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Monday 31st March 2008.

" Once More unto the breach,dear friends,once more;
Or close up the wall with our English dead."
The weekend slithered ..beheaded by the emotional flux pumped up from Fridays illusions,thrashed rhubarb fell in torrential redness,apologies,apologize beckoned from the wireless...
The clocks sprung forward "do not forget,Children cannot have you late for work on Monday,now can we....and while your at it children do not forget to register for voting this coming May "...the ballot box has become useless..might as well be used to cover the obsolete, the falsities of living in the metropolis befuddled,hoodwinked side stepped not even fit for the folded paper and a simple cross, the mass of Dandelions waiting on each street corner sigh, waiting, for they have seen it all before, with nary a pressed burdock to wave in defiance..the simple wireless once a pleasure for the big band sound, the sexy slithering of bodies pressed on press,the lesbians in comfortable shoes, the naked civil servant in inches of dust.
Has become, a megaphone from which " they " shout louder, simply drowned in repeat mode, the the mass of the great unwashed, who's voice is becalmed in the sea named Apocalypse, but not until tomorrow,when instructions will be melted out through the medium of the wireless..should you fail to hear, then a fine of £50 demand, will land through your letter box because we know where you are and if not then,that is why you must register to vote....
There will never be enough,to fill the breach,the wall is there's,so too is the wireless now or has it always been so,i sigh myself,dream on, pluck at the falling rhubarb,Saturday evening has cum pull my collar up, push the shoe leather through the storm,the red drops cascade beneath neon lights...bounce puddle splash in unison before the bast-neon of dead men's souls..my old drinking mucker should be falling in footfall besides me but no,i am on my own but perhaps he is simply silent,if i believed in ghosts then i would know he was there,shrouded in secrets, maybe he tried to get back just to say...Ha...maybe there is a gag on the other side ruled by " they " that forbids such...I reach the cave of the working class..which is sadly dying a death all over the country.The working mans club is in sharp decline possibly the armour of ferrets,flat caps, still shroud the Young....in images not really fit for mobile phones who's hip-pops,squeak.
Through the mixture of flesh in zips,i push,the barmaid has pushed up her chest for the weekend,a pint of foaming mirth,i watch the foaming mirth circle up the glass,i watch the chest heave, take my money..the chest spoke, and yours luv i replied...as some of my change filled a small part of the tips glass all barmaid collect...besides the till.
I sat down my old drinking mucker would have enjoyed the sights before me,i talked to him,whether he heard made no difference,as i went once, twice, more to see the rising chest the vacuum between foaming mirth and wonder-bra brought some light, to giggle thoughts,on the wet and windy night,of why he went early..perhaps to fill the wall in english dead....
Cry'god for Harry,England and Saint George.
Tis going to be April after all.

Comments

( 2 comments — Leave a comment )
hughknox
Apr. 1st, 2008 01:48 am (UTC)
tis a dreary world indeed, mon ami.
wishesinwoods2
Apr. 1st, 2008 03:25 am (UTC)
Nah, it's just Monday.
( 2 comments — Leave a comment )

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