The teeth of the piano
Sometimes you underestimate the effect music can have. The week has skuttled past like an otter. Time is short. Sleep is fitful. Poetry night was mildly parodic and sleep took me and we went in search of chips.
I'm in a state of some disassociation at the moment. It's hard to pin down. In Sheffield, perhaps it could be described as wappy. In many ways things couldn't be better. Oh, the eternal conflict between creativity and apathy. Oh, to have the time to work hard and play hard. Work hard, that is, as in have an extended period of creativity, rather than pull pints to pay the rent.
Some people make a living working in banks and shops,
But I pour ale for old men, let them tug upon my mutton chops.
I do love it dearly, however.
Omlettes in cafes, oranges in the soup, walking with sheep. Crouching down in the rolling countryside as a series of fat sheep mutter around us and the rolling hills live up to their name and spin like a classy resteraunt, like, rural.
Clutching a speaker, sitting on a moving trolley and on the ground with grandfather's legacy on my shoulders and taking hold of us. Rosie's feet poked from the bin and it took me and a kindly rasta to free her. Double dates and double whiskys.
I just went into Tom's room. He's had a small dog in there for a few days, and one of those umbrellas they use for school photos. He's been dressing it up in all sorts of outfits, mostly victorian. I don't know where he found the dog. I can only hope he bought it. I have visions of "LOST DOG" posters, accompanied by little 'Claude', sans clownsuit.
I'm in a state of some disassociation at the moment. It's hard to pin down. In Sheffield, perhaps it could be described as wappy. In many ways things couldn't be better. Oh, the eternal conflict between creativity and apathy. Oh, to have the time to work hard and play hard. Work hard, that is, as in have an extended period of creativity, rather than pull pints to pay the rent.
Some people make a living working in banks and shops,
But I pour ale for old men, let them tug upon my mutton chops.
I do love it dearly, however.
Omlettes in cafes, oranges in the soup, walking with sheep. Crouching down in the rolling countryside as a series of fat sheep mutter around us and the rolling hills live up to their name and spin like a classy resteraunt, like, rural.
Clutching a speaker, sitting on a moving trolley and on the ground with grandfather's legacy on my shoulders and taking hold of us. Rosie's feet poked from the bin and it took me and a kindly rasta to free her. Double dates and double whiskys.
I just went into Tom's room. He's had a small dog in there for a few days, and one of those umbrellas they use for school photos. He's been dressing it up in all sorts of outfits, mostly victorian. I don't know where he found the dog. I can only hope he bought it. I have visions of "LOST DOG" posters, accompanied by little 'Claude', sans clownsuit.
posted by Rufus Moonshine at 9:25 AM
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