The Pyramid Stage

Up on the pyramid stage The Kittens of Chaos, accompanied by Consuella Starcluster the tambourine virtuoso, were performing a selection of their favourite bits from ‘Prestupleniye i Nakazaniye the Musical’, in which the nihilist Raskolnikov is encouraged to get out more and is introduced to vodka and fornication by the 6^th Form students of Madame Sofia Semyonovna Marmeladova’s Academy for Young Kittens. Following on from the conclusion of their act the bemused audience was subjected to a poetry reading by Ginsbergbear.

            “I have written a haiku,” he announced:

Haiku

Cake left in the rain.

Prince Albert teapot; it nev-

Er reigns, but it pours.

…and, oh so much later:

Your Mum and Dad

They muck you about

With a bottle of stout

And a pig in a poke

Like the funny old bloke

That Mummy said to call uncle

And Dad with his fags

After nocturnal shags

They’re wondering why

You’ve contracted a sty

Or forged on your bum a carbuncle

“The fault isn’t ours”

Your old pater glowers

“We had parents too

Addicted to glue

And fans of the songs of Garfuncle”

            After a long and embarrassing pause there came a dramatic fanfare from the recently bruised Massed Pit Bands of Federated Nottinghamshire joined by the Brick Lane Zapatista Mariachi Walking Wounded, and Larry stepped up to the mic.

            “Ehem…”

            Before he could speak he was surrounded, silently, by the serene men of the Himalayas, their yak skin coats dragging on the floor. The group moved to the front of the stage, parted and revealed, to everyone’s astonishment, Mad Jack Belvoir (Bart) with his ward, the fair, and now heavily pregnant, Pricilla. Gone was the up-tight uniform of the 3^rd (King’s Own) Hussars, his once magnificent handlebar drooped into a bushy Zapata mustachio and he wore a loose, grubby Kurta shirt over baggy candy striped trousers. He appeared unkempt, undernourished, and yet he was fire-forged steel, tempered in the acid bath of global perambulation.

              “Friends, we have all come a long way since you and I faced off against each other on the Cable Street barricade. Pricilla and I have travelled far, crossed desert and mountain, swum in turquoise seas, basked on crystal beaches, begged in shit-strewn shanties. We have studied at the feet of masters. I want to talk to you about the future. We are (most of us, I hope) groping towards an ill-defined anarchist utopia, an earnest utopia with co-ops and federations and communes and unions and autonomies and endless discussions at the Street Moot and the Factory Moot. It is a worthy utopia for born-again socialists, reformed capitalists and the recently oppressed. But remember, just a short stride across the green from the Moot Hall is the Mead Hall. The sailors and ships’ cats and corsairs and doxies, these Ranters and punks, won’t be content with such seriousness alone. There must be fun, and dancing and a little mayhem too. One day when we have our Anarchy, modified and reshaped from our earliest visions, when we have our justice and fairness, we will look out towards a new utopia, a utopia for anarchists, for men (and women and cats) who are already free, already fulfilled. With joy as of little children and unfettered imaginations we will lust for a glorious future without limits; what a vision that will be.”

              As Mad Jack paused for breath Larry stepped quickly back up to the mic. He was still somewhat put out and prickly.

            “Friends. It is possible that Citizen Belvoir has a point… or two. I was about to suggest that we representatives of diverse groups, many of whom have travelled far to hammer out our differences, adjourn to the Ranters’ Moot Hall and forge a concord that would guarantee peace and prosperity for all time. It is what we had planned, why we are here. But I, for one, am having too much fun. Who cares about differences? It is a glorious day; let us celebrate our commonality. Return to the beer tent and the dance floor; strike up the Mariachi. Sod tomorrow, we are surrounded by friends.”

Narnia Sub Minatio

catnip road trip

and if one green bottle should accidentally fall... again and... again and... again and...

strawberry is at the wheel as we speed through strathbogie our wheels splashing mudstreeks across deserted streets abandoned shops and homes... ghost town

our winter tyres carve deep scars sad memories of disappointments and fading horrors into the gravel drive of huntly castle
stark tower of grey stone
the laird offers kippers and devilled kidneys for breakfast
clad in bonnet and plaid trews he stands beneath his portcullis armwaving local directions
he has drawn us a detailed map... in pencil on scented notepaper
back in the vicecreamvan... back on the road... tracking the bogie river
we come upon a clearing in the conifer forest

