Boo...i think to myself..the blank screen looks melancholy tonight as i begin my march through my 63rd year on the planet.. a scrawl through my friends pages hosted some predictions that Trump will once more be blowing bubbles in the year 2020 i dread to think on such...yet i survived that Twat Thatcher.. in some form or other quite if i had ripped my panties then i am not sure,i don't think i will buy the Guardian newspaper on the morrow even if the review of books articles will hurt me for not being in my grasp for i have had enough of Great Britian leaving Europe this endless propaganda i liken to Adolf...and his pink fairies, then there is the Trump marching to the sounds of three blind mice....

What indeed would those poets scribble about today if they still stood in flanders field....This print of a Wilfred Owen poem i stumbled across in a small village train station waiting room yesterday surrounding this poem school children had written thank you notes and names of local men whom had fallen.
perhaps tomorrow i will rise from this weeks melancholy madness..Rememberance week is not the best to dwell on a birthday, think it's about time i moved it to a summer month when running naked screaming through a wood is possible.
So Goeth...