The reason why I post here is not to do with publication or validation through readership statistics, or looking for an audience
It's a Cherry Potter thing. Write a lot, and read it one month later
Most of it won't pass mustard
Some of it'll be good gas though, and may be keen
Fuck knows. The occasional comment from fly-by-knights helps of course
Mainly, it's practice
Once upon a time, back when rhymes were better than misaligned lines in prose
Back when (1954) you could have baddies and goodies, and you weren't required to story arc the most venal cunt in the plot
He just could be a shit, and didn't need to have a reason
There was a nasty man who lived under the bridge and played with his twanger most days
Until he heard goats up above
Billy goat big, and plot device medium, and little tiny, one inch tall, billy goat ant
Well, he got up out of his hole in the reek
And shot them
Then he ate them
And nailed their fairy tails to his fender
The last remnant of a bitter gale that crossed the ocean to bite your head
Got crossed and confounded in the shored sand defences in the sea
So now it's just an irritant gust that blows grit and dog piss in your face
Out of cracked pavement in the street
It's a well known conundrum for people who study it
A series of crosswords published in the Manchester Guardian
Between 1964 and 1992
If you marked the first letter of each editorial
And constructed a sentence out of that
Read "hjydgbdgbnduooerun"
Need I say more?
Everything is predicted
Navel-gazing is out for next year, my one 72dpi resolution, the end to much self indulgent introspection: I should write a self-help book, or maybe a help-yourself book (capitalist version), that steers the unwilling reader away from that. I've really had enough of myself. I'm bored with all the conversations I have and haven't had; the rehearsals of situations that therefore cannot occur (it would make me prescient if they did).
Maybe I'll stop using parentheses so much (fat fucking chance).
This is a stub for the story to come
Back when I was a fuckwit and shithead working on the railway in orange boiler suit, with a shovel, a snap can and weekend buck shee overtime, I used to drink and play pool in the Rutland Angler. A pub of repute so ill major epidemiology studies were conducted there.
More later...
Back when I was growing up in the narrow wilds of Rutland (sandwiched between the urban counties Leicestershire and Northamptonshire, and separated from the sea by piss-on-a-plate-flat Lincolnshire) I knew a poacher called Les.
He was the scion of a family of mendicants brought over from Ireland by Lord Burleigh to be his gamekeepers on his acres of dank ditches, mediocre fields, lank hedges and wilting copses.
Les reverted to type and drove his pickup into fields and ran down sheep; hoed the bleeding corpse in the back and drove home. Where he would drag them upstairs and cut them up in his bath; later to sell in pubs and car parks.
This one evening, pickup full of dead mutton, he was followed home by a jam sandwich (cop car) and halfway up the stair he heard a knock on his door.
On opening the door, there was PC Arse and Detective Constable Twat revealed in the twilight silhouetted; both with shit eating grins to the fore.
"Les, what's that there, halfway up your stair?" says PC Arse.
"Oh, man," says Les, "I knocked this poor bugger down on Exton Avenue, and I'm trying to administer first aid"
"That's all well and good," says Arse, "but what about the two you've got tied up in your back yard?"
"Well, you know what sheep are like," says Les, "they follow each other."
Means nothing, just a nice phrase
Like trumpet trifecta, or prerequisite enjoinment factor
Omniscient dog valve (from which mouth sweat and happy face grin wags)
Or melon vector, lemon zip, planned obelisks and giraffe excluder
