The Windhover

Tomorrow 1 August, at 5pm Central European Time, marks the anniversary of "Hour W" the start of the Warsaw Uprising - a 63 day battle to liberate Warsaw from Nazi occupation.

For 63 days the Polish Home Army and the men, women and children of Warsaw fought the occupying forces, almost alone.

In defeat, Warsaw was raised to the ground. The instructions were to wipe it from the map.

Today, Warsaw still bears the scars.

"Go, passer-by, and tell the world
That we perished in the cause,
Faithful to our orders."

http://www.warsawuprising.com/

My Dear Bicycle Clips!

Alabaster stardust, the twelve Kevins of alternative springtime, an old goose, an outraged surprise! When we lost track of the pencils in the autumn of 1993, I knew that it was time to go long on bark and marzipan. The troubadours thought otherwise and we paced up and down for a month in a long tent campaign under a three sponic twince machine.

Advanced Notice - Interview with Wesley Snipes.

As you all know, I am a huge fan of Wesley Snipes and have been stalking him for years, using an old Los Angeles telephone directory, a paperclip and a telescope made from worn out surf badgers. In the Augustian month of Augustenshine, I shall be interviewing Mr Wesleyan Snipes for this very publication and, following thorough review of the notes of said meeting, I shall be publishing that very interview here, on The Windhover.

From the news:

- Innkeeper's drunken moonbeam leaps into a whole of turnip.

- Madonna found safe and warm inside Sue Pollard.

- Great White Bjork spotted off the Cornish Coat.

That is all for now.

Stay tuned.

Kind regard.

Hektor, the Mustarian Cress Handle.

Sir Jasper and the Spyder
(Thye Introfuce)

In Ochre wood, by Besper's famous breach,
sat said Sir Jasper there, a mountain peach.
Moss horn'd coat and fallon by his side,
Resplonthwaine goose and fortune, Jasper's pride.

By ope and mispy, quesper'd on the baye,
The jatterwings and cymbals swoop and play.
Sir Jasper, fine adorn'd with silken vest,
sat softly down, admireth ancien crest.

Apern say crest, doth sit upon a horse,
with crownéd head, an shield displayeth thorse.
That ancien King fram whoe Sir Jasper's crop,
his nosey disp and brethume favour'd chop.

Fare telleth they in tymes lang paste,
of trumpet stallion sails and respunde mast.
Oft whespy trigger'd moste in Quincer's tayle,
the marspin'd Spyder bloss and doth begayle.

Was apern the very same, the Hosbt of Whyre,
that very Duke dist pesper, brace and tyre.
The marsquanyn'd Spyder chesper'd yon fame side,
when by the barnpak'd bugle, Duke dist ryde.

An sitynge ox, doth fashpon'd fram the fayre,
his Dukey timber bold lyke gold'n payre.
Yan Spyder, Jasper's forbeare, bosper'd forthe,
an strok they Duken rayder fram he horse.

Twas thos that Jasper's bloodline respunes thus,
he swop'd plane Spyder leges an tross'k blus.
Transformeth then unto that Duke of known,
an posper'd transhume hesper to mayke home.

Fare whye you prune, dear Reader caste your eye,
an respune baker, saltweigh chespune sigh.
Brithe heare and tell fair sponder's of your fynde,
an bid this masper'd tayle aparn yor mynde.

An occasional series, this.

"Remember, the Japanese. They always like to see your testicles."

Sean Connery (to Wesley Snipes) in the film "Rising Sun"

Falco.

Golden apple sing the pond of maze.
A moccasin, an occasional table.
Five, then, six, then nine, seven, four.
Stands our hero, wooden like a coat.
Bovine shoes reach into the audience.
Garden pond, chip shop antelope.
Marzipan redoubts the day in slippers.
Oat time arbitrage skis amortising falcon.
It is he, it is the very same.
Falco.

Dear Readers,

I am pleased to announce that I got hold of an advance copy via the United States of America. In a major feat of speed-reading and concentration, I have just this minute finished. This is a major world exclusive. Brace yourselves.

*SPOILER ALERT - DO NOT READ ON IF YOU DO NOT WANT TO KNOW WHAT DOES NOT HAPPEN*

I set out below in bullet point form, the key highlights of the new Harry Potter novel - Harry Potter and the Wizard's Sleeve.

