“Energy bills to rise for millions this winter” —The Sun
“Advanced alien civilisations, if they exist, could satisfy the energy needs of their home planet by migrating near miniature black holes and trapping the potentially unlimited energy around them … [A black hole] can be maintained by throwing small amounts of matter into it…” —The Independent
Looking for a small black hole to tap the power round it?
There’s lots of them to choose from and you’ll know it when you’ve found it.
You have to bring some matter—say, a poem—to throw in, though;
They advertise themselves quite widely—search “Submissions Window.”
“Players using toy claw game surprised by live groundhog among stuffed animals” —The Guardian
My cousin, Punxsutawney Phil, each year will make the news, The biggest headline whore you ever saw,
And yet, between the two of us, who’s really paid some dues? A shadow? Buddy, please—I faced the claw!
“For six years, [penguins] Sphen and Magic were devoted partners, adoptive parents and queer icons. After Sphen died this month at age 11, Magic began singing.” —The New York Times
Magic’s singing over Sphen.
Tell me, people, where or when
penguin grief could move us more?
Love is love and will endure.
Love is love, so let us praise all the creatures, all the ways
Love exalts, again, again!
Magic’s singing over Sphen.
“Neighbours turn on each other in Portofino air-con crackdown As the intrigue heated up along with the temperature, Corriere della Sera reported a ‘vendetta’ among residents involving tit-for-tat denunciations [of illegal AC units] between neighbours.” —The Guardian
It’s hard to breathe in Portofino:
When their thermometers reveal
The temperature of Hell, or Reno,
Imagine how they feel.
They need AC in Portofino!
But units are against the law,
And all are scared that some vicino
Will see, and say they saw.
And so they sweat in Portofino,
If not for heat then for despair:
Vendetta fit for Tarantino
Is seething everywhere.
Let’s wish them luck, and well-chilled vino:
They may cool down, or they may not;
Just note: ACs in Portofino
Are hot.
“Recent research suggests that moderate drinking may not have any significant benefits for longevity, and may even increase the risk of death and chronic disease.” —The New York Times
Dietetic education Told me, “Sip in moderation.
A glass of red can keep you in the pink.” Wine and I were bosom buddies Till the latest killjoy studies
Revived the gospel of the demon drink.
My bruschetta’s charms are scanty When divorced from a Chianti.
The insalata verde is a bore. Mia sposa offers pasta— My response is simply: Basta!
Desserts are not as dolci as before.
Now, without the Côtes du Rhône, Each brioche has turned to stone.
My quiche aux épinards needs some Chablis. As I munch ma madeleine I can never feel again
That welling up of childhood memory.
Lacking wine, I’m feeling peaky As I swallow my tzatziki.
The spanakopita has lost its taste. Kyria mou answers “No” To some Agiorgitiko.
Our Greek cuisine becomes a barren waste.
No more tapas con Rioja, Life is sadder, grayer, slower, Gazpacho’s lost its zest, and so has flan. Mi amor, let us be gayer! Tempranillo and paella!
Let’s drink and just accept a shorter span!
“Speculation rife about Banksy’s London murals after five appear in a week” —The Guardian
“Banksy’s billboard cat removed as meaning of his London animals revealed” —The Guardian
One week brings five new works, and that’s terrific—
How rare that Banksy’s ever so prolific.
This enigmatic artist makes a splash
With each reveal (though clearly not for cash).
We never seem to see him, some have written,
Yet cameras cover every inch of Britain.
It’s cool these little critters made the scene,
But who the hell can tell us what they mean?
Hold on, his rep now squelches speculation.
Well, that’s a shock—the right interpretation
Demands we shun interpretation. Yup,
He merely put them here to cheer us up!
“Mark Zuckerberg has raised eyebrows by commissioning a giant sculpture of his wife, Priscilla Chan. … Chan is rendered in green and appears to be mid-stride, with a large silver cloak flowing behind her. … Zuckerberg… recently post[ed] a video of him surfing while wearing a tuxedo and holding an American flag.” —The Guardian
Behold Priscilla, in a goddess-attitude:
A towering spectacle of caryatitude;
Now mark how Mark, the Internet torpedo,
Bestrides the surf, flag raised, in full tuxedo.
These images are overwhelming. Which is
A finer sign of super-human riches?
See two philanthropists to scare Attila:
Hail the united fortunes of Zuckzilla!
Fat cat, fat cat, posting shite
In the cybersphere at night
And exchanging ego-strokes
With the fan of Diet Cokes
Who scents more deals in “property”
In melting ice and rising sea.
X/Twitter boss, doyen of dumb,
The globe’s on course to kingdom come
From gas and oil’s bouquet of fumes,
Heat trapped beneath its toxic plumes:
What satiric hand or eye
Can match your folly as we fry?
“How Two Stranded Astronauts Are Camping Out in Space” —Time
They’re “roughing it,” in Mark Twain style,
With grit, good humor, and a smile,
Where, were it you or I, we’d fold,
Complaining of the heat, the cold,
The lack of privacy, the grub,
The distance from the nearest pub—
Not Butch and Suni! Nope, they’re tough,
Two “campers” made of righteous stuff.
“Technically, Thompson’s right hallux [big toe] was the first body part to complete this Olympic final. But finish lines only recognise the chest. Lyles won gold by five thousandths of a second, quicker than the time it takes to blink.” —The Independent
The finish lines just recognize the chest.
They cavalierly disregard the rest,
Like Mr. Thompson’s charging dextral hallux
(It seems this word does not require italux).
It does make sense. However much diminished,
Until your chest goes still, you are not finished;
For Mr. Thompson, though, his brief elation
Must now appear a sad halluxination.
