ensure that the proposed bar sells only the finest liquors available to womankind. Or something. The following is a representative example of the Snapper's recent activities, although I should point out that later on she goes on to describe a visit to a Mayan temple some 50 miles into the jungle. Or rather she expresses her surprise at finding an internet-ready computer there and then says nothing about the temple itself...

Here continues to get even more insane. Tequila is a very, very dangerous substance, and I now see the wisdom of the way they regulate tattoo appointments in Britain and the States. I now have a 4 inch long dragon on my arse. And its permanent. I´ve done some foolish waking up moments in my time, but I think this morning has to go straight to the top of the list - "Oww, my head hurts, where am I? who am I with? who am I? and why does my bottom hurt?"

This episode definitely entitles her to a permanent place in the Devukha Hall of Fame, a rapidly expanding band of louche layabouts and boozed-up bitches...

...talking of which, I'm meeting up with the Boy Felchett this evening to dicuss plans for an opera. I've been working on the libretto for this recently; it will be based on several of my Suburban Nightmares (initially Veronica hoped..., but others woven in). We need to discuss the mechanics of the opera: structure, style, setting and characters in order for me to produce a workable copy soon. Then we're going to send in a proposal to enter the Genesis Opera Project, which could secure funding for development and performance. I'm very excited about the prospect of this and will update the site when I know more...

:: Arf! Update ::

This picture has made my day. It's some pro-war American twunt apparently.
No further comment required.

:: Devukha Sorry For Himself ::

If only I'd been out carousing last night, I would be able to have something to blame for my lamentable state of being today. The times when I've said this to colleagues have now become so numerous that even I'm beginning to believe it. Following a glass of wine with dinner, I dozed of in front of the delightful Monday night comedy slot on BBC2. Can't be arsed to write full reviews but Anglian Lives (profiling Alan Partridge) was good and Double Take was excellent.

Went to bed at 11pm, fell asleep, woke up and felt OK. Another Lovely Day, you might think. But no, today is payday:

- Today I was able to travel legally on public transport for the first time in two weeks. In the meantime, I've been getting a range of buses to work, each time flashing my out-of-date pass defiantly at the driver. I only got caught once.
- Today I was able to saunter to work after my train ride to London Bridge and pick up a roll and four pieces of fruit for breakfast.
- Today I was able to reflect that, having eaten not much more than rice for the past 2 weeks, I've lost half a stone (and of course I "plan to keep it up and might even join a Gym..." Fuck off.
- Today I was able to buy a moderately expensive bunch of flowers online to be delivered to my mother on Sunday.
- Today I was able to look the cashpoint in the face and scream "Give it to me, baby!"

...and despite these hefty mitigating factors, I feel fluey and shite, only just managing to force down the fresh fruit and a vitamin C pill to fend of the lurgie. I made the world's most horrible cup of tea this afternoon. It appeared to consist of four subtly different types of shit, "carefully crafted for your pleasure". God bless London Water!

And of course it gets better. Although Bezuhoff was complaining via AIM this afternoon that his life was one of unalloyed tedium, he retracted that statement when I revealed my plans for this evening: A big trip round Sainsbury's. And that's it.

The moral of last night's moderate behaviour is that I only have a good time when I get smashed - and that I enjoy the following day better too (c.f. Flash's party last week). So my trip round Sainsbugger's will ajourn to the mixers aisle for gallons of tonic water. On returning home I shall do my utmost to destroy the litre bottle of gin bought duty free coming back from New York.

Thanks for listening. I'm sure you're all dying to hear what happens to me tomorrow. Please tell these guys if you care:

EDIT: Have now slightly recovered. Saw this, which cheered me up no end...

:: Devukha In "Web-Competent" Shocker! ::

Oh my God, this is going too far. not only have I managed to put a picture on the blog (I haven't upgraded to Blogger Pro - this is hosted by someone else), but I've also installed a counter/tracking thingy to confirm that no-one looks at this site.

In addition, I've found a makeshift way to link from here to some of my previous creative output. My Suburban Nightmares haiku collection is now available to view as part of my first ever post! This might become a temporary dumping ground for larger swathes of text I don't want swamping the front page.

