Behold, tis the Mighty Poetry Bus!

Beware the ides of March and the tides of turn, in fact it is (apparentlio) my turn to take a turn at drively the world famous, poteen powered pooetry bus, me own bleedin charabungle!
Iam currently thermally, as well as intellectually, challenged, and the main problem ( with only the onset spring as the affordable solution) is that the komputee is in the coldest room in the house.
Did you ever see The Poseidon Adventure where they had to take deep breaths before plunging into the watery stuff to emerge over the other side where they wanted to be? Well that's a bit what it's like going to the komputer- get wrapped up, take a deep breath of heat and head in and do what you can as quick as you can while your fingers and toes are still your own and not blackened and needing amputation.

And so and thus, and this is why I am blog-lite of late and not getting round as much as I should and ting. But anyways many profuse thanklos to Emergely writo what did the prompt last week so typically thoroughly and professionally, and artistically to boot.And also thanks a plenty to all who were good enough to get aboard and I hope I will read all the pomes ADAP or ASAP even.

So the brillo EW hands over the keys to moi, totalofeckloeejly.

TFE is a fig leaf of his own imagination, a three legged racer and demi god of milk jelly. He talks about himself in the third person as the other two are invariably asleep, or in prison. A love child of the 1930's TFE was the first person to walk on the moon without the aid of a pair of idioms. A precocious prodigy he produced a prodigious amount of poo and thanks to his time-travelling cot that he fashioned from rusks, used nappies, and pram wheels, could play Beethovens sixth before the fifth had even been written.
He attributes his nihilistic tendencies to being brought up by a marauding gang of marxist bank robbing beavers who adopted him as their spokesperson after being abandoned by his parents in Roches stores at the tender age of 36.He dreams of dreaming and delays falling asleep by getting up 3 hours before before he goes to bed. His ambition is to have an ambition.


And so to this weeks task. Write a poem. Don't think, just feel. Sit yourself down,stay quiet, find silence, concentrate on your breathing, feel your chest rise and fall, your heart beating, blood pumping.You are alive, so alive.Breathe in and breathe out,count those breaths, slowly look into your heart, your soul, how are you? Who are you? Are you happy/sad/ lost/ found/ confused/ certain.Are you where you hoped to be, do you know yourself? Are you who you were? Who might you yet be. Where might you be? Forget what your brain tells you that you know,and forget what your brain tells you to think, listen to your breath,tell me how you feel and why you feel it. How many breaths have you taken in this life? Think of them, focus on them. How many breaths are still to be taken? Disengage the brain and write from the heart.Close your eyes examine your breath, examine your life and feel!



A cool toon as a reward.Boy George looks like a giant toddler!