Tomorrow is not happening yet—adverse climactic features, heavy sweaty day scowls disapprovingly down, sparkless key bashers bang away down tin pan alley,
becket wrote endgame in such conditions staring down at Santé Prison in one second on a grey autumn day in Newcastle, Co. Down in the year of our Ludd 2016.
Mother-of-Pearl skies loom, make for a luminous emptiness, a milk-ivory lamina patina, we inmates parallel such lineage for diversion in my dowdy sweatshop.
The relief of Mafeking Head! The whirligig dances of the Dervish push no rivers, pull no punches at swim in the holy whole of holies
When they ask Jimmy the Greek to ‘resolve a wager before war breaks out, is that the sun or the moon up there?’, he gives his droll stock response:
‘there is no point in asking me as I hail from the Craic of Doom, Doomsville, Doomistan…’, and goes about his mail order business with added gusto.