Leila Allison

Happy September From Saragun Springs

(Image is of PDQ Peety, preparing for the fall the same way he meets every season–blasted)

Happy Labor Day to the USA (my first since retirement)

As always we in the Springs aim to fill every day of the month with poetry, stories, art and the weekly Sunday column by our beloved co-Editor The Drifter (and the odd imitations of such contributed by The Saragun Gazette). This week is full, but we have plenty of room to share things written by others who have contributed previously or who are new.

At first it was a week offered, but we can also do single days as well. And as autumn draws nearer with its omnipresent scent of pumpkin spice, as Christmas creeps into retail establishments the same way gold is edging maple leaves (but greeted by different degrees of patience and pleasure), the Springs is planning to become just as inescapable as death. So with that cheery thought in mind, welcome to September, one and all.

Leila

Saragun Verse: Saving the Ghost of 1983

i

I was walking home and met the Ghost of 1983

Clove cigarettes, Orange Julius and Plug-in potpourri

It seemed a pity that it had to wander without a mall to roam

I wanted to do something nice so I brought it home

ii

The Samaritan has hit the skids in millenia number three

No good deed goes unpunished is the modern screed

But I rather like my dayglo phantasm born in cheerier climes

Before everyone got a branch from which to bleat full time

iii

So now I share my roost with the Ghost of 1983

Clove cigarettes, Orange Julius, Plug-in potpourri

If I can be good enough to open up and make a little room

Then maybe I shan’t be so alone when sealed in the tomb

The Saragun Springs Gazette Presents Booze Reevooze by Renfield

(My Imaginary Friend and second in command of the realm, Renfield, has the unique ability to wake after a bout of binge drinking without the slightest trace of a hangover. There are only two ways to avoid the hangover, stay loaded around the clock or be lucky enough to have the constitution of an Imaginary Friend. Now, alcohol still affects her in the usual short term way, which makes her as good a candidate to provide a review every Friday–Leila)

Booze Reevooze by Renfield

Hullo parched readers! Today I examine a classic no longer available on Earth but is (thank Zod) plentiful in Saragun Springs, by name, the legendary Bacardi 151.

Sadly the modern “grown-ups” cannot handle 75.5 proof inflammable rum. The modern day wussieness confounds and embarrasses awesome persons such as myself. Then again anyone who rides a child’s scooter to work while huffing on something that produces an odor similar to blackberry jam probably shouldn’t be messing with the hard stuff.

I like my 151 with Coke. As always I will voice dictate my experience as I work my way down the bottle. Now, as I pour my first drink, I can just smell flames of inebriation wanting to burst.

Mmmmmmm…talk about smooth–hoo wee. Oh yes, there’s nothing like beginning a day with a bottle on an empty stomach. Allow me to refill my glass and catch a toasty mental wave.

Sorry gang but I snuckered one without recording it. Such awesomenicity.

Three in row brings the visions! Ho Zod! You know, I was at the bar the other day, right? Just sittin there and this Horse comes up and sez “Hey baby.” I told him fuck off, but all lady like. But no, turns out he had a lisp and said “hay bale, pleeze” to the beerkeep. I went with the sorries and sprung for an alfalfalafa shooter.

Five alive, not even half an hour! New record…What was I sying–um, saying? Oh yeah on a scale of one-ten I give Ronnie B. here a, what else, 151! Zoddamnit!!!

I tell ya bout the Horse? I think I did. Big ol sum bitch. Anyway, I don’t feel like talking right now….got sum serious drink on…

Come back nest wick and learn about Missississississippi corn squeezins….

