Michelangelo’s Dream of Bogey and Bacall

March 27, 2021 at 10:34 pm (Detective story, Entertainment, Film, History, Humour, Poetry, Romance, Vampire novel) (, , , , , , , , )

Michelangelo the Psychic Lobster had a dream where he was playing Humphrey Bogart’s character of Philip Marlowe and having an encounter with Lauren Bacall.

After waking up, he decided to write a narrative poem about his dream.

He went over to his waterproof laptop to start writing but then decided to use his recently bought old vintage Underwood typewriter that had been custom refurbished to work underwater.

Grabbing some waterproof sheets of paper, he inserted them into his waterproof old vintage Underwood typewriter and started typing the poem.

Bogey and Bacall: Philip Marlowe’s Right On The Ball
A narrative poem
By Michelangelo the Psychic Lobster
Narrated in the First Person
By Philip Marlowe
(As played by Humphrey Bogart)

So I had come home after a hard day on the case
Rather difficult to try to sleep on a case of bourbon
I did do some work on that other case
Trying to find Max Spellbein’s younger daughter
Where do younger daughters hang out these days anyways?

I went down to Frankie’s Jazz Cafe
The Pink Flamingo Lounge
And even The Silverstar Nightclub
Nothing.
No sign of her.

I even went down to the bus depot and the shipyard
Her ship must have sailed when my bus came in
Does that make any sense?
Probably not.
Difficult to make sense
When one’s mind is adrift
In a sea of bourbon.

I lit a cigarette
Put it in my mouth
And made a silent prayer
That this combination of alcohol and flame
Didn’t send me up like a rocket on New Year’s Eve.

I thought I heard piano music coming from my piano
Which was strange
I rarely play the piano these days
Not since I got my fingers caught in that mousetrap
Under the altar of Saint Ignatius’ Church
When I said to the good priest,
“Pray it again, Sam.”

After sitting in my chair
Looking up at the ceiling
And watching the paint dry
It suddenly hit me
That I hadn’t painted this place in ages
So there was no drying paint to watch

That was definitely music I was hearing
So either someone was playing the piano
Or the angels were calling me

So I walked into the piano room
And there at the piano
Sat Max Spellbein’s elder daughter

Lauren Bacall: Playing the piano and singing, “When smoke gets in your eyes…”

I stood there
Inhaled the air from the open window
And realized I wouldn’t be spending the night alone.

-A narrative poem
and vampire novel chapter
written by Christopher
Saturday March 27th
2021.

Permalink 8 Comments

Albion’s Reflections On A Rainy Night

June 19, 2019 at 10:22 pm (Detective story, Entertainment, Poetry) (, , , )

Albion’s Reflections On A Rainy Night

There was always something comforting about the sound of rain on the roof
Carson Cody Albion Private Eye couldn’t quite explain it
Maybe because it rarely rained in Southern California 
The heat of the day 
Would compete with the heat of the night 
to see who would produce 
the sweating heavyweight champion of the world

Rain allowed a cool down 
The sky’s method of baptism
On the sinning and criminality that occurred below

Albion was getting tired of all the greed and the lust and the shenanigans 
That he saw daily but more often nightly at his job

The rain kept everyone indoors 
No exchange of larceny or bodies or souls was going on in the streets outside
Just the pitter patter of gentle droplets on the roof 
Albion looked over at his dresser 
And noticed his bottle of bourbon remained untouched and unopened 

Something that was never the case on a hot and humid Los Angeles night
His head felt clear and free of headache
So this was what his room sounded like when the fan wasn’t running full blast 
One could actually hear oneself thinking 
And the rain drops on the roof were like a soothing melody

Albion reached for a stick of licorice 
rather than his usual cigarette 
Strange about the rain, Albion reflected,
It was like a return to innocence 
Maybe that’s what God was hoping with the flood in Noah’s time 

But once the sizzling heat returned
It was like eating the forbidden fruit in Eden
One had knowledge of both good and evil 
And more often than not, evil.

The private eye decided to go out 
And taste the gentle rain on his tongue
And feel the gentle rain on his skin

Albion for some reason 
(He supposed it was the influence of Philip Marlowe movies on the silver screen)
always wore a raincoat when he went out
Like advertising a trademark for Private Eye

But on a night when he should be wearing that coat for the purpose for which it was created
He did not put it on 
He went outside in a sleeveless shirt 
And let the rain wash off any dirt 
that was usually accumulated 
and came with living in Los Angeles

-A poem written by Christopher
Wednesday June 19th
2019.

