THOUGHTS OF KOLEE                     APRIL 20,  2016

    
     
                         SUSAN GIRO,          THE LUTON WIND,         AND EVENTS THEREIN AND THEREOF 

                FARTS  OF  KOO   / /   THOUGHTS  OF  KOLEE  




    
       Professor Loyne :                         ?

Dear Professor Loyne

I have been having a thought, quite a lot of thoughts in actual fact.
Ever since you took me under your wing, as your own Eliza Bluebottle, and taught me how to speak and write correctly, without affectation and suche - and thanks a lot for all your help !? innit   ! -
I have been thinking of taking the bull by the hairs and commandeering Thoughts of Koo, so to speak, taking ownership of something that is essentially now rudderless, but still something which we have all - even you Sikment - been a part (of)
Oh I know what you're going to say ..  ?Why You ms.?Ynnit  of all people   and what sense is there in it ?          Well, professor, it's like this:  First of all, I 'd change the name, to something more pertinent.
Like what ?  I hear you ask      Well,  Farts of Koo    would be an obvious runner, in light of recent developments, but that would be a use of pejorative rather than prerogative, if you get my drift , ..
No Kolee I'm not sure I ..         Put it this way, Sik, in taking this initiative, I'm inclined to the latter,
to use my prerogative, so to speak.   To keep the  T of K   document  as  T of K  still, but now it will be....             Thoughts of Kolee,  I don't doubt        One step ahead as always  Professor
Well yes  but the truth of the matter, ms ?Ynnit, is that you've always been prevalent in  Koo,
and that pigeon (Koo) is long since dead    killed apparently by  the cat KotoK.  ?remember      
Er  yes Prof .. I ..                      Assuming that bird ever existed at all    of  course      
Well I know what you'll say now,  Prof , to top what you've said already, no doubt .  ..
that  IF  T of K  is not derived from a pigeon of dubious existence, then we are left with the notion
that it is a collection of forecasts by the prophet Nostlikeymen.
All of which mean that I am the vessel through which N  speaks, the vessel linking past and present,   the vessel to whom appear Susan Giro,  telling tales of her twin Anna, her/their life&tymes with Antonio Vivaldi,  her passage into the modern world and her presentation to me , ! ME ! ,
Sikment,   at the  Luton Wind, first and four-most,  and then in events thereafter .      ..
I'm right,  am ? I not,  Professor  ..    .    Professor       ?       ..      .    .    Hmmmm                             !

As always

K?Y(ms)

                          when Kolee ?Ynnit (ms.) is told that when it comes to measuring 
                      the stench from old fart gags, some stenches are out on their own 
                 



Dear Ms ?Ynnit

Further to your query regarding the worst-ever fart gag:

The McWhirter twins of The Guiness Book of Records can't actually detail a specific result in this regard.
They maintain that it's very difficult to measure what is,
in essence, subjective opinion.

However they do draw a line between subjective outcome and the
results gained from objective reality.
And on this line drawn by the twins, it becomes possible to quantify
the stench left by the worst fart gags;
and from this, to measure then the distance between the stench borne by the individual and the stench borne by objective reality.
On this scale, Fart Garfunkel ranks pretty highly ( or lowly )


And yet, on this conceived Stenchometer, there is one stench-score that is unlikely ever to be surpassed.

That be the stench of Donald Trump


Yours in good part



Sikment Loyne(Prof)

Mr Simon

! It's all very well to make fart gags at my expense.
But(t) you're really scraping the barrel with this one.
And it really doesn't become you  -  someone who has ploughed
their way pretty successfully since our split - to take the piss out 
of an old-friend-and-music-partner (Me), who hasn't reached 
your heights, and who's had to content himself with the scraps 
of writing a shit song for a shit film about shit rabbits, 
and ultimately trying to make ends meet working his ass off 
for  an on-line - One-Stop-Tie-Shop.

That's the sum of what I have to say, Mr. Simon.


