moof

Winter is here, the trees are getting undressed, our mother like sleep is going to death. In this bucolic decay the every day urban paranoia becomes special. The colours of this mono culture for a moment become something, as you walk into the bucolic green heading up the limb valley you are for a while free, there is often no one around, go on hug a tree. Pick up her casted off leaves, look at their colour, now ponder where do they go apart from the ones the road sweeper swept up this morning. Now the black road and pavement are back in black. Is there a need for the road sweeper to be doing this?  If i was a clock i would be nine o’ clock and for me this would be the end of the day, i consider nine to be like myself a cat with the same amount of lives, the same reputation, me n creation are firm friends not fair weather, feminist mothers who need to patronize n condescend, there is an end in my world. A moment of civil unrest and neither do i know why  the road sweeper was cleaning up the leaves. Was it a message of his discontent, that he loathed leaves. I had a communique from the evil garlic men of idly tidley i doh, as they claimed the stairs of bread to come join me in my head, have you heard what she said, then he said. This village i love her earth, but but her people are little or of no worth to me. Are all road sweepers as omnipresent, i love the smell of napalm n pussy, and i shall not share the rest of this private thought, but a cunt if far more than who you like to think you be.. Yes there are orphans brawlers & bastards around here, along with tom waits on mushrooms, every where i have been he was there, it also rained on me. It soothed the pain of being me, eased the madness of my ugliness every time i see a refection i see a deedah smiling back down on me. Now if i asked the fucking  road sweeper to stop clearing the leaves, take me instead, now when you are asleep it is said you are dead, so would i be just as happy if was to be a full time occupation named sleep, oh you can keep your contrived platitudes, i like kate moss as reflected by mark quinn, in graves he gave me a kiss. If you watched me undress, then we made love in the gardens of your choice, freedom is a voice lost under your fist and when i asked for one it was not a beating my dear, is your homophobic fear far too much for you to touch, then hold, then understand i once desired to hold your hand. Now i desire for mine to pull the trigger on this homophobic nigger hating mother, indeed you were more than a lover, a brother and at times a  homophobic nigger hating one i gave you time. All for it to come to a end, as i have seen time n time n time n time a fucking repeat of brutality was my reality of the friendship i gave and this is what me n the evil garlic men of idly tidley i doh were talking about, is the deedah that smiled at me as he beat me..