Mayonnaise down the alley…

But first…
Dulltown, UK: Today’s instruction is to go into town with sticking plasters on your nose and over each eyebrow, just as a conversation starter.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

The evening was dark, and it was bucketing down with big rain; I was in the narrow cobbled streets of the old town, but I was heading in the direction of the bus station and home. As I passed a narrow opening, a brick arched Victorian alley, I glimpsed the orange spark of a lit cigarette being sucked, and a hoarse voice suddenly spoke out of the darkness, ‘Ahoy there shipmate! Could you assist a poor fellow sea-faring man, down on his luck, just back from the Greenland fisheries, with a plug of baccy and the price of a tankard of good ale?…’
I stopped in my tracks, the water dripping from my raincoat hood down my cheek as I turned my head – the voice came again, but this time it was a ghastly hollow prolonged laugh, as if issuing from a newly dug grave…
I then recognised the voice – I said, ‘Hello Tony, what are you doing lurking in there?’
Yes, it was Tony Mayonnaise, poet from the glory days of the Hull Surrealist League.
He said that he had been to an ‘open mic’ night at the ancient pub down the passageway, but he said he’d walked out in a huff because his spoem (spoof poem) hadn’t gone down very well with the audience of  ‘trendy young bastards’…
He handed me a crumpled piece of paper with the spoem on it, and said, ‘Here, put this on that stupid blog thing of yours and see if anybody likes it…

The feline port semaphore, the sanguine disaster.
Alabaster gym-carnivore, the gentle tone blanket.
Cuddling sigh, bumper brass, bumper brass…
Concatenation bruise, sorry wood petulance.

Quiet diktat, a mesmerising fang assortment.
Gum undulation, the motor-calf stevedore hum.
Tangle poodle, shooter box, shooter box…
Cerebration, hat-stance calibration strife.

Georgian metope, tin-sod blood extravaganza.
Jackanapes, rumba-shoe, the flow-castle ducks.
Diaphanous bee, sitting bung, sitting bung…
Blue-cake epistle, gun-Tuesday, go-bomb.

French node consolation, the feed-pod indenture.
Balloon, foam-toast misappropriation cue.
Plentiful gull, clanging dune, clanging dune…
Fenestration tot, pork-membrane stick-puck.

Telephone perch magnetite, the flea-board tanks.
Stetson grey water-box, the chuffing pink-spot cloth.
Bark black terrapin, squirting pen, squirting pen…
Steely velour tinker, an octagon dyke mug!…

Tony Mayonnaise. 2017.

About Dave Whatt

Grumpy old surrealist artist, musician, postcard maker, bluesman, theatre set designer, and debonair man-about-town. My favourite tools are the plectrum and the pencil...
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11 Responses to Mayonnaise down the alley…

  1. Jheron Bash says:

    Well, I don’t know where that Tony gets ’em from! He’s a weird bugger and no mistake …

  2. Jheron Bash says:

    Well, I don’t know where that Tony gets ’em from. He’s a weird bugger and no mistake …

  3. Dana Doran says:

    Ah yes, trendy young bastards….I’ve come to believe that the problem is that “trendy young bastards” have a difficult time expressing themselves using big people words. They tend to reduce verbal comments to a choice few words, “you’re an idiot!” No doubt, without a dictionary handy…..oh! I didn’t have to look up fenestration, as many years ago I ran across “defenestration” and wondered how popular the act must have been to have created a word to describe it? Apparently it was a very popular way to end an argument.

  4. I like it. Tell Tony for me.

  5. Jheron Bash says:

    For defenestration, see Dario Fo, “Accidental Death of an Anarchist”. Classic defenestration comedy!

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