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Wednesday 16th May 2007.

What a difference a week makes,ever since Blind Pugh gave me the black mark,i have sailed beyond voyeurism,past the rhubarb patch to settle beneath the leaf mould to chomp on trinket words with fellow kamikaze transvestites.Even amongst the stocking clad, loneliness can trigger depth charges to extinguish the mind into a free fall, even oblivious to the deadly melancholy madness tree.Whose waving branches show no signs of myself ever passing through out into the bright sun light of never having to look over my shoulder thinking what demons,no finger prints,no loud screams hiding behind the curtains,no shadows dancing upon the walls in the form of crazy faces from somewhere in the past,no sailing boats to escape, no swallows and amazons,just the empty crisp packets rolling in the wind chased by empty beer cans now made so thin could they possibly fly.
On Monday for the first time in years i sunk my feet into high heels walked on carpets crimson,the view from the window was rushing traffic,cased in blue skies hunched in by white window frames,perhaps i dreamed to much,perhaps i wanted too much.As i sat on the bus home i thought well sod it,the monsters deep, laughed, the spit dripping down the windows cried out, weary of looking for cracks in which to shrink or purely escape.The bus journey took me past empty pubs once majestic,round portals,fancy towered roofs almost like a palace built for the great unwashed,to release their hard earned money into the pockets of robbers in suits, perhaps they were so.Aghast i wondered why roofs were open to the elements flowers grew from chimney pots,fly posters torn and long ago out of date flapped in the wind what ghost stories would be told come the darkness of night..the bus, my bus, built on rubber wheels controlled by traffic lights, guiding beyond the reflection;a reflection i had just also left behind, was i in a prism or is that prison.
Really i should have known better but hey i know myself well enough i'll go back for more, the comfortable shoes will weave there magic, once more, slowly at first, than catterpillar tracks become diamond dogs and once more i will chat over green tea to the man who sold the world. I will shake his hand look deep into the tea leaves pick up my baggage and once more present myself at the bus stop....




Perhaps i shall hum to myself whilst stood there....wishing i had the courage to ask why he sold it at all...the tune from the song richly sung by Edith Piaf..

" Non Je Ne Regrette Rien "

The words will crash about under the roof of the tin bus shelter..i shall read the inscriptions..gary is gay..gosh where..jackie sucks cock..perhaps, how times fly in my youth we scribbled..such things as sod off..!! and the famous football teams...of the day...
..before the bus takes me beyond the grey skies i can clutch the chrome plate comforted by the gentle hum as the world passes by beyond the window, wondering with one eye if the driver up front has a suitable cock and just simply laugh,whilst the other eye slumbers in such thoughts.

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bichoose
bichoose

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