Saturday, 31 October 2015

Letters from the Habsburg dynasty, part 2: King of the Fractal Corn Forest

Here we are, then! The long awaited second letter makes its public appearance.
Dutifully I had replied to Arthur's first missive, describing my recent dalliances, but the fact that my letter is not mentioned in this second instalment of the Habsburg saga, put towards the news that Count Arthur has moved residence, makes me doubt whether he ever got to read it. That being as it is, I cannot call this a reply, but only what it is: letters part 2.

[transcript start]
"Guten Tag Liebe Chucky,

I have a strong feeling that you are doing
fine, because I'd had a dream that
you have acquired a stern, pear-shaped
dog, with a good straight nose, and cubism-eye,
and that he is sublime at looking after
himself! His name is eleven and he
does not allow you to wash the dishes
and can generate smells spontaneously
for himself to follow, dragging you behind
smoothly along the raspberry jam rails
you wear a dotted dress and (your)
lipstick is on (your) cheeks! You cry,
'eleven! eleven!', and he responds by
making his tail into a rainbow!
You have lots and lots of fun, even though
you both know, that only one of yous will
live as long as the seaturtle!
I want to start by declaring that I
am the King of the Corn Forest!
And I say forest, NOT field, for
a field is someplace where one plays
ball, whereas a forest is a fractal being!
Now, you might say that for a citizen-
grasshopper, or a fellow citizen-ladybug,
a grassfield, or a patch of green I
periodically trodd upon on my way to another
space-time, instead of following the gravelpath
which a consciencious citizen-human ought to do, is
as much a forest as anything. And you might

I cannot even attempt to analyse this dream-adventure Art describes to me. But I do now feel the pressure of having to acquire, by any means necessary, a pear-shaped dog, and to send pictures by mail to Warendorf, Germany as proof.

What I do wish to draw your attention to, however, is Arthur's sudden and consistent use of a Royal vocabulary to refer to himself. Note that he is no longer just the Prince, - the nickname I have myself used several times when referring to him - no, he has now ascended, in his mind at least, to the rank of King. King of the realm he now tries to explain to us in elaborate and cumbersome words so as to cloud our understanding of the world in general.

[page 2]
be right, as it does seem to follow the
fractal conception. However, what (?!)
in this case, is a field for your regular
citizen grasshopper, or his fellow citizen
ladybug?! Anyway, you must forgive
my ignorance in considering my kingdom
as being located in the quintessentially
full-bodied-spectrum level of fractal
existence as it is merely, and
innocently rooted in my general's limited
power of conquest and the unwillingness
of diplomatic reach!
All I can say is that my current staff
are hereditary pillars, while I have been elected
by the wind and the stars and the
cracks in the pavement.
As any substantial monarch I do not
reside where I rule. I have been put up
in a permanently temporal residence on
Marktplatz, second floor, a building to the
right of goldmerchant Ferdinand Wessleman's
shop, that is always closed, overlooking the
market square. It is a cake to behold!
I cannot see the cornforest from there, but
I can see buildings, like giant high-fives,
with a few extra fingers with mosaic veins.
When I moved in, the flat consisted of
floorboards, evenly laminated with historic
dust, wall capsules and ceilings that I
still lose sight of. There was a single
dim lightbulb in the vertically disproportionate
bathroom, hanging like a man who hung himself

An elected monarch?
What would a fractal cornforest look like, the editor ponders...

[page 3]
with a rubber rope. Now I have a washing-
fridge with a square-spin action and a
freezing-dryer that runs on KRAUT.
Piece by piece I'll acquire a spot-lightbulp and
my many fans. Meanwhile, I am building another
floor, so as not to disturb the historic dust.
But soon, maybe even by the time you open
this letter, I will have finished the act of
the carpenter and with swollen hands begun
a new play altogether"

     SEnd me pictures of your DOG!
                                     [address redacted]

One wonders whether the ancient dust at the gold merchant's neighbouring flat might have contained some residual flakes of hallucinatory agents...