Finally, the following is another effort from the Guardian's consistently amusing Steve Bell. Long may his needle of satire lance the pustulous boil of political hypocrisy!

EDIT: Gawain J has just pointed out that there is a spelling error in the Suburban Nightmares. I apologise profusely. This has now been corrected.

:: Shove It Up Ya Jumper ::

Despite (almost) resisting temptation to rant about The War, I have to admit that I went on the London anti-war demo this weekend. Although smller than last month's enormous effort, I still felt it was important to make my voice heard. Just because the war has started, we shouldn't stop voicing opposition to it.
The newest link in the :: Blog-U-Like :: section to the right is Salam Pax an astonishing insight into the day-to-day life of an Iraqi living in Baghdad. It makes this slice of daily frivolity all seem a bit insignificant... This article from the Guardian has selected extracts from the past couple of months, documenting the build-up to WAR.

:: Ooooh! Topical or What? ::

Just as I was about to congratulate myself on (this week at least) avoiding references to war, nuclear holocaust and Bush's slow death due to anal ripping, I come across this helpful little site. It's a cut-out-and keep guide to surviving a dirty bomb attack. It's Arf!-alicious...

In Other News, my attention has again been drawn to a certain Johann Hari whose path has crossed mine on several occasions (we were at uni at the same time). Although the man appears to have done exceptionally well for himself, this has not prevented merciless popbitchers from comparing him to a gimp with Downs Syndrome. The following is a delightful episode which was also related in the same post. Its veracity is unattested...

Johann texted a friend of his (i believe the correct terminology to be "fuckbuddy") with the message "5 o'clock. your cock. my mouth."
A few minutes later the reply comes saying "I think you have got the wrong person, my dear boy". It was from Boris Johnson.

Although not a particularly a fan of his columns in Varsity, I've revised my opinion considerably since reading his stuff for the Guardian and The Independent. I didn't catch it at the time, but this article is one of the funniest I've read on Neo-Nazis and Muslim Fundamentalists.

And that's probably it for today. I would write more, but am still hung over from Flash's wine-drenched party, in which the astonishing topic of Icelandic Matronymics came up. And I've got to start writing an opera (the libretto not the music). Busy weekend ahead, methinks...

:: Interview Mayhem ::

Went for an interview with ARG, a big film and talent agency this morning, for a job as an Assistant. Having discovered last night that they represent one of my friends (an up-and-coming film actor who starred in the latest Harry Potter) is represented by them, I was a little nervous as to whether I should name-drop or not. In the end I did - discretely, of course - and mentioned that I knew he'd been whoring his arse round LA of late. Naturally I mean this metaphorically in the casting for films sense... The interview went OK and seemed like a bit of an innocuous chat. More interesting was the fact that I bumped into Little Miss Moo as I was walking out of ARG's office. It turns out that she was being interviewed for The Same Job half an hour later. We repaired to a little café to compare notes...
When I got into work LMM texted to say that she really didn't want the job at all, but that she'd put in a good word for me. Not sure if this was useful or not, but I'm keeping my fingers crossed: I could do with a change of scene, though my current colleagues are turning into good friends and I'll miss them when I leave.
Dullness seems to be the order of the day, partly because of the fact that most of my recent efforts have been minor cosmetic site alterations. Although I'm excited about the new "devukha" in Russian at the bottom of the page, I realise this feat of ascii design might not fill readers with joy. Let's hope that when my salary comes through on Tuesday I'll be up for a bit more Blergh! and Arf! (see post below), hopefully at s.m.e.r.s.h or somewhere similar.

:: Exciting Site Update! ::

Check out the new link of the day section on the right =>
Also the regularly updated links to sites and blogs.
New :: Consume :: and :: Focus :: sections to be added in due course...
EDIT: Also an ever-so-exciting :: WebMong :: section with props to those who've helped me acquire my new-found geekdom.

