NINE is eight found wanting stale orchids splutter pure airways clog up overnight no second breath come first gasper justice thirsts as curfew darkness drains March makes aether culprit,
Flirty snide barbs rib and niggle vindictive zests defy belief --when will words fall petal free? consult yond inner demon seed that insufferable bore that force feeds you breast fed in orphic bubbles drives me wild eyed to distraction shot drops me like a polar bear found seething raging blowing sliced through by sabre sleet marooned out on a dodgy asphalt shoulder starving
Only got so far that they could fake my name before the pants were pulled down and the sacraments began blurted it out in dribbles and spits left little old me in a market town alley who would have thought it would happen here over here of all places
stillborn labour long and arduous; earthquakes grumble
sullen tallow poesy, very nice though it seems,
a can of worms called
cryogenic masochism. the rood that came unglued. nothing hinged springs easy. Where is it to go? Forlorn in no faced media; a crowd of ones and zeros swaps ; O not to live like that if I make it through this eternal night;
Snoopdogs of a thousand faces;
lit from underneath by lime twixt screens disposed to wander
looking for a break a let up in the bombardment reveals a pile of rubble heaped
beside a cranky trebuchet lightly dusted with talcum powder redolent in no way of instant mash
Woke up muttering astonishment, ruby jumper crushed on a damask outcrop, leapt limply from penthouse window, thought I must a crazed intruder, some illegal alien or a late night shopper carousing minus funny money,
Rain lashed Kildare High St, dead of night, lumpen teeming moonies, letting out the dogfish, floppy velvet hats, shirtsleeve weather strange, break in clouds deduced, curious chair dismantled in a narrow alley. Upturned news stand consequence, pushy driver takes the rap, formula one marauder, empty room pulsates, furnished lobby giggles, holiday let contracts, commands a salient view, bendy flat horizon, step outside on stilts, reckon high on cedar, always muddled vista, inconclusive sparrow, reverent pariah, incautious wing commander, terminally droll.
Hubristic two faced cubists should not wonder, leap of faith required, fatal blunder buster, sods conjoined by deadlock, noman torn asunder. Rhyming slang bewildered, gentle thunder applauds, door jamb screeching doughnut, head on concrete pillow. Leaping crayfish willow. Bruce Lee Brilleaux padding. Me no hip hop shopper, came a sherpa cropper. dropped a deep space hopper, insulted missus mopper, plangent belly flopper, blissful billow popper…
Tell sour story your way, pulling no prissy punches and when the time comes roundly recite the following by hearth:
How dreary the winds shriek and whine: The trembling shadows grow chill. O soul of my soul, wert thou mine!
O where are the stars that did shine? The moonlight that tinselled the hill? How dreary the winds shriek and whine!
Despair ’round my heart doth entwine, Far soundeth my cry weird and shrill: O soul of my soul, wert thou mine!
I’ve quaffed to the dregs the mad wine Of passion, but under my sill How dreary the winds shriek and whine!
’Tis thine, is the dream so divine, That doth this vain yearning instill; O soul of my soul, wert thou mine!
’Tis mine, here to crave and to pine For what thou wilt never fulfill; How dreary the winds shriek and whine! O soul of my soul, wert thou mine!
an apothecary swallows fast
it went down the wrong way
chuckles of embarrassment
lewd conducive intimation
penelope's dreamboat melody
tempts and titillates swineherds
a discreet number parked deep down
in the novelty oxen hide
the men in yellow hats watch Eloise
shyly unwrapping a cough sweet...
rococo seashells shatter
a new baroque is stillborn
Rube and Curt were not impostors
But verity was brute traduced: refracted
festive nestlings playing up, most het up indeed, catch my eye
getting jumpy, get the wind up
Beware of swarthy eggsharks, capricious pine martens, pernicious rapine twitchers.
flurry overwrought inside, see insecurity in frenzies uniformity
Consterned as cops vexed fledgers issue squeaky peeps awaiting flaming June in rueful Minnesota
Carried away on arboreal gusts frisk baby leaves,
Martens fast encroach
Two skips is all it took
Two shakes of a lamb’s tail
To wipe out a twentieth century life
spent keeping head above water
Rarely if ever ahead of the game
Trading off lives with careless talk
Having a bit on the side
Giving as good as you got mind you
Sauce for the goose
Is sauce for the gander
Always an eye for a chance,
Jones’ suck up the Jones’s
unhinging light air traffic and small furry animals
o’erleaping avarice; now we send in the homespun drones;
reinforce a no-fly zone around the wasp factory;
Forthcoming static times hang in
a balance of increments crisis;
Till a feral cat let out of the pisspot of despots, tosspots & all their worthy heirs
Declaims this barely adds up to a steaming heap of beans…
So much for no grumbling, Nigel. First thing that came to mind. Poor me! Poor characters, all on the samey-blame me path. It bores me frigid Nigel.
