I forgot, it's tomorrow....
Having already heard a snippet of her...
Never mind some Thin White Filanderous Duke of nothing decent and monogamous for even five ferkin minutes....
Even if with a surname like Louise Le GeeGee she would perraps have some heritage that gave access to a sane continent, of The King of it all....
And i still haven't got to the perfect page like Thommy did on photos... pissin' on every family snap, exactly.... her sat next so i could smell the chalk on her plimsoles and see the bead of one small sweat dribble down her front...
As she didn't need to say her lament
At being his prostitute, for rent,
and tax deductabletoo
I could still do with her phone number, even if about thirty five years too late
(mind you that "psychadelix" one, for a '75 junky, still looks quite funky...)
But I'm sorry.
Never mind (to use their rediculous sillyage vernacular, 'the sliding doors' moment of a lifetime)
...ohh emmm god... almighty
this crap, lifeless soulless so called inheritor of GODs ferkin ability to be floatin above any fake actual god...
Put on a fancy hat and have some fancy knobs, and no heart and you get the reason even the other lot dont want to live any more...
sorry about that even if butterflyitis is the scourge of a whole century, so back to gussets...
The moment.... when life changed and one had to admit there was a little more to taking it all seriously
And they say 'don't meet your heroes..'
Fuckin bullshit if you know who are the only two worthy of that nom de plume..
And watch em up close....
Fair dinkum you have to be able to afford a ticket to Ronnies or hustle your way in i have no recall of how...
and ok a decade younger, but still.... in that dark dungeony place... mainly inhabited by Ill sNotty lasses, secretaries to the gentry or even
MAurice Saatchis...
The kind who can NEVER ever moved, shaken, stirred...
To have seen the way how only one man ever had every single one trans-fixated
not debate
no quarter, no half measures...
Every single one needing not a milliamp
of electricity to get em damp
i bet even quite old, no booze or drugs,
he could still have had em weeping tears of pure gussjuice all over mummy's rugs
(unlike Mister Zimmerman and his "mummy's drugs" i do NOT plagiarise if i am even slightly so called poet adjacent it is quite obvious)
furthermore even if i can insta-poet rap or whatever the word, to open the lid literally 10 mins of battery left and one small thing to look up
a whole stupid splurge happens not a second to think
or even blink
(i cannot lie)
i have been crystal clear
as a Totness fake i can smell 'em near
especially here (DESPITE the great book selling rather well
in this version of a far more interesting kind of hell)
yes, POETRY DOES NOT WORK...ever...
Anyway back to doors...in she stumbles...
Just the two of us sat somewhat drunk and depressed at that Mid Manhattan really shit winter Monday evening bar
(MY adventuring 99% only into rural escape
all cities just a divine joke - mistake)
Now.... having already had a snippet,
even if by now gettin a tad rancid
" and he said...and i said...well fuck you i shall have my babies AND be the REAL Queen of soul concurrently thank you very much now crAWL BACK UNDER A STEAMIN' MADHATTED MANHOLE YOU HORRID RAT "
OOPS ACCIDENTAL CAP NO TIME TO ADJUST EVEN IF IT WAS THE ONE AND ONLY REAL BABE OF THE CENTURY TALIKN
EHH ERRATA...
Last century... and thistoo she's still got attitude even now...
in fact i do hope they have her on Babes Hour too....
Where she'll blow their very very sensetive fuse
" i got nowt to moan about.... babies and bein' a superbabe concurrently too.....
" and even around this time drunkedly wanderin in fact near crawlin into some awful Monday early mornin bar i shouldnt even be on your vile BBC
...cos this arrogant cunt of a limey...
not only did i bare my fulsome ones,
ask him to dance..... but i did just for him and his neighbour fallen asleep...
so arrogant and prejudiced
fussy about something on the offertory plate
i could weep...
