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I don’t, perhaps, or not always. it is not that it has always been that way.

Just over there, that is where it all started to go right or wrong. Flying a freak punk flag; the spiky hair of David. An invented extravert with nods to a fascination with Egyptian archaeology.

Anthropological excuses, perfectly timed excesses.


So far, so far away in a crap coffee and espresso bar. Looks jazz in a sterile non-smoking kinda way. Plays Abba; kinda figures, kinda sucks. Dumb it down to draw a crowd and all the world becomes a stage…So what is a poor scribbler do? Revolting revolvers and revolving revolts around this earth, it is the stage and we are the actors…perform for me. There is no Finnigan’s wake on those south Dublin streets. It’s the dirty south near Stephan’s Moor.


The great survivor of thiese current broadcast banalities. They think they are the socialites. Crap and coffee. The Christian and cruller crowd discussing declarations of a book. Hardline. No congress in cars, the pages are turned for the six hundred and sixty million. Finish, start over in case the point was missed. The Altitude of the attitude. Representative and condescending. The betrayed dream of trust and redemption.


Top of the World news views, on display for the sacred and violent profane.


Sailing on the cartels amphetamine blue sea. The desolation of angels high on the vicoden life. The hillbilly heroine; Martyred for the great Atlantic to see.

Pedestal pastoral; from a perplexing vantage point. Oh what would Mary Mary say, what would she do baby blue, sailing on the amphetamine sea.


Political proclamations resulting in a sly night moon casting shadows in the nicotine stained white room, love in the late night shadow.


The Vicoden high life of the desecrated desolation angels. The walls come tumbling down. Border-less boundaries. Border-less angelic boundaries changing on a whim…stepped out onto a limb.

Old crap and coffee. Looking at photographs of the dead transferred, digitized and cleaned up. Sleaze slides removed. Obsessive; love of punk groups gone cut up reorganized with nods to a semblance of serenity and fake fancy.

The sunlight burns holes in the nights eye.

Hot jazz vicodin lights flash to the sounds of Sonny Rollins on the Deir al-bahari mesa. 1974 75 …code …fly the freak flag bebay blue before the stupid take over. Exterminate the artists writers and dreamers. A mass grave for creativity covered up with dogma as a reality.

Took the wrong blue pill.


We all live too long in a stupor. If it is all dark , it’s light but ,like a black hole it sucks in and envelopes all in the path. The path of least resistance on the path of no return.