Aja is an island freed of its natives by slavers in 1863 and remained so until the mid-sixties when reclaimed by six intrepid schoolkids
robbed a boat and hid out there for fifteen months in perfect harmony. William Golding was a god bothered soak in his spare time.
Friday on my mind (for it was a Friday); shifty manoeuvres are afoot; a climate of suspicion prevails; all locked down with nowhere to go.
Wanna topic. Lack a tonic. A gin and tonic for the troops (gifted clear sky-blue ideas plucked free from the aether); thought of it twice and got frustrated.
Climbing up the walls. Whit Monday radio news: windows open, summer day, lockdown wobbling, allure of mithra, life lived in one day, back to shitty work tomorrow,
half-term hols from shutdown schools, many will never return, social fabric wearing thin. No subject crops up; birdsong soundtrack palesjust gone nine
comes a moan for all seasons, rut-stuck in a gruesome shamble. Fire breathing vipers lick crusty ankles all hope evaporates for peace come flaming June.
Lining up for the second wave, the seventh is the strongest. Rip tides plunder those too dumb to flee, disbelievers and romcom tourists gather at the river, bored shitless by these endless update spiels,
Green mud I declare, not to mention yellow air, dragons turned to minnows and mice to toothy tigers, just because two toffs got the chop at precisely the right moment Timing is everything it seems when the wind blows backwards and the waves return for one last lap. I take time to observe the spots on these bamboo leaves before me And note they bear a striking resemblance to the candescent snotter of dilettantes
Snow disappears Guileful children on a beach. Acropolyptic. Hope and Joy At Christmas c 1947 seventy years later. Wrapped up warm pockets, Fur. Athens. Green Park black in snow. Black and white snap. Tense audition: slow cello pizzicato. Angelic wails receding. Haunting voices clamour. Ghost beach cacophony. Polperro parrot. Densely uninhibited. Rosewood box sarcophagus; in saecula saeculorum. Dirce row the boat ashore, allelujah! Mehta and life sentences; brahmin breaths and tea tree branches. Caste system begets Vast system. Grain. Verlaine. Purple pupil beater. Flageolet old bean. Tap Water sommelier; aficionado of bruised chihuahua avocado.
Ten O’clock— Big Seven. Threepack Strumpet, Sir Cumstantial,
Phidippides takes the bait (bad day for peas); black pudding weather;
Socrates in a basket; wax my slippers, Maestro please; abject please on bended knees; laxido unction up tuxedo junction; keep on plugin’, sluggin & sloggin’—get to hang Ovid one day; then u is milin;
Alice…hair flows like meadow waves;
Midday—no prime minister-no questions; stretching hams, fizzy up; paeans to beauty, mannikins of mildew; auto scribbles; no hard shoulder to cry on; heavenly ten ton truck;
Kersplat Morrissey. Old Tosh cops it. Amazon scammers fuck me round. Louis ain’t rough
Ninety minutes spent wisely in the organic community means death on a couch of sedge in the third world. Plague takes three million worldwide every second. Big numbers crowd sevbig books. Thor world fills ledgers thinner than most
Grey warm flat empty sandstone treasury of Petra in Sunday drizzle
Monday is the boiler fix, a dirty spoon abandoned , a muzzy morning nuisance caller, an offer to be sniffed at, a fresh bed of noses, an aqueous shower, and a tale of two leopards disputing a missing bone
Feel compulsion comin on Moon shines under curfew; pub names seek out provenance; swept up dog shit and fag butts; morphing on shampoo; gurning calypso whistles; tailspins round on moccasins; issues mystical whispers; moon shimmers underwater; lamprey medusa turns bongos into boulders; bleak cold war imaginings old as drenched dépaysé hills
divine fingers flexed; sick of reflection; noises off confound; fucking radiators hum; mind drifts to arcadia; planets lost to soundbites; melancholy flower; limpid soft eyelids droop; molten magma tears flood in; fissure on the ocean; squinting barracuda scatter; flying fishwives bitchy gossamer; caught shoplifting by mantrap anchovy; collective conch shell ears twitch; beach fine tooth back combed sparkles; electrifying sighting; touch static ocean tingle; giggle nervily; end of media for twelvemonth; never on to follow fashion; mores to boot save a fortune; purchase rawl plugs clear of conscience; epistles replace missiles; dreamy brave new worlds; a sure solution to eye pollution; perpetual indulgences of the ear; waxing lyrical no doubt; blessed peace and quiet; profaned by preposterous plugs; fingerful of secrets; no go dip your wick; careful with that wax eugenie; dunno where its been; a butterfly picks its nose in siam--and wham; bob is not your uncle;
Cracked pot next upset chair— Out of upstairs window stare Must have been a storm out there A wind blew A telling gust And Nine Red leaves stand out flamboyant in a cruel spring glare
The Spectacle has, indeed, an emotional attraction of its own, but, of all the parts, it is the least artistic, and connected least with the art of poetry. For the power of Tragedy, we may be sure, is felt even apart from representation and actors. Besides, the production of spectacular effects depends more on the art of the stage machinist than on that of the poet.
