MYRTLE
Myrtle is a beautiful chair.
She has a red seat and golden legs and arms.
Her back is well padded.
There is no denying that anyone who sits
on her will not only be very comfortable,
but will in fact have an experience
which will surprise them,
because you’d never expect that just sitting,
could ever be more than,
well, just sitting……
Not all the other chairs can believe what Myrtle does,
and this is understandable, because a chair
that delivers such pleasure has a different life
from all other chairs, one which no other chair
can understand. So we have a unique situation here.
All the other chairs are going to hold a separate
meeting to see what can be done. Please don’t
get this wrong – nobody wants Myrtle to be
left out of anything or boycotted. All the chairs
are pleased that one of their number has achieved
such incredible heights of niceness.
The problem is how to accommodate the situation,
how to put more meaning into their own, admittedly,
somewhat humdrum existences.
Mike Brewer
Still Time to Join the Army (Again)
Over Sixty; the Army thinks I'm old
to track down terror, to far gone I'm told
You just can't be old and join the army
They have got it wrong they are all
barmy.
the theory is backwards,I know I'm right!
Instead of sending children off to
fight,
they ought to take us wicked older guys.
You shouldn't join until you're
fifty five.
Eighteen year olds, so researchers
reckon
think about sex every ten seconds.
Old fellows think about sex twice a day,
hours more to contemplate an enemy.
Youngsters haven't lived enough to be cranky,
a miserable soldier, a dangerous man.
'Back hurts! can't sleep,both tired and
hungry'
All so impatient; it maybe a plan
old men can kill any enemy, child
makes us feel better, shut us up a while.
The young man doesn't get up
before three.
Old men always get up early; to pee.
so what the hell.If 'I'm tired and can't sleep
Already up, kill some son-of-a-beep.
If captured; we could never spill the beans
we'd forget where we put them;so it seems.
In fact," name, rank, and serial
number"
a brainteaser, memorie's a bummer.
Training is easier for us old men..
We're all used to getting yelled
at then
we're used to soft food. Also we love guns.
been using them years as our excuse for fun .
Lighten up, the obstacle course and all.
for combat won't see a twenty foot wall.
Nor did more push-ups ever do me
good
after basic training ,no thought they would.
In training, specialised in complaining..
Running part's a waste of energy, too.
I've never outrun a bullet.Have you?
Roger Halcombe
Kafka's Chair
Ja, also ziss iss Kafka's chair — ze chair
Herr Kafka
preferred — his favourite chair. Vy? Also —
look!
Ees eet not clear? Ze chair is vairy engular
— not
at all comfortable. Hoo vood choose to seet
een a
chair like zees? — mit eets bare seat end
eets
geppy beck and eets total leck of ease? You
see,
you seemply cennot seet beck in ziss chair
vizzout fallink out of ze beck! You heff to
sit up straight — uzzervise you fall out.
Ketestrophe! Herr Kafka voz a vairy steef
men, a vairy serious men — end zat voz how
he set. You know hees famous story about ze
insect?
You see, he put hees arms like so along
ze nerrow arms of ze chair, end he placed
hees long bleck lecks togezzer in front like
so,
wiz ze knees togezzer end zee nerrow feet
on ze floor also togezzer — so. A vairy
precise
men — very nerrow — almost not zair —
right on ze edge of ze chair — all vays
on edge. Ja, ziss iss Herr Kafka's chair.
Caroline Cook
Angel and Skip
The story of a chair...A good looker made to lastAn attractive piece ofBut perhaps notWood and leather?It's a comfy one...On second glance those jointsA bit creaky leggy and thinBrass studs now without shineDust deep in the grainWith years of use yet to be had - it makes me sad... as I walk past the skip...
Jane Massey
Adeline Amanda
Doran
Adeline, ram-rod straight, she was not
polished. Hard as jet is what they called her
Caned corset, frayed, she stood
lowering in the corner of the vestibule.
Teal blue velvet skirt, showing
quality. She stood no nonsense.
Seated, she was less forbidding, and
the curlicued architecture of her under-pinnings
peeped from below, dark and mysterious.
For every bonnet, top-hat or gamp that
passed over her well turned, rococo-fluted
legs, she could sketch out their
character with a sharp blink and a click of her tongue,
speaking not with decoration, but with decorum.
She had held her position as mistress
of this dark house for longer than I would care to
remember. What she made of the young
fancy-breeches who came to call with a brace
of pheasants for ‘t Maister , I
wouldn’t like to offer an opinion. Who would have
believed though, especially her, that it was young Mam’selle Colette they were
mithering after seeing. She’d have had
none of they foppish squeaking and bleating,
simpering and greeting, she was hard,
was Miss Adeline – or Madame – as she
would
have us call her.
No-one would have guessed that she once
went by the name of Hettie. Yes,
Hettie
Adlethorpe …