* Harry and Harmonious, Harry's love interest since the second book, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Sardines, kiss and play space invaders down at Reg's Café.

* Ted Gibbons, the ginger-haired rascal, drinks kitten milk and is turned into a tortoise.

* Professor Chatters, Harry's teacher, played by Sir Paul Daniels, opens a wolf carpet warehouse and leaves the teaching profession.

* Hamas, Harry's giant friend, played by TV's own Boris Johnston, sets fire to his chocolate space hopper and has to spend the rest of the book eating dandelions through a straw.

AND FINALLY.

* In an epic battle at the end of the book, Harry and Lord Valorem, Harry's arch nemesis and tiddlywinks opponent, engage in a magic off in the fabled "Hall of Many Spiders." The culmination of which, the even more epic, "salting of the kipper" and the finale the death of Mr Pantry Mouse, the school's very own Tiger.

In summary, my friends, this is an opal wrapped up in a basket of coins waiting by the stairs in the dark to make you jump.

Kind regard.

Hektor.

Socrates.

Oh, plumed one!
Sing for the enlightened dune.
It is nine minutes past seven.
The door opens.
We can smell beatroot and lettuce.
The kittens begin to set the table.
In a flash,
The Condor swings like a boom.
Swash, the brash mash flask and trash!
Swoosh, he woosh moosh mooch.
It is seven minutes past eight.
He has realigned the stars with his right,
the left guitar is eating pears in the corner.
It is time to go home,
Grandma is sleeping in the chair.

Golden
golden.
Sa sa samaba.

Berincerresimo!

Beat the drum.
One thousand years.

Silence.
Hymns and spiders.

He scores.

ZICO.

At this time of year, I like to settle down in the outdoors section of my abode (muscle roof) with a jug of lilt, a warm book and a notepad.

As the ice melts in the heat and I hear the noise of the trams, my thoughts drift off to tranquil places in the southern oceans where mermaids and dippers fill the air with soft singing and curious dances. Thus, availing myself of this great joy I begin to ask the questions that before then I have only considered within the waking eye of a cold oak-beam. The questions have for many Malcolms force me into a twilight underfoot that both winds and bespokes itself in my inner cloud aspect.

I have, therefore, decided to open to a wider audience these questions that quake my marvellous Labrador and arrive in such braggadocio parsnip tuned recorded antelope.

(1) Assuming the first arrangement, that the bassoon weighs more than the eel. When should the cartwheel be introduced as a mode of sonic bound reflective boundary?

(2) Twenty five years ago, Barksquind Moss first falconed his coat out of mustard and became the Mouse King. In this day and age, is it time for a second coat to be devised, this time out of lettuce, into which the cardigans could be stored for us in the future?

I am aware that these controversial issues are foremost in the minds of aeronautical pipers and custard dancers and therefore request kind consultation in respect of the above.

Kind refraine.

Hektor.

Click on image to see larger version of the image.

Panache!
The gold trombone,
the saying sing-song apple bloom.

Panache.
A word apart,
a mystic calculator's broken heart.

Panache?
My unknown ears,
my buttons sellotaped to aged ears.

Panache,
then watches stop.
Then Barnstable implodes upon a shop.

Panache;
old timer's duke.
Old panther, like a tax collector's Luke.

Panache:
this, but chance.
This song that begs, begins the Spider's dance.

The Song of Calularian

Of leagues and cymbals soft we glide,
As lamps to the song of Mesopotamian drums.
And to this silk wean pleasant stride,
Upon the respluned, tender, morns.

Said Calularian to the North,
"my tescumbed pansy, how doth become,
of osper'd clever, smelltyne stone,
Fore sure the West most clespone wone."

The North respondeth thence in kind,
His honest brooken tosper'd eye.
An to a mangl'd dospey weigh.
Dist clesperthyne and mensper'd heigh.

Bejumed the trees, of quosper's top.
The East's far wenkling baspder'd there.
Palm half-past pencil marscumb'd nought
Desprathfathsum'd all in toscume bolgrane stare.

