Bean-eating Fallah soon moved out. Some say –
Offended by the overuse of 'gay,'
Which term indeed was somewhat commonplace
Within the Pink; – he left; and left a space.
This space was quickly taken by Chris Bole
Who seemed quite nice and certainly could roll.
But of him I will currently not write
Coz first I wish to set the record right.
Above I said the dwellers used a stick
That many here might find impolitic.
Tis true, the Pink ones often chose to curse
By shouting 'You are gay.' This was perverse.
Perverse, because they did not really think
It wrong for men their bodies to enlink.
So was it simply irony? In part
The words were not entirely from the heart
But neither was it merely idle talk
We often own what we in others mock.
So anyway. Computer-hacking Chris
Moved in. Though 'hacking' as a word's amiss
A better term is 'studied.' Like the rest
He pursued academic things with zest.
And though tis true that some of us dropped out
About our scholar's zeal can be no doubt.
But Chris completed his degree, no fear;
Then went to Dublin for a placement year.
Before that in the Pink house did he dwell
Escaping trouble. What, he would not tell.
The Village maybe did not welcome him
But in the Pink house outcasts fit right in.
The time was right. He lent his TV tray
For rolling joints. That made them feel OK.
At this time too did Emmett place a note
Upon a message board. On it he wrote:
"Guitarist wanted. Just to have a jam."
The note was seen by a Malaysian
And thus did Azaharri join the crew
He played guitar like it was overdue;
Which means he played it well. The man could make
His axe chop trees that e'en machines couldn't break
And Erwan also sometimes played along
His music sounding much like a Northern Song
Where the chords go slightly wrong. No matter
He aimed just to make the music fatter
And did succeed. They aimed for one same mood
That showed that each the other understood.
The music was a conversation with
Each one replying. There were some good riffs.
Now music was in general highly held
By all those who within the Pink House dwelled.
Bespeccalled Barry, for an instance, liked
To hear Metallica attack and strike
While gentlemanly Neil preferred a piece
Like Paganini's twenty-forth caprice
James Hendry studied music (when required)
By him both Brahms and Beatles were admired.
Asked what should be on the CD player
Long-haired Levin always answered 'Slayer'.
And Lev MacHill had decks that caused earthquakes
And hurricanes and storms and emptied lakes
While Hamish like to chill out with the blues
A Muddy Waters album, free with booze.
That brings us to another point. In all
The Pink ones drank their share of alcohol.
On his first day young Lev took fifty shots
With Barry. It was cider. They saw spots.
Tinned Harp was usually Barry's choice but soon
The legendary Michlobb called the tune
For with it came the free CD of which
I spoke above. Ah, delicious Mich,
It's murky yellow innards weren't unknown
To topple once strong Kings from off their throne
And also get them drunk. The bitches' brew
Was often joinéd by a Bush or two.
And were the Pink folk looking for a night
They'd usually take themselves to the limelight
A club of sorts. There metal would be wrought
And moshing done. At least a gigawatt
Of power was released. The national grid
Blinked on and off and bucketloads of squid
Rained from the sky. The seas turned dry
The normal rules no longer did apply
And then at closing time they all went home
To their unstately Pink displeasure dome
With eyes dry from the smoke. When rising late
(Like Descartes when he 'gan to cogitate)
They 'tempted not to boke their rings up. 'Stay
This overzealous pain!' They'd say. The grey
And lifeless morning pale and grim would swim
Against their eyes which red with blood would dim
At thoughts of having soon to rise. 'Unwise,'
They'd say, 'That I should drink so much!' The cries
Of woe would later fade so up they'd get
To sit around the house and pay the debt
Of too much alcohol. So down to sprawl
Upon the sofa, staring at the wall
Which blankly stared them back, they put on Floyd
Or switched the TV on and thus avoid
A hanging dog's remorse. And then of course
There was the game of Worms. And endless source
Of pleasure and distraction. Worms with guns
Took turns in shooting at each other. Suns
Exploded as hand grenades were thrown. Own,
What joy was had to hear a rival moan
When Holy Hand Grenades emerged from crates
Or terror when an armed invertebrate
Would slink towards your worm to blow its head
Across the pixilated scape. Like lead
A seabound worm would sink beneath the brine
When blasted from the side. Revenge was fine
When in the next turn their worm drank the soup.
But sometimes coward worms would play the dupe
And bury themselves deep within a mound
And this was bound to make the others pound
Their seats in fury. So these flagrant cheats
Would while away the game in solid pleats
Of stone-bound safety. Mean-time others fought
And squashed each other; things got fraught; they shot
But only he within the ground could win
As long as he stayed tight, like in a tin.
