But hang on
All along there was a real geehad
And as they've got her...
And as I have realised wow the SW - their, themepark, dysney playground polluting the air and vista with awful smellies, the most ugly sunglasses and cowboy hats i had never imagined may be extant, never mind (a few weeks ago aside, hermitating) i see yet another veruy ugly shaven head as they all must do to have neuro-purity which only the neurotics do, middle aged bloke having a walk down a lane... displaying " look at me i am a steroid addicted bullneck toughguy and i have a dangly earing ..
Their whole horrible junkie existence, that became 'foodie'too... prostituting half of even The Old Kent rd to towerblocks of 'addresses' hired out to 'accommodate' every plutonium dealer plutocrat in the slums of downtown
Kharkiv and once noble slightly saintly, Petersburg
selling shells
Though it's hiring, really
To the world spivclass outrankin'
even ...Nevada
Bizjet Fly in to MAGEC ..
ohh how sad theyve gone.. thats REALLY sad!
(our plan, whisk away Asil camouflaged behind a handful of hookers .. Tracey from MAgec too busy looking at my tryin; to figure why i was so freelance... free... )
In fact i am quite sure by the later 90s there would be a check in desk specifically at bizjet central, " 12 shell companies for the price of ten... any kind of deal, from drugs to stolen olive oil for the empty foodie haunts of foodie central.. hidden away via 99z Old Kent Rd ... or [to be cont] ."
London, sold to the devil decades ago
And the only good one she ran away and pretended to dance by boat
whist preparing to in the future with second sight even if a few decades behind actual "warriors"
once, only once i bet ....say
"heres some fine journalism, correctly modelled on the fine original model of Pilger's 80s offerings.... on why indeed YUK should be in The HAgue.... before... us... "
(freaky... ehhh..... she was a twin...)
cos being a gorgeous super silversexygray (i do have a REAl life where i do almost always stop em' in the lanes and tell them... " do you know by leaving your supersexy greyness you actually do look younger i have a box of interviews with the silvergrays who do indeed say so and prove so)
AND a " UK should be in the hagueist.."
Is a combination that sorry, is about as perfect woman as you can get...
and it turns out she's a bleedin'... (one country many years ago " nope.... dont care if its offered up on a plate, with the finest foodie dilettante olives as garnish...i have my standards... of authenticity, and requiring an actual 'human' bedfellow .... and i never met one with a backbone, soul, or brain to know that showing off on a vesta or in crocodile shoes or old bags, is not sexy.. the rest of Europe has almost grown out of that coquetty bullshit like years ago..... ."
Anyway ehh....
... hmmm.... anyone called 'Massimiliano' i bet you he can't be trusted to be by her side and committed ALWAYS ...
... wonder if she needs a special envoy to.. carry her bags.... in return for a new oxblood passport cos i just cannot go back to blue..
Anyway back to the point
I do believe the LAST poet (s) dead.... or at least one of them.
And one knew-then.... avoid the spotty speed freak vesta clad pricks like the plague they were...until one.... managed to avoid the drugs and London disease of bein' up yourself so far you end like an Oasis of dead meat rottin on a desert island too prissy to eat it cos its not been befridged for the requisite month...
A poet emerged.... and real ones stay true to that magic itness.....
(the end of history when the fake Beatles cam along and just becauase they got some Lennon glasses and mountains of
drugs they thought they
how interesting what a complex background even some Congo who would have thought
i….was born Susan
Janet Ballion[4] on 27 May 1957 at Guy's Hospital in Southwark, England.[5] She is ten years younger than her two siblings. Her sister and
brother were born while the family was in the Belgian
Congo.[5] Her parents met in that colony and worked there for a few years.
Her mother, Betty, was of Scottish and English descent and was a secretary who
spoke both French and English.[6] Her father was a bacteriologist who milked venom from snakes, and came
from Wallonia, the French-speaking part of
Belgium. In the mid-1950s, before Siouxsie's birth, the family moved to
England.
The
Ballions lived in a suburban district in Chislehurst, Kent.
Siouxsie was an isolated child, being unable to invite friends to her house
because of her alcoholic, unemployed father.[7] Despite
his issues, Siouxsie regarded him as intelligent and well-read, and sympathised
with his inability to fit in with a "rigid, middle-class society".[8] During
moments of sobriety, her father shared with her his love for books. Siouxsie
was aware that her family was different;[9] the
Ballions were not involved in the local community and Siouxsie, aware that her
family's house differed from the neighbours', would later state that "the
suburbs inspired intense hatred."[9]
"intense hatred" my my thats a bit rude for ThickPrickopedia
...anyway for a brief few decades Londonistan-on-Kentrd even if as an intellectual i know that it was moreso Clerkenwell rd where the 'shell companies'* thrived ... but old kent rd is a bit more
poetical
a symbolic schism place when they sold the whole town to the devil
And a whole generation of junkie Itis came and refinanced their miscellaneous habits - especially mummies' they darent peek out from under, unless to gobble drugs and drugged up posh London girls
recycling MAFIA money too via their pasta palaces no doubt...
But one thing is for certain, poetry ended, killed, dead, murdered boiled alive in the fancy Italian cookwear of every once BNP or bovva boy recyclin'..even upcyclin' ' themselves via " i can cook pastatoo" and lets go and listen to some champagne recycled into what was the worst ever supernova explosion of dire look-at-me spivvy and very f* word rude crass vulgar unpoetic musac ever...
And bein' they gotta 'reform' to pay for their kids drug habits and endless rehab ... my my Pastyland will be safe and maybe even vaguely enjoyable thistersummer as every wannabe hip bad poet crawled down to this awful oasis of nothing....will be back in their hometwown in the que for ... the worst music that has ever been the end of all music ....
From the town that i know i have to admit to myself as kindof boiled alive,
her soultoo.... a bit
maybe just parboiled?
I will never know
But i do know one thing for sure, what London Street i would send the coordinates of to the poor little comedian with his drone army
Just in case he wanted to get footstampy about not being invited to the party
he never belonged at in the first place