Permalink 3 Comments

Cherchez La Femme

June 21, 2018 at 9:52 pm (Detective story, Entertainment, Film, Mystery, Poetry, Romance, The Supernatural, Vampire novel) (, , , , , , , , , , )

Cherchez La Femme

It would take a long time for the sun to set on Sunset Boulevard tonight
Carson Cody Albion thought to himself
in the midst of cigarette smoke and haze of bourbon
in his Los Angeles private eye’s office
It being the Summer Solstice and all that

Long hours of daylight
The riff raff of the city wouldn’t have so many hours to steal, extort and murder
Bummer for them! Albion thought

Albion had been hired to find a woman
Cherchez la Femme
as the French would say

He’d been told that she only seemed to venture forth at night
by the man who had hired him
The man a Hollywood director intended to give la Femme a screen test

Yeah right!
That’s what they call it these days
Albion laughed to himself
The gumshoe had his office door open to try to keep things cool
Between the hallway fan and the office ceiling fan
Maybe a touch of the Norse frost giants
would help cool down the flames 🔥 of Hades
on this Midsummer Night in Los Angeles

Albion’s ice in his glass had melted
The penalty for drinking straight from the bottle
He reflected
Well he should go see the sun set on this solstice night
before he started hitting the night spots and lounges
where la Femme was said to hang out

Albion locked his office door and walked down the four flights of stairs to the office building lobby
He tipped his fedora to the cleaning lady and walked out into the night

The neon lights hadn’t started to shine yet
As he walked through his sector of the city
They wouldn’t really come on until after the sun had set
Maybe that’s why he preferred California winters to California summers
The temperatures were about the same
maybe slightly cooler by inches of degrees in the winter
but what was missing was the glow of neon at night
in the summer
Neon the blood that seemed to make this city feel alive

It pulsed like the beat of a drum 🥁
and summoned all to partake in the wildness of the night
It was there that this urban jungle became a jungle
The women danced and swayed like tropical 🌴 dancers
and the men sharpened their spears for the time it was necessary
to stab both friend and foe in the back

Albion saw the sun set
He whistled
and the nearest neon light
seemed to answer his call
flickering on like a woman stirring towards orgasm

Speaking of women, it was time to Cherchez la Femme
Several gin joints and several nightclubs later,
he found her
in a midnight blue evening dress

Her brunette hair
The touch of a foreign accent as she introduced her next song into the microphone
Romanian I believe the film director said it was
And when she sang, Albion thought that the moonlight had never serenaded the ocean 🌊 so beautifully
The City of Angels had been touched by an angel
Albion stubbed out his cigarette
and approached her
when she had finished singing her numbers

It was a Los Angeles night in the mid-1940s
Midsummer Night
and Orson Welles wanted him
Carson Cody Albion to locate a woman for a screen test

What Midsummer Night’s Dream did Mr. Welles have in mind,
Albion thought cynically to himself,
after all the man was married to Rita Hayworth?
Wasn’t the Love Goddess enough for him?

But enough of reflecting like Chandler’s Philip Marlowe,
Albion started heading in the woman’s direction
for he didn’t have all eternity to make a connection
La Femme flashed Albion a warm smile as she saw him approach
Her sharp incisors that hung from her top front teeth puzzled the private eye
What manner of woman is this? Albion thought
If Albion knew at the time he asked himself this question
he’d have realized that the woman did have all eternity.

-A private eye poem
written by Christopher
Thursday June 21st
2018

Dracul Van Helsing was in Romania.

He was trying to track down Dracula’s daughter the Countess Draculina on behalf of her father.

The Count since his Cadbury Rocher inspired vampiric resurrection had learned how to use the Internet.

He was trying to track down his daughter.

The only thing he managed to find on the World Wide Web was that his daughter had once done a screen test for Orson Welles back in the 1940s

Now Van Helsing had managed to track her to Romania her ancestral homeland.

He had heard that she had dyed her hair blonde.

He walked over to the window of his room in the old inn in which he was staying.

And watched the sun set on the Carpathian Mountains on this summer solstice evening.