The others knew this; so they'd dredge him up
By digging holes themselves. They'd lop his top
Clean off him. So disposed, the buried worm
Met with their righteous blows. And then the term
Of all their lives grew short; for at the start
Each chap has four worms with one hundred parts
But by this point the parts were ten in sum
And four good worms diminished into one.
So each fought for the final victory hard
They gnashed their teeth, bloodstained and battle-scarred
Until the ending came, and vain the boasts
Of he the champion sounded! He could roast
In Hell for all the others cared; they wished
For only one thing: that delicious dish
Revenge, served now, with boiling hot endives
And so they'd start another game. Believe
Me dearest reader all the world's a stage
And all the worms upon it are engaged
In warring one another. When one's done
A new war will be speedily begun.
And so our heroes whiled the day away
By turning worms into a crude pâté.
The first great party of the house was when
The ghosts and ghouls come out – that's Hallowe'en.
The second was the Pseudochristmas bash
When Barry hammed and Hamish made the mash.
On both occasions 'bauchery ensued
From drink; but only on the second food
Was specially made. A feast of turkey, ham,
And spuds with liberal gravy. But the jam
Of cranberry was stupidly forgot
Despite it having been especially bought
The night before. No matter. Yorkshire puds
Made up for it. It was exceeding good
And everybody wore their festive crowns
Of coloured paper. This cost £30
And 50p. Tis cheap to live like Kings
This being one of Eglantine's main themes
That is, that most of us can live in style
That Kings of old would find was worth the while.
Despite not having much of any gold
Besides the student loan, they did not hold
Themselves from fine things; such as fries each morn
And cannabis each night. The hardships bourn
Were chiefly self-inflicted: the distress
Of too much drink; or living in a mess
That mortals seldom know. But of the tip
The Pink House soon became I will not quip
Until the proper place. For now we'll speak
But of those parties. In mid-winter bleak
The second party did unfold. The first
Took place two months before. At that their thirst
They quenched with special jute fruice, freshly made
From grapes and turpentine and one brigade
Of drunken seagulls. Emmett poured a stream
Of evil whisky in the stew. A gleam
Satanic in intensity did light
His eye. The fruice was rude; like dynamite
Left under someone's chair. Twas Hamish caught
The blast, by drinking half right on the spot
And staggering off. He ended up in bed
Some twenty minutes later, good as dead.
The party 'tinued on but of the rest
Folks memories are somewhat blurred at best.
But blurring's what's desired; to stir and blend
The diverse parts into a soup. Depend
Upon it; drink, when taken free, will make
A rubbery burger seem like softest steak.
Sometime between these two dates these chaps bought
A blackboard from a DIY; to jot
Ideas upon it was it's function. There
Were some ideas a-jotted just as rare
And strange as madmen's ravings. Instance one:
The "Co-Hop" 'quation, to decide which won:
The nearby Co-op or the Tesco far
For stuff. In truth the route to Zanzibar
Was just as like to win, for neither shop
Was close enough to make them, stoned, get up.
The one exception was the kebab place
Called Esperantos. Here they would make haste
To satisfy their cravings. So the board
Did make itself of use: a surface scored
With weird ideas that went no further on.
Hashish is known both far and wide to spawn
Such thoughts; so Neil and Erwan oft did find
Bizarre suggestive thoughts run through their minds
When tea had been consumed. But on one night
They both determined, their strange thoughts to write
Upon the blackboard. Schrodinger once said:
Tis hard to know a cat's alive or dead
The quantum world is small and hard to ken
Indeed uncertainty will hold you when
You try to measure two things too precise
Like speed and the position – then the price
Is that the more you know of one the less
The other can be known. We can express
The certain limits of our knowledge by
A constant named for Plank. This German guy
Discovered that the energy of heat
Emitted from a body is discrete
And not continuous. To this thought our pair
Attached the twin thought: in the lightless lair
Of nature's deepest pit there lurks a point
Of infinite density. At this strange joint
Between the world of sense and ignorance
Our heroes places a marker of immense
Analogy. At both ends of the world
There squat two walls against which we can hurl
Whatever weight we wish. But none shall pass
The wall cannot be breached. You're on your ass
If even you attempt it. Both our friends
Believed that they had now obtained the end
Of thirty centuries diff'cult physical thought
They'd seen it in a flash: the truth was what
It ought to be; each proposition of
Necessity a true one. Hand in glove
We often think our ideas fit the truth
Or e'en determine it. Those long in tooth
Know better; most of our beliefs are false
Especially those we like the best. This waltz
Between the colonnades of centuries lore
Will carry on as long as there's a floor
To dance about on. Now though you and me
Will shuffle with our drinks to Canto Three.
Canto Three
The Big Pink Page 2