Now i know, the very best way to describe it.
Ugghh that sounds portentous, and so of this region. At least one of them has been trained " so do you gather there weekly as i notice you do, all trundling up in your one-woman-per vans... in some local sex cult i haven't been invited to..?"
And no...i do not ever compromise, no more....
If The Queen of Sedition " my middle name" having said in first pong of the ping pong i made her laugh, and that's very foreward.... can't take a joke, that wasn't even at her expense... she ain't getting my very hard occasionally earned cash...
But it's the assuming... assuming makes an ass out of you, and me; even if me i couldn't care less but it wastes time as they just assume... all they have to do.
(lots more on that soon, no names no places as not one are worth placenaming, furthermore i do make myself pretty clear " all i attempt to be a bit fruitly seditious about is the far more interestingly-hypocritical lasterregion... this one of absolutely no interest whatsoever just some good quiet no-traffic byways up in the hills to meander pondering lasteregion.....anyway showoff old bags addicted to yoga thinking it makes them still look like 25 year old faeries ehh that what Americans do .. and not one would understand ' fighting... put your finger up authentically... thats the only thing that makes even a 72 year old Huppert a pukka sex kitten, most desirably.... [ i believe Ms Q o S has balked at..funny that she calls herself a sex therapist..of course the usual problem she can't make any cash out of telling them to be only themselves their wild woman within and you alone take responsibility for not making YOURSELF laugh, as everyone else just pretends to like you as part of an only transactional 'community' of transactors.. ].. ' )
so now it's safe to look at the interweb of lies n deceit once again
and THE poet proved
what wet blankets they always are
mustv been the rare headshakin' affective disorder
turned im into such a disaffected board
hoarder of the worst songs since Babylan begannit
not able to stand up to is usin
snivvellin little record company
"Dave soften it..... cmon just try....
that cleverdick poetic stuff
just makes the bimbos cry
and not get out their lighters and stand around like
sundazzled zombies on
Robbie Williams on Hospital food
pukin it up
at their devil's dark material, in a poisoned cup
poisoned chalice
of perfromative malice...."
so as proof at least one of em's therapy perapps worked
Even if a real man doesnt wait two decades
to learn to get back to spittin' it out
propper passionate truth-spatter
into their daily breakfast marmalde
I mean where children and Rotweillers play
Mumford and sons given a billion suns
worth of notebooks
couldnt write real poetics
or know it stuck up their bums
still on fire from Mister Gray's
rejected bits....
thrown out Chinese fire lantern
greatest hits
left out as not great enough
anyway twenty years of Babylonic bile and vomit
the man who could once sign his way onto the speediest passing commet
i would demand a refund!
never mind proof poetry
even the greatest this and last century
doesn't work
And i bet he'll blame it on the ...
or the only tambourine player in history
with his tambo-tourettitis, disability
at four minutes in
which cause and effects you
as if he's Mister Page with his angel-assited axe
and actually means it, the best of music music makes you free
Anyway fuck that now.... it being safe once more to occasionally look back at
what WAS great and was gone, but just maybe....
Assume...
so there i was in an undentifiable fairly crap artspace
i know NOBODY in this pagan place
(the real definition well thats hard
all it meant according to them Roman tourists
two thousand years ago, us special city folk the 'demos'
the rest, you woolybacks, 'pagan'
nothing more nothing else no magic no cauldrons
And the '
'druids' were faked out of one smallest piece of Ceasars doubtless dogy poetry
And...
that ecvening.
"Tube man lastereve,,,did you see IT.?!?!... ferk me the electricshock of a scottie
you know you can trust err rather than that self-placcybaggin' Paula, our symbolic tragedy "
the two-face song
all about the SW
but not...hers
of the great hat
Mike Scott didn’t write lyrics, he wrote Russian novels.
The point, the word 'pagan'
every single one, of us, then, in times gone
knew had an invisible question mark after it
maybe
And thus was what it should always be
for free
cos no-one knows why
or what or how and when
Except every shabby 'shaman'
faery mermaid selkie
never mind con artist
'constellation therapist'
with higher than national average rent
to pay
And some lousy rip off Coop every day
desperate to smarmy rip off every cent
The answer, your solution they bay
("by donation", ehhhhh that much.. phhhh ...sorry no way..... )
when all it ever is was can be
some weird maybe-magic
like today, thistermorn i nearly sent a poetical pong
waiting too long for your response luv
here's my offertory back in a song
words to the effect: my sedition
the limited edition
only to the pasterregion where army mothers
cried tears for kids killed
may as well have been by the local alcoholic crocodiles
performing mournin'
down the local aisles
when not one had had the gumption or taken responsibility
"no son, I watched The deerhunter, it even got onto bimbo ITV
real art real life all war causes everyone, only insanity
your stayin' here! even if i gotta kidnap you an keep you in captivity"
But i didnt send it
bored, their perfromative haribo fizz
And then in the last place in the world one would find a great work of art
i met her, or at least immediately she told me her own story
of a parent - never before heard of in real face-to-face life,
wise enough to run away
her sons lived to see another day
but only of days more of her cruelest possible damaging lunacy
ohh well thats the human condition in one
paragraph, rather dichotomous story
never mind the truth is you find it in the last place ever imagined
and when you've stopped looking for anything wise to hear, ever.
Thing is i think its about the best little story of what is one of em cheeky little 'sublimes'
Even Oxford Fellow truly awful fellow so called friend
Mister Babb, writing his OUP commissioned bible onnit
" i can't get to the last grand finale, volume three
naughty sublime ...its just too damn slippery..
ohh woe is me "
and JB CERTAINLY the exact opposite of some hippie
But a few years later
" Jeffery any more thoughts onnit ?... can you speak of it in some simpler way..?"
" im still damn stuck... but i do know one thing, it recreates itself every day.."
but methinks
only if you have the 'space'
(to notice cheeky ole it)
and, know it can't be there, in that dull place
Black Swans are far simpler, not that there's any point down here where unless you go to every fixing workshop ever invented,
acupuncture to doubtless shamanian dog therapy
for doggies discontented
( dog homeopathy - at 100 quid a sip,
even in not quite so neurotix, Hay,
for their bought-bohemian 'hip')
A. you can never ever get your fixing from some menu, ever, never, not in all of past present and future history
B.
its impossible to know how you will feel, after any next action, or event
ever, never whatever your wisdom ort intent
and knowing how you will, is what's caused all their insanity
that BS theory the only actual remedy
Righty ho now some sense to attempt to make of.... best winter almost ever, even if only to get around to writing up a few a fair few years ago
