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Saturday, April 20, 2013
From Kilburn with love
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This photo was taken on April 18, 2013 in a mysterious place with no name, using a Panasonic DMC-GF1.
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I mentioned him, once or twice when we met in a pub and sipped at that nasty ale and sent it back.
Gladys had brought him home from an all night art school party where they played twister and admired one another’s slideshows of imitation manga.
Jake is the one who spiked me.
Roughed up in a smelly leather way. Inside a leather jacket is that red padded lining which looks like a granny’s eiderdown.
So I smelt a strange burning for a moment and then swung off the gravity perch and collapsed in a heap I presume.
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Pure tumbler glass of infinity nodes.
A diode swimming pool.
Glad to see an array of bokeh.
A field of blurred lights where once rested
a thick glass ashtray, a packet of Golden Wonder crisps and a hot tea in a white polystyrene cup.
All in full sharp focus.
No funny business.
Meh. A million mehs forgotten.
Tapped out . meh meh meh.
So three years ago,
So last week,
Hideous speed of culture
Hideous destruction of rain forest
One and the same
As we brick ourselves in,
There are still some, awake and alive, gap yearing and smiling
Not weary with the sludge of disappointing life choices.
Magic carpet rides are free, just hop on board.
Sentences that don’t end with a full stop.
But the forest still dies.
Child without an aspirin.
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Name is Garlic Toothpaste.
I have got gorilla hands.
Hallowed in undergown quarters.
I ridicule those that pass through time.
I embody Christ consciousness without Jesus and the Deal.
Never stare at this or contemplate that.
Other than that we are all this.
Penguins march. Cocktails tease.
Fathers want to shag their daughters.
Bunkers built to survive the cream.
Labels in stitches , favours curried.
Animals caged and bemused.
Fingers of fudge delivered by horse drawn carriage.
May your kitten shots be annihilated on safari.
Banquets of fresh liver drip onto the dried barleyfield straw.
A soaked picnic rug.
Roling about giggling.
You’re mine, you’re mine.
There was a moon called Cuthbert.
Never since the string was pulled did magic Jim envy enclosers or still life espousers.
Rocking chair subdividers chart the gravity variance of a plastic globe.
She once slid down a slide and came off the end. Bump.
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