Good morning ladies and gentlemen, thankyou for joining us once again on the swelteringly sultry streets of Steampunk’d Lancaster as we attempt to sell bottles of illegal home brewed lemonade in a desperate bid to pay our rent.
At least that is our ruse for loitering on this street corner this morning, but shhh, step closer, we have something to show you…
If you’ve been with us for some time you’ll probably be aware that our mistress, Penny, as well as leading a secret double life as an incorrigible octopus and his unnerving gentleman friend (that’s us by the way and we’re not sure we care for the description!) also writes short stories, poems and prose with a far less frivolous flavour in the Mythpunk genre.
If you weren’t aware, you can read some of them here for free: PENNY BLAKE ON VOCAL POETS
Mahrime – Mythpunk For Monsters is a collection of mischievously mutilated and punk’d-up folk tales heavily influenced by Penny’s Rromani cultural heritage. Each poem, story or prose piece explores the themes of identity, power and love by putting the monsters, the outsiders, the outcasts, the ‘unblessed’ right at the heart of the narrative.
It’s available now to pre-order on Kindle, free with Kindle Unlimited or 0.99 without and also in paperback if that’s what you prefer (the paperback is full colour with black pages, white text and beautiful white mandala art work by ArtsyBee and comes with a free Kindle copy)
“And what is Mythpunk?” we hear some of you ask…
Mythpunk can be as simple as taking a traditional tale and re-working it to produce something fresh, inspiring and new , or it can be a far more complex synthesising of cultural and mythological evolution; a deep exploration into the cultural psyche or an unflinching dissection of archaic archetypes. A lot of Steampunk involves some Mythpunking along the way and a lot of Mythpunk has a decidedly Steampunk flavour.
So, now that we know exactly what we’re letting ourselves in for , lets take a little sneak peek at just some of the things inside the cover…
Mahrime means ritually unclean / unblessed in Rromani language, it is akin to the word Unseelie in Celtic lore but it is applied to people. The title story in this collection draws heavily on the experiences and mythology of Rromani People and explores the historical out-casting of certain groups and types of people who are branded as ‘monsters’ because their existence is at odds with a dominant cultural or religious ideal. It also goes deeper to hint at the aspects of self which we choose to lock away because we believe them to be unlovable or unacceptable.
The Road Back Lost
This Mythpunk’d version of The Company Of Wolves is a response to the ideal that we all have both an internal and external collective of wise guiding voices who can teach us our culture, our heritage, our purpose and our place in the world; these voices, intuitions, bodies of lore, family, elders, clan-folk etc are supposed to teach and guide us safely through the wild woods of life and all the dangers therein but what if we don’t have them? What if our family or culture or bodies of lore or even our parents and home have been lost to us? This is the situation for many people today as war and poverty tares children away from their families and cultural white-washing tares culture away from people and places it in the hands of the fashion industry. So what can we do? Try to go back? Try to move forward? Or stay and become the wolf?
Damao means ‘to overcome’ ; the final piece of prose in this collection echoes the hopeful thought that is embedded throughout the book – with solidarity and support for eachother we can overcome the problems inherent with being labelled ‘outcast’ or ‘monster’, we are not alone and we will endure.
So there you have it, Mythpunk for Monsters, we hope you enjoy it, and now I think we will just sit back on this soap box here and sample some of our own lemonade, this day is far too hot to be doing any work and my tentacles are wilting despite the negligee we borrowed from Nimue Brown and her Hopeless Sinners yesterday I think what I really need is a parasol…
Thankyou for joining us on the street corner today, hm? What’s that Max? You think YOU ought to write a book? Honestly, I really don’t think ANYONE is going to be interested in anything you have to say… well alright then I will ‘wait and see!’ … and who exactly do think will publish such an atrocity? Hm? …. oh you’ll ‘find a group of marvelous monsters as mad about tea and tentacles as you are’ will you? Well good luck with that my friend! I shan’t be holding my breath…
While we wait to see what, if anything, comes of Max’s new ambition, let me thank you once again for joining us today and for supporting our endeavors as always and whatever kind of monster you happen to be please, do remain always,
Good morning Ladies and Gentlemen and welcome to Max and Collin’s delicately dazzling and glamorously glitzy parlour located within the fantabulously frost spangled city of Lancaster!
