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Sunday, February 10, 2019
Contemplate Stratford Olympic site.
Once waste ground.
Lonely canal side.
Haunted by poor horses dragging drunkard canal families to and fro.
Railway banks and chicken wire fences built up with a stratigraphy of old Tizer cans, Golden Wonder Crisps and MaxPax coffee cups.
All cleaned up and ripped away.
For a shimmering memory mirage of stadia, flags and hysteria.
But now, the grey clouds have descended once again and it is time for the ghosts of Stratford past to play amongst the concrete wastelands that are theirs forever.
sketched by dweller at 8:25 pm0 comments
I wish all these religious things were as totally uncool as they were to me back in the 70s 80s 90s. We were all (mostly) happily post-religion. Going to see Billy Graham in Wembley stadium was as naff and undesirable as going to the Bingo with your nan. Nuns and vicars were dull as fuck. Oh well. If that's what people want. Just wish people weren't so into handing their brains over to god botherers these days.
sketched by dweller at 9:44 pm0 comments
Envelopes are sealed
Throats are frogged
Bins are maggoted
The Welsh are in fits
The English are stroking
The Cornish have a clavicle
So many merry men
And soldiers skipping lightly
Clink the trophy jars
Lobster lips in sticky clench
Hearts made to dangle
Liver me timbres
Enoch is not enough
Amen in the corner
Ghastly fish bowl reflection
We slipped off the log
The goats are free
Sung in an igloo
Pieces of after eight
A whiff of Roman oyster
Merry Christmas Jennifer Lawrence
Mines a Tenko Truck
You put a sock in it
We are where we are
You be won the win
Albion the other side
sketched by dweller at 5:29 pm0 comments
Me or you,
The emptiness of my stomach
Feels like a final wall with no door.
The maze with no exit.
But no matter,
In a jiffy the smell will pass,
I can get transported by Captain Kirk
or Spock. Whoever is at home.
I have taken a liking to streaky bacon.
I believe in limes. Squeeze them with your fingers.
Honest it is like a giver of truth.
Those green balls of organic acid.
Get the juice all over.
Limey limey limey
hot bathtub baby
little goat watching baaaaaaa
And I check my blood pressure now.
I have a little chart.
Bing Bong the heart it still beats mister man mister man oh mister man you is alive.
But Carrie no she dead mister man. Sorry.
Yeah and if you ever have a fruitfly problem just leave some wine in a bottle.
They all go in and they love it.
It's like a fruitfly spa. They get naked, drunk, swim shag. All that. No wonder they never come out.
Your half rotten bananas are safe!!!
Yes, that is good. Uneaten fruit. If I'm not going to benefit from the youthful elixir of ten boring blobs a day then no dang recumbent gene little fly that makes no sound is gonna get it neither.
So where was I.
Fixing to not die.
Syd Barrett was photographed in our back garden with a ginger cat.
Has to be our garden. I reckon some time in the 60s hobvisciouslee before my mum and dad and sister moved in.
Could be. would explain a lot.
All my psychedelic dreams.
The snail farm.
The action men.
The Spaniards, Greeks, Texans etc.
Explains it all.
And now what do we get?
Curly Kale and couch to 5K.
Don't do it kids!!
I'm with Arnie - shag the maid.
May as well.
sketched by dweller at 12:48 am1 comments
sketched by dweller at 12:06 am0 comments
sketched by dweller at 11:53 pm0 comments
House price inflation is not due to lack of supply of housing stock but to do with the dangerously high credit banks are permitted to lend.
sketched by dweller at 10:52 pm0 comments
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