"He who can not draw on three thousand years is living hand to mouth"- Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Saturday 29 January 2011

The Shortest Way To News: A Poppler Report


Poppler:  Once upon a time we knew nothing of the reginal world.  Now we are awash with news, not just about our doorstep but of doorsteps all over the world.  We don’t just read the news, we eat it. 

Begins eating a newspaper burger.

But where did the collecting of gossipy titbits begin?  When did we find enough enthusiam for curiosity of our neighbours back pocket?  & which saintly homo wanted to know?

Belches.

Here in Stately-on-Crimp the news has never been connected.  The population live in a political exile who lives in a cultural bubble.  Much like the orginal eden before it became a sulphorus reconstituted car-park.

What would they gain from knowing the depleating size of bowling shoes, or the decline of quality of seal operas, or the last restorting holiday villa for mancurians steel welders.  News is questionable but it is not answerable.  & certainly not to those who ask ‘what can the delivery child deliver us?’

Stillmart Watercress captures the news for a living.

Watercress:  the news has a funny habit of getting carried away & it must be reeled in before it runs off completely.  Here I’ve been staking out this particular piece of world affairs for a good quarter of a month.  It’s a slippery article & no mistaking.

Poppler:  before the news there was no chic.  There was no way to describe the paraell rise & decline of the popular.  There were only popler trees standing uncut by the papiea machie brigade.  An army armed & shouldered with ink bricks, bombsite computers & fountain arrows stocked & cocked with an sache of opiniated ammuntion ready to bitch & preach into anyone who could listen.  Look out!

Is attacked.  Watercress mixes a drink.

But still the lure of the news continues in our day much as it did yesterday.  It’s padded sense of what is what becomes what we wished to be our downy-soft pillows.  Each morning we wished to fill our eyes with word pollution.  No-more may we think of an unworded day, an uninformative breakfast or an uneditorial cocktail.  Bottoms up!

Watercress hands over the drink.  Poppler drinks, before spitting it into Watercress.

But what was the thick soup of knowing what’s what from who’s who went into the delicate process of wordilution & wordfiltration that watered it down into a delightfully unpotentendancy of mediaocretist fixation.  & damn does it know how to hang a drowing man thrown from the binge-barge of popular triumph bleating its rustic electronical funeral parade in postive know-how & what-not. 

The concept was thought to have orginated from the chance remark of Diogenes’ drinking pal who had wanted to know where he had last left his sandles.  This idea was generally overcome when evidence of his phoemneol stubboness in regard to the taking off of his soles, previously to have be thought a tenet of their philosophy, undeminded this specfically accepted agreement.  What does remain in doubt, morever, is where did my own soles walked off to?  Oi!  Come back with my martins you filthly footwearing mollcus!

Runs to a person wearing his shoes.  Poppler rips the footwear off their feet.

Still in the circumnavigation of the ordinary & the interesting one thing does come beckoningly to light from this episodic disscussion of the retrograded carbonighted print:  the News is never where you last left it.
     


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