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Sunday 30th June 2013.

I am sober, a rare form, on a sunday from cooking the Sunday dinner there has been no pop of the cork or really these days the twist of the cap,nor am i sat here with half a mind on my uniform to pull over my skin during the dark hour of 5am and lumber into the work place to feast on the Sterling pound note..i will feel no sharp tongue of must do, in fact must do more and harder than the wicked witch can catapult from her grim ample bosom. As the curly finger grips my wind pipe,i close my eyes and think only a few more years and i can stick my own curly finger up there rectums and say repeatedly fuck you as i walk from the lurch, i am strangled by as i chase the ticking clock towards retirement from this passion created by those whom know better than such as i...whom ever quoted work was good for you has not pulled there pants across their knee's and doffed their caps to the superior cats that stalk the lonely dandelions by the highways of this rich country,nor been added by poured crazy street mix chocolates waffle in urban myths.
No i have been granted fourteen days of leave on which to masturbate into oblivion, such a vision lingers for a few moments in which to smile at the devil with such thoughts and remember when such times were indeed possible meanwhile...as i l glance at my packed bag ready for another journey in the sliver bird on air..i shall sing top top twenty as the " Undertones " bend my ears and the curse of being me myself, of coarse some of my companions are indeed very happy.slut is always happy thinking hot cock, my old friend King Canute is pleased as long as i remember to be kind to any pink elephants i pass along the way,to stop linger perhaps tell a few sharp tales drift into conversation and quote what is life if full of care we have no time to stand and stare..but tomorrow i shall pause for the poet Wilfred Owen as another anniversary of the Battle of the Somme once more comes around the largest causalities in any Battle on one day fought by the British cannot be a family in the land that was not touched by the command to walk across the wire....by those whom deem to control...
i have chosen one book to tick away the clock count the caterpillars in the rain drops falling from the spires of Lincoln green there are no sheriffs to battle axe. What would have Fernando Pessoa have made of this green and pleasant land in his scribbles across the book of Disquiet....the only book i have ever scribbled notes in the borders...perhaps it could be said this is my bible is that perhaps swearing, as dog days dribble and nettles cross rustic balls that dangle in skin, the bate of breath the taste of pain lingers on rope caught in the tone of the bells the bells sent every day in a letter something about snail mail time in a bucket is the wind that changed forever when the luddites were beaten back by those whom control...so goeth...   

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