So... friendly strangers came to town now guess what you did you made enemies of them go find yourselves smart ass fair weather friends you ain't riders on the storm your just pishogues in the solar wind so that's what pinko lefties bang on about till your sick of hearing it any more ...and the sky is wide just like in the old days when people used to dream on you
Not writing thus read
Goes the old threshing machine
Inside out workings
Belching, churning, lurching with
All the bits showing
Like Norman Foster
Or the Duke of Kent thanking
Ball boys and ball girls
For their servile services
Perhaps if he wore a floral hat
Like his smiley wife
It might brighten things up
Cut the military kit
If it’s nice out wear no clothes
Watch out for that wild fanbelt
And the people in smocks
Sporting giant pitchforks
Tripping on ergot
In the antic hay
And the grumpy teenager
With the machete
We are going to a very dark place, says the primal scream on global wireless: the republic cannot withstand its savagery Selfie Studios set to release A blockbuster Thanksgiving special Double Bill The Death of Nation Built on Slavery & The Decline & Fall of the Human Condition that must not under any circumstance improve but may register its disapproval vociferously by pressing buttons that turn out the light
Just sat here watching
The saints go marching
in picking up sweets
& detritus of consumer
hellraising last night—
abandoned cellphones
grotesque prosthetic
cruel rubber masquerades—
O! to be a flea
in that golden fleece
Slurping ambrosia
Post richly deserved
beatification
An unknown soldier
Marching as to War
Seventy six trombones
In the morning sun
Kill the Pig Parade
Magic mushroom bands
Trip the light fantastic
Lambs to the slaughter
O! Muse why art though not
wholeheartedly sick
Of this daft parade
parasitic worms?
Foggy light six forty five
Quarter to eight summer time
Chronology sucks
Watched Michael Moore in Trumpland
Who the hell is Vince Foster?
After filling up my senses
Overnighting in the forest
John Denver for company
You cannot imagine how
Subliminal I am feeling
In the last colony left on earth
Emma stood blank in half-eight demi-light thinking causes for one shit up & two shits below: stale toast, ancient Camembert, fatty olives, decaying salad, egg & chips, late night salmon, oily roast root vegetables, midsummer nectarine, squashy pears, rich cream cheesecake, bottle of white wine, after eight mints, dirty glasses, yes, dirty glasses…
Dirty bedclothes full of stale flu-sweat, skin flakes, dandruff, and smokey house dust
Sink full of dirty dishes, greasy black hob, sticky fingers, slimy forboding corners, swampy miasma, fairy lights hanging from the dogroses.
Handel’s Water music strutted on the wireless. Which came first, thought Emma, the water or the fireworks? Was it linear or circular? Either way it was always the same old Handel. How very reassuring. Not.
The last two weeks had oozed bad news.
9.34
Radio daze…
10.58
No post or calls? Not yet. Have a think. Check your incoming. Read about writing. Perhaps more radio. Tidy the kitchen. Why me? I’m a cripple. A raspberry ripple. Wheelchair Bound. Simon and Garfunkel.
11.04
A sudden burst, a rat-ta-tat, six minutes at least it lasts. Nothing moves but these twisted fingers on the keyboard. A radio monologue describes an airport encounter. John Mortimer.
Namedropper, that’s what I’ll call it. namedropper. James Joyce Carol Oates.
A Friday in October.
Sounds awesome.
afridayinoctober…
nearly gave in there. The urge to blog. SOS to the world #3064…fills the time & I like it. quiet. Just the radio. Me & the Radio. The wireless. The Other Girl by John Mortimer, that’s what it was. Calls? Check for incoming. Clean up. Put the kettle on. Polly.
13.36
Foodless and fancy food means cook sausages—will it be with chips?
Afternoon dawns grey mass dormant air leaves dampen droop slump
Weather report done.
H-bomb calls about F-bomb. Emmer Greensward, Reading. The long haul begins. Chips or the full Monteverdi? Tough call, tough, tough calll…
—Trim your beard, you slob
—In the fullness of thyme, Master. The fullness of thyme.
Get out some haddock to deforest. Is this a hangover or just bog standard gastro-enteritis? No fried eggs, no chips. Green salad, Tabasco, shallots, spinach…
Euphoria
Pope meets Archbishop —
they make love, clean up, and part
on amicable terms
Stress (I trust you
concur) is mettle fatigue.
Bridges fall down
Glorious Hoboken had
One just yesterday
I saw it on the telly this
Side of the sad pond
I am ensconced in
Unsteady heady paperwork,
stumbling to a bitter
conclusion of hostilities-
mutual annihilation
looks like a gruesome compromise
between the better aspect
and the best outcome
Sensible brown shoes
Contemplate retirement
Live now pay later
It’s a wonderful lifeboat
Gigantic white horses
Full force gale blows crazy
Fisherman lost all at sea
Grimbeau 