( Oh !there's a light flashing, which means a potential customer  . ..     .
  Sorry  .   . !got to dash .      .    .  sorry  .       .
                                         

   BUY ! TIES, BROWN  AND  RED  AND  YELLOW
    
  BUY TIES !?  HOW  MANY  SHALL  WE  MAIL     
     lalalalalalalalalalalalalalalala(la)
                                           !BUY TIES


   BUY ! TIES, BROWN  AND  .  ...    .


                 . .. Oh ! dammshit they've gone   )




                                                                                                               

                                                                                                                           FG










  

Silence.                        Sound of Silence.
Then him   FARTING           !        !            Such vileness
                                                                                           prompt  our  parting.



Paul Simon  was talking to Milo & Moli Tenensky 
about his split with  Fart Garfunkel.


 An  ?Ynnit (ms.)  / Simon & Tenykel   /   Lenii's Nytkome   production.

   


                                                                                                                ASIDES

                                 with age
                              my farts have mostly learnt
                                          to  mimic  the  call  of  the  pheasant

                                                 with age
                             my farts have moistly learnt
                  to  become  more  and  more  unpleasant 




                                                                Monteleny Sik           Stinkey Ol' Men         Micky Moist
                                                        !YIKES                           Sikment Loyne & Kolee ?Ynnit (ms)
                                                                   Mikel More / Barry Drewblood         Donald Pleasants   
                                                      Doanld Trump          Sneek 'n Mostly                Ye Kil Monnste 
                                                                               Helen Partridge  and  The  Bird  of  Dan Quail  
                                                                    Smokey Linnet  and  The  Bird  of  Stratford-on-Avon 
                                          The Pheasant Family    /    The Avon-Trap  Family's  Silence of Music
                                                                       The Silence of Silence  feat.  Simon 'n Tenykel
                                                                                                                          Mentyl  K. NOISE !





                                           

     in witch Kolee ?Ynnit (ms.) is in some-kind-of communication with Sikment Loyne


    
    SL :               Good to see that you have moved beyond 
                        affectation in your virtual talk too, Kolee                 !
                        I'm glad I'm rubbing off on you.

 
   K?Y(ms) :

    SL :               Eh Kolee ?!


    K ?Y(ms) :    ! LOL       Sik               LOL                                   !

    SL :            Innit.




   K?Y(ms) :    According to this new search engine I've just come across,
                     Sikment,  The 2nd Coming of Jesus Christ
                     is going to be in     Luton. 
                     And I don't mean ! the van
                     Am I wrong to be slightly disappointed?

   SL :           Well, Kolee, Jesus and The East are natural bedfellows.
                    Especially when driven by new search engines.

   K?Y(ms) :   You're not wrong there, Sik.
                    !But just hold onto your hats there a minute, it gets better.
                    These  Born-Agains  I've been hanging out with ?yeah,
                    they're part of this new-spiritual movement.. ..  .
                     ..     .    mmmm . .

    SL :          .    . Spice of Life

   K?Y(ms) :    Exactly  . hmmm.
                     Well they've not long taken over an old, abandoned curry-house at Luton                                Airport, converting it into a Charismatic Church, where they will welcome
                     Christ with open arms  . .    and flailing legs ..     and lolloping tongues
                     
    SL :          Yes, I heard about that. Or you told me. One and the same.
                     It's an evangelical thing, of course.    A Blessing in disuse. 
                     Plus an old, colonial trick too.
                     We always imagine Christianisation to be so much more palatable
                     when it comes with a korma.

    K?Y(ms) :   Hmm  . ! . mmm         Oh! and they've been dropping like flies  y'know,
                     up at the airport.         Going down in the spirit      apparently.

    SL :          Yes.


    K?Y(ms) :  


     SL :          People are referring to it as the Luton Wind ,      apparently
                    
                     
                    













   

On the very rare occasion that Antonio Vivaldi would get the merest whiff of what 
Nostlikeymen The Prophet was banging on about,  AV would chortle to himself, 
mutter something under his breath, ponder quizzically,  and generally stumble on.
And then he would lose the point completely, and we would be back to Square Zero.

