Late June Evening On English Bay
An evening in late June
summer has come at last
waves pound the shore
sounding a joyful blast
and here on English Bay
as the sun departs from day
endless sea and endless sky
stretches below that golden eye
rays of gold and purple hue
cling to the sky like an evening dew
a horizon that stretches neverendingly
here on golden waves that crown silver sea.
-A poem written by Christopher
Sunday evening
June 30th 2013
Pan Goatee and Neb-Senu
Pan Goatee the serial killing satyr
pan piper and roller skater
half-man half goat
he’ll slit your throat
or maybe your gut
but if you’ve got one testicle
he’ll spare your nut
he is wanted by DARPA
because without a magic carpa’
he can astral project
like invisible stealth jet
and wander across the globe
cutting off an ear lobe
and then added it to Van Gogh’s self-portrait
causing museum curators to have a fit
and now he’s in a museum again
like it’s his personal play pen
saying to the statue of Neb-Senu
who some proposed to hold down with glue,
“Come astral project with me.”
Statue replied, “But first I have to pee.”
In the Manchester Museum’s washroom a great commotion
as Egyptian statue sings, “Come on do the locomotion…”
-Written by Christopher
Friday afternoon
June 28th 2013.
The Moving Statue
As Pan Goatee serial killer slashed the fat ugly female cyclist to death
making sure the aesthetically facially challenged blimp was devoid of breath,
the statue of Neb-Senu
being from planet Nibiru
moved in its glass case in Manchester
dancing like Jack Benny’s butler Rochester
in this museum inspired by the Muses nine
spirit beings found it fine
especially entity Neb-Senu
when he moved from Park Avenue
when the Wall Street banker he did possess
lost an encounter with a bus in much distress
so it returned to its statuely home
devoid of constantly ringing phone
into the statuette donated in 1933
the year Hitler took Germany
and stamped it with his destiny
a statue made about 1800 B.C.
when desert devil gods roamed free
and the Nile River took its star Sirius-ly
what rough beast? Its hour come round at last
stops at McDonald’s for breakfast?
one slouching towards Bethlehem
waiting to be born
a statue that moves
at blast of car horn.
It eventually moves 180 degrees
but moves even more
at a patron’s sneeze.
-A poem written by Christopher
Wednesday afternoon
June 26th 2013
inspired by reports
of a moving Egyptian statue
in a Manchester museum.
Distant Horizon
Distant horizon on English Bay
Sunlight streaking through clouds so gray
emitting a beautiful golden ray
saying adieu to the end of day.
-A poem written by Christopher
Tuesday evening
June 25th 2013
In Search of The Hound of The Baskervilles
I’d like to take some imagination pills
and look for the Hound of the Baskervilles
I’d be Sherlock Holmes
whom I’ve read in Doyle’s tomes
Who would be my Dr. Watson?
Any takers? Have I got some?
DARPA’s Latest Project: The Enema Enigma Proposal
He was the man known only by his code name Enema Enigma.
He was an assistant Director of DARPA- the U.S. Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency- the group that brought us the Internet and also killer predator drones in the shapes of birds and insects.
Enema Enigma had summoned DARPA employee Jack Jarvis on a mission to go to England.
“As you know our government is currently in the process of building a total surveillance state,” Enema Enigma explained, “in order to protect our civilization of civil liberty and human dignity from being overthrown by the forces of terrorism. As part of that total surveillance state, we’re able to intercept all sorts of emails and phone communications. We recently intercepted an emailed file attachment sent from Peter Whitstable the man they call the Fox Mulder of Interpol to Inspector Depp of Scotland Yard…”
Enema Enigma helped himself to a Turkish Delight candy and offered Jack Jarvis one.
Jarvis declined.
“Anyways,” Enema Enigma spoke as he chewed the Turkish Delight candy, “Peter Whitstable has been giving advice to Inspector Depp of Scotland Yard on a series of murders that are being committed throughout England by a serial killer that the British tabloid press has dubbed the Serial Killer. Which shows how unoriginal the British press are. Here in America, we have great names like Son of Sam and the Night Stalker for our serial killers…”
Enema Enigma helped himself to another Turkish Delight candy and viewed his autographed photo taken last year of Turkish Prime Minister Recep Tayyip Erdogan standing alongside a sign that said Help Preserve Our Parks.
“It turns out that Scotland Yard has been sending DNA from the crime scenes to the Interpol DNA labs,” Enema Enigma enthused energetically, “and those reports are in turn being sent to Peter Whitstable for his analysis. Anyways from examining the analysis of the DNA in those reports, Whitstable sent his profile analysis of the Serial Killer to Inspector Depp of Scotland Yard. And we of course intercepted that report…”
Enema Enigma helped himself to yet another Turkish Delight.
“It’s Whitstable’s contention,” Enigma spoke between mouthfuls of Turkish Delight, “that the Serial Killer is a genetically created hybrid half-man half-goat or what they called in classical Greek mythology a satyr. Part of the human DNA make-up of the Serial Killer is DNA taken from the DNA of the homicidal and psychopathic heavy metal singer Stryker and also DNA taken from the DNA of Tiger Kilimoto a notorious and infamous Japanese Ninja assassin.”
