Today for myself it is Trinity Sunday....a day of rest from the hogs who push my nose in the green dragon trough in the hope of finding some long lost turnip to snap and turtle over,as if i should be grateful for such a turnip.
The temperature is expected to push over the 50F,,the fire ball in the sky is lingering long enough to bring some joy,i have thrust open the winters clamped windows letting the ghosts, gargoyles, skimpy winter fairies to run screaming, dribbling to colder climates their awkward gait slows in the slip stream..i am buggered if i feel a tinge bit sorry for them they have had my cock wrapped in snowflakes for six long months it has been such an effort to bring up the word masturbation to the front of my mind, the sap has been clogged jellied in tombstones the bare skin shrunk shriveled have i put this down to creeping age the ever increasing wrinkles on my hands the red veins dancing all over my legs should i even carry on obeying the slut inside whom is relishing this coming summer she does not see the wrinkles the red veins skirting my pale skin aged stretched over this pantomime frame she is only interested in shouting louder who gives a fuck i'm the slut inside you let me out to play...urrmmm i think best be dark stockings or should i simply retire...???
Place the slut inside an iron mask hoping the voice echos in the mask alone.
The world out side my window,the one newspaper a week i feast my eyes on are frantic, about the coming general election,snippets paragraphs haunting words promises i have seen many times lay flaccid. I have already made my mind up that i am not going to vote,the ballot box is now worthless the history books tell us about the roundheads and cavilers during the English civil war.The victory cries of the roundheads for the people bubble as ghost writers,as the roundheads have now become the cavilers and such utopia is worth no more than a bucket of shit down histories crag rutted road. They think no more of the people than the man in the moon whom feasts on green cheese and farts out turnips.
My mind is still full of the future retirement age...your living longer they say..there is no money left in the pot.....i worked out that now half my wages go in tax in some form and i am just one old wrinkled transvestite perhaps some anarchy is needed perhaps i'll burn my bra..!!! perhaps if they spent less on cctv camera's,patched on every street corner what are they expecting us me to do...???
Then there is always hope..hope for the future..hope that one generation will spill from the chains left by history..yesterday in sunshine a tiny speck of a lass no higher than the knees of a grass hopper, held out, arms stretched to receive a parcel the smile could would have melted an iceberg there is still trust in the postman, about the only trust left, as i turned looked back down the world i inherited sighed thought fuck it where is the chardonnay it is weekend i need a glass, fuck the turnip.
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