There's a tree in the garden

That is behind a wall, where Eric the sparrow used to sing

His little heart out, hoping that the spring, in his step, would make

Some other friend hear him, and come and see

The twigs and leaves he'd gathered there

But he got ate by Merlin, next door's cat

(for a friend)

Comments

New comments are not allowed.

Popular posts from this blog

Nearly got the state of the nation

Image
Google Analytics points out the continuing struggle to win the hearts and minds of the parvenu colonials (more green=more hits). Need to find some way of attracting the mid-west. Marshmallow-stuffed turkey ? Because I know you have fairly disgusting diets out there in the nasty blank miles of between. Or maybe I should find god? (Stuck to my sole). Rant incoherently for a while on plainly daft theories of ontology and epistemology? (How do I know I'm evolved from slime-mould?). Or is that too up its own fundamentalism? So if you have a friend (or a backwoods flange of interbred cousins you don't talk about) in the dead miles between cities, drop them a carrier pigeon and get them to access my blog (with their steam-driven Babbage engines , or hay-built abaci), let some slightly dingy British rain into their golden-corn lives. Also, it appears I'm not appealing to the redneck constituency. What's the matter with y'all? Too busy fucking your sisters?
Read more

I am diskgrinder

I am diskgrinder, and I am larger than an ant, but smaller than someone taller than me. I'm also a damn sight cleverer than someone far more stupid than me. I can speak 7 languages, 6 of which I made up myself. I am spiritually indeterminate - somewhere between an agnostic and an atheist, should they be sitting quite close together. I have no beliefs except the firmly held one (as it's slippery) that you shouldn't believe everything you read in a phone directory. I take laudanum as a pick-me-up and take a snide remark as a put-me-down. I am diskgrinder, I am all of me.
Read more

On being British

Pessimistic, miserable drizzling cynics. That's us, a nation of jealous, pasty complainers with bad teeth (well done you, good teeth, but fucked-up healthcare , I know what I prefer - having stained incisors over being a self-medicating trauma victim any day - I'm sorry, sir, you're not insured for involuntary decapitation, have a nice day ). We talk about the weather because we have weather (and a history). And whilst we invented concentration camps and genocide , we didn't feel righteous about it - if there was one reason the British Empire had to exist, it was to destroy the Nazis, and then fuck off into sunset obscurity. To vote (by a landslide) for the dissolution of our evil back in 1945 . But we are still envious, unpleasant snobs. We are still sanctimonious prigs. Joy is anathema to the intellectual Englishman, our forte is complaint and guilt, shame and desperation. You look up, we look at the pavement (it's not a fucking sidewalk). I have made some...
Read more