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The Umbilical Brothers are an duo from Aussie, who combine mime and sound effects with fantastic results. They’ve been regulars on Aussie tele for a long while, and in honor of the Edinburgh Festival (which is currently going on), which incidentally was the last time I saw them (BRILLIANT! LMAO!)…
Gentlepersons, I give you…
THE UMBILICAL BROTHERS!
I’ve just found out that the Umbies will be in NZ in Sept and coing to London in Oct – WHOOHOO! Guess where I’m gonna be?! :)
xx
Langston Hughes was a black poet from Missouri born in 1902, died (on my birthday!) in 1967.
This one touched me today.
Dreams
Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.
A Silly Poem
Said Hamlet to Ophelia,
I’ll draw a sketch of thee,
What kind of pencil shall I use?
2B or not 2B?
Spike Milligan
I cam across this poem when I was living in Edinburgh in the early 2000’s. I always liked it. Hope you do too…
O Tell Me The Truth About Love
Some say love’s a little boy,
And some say it’s a bird,
Some say it makes the world go around,
Some say that’s absurd,
And when I asked the man next-door,
Who looked as if he knew,
His wife got very cross indeed,
And said it wouldn’t do.
Does it look like a pair of pyjamas,
Or the ham in a temperance hotel?
Does its odour remind one of llamas,
Or has it a comforting smell?
Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is,
Or soft as eiderdown fluff?
Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges?
O tell me the truth about love.
Our history books refer to it
In cryptic little notes,
It’s quite a common topic on
The Transatlantic boats;
I’ve found the subject mentioned in
Accounts of suicides,
And even seen it scribbled on
The backs of railway guides.
Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian,
Or boom like a military band?
Could one give a first-rate imitation
On a saw or a Steinway Grand?
Is its singing at parties a riot?
Does it only like Classical stuff?
Will it stop when one wants to be quiet?
O tell me the truth about love.
I looked inside the summer-house;
It wasn’t over there;
I tried the Thames at Maidenhead,
And Brighton’s bracing air.
I don’t know what the blackbird sang,
Or what the tulip said;
But it wasn’t in the chicken-run,
Or underneath the bed.
Can it pull extraordinary faces?
Is it usually sick on a swing?
Does it spend all its time at the races,
or fiddling with pieces of string?
Has it views of its own about money?
Does it think Patriotism enough?
Are its stories vulgar but funny?
O tell me the truth about love.
When it comes, will it come without warning
Just as I’m picking my nose?
Will it knock on my door in the morning,
Or tread in the bus on my toes?
Will it come like a change in the weather?
Will its greeting be courteous or rough?
Will it alter my life altogether?
O tell me the truth about love.
Following on from the great success of my original Rozencrantz & Guildenstern post, which is my most viewed post ever, I found this today and it made me giggle.
You can read the whole thing HERE
And incidentally, just noticed that it was loaded on my birthday 2003!! :) That’s coincidence for ya!
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Not Dead (They Are Hiding)
By Nick Jezarian
“But why are we hiding, Rosencrantz?”
“Why, we’re hiding because we don’t want to be seen.”
“But if everyone thinks we’re dead, then there’s no need to hide.”
“Who said we’re dead?”
“Everyone knows Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead. It’s common knowledge.”
“We’re not dead.”
“I know that.”
“So then everyone doesn’t think we’re dead. You don’t.”
“This is ridiculous Rosencrantz, we’ve been stuck in this closet for over 300 years. I’m tired of smelling moth balls.”
“Then stop sticking your head between their legs.”
“Rosencrantz, if we weren’t hiding, I’d tell everyone I saw that you were a complete dickweed.”
(Continued on the site)
Part Deux -
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Still Not Dead (They’re Just Playing Hide and Seek)
by Nick Jezarian
Name five things. Do it now. Fast.
What?
What isn’t a thing, you mental juggernaut. Five things, I said.
Jesus Christ!
That’s one.
You’re unreal.
Unreal is a state of being, not a thing.
A state of being is so a thing. I should be at two. Strudel.
Now you’re cooking. Three more things.
Shhh!
Nope, three more. I should penalize you for that one.
I think I hear someone coming.
[Pause.]
You’re just stalling. Three more things you twit.
Salamanders, monkfish, and Shelly Duvall.
Thank you.
What was that all about?
What was what all about?
Naming five things. Fast.
Rutabaga, John Holmes’s penis, squash, indecency, shallow feelings of inadequacy. Booya! That’s five in what has to be record time.
We’re just not on the same page today. Are we?
again continued HERE
Found this one today. Fits my current disillusionment of all things about cities…
Rimbaud was a French Poet of the late 1800’s. Did most of his work between age 10 and 20, and died aged 37.
City
I am an ephemeral
and a not too discontented citizen
of a metropolis considered modern
because all known taste
has been evaded in the furnishings
and the exterior of the houses
as well as in the layout of the city.
Here you will fail to detect the least trace
of any monument of superstition.
Morals and language
are reduced to their simplest expression,
at last! The way these millions of people,
who do not even need to know each other,
manage their education, business,
and old age is so identical
that the course of their lives
must be several times less long
than that which a mad statistics
calculates for the people of the continent.
And from my window I see new specters rolling through
the thick eternal smoke–
our woodland shade, our summer night!–
new Eumenides in front of my cottage
which is my country and all my heart
since everything here resembles it,–
Death without tears,
our diligent daughter and servant,
a desperate Love, and a pretty
Crime howling in the mud in the street.
I’ve been listening to Stereophonics a lot lately, and strangely enough they seem to turn up in the most unexpected places.. Last week, on the station platform waiting for the train to London, the rail employee on the ticket gate had her headphones on and was singing ‘Dakota’.. In the morning news program about the lovely weather we’re having – backing track = ‘Have a Nice Day’…
So I thought I’d bow to the inevitable and give you some lyrics here to ‘Pick a Part That’s New’. If you want to hear the song, try YouTube (and It Means Nothing and Dakota are also fabulous, and I mentioned Maybe Tomorrow yesterday - fuck it, the entire Stereophonics back catalog is well worth a listen! :)
Pick A Part That’s New
I’ve never been here before
didn’t know where to go
never met you before
I’ve never been to your home
that smells not unknown
foot steps made of stone
walking feels familiar
you can do all the things that you like to do
all around underground pick a part that’s new
you can do all the things that you like to do
all around upside down pick a part that’s new
people drinking on their own
push buttons on the phone
was i here once before
is that my voice on the phone
that last drink on my own
did i ever leave at all
confusion’s familiar
you can do all the things that you like to do
all around underground pick a part that’s new
you can do all the things that you like to do
all around upside down pick a part that’s new
so what’s new to you?
It’s Kelly Jones’ voice that really does it – he’s got this fantastically ragged quality in his voice, like he’s been screaming for hours – except he hasn’t. :)
And on an aside, Steve Kilbey’s blog today is also music related – “at what point can noise be called music?” Check it out for a slightly more philosophical discussion.
