OH! HEAVENS ABOVE.
l was sitting on my own the other night and a programme came on
about UFOs and Aliens. l thought great, l'll watch that. Many years ago
l believe that l saw one. l was driving my car in St Catherines Valley, just
outside Bath, in the middle of the day. When an orb appears in the sky,
just above the car, it looked like the full moon but really just above me. l
stopped and stared, not taking my eyes of it. lt stayed awhile then shot
backwards into the distance and disappeared. l turned to my 4 year old
daughter Sally and said "did you see that?", "Yeth", she said, "it wath the
moon and went backwarths.
So l settled down for the evening. Soon they were talking about people
being picked out , stalked and abducted. They told a story about how
a bus full of ladies, were on there way to play bingo, when a shinning orb
appeared and followed the bus, it hovered for some miles, pulling up along
side it shone a beam into the eyes of one of the women, then disappeared
into the distance, when they arrived at a junction. The women were quite
shook up and the one who had been picked out by the beam said, that her
eyes had changed colour from brown, to one being blue and the other green!.
Oh l felt spooked and switched the telly off and went of to bed.
Up stairs all was dark and l drifted of to sleep and awoke in the early hours.
l needed the loo, and was fiddling with my phone, because it lights up when l
switch it on. Suddenly a beam of light shoots out from l dont know where.
My heart took a leap, l started to pray and slid down into the bed. The beam
of light followed me into the bed! lt stayed till it dawned on me that my phone
has a torch light that l had accidentally swiched on! Feeling foolish l went to
the loo.
A couple of nights later l had to get up in the dark to let the dogs in. It was
a beautiful star lit night and l decided to sit outside and gaze into the night sky.
l settled down and looked up. There l sat for sometime when from out of the
milkyway a large shiny star appeared and moved very quickly accross the sky
in a silent zigzag course, moving northward towards to the rising sun. Then it
disapeared into the distance. Umm l thought.
The next day l went to Mojacar with my friend to paddle in the sea. On the
way back we stopped here and there and found ourselves in a village we did
not know existed, we found our way back to a familiar road and were chatting.
We realized we were in unfamiliar territory again and had driven for sometime
before arriving back to were we thought we were going. Whatever happened
there l said ""oh" said Julie, "l reckon we have just been abducted".
Der der der der der der der'.
Thursday, 8 September 2016
Tuesday, 6 September 2016
THE TALE OF CHICKEN TURKEY
THE TALE OF CHICKEN TURKEY.
The other saturday my friend Julie came home with a very sorry looking
turkey. She had rescued it from an old fellow who was selling it. Now is
the time to buy in young turkeys and feed them up for christmas. The poor
bird was in a sorry state. The legs were tied together, it had been flung down
in the blazing sun next to a fruit and veg stall, the old boy was asking 6 euros
for it. Julie had become very upset and angry at the way it had been treated,
so she offered all she had, 5 euros.The old fellow refused saying 6. The
vendor of the veg: stall threw him the last euro, he to was upset by the poor
creatures plight.
When they arrived back at Julies place, it was realized that the bird could
not stand unassisted. So long it must have lain with its legs trussed together.
It did want to eat and drink, doing so laying on its side. On close inspection the
feet were found to be swollen and very dirty, with ridges imprinted into the
soles, as if it, in its babyhood, had been kept in a wire cage! As the days passed
its feet were twice daily cleaned and dead skin removed. It was held in a bath
of water to encourage it to move its legs and the best way for it to eat was sitting
in a flower pot for support. With great love and patience it recovered and is now
able to stand alone.
The young turks name is gobble obble. You won't be able to eat it now l said.
Some years back , down in the Albox rambla on tuesday market day, there
were chicken selling stalls. Live ones, egg laying ones, baby ones, eating ones,
ducklings, quails, geese, and in August turkeys, young ones.
One tuesday we bought two. Bravely we said for Christmas and put them in
with the chickens. Every one said "blackdpot". Blackspot is a turkey illness that
likes damp and wet, not so sure here especially in the burning summer. In with
the chickens the turkeys grew and grew. One turned into a girl and one into a
boy. They were neither ugly nor stupid, but wonderous birds, who danced and
gobbled, their heads and necks would change colour, from red to blue. They
would warn of danger and loved to roam far and wide.
