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Sunday 28th August 2011.

7.26...am....the fuzz from last nights visiting demons in my mind are slowly leaving, the ball of confusion they havoc-ed leaves me tender until the drift wood of the new dawn seeps in...the blank screen before me fills me with horror as i stand on the poop deck of my crazy ship.
I am the captain of my ship so the poem goes the constant tack against reality winds blowing from the endless media out pourings hacks into my choice to bat for both sides....there is a rude poem about a boy stood on the burning deck often sung when i still wore short pants,but is perhaps lost on the current generation.
Probably best to...yet i sigh knowing that there is not much left from when i wore short pants...i remember my father once saying how much of his childhood, youth, young man, have been visibly wiped away by the rains of time..i remember at the time thinking that it will not happen to my time, yet in forty years there is nothing left except to trawl the memories and wonder where it all went...not so much the time, but the why's and wherefores.
All these beast triffids are hacked and rehacked..my sticky fingers picked up from this weeks magazine rack " uncut " a music magazine i once pulled out each month until i became to sad that all the bands that lighted my life ended up full of stuff you only inject in cabbages...yet the front cover with Marc Bolan in his prime made me say to myself..uurrmm tasty...perhaps, or was it the fact of it being the 40th Anniversary special of that magic album " Electric Warrior " which defined much of my youth. So goeth...

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bichoose
bichoose

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