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Friday 17th June 2011.

The two cars tonight, on a tight bend had sore bottoms,scuffed paint work,dents like moon landings,capturing all this zing,zang twisted metal was a young young policeman,they say when you notice young policemen that indeed you are getting old,his bum-fluff was blowing in the gentle wind i pulled up my collar shrugged as i walked by we exchanged a few words of really no signification and i thought really on this Friday night i am becoming old..i smiled shrugged again at the lousy day the grey clouds have been that low i could have reached up and plucked their ungainly bottoms.
As i made my way through some old folk dwellings i came across an old man sat on a  bench,hands like beavers clasped around a tiny mobile phone whom ever he was talking too did not really need to be on the phone for his echoing voice was that loud even the starlings were confused the abuse pouring out of his mouth was Elephant piss at its greatest volume and was probably heard at Kathmandu. 
All this sudden violence all this screeching,all this in yer-face, entombs my mind even more into the deep dark recess of urban blight i have to wade through each day the word peace seems to evaporate in contorted spasms fuck-yer comes from even leaves on a tree. 

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bichoose
bichoose

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