Then came Christmas. My sister said that we were cruel and that she had
seen a turkey weeping. We chickened out and asked the neighbour. He said
that he never kills living things. The boy had been pre promised but we kept
the girl. We turned vegetarian.
So solitary turk lost her mate and lived with the chickens. In February she
started laying one ovoid buff coloured egg every day in the hens nest. Being
so much bigger than the chickens, she would accidentally break their eggs.
She started to become a bully, not her fault. The pecking order means pecking
and a peck from an enormous turkey hurts.
Anyway, her preferred perch at night was high on top of the chicken run.
Here she was in mortal danger of her life. She had also taken to nesting
in the bushes. Which ment much trampling around but in her unprotected
home she was happiest. The hens also, could reistablish the pecking order
without getting knocked out or loosing an eye.
So, one misty night, she disappeared, not a feather!
The other saturday my friend Julie came home with a very sorry looking
turkey. She had rescued it from an old fellow who was selling it. Now is
the time to buy in young turkeys and feed them up for christmas. The poor
bird was in a sorry state. The legs were tied together, it had been flung down
in the blazing sun next to a fruit and veg stall, the old boy was asking 6 euros
for it. Julie had become very upset and angry at the way it had been treated,
so she offered all she had, 5 euros.The old fellow refused saying 6. The
vendor of the veg: stall threw him the last euro, he to was upset by the poor
creatures plight.
When they arrived back at Julies place, it was realized that the bird could
not stand unassisted. So long it must have lain with its legs trussed together.
It did want to eat and drink, doing so laying on its side. On close inspection the
feet were found to be swollen and very dirty, with ridges imprinted into the
soles, as if it, in its babyhood, had been kept in a wire cage! As the days passed
its feet were twice daily cleaned and dead skin removed. It was held in a bath
of water to encourage it to move its legs and the best way for it to eat was sitting
in a flower pot for support. With great love and patience it recovered and is now
able to stand alone.
The young turks name is gobble obble. You won't be able to eat it now l said.
Some years back , down in the Albox rambla on tuesday market day, there
were chicken selling stalls. Live ones, egg laying ones, baby ones, eating ones,
ducklings, quails, geese, and in August turkeys, young ones.
One tuesday we bought two. Bravely we said for Christmas and put them in
with the chickens. Every one said "blackdpot". Blackspot is a turkey illness that
likes damp and wet, not so sure here especially in the burning summer. In with
the chickens the turkeys grew and grew. One turned into a girl and one into a
boy. They were neither ugly nor stupid, but wonderous birds, who danced and
gobbled, their heads and necks would change colour, from red to blue. They
would warn of danger and loved to roam far and wide.
Then came Christmas. My sister said that we were cruel and that she had
seen a turkey weeping. We chickened out and asked the neighbour. He said
that he never kills living things. The boy had been pre promised but we kept
the girl. We turned vegetarian.
So solitary turk lost her mate and lived with the chickens. In February she
started laying one ovoid buff coloured egg every day in the hens nest. Being
so much bigger than the chickens, she would accidentally break their eggs.
She started to become a bully, not her fault. The pecking order means pecking
and a peck from an enormous turkey hurts.
Anyway, her preferred perch at night was high on top of the chicken run.
Here she was in mortal danger of her life. She had also taken to nesting
in the bushes. Which ment much trampling around but in her unprotected
home she was happiest. The hens also, could reistablish the pecking order
without getting knocked out or loosing an eye.
So, one misty night, she disappeared, not a feather!
Wednesday, 17 August 2016
WHAT A CAPER!
The other day my two elderly spanish neighbours invited me to
go for a walk with them. We set off with sticks in hand and carrier
bags into which we were going to put capers, that would be gathered
on the way.
As we strolled along they told me that in the old days there was less
wild rosemary because the mountains were heavily grazed by sheep
and goats. They pointed to a missing mountain which had been
blasted with dynamite when the railroad had been built. The man
who did it had stayed with them, he had come from Murcia. They
showed me a spot marked with two stones were a hidden water
supply could be found, fed from Tijola.
