Thumb Poetry: A pass

"You can have
Any word you like
As your password,"
Says the voice
Of customer services.

La Sagesse suprême
Qu'on trouve
Dans le langage
Tout voisin
De la Poésie:

That's a word,
Or close enough.
She has had
A long day,
So it's "cookie."

Thumb Poetry: Afternoon tea

A warm look
At signs of
Well wasted youth
Has tougher men
Thirsty for drink.

Finished pleasing
Others, the self,
And the needs
Of no-one
In particular.

The plot lost
In the circuitous
Time of work,
Two feet dangling
Above a future.

It's all set
For the taking
Or discarding.
I'll talk myself
Into it first.

Thumb Poetry: And oils

The habits of sharks
This mad cannot
But steal attention
From all the lines
They have swallowed.

A slaughterhouse
On a cliffside
That throws shit
Into the ocean
Where be monsters.

Produce goes in
One end and out
The other and
The rest goes
To these dogs.

They will eat up
Whatever you want.
That doesn't mean
You should open
Your big mouth.

Thumb Poetry: Heathrow

It's impossible under
The best of conditions.
We are all dead
If this goes on
For another minute.

We should be under Paris.
Under Mumbai
Under Stockholm
Under Boston
Under this London

Maybe it's Geist,
And the blooming
Noise no one
Thing could create
This please stop.

Nights Out With Englishmen

Terrifying Sartorial Yoke

Birds and Sounds

The best cover of a Beatles tune, in my humble opinion.

I never understood birdwatching until I had my morning cup of coffee in the garden of a house in southern England a few years ago. The weirdoes with their binoculars and notebooks suddenly made sense -- there was a lot of activity in that garden and it was easy to see how one could become curious about what goes on in the bushes. The winter in Finland is silent, it has no smell, and it is always dark, and therefore it was wonderful to wake up again to a jumble of high-pitched calls from the English countryside, where it's already spring. I'm still not buying binoculars, though. I'll stick to birdwatching from the comfort of my bed.