Maharaja Blues

(In my finest fake Scottish and dedicated to Anoushka who was celebrating the New Year in Edinburgh in true Hogmanay verve)  By Maharaja Miku the Bear Bard Och, up the Monroes o’ Caledonia, Where the mist rolls thick and grey, There wandered a weary Frenchman lad Wi’ an easel tae light his way. He’d painted lilies till kingdom come, Till them petals drove him mad, So he donned the tartan o’ ancient Picts And declared, “I’ve had it, lads.” Through heather wild and bracken brown He stomped wi’ a painter’s roar, Cryin’, “No more ponds! No more blooms! Bring forth the noble boar!” And lo, in the fog o’ New Year’s morn, A snorting beast appeared A wild wee hog wi’ a muddy grin And a backside Monet revered. He painted it thrice in swirling strokes, In colours fierce and free, Till the Highlands echoed far and wide: “Behold! Hog Monet’s spree!” So raise a dram tae the misty hills Where legends love tae stray For somewhere still, a Pictish Frenchman Paints boars at break o’ day. © 2025 Mik...

Salvador Dali's legendary trip to the Custard Geysers of Bouffantia Basin. References:  areas-of-natural-beauty flamingolandia-and-blushmirage Dalí’s arrival in Blushmirage was not by train, plane, or flamingo caravan—but through the surreal logic of one of his own paintings: “The Elephants.” 🐘 “The Elephants Brought Him Here” He did not walk, nor ride, nor fly—   He came on legs that touched the sky.   Elephants with spindled grace,   Each bearing dreams in mirrored space.   Their backs held goblets, vast and wide,   Where custard churned and clocks would slide.   One bore a chaise of velvet red,   Where Dalí sat with tilted head.   He sipped from spoons that glowed with truth,   And whispered riddles to his youth.   The dunes of Blushmirage bowed low,   As jelly clouds began to glow.   Gerald the Hat gave formal nods,   While flamingos hummed in velve...

  The Pumpkin Unseals In the velvet hush of a Halloween night, a pumpkin split with a sulphurous light. From out its rind crept Ozzydog, teeth fluorescent yellow, purple shades flashing, a cross swinging low. The Maharajas dreamed of calm refrain, but the dog’s growl rewired their brain. Strings bent backward, rhythms bled, as shadows howled where angels fled. Maharaja Miku’s fur turned aflame, his bass now thundered a dark refrain. And Rich, once keeper of resonant grace, laid down his steel with a solemn face. He lifted instead a Strat, tones black as sin, with six-six-six pedals all chained in. Each stomp tore holes in the fabric of time, each chord a fracture, each note a crime. The streetlamps swirled into Gogh’s mad sky, stars spun whirlpools, galaxies cried. Cobblestones melted, clocks ran wild, the world itself became defiled. Yet in the chaos, a strange refrain: a hymn of loss, of joy, of pain. For even nightmares sing their song, and in distortion, we belong. Paintings fr...

🦩 “Four Minutes in the Louvre” — by The Nonsense Chronicler Pink Flamingo   I was sipping absinthe by the Tuileries gate,   When the sirens sang of a stolen fate.   Not me, dear world—I’m plumage and grace—   Just a flamingo with front-row space. They came in dawn’s deceptive glow,   In high-vis vests, moving slow.   “Construction,” they claimed, with a basket lift. But I saw the glint of a criminal gift. A lilac rhino, horn agleam,   Plotting theft like a fever dream.   Three cats in goggles, tails tucked tight,   Slipped through the Louvre like whispers of night. One cracked glass with a diamond kiss,   One danced lasers in feline bliss.   The third—oh sly—with a velvet ID,   Winked at the guards and set the jewels free. They took tiaras, brooches, and pride,   From Eugénie’s case with a thief’s soft stride.   Left the Regent Diamond, too bold to...

