|Rowan - Sorbus Aucuparia|
|Not much change here, then|
in the eighteenth century, babies falling from the breast, women evicted into the street through the fecklessness of their husbands who owned them, their dowries and their bodies.
In the nineteenth century Dickens exposed the miseries of the poor.
I’m complaining that the massive state expenditure aimed at lifting people out of poverty actually seems to have had the reverse effect and there should be a better solution – one that fits together like a dovetail joint the vacant posts with unemployed people in this country.
|Maybe not that.|
And is it good? - no bloody fear,In bloody Orkney.
Isnae posted here nae mair
But no-one seems tae bloody care
In bloody Orkney.
|No sense of irony, some people. Huge confidence, though.|
Having cut back only a little I am deep in green blood and insects and birds rebuke me. What do other hedgers think? There are no nests, the birds, brown ones, just chill out there and return when the clipping is done. Should I continue to remove a couple of feet, whilst the weather is nice, or should I await early winter, and freeze my bollocks off?
I once loved a girl, her skin it was bronze, with the innocence of a lamb, she was gentle like a fawn. I courted her proudly but now she is gone, gone as the season she's taken. In a young summer's youth, I stole her away from her mother and sister, though close did they stay, each one of them suffering from the failures of their day. With strings of guilt they tried hard to guide us. Of the two sisters, I loved the young with sensitive instincts, she was the creative one. The constant scapegoat, she was easily undone by the jealousy of others around her. For her parasite sister, I had no respect. Bound by her boredom, her pride to protect countless visions of the other she'd reflect as a crutch for her scenes and her society. Myself, for what I did, I cannot be excused, the changes I was going through can't even be used. For the lies that I told her in hopes not to lose the could-be dream-lover of my lifetime. With unseen consciousness, I possessed in my grip a magnificent mantelpiece, though its heart being chipped, noticing not that I'd already slipped to the sin of love's false security. From silhouetted anger to manufactured peace answers of emptiness, voice vacancies 'till the tombstones of damage read me no questions but, "Please what's wrong and what's exactly the matter?" And so it did happen like it could have been foreseen the timeless explosion of fantasy's dream. At the peak of the night, the king and the queen tumbled all down into pieces. "The tragic figure!" her sister did shout "Leave her alone, god damn you, get out!" And I in my armor, turning about and nailing her in the ruins of her pettiness. Beneath a bare light bulb the plaster did pound her sister and I in a screaming battleground and she in between, the victim of sound soon shattered as a child to the shadows. All is gone, all is gone, admit it, take flight I gagged in contradiction, tears blinding my sight. My mind it was mangled, I ran into the night leaving all of love's ashes behind me. The wind knocks my window, the room it is wet, the words to say I'm sorry, I haven't found yet, I think of her often and hope whoever she's met will be fully aware of how precious she is.
Ah, my friends from the prison, they ask unto me "How good, how good does it feel to be free?" And I answer them most mysteriously "Are birds free from the chains of the skyway?"
Record Review, Storm in an Old Man's Teacup drafted 28.9.12
"Why don't you write a book, my friend said to me, for forty years. There's enough books, don't need any more fucking books, books're the last thing we need more of. The last time he asked, a couple of years back, I wanted to say Well, in a sense, I have, it's called stanislav, a young Polish plumber."
|Blair, Brown, Mandelson and Campbell|