23 May 2009

{ 02.01 } .. . boreas

more crap than sense

The leaky contact, the fool of wisdom – in the mad abandon of the silver stream, I hark a tailor soldiering forth. The dour duchess in silent running configures her duchy left side right while the awkward ampersand concatenates without duress.

Ah, such mild rebuke in mock pursuit of prayers in suspension. That knowing smile, that cloying need which gets my guitar riled. During these times of virtue, when advice devised in spontaneous atrophy has nothing to offer but its dry husk, I sit rigid upon these scattered shores and relive the imagined glory of victories petty and cruel.

Tip my hat to spinning top, slip that mickey a stinging slap – all fancy manners and worn attire – trim the tram to a topical drum, skim the scam to a shambolic strum. Your behaviour outweighs those ’rabian eyes. Yes, it may be too late. Yes, it will be forsaken.

There is a moment when she surmises that she’s tired of drama and mundane surprises. And she would give her peace to feel the calmness that holds less appeal than her lukewarm bling blang ding dong mien. How small it fits into that trap, a leg up that turns untrustworthy, and every day there seems little escape.

Blessed me the sunshine dappled oyster bugle. Yet, in its vast surrender, a past contender, into the fray he dukes one two. And ducks the duchess while pondering foul deeds, indeed.


spiral scratch
pussy galore .. . { the roots, phrenology }
i don’t care if the sun don’t shine .. . { patti page with d’artega orchestra }
garbage man .. . { the cramps, songs the lord taught us }