The press declared a scandal loud:   “A Picasso stolen!” cried the crowd.   From Madrid’s vault to van en route,   A painting gone, no sign, no loot.   Steel strings embedded in a desk,   Now vanished in a tale grotesque. But truth, as ever, wore pink boots,   And danced between dimension roots.   For Pink the Flamingo, suave and sly,   Had wagered once beneath moon’s eye.   A debt unpaid, a canvas owed,   A Cubist chord in steel bestowed. No lock could hold what fate had signed.  Pink blinked, and space itself aligned.   Inside the van, mid autopista glide,   He shimmered in and slipped inside.   No crowbar, glove, or getaway,  Just feathers, flair, and quantum sway. The driver swore he saw a flash,   A velvet blur, a cosmic dash.   The painting gone, the van still sealed,   No fingerprints, no clues revealed. ...

Part 4 Part 1 Jonathan the Fox Here’s a tale of wonder and mystery, of gentle Jonathan the Fox, he who tapped into the songs of the woods, he who could make his harmonica sing to newts and axolotls  and turn frogs back to spawn, he of the gentle smile who always changed from the gentlest of morning breezes to a wild gale when performing, he of the hills and valleys whose force was strong within, he who unknowingly was born to fix that that greatest of glitches, the Curse of the Witch Panda! Here’s to the origin tale of Gentle Jon the Fox—a mythic melody in fur and breath, whose harmonica held the power to stir ponds and seal cosmic wounds. Let us travel in his paw prints and learn how his mystery meets music and destiny hums beneath the hedgerows. The Ballad of Gentle Jon the Fox: A Woodland Prelude in Whispering Harmonica Before the glitch, before the brew, Before the stags in rhythmic queue There lived a fox in hills so wide, Where morning mists and secrets hide. Jon the Fox, wit...

Pink Flamingo, time-tossed bard, Tripped through clocks and landed hard In Holland’s hush, where madness dwelled A painter’s lair, where silence yelled. Thick ginger hair, a glint of a strange kind, Eyes ablaze with storms of mind, “Drink this tea,” the artist said, And Pink obeyed, now filled with dread. A chair, a brush, a canvas wide, Swirls erupted, bold with pride. Pink sat still, but in his head Saxophones danced, syncopated red. Outside, the world was deaf to tune, Too dull for jazz beneath the moon. The painter sighed, his soul unfurled, And stepped alone into the world Sad and swirling, starry eyed, Lonely as the night he cried. Pink remained, a painted spark, A relic glowing in the dark. by Maharaja Miku the Bard Bear 🐻  pink flamingo van gogh chair tee shirt The journey didn’t end there of course. Pink lured Vincent into the swirl dimension with a trail of pastry steam and whispered brushstrokes that painted themselves on the wind. A sunflower formed a portal and Vincen...

🦩 "Forecast: Flamingos”  A Velvet Rebellion in Bowler Hats   It rained flamingos at half past sane,   Each one dressed for a bureaucrat’s ball.   Black coats, bowler hats, and blank expressions—   The uniform of dreams too scared to sprawl.   They fell like thoughts from a timid mind,   Landing on rooftops in perfect rows.   Not one squawked, not one danced—   Just nodded to rules nobody knows.   The sky, once wild, now stitched in suits,   Drizzled pink birds with corporate grace.   But one flamingo twirled mid-air,   And winked at gravity’s poker face.   He landed sideways, hat askew,   Scribbled nonsense on a chimney flue.   And whispered loud enough for rain:   “Conformity’s just weather with no champagne.”   Based on Rene Magritte's Galconda Another magritte tribute A short bit of silliness I sat on a quill i...

The news as reported by the Nonsense Chronicler Pink Flamingo  “Darlings! A revelation from the Cubist cosmos! A lost Picasso—reborn in flamingo form—has pirouetted into our plane! Three divine dancers, all beak and bravado, captured mid-sashay in fractured geometry and unapologetic plumage. It’s not just art—it’s avian transcendence!" It is believed to be from Picasso's very brief 'pink' period. It lasted 1 painting. The painting suddenly appeared last Tuesday morning at a student house in Liverpool.  The Discovery In Liverpool’s quiet student flat,   Where toast burns slow and socks fall flat,   A shimmer split the kitchen air—   A portal pulsed beside the chair.   From folds of time, with feathers flared,   Three flamingos, boldly squared,   Danced out in hues of blush and grace,   Picasso’s dream with beaky face.   Their limbs were lines, their wings askew,   In fractured pink and cob...