Meet Mr Whippy, a Chinese weatherloach. A very fascinating chap.
Feeds on the bottom. Feeds on the top. Gets right underneath. Gets all around the sides.
Will poke head out of the water and frisk the air with his whiskery barbs.
Sometimes he hides.
Apparently, he will tell me when a storm is coming; by frantically whizzing around, jumping and splashing, getting extremely agitated.
Sometimes Mr Whippy will lie there, very still, waiting and watching, witnessing and wondering, lost in seemingly deep cogitation: What effect will Bexit have on the British economy? Will the price of fishflakes go up? Is Donald Trump a parodic inversion of Vladimir Putin? Are the both of them a pair of psychopaths?
Who is that bald biped staring at me through the glass? When’s he going to get his finger out and lob in some supper? Etc etc.
Mr Whippy is half fish and half something else. Like a seal crossed with an eel.
One day he’s going to jump right out of that bowl.
Words & Vid: Ian Nisbet
This Amazing Day
i thank You God for most this amazing
day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes
(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun’s birthday; this is the birth
day of life and love and wings: and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)
how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any-lifted from the no
of all nothing-human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?
(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)
~ e.e. cummings
A well known poem from a well loved poet.
But did you know that Mr e.e. had a cousin? And that this cousin – Mr i.i. – was also a poet?
Not just a minor poet it seems. For a whole drawer of astonishing poems by i.i. cum. minge has been recently discovered.
And nearly all of i.i.’s poems bear a striking resemblance to e.e’s.
It appears that i.i.’s poems were written several years earlier than his more illustrious younger cousins.
This has prompted many learned critics to speculate that the poems originally attributed to e.e. might in fact be copies of cousin i.i.’s poems.
Several critics have even suggested that e.e. may have plagiarized i.i.’s work as a result of a fatal family vendetta.
It’s now possible to compare and contrast every poem e.e. supposedly ‘wrote’ to see to what extent they are a complete rip off of poor cousin i.i.’s oeuvre.
Read the poem below ‘This Dimmest Day’ and see if you can detect any striking similarities with the poem above (‘This Amazing Day’)
This Dimmest Day
i damn You Bob for most this dimmest
day: for the bleaking meanly friggits of freeze
and a grim skin squint of sky; and for every fing
er which is numbed which is inwithered grotesque
(i who have flued am i rate again today
and this is the slums serfday; this is the dirth
day of strife and strewth and curse; and of the grey
ache snapping unbareabearably worst)
how should moaning groaning woeing whining
behinding any shitted from below
of bald noggin-moron merely breeding
louts clout unincredibly You?
(now the bits of my balls break and
now the knots of my nuts are broken)
– i.i. cum. minge
It is uncannily like ‘This Amazing Day’ is it not?
And I’m sure you would also agree that ‘This Dimmest Day’ is by far the superior version of the two.
Hopefully, one day soon, Mr i.i. cum. minge will get the long overdue recognition and respect he undoubtedly deserves.
Poem: Ian Nisbet
Tessier Gardens. The go to place in St Marychurch. Well, it must be – because we keep going there.
A peaceful oasis. No shitty yapdogs and no screechy children allowed (actually there were some kids erroneously present today)
Just a chubby tame squirrel.
Who is now known to us, if not to itself, as ‘Sammi’.
Calling out ‘Sammi!’, ‘Sammi’ doesn’t appear to evince any recognition in the animal.
However it will come squizziling across sharpish if you’ve got a bag of nuts in your hand.
It will even try to climb up your leg, mistaking it for the trunk of a small tree.
I’ll have Sammi chewing the chips off my shoulders next time.
Or possibly nibbling the acorns out of my earholes.
Words & Vid: Ian Nisbet.