Renfield

(Second Ed. Note–This is the longest Booze Reevooze to date. The writer usually cracks the seal of the bottle, says hello and forgets about the column in about a hundred words. So she goes-LA)

Saragun Verse: Ode to Foul Waters

i

The Spring is the thing in Saragun

It creeps up from the nether-nether land

Located below the meanest sin

Where you can fry Peter without a pan

ii

It smells of charnel houses and sulfurized souls

Mouldy shoes, dollar store cologne

Lovers lies and quitters’ scorn

And the still rooms of the should ne’er been born

iii

And yet it is the best of devices

A sucking abyss for idiot crisis

And it leaves our air cleanly grown

Fresh to the lung not previously blown

iv

Yes the Spring is the thing in Saragun

It takes out the trash and dung

It’s a happy exit for the aggressively putrid

We wave bye bye to anti-Cupid

Saragun Verse: Moonfog Returns

i

Moonfog Madrone nods in the lush field

In vegetable dreams seldom revealed

Little goes against Moonfog’s serenity

Save humankind the greedy enemy

ii

Little colored flags and a for sale sign

Once entered the doze of Moonfog’s calm mind

He cast an enchantment into below

Where the little fey gods flicker and glow

iii

“Bring forth a shake to unkind human steps

Those that never feel the earth is kept

By Forces more elemental than gold

Little gods I say do as you are told!”

iv

The flags and for sale sign went away

For when humans touched the field it swayed

Some said nature, others, the will of God

Moonfog cared not, for he was on the nod

The Wiccan Way by the Great and Powerful HeXopatha

(Ed. note: Don’t let the byline fool you. HeXy would no more write a column than the Donald writes his own speeches. But until her apprentice Eira-Lysbyrd earns her broomstick Eira will write the column for her exalted Master and like it. Yet, if you are like me, you may notice that a touch of Eira’s attitude gets through because she knows that her Master never reads the paper–L.A.)

The Wiccan Way by The Great and Powerful HeXopatha

Peasants (aka “people”) have forever been under the impression that Magick is the old fashioned spelling for magic. That is not so.

Magic is the trickery of charlatans; it involves false-bottom boxes, partially clad female assistants, veils, misdirection and a great deal of smoke. Magick is the highest degree of art. Magic is also said to be a component of true love; Magick is what you need when you realize, a bit late, that “true love” and “still desired” do not remain on the same page happily ever after.

I admit that elderly, perhaps dotty Witches often tire easily and need the assistance of fresh blood to convey Magick properly. That is why I have my wonderful, dynamic, irresistible and in all ways brilliant Apprentice Eira-Lysbyrd spread Magick throughout the realm of Saragun Springs. I predict you will be hearing a big noise from Eira, and I suspect soon. Yes, I’m willing to bet my wand on it.

Sometimes, I admit, Magick needs to be carefully watched. Especially in the act of enchanting trees. For centuries, Wiccans have known the perils of enchanting certain trees. For instance, HeX–I mean I, foolishly enchanted an Elm. Elms are the Cats of flora. They can be majestic servants or they can turn on you and be royal pains in the cauldron. Anyway, our Elm, by name Ernie, is often a reliable servant, yet every now and then Ernie will launch spells of his own, such as the recent turning of every other person in the Springs into a Toad. Such events contribute to the gnawing suspicion that I am slipping. Thank the dark forces that Eira-Lysbyrd is here to keep the realm in order.

That’s it for another week, peasants, it’s been an hour since my last nap. Oh, if you happen to come across a three headed Viper, please return her/her/him to the Castle. It is highly recommended that you do so quickly because only Eira has the triple Snake bite venom.

The Great and Powerful HeXopatha

The Saragun Gazette Presents Versatur Circa Quid by Judge Jaspar Montague, Quillemender

(Ed. note– Today and tomorrow we will share columns written by two members of the Springs for our daily paper The Saragun Gazette. These little columns are obviously inpsired by the Drifter who appears on this site every Sunday.

Today we present the first Gazette column written by the late Judge Jasper P. Montague, Quillemender. The Judge is my Great Great Great Great Grandfather (1810-1902). Since 1902 he has been a Spirit who never lets anyone forget it. The Judge “resides” in a gold gilt presentation gavel, which was given to him after nearly seventy years on the bench in Wiccanfire County, Massachusetts. Versatur Circa Quid was inscribed on it by his peers. Allegedly it is Latin for “what comes round goes round” and is the name of the Judge’s literary contribution to journalism. You will notice he uses the phrase aplenty and then some. Although some might not be pleased to be summed up by such a vague sentiment, it appeals to the Judge. –Leila)

Versatur Circa Quid! (A Staggeringly Brilliant Guide to the Spirit Community of Saragun Springs)

By Judge Jasper P. Montague, Quillemender

Versatur Circa Quid! breathers!

