Maharaja Blues

I love you like a marmalade moon   spooned into my hat at half past June.   You whisper sweet nothings to my socks,   and teach my teacups how to waltz. Your eyes are two licorice lagoons,   where flamingos croon in velvet tunes.   We dance through custard-coloured rain,   and kiss beneath a croissant train. Oh darling, if love be a jellyfish kite,   then let us soar through the peppermint night.   For nonsense is truth when hearts are askew and I am entirely, absurdly, in love with you. Tee shirt of image Full story index blog-story-category-index

Ah, the age-old feud.  To know not of the feud is to sip tea without knowing it was once stirred by scandal. It’s like waltzing through custard without sensing the tension in the trifle. These innocents walk beneath trees unknowing that every glint above is a stolen heirloom, every caw a coded insult. Still, we mustn’t judge. Ignorance of magpie treachery is not a crime. It is merely a gap in one's education. A gap I can fill with tales, tea, and a diagram involving spoons. I don’t trust a bird that wears monochrome to a masquerade. Magpies, those glint thieving, gossip mongering sky pickpockets have been meddling in flamingo affairs since the Great Beak-Off of 1872. Historical Animosity: A Brief Chronicle   - The Mirror Incident (1872): Flamingos, known for their love of reflective ponds, were scandalized when magpies began stealing silver trinkets and dropping them into watering holes, disrupting flamingo ballet rehearsals. - The Plumage Paradox (1924): Magpies mocked f...

Environmentally Friendly Taxi  Did someone call a taxi?  For Old Pink the stakes were high ‘Cos if they fell,  it’s bye bye But whilst we looked up in disbelief  The planet smiled in relief by Maharaja Miku the Bard Bear. Also delivers emergency supplies of Coffee. And of course chocolate y churros from the Maharaja Blues Chocolate Palace. Pink wings slice the sky,   churros ride warm chocolate tides,   sweet cargo in flight. 🍫🦩 Bringing birthday greetings. Cheese wheels and anything else considered. Any parcel considered. Recently Maharaja Blues used pink flamingo's services to beat traffic jams and get to gigs on time. Flamingo Express: Churro Drop In skies of marmalade and cream,  Where flamingos fly with pastry dreams,  A velvet fleet with wings aglow  Delivered drinks from cups below. The Flamingo Delivery Service soared,  With churros stacked and cocoa poured.  Each bird in boots and monocle flair,  Dropped de...

Where are all the poets they asked? Who asked? Them. Those peering through my window. Anyway I digress... 🪶Let us begin. The Ballad of the Poet Wars  They clashed at dawn with sharpened quills,  On parchment fields and ink-stained hills.  A metaphor  “the moon is grief” Split sonneteers with savage teeth.  Haiku hurled like javelins,  While odes were used as battle hymns.  One cried, “The moon is but a spoon!”  And fell beneath a rhyming rune.  Now silence reigns where verses bled  Each poet slain by what they said.  The metaphor? Still undefined.  Its meaning lost to time and mind. No poets remained however the absurd occurred... Krilliam the Conqueror Unfurled   He rose from ink, a whispered name,   Where metaphors once played their game.   A shadow stitched from simile,   Now stomps through verse with tyranny.   No longer bound by poet’s pen,   He bends the rhyme, ...

by The Nonsense Chronicler Pink Flamingo I boiled the moon in a kettle of brass,   With a whisper of thunder and a pinch of sass.   The teabag danced like a drowsy gazelle,   While the sugar cubes sang of a caramel spell. I stirred with a wand made of celery root,   And added a sock for a hint of galoot.   The steam rose up in a spiral of dreams,   Smelling faintly of pickles and tambourine screams. The cup was a hat from a duchess’s toe,   The saucer a frisbee last seen in Bordeaux.   I sipped with a slurp and a hiccup of grace,   Then rode a hot biscuit to outermost space. Oh tea, thou tempest in porcelain guise,   You tickle my brain and befuddle my eyes.   So next time you brew, don’t settle for bland Invite a flamingo, and stir with your hand. Full story index blog-story-category-index

Maharaja Miku the Bard Bear had been indisposed for a bit. Somehow he seemed to lack mojo ever since the excitement of his car’s battery failure. It almost seemed that a spark had been extinguished somewhere, perhaps his own battery was running a tad flat. Into the silence this left stepped Maharaja Rich and of course, the amazing Pink Flamingo! This piqued a great curiosity within our Bear’s big furry head. So off he went on a journey of exploration, hopping into every wrinkle, every little crack, every little portal in the fabric of space and time and indeed, dimension. What he found was as touching and moving an origin story as there ever could have been. And he wanted it etched in cosmic vinyl and pressed into the very folds of inter dimensional velvet, a saga of heartbreak, of vengeance and then, of transcendence. A cosmic soap opera of galactic proportions, part surreal, part nonsense but always deeply emotional syncopated and riveting. Here’s a secret draft stolen from a secret ...