:: Weekend Extra! ::

The header to this post reminds me of a mini-feature which I should have posted earlier

My favourite transcriptions of non-verbal sounds:
- Aaaaargh! (annoyance/dismay)
- Blergh! (drunkenness)
- Nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnngh! (intense irritation at mindless stupidity)
- Fwah?! ("my mother's just given birth to a bullfrog")
- Grrrr! (obviously a snarl)
- Ffffpppf! (vocal equivalent of a shrug)
- Arf! (laughter - nicked from PopBitch)
- *Tsk* ("you really should know better" - also nicked from PopBitch)
EDIT: Last minute contribution from Hypatia: Pheh! Apparently it indicates rather too much chili/spice in one's food. It's always nice to learn something new

:: Blergh! ::

Weekend round up
On Friday I went to wave off Little Miss Bling before she goes to Italy at some bar near Mornington Crescent. But didn't stay long because I'd promised to go to BGB's birthday bash [cue pathetic moans of "I'm too young to be 24" etc.]. This turned out to be quite *Gi-yay* as BGB and Little Robbie might have it and, for my sins, after jigging about to some pumped-up-megalove-buttfuck-remix of Geri Halliwell's execrable Lift Me Up I dozed off in an armchair.
Waking up 2 hours later I find that the party's still going on in a reduced capacity and recommence with the Gin. Gleefully recounting to one of the assembled that I have indeed managed to secure the post of Feste in a production of Twelfth Night (see previous posts), I decide that Mummy darling (away in Sweden) might like to be informed via a text.
It's 7.30am and in sunny Sweden, an hour ahead, Mumsy has just performed her ablutions ready for a wholesome day's activities and texts back almost instantaneously. So I decide to phone her. And blithely go on to explain at length how I'm so excited about the part and have also applied for a new job and will have to buy a penny whistle but don't know where to get it and that I'm still drinking G&T at seven-thirty in the morning...
Later on Saturday, Tigger called to say her flatmate was celebrating her birthday at their flat with cocktails. Groaning, I went along and stuck to virtuous cranberry juice. Even when we headed off to The Elbow Room, I managed only a couple of glasses of water. But this was countered by the surprise arrival of numerous old friends from University (to a separate party) and I managed to enjoy it in spite of myself.
Much recovered after an early night and Sunday lie-in, I reconvened with Tigger to hit the British Museum. She and I both felt that recent weekends had focused a little too much on the drinking and we were ready for a quick fix of culture. Things were slightly complicated by the machinations of her current multiple love-interests, but this didn't deter us too much from joyful contemplation of relics and ancient treasures. I hadn't realised how many nipples were on display at the BM, but this cheered me up no end. Anthony Gormley's pictures were amusing, touching and a little bizarre. Although appreciative of the artist's search for new creative materials (rabbit skin glue?!) in the context of the human form, I couldn't help but snigger at the painting whose ingredents were blood and semen. It appeared as if he either wasn't very prolific or had failed to get it all on the canvas... A quick jaunt round Covent Garden and Soho was not sufficient to enable us to find Tigger's flatmate a present, but I still returned home in good spirits just in time to catch the Antiques Roadshow. Just as some old biddy was having her scrap-heap finds valued, the phone rang.
It was my mother calling to say she'd got home safe from Sweden. "We had a fantastic weekend," she cooed. I pictured her pert twisted smile. "I bought some Swedish candlesticks; what was this about a play?" Feeling every bit the Bertie Wooster caught out by domineering old Aunt Agatha, I stuck to the facts of the case but didn't have the balls to blurt out an apology.

:: Friday Afternoon Arf! Update ::

b3ta has set up a fab competition this week. Create and illustrate your own euphemism. These people are geeky, insane and kitten-obsessed. I love them.

:: Funny old night in "London's Fashionable Shoreditch" ::

