Someone has painted me institution-green. I am on a moss-covered raft on a glassy green sea and therefore invisible to both the naked eye and to satellites, too.

I am become an algebraic formula with a price on my head. They are out to disprove me. Escher has also turned me into a picture where I morph from Blackpool Tower into the world line of a quaternionic operator (ie a tram driver) who is no longer velocity dependent for his/her livelihood.

To be more accurate, I am now hyperbolic case tessellations of Tower and Tram Driver.

It puts people off.

I have disappeared completely. I have been searching for me for a couple of weeks with no success at all. I vanished after I called in SAS support to flush out excess grandchildren.

There was a major engagement in which the military took heavy casualties.

I slipped away to collect some road kill and sharpened the beaks and claws on a stone so that when I frisbied them they would cut off the heads of any marauding grandchildren that got within range.

Apparently it was Thors stone that I was honing on and a vicious lightning strike wiped out all humans in my vicinity and then there was a deafening thunder and the hooves of a couple of million of Valkyries knocked me out of the Wednesday that I had been stuck in since Casimir the Grate did a dodgy deal with Wodin and lost all the other days.

As I hurtled in the slipstream of the hideous haridans, one of the whore's men of the pucker lips dragged me aside. While his friend was snoggin' with Noggin he gently pointed out to me that decapifrisbitation was a two way street and that a man of my age and condition was more likely to be on the receiving end of a razor beak than the delivery.

I slipped him a hoarse whisper of thanks, picked up my walking styx and and stumbled off with my soaking shoes and socks where that foul tempered ferryman had tipped me out in the stream.

At least I am out of Wednesday, but now these Thursdays could go on for a month of Sundays and I don't think there is much chance of finding me until I can come across a Saturday evening in the pub.

Flaming Bosons and Fermions (or Bowsons and Fenians) that anon was ME!

Yes

You are a squiggle of their new calligraphy. I went a bit awry with my calculations there. Any old femrions, any old fermions, oh any any any ol' fermions!

Oh you look so sweet with sugar on your feet, ferm-ion, ferm-ion! Followed by the drum-roll of the big bang and the vegetarian sausage roll of the hyperfunctional perspective. Oi!
Bowsons are knotting compared to Bosons.
Oi!

Yes?

I missed 'be.' Oh I wish I could retain my predictives. Oh. I am dining on spackling since the toast turned out to be a p-brane. Oh crown me in mixed media I am a petrol driven cavity.

Asleep in a matchbox with so many pit props
the fireman's lift is the only way out. Caught the past in a teabag, hired pavement artists to cover the bodies in hell with a rainbow scene as a first step to introducing full body and face painting in hell then a coat of peach Anaglypta on the flames themselves. Today I am camouflaged to look like Spain. The above is all in Cockney rhyming slang by the way.

I bought a ticket to Stroud for my spit. The Railway caribou mistook it for a waterhole.

Hey dood

I am a free range, fairtrade, organic elephant of purest white and my name is Bob.

I love the seventh seal. The other six were out shoppoing when I called the agency.

Chef showed us how to make sweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeet luuuuuuuuuuuuuurve.

Trunk calls with a clap.

Yam not a dood. Isn't the 7th Seal Dood himself? The 6 other seals are: Mood, Food, Nood, Bood, Good, and Hood.
Do not play cheese with him. He manages the ~Cheeky Girls. The Check Out Girls, on the Gingham Board.

Bob as in Fire Walk With Me Bob? Or Can You Fix It, It Ain't Broken? Or Bob and Weave the toupee Trimmer's Division, call it centre parting is such sweet sorrow because you can see the synthetic base call it astrotur call it the playingfield of the stars call it microwave memory pouches.

astroturf -- the 'f' came away during its exit from the earth's atmosphere.
Nibble nibble went the heat and friction.

Bob Bonio. Giant astroturd, that's what he dood. In the room.

2nd norseman of the pucker lips.

Nogbad the Bad

Sire - my insatiable desire for the rip and curl of Cornish surf has seen me once again dancing on foam and froth of the white stallion. Those hydro skate parks gifted by the curling edges of our oceans leave me in awe at my insinificance. And the scrumpy leaves nothing but a lumpy mass in my rationale that is to be celebrated. For lumps are indeed the nemesis of surfers and snooker tables alike.
My absence will make all our hearts grow fondler (sic) and i bring tales of uplifting mirth mined from the quarry of our antipodean breteheren. Yes, Cornwall is a bolthole. So too is the Howcroft. The coordinates are set. With a steady wind and thrusting determination, my ship will arrive in the Howcroft carpark around dusk. Keep your eye towards the west...

