June Ending 2016

‘…we must learn to live together as brothers, or perish together as fools…’
On this day when we, as a nation, collectively decided to split from our brothers and sisters of Europe, I sit here peacefully at the international tennis, Eastbourne, and overhear:
Q…’Mum, Mum! Is that little Czech girl seeded?’
A…’I’m not sure, hun. But she does seem happy.’
Gig. Poem. Play.
Which piece of artwork moved you so fucking much
you nearly lost your fucking mind?
Sketch. Skit. That experimental installation bit at a southwest service station with its tiny inscription:
‘Sometimes the best movement of all is SIMPLY SITTING STILL.’
My own movement screamjoy moment was finally seeing a Turner in the flesh.
Freshly degreed, I had the world by the throat…
but the world was suddenly gone.
It immediately made me feel about as significant as a knackered pound shop yo-yo discarded there, right there, in the midst of festering filth. Lord Nelson was looking down. I threw up. Some Japanese tourists took photographs. I laughed. Then cried a bit, pretty loud. The Japanese tourists fled. I got pissed. Then started at the old: JUST WHAT THE FUCK ARE WE ALL DOING?
Before long, I’d decided to dig holes for a living. And fill them all back in for fun.
It was quite a moment.
I celebrated with a night in Camden nick.
‘One day,’ I said to myself, ‘I shall look back at all this and I will slap my knee and say ‘Gee! How tempus fugs it’.’

Dig. Surf. Sing.

Labour at the real dirty deal.

Yo-yo.
Pound shop.
Yet still:
JUST WHAT THE SINCERE FUCK ARE WE ALL DOING?
WHAT IS ART?
is that THE END calmly luring us round the next bend?
Gig. Poem. Play.
Sketch. Skit. Ah, forget it.
Brave little boys sing.
Why?
Because they MUST.
…now please let us all perish in peace…
PS SP freewheel fragment

break a bastard leg

(now write a bestseller, you prick)

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