A strong short shower overflows congested drains; a dog turd disintegrates on the rough grass; the scream in the night was not from next door; even upstairs i can hear the engine hum Sad, alas, the man who dreamt of Fairies! For a single dream spoiled his whole life.
1 Worsted, Tweed, Galician calicos, reamed cotton screed, diaphanous silks, dour, coarse linens, Chinese screen tableaux of mislaid epochs, safe and unsafe tapestries, sad stacked in the old mead hall, the conference centre, the hubristic hub of soft arrogance now Withered
2 The once sure folk have fled, melted and mutated, The meek ones headed for the hills, they crouch and mooch grumpy, sucking stale breadsticks in their holes, the old caves and calcified barrows. The diehards fought foolhardy rear-guard actions – smouldering stockyard bone stooks stand pyrrhic Edifice
With the Labyrinthines gone away, nature is displeased, Ever abhorrent of void it convenes Bison, heck, leopard, eel and titmouse, Louse, curlew, ptarmigan, to settle a modus of repair. They soon conclude the obvious: You are only as good as your last, worsted Algorythm _
A redundant giant slumped silently on a porcelain escarpment washed by all weathers Hesitated and slipped under the turbid foam. A mission bell tolled, candles were lit and praise was lavished on the magnificent shit. “We may never see the like again,’’ claimed a source unknown to number ten.
New Grub Street records below for future delectation; and on the ruby doorstep, a letter for Professor Phipps containing a packet of pulverised sage to keep the lonely onion happy engaged in crazed seasonal endeavours Festive lies. A nuclear fog subsumes Trollenberg as zombies fill the dishwashers incanting the curses of Mali and smiling on the memory of Nkrumah’s regal foxtrot.
‘Maradonna’s dead’ ‘Too bad, but what of wee Diego?’ ‘Robust mudlarking,have no doubt. Slicing dentures from washed up concubines of the East Indian in inky sepia drab.’
A crow observes from a tendrilled groyne. All is muted, unspectacular. Waters lap. A heat pipe burps in fair Abrasia. ‘Will he wash?’ ‘In good time, when opportunity arises.’ ‘The crusty stench is beyond the daily luminal’ ‘Crud!’ ‘Poor wee Diego’ ‘Aye’
The blank look; the pale face; a swingeing cut & a lunging thrust. I am always rocking and rollin’; pullin’ & pushin’; puffin’ and twitchin’. Sir Realism chewed the wasp wing absentmindedly, he was looking longingly at the bust of Dickens. ‘Formegandros!’ The bellow echoed around the huge, bare bathroom. After rain falls sunshine
1 Worsted, Tweed, Galician calicos, reamed cotton screed, diaphanous silks, dour, coarse linens, Chinese screen tableaux of mislaid epochs, safe and unsafe tapestries, sad stacked in the old mead hall, the conference centre, the hubristic hub of soft arrogance now Abandoned.