The mongeese have pined in your absence. They have adopted a sun synchronous inclination. They are a tableau vivant and are peddling bootleg weather on the side. Here, buy yourself a pirated isobar. I have. Welcome to the frightening world of bodybuilding pianos.

Bodybuiders. Those animated condoms stuffed with walnuts, i respect thee and your soul searching which manifests itself into tangible lumps. A 'Charles Atlas' in the world of violin, stratty - various, I salvate as the coarse hairs of your sibling bow are sawn into your heart. You retort with aural sorrow as the melodic notes dance upon my anvil, my horseshoe and my stirrup.Before alas, the tears that are forged through sound, are collected inside an oysyer shell and tossed toward a sighing ocean. The tears of joy turning into pearls. Tears of sorrow turning into the seamonster that sinks our ships and with them - our hope. The film of faith lying on water's surface - looking back at confused faces.

(Sorry about that - went off on one).

DISCLAIMER
The entry that appears underneath this insert was typed while I was wearing a pair of 16oz boxing gloves. This should at least explain the occasional 'typo' but not what I was doing wearing a pair of 16oz boxing gloves. Still, what I choose to involve myself with in private is of no concern to members of WoL.
Hello Moxy. I've spent some time bending and shaping your works into my Hypothalamus and, so far, so good. No adverse reactions or swellings. Are these fine narratives lulling me into a false sense of worship? The indignation of digging into a Nation's heart. To shovel heaps of indifference into different coloured Inns filled with those patrons that stand and stare at the stars and live their life in foaming soap bubbles.
It's wonderful to be back. My positive Chi is spilling out of my worn pockets. But, enough! My loquaciousness is seeping into my font...never a good thing at this time of the lunar cycle and its Internationally acclaimed blue ribboned event. The WoL Tour de France.
Are your co-ordinates set? Will your shipping lane of destiny cross with the industrial canals of my mind?

Holy 16oz Polyethylene Packets of Ketchup! You've worn novelty corner-rip-release condiment boxing gloves! One punch and your opponent's face seemingly implodes like a nuked jukebox. Your coordinates are correct. I am currently captaining a catamaran called the Good Ship Intravenous Thiopental Injection, so named to invoke a calm sea. Ahoy there! Ahoy!

Anonymity is a luxury reserved for the indifferent. Sorry, forget to sign my last entry...

Nosferatu standing on a bucket -- that's my bucket, I wondered where it had gone. Is he not tall enough, can he not hover? To what end does he wish to increase his height?
It is Thursday, we are in the Dorchester of the Mind, taking tea, snorting the leaf up our sensitive nostrils, our heads glittering with Hopi ear candles, our faces dotted with glass-headed map tacks from which we hang the ribbons of our gingerbreads.

Questions, question, questions. Those amalgamated who-what-where, a conspiricy set inside cement blown bubbles from a wind machine devised from the stillness of concentration. Noseferatu, the olfactory dark Lord of snivelness. Even the mention of the unmentionabubble of aggragates will force my the neuro transmitters into the back of a fully laden snow shoe and travel along the hard shoulder, delayed by obstacles of long strands of Matrix, pulsing in the back of my forward thinking manuel. The emergency sevices travelling inside giant wellington boots set on castors, an indiscriminate forward propellant made from highly volotile verbal exchanges between the CSA and single mother's who stand on motorway bridges made of sponge and filled with the tears of absent fathers. Those same Fathers become National Speed Limit signs and as such, are ignored by everyone...

Holy Salivary Amylase and a phalanx of iguanas coated in sticky toffee popcorn still warm from the multiplex's foyer dispenser! Here is a quick architectural sketch -- a flying buttress, a Gaudi-esque asymmetrical steeple with a touch of Hawkmoor's penchant for continuing the rake of the steeple till the top section is so thin it becomes invisible to the naked eye and yet the steeple continues into what is now civil aviation space where its point keeps spearing aircraft like a Victorian specimen-mounting pin.
Which goes to show that today I will be reading nothing but trade journals written in sybmolic logic metalanguage whilst dancing at Mach 9 in a quantum dodgem. See ya later.

