Monday, June 07, 2004

p.s. if you are gonna sing, sing this...

la la la la la la la la la la la
la la la la la la la la
la la la la la la la la la
la la la
la
...and what would you think if you were walking down the canal with tunde and kyp in the middle of a london/friedfish/sunglasses night .... when you came across the guy who fishes using glow worms for bait , and couldnt stop complaing about "only goddamn eels!" ... i can tell you this much... what you would think was exactly not what i wound up thinking... i was sure the walk would do me good.. i have been on this diet , you see, where i only eat foods that i am willing to marry the taste/smell with a memory ... which led me to bring these japanese ricecrackers [which are filled with peanuts] to the canal in the first place.... so i see the glow worm being tossed out from the dark , then splashing in the water... at first i thought that the glowing thing that followed me when i was a kid in mr. "h" s class was about to make a triumphant return [i did not like the possibilty of this particular magical event playing out in my adult life for the mere fact that i knew it would only be reanimated to annoy/distract me from my business of doing important shit that i can't explain anyway] ok.. im sorry , ... the japanese cracker memory.... i was really excited about opening these crackers just as some supernatural woman rose from the murky waters , glowing and radiating heat... just to drift over to me and whisper in my ear something that makes me calm... and then every time i eat those japanese crackers .... oh yes... calm... i am not the crane which floats effortlessly above the canal. I am the worm inside its gut, the sick inside its gullet. There is a tossing and turning a sleeplessness. There is a plexiglass enclosure holding fictional prototypes of non existant inventions which pretend to make life easier. Modern life, the now of yours and mine. Put a penny in, put two pennys in and extract a pound bleached flour. Shovel said flower down your throat to feed aformentioned worm. All music since the begining of time has been an attempt to aurally convey the colour pink. if you don't hear it its only because there has only been limited success in getting the correct colour temperature across.But it should be remembered that we are at the very baby stages of this colour sound experiment. 24;7 primatine inhaler, nitrous, helium balloon party in room 317 at London's very own Novotel .Expect the pro staff to hve a constant supply of wet naps and a absolute denial of their own animal humanaty which is expressed primarily in their strange habbit of wearing t shirts that look like they were made on the boardwalk at the jersey shore, with bubble letter texts spelling out messages like"MA MA MA MY CORONA!" and"WHO THWARTED??" over top of kenti cloth bath robes. Standing around in dark back alley ways in half circles meakly rubbing uninspired chubbys singing whatever old english drinking song OLD LANG SINE was ripped off from. Right under the exit sign which hangs above the back kitchen door of River Ganges indian cuisine, all you have to do is walk through the door and let the first inhalation carry the flavour over the nerves inside your nose and that will instantly translate into the question, with all the opening of the pores which had to attend the blood and guts of imperialism, hundreds of years of it, calories being expended to take and control take and control the heat of all that insanity, one would think that 1 clove of garlic or 1 chile or a pinch of pepper would find its way into this islands diet. And all the while the carousers, the carousel, the carousen, they swayed and wallowed,. wallowed and swayed and alive was the way that they felt, they dealt the cold wholsome manner of a banner too flagged, just alive was the way that they felt , the spunk soaked spatter of a matter of a fact it was only just alive as the pattern in the matter as a sweet heart beat as a tattered aftermatter for a life, for alive was the way they felt and maybe it's a does and maybe it's a shoulda, nevermat, just a tattered little life, was the way they dealt, just alive was the way they felt.
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