Met up with Tigger as planned, but instead of going straight to Bent (see yesterday's post for description of said utterly non-gay event), went to someone's flat. Lovely open-plan loftness, but a bit of a trial to get in. At a party last week, someone stole the handle from the main door to the building. Entry could only be gained by a series of precise intercom countdown manoeuvres - more difficult than getting into 333 on a Saturday night.
Despite our best efforts, the occupants were up for none of this going out and drinking malarkey, so Tigger and I returned to the Bent-o-Drome, only to be told that it was guest list only, but we could probably get in if we turned up in half an hour.
So off to a local pub - strange mixture of old school London boozer and Shoreditch chic: London Pride on tap, numerous obscure Czech bottled beers and a DJ playing some very creditable tunes. I particularly enjoyed the remixes of Tosca's Chocolate Elvis. Returning to 332 Old St, we blagged our way in saying that we'd been already and come back. The same dozy girl in regulation Shoreditch Twat/Hoxton Wanka fluffy boots was on the door, but she didn't seem to care. Efforts to ape the hospital/clinic theme were excellently and gruesomely realised, with signs pointing to the ward for the Terminally Sane etc. NHS information leaflets spilled out of wall-mounted racks and anatomy charts explained what Bent's music would do to you.
The big flaw in the blagging plan was that the free drinks should have been exchanged for tokens which we "would have been given at the door", so Tigger and I opted for the performance art in the operating theatre downstairs. Warning bells should have sounded as we passed a bin overflowing with bloddy swabs, but we still followed the legions of identikit people who turned out to be queuing for the loo rather than appreciating the art. The theatre was strewn with saws, clamps, stage blood and what looked like my Auntie's pruning shears. Next to an operating table stood a bank of 60s medical electronica and a defibrillator. Two manic doctors performed an "examination" on a patient whose senses were dulled by the Bent sounds coming from a pair of fat headphones. It was not clear what the patient suffered from. An attempt at proctology was not well received and attempts at defibrillation resulted in a miraculous self healing and rapid exit from the theatre. Giggling, we remembered a night at bAsTaRd when the performance artists, Barbra Rei, had handed out surgical masks and gloves: two of the masks artfully tied together had made an over-t-shirt bikini/bra. At this point of blissful reminiscence, one of the gurning medicos approached proposing radical surgery. With a quick flash of Tigger's war wounds, we fled to the safety of Old Street and a bus ride home.

*Smug Grin*
Looked at lucious media whore Hypatia Avenue's blog only to find that she thinks my poems ought to be published. Whilst I think that may be over-egging the pudding, her taste in other things is impeccable and her regular posts have caused me much giggly delight. Recent episodes include the arrival of a noisy group of Kurds in a clapped out banger outside her offices. Their stated intention was to take the car and set it alight outside Downing Street, to show support for the Bush-Blair Oil-Ego War On Iraq.

Hectic few days and now I'm bursting to add stuff to the site...
Of course when I tried to get into blogger I got repeated messages that the site was too busy to be accessed.
Recap of the last few days: I've been auditioning for a part in an outdoor summer production of Twelfth Night. Things have gone well - I had a bit of a sing and prance and might land the part of Feste. My mother finds this surprising, as do I, but I have been assured by the director that he is not all sweetness and light, rather a lugubrious loner of the Tony Hancock mould. It looks as if I might have to invest in a penny-whistle to accompany Feste's many songs...

I've also written an accompaniment to the New York Magnetic Poems from last week:

Imaginary Magnetic Poetry

Sometimes words
clusterfuck in my
cranial cavities.
Their ill-formed progeny
graces my mind's fridge-front anthology,
which swings open
to access brain milk.

Woo! and Yay! to quote from b3ta. I've managed to write a poem containing the word clusterfuck: a lifetime's ambition realised.

This evening I might be going to the Bent Clinic. Against all odds, this isn't the gay self-help event of the year, but an art installation-cum-album launch from these guys. Check out the feature towards the bottom left for more information.
I'd better get back to work, hadn't I?

...and Relax!

Load of panic about nothing of course - now I've sorted the problem out it must be time to post up the rest of those poems:

Magnetic Poems from Bezuhoff's Fridge (Part II)
New York, 3rd March 2003

there like love
is self-subterfuge;
between impecunious asses
spot the cunning vicissitude.
-
Oh inhale English
anywhere but here!
Never point to Education
or hurl panegyrics!
-
computer bride
online sports
pay to enter
crass site
web miscreant.

Arrgh - am getting very irritated by these font fuck-ups. What is going on?
Every time I put a blank line into a post it goes all *spazmo*-Times-New-Roman.
My name tag too. Boo-hoo.

