I mean you would have to,
wouldn't you?
Viva La France...

Family outing.

Girls in old Volvos drive me mad.
Their dogs in the backseat looking so sad.
They're early sixties stylized,
my true ambitions realized.
They're so disassociated and cool
and those dogs, how they drool
on the re-upholstered seats
of discounted, faux, bengal fur.
There are sunglasses hiding

vacant stares, despondent pouts

and looks like, "WHO CARES?"

Turning signals never work

and epoxied dash attachments

and little quirks make me want to scream,

"I LOVE YOU !" each time they drive past.
Four on the floor or three in the tree,

it really makes no difference to me.

Their exhaust is noxious, but then so am I.

Cross my heart and hope to die

stick a needle in my eye but...

Fifty five in the slow lane drives me wild.

They're going nowhere and not getting there fast.
You, Volvo Girl, are rebel. You are outcast.

And it is not your fault that people do not

understand your constant and undeviating

requirement for individuality and your disdain

for the human race. So don't let them stare you in the face .

Because you'll get nothing back but a look that says, "DROP DEAD, DUDE."
I dream to find one broken down one day.
An "eighteen hundred E," my dear
what would you say to your knight in shining armor
coming to your automotive rescue?
You, in your leather jacket and paint splattered jeans,
and that interesting hair cut, you know what it means
to embrace those old Swedish machines
and make them young again
like I know you would me.
And I'd be down on my knees
and you'd rattle your keys just out of my reach.
I want to be your hairless dog
and run on the beach and pick up your sticks
and ride in your car and drool on your seats.
I want to be your ornamental pooch.
To conquer the world back
to an airbagless age with lapbelts and leaded.
So lock me in your cage of dispassionate bemusement
and let's drive, honey.
Let's just drive.

We are
mo......

Bad Friday.

One feels
like one
might die
tonight.

Guilt.
Guilt, guilt guilt.
It gets you






down.

Rest in peace, Anthony.
You were much too young.

So, that was then,
and this is now.
I remember…
you, like
a warm English day.
You took the piss.
Letting me down
hills in my pram.
Pretending you
had died. In any
given afternoon.
I kicked a football
Into boiling water.
You told me
they went to the moon
in my damp, damp room
You are always.
You are always.
Pretending or not.
Alive.
I remember you,
like a warm English day.
Letting me down
hills in my pram.

1926-2008

She awoke
screaming.
Hysterical.
I asked...
but nothing
was wrong.
We keep
our secrets.
She loves her lies.
I worship my sleep.
My pain,
my teeth.
my misunderstanding
our misunderstanding
is
nothing more
than
a word.
Any word
Shout one out:

Rush on supermarkets.
Booze is demanded.
Tesco warns:
'There's enough
for everybody.'
But is there?
Labour pricing pubs
out forever.
And, well I never...
never thought...
I'd see the day or live
the night. Without
a fire by my side.
Without that burning
deep inside.

Alistair, darling
you smug little git.
4p on a pint?
You're taking the piss.

Tax the chavs,
tax the rich...
leave my beer alone.
You cowardly bitch.

Right.

This has nothing

to do with London.

New York, in fact.

1977...1978

about?

Debbie, in fact.

Seems to have

forgotten.
.

Something...

It appears

to me.

Blew Monday.
http://www.liveleak.com/view?i=4d8_1205149248

Find a paper
from 300
years ago.
Same news.
Same crap.
Same worries.
Same rap.

Special Oil
Special Oil
Special Oil
Underline
it your bible.
Use it on your
victims.

No news
I can say.
All made in
the USA.
What rhymes
with Hillary?
Artillery.

They're coming to town.
Indeed they are.
To protest.
They're not
even Sheffield United
supporters. At least
I don't think they are.

http://www.britishpigs.org/breed_we.htm

The King
of Soho
is dead.
Long live
The King.