"Punctuality"
Three shadows ‘neath a pavorous night
Through eldritch fog did wade
Their eyes abeam with rank delight
Dressèd for masquerade
Six wooden clogs: clip-clop, clip-clop
In sottish syncopation
Outwith a house did stop, did stop
Feart with anticipation
Wherefore do cease the men beside
This tenement drowned in slumber?
…a SHRIEK they did hear from inside
Its barr’cades’ soggy lumber!
“What ghoulish gasp is this?” one quizzed
“Shall we not aid her in her stress?”
But he stood still, by horror seized
His blabb’ring mouth a blubb’ring mess
“My goodness!” cried the second one,
“You fiend! Yes, you inside, desist!
Or I shall go to fetch my gun!”
He, wildly quaking, did insist
The third, a bold and worthy knight
Did on the door proceed to knock
And did, after ‘round taking sight
Pick up a slightly sharpened rock
Just then, however, when their feet
Were a l m o s t willing to go forth
A nightgowned shape across the street
Issued a thunderous, rolling oath
“Pipe down, ye bleedin’ oafs! Go home!”
An elder couple on a balc’ney.
The shout did chill them to the bone
And forced they were to soon agree
“Apologies! My dear good sir!”
“She started it! We meant no harm!”
“You must forgive us, all’s a blur…
We’re rather drunk, you see, so… errr….”
“Tis not our business, I suppose”
Decreed the hatted second man
“Although the shriek *was* quite a noise
We should go on… as we began…”
And so the three illustrious chaps
Forwent to save a murdered soul
And rightly so! To them three claps.
For, t’s’not their business to patrol…
The streets and seek to stifle crime
Such parts are best by others served
And anyway, ‘bout half the time
Is murder probably deserved!
And don’t you know it, though they spent
Some time upon that awful route
Straight’way to the soiree they went
And had an anecdote to boot!
So on this tumultuous old earth
No virtue can I e’er decree
More noble, gentle, and of worth
Than simple punctuality!
Type: art.poetry.original
Produced by: Jan Osten
Notes: none.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
MFRH035
Mainly, Ainley was a good boy
Plainly clothed but mannered well
Gravely, stared he o’er the table
Gave Leigh notes he did misspell
“Wherefore sayest thou this, Ainley?”
Prayed the girlchild, looking vainly
At the bairn across the table
Tearing up his lovelorn cable
Which he’d sent her from the war
Which he’d sent in fourty-four
In a time t’was not so certained
When his life was nearly curtained
Boy, was he now in a mess
Love unshared one shouldn’t confess
Torn up hearts can turn derangèd
Torn up love must be avengèd
Mainly, Ainley lives alone now
Plainly housed in grey abound
Gravely, stares he at the brickwork
Gave Leigh a bed in the ground
Type: art.poetry.original
Produced by: Anton Jack-Off
Notes: none.
Plainly clothed but mannered well
Gravely, stared he o’er the table
Gave Leigh notes he did misspell
“Wherefore sayest thou this, Ainley?”
Prayed the girlchild, looking vainly
At the bairn across the table
Tearing up his lovelorn cable
Which he’d sent her from the war
Which he’d sent in fourty-four
In a time t’was not so certained
When his life was nearly curtained
Boy, was he now in a mess
Love unshared one shouldn’t confess
Torn up hearts can turn derangèd
Torn up love must be avengèd
Mainly, Ainley lives alone now
Plainly housed in grey abound
Gravely, stares he at the brickwork
Gave Leigh a bed in the ground
Type: art.poetry.original
Produced by: Anton Jack-Off
Notes: none.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
MFRH034
"Happy New Year"
"What the fuck?" The radio box gave away its location by shouting obscenities at the poor family resting their half-chemical, fabric-thin flesh remains on top of the calcium xylophone tubes lying on the bed. The tubes moved, one set rising up, carrying up the layer of skin softly draped over them, the thin, long face occupying a glorious position atop the specter-like outline of the first set - which we shall call a man. Little flaps of flesh on what appeared to be his face seemed to open, revealing gaping holes in the fabric (that we shall call his skin) occupied by nothing except void purple marbles.
"Oh how I played with those marbles as a child," recalled a voice on the radio; the family started throwing up in formation. First, the paper-thin son, then the snot, phlegm covered mass of crumpled white kleenex resting on the table that was once termed a feline. The beam of vomit projecting from its mouth propelling it into the ceiling fan which began spinning, its razor-sharp motion scattering the blankets across the room, suddenly covered by a red die in addition to the aforementioned snot. The fan fell, and found its place as the nose in the gigantic tuberculosis-coloured face resting below, the face of the father, a man with carpet-texture skin and eyes shining with the particular tofu-flavored glow of a decaying omelet.