There was one prophecy however, or strictly a pair of prophecies, which made 
Our Musician chortle and mutter and ponder and stumble that bit more.
To the extent that he may even have gasped and shuddered.



Here be the stuff of shudder and gasp (possibly),
stuff that was revealed at the  Sailor with Scurvy  party at the Pieta :


Y'see ?! that ting of booty who stande bye the lifeboots, Toonie   the Prophet ask Vivaldi
Mmmmm !   ! I do   reply a salivating MaestroPriest--in-waiting
Well ! nexte to 'er
? That ting of not-quite-so-much-booty
Yupp! ...    Welle  nest to 'er  .     .  .  and then  nexte to 'er .      ..
And so it went on.      And on.
Eventually N settled on the  ladie in questione  who, by the Natural Law of Disfiguration
was so damnably uglie that she would have stood out anyway, merely on account of that.
Or who, by the Unnatural Law of Figuration, bucked the trend to such a pitch that her
comeliness should literally strike a blow to any man's heart.
Who can say?, really.
Well we know who can, but neither of them are saying jack right now.


!Lo it transpire that the ladie pointed out 
                             ( or simply pointed ) 
                                                                   be known as  SUSAN G



4  Lo ! it doubly transpire that in those multifarious mugshots referred to by N-the-P,
one of them is Susan's twin sister, Anna G.
Neither one of them is aware of this.
No, if I may rephrase:
The Nether One  be aware of this ;  The Other One  not.

Fore thee, Tonie,   continue Nostlikeymen finally,  both off theez 2 wimmin  wille  bekom  
an 'attachement'
Do notte be bewilderede !
To eese yon waye - and sinse we refere too the 2 twinns - 
I wille allowe thee 2 questiones.  
! Butt onlye 2 questiones marke thee
Without hesitation Antonio Vivaldi pipes up:
Well N, since you haven't at any time called them  identical  twins, 
could Susan G's sister be that first one you pointed to, (please )
         ?        ?                              ?
And secondly, could you predict them as appendage sooner than attachment,  ( please).
Y'see, I have a particular attachment to the appendage.

We'll see,  the prophete reply,  we'll see.





























         

           Whether it is pertinent or not that the next provision of warm putridity 
 prompt the seer Nostlikeymen to bang out his  steam of consciousness  prophecies,
                        that,  dear reader,  is what proceed to take place.

                            
                                   No material evidence as such.
        Just my word that what is presented to you is an accurate account 
                                     of Spontaneous Prophecy.


                                    Is it not rather a moot point ?
                               that someone swinging on rigging
                   in sodden baggies would  simply not  make stuff up




                                                           SL

 

    MY STEAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS PROPHECIES



                                                                     
                                                        by    NOSTLIKEYMEN

SL :               So what did you make of Nostlikeymen's escapdes, Ms ?Ynnit
                     ? And the steam of consciousness prophecies with which he regaled Antonio Vivaldi

         

K ?Y(ms) :   !? Wot the ise-kreem  innit   ?   !    .  . !Oh that  .            .   mmhm  ..
                       dunno  sik  .  .     wosnt there  woz  . ..    .     .   ?      ( i )
                        ( !ahemm )    

                       I don't know, Sikment.   I didn't happen to be there, did I ?
                       And neither were you, of course.



SL :               OH ! Kolee               Dear ! sweet Kolee

Well !phew   is all I can say.  I've heard some tales ! 
No, I've heard many tales, but this one! takes the biscuit ! 
Really it does.  
!!Phew!





Dear reader(s)
  

Come back with me, if you will, to New Year, 1703, and a knees-up in Venice, Italy.
For a party is in full swing at the Ospedale della Pieta, or, as we know it, 
the Pieta,  purely and simply.
At the party a principle, nay honoured, guest : Antonio Vivaldi;
dreaming of purity, even simplicity.