We picked the capers whilst talking. Then they decided to take an
old donkey track up the mountain, they were excited to go this way
because they had not walked it for many years. Mostly the track had
disappeared and it was little more than a pathway. Soon we were
passing about forty beehives. The elder sister wanted to carry on
so we did. The bees took offence and started to warn us, then to
sting. The younger sister, in her late seventies, panicked and flapped
her apron, more flew at us. Oh my l thought here we are up a mountain
with potentially hundreds of thousands of angry bees. The elder sister
kept her cool, with head down she walked on as fast as her arthritic
knees could go. We followed and eventually walked them off.
When at last we got back, we sat under a fig tree to remove the stings.
They were many, we laughed with relief and said we would never go
that way again.
Sad to think that each stinger represents a dead bee. Some say that
the stinger in a worker bee is her modified ovipositor. Not sure about
this because the Queen also has a stinger. She also has an ovipositor
but her stinger is straight, so that she can remove it without ripping her
insides out, unlike her barbed daughters stings. The Queen will
only use hers on another Queen.
On the other hand the male, drone bees, conceived from an unfertilized
egg, possess no sting. In fact they are little more than a flying phallus.
They hang around in boy bands, lazing about in flowers, helping them
selves to honey, waiting for the scent of the perfumed pheromones
of a rising virgin Queen. Then the race is on to catch her as she ascends
into the heavens. He does have fantastically developed senses of smell
and sight, also very strong wings. The lucky winner gets to mate with the
Queen high in the sky but upon releasing his load his penis breaks off,
tearing his insides out, dropping back to earth stone dead!
The other day my two elderly spanish neighbours invited me to
go for a walk with them. We set off with sticks in hand and carrier
bags into which we were going to put capers, that would be gathered
on the way.
As we strolled along they told me that in the old days there was less
wild rosemary because the mountains were heavily grazed by sheep
and goats. They pointed to a missing mountain which had been
blasted with dynamite when the railroad had been built. The man
who did it had stayed with them, he had come from Murcia. They
showed me a spot marked with two stones were a hidden water
supply could be found, fed from Tijola.
We picked the capers whilst talking. Then they decided to take an
old donkey track up the mountain, they were excited to go this way
because they had not walked it for many years. Mostly the track had
disappeared and it was little more than a pathway. Soon we were
passing about forty beehives. The elder sister wanted to carry on
so we did. The bees took offence and started to warn us, then to
sting. The younger sister, in her late seventies, panicked and flapped
her apron, more flew at us. Oh my l thought here we are up a mountain
with potentially hundreds of thousands of angry bees. The elder sister
kept her cool, with head down she walked on as fast as her arthritic
knees could go. We followed and eventually walked them off.
When at last we got back, we sat under a fig tree to remove the stings.
They were many, we laughed with relief and said we would never go
that way again.
Sad to think that each stinger represents a dead bee. Some say that
the stinger in a worker bee is her modified ovipositor. Not sure about
this because the Queen also has a stinger. She also has an ovipositor
but her stinger is straight, so that she can remove it without ripping her
insides out, unlike her barbed daughters stings. The Queen will
only use hers on another Queen.
On the other hand the male, drone bees, conceived from an unfertilized
egg, possess no sting. In fact they are little more than a flying phallus.
They hang around in boy bands, lazing about in flowers, helping them
selves to honey, waiting for the scent of the perfumed pheromones
of a rising virgin Queen. Then the race is on to catch her as she ascends
into the heavens. He does have fantastically developed senses of smell
and sight, also very strong wings. The lucky winner gets to mate with the
Queen high in the sky but upon releasing his load his penis breaks off,
tearing his insides out, dropping back to earth stone dead!
Tuesday, 21 June 2016
CORRIDA DE CINTAS EL FAZ
It's fiesta time of year and a little village close by, held its
first ever fiesta. It was a small afair but turned out to be very
well attended. With its own statue of St Antonio, patron saint
of farm animals. An outdoor mass was held and blessings
given. Followed by an antique car rally, free paella for all, a
bouncy castle and stalls. The highlight was to be the Corrida
de cinta or the ribbon competition. ( involving horses and riders)
As with all these gatherings it took time to come together.