 multicoloured patchwork tents yurts and mobile homes cluster about an antique cottage
white woodsmoke pillars upwards from the lone chimney
the aroma of baking
i hope that is fresh hot catnip mooncakes i can smell says boz
anna and bui in the doorway wipe flour handprints onto their aprons
we have encountered the bravehearted refugees of strathbogie...
'twas a day in late november in the year of 2010
when snow began to fall upon this happy glen
they left for work that morning without any dread
never suspecting as they kissed their wives goodbye that by the evening they could be dead
if they had not dressed warmly and worn a woollen vest
as anyone will tell you is the very best
and those that got home that freezing night
looked out in the morning to a terrible sight
for they were cut off by ice and snow
and the temperature was -25 degrees centigrade which is awfully low
they waited and waited in horrible fear
till their rescuers came in the new year
the vicecream van with boris and aunty stella
was a welcome sight to a shivering feller
and anna and bui had baked them all a treat
because as every one knows heroes have to eat
strawberry ferdy and phoebus must be lauded as well
because they endured hardship and danger and went through hell
in order to rescue the good people of strathbogie
and now they had made it those heroes of limehousesailortown and the norwegian doggie
with supplies and aid for which all are grateful
and a poet of fame to recount their perils so fateful
...later as the sun sinks jaffa orange from the pomegranate sky
ANNA PYROTECHNIX
ignites a towering structure of redundant furniture old doors and petrol
winter's funeral pyre
campfire ceilidh
fairy lights hang in the norway spruce
an enigmatic puginesque castiron pierhead plays stage to fiddlers and pipers
fiddles prance pipes lament
bui on onestring fiddlehorn and bamse on norwegian tricycle hurdygurdy duet
the woods ring to the bonfire cackle the uncorked effervescing laughter
the skirling and whirling
the distant chainsaw whine of the encroaching loggers...

Aunty Stella, Ferdinand and Strawberry will eventually take the Vicecream van south to search out the Kittens of Chaos and restore them to the Land of Green Ginger.   As for Boz, Phoebles and myself, we will await the return of the Arctic Coleyfishtrawler Lord Ancaster which will take us by sea to Limehousesailortown.  Meanwhile, perhaps we can help in someway in the defence against the forces of commerce which threatened Anna's forest.

...Far away

A dapper figure in porkpie hat, zootsuit and squirrelgrey spats grubs out the disaffected, the dispossessed.

Slasher McGoogs is spreading sedition throughout leafy Surrey.

But that is another story.  

Ginsbergbear

Rothiemay

2011

Base Camp

                                                                                                                    

The Ancaster's bow was held on the engine, against the edge of the ice whilst Boz and his companions disembarked.   They were joined by a small group of burly matelots with sledge hammers and spikes who quickly made the coleyfishtrawler fast.  A relatively flat area of ice-shelf was selected for the camp and the tents pitched.   The supplies were unloaded and three large wooden crates winched safely from the deck.   As the sailors set up a fuel dump and established radio contact with ship and HQ back in Limehousesailortown the Lord Ancaster slipped away from the edge of the ice and turned South.   The party watched her grow small and disappear below the horizon - a last puff of white smoke against the turquoise sky, reflected in the glass like sea.
"No time to get comfy." said Boz, grabbing a claw hammer and setting about one of the crates.    Strawberry and Bert Wold took up jemmies and attacked a second.   After some frantic action the group found themselves admiring two steam powered Brockhouse Corgi snowmobiles with sledge trailers, surrounded by potentially useful firewood.   Meanwhile Ferdy and Ginsbergbear had been delicately unscrewing the top and side panels of the third crate to reveal an Avro 620 autogyro in magnificent fire-engine red.   Strawberry emerged from one of the bell-tents with his atlas and a plan of action which he was desperate to convey to the others.      

Boz and Phoebles joined Strawberry in a huddled conference while a man-mountain of a Petty Officer rolled towards Ferdy carrying a drum of aviation fuel on his shoulder and holding a hand pump in his free hand - the autogyro would soon be ready for the off.   However, even with the best efforts of the naval detail the construction of an airstrip took most of the day.   By dusk it was completed, straight and flat, with an orange wind sock to the side at each end.   Ginsbergbear was relaxing in a campaign chair outside his tent, drawing on a catnip filled Peterson bulldog briar as Ferdy approached the others, still engaged in animated planning.   He winked and jabbed the mouth piece in their direction.

Eventually, late, by the guttering light of several Tilley lamps a consensus emerged and it was possible to retire.   The matelots, lubricated with Pusser's Rum and worn out by their vigorous postprandial horn-piping had long since fallen silent.

At first light Boz was up, clip board in hand, dishing out orders.

"Ferdy, you will take off as soon as you are ready.   Follow a bearing for Edinburgh and when you're over the castle turn due north.

"Bert, you go with Strawberry in the second skidoo.   Strawberry, if you insist on driving you must lend Bert your atlas so he can navigate, but don't go off on your own, follow us.

"Phoebles, Ginsbergbear and I will lead 'cos we have the compass."   He proudly produced his prized Dan Dare Club Junior Space Cadet's compass in its red and yellow plastic case.   "We must get off the sea-ice as soon as possible.   North Shields should be pretty well due west from here.   Once we are on shore we will make straight for Strathbogie."

He strolled over to a tent at the base of the tall radio mast which the sailors insisted on calling the Shack and addressed the Wireless Operator.   "When we are close to our destination we will ring Wick Radio on Ginsbergbear's i-Phone, so listen out to them."   Finally he conveyed their plans to the CPO whose party was detailed to maintain the base.