"What the fuck?" The radio box gave away its location shouting obscenities at the poor family... the son, arisen to go towards and dismantle the radio collapsed in a heap of old National Geographic magazines, the top one bearing a photograph of strong resemblance to his visage. The chemical fumes rising from the floor, the open vials, the half-open containers, the open casks and bottles were strong enough to lift the dust remaining of the son and father and carry it through the air like spores of a specifically disgusting pathogenic fungus. The cat's remains remained where they were... A man entered the room, his bowler hat resting on top of a mess of brown hair. As the fumes approached his mind he shouted in madness and grabbing the guitar lying on the floor mashed it straight into his head. Still pulsing and throbbing with an outgoing energy of life, he clutched at the metallic strings that had passed through his eyes and were now protruding out of his ear. He felt happy. His briefcase flew open and the gluesticks contained therein spilled and rolled all the way down the staircase.
Type: art.prose.renewed
Produced by: Jan Osten
Notes: Short story
"What the fuck?" The radio box gave away its location by shouting obscenities at the poor family resting their half-chemical, fabric-thin flesh remains on top of the calcium xylophone tubes lying on the bed. The tubes moved, one set rising up, carrying up the layer of skin softly draped over them, the thin, long face occupying a glorious position atop the specter-like outline of the first set - which we shall call a man. Little flaps of flesh on what appeared to be his face seemed to open, revealing gaping holes in the fabric (that we shall call his skin) occupied by nothing except void purple marbles.
"Oh how I played with those marbles as a child," recalled a voice on the radio; the family started throwing up in formation. First, the paper-thin son, then the snot, phlegm covered mass of crumpled white kleenex resting on the table that was once termed a feline. The beam of vomit projecting from its mouth propelling it into the ceiling fan which began spinning, its razor-sharp motion scattering the blankets across the room, suddenly covered by a red die in addition to the aforementioned snot. The fan fell, and found its place as the nose in the gigantic tuberculosis-coloured face resting below, the face of the father, a man with carpet-texture skin and eyes shining with the particular tofu-flavored glow of a decaying omelet.
"What the fuck?" The radio box gave away its location shouting obscenities at the poor family... the son, arisen to go towards and dismantle the radio collapsed in a heap of old National Geographic magazines, the top one bearing a photograph of strong resemblance to his visage. The chemical fumes rising from the floor, the open vials, the half-open containers, the open casks and bottles were strong enough to lift the dust remaining of the son and father and carry it through the air like spores of a specifically disgusting pathogenic fungus. The cat's remains remained where they were... A man entered the room, his bowler hat resting on top of a mess of brown hair. As the fumes approached his mind he shouted in madness and grabbing the guitar lying on the floor mashed it straight into his head. Still pulsing and throbbing with an outgoing energy of life, he clutched at the metallic strings that had passed through his eyes and were now protruding out of his ear. He felt happy. His briefcase flew open and the gluesticks contained therein spilled and rolled all the way down the staircase.
Type: art.prose.renewed
Produced by: Jan Osten
Notes: Short story
MFRH033
"November 04, 2006"
I took a table-spoonful of sugar, and another. I would need it to cushion the bitterness that was to come. It created a very tasty, sugary calm-before-the-storm feeling in my mouth. If I stopped just then, I could sit and enjoy it. Then I preceded to the next can on the shelf... corn... no, no corn. The next can - coffee. I took a spoonful or two and filled my mouth with the grains. The sweet taste of sugar mostly stopped the bitterness but a few grains did touch the inside of my mouth, making me gag a bit. I added in a bit of disturbingly, disgustingly sweet Irish Creme to pacify the sensation and then, holding my mouth open and upwards, poured in the hot, boiled water from the tea-pot. The sensation as not a pleasant one as the hot liquid penetrated my mouth, burning, scolding, and probably cancerously disfiguring and mutating my cells. Great, mouth cancer in 5 years! But who cared???
I WAS A COFFEE MUG!!! I WAS A CUP OF JOE!!! I swished the impromptu coffee in my mouth, it tasted horrible due to my complete abandon of any proportions. I usually put a spoon of coffee into a MUG-FUL of water... not two of them into a mouth-full, and the creamers disturbing taste dominated the top of my mouth's taste-receptors. I shifted my focus away from it, instead thinking about the softness of my sweater which was sitting upstairs in the closet. My half-nude frame stumbled a few steps back, still in shock from the boiling water and at last, I choked down the noxious coffee mixture and sat down, rocking on my stool, barely keeping balance. The liquid said goodbye to me as it passed into my stomach, leaving final “farewells” and reminders of itself as it scolded my throat.
