The Sofa

The Sofa

The plaid pattern stung my eyes

it awaited its removal

tucked in a bare corner over all these years

There was no need to barter

I had all the silver and gold at my disposal

for it was written: this sofa had to be mine.

No paws but my own could touch her during the move

and as I heaved it through the threshold of the former besitzer

she coughed out her mattress,

like a forthcoming whale's tongue

It, in all its splendor,

was out of her box and jammed, unmoving,

I struggled with sweat dropping on the tiles despite the freezing weather

My bones were challenged and my recently torn hamstring

twanged like the loose chords of a harp

Not to be overcome I cursed the Gods, my mother Athena,

then ripped off my belt,

strapping it and wrapping it along its Main Spring

It worked: the convertible ceased to convert itself into a bed and

went back to being a sofa.

Dear reader, if you bemoan as I the treachery of having to move

this heavy settee by myself -read no further!

I trembled to think how, with one good leg, I would heave my

object of desire

to port

I was ready to abdicate my throne if She

wouldn't make it to my checkered palace.

So I hoisted before Lucifer's eyes this couch

until my fingers were burning and I lay cursing

the fallen angels, the burning tombs in Dante's Inferno

now I breathed

Again with hamstring twanging

I summoned my thoughts

not a King, not a squire in this land

e-portaled , web-connected or not

would send a vassal to deliver a couch in such conditions

Yet some movers are unlike mortals

frenzied, eyes riveted now over my

belt that held the holy spring

I shoved and moaned in the cold darkness

biting down on molars and

ignoring what not resources gone

Should I fall still on the street just one yard

from my chariot

let it be known that Love for colors and contrast

are One with Life

Nevertheless I insisted

howling and moaning

shaking the double-paned windows of nearby houses

waking damsels who blew out the candles on their ipads in fright

I hoisted this Thing into my chariot (of Swedish make)

Stuffing her with no respite

ignoring space

making my own physical laws

to get her in

I did

And when I did

the mermaids sang out from distant oceans

Now, convertible in tow, I exceeded limits set for speed

but the authorities let me pass

seeing my knees crunched into my neck

my Manlihood pressed into my throat

(I may or may not ever again sire children)

The angels opened the gates liberating me from Hell

The Sofa, in all her splendor,

took her place

and for me to rest on her.

Theft, arson, boulders, rocks

ecurity is getting so tight in the French Alps that even rocks or boulders are under surveillance. A recent spat has shown a spike in "boulder-napping", where boulders are held against their will and asked to cough up personal details, credit cards and even jewelry. A French officier de la police was quoted "C'est boulversant, insuportable, et une honte pour la France."

The public outcry has been so strong that cameras are being installed in front of prominent boulders nationwide.

100 year old bicycling record

100 year old sets first-ever hour record mark for his age group

The oldest ever track record has been established by the Frenchman Robert Marchand who, over two months after turning 100 years of age, travelled to the World Cycling Centre in Aigle, Switzerland and established the mark 24.251 kilometres. “I’m not playing at being a champion,” he said. “I just wanted to do something for my 100th birthday.” The achievement is more about the staggering feat of setting a mark at his age rather than the distance covered, particularly as he could have gone faster. Because of his age, doctors have instructed him not to exceed 110 beats per minutes. Mr Marchand's next attempt at a record will be spending one hour inside the superstore IKEA. "I've always marveled the distances my wife and I travelled while looking even for a simple sofa. Now I'm hoping the record books will take account my efforts." Again, his doctor's have instructed Mr. Marchand not to lift more than 20 kilo boxes as he could risk pulling on a sciatic nerve. Mikael Ohlsson, CEO of IKEA, will be present for the event and has instructed his maintenance crew to make sure that all arrows to be pointing in the right directions.

Snake food for babies

After years of studies it has been revealed that babies are adept at killing snakes with one hand. Fishintree TM proposed 3 varieties to satisfy your loved one and give its growing organism a much needed rattle.

Three balls are better than two

500 men have been recalled in France to have their 3rd testicle removed after silicone leaks were discovered. Over a period of 2 decades, men, assuming they would have a ball to have an extra ball, had the implants planted in their scrotums.

Dogface transplant

Belgian doctors have succeeded in their first dogface transplant. The l8 hour surgery proceeded without a hitch. The medical team also removed fleas from the patient, Joe, (its real name is being concealed for ethical reasons)

If you would let me lick your face,

release the steam from my tongue

smell and sniff

sweet bone molecules in the air

Your chops are my chops

I will drool for you

wrap a fly or bee in my mouth for you to kill

blow out a match with my paw

If I can press my nose against

any part of your body

I can smell you in the breeze

Identify you in the midst of a perfume department

Blow pollen in your direction

I will love thy dogface as you love mine

and in Heaven we will sniff the Lord of Love.

The last letter

The last letter

Nobody thought is was coming yet here it is:

The last languid though heartfelt letter to be

Inked on this piece of paper.

The postal service is gone, kaput, au revoir

And the only way to deliver a letter today is to do it

Yourself!

Mailmen went from endangered species to

Extinct (throwing a raw steak at them now is too late)

Yet for some memories they still cross the blocks;

Whistle in the snow and ease a smile

“Junk mail or not here it is.”

Think this: during the WWI trench warfare

Young men knocked and shocked with feet

Rotting in cold mud

Had the written word to hold on to; be it theirs

Or from some beloved

Stamped, dated, watermarked

It was in the hand or a pocket or helmet

Warming the spirit like a coal furnace.

If war is an argument for letters then let

Us keep warring;

Ripping young brave hearts

So to build the right environment

to bleed some ink

If today we ignore any need

To flag an emotion on a support other than

-Electronic-

Then we have flattened our landscape;

Taken the roll out of rivers;

Removed the rumble of avalanches;

Unboomed the sonic boom and

Unpopped the child’s floating bubble.

And stamped out our last tangible history

Personal, unviral, grandiose.