would know that the definition of
at the end of a twenty year quest
back home and knock up your own bed
is defined by
" ehh fatso i been chatting up Mennonites today... they say...sayyyyyyy... they are all a cult of virgins...living just fdown the road... in a gatheration..... very flirty they were as they get into their expensive car payed for by Mennonite HQ in some yankland outlying province of hell .. here ona golden visa no doubt as after brexit there are so many AVAILABLE...AT A PRICE...
" no diferent than the one a few years ago... she portrayed herself online on SOULmates site of liars and fakes... as Amish... 'oh at last...weeks of lost causes.... please can you say hello i just want to meet a sweet scythe swishing Amish type...
" fuckit there is ALWAYS a gift from any of them even the very worst liars of them all.... fast forward a few weeks... ' look Tammy you may well have faked the Amishness to my disappointment..but i have lived on Minnie ever since her Rotary years
and so often quite in my head "too much hurrying here hurrying there.." for years to all these so self important non Amish incomers who came to sing their songs and slow down but... never could.
"But Tamster..i have listened to it about 1000 times now with my eyes closed...marching up and down my hills....
" you may well be white trash... you may well have turned into something that wasnt you... but your 1990... love... then for that one moment in English histroy i really do know... you were better.. than our mutual godess....
" and ever since that glorious summer of "fuck off with your overpriced rent...whatyer gonna do about me squatting two years now your courts are closed and backed up like your drains you too lazy to fix...
"Tam.. my theme song... you sung it... yes if one had ever thought anyone could have been better than the black goddess.... the rules of anti-Blackswan universal truth are thats impossible...until
And Homer would be giggling in his grave..
Because..
There are fantasy tales...and tales just as Homeric..lived by real people - assuming she wasnt a hologram..
to be continued one day
Maybe
I don't have to..because i lived them. And the goddesses know that for sure, on their period and moody or not...
and a new byeline...periods are just phases
and since the little one so so wisely said " my evil nuts crazy stealing mad dangerous mum bought me up with at least one wise word or two once..'life is just phases'... "
And she sort of survived her to live to tell the tale
in the loony bin
all is well. As she was right.
But to think, maybe it was that day... 1990 ish... me effete, no spirit or soul despite the job anyone would kill for...nothing...
seen it all done it all... nothing impresses...ever..
that glorious autumn day driving around the North Circular back from work and .. it was in Kilburn in a dingy basement 1990
Somehow in the lacuna between the soundwaves of her perfect slutty pitch... one woman seems to have entrapped the whole of the enlightenment, and spectacluhh of the venal death of any hope... when the fine anarchists of the late 70s and 80s sold out and all went on drugs... of all kinds, especially fancy sofabeds from sofabed warehouse... Ikea nothing new....
somehow she nailed it.... why Britain was once great - the greatest culture there was - universally, but it all got trapped in a weird cage of bullshit and spin and bad music
Maybe in her Kilburn recording studio basement that day twas the day the music died.. but that sounds pompous dunnit..
especially when she wastes days of my life pretending she wants to escape her city, too... and proving a supreme artist doesnt listen to her own words...or perfect tone, its all just a performative
pitch
and then became performative empathy
even she makes err living from..
chief Waitrose Bag
the circle is
complete.