True there are those who will say that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but we consider that such people are merely embittered that they have not yet received an invitation.
You find us this morning enjoying what may well be the last week of the frost fair as our Oracular Pet has assured us that the ice will begin to melt over the weekend and the Barge Folk will be able to get their craft dislodged soon afterward, which will be perfect timing really as, here in The Scattered Isles Of Ire, we celebrate the commencement of spring on the first of February.
People are beginning to carve things into the ice now – at first it was just the odd name or profane comment – “Victoria was ere” and the like – but now the whole river resembles the Cameo Libris in the Burlington Arcade and it seems every drunk and lunatic is determined to leave his mark…
“Whereas you J . FROST have by force and violence
Taken possession of the RIVER
I hereby give you notice to quit Immediately
A . THAW”
“Behold the Power of WIZ! Which locks,
In close Confinement, under pond’rous Rocks
Of dreadful Ice and Snow, our famous RIVER;
Whose matchless Glory doth the world make shiver!”
Even the stall vendors have taken to the sport, ‘pitting their limited wits against the noble tongue’ as Max put it …. here are some of the worst we have read….
To the Print-house go,
Where men the art of Printing soon do know,
Where for a Teaster, you may have your name
Printed, hereafter for to show the same:
And sure, in former Ages, ne’er ‘was found
A Press to print where men so oft were droun’d!
Behold the liquid RIVER now frozen o’er
That lately SHIPS of mighty burden bore.
Here you PRINT your name tho’ cannot write
‘Cause numbe’d with cold: ‘Tis done with great delight.
And lay it by: That AGES yet to come
May see what THINGS upon the ICE were done.
Kind master, drink you beer, or ale or brandy?
Walk in, kind sir, this booth is the chief,
We’ll entertain you with a slice of beef,
And what you please to eat or drink, ‘tis here,
No booth, like mine, affords such dainty cheer;
Another crys, Here master, they but scoff ye,
Here is a dish of famous new made coffee.
And some do say a giddy senseless ass
May on the LUNE be furnished with a lass.
I was sincerely hoping that Max would join me in setting our sights a little higher and agree to stop and watch the Parlour Poets in their ‘Sparring Salon’ but he suddenly became uncharacteristically Quiet, mumbled something about dogs, and has now skulked back to the parlour claiming a sudden urge for a cup of tea and a good book.
As I am still wheelchair-bound I had absolutely no say in the matter and so here we are, feeling a little perplexed and out of breath (it is no fun being rattled along the cobbled streets at speed in a bone shaker like that I can tell you), but with an excellent tea on the brew (Most Ardently – a delightfully fresh citrus blend from Wick and Fable) and an excellent book to read…
We’ve been waiting a while to get our tentacles into the next Viola Stewart adventure (after falling head over suckers for Dr Jack) and we were certainly not disappointed.
Eye of the beholder is a paranormal mystery steeped in the mythology of Ancient Egypt; Dr Viola Stewart and her adorable fiancé, Dr Henry Collins, are back and this time it is Viola herself who is danger.
But the true nature of that danger is unclear – an ancient curse? An old vendetta? A lunatic on the rampage? Or is the greatest threat of all in Viola’s own mind?
This adventure was even more gripping than the first with a more intricate plot that kept us guessing throughout as to who the villain actually was and how the murders were being committed… and although Dr Jack did not resurface this time (we’re certain he’s not dead and far from done with Viola yet) there was enough mention of The Men In Grey and Violet’s missing sister to keep that over-arching plot alive and kicking.
Karen J Carlisle maintains that comfortable style with a distinctly ‘gas-lamp’ feel that just reminds us so much of sitting down with a good Sherlock Holmes mystery or one of Agatha Christie’s short stories – perfect atmospheric reading for a cosy afternoon on the couch.
Or in our case, the lemonade crate.
