letter to Rona, today of all days

Rona,
I received your Chrysanthemums
They died yesterday
They're in heaven today

I'm still stuck in Bedlam
All the kids have ear-hole sized speakers in their ears
Martians
You stick something into your ears and your fucked
Everyone knows that

Anyway,
One day I shall be released
and We can have a lot of fun in the planetarium
again
Like we used to do
Remember that, huh?

Love ad naseam
To Suzy Q too
Rowdy Roddy Piper

open A Play For The Garage invite

''es a rambling man say the locals. He rambled til the butchers shot him down they say. Old Maude reckons he hunts the plains looking for revenge round here. It was in this town where they gunned him down, head to the wall'... Oh dear... 'Jack, behind the bar, he says his last words were, you mark my words I'll lust your blood, I'll lust your pretty little blood under the harvest moon, you will all be spilled. And tonight, tonight was the night of the harvest moon and he would have his harvest of blood and lust fulfilled.'

https://docs.google.com/docume​nt/d/1Kue1E5YqcImAn3lInnSwNieI​dcrJyjiFZzpmbobuwNQ/edit?hl=en​_US




*****
see here;
http://bullgoosesamuel.blogspot.co.uk/2012/06/introduction-this-is-play-i-wrote-while.html

Letter to Rona, July, 2011

Dear Rona
It's me
I feel quite alone
The world's imploding
or Avalanching
or Something
Maybe

I've been reading Nancy Mitford
She reminds me of you
Sane men can fall in love the same woman
as an insane man can
Apparently
So they say here
Maybe it's easier to be decent in print
than life

Wake up little Suzy
And pass on my love
And if she now accepts kisses from girls and women
Give her a kiss
From me

Love as always
and always,
Zorro

fiddles

Fine fiddle Fiona
It's the nicest tune
In town

Fine fiddle Fiona
You're not welcome there anymore
Dear

Marx Poem

But what about Engels?
What about him?

up the ladder, through the window, the raining night sky

the funny pages

He hated the newspapers. The broadsheets even more so than the loathsome tabloids. However, he was obsessed with the newsagent. Something about his eyes and voice and stature drew him to him. So everyday he would go in to his shop to buy one of the day's publications. It did not matter which to him and which one he bought differed from day to day according to his want. His want changing according to which title he wished him to say out when he put the publication on his counter; The Sun, The Guardian, The Telegraph, and so on. This went on until one day he read in the obituary section that he had died. He had seen him that morning in the shop when he bought the paper he was now reading but there he was dead. There in black and white. He never went in to his shop again. It was the last newspaper he ever bought. He was awfully young.