Horses and riders arrived from far and wide. All dressed in their
finest chaps, spurs and tassels. Well groomed mounts with
plaited manes and decorated saddles, more like arm chairs.
The excited competitors strutted their stuff amongst the spectator's.
Young and old wandering amongst the mares and stallions.
There were no saftey barriers all milling and mixing together. The
riders wore no hard hats. They were mostly male with one smart lone
lady rider. They pranced, trotted and showed themselves off amongst
the onlookers.
Eventually all began to gather along a dirt track. Two poles were
erected either side, with a wire strung between the pair. Ribbons
had been wound around the wire, on the end of each was attached
a small plastic loop. The idea being that the riders, armed with a
pencil, gallope up the track and when passing under the wire trys to
hook off a ribbon, releasing it like a banner behind.
So the riders on their stomping, snorting, steeds loosely organised
themselves to begin. One by one they galloped up and tried to capture
a loop.Easier said than done. The most successfull was Don Quixote on
his clapped out steed with bent back. He trotted up in a hobble de dee
fashion and being rather tall just reached up and scored several bulls
eyes. His side kick Sancho faired less well.
The most confident rider, an aloof man dressed like a picador, his
hand on his hip, the other holding the reins, faired even less well.
Carrying a pencil instead of a pike, mounted on a stupendous
stallion, heavily controlled with bit, spurs and martingale, he urged
his mount forward and galloped at full pelt towards the loops.
It was the slapping noise that drew my attention, like a thaking.
I looked up and there flapping from side to side was the mounts huge
manhood. The rider thought that he was king of the corrida!
We thought 'GOOD LORD'.
It's fiesta time of year and a little village close by, held its
first ever fiesta. It was a small afair but turned out to be very
well attended. With its own statue of St Antonio, patron saint
of farm animals. An outdoor mass was held and blessings
given. Followed by an antique car rally, free paella for all, a
bouncy castle and stalls. The highlight was to be the Corrida
de cinta or the ribbon competition. ( involving horses and riders)
As with all these gatherings it took time to come together.
Horses and riders arrived from far and wide. All dressed in their
finest chaps, spurs and tassels. Well groomed mounts with
plaited manes and decorated saddles, more like arm chairs.
The excited competitors strutted their stuff amongst the spectator's.
Young and old wandering amongst the mares and stallions.
There were no saftey barriers all milling and mixing together. The
riders wore no hard hats. They were mostly male with one smart lone
lady rider. They pranced, trotted and showed themselves off amongst
the onlookers.
Eventually all began to gather along a dirt track. Two poles were
erected either side, with a wire strung between the pair. Ribbons
had been wound around the wire, on the end of each was attached
a small plastic loop. The idea being that the riders, armed with a
pencil, gallope up the track and when passing under the wire trys to
hook off a ribbon, releasing it like a banner behind.
So the riders on their stomping, snorting, steeds loosely organised
themselves to begin. One by one they galloped up and tried to capture
a loop.Easier said than done. The most successfull was Don Quixote on
his clapped out steed with bent back. He trotted up in a hobble de dee
fashion and being rather tall just reached up and scored several bulls
eyes. His side kick Sancho faired less well.
The most confident rider, an aloof man dressed like a picador, his
hand on his hip, the other holding the reins, faired even less well.
Carrying a pencil instead of a pike, mounted on a stupendous
stallion, heavily controlled with bit, spurs and martingale, he urged
his mount forward and galloped at full pelt towards the loops.
It was the slapping noise that drew my attention, like a thaking.
I looked up and there flapping from side to side was the mounts huge
manhood. The rider thought that he was king of the corrida!
We thought 'GOOD LORD'.
Wednesday, 8 June 2016
I LOVE MY LEAK
My neighbour called the other day and we got talking about water, as one
does here in desert conditions. It is a constant problem but worse for us is the
lack of natural rainfall. For several decades now the local farmers have been
saying that the reason for the scarcity is because someone is sending up
aircraft to spray the rainclouds, to stop it raining. At first we thought 'no', but
since then on many occasions we have heard and seen two aeroplanes flying
back and forth above the low lying rainclouds and spaying them with God
knows what to disperse them. lt works, the rain doesn't fall and the clouds move
elsewhere.
