hello,

Bang, F slams his glass down on the piano but by now i know its coming so i don’t drop the right hand, where’s Bootsy says F. out of the corner of his mouth while watching her cross the room with a trrrrailll of silk perfume, play an old standard he says to me clapping me on the back and filling my glass magically again with a wave of his hand, where’s three card? i’m bored, she wants to go to the theatre, the theatre! two hours of watching other people’s lives instead of living your own, fuck that play something loud and spiritual,
Live at the Orchid Room
more mad experiments with nonlinear time,
rage on, I say,

Has been edited, titles changed, second verse, the blunt instrument has been added,

(subtitle (outrageous, who subtitles anything these days):

Hunger Ocassionally Makes Fools Of Us All, Tigger

It is as if the world contains a soft buzz and then the sudden and spontaneous joy of you unfolding grander than a grand piano, an entire orchestra playing the sweetest chord the flute purring the perfect line of melody over your hips and through the scent of your hair and in that single curve every ideal of beauty embodied) a still warm and alive creature whitch responds to touch in the tiniest detaillliteral electricity beneath your glowing skin and hairs rise and come alive and tickle and twitches his whiskers, hmm something alive this way comes through the dark jungle skipping red and joyous in her youth and unexpended energy, i shall become no more than a helpless old crone in a single bed and i will only bear my fangs after it has become impossible for her to resist and she offers me her throat,

opens the lid, takes a deep breath, in the spirit of Randallian hangin’ honesty, and a tip of the hat to the mighty F.G. Franklin, listening to Albert King very loud thru the headphones,
woooooo, hahaha, i dare you
underneath that powder and paint,
pretty woman, what’s the matter with you,
i already apologised, twice i think,
(Three Card, slicks his hand into his pocket,
Mamu flinches almost into a grin,
i keep my eyes on the piano, i am telling you,
i am remembering the first time i actually saw Art
Tatum play,

by the way, you can find me Monday Nights, at the Orchid Room,
and Saturday afternoon,

“I try to leave out the parts people skip.” Elmore Leonard

Now don’t read it again and write it in your own words. Haha, waffle on, I say. The sky, the sky’s in love with you, she left me, left me flat and without implicit rhythm, where are you Maryjane,

If you have a child who is easily bored, don’t give him too much sugar. The oldstyle socialist brushing his whiskers, “I often quote myself. It adds spice to the conversation.” The truth is my mind keeps wandering back to soft curves and forgiving terrain,

,and now what’s to do with this
having shaved this morning in hope of a kiss,

There is a spangled drongo on the fence outside the window and she is very much enjoying demonstrating her virtuosity in song. Spangled drongos are mimics, they learn the structure of their sounds from other creatures and weave them into their own unique and distinctive arias. There are some who claim that humans learned the idea of melody from birds.

I am wearing a black suit with an open necked red shirt. I don’t know why, I felt like dressing up. If there was a theme for the day it would be gratitude. I live in one of the most peaceful and tolerant countries on earth and for some reason I cannot fathom I have always been surrounded by beautiful women. Beauty which has nothing to do with bone structure and everything to do with womanhood. They have tolerated my brusque and uncouth company and have occasionally been amused by it. I want to define beauty. I was trying to do so in the paragraph above, it is something communicated. I want to encourage you to watch the video of Archie Roach in my vodpod.

I know I am taking up too much of your time but I won’t be writing for a few days so you can meander. The world is full of beauty and a lot of art is about expressing gratitude for the existance of beauty in the world. La Geurnica has always been a favourite picture of mine. Of course it is about pain and suffering but it is predicated by Picasso’s love for his home and the women who made it.

We are grateful for the opportunity to love, that something exists in the world that allows us to love. I am a middleaged white man with many and various flaws of which I am painfully aware. I have been drunk and I have been mad. I have been consumed by frustration and anger. When I was younger I had an audience, I am in my own vodpod, but I did not have gratitude. It is women who will save the world, the only function of men is to explore.

I miss Sunonhead, his simplicity of expression. She is tiring of me, the spangled drongo. She has chicks to feed. Goodbye, I say out loud as she disappears into the evening, sorry,