He turned on the television to watch the news hoping to find out the weather.

And there he saw… Countess Draculina.

(Notice her vampiric incisors unless of course your eyes are focused elsewhere for some reason 😉)

Permalink 20 Comments

Carson Albion Private Eye Walks The Boulevard of Memories: A Poem

May 11, 2018 at 10:59 pm (Detective story, Film, Literature, Poetry) (, , , , )

Carson Albion Private Eye Walks The Boulevard of Memories: A Poem

Carson Albion Private Eye sat in his office with the sideway blinds of his window slightly open
to let in the evening twilight
He loved the evening twilight
just as he loved neon lights
His office window gave him a view of the neon lights of downtown

How beautiful they looked in the evening twilight
They looked even more beautiful in the snow and the rain
One of the few creations of man that did look more beautiful in the snow and the rain

When it snowed or rained
while strolling the city streets
he looked up at the signs of neon advertising the gods Coca-Cola and Miller Beer
and then he looked down at the sidewalk gutters for signs of rhinestone cowboys
but they must have already been washed down to the sewers
dwelling place of nightmares, monsters and vermin
and assassins of character who work for the last Trump
and wait for John McCain to die.

The ceiling fans in his office blew cold air down on his head
offering relief from the heat of the night
The bottle of bourbon stood open on his desk
offering relief from those memories too painful to bear

She… she… her…
He never told her that he loved her
but that was because she was his best friend
How would she react to the news that he wanted to take their relationship up another level
what if she didn’t feel the same way about him?
Then he’d have lost his best friend.

Because such are the ways of male-female friendship
that if one of them loves the other too much
in a way above and beyond what they had previously understood
There’s no going back

It was like what Dermot Mulroney’s character said to Julia Roberts’ character in the film
My Best Friend’s Wedding
when Julia announces she wants the romance over
Dermot weeps, “I’m losing my best friend.”

Somehow though they manage to hold on to the friendship
in the film that is
but that’s Hollywood
and we all know how much Hollywood echoes real life
For real life is not a fairy tale
and they only award Oscars
for dramatic performances
not for actually surviving day to day.

Albion saw the reflection of himself in his glass
Was a reflection still a Selfie by any other name?
and just what was it the liquid showed?
True colours or a distortion of reality?

The liquid went down his throat
well posting on Facebook or Instagram never tasted this good.
He lowered his hat
loosened his tie
opened his shirt
closed his eyes
and let his mind wander
down that lost boulevard of memories.

-A poem written by Christopher
Friday May 11th 2018.

Permalink 18 Comments

The City After Twilight: A Poem

February 25, 2018 at 11:06 pm (Detective story, Entertainment, Literature, Poetry) (, , , , , , , , )

The City 🌃 After Twilight: A Poem

And so the sun has set
tongue requires something wet
you head downtown to a nightspot
something cool to drink perhaps sex that’s hot

In the lounge cigarette smoke fills the air
the cushion is velvety at the back of the chair

You have martini 🍸 with a slice of lime
you ordered it for neither reason nor rhyme
you are the last of a kind- a private eye
accustomed to neon lights and starlit sky

The nighttime is your working day
clearing thugs and hooligans out of the way
They say the knights of old have come and gone
fairy tales told to child stifling a yawn
But for one such as yourself
a lance and steed might be on the shelf
but you have traded shining armour
for fedora and trench coat
an office with ceiling fan instead of castle with moat

But like those knights of old you walk alone
distress sounds not from blast of trumpets but from ring of phone
Those maidens in distress not in towers with long flowing hair
but walking the streets in heels
and tight skirts for wear

The dragons 🐉 today do not breathe fire
Instead they employ hit men for hire
And rulers turn not to ones like Merlin for advice
but lawyers, accountants and padded pockets on ice

You look at your watch and see that midnight 🕛 calls
your lunch hour is over served as the olive in your hour glass falls

You pick up your coat and head out the door
the streets and alleys call like the wild forests of yore.

-A private eye poem
written by Christopher
Sunday February 25th
2018.