This has been going on for years, the desert creeps closer, the crops fail.
Well the crops of the smaller local farmers fail. The crops of the plastic farmers
boom. They have plenty of irrigated water, they do not rely on rainfall. lt is now
said that it is the insurance companies manipulating the weather because they
do not want to pay out for rain damaged or flood damaged crops.
l was then invited to attend a protest rally taking place in the little town of Oria
up in the hills. "Did I want to go"? "Well yes", l replied. So we did. The small town
square was packed with every farmer and his well dressed wife, all excited about
the prospect of being on the telly. The cameras arrived and a group of speakers.
A banner was strung up and speaches made. One orator, an almond farmer from
Murcia rallied the listening asembly to great excitement and alarm as to the situation.
The telly interviewer asked some stupid questions about the 'legend'. The cameras
zoomed in, the gathered throng where asked to move forwards, so they all shuffled
forward, then they were asked to move backwards, so they all shuffled backwards.
After about an hour it was all over and we drove back down to our valley.
'Ah the leak'. Yes at the end of my garden l have a water leak. Every now and
again l dutifully inform the water company and they come and fix it. But now l
cover it over with branches to hide it. l have introduced terrapins rescued from the
water hell hole. Planted pumpkin and mint. The singing frogs have found it, insects
busy themselves, grass and flowers grow. This morning whilst drinking my tea,
l could hear the choir of throaty frogs singing and the fluty yodelling of a golden
oriole bird. It flew down into the tree above me, then another. l froze. Their song
almost sounds like water being poured. I wondered if infact it is their song for,
"here there be water, we have found water!"
I love my leak.
My neighbour called the other day and we got talking about water, as one
does here in desert conditions. It is a constant problem but worse for us is the
lack of natural rainfall. For several decades now the local farmers have been
saying that the reason for the scarcity is because someone is sending up
aircraft to spray the rainclouds, to stop it raining. At first we thought 'no', but
since then on many occasions we have heard and seen two aeroplanes flying
back and forth above the low lying rainclouds and spaying them with God
knows what to disperse them. lt works, the rain doesn't fall and the clouds move
elsewhere.
This has been going on for years, the desert creeps closer, the crops fail.
Well the crops of the smaller local farmers fail. The crops of the plastic farmers
boom. They have plenty of irrigated water, they do not rely on rainfall. lt is now
said that it is the insurance companies manipulating the weather because they
do not want to pay out for rain damaged or flood damaged crops.
l was then invited to attend a protest rally taking place in the little town of Oria
up in the hills. "Did I want to go"? "Well yes", l replied. So we did. The small town
square was packed with every farmer and his well dressed wife, all excited about
the prospect of being on the telly. The cameras arrived and a group of speakers.
A banner was strung up and speaches made. One orator, an almond farmer from
Murcia rallied the listening asembly to great excitement and alarm as to the situation.
The telly interviewer asked some stupid questions about the 'legend'. The cameras
zoomed in, the gathered throng where asked to move forwards, so they all shuffled
forward, then they were asked to move backwards, so they all shuffled backwards.
After about an hour it was all over and we drove back down to our valley.
'Ah the leak'. Yes at the end of my garden l have a water leak. Every now and
again l dutifully inform the water company and they come and fix it. But now l
cover it over with branches to hide it. l have introduced terrapins rescued from the
water hell hole. Planted pumpkin and mint. The singing frogs have found it, insects
busy themselves, grass and flowers grow. This morning whilst drinking my tea,
l could hear the choir of throaty frogs singing and the fluty yodelling of a golden
oriole bird. It flew down into the tree above me, then another. l froze. Their song
almost sounds like water being poured. I wondered if infact it is their song for,
"here there be water, we have found water!"
I love my leak.
Thursday, 5 May 2016
HELL ROOT.
It's that time of year again, every plant has it's moment to rise
up from the earth, flower, set seed and die back. l was driving up
the dry river bed the other day and there pushing through the hard
dry earth were the most spectacular, spears of bright yellow
flowers. They had no leaves, just a multi flowered aspargus tip,that
pierced through the ground, growing to a good foot tall and more.
