If one was aborted before the mask that is called life, what would you ask it? Why am I lonely? Why a cricket bat doesn’t taste of sourdough? If you need to know the reason why the cottage cheese turned sour, just smash it into the sweet darling’s postulating face and paint Van Gogh replicas with the results. The result/s will lead you to that tell tale gutter in San Francisco. A sailor will walk by with, ‘the jokes on me’ tattooed on his arm. The blackbird will ignore the sunflower.

Frank will ask: What’s new? But all you will here is throat cancer, and a sly French remark in an Algerian brothel. You will find newspapers, but all you will see in them is the ridiculous and the sublime fever that is Ivory malaria. You wanted to write songs; but ended up sowing maggots into Rachel Anne McAdam’s bosom.

I missed you most all when the turpentine fell on to my King James edition of the bible. I hated you most of all when I was stood up in Groningen, and all I could think about was that cold January Pacific rain falling onto to the back of my rotten skull. Poor Theo will be unable to cover up the pain that cripples his heart. It is hard to think of the pain that was born in those sun swept meadows.

This was long ago. This was long ago. So why do I still rest my face in that same sallow gutter? The police will arrive soon – they paint the eye’s of grey mullets on Fridays. All it was, was a way to make it to some sort of promised land: a sowing of aluminum sunflower seeds, if you will.

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