Girlfriend's In Bed

Upstairs asleep after a waking night with me and i'm calling round mes amis a la fortieth which hangs in the air like a bleeding pig waiting to be cooked and eaten. The fortieth birthday pig. Certain changes of status are unfolding: Professional, Single, Jobless, Tenant, Parent with care, Employed, Artist seeks work: Mr Benn. Make a note to learn some new chords and birds - names and calls. Bigger house with garden and things to swing. "Something to do before you die? Live." The visitors permit is off and the Walnuts are not ready in this hinterland. Linger a while. Linger a longer look. Every day I write that book. Look up boats on the internet and laugh at own temptation to blow a paltry life savings ( for a forty someone) on a boat - wood for the building and rent a dry dock. Music unmade, painting unpainted, poems to write and she is still dreaming. Bloody cat. Plastic beads. Don't like being called sweet. always preempts the end of something. Thought occurs: There's nothing behind the knees to wobble.... what you say that for? Politics all around I write myself back into bed nearly. Then, staring and sublime i achieve an higher consciousness and pass on... missing the whole party. Merciful Allah. blessings be upon his wondrous name. That Robert Mugabe. What a cunt. He can't come to Dads Cafe. He's embargoed. We could eat him, I suppose. But really, what a fucking twat. And what a fine freedom to be able to say it. Guess I'm dead now? Sympathetic look on a combative face calming the angry muscles into a sanguine attention to the facts and out of which social scenario details occur - as new and to be acted upon. Get camping gas and a bed. Bored now. Get up woman. The end. (Ilex would be a good name for a firm of Japanese white goods manufacturers).