Enigma took a Turkish Delight and mixed it with a sushi roll from a plate of sushi rolls and put it in his mouth.
“Ummm,” Enema Enigma ejaculated verbally, “delicious. But it also turns out that in terms of animal DNA, not only is there goat DNA present but also the DNA of the Himalayan yeti…”
When Jarvis looked quizzical, Enema explained, “… better known as the Abominable Snowman. Anyways Whitstable with his extensive knowledge of the occult and paranormal said that there are Tibetan Buddhist manuscripts which said the Yeti had the ability to astral project themselves…”
Enigma missed landing the paper airplane (he had made out of Turkish Delight candy wrappers) in the waste paper bin.
“So,” Enigma scratched his chin, “we now come to my point. DARPA could use a killer with the ability to astral project himself. I want you to go to England and find this Serial Killer before Scotland Yard does. I want you to convince him to come to America and work for the U.S. government.”
Enema Enigma opened himself another box of Turkish Delight candy.
“After all,” Enema Enigma waxed poetically patriotic, “our American citizens can go to bed at night resting easier in the knowledge that anytime anyone is considered an enemy of the state by the government, that person can have his throat slit in bed by a government sanctioned killer who can astral project himself anywhere anytime anyplace….”
To be continued.
Syria and The Bilocating Satyr
Pan Goatee the serial killer whom the British tabloid press dubbed the Serial Killer was doing some reflecting this evening.
Pan Goatee was genetically created by Set Enterprises’ sanity challenged scientist Dr. Cadbury Rocher.
He was a half-man half-goat hybrid.
He was lost in transport in a lorry accident on a motorway in northern England and presumed dead and his body stolen.
He was now a musician who played the pan pipes with an American rock band Nero Wilson and The Cleveland Cleavers currently strutting their stuff in London, England.
Pan had recently picked up an old Rosicrucian pamphlet in a used book store in London and tried his hand (as well as his goat’s legs) at astral projection.
He wondered if it worked.
In his first attempt, he tried transporting his astral body to Syria where he observed an Islamist rebel soldier eating the heart of a Syrian government soldier.
He then heard the story on BBC News the next day and so assumed his astral body projection attempt must have worked.
Now he was trying to astral project to Syria again.
* * *
The group of Islamist rebels were having a feast- roasting and eating the hearts of government soldiers they had captured.
They were suddenly stunned to see a giant Eye of Horus hovering over them.
A light seemed to glisten from the Eye as they ate the government soldiers’ hearts as if the Eye itself approved.
* * *
The non-Islamist rebel looked on in horror as he noticed the Islamist rebels eating the hearts of the government soldiers.
What he wondered did this have to do with fulfilling the will of Allah who bore the epithet The Merciful and All-Compassionate?
The non-Islamist rebel did not notice the Eye of Horus hovering above the Islamist rebels as he was an individual who truly loved God and his fellow man.
And therefore he was spared from seeing the Evil Eye.
* * *
To be continued.
Bashar Assad and The 13th Year
Bashar Assad reflected that he never wanted to be President of Syria.
He wanted to be a physician.
He had studied ophthalmology at the Western Eye Hospital in London, England.
It was only in 1994 after his older brother Bassell the heir apparent to the Assad Presidential throne in Damascus was killed in a car crash that Bashar was called home to Syria to be groomed as the new heir apparent.
His father Hafez Assad had died in office 13 years ago today June 10th 2000.
Hafez Assad had ruled Syria for almost 30 years.
When Bashar Assad took over from his father, he had been looked upon as a potential reformer both at home and in the international community.
But that was all gone.
Not even the great Mediterranean Sea could wash all the blood off his hands now.
Bashar looked at the handwritten note he had received from Russian President Vladimir Putin.
He then put it down.
He took some comfort in the note.
As he looked into the distance, it seemed as if a giant eye had appeared in front of him.
Had all those ophthalmology exams he had studied many years ago finally come back to haunt him he wondered?
As he looked at the eye, he suddenly realized the eye looked like the eye of Horus that had been depicted in ancient Egyptian art millenia ago.
To be continued.
“The One” Cafe In Richmond B.C.
Taking the Canada Line train from Vancouver’s waterfront
to the City of Richmond south of Vancouver.
Outside the train window I spot a sign
that says The One Cafe.
I decide to try there.
I enter and sit at a table.
3 tables are across from me
as I sit in the middle of the restaurant.
The middle table is empty.
At the table on my left is an elderly man and woman
On my right sit two parents and a little girl
The dad has his back to me
The mother and little girl face me.
I place my order.
As I sit there I notice the mother with a large bowl of something
The little girl with a very tiny white bowl.
The elderly man at the left table sits
with his silver tipped cane walking stick,
The little girl has a wide smile
she’s obviously enjoying what she’s eating.
Her little white bowl is obviously empty
for she takes her spoon and starts dishing food
out of her mother’s large red bowl.
