ART OF EUROPE

Summer - Autumn

oh what a dream what a dream what a dream i had last night, me at the controls of a lancaster bomber, biggles and bond out back

whoosh, september already (i must be 30 at least) - time to take the schiele down, put up a cezanne... i'd maybe read some proust and whitman by late summer moonlight, if i wasn't so hetero

today i sorted a foicking oirish wenker, tomorrow the moon

i blame google (looking at the logs here) i saw these hits from google for art prints for girls... eh! art prints for girls? i'd imagined this was a site where leon came for a little something for the hallway

d'you know how hard it is, to be profound, existentially, in french, every single day of your life? i expect you do... well, i don't mind telling you, but i've struggled... i a masai warrior man in a 2cv, reading candide with the top rolled back, in savanna sunshine

bonjour docteur pàngloss, how do you do?

they phone me up sometimes, americans, at work, and i'm always like wanting to say, hey, what about the injuns? you killed all the injuns! you bastards! but i never do... and then i'm all like wanting to say, but hey, cheers for bombing the germans, that was great... but i never do...

today for something to do i shot some nazis, dead, in sennen cove - splattered 'em with a smith & wesson, american-style, that'll show 'em, what's what

and whether or not to get a humvee with mounted howitzer and be headed for hamburg the morrow, or settle to a morris traveller in racing green and be toot-tootling along in cornwall's country lanes...

i shoulda been an apache in the arizona mountains, with an m16 and a death-ray zapper - take that, white man paleface

on the way out, lung and libido diseased, back pages to a time with sarah platt blah blah, i don a pink dress, a tutu probably, and dance around the room with a magic stick

like an old fart... like one of them old twats going on... how 60s music was the best blah blah, y'know, you know... well, this is the why! this is peter green at 22 and danny kirwan at 18 doing rattlesnake shake in 69, this is fleetwood mac before they let the americans in and the americans turned fleetwood mac into shite... you have to give it 3 minutes to get going but at the end of the 7 you've quite possibly witnessed the best and awesomest guitarist of the 20th century in full flow - enjoy! yeah, turn up the volume!

did i mention danny boy could play the guitar too? 18, for god sake

me i'm settling into dementia, 2007-style, oh well...

remembering the summer of 69, being 18, laying in the sunshine
summer by the sea, girls going by... reading coleridge probably

then it's the green manalishi, the heebie-jeebies, peter and danny to lala land, american infiltration, and fleetwood mac to shit

and rain rain rain... waiting for the skies to clear, in cornwall

oh but i can't be arsed he said - hey, nazi-boy (you know who you are) go stick your head in a bucket of shite, go die, dogshit scum, slime-boy, stinking deutsche scheisse... you thief-boy, kraut kunt, no-brain twat-turd upon the earth

i'm thinking a hp z3100, 44" - thinking to buy a printer and do this giclee prints printing thing meself, even on canvas... in a unit somewhere someplace, in a shop or a warehouse full of girls, a room or a garage like apple, and then...

the door ajar justso, scatterlight like kaleido she says, silvery lit sunrise in a lake in the sea... eh? i say, and look up from the book that i'm reading

a week goes by and i'm gone 19, packing 18 into 13 weeks which is damn near flying it if you ask me, an eagle or sparrow i aint sure, tit possibly... or a snowy owl, swooping from high out of moonlight to settle on a gravestone in a graveyard night (hamlet babbling in a field next door) - i sit and read, oh, books books books... doors of perception, possibly... oh brave new world, 1984 (that blair boy, eric, he was a pupil of mine, y'know) - the walk or run to the pub, the talk of girls, games of pool, games of chance...

seed em in the summer, babies in the spring, i step back indoors to a glass that's three quarters full or a quarter empty (i ain't quite sure) - maybe both, i dunno, waves and points and all a quantum quadrille, i survey the scene, sip and gulp... i must be about 18 now, talking of averages, proportions, allotted time-spans, time-warps, whatever... the spring is finished and it is time to bloom (let the fruit on the plate by the window wilt and wither and wait) these are the hours to flower and forwards (says he with a glass three quarters empty and a quarter full) - i click on the computer screen, look at my walls, hang out the window, there a horizon, see, singular, a hawkins thing, and i sip and click again... memento, irréversible (note for future generations... david lynch is about as interesting as damien hirst, the both of them shite!) - then back outdoors, onto the balcony, summery girls in summery clothing... i await a summary fate, whistling in wonder... jesus christ, look at the tits on that

she alights from a window, flying like a modigliani bird
end of summer

a href="beginning of autumn /a>
... ! transfer interrupted

bejabbers and bejasus!