2 The once sure folk have fled, melted or mutated, The meek ones headed for the hills, where they crouch and mooch, sucking on stale breadsticks in their shell holes, caves and calcified barrows. The diehards who fought foolhardy rear-guard actions – smoulder in stockyard bone stooks stand pyrrhic before the Sacrifice
With the Labyrinthines gone away, nature is displeased, Ever abhorrent of void it convenes Bison, heck, leopard, eel and titmouse, Louse, curlew, ptarmigan, to settle a modus of repair. They soon conclude the obvious: You are only as good as your last, worst Aberration _
New Grub Street records below for future delectation; and on the ruby doorstep, a letter for Professor Phipps containing a packet of pulverised sage to keep the lonely onion happy & engaged in crazed seasonal endeavours lies. A nuclear fog subsumes Trollenberg as zombies fill the diswashers incanting the curses of Mali and smiling on the memory of Nkrumah’s wizard foxtrot.
‘Good, but what of little Diego?’
‘Mudlarking, no doubt. Slicing dentures from washed up concubines of the East Indian in inky sepia drab. A crow observes from a tendrilled groyne. All is muted, unspectacular. Waters lap. A heat pipe giggles in Abrasia.
Covered in purple dark spots is if mauled by myrtle spores, I changed under and over shirt. In The Hirsute of the Millennium we soon learn it is for the best to indulge both Brabancons and Chevaliers− flip sides of the dominant coinage−praise them equally in the font of(_^′)spare methe hassle′ italics^′
We try again to toll the bell where Zen flows, seems afar the berg of Grim juts apostate on the jagged skyline. Marauding friars and godless nuns make merry in the meadow hereabouts− Maddered children of the House of Love accursed by local soaks and wizened sinners that frolic mustard green and orphic twisted in night’s duplictous shade, St Salacious dribbles Augustinian ale on the mellow mass come Sabbath. The House of Nassau lives on the tithes and indulgences thst follow.
Why Wednesday already! No day for godless Chaplains to feel vacant. Hedges and history confound the third eye. Gregory vii is on the prowl for followers of the sacred owl, hounds surround the cuckoo’s nest. Milady is at vespers. Good job that I wear a vest emblazoned with the dripping eagle, venal thyrsus and divine cheroot. Plague confounds both mind and body politic.
‘The world’s gone nuts’, a little one shouts. All the elders hoot, A flash mob gathers. The child repeats: ‘The world’s gone nuts’, the mob chants back, ‘Eudes de l’Etoile… Eudes de l’Etoile’
Herr Hemmingway’s new fangled card tricks garnered whoops of ghoulish euphoria; cryptic brevity entranced the maidens in the downstairs parlour. Whip cracks of girlish giggle and pinch play pierced the dour scourge of curfew night. A carriage pulled up before the sombre granite Manse. A parcel was delivered in speedy silence. Casaubon ate freely of the doctored truffles. Mary Ann rested back to wait the denouement, puffing gaily on her long clay pipe and petting Daniel Absconda, her Sicilian spaniel. All would be revealed next Monday in The Infidel if they were spared. * Silas Marner pitched up unexpected the following day, dressed in limpid russet homespun which reminded Willoughby Dunlop, the virile batman, oddly of withered futuristic inner tubes. ‘Your luculence become you Massa Silas’ Dunlop growled with syrupy menace. ‘Do you bear subversive notions for the mistress? ‘That I do, swarthy vassal of capricious empire, that I do’. Willoughby scuttled away to disarm her, the sound of his chains echoing through the capacious lobby as he went. A smile of brute rapaciousness broke cross his ashen face. * The eagle dripped on Zion as Ezra piled up the faggots in Parousia, Tertullian gazed on amazed on the third day of the shining wall in the morning sky. Nereus took his leisure, replete in still dry oceans. What was in those truffles? Precious time had drifted away. Calypso’s suitors fed the fowl with pith and peel.
‘Nightshirt!’ demanded Funk. ‘I shall be with you shortly; in the fulness of time; post haste; forthwith…’ May Ann appeared at the door, dishevelled, her cheeks a roseate hue, panting. ‘There you are, my dearest. But why…’ ‘A spot of bare Pilates for the circulation. Doctor Jasper’s orders.’ A boneshaker hustled over the gravelled drive. ‘Mice?’ suggested Casaubon, aroused. *
‘So Dude, what’s your beef? I post a lot? I am a friggin writer, a communicator. It’s a subject to object relationship. Intercourse. God proposes: man disposes. That kinda set up. So quit your incessant carping, Buster. Just because my numbers turn out better than yours. Get a friggin life Godammit!’ ‘Discouraging words from Herr Hemingway, Adolf. He gets so reckless when he’s on the saucel I’m sure he will come round in the end. We all have our eccentricities. Our peccadiloes and foibles.’