They were single stalks but were growing in small groups of two or
three. We do get them here quite regularly and this is there time.
Each flower head could be an armfull. The florets resemble snap-
dragons. The spears are also hairy and eventually exude a stickyness
that is very atractive to ants.
The plant belongs to a group called orobanche (to strangle).
They are a holoparasitic plant, sustaining themselves totally by
sucking the nutients from the roots of a host plant. Vampire root
would be a more discriptive name.
While the hemaphrodite flowers are beautifull to behold above
ground, it's what goes on underground that is more sinister.
After the flowers have dropped their seeds, they can lie dormant
for several years untill their time comes again. The seeds can pick
up chemical messages from a host plant. These stimulate the seeds
to send out their vampire root (haustoria root) The very end, the hyphal
tip, is extreamly fine, it searches out the root of the host plant, sometimes
travelling a metre or more. When found it penetrates the tissues of the roots
of the host plant forming a tuber, which in some parts of the world are eaten.
The Hell Root.
It's that time of year again, every plant has it's moment to rise
up from the earth, flower, set seed and die back. l was driving up
the dry river bed the other day and there pushing through the hard
dry earth were the most spectacular, spears of bright yellow
flowers. They had no leaves, just a multi flowered aspargus tip,that
pierced through the ground, growing to a good foot tall and more.
They were single stalks but were growing in small groups of two or
three. We do get them here quite regularly and this is there time.
Each flower head could be an armfull. The florets resemble snap-
dragons. The spears are also hairy and eventually exude a stickyness
that is very atractive to ants.
The plant belongs to a group called orobanche (to strangle).
They are a holoparasitic plant, sustaining themselves totally by
sucking the nutients from the roots of a host plant. Vampire root
would be a more discriptive name.
While the hemaphrodite flowers are beautifull to behold above
ground, it's what goes on underground that is more sinister.
After the flowers have dropped their seeds, they can lie dormant
for several years untill their time comes again. The seeds can pick
up chemical messages from a host plant. These stimulate the seeds
to send out their vampire root (haustoria root) The very end, the hyphal
tip, is extreamly fine, it searches out the root of the host plant, sometimes
travelling a metre or more. When found it penetrates the tissues of the roots
of the host plant forming a tuber, which in some parts of the world are eaten.
The Hell Root.
Wednesday, 27 April 2016
MOROCCO
Terrifa/Tanger.
Really windy.
Happy faces disembark.
Happy to be in Spain or be of the boat!
We're on, we're off.
Pregnant, purring, petted, pussies,
sitting in bowls, on chairs, in windows, waiting.
The chicken shop.
Worse the chicken plucking machine!
The fly market.
Broken backed peasant women,
labouring up the street.
The only things you will ever see
are your own trudging feet.
Strong backed peasant women on double seating,
ten whole chickens and cous cous eating.
Sometimes they get quite distraught if,
there treasures you have not bought.
Sometimes they get quite offensive if,
you say "oh that's exspensive".
Sometimes it's just best to say,
"oh how lovely", and walk away.
Because the guardia was inebreated,
we sat all morning and just waited.
He sleeps behind the door,
with only cardboard on the floor.
Long backed lean lads.
Went into the medina.
Got out three years later.
Lines of men praying on mats.
The ones who have been to Mecca are
wearing white hats.
On every little patch of land,
they tend their crops with ancient hand.
Through the Sahara sands, with camels too,
guarded by young men turbaned in blue.
Into the red earthed Daades deep where,
up the mountains phallus sweep.
To the great Oasis of Qued Draa.
For every date palm tree thats grown,
lies the remains of human bone,
marked by a single standing stone.
Through the western Sahara sand , rent barren by
mans own hand.
Past a solitary Berber tent
and two camels 'whose lives were spent'.
Of all the side shows taking place in the grand plaza,
for me, the best was the performing hat.
There in the midst of the crowd was an old man with
a hat on the floor.
Out popped three pigeons, they milled around and
drank some milk from a bottle top.
Then out popped a guinie pig.
It ran hither and tither but never very far from the hat.
Then the old man reached into the hat and
produced another hat.