It would be a while yet before the skidoos had steam up so the adventurers lined the runway to wave Ferdinand off.   He emerged from his tent in flying helmet and goggles, sheepskin flying jacket and boots.   He gave them a casual wave as he scrambled into the rear cockpit and could be seen adjusting the heading on the gimballed compass.   The forward cockpit was stuffed with supplies.   One of the ordinary seamen spun the propeller and the Armstrong Siddeley Genet Major five-cylinder, air-cooled, radial engine sputtered into life.   The craft gathered speed down the runway, the rotor blades began to turn and she lifted skywards.   Ferdy circled the camp once and then receded towards the NNW.   Phoebles found he was still waving as the tiny red dot disappeared.

Turning now to the duties of the overland party, Strawberry mounted one of the snowmobiles with Bert Wold perched on top of the sledge's cargo, wielding the atlas.   Boris took the second vehicle with Phoebles behind him on the sledge.   Ginsbergbear made himself comfortable amongst the luggage and called up the GPS app on his i-Phone.   With the exception of Strawberry in his orange furs they were distinguishable, in identical reindeer parkas, only by their head gear.   Boz wore his Red October black fur hat with Soviet Navy cap badge, Phoebles a khaki budionovka pixie hat with large red star, Bert his best Keir Hardy flat cap and Ginsbergbear a rainbow Peruvian woolly bobble hat.   With a twist of the throttles, a wave to the Naval detail, in a cloud of steam, they were on their way.

The Brockhouse Corgis whispered chuffs, belched thick, oily smoke, the ice beneath the runners shushed and scraped.

SEA ICE

Sea ice is not still

It heaves and surges

Throws up pinnacles

And towers

Cliff walls of dragons' teeth

Tilted slabs

It pulls apart into valleys

And canyons

Sea ice is not silent

It moans and groans

Cracks and snaps

Pops and bangs

Booms and boings

Sea ice is not empty

It is littered with sea-junk

With barrels and spars

Bottles and jars

Buckets and spades

Like the belly of the tagareen man's

dinghy

Ginsbergbear, beat poet

North Sea

2011.

Barely had the skidoos disappeared over the horizon than a charabanc loaded with architects arrived at the camp.   Within weeks the shanty-settlement was extended to include a tavern, barber's shop and a mall complete with MacDonald's and multi-story car park.   Shortly after completion a flow encompassing the entire settlement detached from the pack-ice and drifted off in the direction of Belgium.   

YOWL

"let's go fly the kite."

a single bare lightbulb hangs above a plain oilcloth covered table...

P sits near the sink deftly rolling catnip spliffs in his left hand and stashing them in an old bacci tin...

FD looks up mid gingerbiscuit... and i slouch in a corner taking notes...

Kazan's on the waterfront is showing on a tv... the sound turned down.

we vacate the bedsit and take the stairs to the whorehouse below.   Sam the piano player in shirtsleeves is labouring over a challenging rendition of some Captain Beefheart number... bashing it out on a honkytonk upright.   as we pass the bar P picks up a bottle of spirytus polish vodka.

out on the street P cracks the seal and we each take a swig against the cutting wind.   glass filament rainstreaks sparkle in the street-lamplight... pewter puddles on dark cobbles downhill to the riverside quays... black-eyed warehouses lean inwards above us.

at the river stairs we board a dinghy...   the Dornier DO-X is a dark shape moored out on the river...   a cabin lamp illuminates the cockpit windows...   shorelights reflect off the silver hull.

B is pulling on a string wound round an ancient seagull.   it coughs and splutters, throws out puthers of bluegrey exhaust, limps into life...   drips cooling water.

phut   phut   phut   phut   phut

as the little craft approaches the flyingboat B swings her round into the tide and she bumps gently against the starboard stub.   we clamber aboard.

P goes forward to cast off the mooring buoy... FD eases into the pilot's seat... B flicks switches and taps dials... i smooth out a chart, hit on a route and return to my writing.
"we'll pick up Mary-Lou first and then on to the land of green ginger." says FD.
("Mary-Lou?   who is May-Lou?" still FD.   "names have been changed.   Jack always changed everyone's names." i reply.   "you've not changed our names." B has joined the conversation.   "you all have initials.   what'd be the point of changing your initials?   anyway it's my story and that's the way it is.")
"home of Hairy-Moo it is then." FD pulls up the collar of his flyingjacket. "chocks away... fire her up.


B flicks more and more switches... engines wheeze, chuck-chuck-chuck and purr.   the craft bucks as she is taxied into the main channel, into the wind, and roars forward in an accelerating dash.   spray.   the nose lifts and is pushed down to drag the stern free of the river's grip.   we trail river-lets.

she flies!

climbing and banking...   scribing an elegant silver arc across the midnight sky.

THE VOID IS FULL OF STARS...

                                              ...STARS EVERYWHERE.

Ginsbergbear

Limehousesailortown

2010