But Adolf was inconsolable. The rest is Off course Is history.
* Chesney reached inside his great coat pocket and took a slug from the vial in the brown paper bag. The liquor! Dammit the liquor. Huxtable was wrong. He took another swig. It was then she emerged though the Bourbon mist of the cold November carpark. Zelda Zuchenslooper. What a broad.
‘Who you screwing, Small Fry’, she chirruped from some distance, yet somehow audible over the hubbub of a not inconsiderable crowd. All eyes turned on Chesney. He cleared his throat. It was now or never, and he hollered.
The Night of the Bog Heat plays out below as ballooning over Tara above the steam stench peat and course heather the summer thermals waft muesli west to titanium ships that calibrate conditions for the fleet. A neutral landscape unforgettable and unforgiving to the bug eyed.
Drought brought us down with a sharp shallot, shed from an upset colander
Hey Mister Storekeeper, quit that cruel gruel rustic fabric. Don’t leave us besmeared by steerage stirring for a box of frogs! Give up and yield to sunshine and snorage.
Pay off the elders with jalop and deploy quick wits and cutesy metaphors.
So deep the seeds of self-movement sowed. Patience is its own discord said the blueberry to the snail. Adding:
‘Be gone you irksome carry house from this esteemed wilderness. Talented Cromwellingses of all stripes and zealous alkyhorlicks abound in well clad tower blocks throughout the land, I’m unreliably told by sources near to the ketchup.’
Why so sorry? Why so sad? It could be worse; it’s not so bad…
Well, yes it fucking is. It fucking is. It fucking is. It fucking fucking is…
On Tuesday the Twentieth of June 2017 it became, at 5am, 24c and in the corner the fan purred loud. It was sat on a spare chair slowly watching tennis from Queen’s. At the end of the encounter superglue handshakes were exchanged. The combatants wore green flip-flops.
The Faber Book of Neurotic Plants & Fruit lay open at ‘Gallimauphy’ when Inspector Funk arrived. The only witness was a mute cook who went by the name of Chum. The blinds were closed. The only light was marsh gas. ‘This setting is inappropriate’ was scrawled across the artexed wall. Water dripped into a blue trauma bucket.
A surgeon minced nervously from door to door. A fat man rested his eyes in the corner of the crowded annex. Chum was taken off for interrogation in the wet room. The clock was stuck at seven twenty-four. On the lawn red fungi grew in the mulch of scattered yellow maple leaves. The rowan tree was barren. A youth rode past on a black bicycle. his aspect adamant and grey. She was fleeing the clutches of a thousand-armed family that dogged her every move. Belatedly the phone rings, it is limpid doomed Patricia, destined for the abattoir. Funk is lost for words. Platitudes are all he has to offer; he winces at his indifference as he does so. His varicose veins were clearly visible in the low November light.
A chicken jalfrezi and chapati were all there was on offer. His bane, patrolled the galley in the hungry times. Nutrition was rationed out like peter’s pence to supplicants, the law of inbuilt negligence condoned her every move. Chum would be released on good behaviour. He had done nothing heinous. The Faber book of Neurotic Plants & Food was closed and sent to Coventry. Funk gave way to apathy and sniffed the food for truffle spores.
Think I blew it, yet I just dunno—that’s what happens when you stand, put yourself forward, lay it on the line. There is always a train coming, fast or slow. What makes a good loser then?
A hand-snake and a Simeon smile or the sweet compensation of mere participation. At least it was close. You was not crushed. Tomorrow is yet another day. Fire is a symbol. Hubris is a drudge. Just when you think you’re getting somewhere it bites you big time on the bum.
‘Cover his mouth’, they insist, before the final gorge sprays us all in sap vile, instead we provided pineapple chunks to moisten scabby lips, and prolong the agony for one final heaving lurch, And it is done. In olden days they caved the skull in with stones when the harvests failed. Pity is the most base of all emotions. We wallow in the swamp.
There is a vaccine far away without a city wall, they sing. Round here the white van still is king of the faeries. Up north they are putting up shelves to house commemorative urns. Down here Dido laments white haired waves blown back before the Zoom committee as the Old Greys look in on morphing apps till human voices wake them up to drown in the incredible.