Not dreaming of either: the prophet Nostlikeymen;
for whom 1703 is the 200th anniversary of His birth.
Or, as the prophet was heard to remark later (at the party):
            I amme off 199 yeares nowe 
 ande I wille be off 200 by the end of this junkture
           so (juste)  fucke !  offe

*You will note, dear reader(?), 
   the waye the prophete speake 
  be  the waye the prophete speake.

*You will also note, dear reader( ),
  that at that stage of the party
  the prophete be prettie pissd.

Now  it be true/it is true  that Nostlikeymen-the-prophet had, 
for the most part, always been partial to a party, in any parts. 
But a party at the Pieta  produce in the prophet a preponderance of partiality.
Or, as Nostlikeymen was heard to remark later ( still at the party):
           Itts mye partye    
  (ande)  Iyll dye iffe I wante too
             ( dye iffe I wante too     etc.  )
       so (juste) ! fucke  offe

Well, it wasn't  Nostlikeymen's party, in all truth.
He'd just happened to hear about it.
No, He just happened to 'know' about it,  
like He just happened to 'know' about most things going on;
in other words, about everything that would kick off in future time,
and about little or nothing cracking off at that moment;
which averaged out at Him 'knowing' about most things (going on)     !

All of which mean, predictably, that  Nostlikeymen-the-prophet 
be at the  New Year's party, 1703, at the Pieta  in Venice, Italy.
Which, at the end of the day (and well into the night ),
is pretty much the prophet's gain.

And everyone else's loss,
pretty much.

watt i lick about yew preest  
belch Nostlikeymen,  befuggered to the point of  linguisticke oblivione,
is that your knot lick all these other loosas here
your a tossa  butt  your knot a loosa
i dunt see yew as that at alle

Like a revivalist raising the roof at The Globe,  Vivaldi smile and frown in equal measure.
Put out by the prophet's personal approach, he drops the scudo which he has been tossing all evening, religiously;  every time correctly predicting which of the bankrupt Borgias will land heads up;  forever dreaming of the fortune he might have made, had there been money riding on it; had there been, in this or that world, any justice, poetic or otherwise.
It has to be rigged, of course,   remark  a nearby party-goer,  
Yes, it must be rigged.
Hearing this, Vivaldi launch into an offensive,  categoric  that    
behind a mere flip of a coin lie no dark hand.  
How! it land is how ! it land perchance   
he scream     
A chance to scheme ?! Dream on, devious beings. .! ?RIGGED RIGGED ?! 
At this point  the party-goer directs Antonio's gaze to the mast and sails erected in the  Installazione della Barcaccia  
Y'see, it has to be rigged, they reiterate.
And to emphasise the point, up the rigging climbs the pissed-old, purser-lipped prophet, up,  up to the masthead.
You have to admire him,  mumble the party-goer, with all-necessary inflection.
And how he knows what he knows ! beats me. Y'know, he was telling me stuff earlier that just blew my mind, man. And against that, all us common-folk, y'know, me, you, everyone else here, well,           
to paraphrase the prophet, we   dunt now shyt.
According to N, we cant even name the colour of our underwear; hell ! we don't know if we're even wearing any.
As the ancient mariner teeters at the top of the installation, people down below are checking underwear surreptitiously; some their own.
High above them, the mariner-prophet cries out like a maimed seabird: 
       Aaarrghhh  !  I cannot talke about me keks 
  butt what I can tell ye thoo is me baggies be pissgreene !               !Aarrggghh
 At this moment a stream of green fluid rain down on the party-goers. 
They flee quickly from the installation, crying, laughing too. 
OH!OH It's the !! Fontana della Barcaccia !
( Fountain of the Ugly Boat ), someone mocks,  to great applause.
Frig it ! cries another.
No ! Just an ordinary, old boat,   comes the reply.