[page 4]

I do hope my mustard poem
had survived the reappearance
in another space-time continuum,
But since I have no certainty in
that, here is a dip-free poem:

Ship me your purple toenails,
And a matchbox full of rain.
I have found treasure with a toothpick,
It lays me off from being sane.
A street of hay inside my kitchen,
A bat-like hob that lays an egg,
I eat the silhouettes of friction,
And drink the moisture off my leg.
My cat is privatizing sunshine,
While I invest in Northern lights,
My retrospective is abundant,
My hats are not of heights!
I Am a gentleman from now on,
Unless I meet some nervous limbs,
which use their mouths for spitting yellow,
And wear min crowbars on their chins


And until next time.

Tuesday, 20 October 2015

Letters from the Habsburg dynasty, part 1B - The Glooey Poem Fragment

Having received a second letter from M. Arthur de Habsbourg only a couple of days ago, I feel it is high time that the poem which accompanied the first letter - now half-lost due to excessive glueing on his part and careful (but not careful enough) tearing on mine - should see the light of day.

So please, find here the words I could decipher out of the typewritten, mustard-yellow stained rag of paper, channelled onto said medium by Herr Habsburg's brain, likely inspired by a state of both emi- and immi-gration, travelling in the company of Cat the cat, quite possibly disturbed, confused, and/or intoxicated, which I have attempted to represent, as always, as faithfully as possible, for you, in your life:

     One day I got home toolate,
    And then had to leave tooearly,
   You know the feeling. 
   But I don't.          One slow motion blink
                                               in Rue de la Blunt.
  Vacuum between me and the taxi driver,
Vacuum              behind me and the crude shimmering
                    yellow lamposts
               Away,                away,
Into the flight.
Wh at man can do cat can do
           BUY ME BUY ME
                      And then have SEX with me
                            Like you own me.
Where is your flight?
What is your cat?
Is that your final destination?
Now show cat to my dog-


Hello EveryOne,
I too have wondered
Why everything smelled of must(h)ard.
And why Flintstone Fred still markss the lines on the road.
Smooth had been the (end) name of the game
Since 1919 ADBC AMPM.

Smooth is the Father of the mother
    And they live in a hut

                       ON THE CONTINENT
Every Mng is polished,
Especially the cemeteries.
Every th i ng is here,
Whaiting for the other to ########


Letters from the Habsburg dynasty, part 1: The organ-soul-communication-apparatus

Dear Readers, 
You may not know this, but quite recently, my friend, percussionist extraordinaire, lapsed aristocrat (we suspect) and, last but not least, fellow Mekanic, Arthur T. Habsburg, emigrated to Germany.

A triptych of Lord Habsburg from the rear

"Hello Chucky, ..."
Somewhat saddened by this fact which I learned just a few short weeks before his departure, I requested that he write me letters of his adventures in the country that I myself abandoned some years ago. 
Cut to 11th Septermber 2015. It had been a very long while since I last came home to discover a letter wedged in my postbox that I could not immediately guess the sender of. Maybe I should have inspected the stamp more carefully, but the temptation to rip it open straight away was stronger. 

And there it was, accompanied by a strange-smelling, jauntily laid-out typewritten poem that I have not yet managed to unstick from itself: The first installment of the soon-to-be-infamous Habsburg Letters, sent from Arthur's new, temporary home in Münster, and written by hand in his very own unmistakable vernacular, which I now present to you, transcribed in full and unedited:

[transcript start]