He placed it on the ground and it started to rush around
in all directions. After sometime the hat found the milk
and appeared to drink it.
Then the old man lifted the hat and there underneath
was a 'hedgehog!.
On silent padded feet two hundred camels passed along.
Grunting, munching and farting a desert song.
Little girl on the steet,
bitting splinters from your feet.
Whatever do you get to eat?
Is that where you have to sleep?
Bleat little kid bleat.
Tonight you are meat.
Little kid in a basket don't you know
what goes on at market!
Displayed upon the counter
with your eyes boiled white.
I just passed you by and
you gave me a fright.
A hundred thousand graves,
surround the walls of Fes.
Each one marked with stones of white
to commemorate the dead.
l heard a squak,
then a chop.
l just walked past the chichen shop.
They ripped the feathers from your skin.
The one God put you in.
They used that nasty plucking machine.
Then sold you for tonights targine.
l felt sorry for the chicks who fell of that lorry.
They were ever so plump and just went plop.
The lorry kept going and did not stop.
All along the road they were.
Little clumps of yellow fur.
If l had understood what he was saying,
l might have said " no "
What struck me most about beautifull, stunning, milk
and honey Morroco were the 'rocks'!
Terrifa/Tanger.
Really windy.
Happy faces disembark.
Happy to be in Spain or be of the boat!
We're on, we're off.
Pregnant, purring, petted, pussies,
sitting in bowls, on chairs, in windows, waiting.
The chicken shop.
Worse the chicken plucking machine!
The fly market.
Broken backed peasant women,
labouring up the street.
The only things you will ever see
are your own trudging feet.
Strong backed peasant women on double seating,
ten whole chickens and cous cous eating.
Sometimes they get quite distraught if,
there treasures you have not bought.
Sometimes they get quite offensive if,
you say "oh that's exspensive".
Sometimes it's just best to say,
"oh how lovely", and walk away.
Because the guardia was inebreated,
we sat all morning and just waited.
He sleeps behind the door,
with only cardboard on the floor.
Long backed lean lads.
Went into the medina.
Got out three years later.
Lines of men praying on mats.
The ones who have been to Mecca are
wearing white hats.
On every little patch of land,
they tend their crops with ancient hand.
Through the Sahara sands, with camels too,
guarded by young men turbaned in blue.
Into the red earthed Daades deep where,
up the mountains phallus sweep.
To the great Oasis of Qued Draa.
For every date palm tree thats grown,
lies the remains of human bone,
marked by a single standing stone.
Through the western Sahara sand , rent barren by
mans own hand.
Past a solitary Berber tent
and two camels 'whose lives were spent'.
Of all the side shows taking place in the grand plaza,
for me, the best was the performing hat.
There in the midst of the crowd was an old man with
a hat on the floor.
Out popped three pigeons, they milled around and
drank some milk from a bottle top.
Then out popped a guinie pig.
It ran hither and tither but never very far from the hat.
Then the old man reached into the hat and
produced another hat.
He placed it on the ground and it started to rush around
in all directions. After sometime the hat found the milk
and appeared to drink it.
Then the old man lifted the hat and there underneath
was a 'hedgehog!.
On silent padded feet two hundred camels passed along.
Grunting, munching and farting a desert song.
Little girl on the steet,
bitting splinters from your feet.
Whatever do you get to eat?
Is that where you have to sleep?
Bleat little kid bleat.
Tonight you are meat.
Little kid in a basket don't you know
what goes on at market!
Displayed upon the counter
with your eyes boiled white.
I just passed you by and
you gave me a fright.
A hundred thousand graves,
surround the walls of Fes.
Each one marked with stones of white
to commemorate the dead.
l heard a squak,
then a chop.
l just walked past the chichen shop.
They ripped the feathers from your skin.
The one God put you in.
They used that nasty plucking machine.
Then sold you for tonights targine.
l felt sorry for the chicks who fell of that lorry.
They were ever so plump and just went plop.
The lorry kept going and did not stop.
All along the road they were.
Little clumps of yellow fur.
If l had understood what he was saying,
l might have said " no "
What struck me most about beautifull, stunning, milk
and honey Morroco were the 'rocks'!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)