“Why the fuck did I just do that?,” my ruminations poured out with tears as I reflected upon my actions and what they will signify five years from now.
Type: art.prose.renewed
Produced by: Jan Osten
Notes: Excerpt from unwritten novel, The Diary of an Frank
I took a table-spoonful of sugar, and another. I would need it to cushion the bitterness that was to come. It created a very tasty, sugary calm-before-the-storm feeling in my mouth. If I stopped just then, I could sit and enjoy it. Then I preceded to the next can on the shelf... corn... no, no corn. The next can - coffee. I took a spoonful or two and filled my mouth with the grains. The sweet taste of sugar mostly stopped the bitterness but a few grains did touch the inside of my mouth, making me gag a bit. I added in a bit of disturbingly, disgustingly sweet Irish Creme to pacify the sensation and then, holding my mouth open and upwards, poured in the hot, boiled water from the tea-pot. The sensation as not a pleasant one as the hot liquid penetrated my mouth, burning, scolding, and probably cancerously disfiguring and mutating my cells. Great, mouth cancer in 5 years! But who cared???
I WAS A COFFEE MUG!!! I WAS A CUP OF JOE!!! I swished the impromptu coffee in my mouth, it tasted horrible due to my complete abandon of any proportions. I usually put a spoon of coffee into a MUG-FUL of water... not two of them into a mouth-full, and the creamers disturbing taste dominated the top of my mouth's taste-receptors. I shifted my focus away from it, instead thinking about the softness of my sweater which was sitting upstairs in the closet. My half-nude frame stumbled a few steps back, still in shock from the boiling water and at last, I choked down the noxious coffee mixture and sat down, rocking on my stool, barely keeping balance. The liquid said goodbye to me as it passed into my stomach, leaving final “farewells” and reminders of itself as it scolded my throat.
“Why the fuck did I just do that?,” my ruminations poured out with tears as I reflected upon my actions and what they will signify five years from now.
Type: art.prose.renewed
Produced by: Jan Osten
Notes: Excerpt from unwritten novel, The Diary of an Frank
MFRH032
Chapter 1 - Wherein Our Hero Sets Out on His Journey
Across the sea, aboard a ship
he set out for a journey
He traveled far, with his guitar
and trusted daschhund - Orney
The wind, which once in foreign lands
Did travel and did sing
Was waving through his wavy hair
And fortune did it bring
He stood upon the gilded bow
of Frosephus, his vessel
A mighty ship- through arctic ice
She once her way did wrestle
He looked towards the setting sun
Which seemed so free and rapid
He knew its soul was old and dark
Its consciousness was vapid
The sun - his mark, he set his course
He’d catch it soon enough
He’d find it, tear it, and envelop
Its brightness all a bluff
He spent his years, in vain pursuit
But now another dawned
He knew (his doubt was so minute)
His foe would soon be pwned
He spent his years, in dark pursuit
Striving for the light,
Towards the sun to match the heat
Which brightly burned inside [him]
Across the sea, aboard a ship
Lord Haigathy did go
Towards the sun, which he could best
With his majestic fro
Type: art.poetry.original
Produced by: Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Across the sea, aboard a ship
he set out for a journey
He traveled far, with his guitar
and trusted daschhund - Orney
The wind, which once in foreign lands
Did travel and did sing
Was waving through his wavy hair
And fortune did it bring
He stood upon the gilded bow
of Frosephus, his vessel
A mighty ship- through arctic ice
She once her way did wrestle
He looked towards the setting sun
Which seemed so free and rapid
He knew its soul was old and dark
Its consciousness was vapid
The sun - his mark, he set his course
He’d catch it soon enough
He’d find it, tear it, and envelop
Its brightness all a bluff
He spent his years, in vain pursuit
But now another dawned
He knew (his doubt was so minute)
His foe would soon be pwned
He spent his years, in dark pursuit
Striving for the light,
Towards the sun to match the heat
Which brightly burned inside [him]
Across the sea, aboard a ship
Lord Haigathy did go
Towards the sun, which he could best
With his majestic fro
Type: art.poetry.original
Produced by: Samuel Taylor Coleridge
MFRH031
Type: art.visual.original
Title: Year of the Tiger (pt. 2: Depthswarm)
Produced by: Monsieur Ybe Decuporde
Notes: Visitors may click on picture to acquire large, clear version of image.
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