Magnetic Poems from Bezuhoff's Fridge
New York, 2nd March 2003
[sets: Genius, Standard (US), Rude, Target© student promo]

Weekend Slather
Flunk you
Whet us
Baby sucks
Fuck this
Style control.
-
Spew mail online -
secrete unctuous stuff;
Target fecund student,
favorite sophomore guest:
tawdry stalwart,
open treacle morass.
-
Lachrymose puke,
Yogurt all-nighter.
Remedial hangover,
Totally better.
-
expatiate pedagogues!
nefarious platitude.
spurn Graduate School -
tantammount to Engineering
morose ennui.

Part II to follow soon

Thought for the day from Howard Nemerov:

Because You Asked about the Line
between Prose and Poetry

Sparrows were feeding in a freezing drizzle
That while you watched turned into pieces of snow
Riding a gradient invisible
Fom silver aslant to random, white, and slow.

There came a moment that you couldn't tell.
And then they clearly flew instead of fell.

Think it's time I posted some of my own stuff up rather than quoting bits from other people...

Joys of joys.
Have just switched TV stations to discover a TV evangelist in full flow.
"God has told you to come up hither...
"...You cannot go back up the mountain...
"...God is the one that shocked the river...
"...When you get back there you will find that everyone will be different."
Swiss Raven keeps asking when are they going to speak in tongues. Sounds like the preacher is already.
[cut to some random film]
The Mummy? that was on last night - what the fuck is going on? I keep forgetting that there may be 50+ cable channels here, but they only seem to own 5 films between them.



---------------------------------------------------------------------


Suburban Nightmare Opera Project Proposal

A Suburban Nightmare

“In a faceless suburb, Veronica’s life has become a round of wifely duties. While her investment banker husband, Bill, is at the office, she is subjected to a series of wearing house-calls and coffee mornings with people she cannot stand. Seemingly trapped by social and domestic circumstance, and the knowledge that Bill is having an affair with her cleaning lady, Veronica plans to exact revenge and escape. She sees the only means of doing this to be a dramatic suicide, witnessed by Bill on his return from work…”

A Suburban Nightmare is inspired by this cycle of haiku, five of which were set as songs by Ben Foskett. The structure of the proposed opera will be outlined by a series of narrative scenes, punctuated by seven similar haiku of a searingly personal and dramatic nature, which provide commentary on the emotional background of each scene.


Proposed Characters:

VERONICA: housewife, mid-forties. Her education is effectively squandered and the only outlet for intellect is her through a circle of unadventurous women friends.

(BILL: investment banker, early 50s. Although he never appears on stage, Bill’s influence is felt through his interaction with Veronica and Maureen. Because of his role as the main breadwinner, Veronica feels squeezed into the part of dutiful housewife. He feels that with no children (his choice), in their comfortable financial position there is no need for Veronica to work and has a similarly old fashioned views on a woman’s tasks in the home. His affair with the cleaning lady is indicative of these attitudes, she provides passing entertainment, whilst Veronica’s position is as his support and long term companion.)

CLEANING LADY: mid 30s. Clearly of a lower social standing than BILL, with whom she is having an affair. Her son is at the same school as Anne’s.

WINDOW CLEANER (MARK): late 20s. Young, attractive and enigmatic, he is unthreatening and good at listening to people.

Coffee Morning Acolytes:
LYDIA and MARGARET: conform to all stereotypes of the blue-rinse brigade. They are gossipy, snobbish, twin-set and pearl-wearing harridans in their late 50s.
ANNE: a relatively young (about 35) mother and housewife with a son at the same school as the cleaning lady’s son. She is noticeably less bitchy than Lydia and Margaret.

VICAR (Rev BONE): a bumbling C of E vicar in his early 60s. His attitude to pastoral care is almost solicitous: despite his efforts to get his parishioners to share their problems he does not exude an air of confidence. With strong ties to people such as Lydia and Margaret, and a painful lack of social awareness, the Rev Bone is the last person you would want to confide in.


Proposed Scenario:

The action takes place over a single day, almost entirely within Bill and Veronica’s home.

The opera opens with the final action – VERONICA appears to have committed suicide in the living room, whilst the CLEANING LADY carries on dusting, then abruptly turning to sing:
   “Veronica hoped
   Bill would come back in time to
   see her suffocate.”
We then witness the events which lead up to VERONICA’s decision to commit suicide.

