bichoose (bichoose) wrote,

Sunday 20th January 2008.

It is unusual,for myself to be sat here in front of this humming machine during early evening on any given Sunday,simply because by this time the chocolate frog is leaping a frantic dance in my head due to the quantity of grape juice consumed..there are many words for this condition,some quite frank,blunt, others leaving a sting on the tongue not even a wasp could deliver,in one fly-by prick.
Usually i cook Sunday dinner always with my friend Chardonnay and never as the fridge magnet says " sometimes i put wine in the cooking "..gosh what a thought.
The reason why i am not quite full as a chocolate simply because i found myself propelled into the shower at 7am,this morning, my aging body not quite up to reaching parts unmentionable,protested loudly inside my head until i told the old sod to fuck off and close the door on the way out,as i battled to stretch to the unmentionable regions,having weathered such an early morning mind storm,with added contortion of last nights grape juice doing a Peter Pan, i told you so jig,sod off watched me flounder about,laughed,then provided a glimpse into a bleary new day,before closing the door,sticking his Agincourt fingers up as he laughed and left.
Manchester does not need to be viewed in a blur,the streets already washed from last nights heavy rainfall leaving the dour grey slates the darkened red bricks flashing a warning of glumness not even brisk shoe leather could kill,with the only blessing all the spew,from the streets previous nights wandering lotus eaters, was foaming into the gutters as my windscreen wipers swished by.Manchester is one of those Cities i cannot quite make my mind up about, luv,hate,it is all there a monster mash vacuum screaming to pull away from an coal blackened industrial past so thick with inlaid smoke that there are times when i could still think Lowry is still alive painting his pictures of matchstalk men,cats and dogs.The rain makes it gleam in yer face, all the distant poverty from generations past, scream from every brick,trees so black from rain,twisted gnarled garlands heavy with sadness until spring,i wanted to wind down the window and scream back alas the passengers with me would not understand.
There are some gems,some glint with spanish leather,Manchester Aquatic Centre is one such place i always feel awe as i enter this modern light bright building built for the Commonwealth games and thank fully still very much used, not dying in a lingering decaying death,used once only for passing through super stars.
This morning flesh,young flesh,flesh moving into the prime,clattered bare feet,laughed giggled,laden with bags of youthful for now, from the ticking clock surrounding cosmo small piece's hammer blow work ethics soon, so very soon, to be their mountain to climb with the view from the top the most shitty in all the five decades i have walked this planet.
There has been an awful lot of shite written about youth this past few decades how they are this,that,bring back flogging,bring back national service,in fact why not bring back the stocks so cabbage and kings can be thrown.
Tomorrow the early morning wireless news, will not tell how youth were up early hours sunday racing,no instead we will hear the usual shite,stabbings drunkard pissing.I ask myself why..????? everyday i ask the same question.What is the game plan,what is the media playing are they trying to lock me away in side four square walls to sit in front of some demented tv screen fed full of adverts,including how to be a model part of society,to take the political front foot full force up the anal passage and smile without asking why, so my bleary eyes cannot see the deft hand take away the hard fought freedoms once won,as they milch cow us to fuck.
With all this furrowing in my head,i took my place high up,away from the ticket collectors scribbling down seconds,tenth seconds as flesh plunged into the clear water.Half my head was in the latest edition of Granta...Salman Rushdie..was talking about.." A man's character is his fate " it was hard to concentrate, as music echoed between each race...arrhh " Hey Jude "....Half my head was watching all the floating breasts up amongst the viewers gallery,i thought if only i could just touch a few,gently squeeze pop out some nice nipples..the last half aarrh maths not the best in me watched the races...not so much for who wins,simply a wet fish around the media for trying to kill the word HOPE for the future of those who follow.By lavishing death on death with the excuse that this is what the public wants.
Salman Rushdie's words have stayed with me all day i have pondered this and my character my fate, and were did i find it,in a bucket perhaps,under my bed with the croc's or the fact that i giggled this evening about a plastic toy doing some fisting which reminded me i must visit Prince Albert soon.

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