von_geisterhand: (Default)
I want to comment on a blog-entry about how to best phrase something, but I just don't seem to be able to get the phrasing right. This is most vexing.
von_geisterhand: (Default)
The Germans really never had gotten their heads round the concept of sandwiches. The best that could be said for the analogs you were able to buy on the continent was that they were bound to be a lot healthier than the real thing. Beyond that, however, they were just the sort of thing one would expect from a people known all over the world for their lack of humour and the fact that they loved that guy of "Baywatch".
The things they sold under the pretence of being sandwiches were soggy and nearly tasteless, a combination of watery tomato, soggy lettuce and phlegm masquerading as boiled egg. Worst of all, there was not the slightest hint of mayonaise on it. John peeled the pieces of bread apart to examine it further. There, indeed, seemed not to be any greasy base to it, although somebody might have thought of margarine somewhere in the vicinity.
von_geisterhand: (Default)
This is a chemical mail, this is the way I planned it, it started with an idea with song I heard on the radio earlier today. I thought that it should be very, very easy to turn the song into a theatrical monologue. Then other songs came to mind and I opearted bits out of them and implanted them into my monologue. So far I have given it very little time to grow and mutate, which is ideally what I want this thing to do.
So, if you want to, take it, nurse it, make it mutate, feed it custard that has grown fur and the little fungi from the floor. If you want to be a cruel parent, operate on it, sever it limb from verse-foot and stitch it back together. If you feel like it, translate it back into English and change the phrasing to better suit your tastes. And, one day, let me see what has grown from this mutant.


mutantenpoesie )
von_geisterhand: (Default)
The long and the short of it )
von_geisterhand: (Default)
I mean, we get a new pope now and if you look at pictures of him from only a few years back, you cannot help but notice that he looks a lot more cadaverous now than he did back then, as if something was eating at him from the inside. Made me think of a conversation I had with a friend a year back.

We get a new pope in April and in May there is a certain film coming out and I think there's a link.
I've had this vision of the throne-room in the Vatican. This young and naive priest enters the giant chamber and slowly and carefully approaches the papal throne.

Priest: Your Holiness?
Slowly the throne turns around. Sunken in its huge form is the living cadaver that is Pope Benedict XVI. He looks at the priest, but says nothing.

Priest: You, erm, wanted to speak to me, your Holiness?

Pope: Yes.
His voice is a gravelly whisper.
I wanted to dsicuss the plans for the next year with you. There has been too much talk of the middle ages recently and too little action. You know, my young one, we were quite powerful in the Middle Ages, it was a good time.

Priest: Yes, I know, your Holiness.

Pope: You know nothing. But soon you will learn. My predecessor was a good man, but he misunderstood what had to be done. There was far too much talking of doing the Lord's work. I will favour a more hands-on approach.

Priest: What do you want done?

Pope: The Americans were good. They searched high and low for those weapons of mass destruction and I am sure they were thorough. It was just a shame they searched in the wrong place.
I have spoken to the cardinals an hour ago. Within the next hour, the Lord's Wrath, the up-to-now secret nuclear bombers of the Vatican shall take to the skies and send the cleansing fire onto this new world of Sodom and Gommorrah. Soon, after the Swiss Guards will start their invasion. I want you to commandeer them.
Now is the time to show the world how God's own country is really created.

Priest: But, sir, I thought that was against the rules.

Only now does the priest see the Pope's face properly, ravaged by the Dark Side of the Force into a leering mask of anger and sadism. The Pope fixes the Priest with a long look and then says:

Pope: I have changed. The Rules.

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