h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

::staggers in swinging a cheap made-for-Americans-but-made-in-Austrailia beer bottle:: Perdon me, but...
Oh, yeah.. I htink I'm gonna be sick.
::Recites poetry instead::

My hat it has no corner
I ate it for a snack.
But id it hat three corners
I'd have to send it back.
My pink sheep shimmy
Like oil tankers dressed in tutus.
They spank olives
& stick them on all 6 fingers.

I love my petunia.

Ah. You must mean Fosters. Well no -wonder- you're gonna be sick.

A bloke said to his mate,
"We'll keep some Fosters here."
"But -- why?" the mate replied.
"Keep the yanks out of our beer."

Prawns... I need prawns!
Prose shall suffice.

I have a lovely hair or two
They dwell upon my head
I leave them there & soap them
every morning... sometimes at night
I hope they like it up there
stuck into my head
I rather like them, I think
It'd suck if they might leave.
Hair.
Good.
Yess.

Hair? Hair? Where? Wait? What?

If we are (or were) karaokeing, time for some Ani Difranco.

They were digging a new foundation in Manhattan,
and they discovered a slave cemetary there.
The bones can rest easy now that lynching is frowned upon -
We've moved on to the electric chair.
And, I wonder, who's gonna be President - Tweedle Dum, or Tweedle Dumber,
And who's gonna have the big box office blockbuster next summer.
Maybe we could put up a wall between the houses and the highways.
And then you could go your way, and I could go my way.

People used to make records, as in a record of an event
The event of people playing music in a room
Now everything is crossmarketing, it's about sunglasses and shoes
Or guns and drugs, you choose.
We got it rehashed.
We got it half-ass.
We're digging up all the graves, and we're spitting on the past
And we can choose between the colors of the lipstick on the whores
Because we know the difference, between the font of 20% more
And the font of teriyaki, you tell me -
How does it make you feel?
You tell me - what's real?

Am I headed for the same brick wall?
Is there anything I can do about anything at all
Except go back to that corner in Manhattan
And dig deeper, dig deeper this time

Down beneath the impossible pain of our history
Beneath unknown bones, beneath the bedrock of the mystery
Beneath the sewage system and the path train
Beneath the cobblestones and the watermain
Beneath the traffic of friendships and street deals
Beneath the screeching of kamikaze cab wheels
Beneath everything I can think of to think about
Beneath it all, beneath all get out
Beneath the good, and the kind, and the stupid, and the cruel
There's a fire just waiting for fuel
A fire just waiting for fuel.

Wow, that was long... whatever, it's good stuff. Hope someone appreciates it.

Appreciation

And more shovels.

Good... I actually cut out a bit. But it's good stuff, that.

Sorry, I'm lazy and didn't bother to read all that... but I was wondering what all of your thought of prose poetry? I've just stumbled upon the most wonderful self - published book entitled "Calif of Fornia" by Pat'rick Neal Pugh and it gets better and better... you could call it a story written in prose, but for some reason it seems more like an epic poem, despite the format and lack of typical 'Epic' quilities... it's like a new Lewis Caroll.

Where can we get this book Fenny? You say it's self published, got an address for him?

Cheers M'dear!

Some poetry:

That which is not freely given;
That which you jealously guard;
That of which you cannot spare an inch;
This I take from you,
Without remorse, or thought for your feelings.

Though you would fight me for it,
And see me left for dead,
I am too quick for you,
Gone in the blink of an eye.

And having taken, discard my prize
I move along, ever swifter,
To take from another.

As I leave, I speak again my mantra;
"Use yer mirrors, yer moron!"

H&K
Z

Stick people < us, short form
Sitck people With Eyeplugs In Their Noggins < us, l o n g - f o r m
Index Prohibitorius < list of best selling books
Ex nihilo nihil fit < nothing + nothing = (?)

