Note: During the late 90s and early 00s, I was a member of a Robert Rankin Appreciation Mailing List called SproutloreChat. During this time, I wrote a number of more or less suitable poems, which I believed had been lost in my old computer, until I found them on an old USB stick recently. Here I present some of them; as I remember SLC, they are quite representational of the list. Read them when in a pleasant mind!
Once within a madman
Once within a madman’s song
The days were almost endless-long
I played the piano and the gong
All day I played the honkey-tonk
Once within a madman’s song.
Once within a madman’s car
My golf score card showed “Under par”
I travelled far and VERY far
I wished upon a falling star
Once within a madman’s car.
Once within a madman’s room
I reinvented toys of doom
I built small castles out of gloom
I crawled out of my mother’s vomb
Once within a madman’s room.
Once within a madman’s glee
I heard the bad things out at sea
I heard that all good things are three
I heard the tastes you cannot see
Once within a madman’s glee.
Once within a madman’s laugh
I cut my cousin’s hair in half
And drew the Silk Road on his calf
And sang “Bam-bo Ba-diff ba-daff”
Once within a madman’s laugh.
Once within a madman’s dreams
I walked on roads of kerosene
I talked with people made of spleens
I almost ate all of my greens
Once within a madman’s dreams.
I think I’ll have some ice cream.
A similar number of cars
She-elks of various colours and hues
Parade ‘cross the square wearing shoes that are blue
Waving monocles and singing the tune
To a radio show that is broadcast real soon.
Various people from time-honoured songs
Appear from my milk armed with hammers and tongs
They conquer my pantry and steal my plum pie
And fill up my bathtub with buckets of rye.
The eye in the sky haunts the lady in red
So she stays with her sheets and duvets in her bed
And thus she can never go shopping again,
But sends out her nephew whose surname is Glen.
A million bazillion four trillion stars
Collide like a similar number of cars
These antics result, quite obscenely, of course
In a film about Greeks making love to a horse.
All roads lead to Rome except one that leads back
To the gargantuan original tarmac-y stack
From which all the highways and roads emanate
Which is guarded by almost three dozen stone gates.
All postoffice workers are given bassoons
In exchange for some genes which will later be cloned
By Theo MacEvan who lives in a jail
And makes his own Post with all what that entails.
This has been a very eventful day, indeed.
Williger Bob had a Williger cat
And a Williger shirt and a Williger hat
Which was made by a Williger taylorman that
Presumably used his own Williger vat
To melt and massage all his Williger plastic
From which he made Williger objects fantastic.
The Williger cat had a Williger taste
And only ate mice of the Williger caste
Which were sold at the Williger market as paste
And there bought by our Williger Bob with some haste
For it just doesn’t do, everybody agreed
To make your cat wait if he’s Williger breed
So our Williger Bob rode his Williger car
To the Williger market where all the things are –
And these things are commonly not very far –
With the speed of a comet (or Williger star)
For – and this is important so don’t you forget it –
A Williger cat do not fancy spagetti.
He payed with a wad of the currency that
Is most used by a man in a Williger hat
And then hurried home to his Williger cat,
But was quite astonished, for the kitten he sat
On the windowsill between the Willinger flowers
And all of Bob’s Williger shirt he’d devoured.
Thus ended the tale of the Williger boy
Who fancied a Williger cat is a toy
That’s easily tricked with some mice made of soy
– O woe is the Silliger Williger Boy!
The Night-time Murder
I boast of my abilities,
Acquiantances and interests
Whene’er I’ve got superfluous
Amounts of beer inside my vest.
I never afterwards recall
The vows and promises I’ve done
The things I’ve guarenteed to do
– The minute after they are gone!
Thus late at night, I came awake
To find my bedroom full alight
With candles of a dozen sorts
– I sensed that something wasn’t right.
The eel, the carpenter, the Turk
My bank clerk’s hippopotamus
They stood there, said in chorus thus,
“I think he’s quite forgotten us!”
“Tonight’s the night,” the Turk declared,
“You’ve promised to acquaint us
With the three-fold Baron Londeville
Who lives down by the watermill,
And every liqour does distill
So get up; dress now, if you will!”
And slowly, like an avalanche,
I had a recollection,
To when I met them last, quite drunk
To bliss beyond perfection.
I tried to weasel out of this,
By claiming deviation
From perfect health and sanity
But they ran out of patience.
The hippo, quite a muscular lad,
He took the bedpost headwise.
The other three the other end,
Upended quickly likewise.
And, brought from sleep to panic fast,
I grasped the pillow tightly
And drew from there my minigun
Which I store thereunder nightly.
And thus I shot the carpenter,
The hippo, eel and Turk-man.
Who shouted, as his spritits fled,
“Well, you are quite a jerk, man!
“To misappropriate our trust,
And fool us to oblivion.
You haven’t heard the last of us!”
I clearly heard the Turk-man cuss.
This poem ended quaintly thus.
(This line is really a surplus).