not knowing what to write i type . . .
thinking of Dinah Washington although not today, more like last week, i look around and see the two bitch faces munching and crunching their bones, Delaney at one end of the room near the sofa (thankfully not on it as the purple blanket collects the bone shards), and Bonnie by the music maker as it plays the ceedee with the music of Harry and his little touch of SCHMILSSON in the night. Wifey’s here too, lounging on her love seat in the other room, happy as Larry as sheez written a quaint ickle poem for Burns night this coming Saturday. Sheez talking but the daags ain’t listenin’ and eyem at the table in the dining room, tired, satisfied and happy, although eyed be happier if eyed some pipe tobacco and a nice glass of scotch, sitting onna battered leather chair by the fire with Man ugh! and Sunderland playing on our 178″ teevee with surround sound, but what canyah do? except read the minute by minute report on the Guardian’s website of anger and bite the finger nails as the craving for cool sticks won’t relent.
the poverty channels play the same stories that i read in the papers this morning: Rehab are right, and Shatter eyem told is wrong. Assad has a moustache like the others from times ago, though the freedom fighters have beards and Putain ain’t a big fan of hairy guys and this dislike he shares with the yanks. The Gays are fighting survivors and never wrong and all i know is that our generation has slowly given way to those below us and itz time to feel like our parents.