Now then, Max’s frosty mood appears to have thawed and, although I cannot say the same for the tea which is still frozen solid in the pot, I do believe it is time to consult our Oracular Pet and see what it has managed to pluck from the aether for us this morning…
Ah, splendid! That was poet Stephanie Dogfoot at The Steampunk Opium Wars Poetry Slam in your dimension, you know a lot of what she says rings true here as well, although we have sugar and caffeine instead of these pots and poppies you people go in for… we’re not really sure how that works…but we wish you a very beautiful morning with your vices and invite you back to join us for elevenses tomorrow so, until then, please be always,
Good morning Ladies and Gentlemen! Welcome to Max and Collin’s poe-fectly punkalicious parlour located in the splendidly scenic city of Lancaster, Mor Ire.
True, perhaps, some have called it a portrait of lost souls trapped within the torment of their own eternal damnation, but we protest our innocence and say ‘we were framed.’
You find us, on this viciously hailish Monday morning, celebrating the final week of Poevember. Hopefully you have all enjoyed our voyage into the realm of pathetic Poe puns and devil cheeses and are not in the process of packing your bags and fleeing the parlour screaming ‘Nevermore!’
Before we kick our tentacles up on the table and enjoy our Poe Inspired tea from The Travelling Vardo this morning, we’d like to share with you our top five facts about Edgar Allan Poe. Of course we all know the general circumstances of his life, his time in the army, his fractious relationship with his family and the tragic loss of the love of his life, but did you also know….
– Edgar Allan Poe was a splendidly Good Sport; Local children would follow him along the street flapping their arms and cawing like Ravens and Poe would turn around every so often and croak ‘NEVERMORE!’
– Poe had a penpal! None other than Charles Dickens, who was of a similar age. The letters are preserved in The Poe Museum and some can be read on their website.
– After Poe wrote a negative review of a work by Rufus Wilmot Griswold, the writer sought revenge by writing a damning and largely fabricated biography of Poe – painting him as a violent lunatic and talentless alcoholic!
– Poe was fit as a fiddle; he even held the record for swimming six miles up the James River in Virginia!
– Poe had his own ‘big bang theory’! His work ‘Eureka – A prose Poem’ details a theory of life the universe and everything which has left the world guessing as to whether Poe intended this as a comedic work of fiction along the lines of our modern Douglas Adams or a serious ‘Essay On The Spiritual and Material Nature Of The Universe.’
So, those our top five but how about yourself? Do you have a favourite lesser know Poe fact you’d like to share?
Now then, before we pour our tea there is just time to pop our Oracular Cephalopterois into its cup and see what mystical wonders it has plucked from the aether for us this morning…
Possibly the best thing we have experienced in a very long while!
Well, and now our tea is brewed and it is time to tune in our spirit radio to the very last of Poe’s tales that we will be listening to in the parlour (for a while at least) . We wish you a most splendid morning and hope you will join us again in the parlour tomorrow as we wrap up our Poevember celebrations with some splendid Poe-inspired goodies.
So until then please, be always,
Good evening and welcome to my awe-inspiring aethenaeum of praiseworthy pamphlets…or as some ridiculous personages have dubbed it – my lovely library.
I am Perilous Wight and here in the bowels of the city of Lancaster, in the disused tunnels of an underground train system that never was, I have made it my mission to collect every book that our self-proclaimed ‘supreme ruler f the universe’ and his mincing minions have banned from the bookshelves of the new world.
But this is not a public convenience! If you have wandered in here on the ill-advice of a pun-happy octopus and its alleged Gentleman Friend,you had best turn yourself around and wander out again! You will find no dreary double entendres, no pathetic punning or ridiculous riddle-rendering down here; here there is only the dark and the damp, the flickering of candlelight and the ceaseless toil of a man who did not re-animate from the dead to be pestered by people wanting bedtime stories!
But wait…what’s that you have tucked away under your arm there? Amontilado? A whole cask you say? Oh….well, yes perhaps it is about time I put my feet up for a while, pipe and slippers and a little drop of something, the day has, after all been a long one. And I suppose I could read a very little something,
like this perhaps…
THE WYVERN – an unscrupulous piece of skulduggery By Penny Blake
Once upon a teatime merry, as I set my table heavy
Laden up with scones and crumpets, florentines and cakes galore
Whilst I sat, my tea a –lapping, suddenly there came a tapping
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my parlour door
‘Tis some visitor,’ I muttered ‘tapping at my parlour door
Wanting tea, oh what a bore!’
