Once more i sat in the class room,thankfully the buttons were not present,instead my pen followed my mind around the A4 before me, spider-ing around the page in crude pictures,people laugh but the scribbles repair the armour a safety valve for poison arrows from the mass of robber barons across the land.I have a crush in drawing breasts that drip milk among flowers,it is safer than drawing cocks no one would understand, unless cocks eat into the brain on the same wave length.I also think it is the time i spent in Indonesia on the back of a motorbike caught in a monsoon,neither the rider or i could see one inch, yet we kept going the madness of the day was magical.I bought some Batak pictures huge mushrooms and huge breasts,which hang on the wall down stairs.
The man who told the stories asked permission to wander and take snap shots,no one murmured any discontent,for who would take pictures of the working class,working on brow beating figures,clauses in working practice,health and safety laws,where in such places as Iran the two days spent would be meaning less,Tibet well, sounds of silence do not beat the drum in fractured freedom.
My scribbles must have caught his attention,a photo will appear in the June trade union conference at Bournemouth..do i believe him, is it bull shit am i really worried, is this simply vanity,i should have asked for a print just for my vanity i really don't know. fate is a spinner of dreams.
I looked out the window watched the monochrome sky hang in conflict, in one ear drifted health and safety i could not help but think of the gay lad fighting deportation, the government attitude and answer made health and safety pale in moonbeams over gentleman's toilets.The attitude of the lady who won £24 million damages from "" Just another day,stepping into stockings stepping into shoes " gosh how those school days seem so far away,how that era seems golden yet did not feel it at the time due to the tank pushing of the Russians and Chinese,i remember being wowo..by Fleetwood Mac's " Albatross " the moon landing watched in the school canteen,boiled cabbage hanging for breath on the air the swept up rice pudding with a dollop of raspberry jam,cleaned licked from bowls, as man put his first foot on the moon there we sat entranced not one sound..all that hope all that vision now lies in tatters, in a war over faith over someone no body has ever seen.
I bought a newspaper today sometimes fate is gentle...Walt Whitman was between the covers the story told of him bringing home a small branch of oak made me think i am not that mad after all for keeping a few fallen leaves caught in past autumn fevers, as kids way back we had that belief that should you catch a falling leaf before it hit ground you could have one wish..i cannot remember such wishes back then,but autumn will find me laughing giggling sometimes pissing my pants as childhood glee takes a stand, i always wish for world peace so far the dream has not come true..but hey life.

And so "Camerado,this is no book
Who touches this touches a man, "

Walt Whitman....

A fitting finish perhaps.