ART OF EUROPE
Down to the Beach
and it blowing a gale, whoosh my darling and where have you gone? (whoooosh!)... the spindrift and spume of it all, the slow sand-sliding slurping-slush of sea like water on gravel, infinitesimally upscaling (a cold wind blowing with a razor-edge, high-tide mounting like a neptune horse) the soon to smooth, neigh... (wisps of waiting to a narrative as yet) and i'm... playing in the sand catching a crab in miniature crawling my hand... oh come away, come away, the crustacean sings (or so it seems) let's you and me to under the sea and after that like after tea to the furthest (but very furthest) reaches of above and beyond... i tried to explain (but what's the point?) crabs can't sing i say, and anyway... my name is bond... james bond... how can i help?
the things i wish i'd said... #23
dear germans - i respectfully refer you to the reply in arkell v. pressdram
dear world - i'm guilty as charged, ok? i admit it, i confess, i'm a feckin' misanthropist, guilty as hell (so let them trap-doors open, let me be gone) - i dont wanna listen to your nonsense no more!
dear st peter - no germans, right? you're absolutely sure there's no germans in there? and in through the gates of paradise i go...
hello, my name is samuel, as in pepys, old harrovian of desolute descent, a sausage-maker by day... (jesus christ mate, what's the game? specializing in pork sausages it says here, the finest it says here, for recalcitrant jews?) - i make a living i said, and in the evening i come here - so what's your day-job anyway? (i work with industrial machinery i said, and cleavers, and think i'm a man, a homo-sapien no less) - in the evenings it's different - my butcher's apron off and into the wash, i take a bubblebath in coconut milk, oh, for an hour or so, languishing, languidly so, like space in time, the universe, all that and beyond, slowed and slewed to a second and wave uplifting of sensually sensate being... but i digress, i get out of the bath, dry, talcum, and put on a dress, and lady slippers, and come to the desk...
o my god, i've been corrupted... was it sophocles?
dear tony blair - i don't want to give your wife a sausage! really i don't! honest! i don't want to watch robin gibb giving her one neither! jesus christ, it's not often i feel repulsed, but jesus christ... and have you looked in the mirror lately, seen the size of your man-boobs... it's disgusting, i'm disgusted, of tonbridge wells and beyond
anything to start, it's easy it's said, as per der dieu ist gegonnen, et au revoir, und goodbye... like tablelamp for instance (on the desk, this desk, in the dark) or that desk for instance, over there, what a mess... wheras i (idantly i) tidy timothy the tidyman, aged 92, old etonian, oxford blue (my name is obadiah said obadiah to the moon) do imagine an end already, ergo can't begin, ergo my desk is empty (apart from this monitor, a keyboard and a mug of tea) which, as far as i'm concernced, and can foretell, is all well and good, but, to begin, to actually begin, that's a different thing entirely
dear visitors - what d'you mean, you don't have a rembrandt in the house? what sort of retards are you people?
dear fantasy - woman you, decked out in your nudity in a pair of high-heels and a pearl necklace and a pair of single-pearl earrings, dangling, just so... i die, rise again, hard as iron, as hardened oakwood from an ancient forest... and yet you fade like a disney cartoon, as anime to black, whilst i (exiting from the dark of a cinema to a too-bright sunshine) smoke, wistfully, the cigarette after
dear world - just imagine, if the americans spoke german, how hellish scary that would be
dear america - look, father christmas, santa claus, whatever/whoever, he don't drink coca-cola, ok? never has done! ice-cream soda with a small sherry chaser maybe, but coca-cola! he don't drink lager neither, nor coffee or cappuccino (or schnapps or champagne) nor none of that poncy spring and mineral water nonsense out of poncy bottles... a hot horlicks with a splash of brandy maybe, or the occasional bottle of stout... but coca-cola?
dear england - oh i remember, remember... january 30th, 1649, oh happy days
dear god - why have you got it in for me? you bastard
dear heart - oh sarah platt, oh sarah platt, oh sarah platt... please
the view, from scotland, possibly the best new band since the 1960s
yeah, turn the volume up, now we're dancing
well that was the best bonfire night i've ever had, since i was seven at least... threw a few germans on, and watched them burn, very happily
and anyway, bach gives me nausea
and wagner's a dick
and goethe's for girls
germans! why the lot of 'em weren't wiped out in '45 i really don't know - just gimme the tools, i'll do it, for free, and with a child-like enthusiasm too
currently listening to - stars
drinking - the moon
smoking - as blown embers at dawn
and the tide comes in, the tide goes out...
listening to - orange groves
drinking - the midnight air
and it's dear my love and dear my love, and dear my deary sweet... i'm stuck inside o' colditz castle (got them nazi blues again) - and it's brrrr (brrumm, brrrrrrrummmmmmmmmmmmmmm) now i'm steve mcqueen on that motorbike, out in them open fields... yeehaw buddy, headed for switzerland, freedom, a night-flight to your side my sweet, to your breasts my love, to your thighs my love... and soon you and me'll be arizona homeward-bound