Permalink 29 Comments

Carson Albion In Havana

December 9, 2017 at 7:20 pm (Detective story, Mystery, Poetry, Romance) (, , , , , , )

Carson Albion In Havana

It was underneath a clear blue Cuban sky
walked the man Carson Albion Private Eye
He had been hired in a deli that sold salami
by a wealthy Cuban exile in Miami
to find the man’s granddaughter he hadn’t heard from in years
a situation that led to anxiety and tears

Taking with him an old photo
and leaving Kansas minus Toto
he flew to Havana
and arrived at a cabana
where a poolside party was going on
he asked the owner who was stifling a yawn
“Have you seen this girl?”
The man gave the roulette wheel a twirl
“She’s considerably older now!” he said.
Albion was relieved to hear she wasn’t dead.

“Do you know where she can be found?”
Albion dropped cigar ash on the ground
“At the La Luna Club downtown,”
the man gave a slight frown.

Albion raised his fedora in thanks
and made his exit by the lobster tanks
He headed to the La Luna Club
but would he find the girl, aye, there’s the rub
Carlotta was the girl’s name
like Bogey looking for a dame

He entered the club and saw a beautiful young woman in a red dress
by comparison his bourbon decorated trench coat looked a mess
He took off his coat and put it on a chair
while the bartender scratched his underwear

Carlotta was the girl in the red dress
Albion knew it was more than a guess
She was on the dance 💃🏻 floor dancing up a storm
and Albion under his shirt collar was starting to feel warm

He approached her and asked her to dance
She immediately fell into a tango stance
and together they danced the tango across the floor
and soon both were out the nightclub door

They headed back to her apartment
and on her mattress they made a major dent
Their intense lovemaking
was quite earth shaking
After the climax and in each other’s arms
came the phone call from her grandfather’s Florida farms
so Albion took a selfie
texted it to Grandpa wealthy

The angry grandfather told Albion not to bother coming home to America
otherwise he’d find himself dead in a Florida Oranges crate-ia.

So in Havana Albion did remain
so as not to turn Carlotta’s grandfather into Biblical Cain
They would often spend nights dancing the tango
and later in bed roared like Rambo.

-A poem written by Christopher
Saturday December 9th
2017

Permalink 6 Comments

Jack O’ Hare In Film Noir: A Poem

September 4, 2017 at 7:15 pm (Comedy, Crime, Detective story, Entertainment, Humour, Mystery, Poetry, Radio) (, , , , )

Jack O’ Hare In Film Noir: A Poem

It was on the other side of San Francisco Chinatown
lived the man called Emmanuel Gold Brown
He got electrocuted when the radio fell into his bath one night
with the result he died listening to Inner Sanctum but not from fright
The water was still bubbling when police and ambulance arrived
causing the lieutenant to quip this place is hotter than a jazz jive

Electrocution was the cause of death ruled the city’s coroner
no surprise- unlike the plum in pie of little Jack Horner
The question was who threw the plugged radio into the tub
leading to murder most foul- aye, there’s the rub

Now Jack O’ Hare was a private eye in town
one who knew a verb was different from a noun
The other eyes in town didn’t have much of an education
so bad- they could have been Congressmen planning legislation

It just so happened one hot and sultry night
as a lonely carrot succumbed to Jack’s bite
that Jessica Rabbit came strolling through the door
wearing an outfit that sent most men dead to the floor

Jessica’s tight fitting dress caused Jack to hyperventilate
but that would not be the extent of this bunny rabbit’s fate
for Jessica knew who had slain Emmanuel Gold Brown
the dashing night club owner and man about town

How do you know? Jack asked in between munching on carrots
he wondered why the building next door was loaded with ferrets.
I was there in the bathroom at the time
answered Roger Rabbit’s wife who was dressed to the nine.

Jack choked on his bottle of Avocado 🥑 and Grapefruit mix
he didn’t drink bourbon like those eyes in the Sticks.
What were you doing in the bathroom when the man was taking a bath 🛀?
This remark caused Jessica Rabbit to laugh and laugh.

Said Jessica, We owe the IRS a lot in back taxes
far more than Lizzie Borden gave her parents whackses
Now Roger’s acting career doesn’t pay much when it comes to loading the dice 🎲
In fact it doesn’t even pay for a take out order of rice 🍚
So I, sighed Jessica, have to make a little money on the side
which often involves taking men for a ride

That means you’re an —–? Jack paused on his paws
“Escort is the word I prefer,” Jessica said, “The service called Ma’s.”
“I just thought Mrs. Barker made apple pie,”
Jack rubbed the carrot juice out of his eye.
“Oh, Mrs. Barker has plenty of pies galore
as well as all sorts of cats coming in and out the door.”
“It’s a real cat house then?”
Jack caught an egg from a hen.
The hen ran up the fire escape
It was how she kept in shape.