Long before the land dragons took to the wing on the surface below, there was the airland of Fornia gaddling about above. Long before stick people with eyeplugs in their noggins stuck out on the surface and struck out after drumstix on the sands, seas and skies of their Sphere, Fornians were living aloft in the Atmos.

There's an excerpt ... there's no address for the book on the websites I've found, but I'll keep looking, 'cos now I'm curious. Somewhere in L.A., I'm sure. Interestingly enough, it is listed in wonderful company : http://www.pthbb.org/ocular/text/calif.html

God prosper long our noble queen, and long may she reign!
Maclean he tries to shoot her, but it was all in vain.
For God he turned the ball aside Maclean aimed at her head;
And he felt very angry because he couldn't shoot her dead.

- Sir William Topaz McGonagall
The world's worst poet

In the grizzled longtitude,
In the Shire of Northants
The vale of Wicksteed lies
And therewithin are all consumed
With a longing for Pork Pies.

And whence in Orange outfit,
Did this hunchbacked stranger arise?
And whereto journeys he,
With that longing in his eyes?

Ah, to leave the Vale and fragrant park,
For he to Kettering goes
and digs the trenches in his mind
To defend against his foes.

Vlad.

yeah - yeah, man...cool!

*self-consciously*

Thank-youuuuuu.

Uh. Could we have some tunes in here?

*Thelonious Monk*

Thanx, this is "Wait for no man"

No vacant trial, no broken smile
For those that come in threes and fours,
Looking for less,
But finding more.

Come to join the sluggish flow
Of those that don't and those that know.
Come to watch the tide of time
Retreat once more to brackish brine

In the silted coastal town
Left for years to pine and drown
Sorrow slowly ebbs its course
Leaking in through leaden pores.

*averts eyes, clutches at coffee mug*

Anyone else?
Retreat once more to brackish brine

*staggers off stage*

Uh. That last "Retreat.." line wasn't meant to be there.

Vlad.

Hi, i'm new here and was just wondering what you people's that about this poem my friend made.

Freedom is slavery
It is living in an open sky with bars
It is being chained
To break other's chains

Freedom is not real
To grasp it you must pass
Through the walls that enclose
Us all

Freedom is death
You break free
From this one wall
That chains us all

Freedom is life
For when you pass from one chain
You are attached to another
Wall that chains us all

To have freedom
You must be a slave
You must live in unreality
You must be dead
You must live
For to grasp freedom
You must pass through a barrier
As have few
To the land beyond the wall

By Andrew Kiem

And from the Pits of Hell, Slade arises from the gapping maw of Hades!

just reread it

I saw the best minds of my generation running through the streets starving hysterical naked...

*nodding vigorously*

Yeah man! "The Ginser" rules....

Here are a couple I've written. The latter is a couple years old of course, written when Dolly was born.

Untitled Poem #3.15

They say the universe is expanding
and that's why the value of pi has increased slightly -
not due to inflation
as some economists have claimed.
The scientists who discovered this strange phenomena
were under the pay of the computer companies
which are offering upgrades, for a small fee.

Cloning

The price of wool is falling
due to increased supply
scientists are busy cloning sheep
now's a bad time to buy

stock in science fiction novels--
Reality's infringed their domain.
Soon there'll be nothing left to write
nothing more to gain.

God, watch out, we're coming
You're up against a fence
We sure as heck don't need you
if we've got scientists.

Man, my poems lack direction.

The bean.
It quakes.
It shakes.
The dance of the bean
At times is obscene
You know what I mean
You too have a bean.

A german made car
can go very far
sometimes to el mar
but mostly the bar.

my thoughts are abstract
I cannot subtract
the way that I act
from arduous fact.

I'm spankish & new
like 5th avenue
i've got the clue
i won't give it to you.

Don't read this junk
I'm just being a punk
my brain, it has shrunk
Dig cartoons name'ed krunk.

That's stupid enough for you. Fred Harris, that's for you, for what it's worth. Rest in peace