Genghis Khan (source: planetforward.ca)
Since he came to the kindergarten kicking and screaming, the kernel of his being was a Khan. Of course, he could not get away with killing anyone, but he could call his kleptomania tribute and none of the other kids complained to the grown-ups.
Then one day, he kissed the Korean kid’s teddy Koala and said it was a girl. This made the Korean kid discover the kobold in his belly. At first it seemed like a crow combating a komodo dragon, but then the Korean kid found a kris and they turned into Kilkenny cats.
Kyrie eleison was sung over both their corpses in the church.
Posted by W. R. Woolf on May 17, 2013
Juggernaut (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
The Juggernaut’s jouncing jugular speaks its jargon clearly; this is no joke.
Juxtaposed with Jude like Jekyll and Hyde at the job interview, he was judged wanting, or rather he was just too much and all that jazz. His jealousy jolts his head towards Jude who is already at the junction, and jumps around the corner as he watches. In a jiffy he is after her, no time for jiggery-pokery.
Just as he reaches her and jerks her around, her legs seem to turn to jelly and she sits on the pavement jabbering gibberish at him. Then he realizes his juvenile behaviour and pretends it was all in jest.
‘Congratulations with the janitor job,’ he says before he leaves.
Posted by W. R. Woolf on May 15, 2013
I’ve just seen that my book Colours and fragments have received two reviews on amazon
They can be read here, and the first six pages can be read too.
A great big thank you to all of you for your support!
Posted by W. R. Woolf on May 13, 2013
Broken items (Photo credit: sindesign)
When idle, he invents inefficient idiosyncratic idioms like: ‘ignorant iguanas are immune to ice cream’.
He is himself immune to ideas of improvement and in such cases imagines company more irksome than isolation. However, Isolation inexplicably inflames his ire and during such incidents much furniture is made irreparable. His hands thus imbued with the blood of the inventory, he inaudibly implores the idol on the inaccessible shelf above his bed for a new identity.
How he installed the idol there might incite curiosity, but he finds it impolite to imply that he is incapable of placing his own possessions anywhere in his room.
To you, he might seem inflated and inflexible, but as he says: ‘No one is infallible,’ and induction would lead one to believe that it is so.
Posted by W. R. Woolf on May 10, 2013
Hell Hound (Photo credit: Lonnie’s Life)
Howling hell hounds at his heels. As he hurdles haphazardly in between the high trees,
his head too hot under his hair,
his lungs heaving for air;
his hopes have a hundred ways to fail.
Hacking has always weighed heavily in his habits. It hardly made him happy, but then, he reflected, habits seldom do. When he hewed through the hospital’s fortifications, he felt like Hercules. However, the horizon of heroics disappeared when he found that they had hoodwinked him and homed in on his home.
He had always hypothesized that people from the hospital where humanitarian, how was he to guess that they were the most hysterical human beings on the planet; humans who released the hounds to hunt down a humble humorist whose only hubris was his attempt to release them from the humdrum of their hopelessly boring homepage by adding a few unhygienic holocaust jokes.
Posted by W. R. Woolf on May 8, 2013
Gargoyle at Château d’Amboise (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
A gibbous moon greets his guttural grunts and gesticulations. Given the opportunity, he guzzles every penny on grammar text books and gobbles them up, but greedy as he is, he cannot grasp the pronunciation and gibberish is the result. The grief has made grooves in his gaunt face. He thinks his ganoid scales gaudy, and they grant him only gloom, so he covers them in grey garments.
As he was going away from the church and the Gregorian choirs the gendarmes gawked at him without giving him the slightest gist of how to behave, even a gypsies warning about the general public would have made him grateful.
Giddy, he gingerly crept out from the graveyard when the worst group mentality gave the impression to have run its course. Now he barely dares glance towards town from his green grove.
He gulps down the memories, wipes his grubby face with the back of a great, scaly hand and grinds through another chapter of grammar.
Posted by W. R. Woolf on May 3, 2013
English: Titlepage of Kubla Khan. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
In Kathmandu did Kubla Khan a crash course in creativity decree. Many came, some as critiques, some as contestants, some as coaches and/or cadets. The course creased the canonical thinking of them all, creating crow’s feet in the corners of their eyes.
Through cracks in their minds the creativity seeped in and corrupted them until they could only converse too clearly.
The community caught a whiff of what was going on and after a quick calculation crushed the walls of the cavern that all the course attendants had crept into. As the cover of the cave crumbled, the rubble was coloured with carmine and all creativity ceased.
As a note to those who do not know it: Please read Kubla Khan for your own sake. It can be read here: http://www.online-literature.com/coleridge/640/
I began this wanting to write a “K” text, but it ended up with “C” instead.
Posted by W. R. Woolf on May 1, 2013
Fiddle (Photo credit: Emily OS)
‘Flimflam and fiddlesticks!’ he finds the phrase fantastic and flings it forth at least fifty times for each fortnight.
‘Fie!’ she says, ‘it’s true.’
‘Is that a fact?’
‘For real,’ he whispers.
Flabbergasted he fumbles with his fiddle and his faculties frantically fly to a place they where they feel safer, the frieze.
‘You forget yourself,’ she slaps his cheeks, ‘we must flee.’
He wakes from his fear induced astonishment and fidgets with his collar for five seconds. Then his fright becomes fully fledged panic and, fiddle under the arm, he begins his faltering run for freedom.
Posted by W. R. Woolf on April 26, 2013
Cycling (Photo credit: tejvanphotos)
‘So there I was cycling along, minding my own business, when suddenly this horde comes over the hill. They have the sun behind them, so I squint, but I can’t really see what they’re about, and then they swoop down on me with drawn swords. I veer to the side, but one of them gets my leg off. Luckily, I got to the doctor fast and he was able to put it back on again, so now it just looks like I’ve scraped my knee.’
‘Why are you telling me this? I saw what happened. It was three kids with toothbrushes and they didn’t attack you, they just hadn’t seen you. You didn’t have to fall off your bicycle to avoid them either.’
‘Oh they weren’t just ordinary kids. They were vicious. Didn’t you see their teeth? If I hadn’t dodged, I would have been a goner for sure.’
Posted by W. R. Woolf on April 24, 2013
The Knight Errant. “The distressful maiden has been despitefully used by robbers, who have been dispersed by the gallant knight.” (From the Tate Gallery) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
She dreams of delight.
The delight of destroying the delirious damsels who don their distress like a distracting dress to draw the beaus in at dusk.
Disdain is all she has to offer them, disdain and death, and definitely, she says, their destiny will drag them down before long despite their self-deception.
Some might discuss this desire of hers for the despair of a great deal of dames. Some might deem it distasteful or despicable, dreadful even, but she could not be more disinterested in their discourse if they were dust bunnies in the dark corners of her attic.
Deeming her desire appropriate does not make a difference in her eyes which she deigns not let fall on anything less than a deity. Her decision to dash their delusions depended only on what she describes as: ‘her decency’.
She will never declare defeat.
Posted by W. R. Woolf on April 19, 2013