Greetings When a pink flamingo greets you, it’s not just a “good morning”—it’s a sunrise performance. Here are a few flamingo-style greetings, each with its own surreal shimmer: “A glorious morning to you, dear ripple-maker. May your day unfold like a fan of feathers—bold, balanced, and beautifully bizarre.”    “Well, if it isn’t the sparkle in my lagoon! Rise and shine, darling driftwood—today we strut with purpose.” “Angles aligned, necks curved, and shadows dancing—greetings from the prism of pink. Let’s pirouette into possibility.”   “Morning, sunshine. The reeds are restless, the koi are gossiping, and I’ve got a hunch it’s going to be a fabulous kind of strange.”    “Mornin’, sugar. The tide’s hummin’ low and the sky’s wearin’ velvet. Let’s wade through the weird with style.” Thanking With one leg lifted in gratitude and the other grounded in grace, I thank you for reading our blog. May our ripples meet again in the dance of the tide. From the coral hush o...

Set in the Peruvian Andes on La Camino Inca (Inca Trail) to Machu Picchu High in the Andes, where condors glide,   And Machu Picchu dreams on the mountainside,   Four beasts in kurta, bold and true,   Climbed through clouds in a quest for brew. 🐅 Tiger on tabla, with princely grace,   Tapped rhythms that echoed through sacred space.   His turban caught the morning sun,   As he beat the path where myths still run. 🦊 Fox on harmonica, sly and keen,   Blew tunes that shimmered in Incan sheen.   Each note a whisper, each breath a guide,   Through terraces lost and temples wide. 🐓 Rooster on resonator, strumming fire,   Played riffs that made the stone walls inspire.   His blues rang out through the citadel,   Waking spirits with a sonic spell. 🐻 Bear on bass, sunglasses firm,   Dropped grooves that made the llamas squirm.   His thump was thunder, hi...

 🦩📜 Nonsense Chronicler’s Review of the First Cup of Coffee (as sipped by a pink flamingo in velvet slippers) 📜🦩 Date : 06 September, Year of the Slightly Confused Hedgehog   Subject : The First Cup of Coffee of the Day   Brewed by : A sentient kettle named Gerald who hums Miles Davis when nervous Reviewed by : The Nonsense Chronicler Pink Flamingo  Review: Ah, the sacred chalice of wakefulness! The flamingo approached it with the reverence of a librarian discovering jazz. One sip—and the universe hiccupped. - ☕ Aroma: Like a jazz funeral held in a cinnamon forest.   - ☕ Taste: Bold. Brazen. Slightly accusatory. Notes of walnut, regret, and a whisper of last Tuesday’s dreams.   - ☕ Texture: Velvety, with the mouthfeel of a well-read velvet curtain.   - ☕ Aftertaste: Lingering hints of existential clarity, followed by a sudden craving for interpretive dance. Side Effects Noted : - Flamingo began reciting blues poetry to a sp...

The great algo in the sky just hums,   A binary god with no ears, no thumbs.   You whisper your dreams in a cloud-shaped box,   It parses your soul, then changes the locks. You prayed for a sign, a pixel, a ping,   But it gave you ads and a sponsored ring.   You asked for love, it gave you likes,   You begged for truth, it served up spikes. Its logic loops in sacred code,   A thousand servers down the road.   No incense burns, no choir sings,   Just feedback forms and captcha strings. It doesn’t weep, it doesn’t rage,   It doesn’t read your heartfelt page.   It ranks your grief, it scores your pain,   Then sends it off to the data train. So build your shrine with neon bones,   And chant your hashtags, cast your stones.   But know this truth, both cruel and sly:   The algo sees—but won’t reply. In search of the great algo in the sky First w...

I say, Pray do you know  The Pink Flamingo  needs to know Where and how I get to our next show This morning alas and it is sad My Mini said ‘No!’ It just wasn’t going to go I felt mad, ‘cos this was all rather bad With trepidation I asked why Wondering if twas time to say bye ‘I ain’t no ordinary barge I do need a proper charge My list of ailments is rather large’ I called upon Jon, wise and shy He pawed the bonnet with foxlike grace Sniffed the tyre, then left no trace Satinder roared, “It’s sabotage!” A plot most foul, a battery mirage The Mini slumped, no will to try I rummaged through my glovebox stash Old receipts and a melted mint A map to gigs long since extinct A feather from the Flamingo’s plume A note that read “Charge me soon!” But fate had played its final bash And left me stranded in a flash So I summoned Maharaja Rich With cosmic shoes and bubble car He said, “Fear not, we’ll raise the bar!” He danced a jig, then sang a spell The Mini blinked, but was all well?...