I meant Hawksmoor. Missed the 's' -- I have days when words are alienating and yesterday they were definitely assembling against my intentions -- the 's' in Hawksmoor seemed to be the verbal equivalent of a pin on a grenade, initially I included it, then I felt it had to be removed. Some days certain words need altering to prevent an event -- a bit like letting the word know you're observing it so that it is affected by the Uncertainty Principle -- the observer effect. I suppose I agree with Humboldt (and Jung) that objects 'tell' you their names -- not Saussure's where language is a system and it's the relationship between the elements that is responsible for meaning -- words are arbitrary and meaning is differential. Crickey. Bye bye, I'm off to hum.

The fairground ride to which i currently subscribed has an intermittant gearing system. Therefore i can only write when the carriage that i am currently sitting alone inside approaches the keyboard in the centre hiding behind barfs of, 'do you wanna go faster?' This is discerning enough to the uninatiated, but the carpet of flashing primary coloured light, forms an image on my retinas, that although very familiar, is unidentified. Maybe the ride should rotate to the opposite end of its magnetic pole? Like the flourescent glow left by a 'sparkler'. Tangible for a brief second in the black soup of night. Then like me it dis.......................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................appears. (Round again)

Incidentally - I've just returned from Rotherham. The European capital of cultures and penicillin...
Would it be fair to ask - who put the 'Rot' in Rotherham? The etymology of some words is so unkind to the aural receptors.

Rothschild, Rottweiler, Rotring, Rothman's, Rote Learning, Rota, Rotund, WRoth and Roll...

I think you were on an elsewhere planet with the rotational extremes of a quasar. I am in a canyon which is also the scabard in which a mountain range is kept until hostilities require it to be unsheathed and rattled. I am also cooking thunder in a wok. It is the same colour as the inside of the wok. My recently deceased neighbour has been buried inside a mausoleum made of cakes of soap, their edges moistened so they adhere.

The impatient 'recently deceased' are everywhere. Now bereft of our lives with which to mix their own pastiche of oils, we are left with one less colour with which to complete our own masterpiece. Our sun bleached thoughts stroked across the canvas of a meridian sky rekindles our fear of nothing but fear itself. Until we are satisfied with an image where we know the world and its judgemental iris will stare and make comments based on what they read and what other people have said they read. The essence of 'book clever' and all its failings brings with it quotations borne from the Renaissance. A ceaserean rebirth in every hospital ward of a poets keyboard. And for that - we mourn. To listen to influenctial poetic Icon's dial 942546478257.
Now, where is that book on 'fly fishing' ?

Flippin 'eck Moxy. I've just popped my head into next door's 'discussion'. Mr Waling? He seems to be a right marshmellow in a cup of hot tea. I hope he doesn't come inside Wonderland and expose me as a poetic philistine. Perhaps i should seek reinforcments from Roget? And the D.I.Y manual - how to cultivate horse raddish in facial hair. Or my current readings - How to over inflate the bladder of thought.
What say you comrade?

I don't think he'll get in here with us, Darren, I've changed the combination on the lock -- you know what the configuration is, yes, that's the one -- plus installed Iris Murdoch recognition and Palm D'Or print override and U.S. Air Marshmallows riding slipshod. I liked how you left the discussion on the floor above so very discreetly -- hardly anyone saw you and your wigwam. I only noticed because I was about to post something written in Ogham again and it kind of makes you notice stuff out of your peripherals and daedalus's. We're better off here in a vista where the sun is on every horizon. The outside world can be very shouty. Oh, and oddly enough, I have been reading the same books. Have you also looked at 'Miniature Wave Machines For Soup Tureens"? Fascinating reading.

It's so comforting to know. My words have just kicked the uterus afforded by this womb - i know they are safe and healthy. An alien invasion from the amneo needle of SW like proportion would be unbearable. My embryonic words are now fully formed and it would be a shame if their first encounter with a human life had such a limited understanding of how to REALLY nurture words and respect them. Such powerful things. As long as our words find a way to survive, then the words that represent truth and fulfillment for all, will defeat the arrogant superlatives, sitting in their shaded lair with the the beast like adverbs and those prepositions feeding on their hairy backs.
Hoorah for perseverance - i have mined into a 'creative seem' today.

"Miniature wave machines for soup tureens". One word - Fantastic imagery. Oh, that's two. You see, I hate numbers!