First, the CLEANING LADY arrives and does some housework, but has to leave early to “take her son to the doctors” (we later discover this is to meet BILL during his lunch-break). Left alone, she mulls over her situation and writhes in horror at the day’s activities to come.

Some time later, MARK sees her agitation as he is cleaning the windows and asks her what is wrong when he comes to collect payment. VERONICA invites him in for a cup of tea and divulges everything about her wretched life to this virtual stranger, who provides a sympathetic ear and a sexual frisson.

As she ushers him out, the coffee morning ladies turn up, remarking on the young man’s flushed appearance and VERONICA wishes she had put cyanide in their coffee. An uncomfortable hour passes, during which the older ladies make constant reference to VERONICA’s failings as a wife whilst ANNE blathers on blandly about her son’s progress at school. Shortly before they leave, ANNE mentions that the CLEANING LADY’s son was at school that morning.

Her suspicions aroused, VERONICA works herself up into a frenzy when the ladies have gone and attempts to call both her husband and MAUREEN, to whom BILL has always taken a shine. Regaining her composure, she formulates a plan – she will kill herself, ensuring that the time of her death coincides with BILL’s arrival home (he always gets the 18:14 from Victoria).

The emotional tension is broken by the unexpected arrival of the VICAR, who has come to ask about the flower arrangements for the coming Sunday. VERONICA struggles to remain calm as he outlines the respective merits of lilies and carnations and tries to get him to leave. Unswayed by this gentle persuasion, the Rev BONE probes her, attempting to discover what might be wrong. VERONICA will have none of this and escorts him out of the house.

When the CLEANING LADY returns to complete her dusting, VERONICA is initially polite and collected. Eventually she confronts the CLEANING LADY, who refuses to confirm or deny her involvement with BILL and carries on regardless. After this, VERONICA reveals her plan, but this has no effect on the CLEANING LADY – unmoved, she continues to dust the furniture, while VERONICA pours herself a large gin and pops a couple of valium. She removes a curtain tie and lies on the sofa – assuming the same position as in the first scene. The CLEANING LADY ignores VERONICA as she begins to strangle herself with the curtain tie, eventually turning to the audience to sing the final haiku:
   “In acres of chintz,
   the corpse in their living room
   hardly seemed fitting.”

New York City

Visiting L Russe Bezuhoff for a long weekend.
Mainly art and stuff. Got to see Russian Ark yesterday - fantastic. A single shot runs through a stream-of-consciousness narrative, set in the Hermitage, running from the 18th century to the present day.
Found poems from fridge to follow (magnetic poetry a-go-go).
Hopeless Americans already celebrating St Patrick's Day (not till 17th March)
Discovery of the day: Gays and Lesbians are not allowed to march at the regular St Patrick's Day parade in Manhatten. Fuckers.
Watching ancient Simon and Garfunkel footage on TV. Looks like they're on drugs. Bezuhoff keeps slapping Swiss Raven's arse in time to the music. Arf!
Return flight first thing tomorrow morning. Hope not to be stuck next to a passenger as boring as the last one: a trumpet-hunting socially-deficient physics student. I hate it when people live up to stereotype.
Over and out.

---------------------------------------------------------------------


Suburban Nightmares
a series of haiku

Dorothy touched up
her lipstick and then she did
the same to her son.
-
Whilst shaving, Albert
cut his nose off, ruining
the sky-blue carpet
-
Veronica hoped
Bill would come back in time to
see her suffocate.
-
A gas explosion
wrecked the fake Georgian façade
and killed the poodle.
-
Electronic gates
swung open to reveal a
badly-kept garden.
-
“Neighbourhood Watch” lived
up to their expectations:
Snooping and snide jibes.
-
Isn’t it tragic
that maids don’t come cheap these days –
unless they're foreign?
-
In acres of chintz
the corpse in their living room
hardly seemed fitting.
-
Rustic charm abounds
at lovely 60s semi
in the heart of Slough.
-
As if by muzak,
Reginald’s wig twitched in time
with Burt Bacharach.
-
“It’s MING, dear” said the
hideous blue-rinse of her
latest antique vase
-
Cyril’s gin-soaked voice
mellifluously mumbling
told of sex and lies.
-
“St Tropez – passé!”
exclaimed Eleanor. “We’re off
to Blackpool this year.”
-
The Sunday mowing
was interrupted when Dad
shredded the rabbit.
-
Highly pretentious,
Claude came to a sticky end
with a violin.

for Ezra Williams:

Shunning pashmina,
Pamela made her shroud from
bloody bandages.


