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For the Marquis of Leatherhead now residing Shackewell Green, a toast to our last stance…

“See to it this sot be Hobbled, Blinded and relocated to Thames mead, for today the crows outnumber the pigeons and I am furious and malcontent”

“Father, the fruit in this land has begun to rot from the inside out, and this morning I bled from every orifice. And Father, I never witnessed as much line painting as I witnessed in the month of June”

“But what do you know of Sebastian Gilmore? His exposition of “Nothing in Particular', ‘Torn Digital Sunset Eye'? I suppose that makes you the worlds authority on the man?”

I ride negligently through depravity, my flute player in tow, delighting or distressing the inhabitants with an exotic selection of melodies from distant lands and cultures

Meet me at JP's café on Chrisp Street market square, were we can argue over the commercial value of domestic products forever under the shadow of Pellis obelisk so inspired by the rainbow over Herne Hills Hill and Black helicopters flying west.

You sit on the south west tip of the half star and watch below as the Ship of Fools passes by, happy that for once you are not onboard. Notice the corrupt palette? I am no conduit, like Rose. Then a wall cut through the Baltic leaving a seam of calm smooth waves, black ice, you can hear the sinister boom of humanity in the distance. She promised you she knew of a place to observe the curvature of the earth, up through Helsinki Creek, were champagne corks met destiny, to the old haunt “The Beaten Docket” of Broadway, writing tales for vulgar readers, sycophants, sick of ants, sick of aunts.

You're working class? Heres the score…Pay, Obey, Drink, Fuck and Die, and keep it down while the rest of us get on with it…Turn down the rain, rewind the television, who said there's an Ode to Lee Manik on the literary circuit?

“I saw God on Drummond Road in Bermondsey. A triptych, an Elm tree framed by two steel gates and a man of the north striding this way and that, clasping his hands to keep warm”

“Rose of Wenlock?”

“You mean?”

“Yes, that's right, I'd like a full frontal lobotomy to end these preposterous delusions please”

“Tales of a Dalston Bottleneck?”

“Yes, and it would be wise to excersise caution in the realm of the twenty footers”

“I don't like him”

“But you haven't even spoke to him yet!”

“Well, I can just tell, he's presumptuous, and he thinks that I'm presumptuous too”

“But I would argue that Max is not a particulary timeless name”

“You would, him who listens to ‘Zone inheritance and the Boy Plagarist' I mean, what kind of big band is that anyway?”

“This spider is Broken”

“What?”

“It's broken spider”

“Could it be…”

“I fucking hate warning triangles”

But she led them all into the Lions Den, the injured, the unstable, the provocateur and the fool. She led them through, and they emerged with, wounded pride, panic and victimsation. The once proud ‘Empress of London' now a bumbling behemoth, a liability. She wore the tears of trees on her fingers, remember to rub them for static.

The young fat lady in her tight fitting shirt stands proudly outside the smiling belly café of Hackney Road one sunny morning, her arm in a sling but her enthusiasm intact.

She knows people admire her yellow gun on the passenger seat and adjusts the speed at which her lights revolve at accordingly.

“God is Divine and my Daughter is Human” replied the lady who worked in the charity shop when questioned by the priest of “whom she would put first”. I decided to join in and declared

“Hats off to Mr and Mrs See No, Mr Hear No, and Dr Speak No.

Their virtuousness, innocence and naivety preserved in the Proverbial Baltic Amber”. Both parties found my tone deplorable and called the police.

Using powers of deduction, deduce deducting a pepper from a Jalapeno might leave one with -25. Danger danger. John Soltage, he knows of opportunity:

“Opportunity had been knocking for many years, and the door was now covered in the blood of opportunities bleeding knuckles. Why was John so skeptical of this entity that is "opportunity" is it the overwhelming fear of embarrassment at it's mercy, hiding from it's all embracing arms. Whether 'opportunity' is still out there knocking or has traded places with ridicule is not clear.

“Patience is a virtue but persistence married to serendipity is a life rich in adventure”

If the weather is still, then apprehension will be aroused and anxiety stirred, in which case find my gaze fixed to the malignance of Voss Street. Let us hope we meet at Rinkoffs, at this intersection of roads, west of weaver's fields, and lit by halogen something unearthly resides.

To the Badger inn were the Quartet “Bumpy Fen Road and The Wonky Pylons” play "The Ballad of Erhard Feller". They are unusual in that they insist the female vocalists be several months pregnant and something in their music has sent the local pigeons mad.

Dream of the red haired woman who held two thin strips of green satin ribbon and a pair of Violet handled scissors, she cuts a cross of several formations. Only her left eye visible. The quartet continues to play a soundtrack of low frequency chorus and splashes of harmonic distortion. Her speech did not relate to her writing as if playing accomplished piece music on an out of tune piano; she could not convey through conversation how she thought, what she would write. She was a reflectionist, we were symmetrical. Of humanity they had completed a cycle of diffusion, dispersion from each other, and now –aided by technology- they were on an exponential path once again to singularity…an implosion of everything.

How many of us have written “I write from the Worlds End” earnestly?

This spider is broken

 

By David Corbett