“You could very well say that,”
Jessica spoke setting the trap,
“Now come along with me
to the wharf by the sea
and you’ll meet Brown’s killer
for real- not like in a Thriller.”

“And why would I want to meet Brown’s killer?” Jack asked,
“I’d sooner meet the Ghost of Christmas Past.”
“Because I’m paying you to,”
Jessica adjusted her dress tight and blue.

“Paying me to meet a killer?”
It did sound like an opening line in a thriller.
Jessica showed Jack her diamond ring 💍
as the nightingale in the alley started to sing 🎶
“These carats could buy a lot of carrots,” Jessica suggested
as she lowered her dress top showing she was amply breasted.

“Indeed they could,” Jack rose to the occasion
He didn’t need any more persuasion
so Jack and Jessica headed to a wharf on the Bay in San Fran
A foggy night where people get lost just trying to find the can

Jack and Jess got out of the car in time before it headed off the dock
With the splash, Jack sighed, “There goes my favourite sock.”
He really should learn to drive with his shoes on
either that or stop walking bare feet where the salmon spawn.

“Good evening, Mr. O’ Hare,”
said a voice most sinister,
“I’ve been expecting you.”
“Have you seen a floating red sock pass through?”
Jack O’ Hare was anxious to know
before he felt the urge to go.

“I killed Emmanuel Gold Brown,” the man grinned
to deed he’d admit but wouldn’t confess he sinned
“And why did you do that?” Jack sounded like the BBC’s Detective Foyle
while he sat and waited for his tea to boil

“Why are you boiling tea on the dock?”
This man wondered if Jack’s private eye reputation was all a crock
“Because I’m thirsty,” replied Jack
pulling out biscuits for a snack,
“Your voice sounds very familiar.”
The bunny waved aside Jessica’s offer of a Pilsner.

“It should sound familiar,” the man frothed, “for I am the voice of The Shadow.”
A ship 🚢 sailed by carrying llamas for cargo.
“You don’t sound much like Orson Welles,”
Jack found on the pier a book of spells.

“Ever since Welles played that role, the public won’t accept another voice for the Shadow,”
into his handkerchief the man his nose did blow.
“Them’s the brakes,” Jack remarked as a car spun out of control off the dock
Jessica wondered if she should go home and change her frock.

“So,” Jack scratched his whiskers, “why did you kill Emmanuel Gold Brown?”
“Because,” the man said, “he wasn’t listening to me- Lamont Cranston wealthy young man about town.
He was listening to Inner Sanctum Mysteries told by Raymond your host.
For that mistake in radio programming, he’s now a ghost 👻.”

The man took out a gun and aimed it at Jack,
“I wanted to get my reputation back,
to kill the world’s greatest private eye like meat 🍖 on a rack
but whoever told me about you was smoking too much crack.”

“Smoking is bad for your health,”
said Jack whose advice was medical wealth.
The man clicked the gun, “I’ll shoot you like a dog in my pyjama,”
It was then he was run over by a fleeing llama.

The Shadow was buried the very next day
while Jack was hopping through farm fields and hay
Jack thought of the night before and of Jessica Rabbit, he really should have kissed her
He sighed, went home, put the radio on and listened to The Whistler.

-A Jack O’ Hare poem
written by Christopher
Monday September 4th
2017.

Permalink Leave a Comment

Tellington Blackstreet: A Poem

October 18, 2016 at 4:16 pm (Detective story, Film, Poetry) (, , , )

Tellington Blackstreet: A Poem

Tellington Blackstreet was a different sort of private eye
If trouble didn’t come to him, he’d go looking for trouble
He went into a library and the library sign said, This library is a safe zone
He wondered how safe it was
He went up to one of the librarians, pulled out a gun and shot him several times
He waited
The librarian died from multiple gunshot wounds
I guess the library wasn’t as safe as the sign made out to be
Tellington thought and walked away

He walked down the street and saw some irate female- no doubt a feminist- they were always irate about something or other- objecting to someone wearing a Donald Trump For President hat
“I feel uncomfortable and unsafe you wearing such a racist sexist homophobic hat” she whined.

