... sent the parcels back to their starving families When I got ancient enough I wrote songs of regret, brittle ditties that used words like - leaves - yesterday - dreams etc When I got real ancient I wrapped my shoulders and neck and head in a blanket and stood with Jewish grandmothers in kitchens in the bitter cold while cleaning the coffee pot, knocking the grounds into the sink with my finger while the tap flowed cold water, flicking the gas on - pfuum, balance the pot, lift sugar jar, flick spoon under tap rubbing the old coffee from the steel. I'll gaze at the willow tapping on the window, move through corridors, whistle ironically and loudly, clearly tunes from the 70s like Donna by 10CC, singing the falsetto in a high falsetto and clapping When I get ancient I'll take whippets for walks round streets and parks and country walks with paths and stiles in small fields with isolated trees, sometimes ash, clapping loudly and whistling at stoats - not stoats on woodpeckers - no - only stoats like inch worms on the grass I'll sing more songs about the tiny spiders that cover the world with silk, only on autumn Sunday mornings, the thistle down tinfoil beautiful mornings of yor, of now, of then, of delicate and tender loneliness When gangs of bearded teddy boys in another life became gangs of bearded anarchists in mother Russia in 1889, when they crawled out of Dalston in 1890, and in 1970 they shot b&w film films in Dalston too, art films that made a point before there was no point left anymore with these multiplicities and the like in Australian, American and English bulletin boards with marginal artists and sometimes less marginal players, big players with mandolins, armchairs, houses in seaside towns within reach of London, others in the sticks, near borders, in universities, teaching and lecturing, with horses. Old prams too. But it's all good. I'll see horses there, silver mares and skew bald geldings in gypsy fields with dead thorn trees, old walls and mattress of flies. Broken plough, hoe and cock pheasant turner of McCormick make, red metal in yards of farms. And more than this... Simon
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