This week I shall opine and inform my readership on the subject of the humble Footfallfollower–commonly known as the 3F. He is a maligned Spirit accused of having a surfeit of laziness and a stunning shortage of gumption, style, wit and imagination.

The biggest problem facing the 3F is the accusations are true. Sadly, everything that lives becomes a ghost equal to the task of death as they were of use in life. Therefore it should not shock anyone to learn that the only thing the 3F’s have going for them is the largest Spirit population. Naturally this is because most people are painfully stupid.

Versatur Circa Quid!

Regardless, the first and last that 3F’s do is create an extra footfall inside cemeteries. You walk along, stop and you hear one extra step. Nothing else happens. Moreover such is seldom noticed. It would be base canard to describe another Spirit as having such shabby craft. Yet the 3F’s do not care. Leila calls them “the juggalo ghosts.” Upon studying the subject I must agree.

Still, being Spirits I feel obligated to give my priceless charity to the willingly unwashed from time to time. But really, I feel that comparing someone who produces a single extra foot step inside a cemetery to the wonders of, say, a Quillemender, requires more attention be paid to the Quill than the 3F.

Versatur Circa Quid!

Even a Footfollower knows that we Quillemenders reorganize extant written passages, without the original author’s knowledge. We greatly improve letters; via our alchemy pedestrian gibberish is transformed into sterling prose. Thermal dynamics, not insipid incantations, allow us to accomplish our art. But since most of you are obviously 3F timber, I will attempt to impress no further science on you.

You are welcome.

Versatur Circa Quid!

As a Quill, I must constantly evolve with technology. When I started after my decease in 1902, missives were written by hand or with crude typing machines that few dolts could afford let alone master. Books and newspapers, of course, were done by the printing press. Today there is room for legions of Quills to reside in various electronic devices; virtual lettering is ridiculously simple to emend, and proofing (and spelling) seems to be a thing of the past. Unfortunately there’s a shortage of intellects among the living suitable to be a Quillemender, but we the grand few persevere with tarty elan.

Behold! “The secretary told the assembly he was inclined to do a bit of fucking.” An Irish Quill got that jewel into the London Times in the 19th century. It remains a hall of fame bit of Quillemending. And it is the standard we strive to meet today.

Versatur Circa Quid!

Alas and alack, how does adding an extra “clonk” that rarely matches the tone of a footfall compare?

But if you need to meet a common Footfallfollower (perhaps seeking a glimpse of your future), go to any cemetery, walk the stone path, stop and listen. On any given day you will hear single thuds emanating from many graves. But when you wish to seek the inspiring awe and majesty of a Quillemender, revisit certain emails you sent your boss last week prior to your unexpected “downsizing.”

Versatur Circa Quid!

Your Master,

Judge Jasper P. Montague, Quillemender

Goat v. Lamb Civil Poetry War the Conclusion

Another Introduction

As hoped for, my brilliant post yesterday brought an end to the Goat v. Lamb War. But, not wholly unforeseen, both sides have aimed their antipathy at me.

But being the leader of the realm, I have the personal fortitude and liquor cabinet to withstand obloquy.

So, in the name of see-through-it-ness (I hate the corporate term for that), I stiff upper-lipply present the last two poems on this subject by the formerly warring sides. No one has said so, but I think the kids have gotten a bit bored and are ready to move on toward further vexations. So, I’m going to consider these poems by both sides a peace settlement and move the liquor cabinet closer to my desk.

Leila

“A Hoggishly Hog Pen for the Penname!” by Dame Daisy

i

The barnyard is calm tonight

But the Pen is full of smite!

She insults the Ruminant creed

With a fable of dubiously dubious breed

ii

I say Lambs we should end our fight

And take up against the Pennish fright

She who disparages the Daisy and Sheep

Is the ultimate creeply creep!

“Us Too” by the Lambs

i

Lambs do not caper in the sod

Nor frolick with their bods

The Pen who wrote that trash

Is as guilty as razor rash!

ii

Let the hooves unite

We now know a new fight!

The Pen is our enemy

Unite herbivores in enmity!