“What a bitch,” Tellington thought to himself, “no doubt she’d really be bitching if someone shot her in the foot”
He decided to do just that to test the empirical results of his observation
Sure enough after he shot her in the foot, she really started bitching her head off
in between her screams of pain and agony.

Tellington decided to go back to the office
It had been a long time since a tight skirted hot looking babe femme fatale came into his office looking for help
Mind you in this city of quite a lot of ugly looking women that would be quite the unusual encounter
Where was that great fictional defender of the higher aesthetic values of civilization Pan Goatee around when you really need him?
Tellington wondered.
He turned to the Internet and read his favourite blog Dracul Van Helsing.

-A private eye poem
written by Christopher
Tuesday October 18th
2016.

Permalink 10 Comments

Wilkie The Cat: The Big Chill: A Private Eye Poem

August 2, 2016 at 12:03 pm (Detective story, Entertainment, Humour, Poetry) (, , , , , )

It had been a hot and humid night
Wilkie’s fur was feeling tight
stuck together like glue
not even a cat brush could get through
Wilkie’s fan was working overtime
while Wilkie drank water mixed with lime

The private eye office door opened then
frightening the office hen
who promptly laid an egg
that rolled under Wilkie’s leg

It was Mitzi standing there
looking better than a Tic Tac square
Wilkie thought in unromantic fashion
after all the she-cat was positively smashin’

How can I help you? Wilkie did ask.
I need a private eye, Mitzi winked, are you up to the task?

Wilkie banged the desk to signify yes
and the squashed egg made quite the mess
but in spite of the yolk
it was no joke.

Mitzi’s catnip had gone astray
it just upped and walked away

So Wilkie followed the catnip trail
one that made magic mushrooms pale
Through the Looking Glass, Wilkie went
and caused in Mad Hatter’s hat a dent
The Cheshire Cat’s smile was all that was there
when Queen of Hearts’ head hung in the square

Wilkie awoke with a start
saying be still, my rapid heart
His private eye fantasy all but a dream
He looked out his window and saw the catnip gleam

Wilkie thought to himself, Hm. I wonder?
Yes, what cat and nip have joined together, let not dreams put asunder.

-A poem written by Christopher
Saturday July 30th 2016.

Permalink 36 Comments

A Day In The Life As Seen By Philip Marlowe: A Poem

April 15, 2015 at 7:38 pm (Detective story, Entertainment, Humour, Literature, Movies, Poetry) (, , , , , , , )

A Day In The Life As Seen By Philip Marlowe: A Poem

They say if life hands you lemons
then make lemonade
However that philosophy only works if you’ve also got sugar and water on hand
Bourbon and honey doesn’t really make for a great substitute
especially if Mrs. Mullins’ cat from upstairs drinks deeply from the pitcher you left on the fire escape
as deeply as Pegasus drank from the Pierian Spring
A little learning is a dangerous thing
and so was Mrs. Mullins’ frying pan that she hurled at me after she discovered her cat Absalom doing the dance of the 7 Veils up on the apartment roof top
after imbibing my own particular take on the lemonade of life philosophy
As she cried “Alas Absalom” on the rooftop
I quickly hurried to the safety of the streets below
If the client won’t come to Marlowe
then Marlowe better go to the client
and I need to find one in a hurry
if I don’t wish to be crowned “Lord of All” (as that old hymn puts it) by Mrs.
Mullins’ frying pan .

So I hurry through these streets in my trench coat
people stare at me no doubt thinking I’m a would-be flasher
guess they’ve never seen a private eye before
I hurry to my office and hope a client shows up
But one doesn’t
Seven bottles of bourbon and one finally dead ceiling fan later
I decide to head home
and face the music
(a little known melody written by some obscure composer for Mrs. Mullins’ frying pan)
As I walk down the street, there’s some positive thinking guru standing on the corner handing out this free advice,
If life hands you lemons, then make lemonade.

I hit him where it hurts.

“Let’s see if life hands you a new pair of testicles” was my last parting shot
as I walked beneath the glittering neon light
and off into the sunset.

-A Philip Marlowe narrative poem
written by Christopher
Wednesday April 15th
2015.

Note: As I wrote this poem, I imagined the voice of Humphrey Bogart reciting it in my head.

Permalink 2 Comments

Next page »