or THE NEIGH-SAYERS
or MR. ED BURGERS
or HORSE SHIT
for TC, SJ and JM-G
1.
Horse meat is the culinary name for meat
cut from a horse. It is a major meat
in only a few countries, but it forms
a significant part of the culinary traditions
of others. It is slightly sweet, tender, low in fat
and high in protein. In the late Paleolithic era
wild horses formed an important source of food.
Horse meat was also eaten as part of Germanic
pagan religious ceremonies in northern Europe
particularly associated with the worship of Odin
2.
France dates its taste for horse meat
to the Revolution. Just as hairdressers and tailors
set themselves up to serve commoners, the horses
maintained by aristocracy as a sign of prestige
ended up alleviating the hunger of the lower classes.
It was during the Napoleonic campaigns
when the surgeon-in-chief of Napoleon's grand army,
Dominique-Jean Larrey, served horse as a soup.
In Aspern–Essling, cut from the supply lines,
the cavalry used the horses' breastplates
as cooking pots and gunpowder as seasoning.
In 1866 the French government legalised horse meat.
3.
It is a taboo in some English speaking countries.
It is a taboo amongst the Romani people and in Brazil.
Horse meat is not generally eaten in Spain (except in the North)
Horse meat is forbidden by Jewish dietary laws.
In the past horse meat has been eaten by Persians, Turks, Hanafi and Tartars,
but it has never been eaten in the Maghreb.
Popes Gregory III and Zachary instructed Saint Boniface
to forbid the eating of horsemeat to those he converted.
Despite the Anglophone taboo, horse meat was eaten in Britain,
especially in Yorkshire, until the 1930's and in times of post-war shortage.
4.
Beef (63%), Onion (10%),
Wheat Flour, Water, Beef Fat,
Soya Protein Isolate, Salt,
Onion Powder, Yeast, Sugar, Barley Malt Extract,
Garlic Powder, White Pepper Extract,
Celery Extract, Onion Extract. Horse.
In the spirit of Jack Spicer, this work is presented free from copyright. Feel free to share this work or even pass it off as your own as long as you do so free of charge. The blog also uses the words of others. If you see something of your own that you object to being here, please get in touch to discuss it. See "about this blog" for more info including Twitter and Facebook links.
Showing posts with label Steve Jones. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Steve Jones. Show all posts
Thursday, 17 January 2013
Tuesday, 25 September 2012
PHOTOS OF MOLLY ROSE JONES
for SJ
My boss posts photos
of Molly Rose Jones
in a rocker or on a mat
My boss posts photos
of Molly Rose Jones
in a striped onesy and hat
In a rocker or on a mat
Molly Rose Jones
in a striped onesy and hat
Molly Rose Jones
My boss posts photos
of Molly Rose Jones
She smiles she is amazed
My boss posts photos
of Molly Rose Jones
surprised eyebrows raised
She smiles she is amazed
Molly Rose Jones
surprised eyebrows raised
Molly Rose Jones
My boss posts photos
of Molly Rose Jones
in his hands in his lap
My boss posts photos
of Molly Rose Jones
see her laugh and clap
In his hands in his lap
Molly Rose Jones
see her laugh and clap
Molly Rose Jones
See her laugh and clap
in his hands in his lap
Molly Rose Jones
Molly Rose Jones
My boss posts photos
of Molly Rose Jones
in a rocker or on a mat
My boss posts photos
of Molly Rose Jones
in a striped onesy and hat
In a rocker or on a mat
Molly Rose Jones
in a striped onesy and hat
Molly Rose Jones
My boss posts photos
of Molly Rose Jones
She smiles she is amazed
My boss posts photos
of Molly Rose Jones
surprised eyebrows raised
She smiles she is amazed
Molly Rose Jones
surprised eyebrows raised
Molly Rose Jones
My boss posts photos
of Molly Rose Jones
in his hands in his lap
My boss posts photos
of Molly Rose Jones
see her laugh and clap
In his hands in his lap
Molly Rose Jones
see her laugh and clap
Molly Rose Jones
See her laugh and clap
in his hands in his lap
Molly Rose Jones
Molly Rose Jones
Labels:
baby,
ballad,
boss,
Facebook,
Molly Rose Jones,
photographs,
photos,
poem,
poetry,
repetition,
rhyme,
Steve Jones
Friday, 21 September 2012
SHRIVEL
for SJ
When he reached sixty his penis
shrunk up his prostate
like a snail hiding its face
in its shell. His hermit crab
sometimes showed its claws
unexpectedly in the bath or on a bus,
but if he fancied a bash
it turned tortoise, a slug
in his fist that slipped his hand.
When he reached sixty his penis
shrunk up his prostate
like a snail hiding its face
in its shell. His hermit crab
sometimes showed its claws
unexpectedly in the bath or on a bus,
but if he fancied a bash
it turned tortoise, a slug
in his fist that slipped his hand.
Tuesday, 18 September 2012
CONSTIPATION
for SJ
I felt it first
in my gut,
which contorted
around turds
like a brow
solving a problem.
It was not
the one thing,
but several
backed up
and hardening
into a fist
of stones.
My bowel
inflated
with flatulent
shouts and groans
that could not
commute
themselves
beyond the brick
of shit
that had settled
in my colon.
I puffed
as I pushed
my entire pelvic
floor at
the enormous
turnip that lodged
in my large
intestine.
I had taken
in too much
and not enough
fibre, so
I swelled
like a pregnant sow,
burdened
with a bellyful
of cack.
I squeezed
at my middle
in an effort
to pop
the cork
of my fizzy
brown dilemma.
No such luck!
I was stuck
with the bab
like a debt
inherited
from a dead
spouse or parent.
Eventually,
it collapsed
like a neutron star
after reaching
critical mess
in the produce aisle
of Tescos.
The staff
were polite
as they mopped
at the seeping
tide when it ran
on to pop
and crisps
and I cried
great big sobs
of relief
and I farted
and was released.
I felt it first
in my gut,
which contorted
around turds
like a brow
solving a problem.
It was not
the one thing,
but several
backed up
and hardening
into a fist
of stones.
My bowel
inflated
with flatulent
shouts and groans
that could not
commute
themselves
beyond the brick
of shit
that had settled
in my colon.
I puffed
as I pushed
my entire pelvic
floor at
the enormous
turnip that lodged
in my large
intestine.
I had taken
in too much
and not enough
fibre, so
I swelled
like a pregnant sow,
burdened
with a bellyful
of cack.
I squeezed
at my middle
in an effort
to pop
the cork
of my fizzy
brown dilemma.
No such luck!
I was stuck
with the bab
like a debt
inherited
from a dead
spouse or parent.
Eventually,
it collapsed
like a neutron star
after reaching
critical mess
in the produce aisle
of Tescos.
The staff
were polite
as they mopped
at the seeping
tide when it ran
on to pop
and crisps
and I cried
great big sobs
of relief
and I farted
and was released.
Labels:
bab,
cack,
constipation,
poem,
poetry,
poo,
shit,
Steve Jones,
Tesco,
turd
Monday, 10 September 2012
NECROPHILIA
for SJ
You have to be gentle and tender, more tender
than when the flesh lived and resisted your touch
with a bruise. And the lips could be kissed.
All you can do is hold them. Wash the body. Love.
You have to be gentle and tender, more tender
than when the flesh lived and resisted your touch
with a bruise. And the lips could be kissed.
All you can do is hold them. Wash the body. Love.
Labels:
dead,
death,
kiss,
love,
necrophilia,
poem,
poetry,
Steve Jones
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