as clogged, the countryside used to be.
byroads littered, leaves in twisted repose.
they meet the sky and aggressively, they compete to win your eye-line exclusive.
shards of light revealing the foregrounds weaknesses.
a visual display of the common and the rare most stupendous.
my heels, sank Southly now, move with no haste, nor sloth...
i am returning now, returning to my home.
where the animals die.
where i die.
Thursday, 13 August 2009
Celebratory event in household #1
Somewhere, a distant heaven lures believers in abundance to a white portakabin.
The bouncer, in white/gold gown, goes through his heavy undusty guest list, turning away anyone dressed in sinful trainers, tracksuits and baseball caps.
No 'bangin' choons' or 'sick riddims' just a lonesome harp player, who under the pressure of pleasing many with his seemingly unlimited songbook leaves without a tip, cheer or applause.
His understudy, the life-shape of Quentin Harkley, twiddles his thumbs and tunes incessantly, awaiting his chance to serenade the waiting ears of the number.
His time never comes.
Caterers catering for hoards of visitors, all of which rarely leave.
Persil being poured at a speed of two bundles per white mile.
Canapes being thrust into rafters and over balconies, loud parties spilling onto the white pavements and yet-to-be-driven on roads.
Guffaw and Google discussed by the most peaked-too-soon minds.
Some make reference to the boxes that house their more mortal materials.
One, a lady of once-great wealth, scorned her offspring for their crude choice of cheaper Eco-Friendly wood.
Overheard by one such believer an argument breaks out and the rights and wrongs of lifely ways are thrown into disrepute with everyone taking sides.
All of a sudden the 'kabin becomes bare and all involved are found on top of an upside-down tree in the mind of a Money-Eagle bound in transcendental flight for eternity.
No Hi-Viz required.