Up I leapt, I well remember, flung the tea into the fender
Grabbed the table, newly laden, cast its contents to the floor
Eagerly I sought the dustpan, with its brush and so I began
To erase the scene of plenty, lest this guest from me implore
Sustenance. I, diligently, swept each last crumb from the floor
Evidence was there no more.
Still the tapping came, now ruder, heralding this bold intruder
‘Gods above’, thought I, ‘a teatime never suffered thus before’
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
‘Let them in, tis merry meeting, not a crumb sits on the floor.
Chat a while and then, politely, show them once again the door.
Then begin the tea once more.’
Presently my soul grew stronger, hesitating then no longer,
‘Sir’ said I ‘or Madam truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was lapping tea, no, sorry, I was napping
And so gently you came tapping, tapping at my parlour door
That I scarce was sure I heard you’ – here I opened wide the door: –
Darkness there and nothing more.
Feeling vexed, my temper miffin, at this wanton waste of tiffin
And unfounded fears that caused me to cast all upon the floor,
Silently I stood upbraiding, all my senses and degrading
Every cell which had imagined rapping at my parlour door
‘Fool’ I muttered ‘now the table must be spread as was before.
What an utter bloody chore.’
Back again to spread the table, just as fast as I was able
Soon again I heard a tapping, somewhat louder than before
‘Surely,’ said I ‘tis no fancy, this time and I must happensee
What it is that so insists on plaguing thus my parlour door
Let my teacup rest a moment and this mystery I’ll explore
Then I’ll sup in peace once more.’
Open here I flung, with meaning, parlour door and, brightly gleaming,
In there stepped a clockwork wyvern, hot breath crackling the air
Not a single greeting gave he, not a moment stopped or stayed he
But, as I cried ‘some god save me from this beast oh I declare,’
Perched himself upon the silken cushion of my favourite chair –
‘Look here, sunshine that’s my chair!’
Not forgetting I was British, though I felt a little skittish
At the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore
‘Sir,’ I said ‘Would you partake, with me, in having tea and cake?
As you can see a finer table never was there spread before –
But the creature shook its head and, pointing to me with a claw,
Quoth the wyvern ‘One cup more.’
Much I chuckled this creation to hear hest, as if libation,
One more cup of this sweet nectar for myself I should now pour
‘sure’ said I ‘some fiend hath sent thee, For amusement he hath leant me
Tempter sent to thus torment me, with this mantra ‘one cup more’
Sent this brass abomination for amusement to implore
Me to drink ‘just one cup more’
But the wyvern, sitting brazen, on my cushions it had taken,
Fixed me with its burning eyes and, once again, it did implore
Nothing further then it spoke – till I said ‘tis some bad joke
But to appease thee I’ll oblige’ and so a cup I then did pour
Drank and thought the matter ended, rose to show the thing the door
Then it chanted ‘one cup more.’
‘Be that phrase our sign of parting, Hullish fiend!’ I shrieked, upstarting
‘Take thy talons from my teapot, and vacate my chair once more
Thou hast made a grave mistake in thinking I would certain break
My will and meekly thus partake, at your demand, this ‘one cup more’
Certain your corruption I will not endure a moment more
Quoth the wyvern ‘One cup more.’
‘Villain’, said I ‘thing of evil – sent from Hull and certain devil
I will lap this tea at leisure, and if I chose now to pour
For myself another cup, it’s only for myself I sup
And not a shred of credit to you, fiendish thing that doth implore
Wicked wyvern, by your words I’m putting neither stock nor store,
Still, I will have one cup more.’
And, alas, I still am sitting, still am sipping, still am sipping
On bequest of this grim wyvern, one cup more, just one cup more
And his eyes have all the seeming, of a demon’s that is scheming
And his scales, still brightly gleaming, I have come now to adore
As I, dutifully lift the teapot and again outpour
For myself ‘just one cup more…’
Hmm, one cup more? Don’t mind if I do…oh, what’s that you say? Getting late? You really ought to be going? Oh dear, surely you can stay for just a little while longer, I mean it is after dark and Lord Ashton will have unleashed his flesh-eating Liver Birds by now, you really don’t want to be mistaken for a vagrant out there on the Lancaster streets and there’s still plenty left in the bottle…