---------------------------------------------------------------------


Poems from Russia: 1999-2000

The Snow Queen

I wish to recline on a bed of fresh snow;
Not just to squelch and squirm my way
Through mumbling masses of melting grey;
Gradually to feel my fingers, toes, wrists, ankles
Lose sensation,
Till at last only my heart burns –
A final candle alight in an
All-embracing chilly coffin.

Doll-like, my expressions trace out
the merest shadow of life:
frozen in time as in reality,
no longer betraying my inner secrets.

Until you touch my sapphire lips
With your rubies,
Nothing will distinguish me
from the wasting whiteness:
I shall remain attired in the
Mourning-wedding robes of my chosen destiny.


Moroz (hard frost)
for Rachel’s birthday

Never previously noticed
My window stands in
Flamboyant self-recognition.

What was once only a means to an end
Has now unleashed its innate purpose:

An outside world with diamonds concealed,
Existence in translucency revealed.


Resolution

Had I wished upon a star,
It could not have worked out better.

My convoluted heart has unwound itself;
Your all-rebuking face
No longer invokes my conscience –
The guilty knots undone by submission.

Control will not be hard
Unless we renew our harsh acquaintance,
And I begin to fall beneath your wheels.

And yet is there nowhere to run from myself?

Out , out, damned emotion!
And let all lie at peace and melancholy.


Krestovsky Island

Icicles in miniature
Adorn the crystal crust
Where once our world ended.

Instead the smothered sea
Announces new horizons
Of icy, briny waste.

Perceptible, brittle freedom
emerges from beyond the
stadium’s mighty cup:

Outside our boundaries lie
new sunny, glassy lands,
on which we ever fear to tread.


Translation of a poem by Marina Tsvetaeva
link to original in Russian

I rather like the fact that
You are not lovesick for me, nor I for you;
That we never feel this weary, dreary world
Swept from beneath our feet.
I rather like it that we can joke –
Be casual even – and not mince our words,
Nor blush with that asphyxiating wave of embarrassment
At the merest contact of our sleeves.

Indeed I rather like it that in front of me
You will happily embrace another woman
Without condemning me to the fires of hell,
To burn with envy for my not kissing you;
That, night and day, you never mention
My tender name – my dear- – in vain...
That, in a hushed church, of us will never be sung
Resounding matrimonial alleluias!

With my heart and hands I thank you
For loving me thus – without ever knowing it!
For my restful nights,
For the rarity of our meetings at sunset’s hour,
For our not enjoying strolls by the light of the moon,
For the sun not shining above our heads;
For the fact that you – alas! – are not lovesick for me,
And that I – alas! – am not lovesick for you.


Humbug

Not dreaming of a “White Christmas”,
Just like the ones we never knew;
Where the tinsel glistens
And no-one listens
To the songs of hearts broken in two.

Just dreaming of a “festive season”
Without those tacky, tawdry, trite
Tunes whose anodyne pleasure
Puts us at leisure
To forget the true of others’ plight.


Metro

Blue-green bullet shoots past,
confined by steel-bar rails:
a beacon home via sardine hell.

Fur-ball babushki make their presence felt as ever,
rolling on to their destination,
only to be spat out, rejected from the cat’s mouth of Avtovo
where bendy buses bumble by.


Vecherinka (A Party)

Isolation begins at home,
where drunken bouts of merriment
serve only to depress the sober legions down below.

Inconsequential conversation
will buffer us from passing pissheads:
their comments fall on self-blocked ears.

The blinded crowd disperses
at some obscene forgotten hour:
forged into easy twosomes,
later regretted, but deemed necessary
in the frenzied fight for beds.

At the scene of the crime,
some dishevelled half-corpse
snuffles, semi-somnolent
as guilty parties slip out the door.