To South now both and fosper'd case, were sung,
In lyric, like the judge's thorny knote:
"For tragedy, doth shine, Calularian.
We can but pears and peartrees know are wote."

My honest kindred kind, and to the rest.
I persecume my courage, like a vole.
Take up your votive slippers, ox and vest,
And off to wesper'd pastures West for stroll.

Hello fellow curtains. Today I share with you a new concept from the Brothers of Crumb, a Cistercian Brotherhood who seek to promote justice in the world through the medium of pears.

Thus we are at half past one. It is morning. Clive has gone downstairs for a kitten of tea. Marigold is left minding the chops. We join Peppercorn in the engine room.

"Torches and kind bulbs. I have forty minutes to sink these stamps into the goldmine."

The rumbling ceases and Peppercorn brings the engine to a halt. The light outside smokes, like a distant quarrel. Barnstable eats socks by the railing. A chaffinch sings in the tree and we are again, alone.

Take the moment of flask to trap the flan inside the shoe and then breathe out.

Barnstable raises his eyes from the page of his notebook. A soft candle sings whistling songs by the Pelican and the silent Leopard dances with the clogs around the fire.

Tomorrow it is morning.

Goodnight, my sweet Elves.

The Quespery Round up.

Hail fellow traveller. This is part of an irregular slot to allow you an insight into my world while at the same time, allowing the mice to play and the swans to dance.

The World of....

I have noticed a trend of shops in my locality to be called the "World of" of the particular product they are selling.

My favourites so far.

- World of Knives
- World of Alcohol
- World of Fruit
- World of Shirts.

In other newse:

Madonna told: Reduce your carbon sweatband.

Artists pay twice as cats come from inside to open margin happenings.

Pound up against the Arctic Boothe.

Jam.

A word from our sponsor (Martain's Curtains).

"Hi. I am Martin. I am passonate about bringing the best curtains to you, my customers. We have a wide range of styles from Farmhouse, to Bendy Majestic, through to Professor Stephen Hawking - whatever you want, we have. I invite you to our magnificent new showrooms."

Taking the second stage of my odyssey towards parsnips and the colour seven. I am with all marigold to make your status. The first question returned in my correspondent bag thus this week is from Maquando, it reads:

"Hektor, I am considering alternative forms of transport. My spider often involves Jeremying like a panther in an old time swan mystery. Do you have any ideas?"

First of all, oh hail Maquando! My dear fellow you are both bright and crespey'd to have stolen this eye toward screen thus and besper'd your bronxy with besculed wesper. I consider that the mode of this irregular falcon both fit for the wesper'd daytime all out allotment settling device as well as a coldstream upon terrified marmalade. Perhaps the phonix oven or a prethmacite dune may be more fettle. I do not have the ability to test these different potions since my eye went on holiday last Folbertyde. In any event. Saturday.

Kind refreaine and to you Maquando and all my readership wherever you may be.

Happye weekend.

Hektor.

Last night I had a telephone conversation with Malcolm Mclaren. He is trying to reinvigorate the world of Double Dutch Skipping. His last attempt failed after he was wrestled to the ground by a steamship-wielding hippopotamus. He told me that his good friend Sting had been stuck on the moon with an Arabian horse for seven days. At that point the elves arrived to sing me to sleep. Cardamom handbrake and the wheels fell of the tractor. In the morning I awoke to find the mice turning bicycles into vast vats to catch Sting's tears. How kindly, those mice.

PRIVATE AND INCONSEQUENTIAL - FOR FRIENDS ONLY

Thus it is eye. Hektor. I prey your indulgence this time as I take the forklift truck of time and panjangle it through the ears of fog that is the golden apple of the cloud brosper'd waye.

Maxim number 1
Besquorpe or margin. We are all once fosper'd, relevant.

Maxim number 2
It is neither fork nor goose that maketh the chesper'd shoe.

Maxim number 3
How fair doth the moone show when the sneeze of dawn is upon the becrespering fortune.

Maxim number 4
Park. Park and wait until the onyx clock of good martinspwene doth befoingle your most wearisome.

Mambo number 5
One, two, three, four, five.

In train of thought the past veritules have passed by the once perspinnerous door of tyme and the irrelevance of pasture is made good by its befonyx'd dune.

Good afternoon.

Hektor.