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I will be reporting on the death of splash
Give me a few days or weeks or …
All is uncertain
This medium creaks
The vigilant no skimp eyesLobbing those pavements slabs again Jilly ?
I am fine thank you – in my board life anyways.As for Razerboy or Razeen to help Daisey with her confusion
he is as dead as the word association thread that killed him.
It must be said though that Fuhrer Cormslap
may possibly wish to fill the hole that lavaman
has created and a monacled man with a big
opinion might be a fresh challenge
in these over delicate less sceptic waters of late.Your surprising comeback Jilly has rather mucked up my agenda as I was to write about the death of splash and the intrigue surrounding some of your
personal mutterings – just before you left.I would of course have to re-activate the crouching menace
let the sun shine in
I supped at the devil’s inn last night
chateau and rough cheap lager
with six attendant eyes
But… the same eyes as back then
and a mix, a mix too incongruous,
for the fat overpriced sirloin cow plate
forcing it to bleed
and spill the memories of Jack
which flooded back
in the darkness
like thick dark fog sauce
to chill the shepherds sky backdrop
and rear up the madness
of times gone by.
Little sop !Salty Jack is well dead
but the devil doesn’t know.
Nobody told him,
so he still fills minds
with a scream knife
..to the limit
and there it is
the old evil head of Jack
on a plate of hate.Even the mushrooms can’t look .
I drove back late
watched the great white shark
frolick in birkdale waters
followed by a silly moo mitchell
chaser
till death us do fart
and thought of the Gallaghers.I woke nineish to need aspirin
and pulled curtains to shield out
the streaming sun
which presented a problem,
so returned to my bed to ponder
the prose sick on the pillow
and there it was…
written thickBlar had a guitaa
the guitaa had a baby
the baby was Gallagher
they called him
blue baby Blaa blaBlue baby blue
where yer headin too
(dylan)He sung of Hitler
and Blar joined him
on the piano
to cool britainy spears
who entered the room like …
like a clinton presence
all dress up
and the cheese sticks jiggled
and up it went,
the tempo on the trayand then the secret words
hushed out
as Gordon came in
and chewed the refrain
of the moustachioed
Thatch tash that
Hitler had,
hidden about his person.
All shared the blemish
and as the tanks of time rolled by
they all got the same blaa feeling
and they knew
despite the adrenilin in their hearts
the gordon guffaws
the blaa desire to populate the world
with his babies and fantastic ideas
of religious righteousness
and baby Gallagher’s desire to belong
and the smiles
the knowing winks between them
and the reassuring drinks cabinet
that mixed them as a family
and the purring motor cars that waited
to separate the party
..to home them to their wonder walls
of aspirational achievements
yes they all knew
in their pumping hearts
the cement
was not right
and they all had that secret thatch tash
that would lose them
in the end
the same bloody war of recognition.
Hard bitter opinion.
Leave your stepping stones behind, there’s something that calls for you.
Forget the dead you’ve left, they will not follow you.
The vagabond who’s rapping at your door
Is standing in the clothes that you once wore.
Strike another match, go start anew
And it’s all over now, Baby Blue.Mr Dylan has a certain way with words (which the BYRDS most successfully covered)
Talking of vagabonds Tim Buckley wrote
I lit my purest candle close to my
Window, hoping it would catch the eye
Of any vagabond who passed it by,
And I waited in my fleeting houseBefore he came I felt him drawing near;
As he neared I felt the ancient fear
That he had come to wound my door and jeer,
And I waited in my fleeting house"Tell me stories," I called to the Hobo;
"Stories of cold," I smiled at the Hobo;
"Stories of old," I knelt to the Hobo;
And he stood before my fleeting house"No," said the Hobo, "No more tales of time;
Don’t ask me now to wash away the grime;
I can’t come in ’cause it’s too high a climb,"
And he walked away from my fleeting house"Then you be damned!" I screamed to the Hobo;
"Leave me alone," I wept to the Hobo;
"Turn into stone," I knelt to the Hobo;
And he walked away from my fleeting houseSorry about hijacking the thread with such triviality but the wife and child are away at present so I have more time to think than usual.
baby blue might well describe this
infantile attempt to question the sad state of human condition with particular regard to its propensity to self-destruct.On a global scale this might include demonstration of humans’ germ like qualities in furthering the destruction of the big Ee.
On a smaller local level it might be a bored Bromley man sitting in a loft with pin stripes grabbing at one more mighty gold can – pulling back the ring-pull and letting ‘ee rip !
It’s all over nowaaronizneez I have few agendas here,
I am a pig mucker, and any I have are infantile, infertile, and unclear.
There is little or no direction and little possibility
of a hijack by a Dylan covered by Byrds.
Any loose thoughts of yours are also
very welcome in this dark pit of fathomless
possibility.Gamble
Its all Cruyff & Neeskens to me. I don’t really have the number on the dial to tune in to the right wavelength the majority of the time but if I may I will try and throw in a word or two when feeling confident.
As for loose thoughts they usually occur five minutes after waking up each morning
I miss Razeen amongst others .. I voted for him to be poster of the year.
Pin-striped suit in a loft in Bromley ..
sums him up nicely.As well as Razer, and in no particular order, the following are much missed:
Burlington Bertie (he rises at ten-thirty)
Wit (he fought the law, and he won)
Golden Cygnet (foul-mouthed **** or lovable rogue – you decide)………..plus plenty of others whose names escape me right now………..
sums him up nicely.
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