"Hello Chucky,
I write to you on day seven, and when I
say that I am breaking into Heaven it will
not be merely for rhyme's sake! All is good!
Münsterland is awesome in the original, not
overused sense of the word! It's a happy
Pretzel land. Rows of Hanseatic houses, 
ancient trademan's HQ, pocket size towns,
all surrounded by massifs of agriland, well off
farmers, wide cotton trousers, 'I am the emperor
of the cornfields' type, bouncing on street corners
in their super-mario tracktors! And all wear hats
and get burried in them. And the air SMELLS, but
is not polluted
I live with my relatives (1+1(8/12+7/100) in a house
that I dreamed I build for       kleine kinder   myself
but I may not ever be prepared to make the 
neccessary sacrifices (Lounge area, bathtub in
the bedroom, music in the bathroom/kitchen/every room,
subwoofers under the couch, automated blinds,
and sauna and cinema is (still unfortunately for me) under
construction). Cat still gets lost in the house 
and contemplates our situation in dark corners. 
We speak in a mixture of three languages, and
I am still afraid of the children.
On second day I bought a bycicle (Conrad) that
comes from the golden era of the bycicle family
(still unspoilt genes, no inbreeding or mental disorders)
and is very well maintained, making it hard not to
indulge in the stereotype regarding ze Jermans
and zeir mashinz. I pimped it out with a 
Japanese speedometer, that has now, unfortunately, 
stop working. During his short life he recorded overall
tracking distance of 127km. He has no name"

[page 2]
"I am yet to say anything about beer, {NOR will I} because
it is so commonplace in my system. I'd rather
talk about gloom as there is no grain sand
of it here. But nor shall I do that. BECAUSE
No condition is permanent!
For the first time in some years I feel
positevely happy (without pharmaceutecal stimulation),
without the feeling being grounded in any
form of achievement. It will not last.
I am still an alien, but the air smells
And I only miss weed when baby-Tv is on.
(Mad shit! Imagine if all TV was baby-TV,
as opposed to degenerateTV).
On Sunday I went to Lamberti Kirche
for Orgel Nacht. FULL HOUSE (was God
there?...) I came early and sat on the 
praying bench discreetly sipping southern comfort
(inappropriate choice of drink, I know) and
reading Isaak Asimov's essay on heretics
(complete coincidence). The concert was
in three parts plus bonus:
1.   Man-on-birch-mini-organ and 
Okay, but I suffer from gigantomania.
2.   Sameman-on-building-size-organ-soul-
Review: Jetpack for the mind, goosebumps
behind the ears and in places I did not know 
I had skin. Only the Santa Barbara made
me think of a staged sunset in Malibu

[page 3]
"3.   A (German) Choir (singing English religious songs)
  Review: -----------"-------------------
A 1926 silent film Faust with
improvised accompaniment from Sameman-
Review: Best of the Best.
The whole audience applauded Sameman for
NINE minutes straight! (And I am pleased to
say that that is longer than Kanye was dipped
into after his 'running-for-president' 'speech'!)
On the way back I encountered a distant
thunderstorm of Zeus-in-parties magnitude.
The emperyon was being zipped here and
there many times across, with glorious purple
afterglows! And it was total silence! As that was
a silent film project of gallactic HD quality.
Zip and glow, zip and glow. I stood in a 
field for an hour like a scarecrow realizing
the celestial power.
That day I've spent four hours in a 
place of worship, which is by a long distance
my record (my bedroom does not count here..)
And the clarity of mind I got from it was
unique. I now endevour to do my thinkings
and writing in a church, and use the bedroom
for only going-to-the-toilet purposes."

[page 4]
"Yesterday, a man (Frank) came to fit
in a (second) toilet and we got to talking.
He said, Hey, do you wants to come play
fußball, Ich spl sp bin in ein club? Hast du
shoes? I said yes. It's been 8 years
since I played in a club. He put my bike
into his van and we drove off to Ervinswinkel
(20km). I thought I'd die in 20 mins, 
but I lasted the whole two hours and at 
the end they wanted me to join. The all 
speak German and I try to soak it in. 
Frank invited me to a party next weekend
where he said we would smoke some ............
I said maybe, but it certainly is a dillemma. 
I just came back, with no legs, driving
20 km down interstate bikelanes laid 
thru cornfields in the dark with a 
faulty light. Tomorrow i will buy 
sportsgear and not forget to post this.
    How are your undertakings?
And how is everybody?


   Attached is a poem gone glooey!"

[transcript end]

I will be soon be composing a detailed reply to herald the start of the Liverpool side of correspondence in this matter, and to request further writings from Prince Arthur.
The poem remains yet to be examined in more detail - a transcript/analysis may follow.

Chucky x