Top Gear Again.

You may recall I earlier posted the guys from BBC's 'Top Gear' programme, risking their lives poking fun at rednecks?
Well, last night I was watching an episode of their show where the three presenters had a challenge, to buy a 1970s british 'classic' car...
(for classic, merely read 'one that has not quite finished falling apart yet') and submit it to a series of increasingly silly endurance tests. Here is the final one.


I think my old landrover would beat even Jeremy's rover, in the rate at which water fell out of the bottom. Maybe I should put the floor screws back in.

"No Mule's Fool" Family, 1970

"No Mule's Fool"
A dusty day in this old town
A hazy yellow eye looks down
A buzzing bee's the only lazy sound

I take grass, he hits the hay
The two of us drift through the day
A butterfly, a sigh, and it's flick away

Know we're lazy, lots of people say so
But one day they're gonna see
We're only doing whatever makes us happy
We're sitting here, me and mule
We make our own rules, and it's cool

I know I'm lazy, lots of people say so
But one day they're gonna see
We're only doing whatever makes us happy
We're sitting here, me and mule
We're nobody's fool, and it's cool

Close my eyes, yeah I feel alright
Yeah, must be close to 95
Got my shade from a good old hat made of hide

One more day in God's good sun
And we won't move for anyone
Spend your lazy days and ways just turning on

I'm looking down, there's my old mule
A stubborn nag, but no, no one's fool
He's my only friend and he's cool

My old mule, nobody's fool

Curved Air- Vivaldi

Curved Air
Named after a piece of music by composer Terry Riley, "A Rainbow in Curved Air."
Einstein, and the concept of curved space, were probably involved too. This piece of music was on the first album, Air Conditioning.
It was also the second album ever to be released as a picture disc. I bought one in 1970......... still have it, somewhere, I think.
HA! damn thing won't fit into the slot in my CD-DVD drive........
Just think, to today's student youth, these things are as baffling and archaic as Edison's phonograph's wax rolls were to me.
Yet, come the collapse of our electric world, I could still, with a pointy bristle, and a cone of leaves, get music out of the old vinyl. Try that with your ipods, kids, when there's no electricity, and no more lithium batteries..........

The video on this is really crummy. I'd recommend closing your eyes.
I'm willing to bet my regular visitors will be underwhelmed.

But I like it.

The Poems I Have Not Written -John Brehm

I’m so wildly unprolific, the poems
I have not written would reach
from here to the California coast
if you laid them end to end.

And if you stacked them up,
the poems I have not written
would sway like a silent
Tower of Babel, saying nothing

and everything in a thousand
different tongues. So moving, so
filled with and emptied of suffering,
so steeped in the music of a voice

speechless before the truth,
the poems I have not written
would break the hearts of every
woman who’s ever left me,

make them eye their husbands
with a sharp contempt and hate
themselves for turning their backs
on the very source of beauty.

The poems I have not written
would compel all other poets
to ask of God: "Why do you
let me live? I am worthless.

please strike me dead at once,
destroy my works and cleanse
the earth of all my ghastly
imperfections." Trees would

bow their heads before the poems
I have not written. "Take me,"
they would say, "and turn me
into your pages so that I

might live forever as the ground
from which your words arise."
The wind itself, about which
I might have written so eloquently,

praising its slick and intersecting
rivers of air, its stately calms
and furious interrogations,
its flutelike lingerings and passionate

reproofs, would divert its course
to sweep down and then pass over
the poems I have not written,
and the life I have not lived, the life

I’ve failed even to imagine,
which they so perfectly describe.

Back to the Machine Gun Charles Bukowski

I awaken about noon and go out to get the mail
in my old torn bathrobe.
I'm hung over
hair down in my eyes
barefoot
gingerly walking on the small sharp rocks
in my path
still afraid of pain behind my four-day beard.

the young housewife next door shakes a rug
out of her window and sees me:
"hello, Hank!"

god damn! it's almost like being shot in the ass
with a .22

"hello," I say
gathering up my Visa card bill, my Pennysaver coupons,
a Dept. of Water and Power past-due notice,
a letter from the mortgage people
plus a demand from the Weed Abatement Department
giving me 30 days to clean up my act.

I mince back again over the small sharp rocks
thinking, maybe I'd better write something tonight,
they all seem
to be closing in.

there's only one way to handle those motherfuckers.

the night harness races will have to wait.

8th Grade science....

Toward a Grain of Sand at a Blithe Spirit

"Toward a Grain of Sand at a Blithe Spirit"

Any bowling ball can
figure out a financial spider, but it takes
a real razor blade
to seek a mating ritual. If a surly pork chop dances
with a boiled grizzly bear, then

the tape recorder around a stovepipe dies.

Now and then, a judge near a tripod borrows money from a minivan defined by the bottle of beer.

Another financial photon,

the umbrella, and another

somewhat polka-dotted CEO are what

made

America

great!

A submarine is South American.

Any vacuum cleaner can organize a rude cloud formation, but it takes a real tornado to bury the pompous polar bear.

Now and then,

an almost tattered
movie theater pours
freezing cold water on a satellite

beyond some vacuum cleaner.

Indeed, a briar patch takes a peek at the hairy squid.
A slyly self-loathing microscope self-flagellates, because a photon related to another insurance agent operates a small fruit stand with a plaintiff.

The warranty

ceases to

exist,

and the carelessly impromptu tornado ruminates;
however, some pompous scythe buries a paycheck beyond a bottle of beer.

If the food stamp over a mortician finds ice on the spider, then a jersey cow around the insurance agent reads a magazine.

When you see a scythe near a
traffic light, it means that a chain saw trembles.
Now and then, a prime minister finds subtle faults with the warranty.

A blood clot is resplendent.

Furthermore, a carpet tack

starts reminiscing about

lost

glory,

and a tripod often throws a wedding dress

toward a grain of sand at a blithe spirit.

Via Kwistin at Spoems.com

(Spoems are poems derived from spam.)

These days Gmail filters spam out of my inbox, before I ever see it..... well, most of it.
But, in the old days of spam, I often though there was something poetic about the computer-derived chopped sentences that were placed there, to confuse early spam filters into thinking the message was genuine.
It seems I'm not the only one. Spoems are-:
"Spoems, or spoetry, are "spam poems" written using only the subject lines from spam emails. Some spam doesn't need any help, being inherently beautiful, but typical spam poetry is composed in the form of a haikus or even a limerick. This is Spoetry at its finest.
An alternate form of spoetry is written simply by inserting punctuation and line breaks in the spam message itself. This alternate form (also known as "Limited Verse Spoetry") is an exercise not in creativity as much as in having an eye for the unexpected."
(these lines are from spoems.com)

Here Comes the Snow Again

Via ??? I forget where I found them. Sorry, originator, I failed to save a note of your link.