Afterword

Well, that’s how things are going in the Springs. I guess the hoofed (or is that hooved?) ones were insulted by their portrayals in yesterday’s fable. Actually, that was the intent. Fortunately the inhabitants of Saragun Springs are all talk and zero action. But, just in case, I’ve hired three Rat bodyguards, John, Wilkes and Booth, triplets born on the Ides of March. And although that joke is a bit American, and dated, like all useless ideas, it can be googled.

LA

Goat v Lamb Civil Poem War Day Five: A Special Episode

Hello Readers.

This week we have explored the poetic elements of the Goat v. Lamb Civil War of Saragun Springs. For four days both sides have tossed poetic crapbombs at each other. It has reached the point that I have decided to jump in with a possible solution. Call it a Feckless Fable and perhaps the key to World Peace. Or you can just call it Friday and head to the bar when the whistle blows.

(The fifth and final round of G v L will appear tomorrow)

Yours,

Leila

The Goat and Lamb of Paradise: A Feckless Fable

After the bombs dropped, God scrubbed further experiments with the human race. It had been the third Universe she had created just to watch people destroy. This was because: A.) Most of them were stupid; B.) Whole destruction is far easier to accomplish than achieving bliss.

On the fourth iteration of the Universe, God held back people and placed a Pygmy Goat and a Lamb in Eden IV, to see what would happen. But she had to return upon realizing that not much of anything would happen save for mindless grazing and sleeping unless the creatures could talk and think. So, God endowed them with the gift of gab and personalities. If it worked out then she would fill the garden with natural Goats and Lambs to allow for procreation. For the time being, both critters were as sexually potent as scarecrows. And although they ate plenty, they neither changed size nor had to use the bathroom. The last fact made the garden smell much better than it did when it was inhabited by people.

Soon God had to return again because although she had given both the ability to speak and think, she had inadvertently blessed them with different languages. To be fair, Universe creation is a tough gig and errors happen all the time. After endowing the Goat and Lamb with a basic, common ruminant tongue, God decided to hang around. She sat on a rock and waited for the next mistake to present itself.

“Hello, what’s your name?” The little Sheep asked upon meeting the Goat.

“Daisy,” said the Goat. “And yours?”

“Maisy! We rhyme! Say why don’t you and I dance in the clover and be happy forever and ever!”

“I was thinking the same thing!”

Then the pair began capering, frolicking and mincing in the clover throughout the meadow. There were glitter rainbows, lollipops and tiny hearts hanging in the air.

“Oh, Jesus H. Kee-ryste,” mumbled God, who reinvented liquor and fixed herself a Manhattan.

The Amoral: Life Without Spice is Way too Nice.

Coda:

I do hope that this mixed message provides a lesson for our combatants. Things are more interesting when one says down to another’s up. Friction, little ones, drives the world!

We will see when the poetry smackdown concludes tomorrow.

Leila

Saragun Verse: Goat v. Lamb Poem Battle Three

(Everyday I have struggled to come up with a somewhat sense-making explanation for this situation. Today I give up.)

Leila

Pain in the Asp by Dame Daisy

i

A wise Asp told me to never trust Lambs

“They pull wool over the truth like lil tams”

When you can’t get a good word from a Snake

You are the foulest natural mistake

ii

It offendly offends the Moving Hoof

To waste her lines on silly goofly goofs

Whilst bacteria, germs, fleas roust in snout

Yet are more attractive to write about

And The Lambs Say…

i

Tut tut Goatess in a childish huff

We are well learned in useless stuff

Yo Mama was as scary as a scream

Daddy’s brain boiled in Baily’s stout creme

ii

You insult and cajole Lambs on the whole

You dig into our ire like a Vole

Lo! Moving Hoof you are a churlish sort

You keep coming back like a common wart

Bonus Song:

The Lambystan Anthem (to the tune of Christmas Tree O Christmas Tree)

O Lambystan O Lambystan

Your warriors are brave and true

O Lambystan O Lambystan

They will conquer and enslave you

Throughout the night we will lead the fight

And be great woolly winners by dawn’s light

O Lambystan O Lambystan

We will kick your ass like no one can!