The mother helps her with her own chopsticks
putting noodles and dumplings into the little white bowl
and then uses the chopsticks to cut up the dumplings
so the little girl can chew them.
The waitress arrives with food for the table on my left.
In front of the elderly man is put down a piping hot dish
of what appears to be a baked chicken dish on top of rice.
It looks delicious.
Makes me glad I ordered the Portuguese style baked chicken
on rice.
The man puts down his silver tipped cane he had been holding so tightly
and eagerly reaches for his fork and spoon.
A wide smile on his face
he digs into the dish.
I look back to the little girl.
She too is still smiling widely and is once again digging
into her mother’s bowl for more.
Back to the elderly man
whose face and hands are etched with long years.
His lines speak of a hard life
but his smile speaks of a good life though hard.
His face looks etched with experience and wisdom.
I look over at the little girl on the table on my right
her face speaks of the joy and innocence of childhood
and her whole life ahead of her.
But she smiles joyously
the smile of a child obviously brought up in a home
filled with love.
And so they eat happily and contentedly
the elderly man at the table on my left
and the little girl at the table on my right.
This is obviously a good place with good food
I reckon
judging from the beaming smiles
on the faces of the elderly man and the little girl.
It is correct this assumption.
When I get the Portuguese baked chicken on rice
it is a taste I’ve never tasted before in my life
but it tastes heavenly!
oh so heavenly!
The little girl is back for a fourth helping from her mother’s bowl
and then a fifth and then a sixth.
I don’t think the poor mother has had much of a chance
to eat much herself.
But she doesn’t seem to mind.
The smile on her daughter’s face brings a smile to hers.
The elderly man holds his spoon and fork tightly as he eats
his dish.
And eats.
And eats.
Smiling with every bite.
And pure joy in his eyes.
Then he is finished.
He pushes the dish to the far side of the table
to a spot I can see.
Totally empty.
He has eaten every bite.
Then and only then he puts down his knife and fork
and once again holds on tightly to his silver tipped cane.
I look back to the little girl who is now on her seventh helping
from her mother’s red bowl
into her little white bowl.
The waitress brings the bill to the table on my left.
The elderly man and woman pay it and leave.
The elderly man has trouble walking-
hence the use of the cane
but one can see there is pride in his stride
and much fortitude-
no doubt enhanced by a deliciously good and filling meal.
Now the little girl has finished and the waitress brings the bill to that table
which the father pays.
The little girl skips happily down from her chair with much gusto
and fervour and ease
in contrast to the elderly man who required the use of a cane.
The dad has gone on ahead of her
and she runs to grab his hand
happily jumping and skipping.
The elderly man has lived a long and hard life
his step isn’t what it used to be
the little girl jumps as if she could reach heaven
which for her hopefully is many years away.
The old man has lived a full life
The little girl is only beginning hers
but on this day they have something in common
a deliciously home cooked meal that brought them much joy
and smiles on their faces
that is probably the greatest tip and compliment
a restaurant could ask for.
-A poem written by Christopher
written circa 12:24 AM
Wednesday morning
June 5th 2013
based on what he observed
in a Richmond restaurant
around noon Tuesday
June 4th 2013.
New Orleans Vampiress Angelique Dumont and Welsh Werewolf Magog Rhys Petley
There she was- in an elegant blue evening dress at the back of a 1950s black Cadillac getting her photos taken by a photographer.
New Orleans vampiress Angelique Dumont.
An actress and a songstress who had performed in several West London musicals.
A vampiress who had the ability to walk in the daylight thanks to a special sunblock invented for her by Set Enterprises’ scientist Dr. Cadbury Rocher.
Welsh werewolf British Labour MP Magog Rhys Petley (an ardent fan of Miss Dumont) felt himself becoming sexually excited as soon as he saw her.
And sexual excitement for him meant the possibility of turning into a werewolf (even without the presence of a full moon) due to the peculiar variation of lycanthropy gene he carried within his DNA.
But fortunately he happened to be carrying a carton of buttermilk with him which he immediately started drinking.
For there was something in buttermilk that acted as an antidote to his peculiar form of lycanthropy.
“Magog,” Angelique greeted him.
“My darling Angelique,” Magog kissed her long black leather glove covered hand and immediately started having fantasies about being a submissive at the hands of such an exquisitely delectable dominatrix.
“I’ve heard that the British government is sending you to Syria as an envoy to get the government and the opposition to attend peace talks in Geneva,” Angelique noted.
“Yes, this mission will probably be as successful as my last peace mission almost 2 years ago now which ended in total failure,” Magog looked downcast.
During that mission, the Syro-Phoenician vampiress Astarte had appeared to him while he was talking to Syrian President Bashar Assad and becoming sexually aroused, he had turned into a werewolf in President Assad’s presence.
Needless to say the meeting did not go over well and the talks ended in failure.
“I’m sure this mission of yours will be much more successful,” Angelique gently kissed him on the cheek.
As Magog felt a huge erection coming on, he bowed to Angelique and thanked her and hurried down the street hastily finishing his carton of buttermilk.
To be continued.
Dracul Van Helsing 