Silver Hammers. Houseflies. And Body Parts.

I wake up around noontime and “Maxwell’s Silver Hammer” is stuck in my head. (Not on it, at least.) Which isn’t entirely surprising, considering that it was the final sing-along at “Wits” yesterday.  And also because it’s the most cheerful song about multiple murders ever written.

(Here’s the point where you ask me what this “Wits” thing is about.) Now, I could go into detail about Were-turkeys, woman tractors, Gollum singing, animated meat pies, and such, but it might be sufficient to say this instead: Neil Gaiman. Josh Ritter. Bill Corbett. Kevin Murphy. Will Wheaton. Adam Savage. John Moe. A brass band. In one show.

(Of course I was sold.) So I watched it live yesterday. Well, in a sense. Along with eight hundred-odd people, I streamed it live and happily took part in its Twitter feed, which also broadcasted live on stage during the actual show. The show itself was very educational- I now know, for instance, that Eleanor Rigby was actually a serial killer known only as “The Face Cutter-Offer”, and kept people’s faces in jars by her door.

I could go on all day. Or you can just watch it here:

Apart from medicine majors going “BANG BANG” with silver implements, a series of funny poems by Christian Morgenstern were another good start to my morning. Here’s a sample:

At the Housefly Planet

Upon the housefly planet
the fate of the human is grim:
for what he does here to the housefly,
the fly does there unto him.

To paper with honey cover
the humans there adhere,
while others are doomed to hover
near death in vapid beer.

However, one practice of humans
the flies will not undertake:
they will not bake us in muffins
nor swallow us by mistake.

If you liked that, you can read the rest at . Thanks to Meewa for pointing me in that direction.

It also may be particularly helpful today. “The Really, Really Bad Poets” are on again tonight, and I promised to read something this time. (The only thing I’ve read so far at the Bad Poets shindigs was one impromptu haiku, which doesn’t count for much. Except that it does, cause it’s Bad Poets.)

It’s not because I’m afraid what people will think of my poems, since I’ve never really thought of myself as a poet. Thing is, I seldom feel the urge to write poetry at all. I only try my hand at it every now and then. My most recent (successful) attempt was a triolet (eight lines with some specified to repeat), and my most recent unsuccessful one was that, er, sestina I told you about in a previous post.

Considering I’m STILL struggling to put together a poem about body parts (which happens to be the theme tonight), it’s not too late for you to try one as well. Feel free to join “The Really Really Bad Poets” tonight at The Outpost, and read one of your good ones or better yet, one of your really terrible ones. It might be the only place you can read those awful ones on a microphone, no less, to a willing audience. So I’ll see you there, I hope.


About Pami Therese

I am a fantasist. This means I’ve never been very impressed with the whole business of growing up, and have therefore decided not to. This also means I see around corners and like all sorts of imaginary things. I am very much myself, which is one thing today and possibly another thing tomorrow. View all posts by Pami Therese

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