Only Antonio Vivaldi seemed undisturbed by that shower of putridity.
He had been born in an earthquake and was clearly used to natural phenomena. 
Oy ! priest  rasped the old soak  
I'd get out of the way if I were you. 
There'll be more coming down  ! and worse
The prophet-mariner kept barking out stuff from the masthead,  scarcely audible above
the noise of the party. But it go something like this:
old man climb to top of rigging to look for toilet     
when he get to top can't remember what he climb up for      
piss himself
!Aaarrghhh     
then he remember

Had it not been for the party hubbub,  that un/amused muso AV might have mused on't,
might have shouted back to that olde belche-befuggerer:
 Look  ! Stop your meander ?won't you and tell me this :
     !Yew call me preest   Yew call me preest  
   !?! butt how is it that yew knowest off this

OH!OH Antonio,   he's gone awry,    left me       .       . 
                                                                   left me no choice, dear reader,  
                                                                   but to explain his predicament.



You see, Antonio Vivaldi was, in the early rites of 1703, set to become a priest.
Of that there is no dispute. He would gain enunciation some months hence.
Yet how did Nostlikeymen know this?
Such information after all was confined to the Pieta's four walls
which meant to within Venice
which meant to within Italy
which meant to within Southern Europe.
But then N wasn't from these parts for sure;
he was certainly not Italian.
And though an  inconnu he was certainly not French.
No, definitely ! not French
!He was always very keen to put a cork in that particular onion:
       Let Me ! be leafing  grayt distance 
  betwixt  Me  and  that faux-fortuneBagger 
borne in Francia  in muche the same yeare   as   Mwah


Antonio reckon theProphetNostlikeymen to be  Middle-English,
judging by that  diuretic vernacular  of his.
So AV could try calling up to the middleEnglander,
but there was really no point.
It would be like trying to reach goD   or    David blaine.
No, nothing for it but to climb the rigging and  go find  N.
What is it they say now?
 If the fountain won't come to Musician  etcetc  ..

And climb the rigging is just what Antonio Vivaldi do.
However, having had rather too much to drink, 
he can barely manage to get half-way.
That's not to say he has had anything like
the skinfull supped by the prophet.  
No siree !  Were this to be a drinking race,
AV be wearing Vuitton boots against N's Nike shoes.
Half-way.  AV breathless.
But?how did that old codge  . ..  .  
As he think this out loud, in a flash that old codge
is hanging right by him, clinging to the same rigging rope.
Butt  .! .  but  ..   stutter AV

Look Tonie ! I be Nostlikeymen,  saye the prophete
and nearlie 200 yeare olde to boote.
Ande to answere yon nexte questione,   
welle prettie muche the same waye that I knowe
yon wille soone be enunciated into the preesthoode,
ande be Maestro of the Pieta   sindoote.

Yes but(t) no  ! will I,  ?,   AV stumble on, 
I mean I will ?! won't I

At this, that self-styled seer sneers.
Letts putte this anothere waye,   saye  He.
When infoe be soo   .  ..  ' cloisterede'  .. .  
how dost one knowe to turne uppe  
to a  Sailor-with-Scurvy themed, NewYeare bashe
in Venice  dressede as a mariner  ?   mmmm
Like  a waif in ship's clothing   you mite saye
!    How preposterous     How presumptuous     How pertinent   !
?An erudite guesse
Or juste luckie with tosse off the scudo, who ?knowe   reelie
I amme 199 after alle.
Here Nostlikeymen smile knowingly and reassure Vivaldi:
Lookie here Toni !  This be Italie  (!Aarghhh)
An ise kreeme lefte on the tabel dust not remane an ise-kreeme fore longe (Aarghhh!)
Now Toni Vivaldi nods and grins, clueless as to what 
ye olde-pisspote be goin' on abut

Here, spurred on by his verry own gushe of warme putridity,  the-prophete-Nostlikeymen launch into  stream of consciousness  'prophesizing'.

Or steam of consciousness  perhaps.