bichoose (bichoose) wrote,

Wednesday 1st August 2007.

For the past few days i have been floating,surreal thoughts have crept from my trouser pockets and glimpsed sunshine.My usual tiny red van has had hairy bottoms with pimples,hands full of twisted spanners,feet encased in hob nailed boots climbing all over,the bumps,dints,swished by leafy tree's,flatulence found in every farmers gate crusted by nettles.
My loaned tiny red van,has inside one of those modern things a CD...player,so in a sense no wireless spluttering out rivers of blood.In stead each day,i have dared to play to all spiders,the mass of flying ants who have paused to ponder why they have managed to avoid the crush of the wind screen,snails sharp enough retreat inside themselves rolling away from my echoing feet down the footpath.
Have i treated them or have i simply pleased myself,L.C.'S.." Ten new songs "..the ultimate in razor blade music played in broad daylight,no wonder the Magpies screeched louder hopping from branch to branch putting there heads to one side,peering with boldness,dark eyes on fire,my own reflection in there's peering back,told forlorn locked in the past demon stories.Which began by hiding behind the curtains until grown ups,as they were called then, vanished down the stairs,crocodiles at that time lived under my bed,perhaps they still do if not for Biggles, already flying above the bed i would have long ago perished.His wind in my ears, the sun dripping from my eyelashes..chinked from drawn curtains during hot nights, where pillow turning was the only form of air-con.The golden rule being that little children should be seen and not heard,the wash of a spat hanky was the English sixties shower.Yes Biggles flies south,was the quiet escape in folded paper crumbs.

And thus this university girl,this vision,this softness in peace,no hanky,no wooden spoon, introduced me to his music,she had an enchanting chest,climbing away from her body,flowing garments,with no buttons,no hand me downs in cardboard boxes,no old tea chests with torn silver paper,no thick as pig shit pouring out from grown up tongue's.....Suzanne takes you down....feeds you tea and oranges...the darkness of the bedroom at last grown from crocodiles beneath the bed,to hands clutched in cardboard stains.

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