Click here for a door to open, a fish to bite, a lemon to weep, a fraud to step out of his sad forest clothing and show us his all.
Click here for the poet who writes adverts, raising our cultural awareness and letting slide his misgivings. l am gun-slingered, circus-trained, developing ulcers and gravel in my consciounce don’t know how to spell consciounce and more to the point niether does my aromatic, wickedly dancing, fully engrossed mobile phone.
I’m a hotchpotch, a patchwork-quilt, asymetrical, a bumpy mountain road, threatening to tip, innocently, blissfully unaware traffic into the abysse below me. l am fairy studded, mis-managed, and gruesome, in the nicest of ways.
l hammer on doors in the middle of the night, distributing luxury items such as highly expensive perfumes and caviar.
l rotate the moon,
causing innocent Iandslides and mixed reactions to the Grey Scorpian’s advice on how to keep your grip on your individual version of reality from slipping, . from my room.
The crops are all in, the red iron has rusted. l’m taking a bus across the barron hill road. l’m Iooking for love – none to be found – its the individual who suffers, in vain – the overall picture is numb, no feelings – just a haughty, know-it-all vision, expressing itself in huge flourishes of its sky high purple robes, just a grand perspective looking on, from an oblivious distance.
…feet cold, nose cold, knees cold – cold ice covered, shiny, slippery surface – got to cycle carefully – balance, balerina-like, on my cold metal bike. But at least its not raining.
…and the fat, happy carrots hang, dangling, from golden, diamond encrusted sticks and we follow them, never quite reaching their orange, chrisp, suculant, flesh
… and it is us who hold the sticks!
… and the snow swirls like cold smoke, and and the gentle giants of ancient myths and children’s fairy tales grace our tables with their dandruff escapades, all hiccups and sad Plymouth-iron gavots.
lts so sad the way people come into my life and pass out of it – or should I say the way I come into people’s lives and pass out of them. Oh, the screeching of sad tyres tonight on some sad tarmac road underline my desolation with their dark blue echo.
Hema cafe cup of coffee on the Hema cafe table, balanced like a ”juggler balances a bottle of wine” – (Bob Dylan) caught fresh faced (and I’m off and running) hands full of no-mans land platitudes, and conferences of 4 legged, two horned bull-ring bull survivors, snorting, and sending red-caped platitudes to the Bull God statue sitting, freshfaced on the light formicaed kitchen table.
Dear everyone: the last few blogs were a bit of an experiment – I got a bit lost and mixed up – I think the quality dropped a bit … sorry about that – worrying about money – just got off plane – probably should have gone to sleep instead of lying in bed experimenting between skitch, word press, sketchbook, evernote – agh – well I hope I dont lose any of you – now – to sleep. Thanks for following me – unbelievably special. Best – and of course, happy new year, Tony.
On plane waiting to take off back to Amsterdam from Gatwick. Christmas over. British Airways. Easyjet plane next to ours who we spurned and took on the cheaper! and better conditions of BA: don’t have to pay for baggage in the hold! the flight is cheaper than easyjet! AND you get a FREE! cup of tea and biscuit! Easyjet used to be good in that they didn’t have set seats … you could sit where you like, but now they’ve stopped even that … so what is the point? of course, at Schipol you have to walk further to get to the BA terminal. But what the heck!
Rich as birds, on spires of silver, (toothbrush in one hand, old leather travelling bag in the other, speaking in a cracked, sad, rasping voice, sort of coughing the words out,
“…and where are my precious stone mosaics that scatter minefields in their wake?”
Pleasured by mysterious little meaningful cows, Hyperion at the window, arranging yellow daffodils in a Chinese vase, coughing the sinister question,
“…why do no cursers blink on me? … no scratch pad sensasionalists turtle dove on me?”
…and the rich crew, with their silver spires, vault like happy parrots, over the black fence, into oblivion.