A free land hopeless and divided. Rancorous divisions between bookish Bostonians and Robes-pierrots; pearl barley devos and childish prodigies; blank cartridges and Aaron Burr littering up the federacy of dung beetles—a proud, eventful history of all that’s best in human slaughter in the mechanized age endangered. And then a sullen rentier assumes the right to legislate for honesty! This is a bold country for old men and algorithms.
Sundown, Theodosia, will never be the same without the plankton of your tears. I head for Alabama with my banjo on my knee first light. We may never see my like again
Don’t bank on it Aaron, there’s one born every minute.
The Phoney War on Slapstick Ends…
Times like this began with General Approval in deep hotchpotch jaw-jaw back of Nico’s bar and grill traducing clam-baked mongrel hoc polloi
‘Better late than never’, sighed swan necked Frieda Sluggish flicking though a growing stack of IOU’s and billet doux. Silhouetted against the bleak midwinter skyline it all appeared quite plausible to steady bogus Chad, whose tab fetish was the talk of the mobsters.
‘Flower sales sank to an all-time low—O’Bannion’s gotta magpie coming his way if things do not pick up by Valentine’s’, said Dom in matching ball gown and crozier.
Hosiery was ever a cut-throat trade; less a game of football and more a matter of life and debt. Smart plague dogs knew that much as they did their rounds of the loose limbed irons that littered the sidewalks of Prague ‘This place reeks of optimism—check out the Assassin’s Diary for…
Arose majestic summoned by the crunch of toerags on linoleum. The pedal abscess shows a timely bursting in the night. Wondered what that crack was. Scrambling net returns. Pork pies after beer match, Fine snick to first slip. Attend carefully your Rottweiler. Summer comes round quick. Adopting a ten year old is a huge undertaking. The social workers lie. Get them off the books. Any old port in a storm. Driving home for Christmas. Tears streaming on hard shoulders. The venal driving rain lashing on the windshield. Constancy of wipers never ceases to amaze. Best clean up the act. Early show tomorrow. Theo on parade. Sport best bib and tucker. No regrets Scott Walker. Umbrellas and photographers. The steps of City Hall. Audacious in broad daylight. Lone wolf shot rings out. A sharp intake of breath. A seething heaving crowd converges on a crisp bag. Writers are not born they’re made. Forget the BBC. A posse slow to muster. No Orchids for Miss Blandish. Savvy in your dreams. Never touched a drop. Black pudding and a rasher. Cup of steaming tea.
Better late than never. Who the fuck said that? Observe two minutes silence. Someone farted. Takes all sorts. Poor little Pedro. Him and his ukulele. Not a dry eye in the house. Silent but deadly. Ever changing moods. Penny each for them. Pockets full of shrapnel and torpedoes. Show some disregard. Scrumptious fubsy widows pole dancing on a pinhead. Many muckles make up mickles. Give it up for lent. Dribbles faints and shoots. Bulge in the back of the net. Radar lover gone. Hands once wet on the wheel. In the canyons of red oceans buried
Say something someone. Break the bleeding ice. Mastitis is contagious. City cooked their goose. Windmills in utopia. Lend us a drag of that. No way back for Dicky Mint till hell freezes over. Hell freezes over. All Hail Dicky Mint!
We contemplate the effigy while lying on our backs, A purple people eater is unleashed on a suspicious public. Bloody well serves them right. Get used to anything in the end. Look at Green Shield Stamps. Whoever would have thought it would ever end. And Gerald Nabarro. And and and and and…
Shield early before the new luckdown. Shutdown early for Juul. El Scruffo & Bones calling up the big shots to squeal. Morphed solid when the bowels moved blue heavens. Continent inflamed by snoods. Await the balsawood Liberty Ships. Winter of ’40 revisited. Listen to the World Service. Narvik was a gas…
Change at the top looks imminent. Fishfarm McGove lurks in the wings. But if Trumpington-Smurf gets ousted by The Ghost Wind then Joey Gorky is well parked as the comeback stiff
The Plague will call the real shots if the Old Queen can see the big freeze through without burst pipes through her ancestral piles
Existential bubbles will self-combust in peripheral tantric flight or get brought down by Tesla drones. Time for a penicillin shot. Bawds risk the wrath of the coparphagic Lords.
Toast & Marmite. Barely daylight. Write by nightlight. Curtains drawn. Bourgeois séance. Creepy romance. Cardboard cut outs. Perfumed porn. Standard issue. Tory scorn. Alright Jack. Watch your back. Keep them guessing. What's to do? Keep your head down. Sport a lost frown. Shut the show down. Vindaloo!