Please bless me Father for I have sinned...
Oh Moxy, I have a confession. I've soiled a discussion thread with my thoughts. I hope they don't follow the trail back here. My Stealth Slippers are not Stealthy enough, a victim of MOD cut backs.
If any one asks have you seen me - please think of a suitable alibi. Something like , he's away working on Phoneticological theories of Morphological studies of the Chemical make up of the electrons contained in the alphabet or something, anything. Actually, that's not a bad idea?

To late Mr Thomas - I was already peeking, I sneaked Iris a Vodka toddy. As someone tipped me the nod, that my decision to copy Julia Roberts and go au naturale, though I may no longer stick with that decision after meeting an Australian sheep shearer named Shaun who promises to marry me if I allow him to shave the hair from my back, twine the fine downy hair into a rug and sell it on ebay. He promises me it will be painless - not sure if he means the shave or the marriage?
Oh well back of to my shadeless lair, to contemplate the fate of my back hair.
Was an interesting exchange my neighbour,
speaking of soup tureens, tomoto is my favourite flavour.

My alphabet soup has tourette's syndrome or is it Tour De France Syndrome bouillibase like billy bass piscene tomfoolery or is it Malais mayonnaise aphasia craze polarity disparity? Just call me Ecclesia Gybe I am so eburnian and tort you'd mistake me for a tuskan oh hybernian
amniotic despotic necrotic exotic tictocic, bless my sweat eccrines Chroma Simpson, bitonal glassiness is all the rage over in Palaver. That's all I have to say.
Your smoke struck me right in the glabella. Was that on purchase?
Anyway anyway soup is what water does for a hobby. in my opinion.
Oh look there's a noodle now, a prescient noodle.
Anyway, the others are simply figurantes for the prima donors of Wonderlang

Toil inside days,
labour, a pyre of words.
Shaping the theme, on top
of which rest its mannequin layers.
People stare and the content
warms their heart or scorches a mind.

After the fire, just the ashes remain.
Those delicate letters, salvaged,
and a delicate world ignites again.

I unearthed the above ditty. Set my stun gun to 'opinion in poetry' and out of a large bubble popped that. I hope i picked all the letters up and arranged them in the right order?

I opine that your opinion poetry is pretty darned bugle-proof. That is a taut, towering, magnificent piece, Darren. It is so powerful it has mended the fragmentary world of poetry so we are now healed, whole, functioning, fabulous. You are the Saviour of Poetry, the Poet Peace-Bringer! Wow!

Moxy, your words, as ever, are inspirational, even when viewed standing in a hall of mirrors.
I really must become serious at some point in my life. Yes, that's it! Full steam ahead to 'some point'.

Oh I am so glad I am inspirational and not a pile of piffler! I love your banter -- it is mellifluous, thought engendering, and mighty in meaning!
Must go, computer's overheating (or is it mys brain?) and will shut down automatically in a mo.

I've just turned on the garden hose. However, the stagnating words left inside along with the water have unfortunately sprayed across several 'threads'. Let me just localise this 'sprayer thingy'...Ahh, that's it. Right. Where were we again.
(Strange hissing from pipe).

'Write Out Loud. There.I've said it...

The worrying thing is - there is nothing left to worry about.

I'm going to catch some Wonderland 'rays' and tan my chubby face on the heat of solitude.

Please remove all items of jewellery before you enter.

No Bombing.

When the clock reaches 0 - you can begin.

My pear tree's in fourth gear. Apis is in my wheely bin like it's an Egyptian Sarco-phag-end-ous. Nobody's trodden on my toes for a while.

...then dip those toes into the stagnant waters of discussion. It's wonderfull to hear your words Moxy. I was becoming a trifle worried. A far more elaborate and sweet tasting level of worriness than, say, a jellied worried but worried, none the less. I trust that you will let your fettered words loose at the Octagon next week. It seems that our destinions are on course for acquaintance at last. In the meantime...here's some music.

jellied worry -- I trust that the jelly concerned is derived from sphagnum moss/seaweed and not deceased ovines bovines equines and henquines sine quines: has no one noticed that obama is almost osama? That gordon is almost god drone cordon don gore? How were your examinations? Yes, I have somehow managed to arrange to be somewhere else next week forcing my shambolics (umpteen syllable drivelettes) on the suspecting. And are you reading, too?