|
Heb Bush, pencil crayon on canvas, 30x30cm |
| perhaps,
mon ami, stranger and venerable beade of the far-out jungle, perhaps,
the super-force that drives in crazed maniac style the genie of
creative-momus, will, come the commonwealth, come in sideways to become
known as that little-known voice of a jiminy marsupial that we,
eggheads, in our hearts and hearths, call it the conscience, as
it will be this,
my friend and mon frère of the brethren in calculus
micro-co-ordinators, constitutes, today, in england and the foreign
isles, the only sense of do-goodnik rightness
dubrovnik of which i, humble milestone-grinder in the turn-a-town
fields and streams, am aware-the-bear, at this point of dectober, 1967,
in the common isles of uk and gibraltar, nationally i speak, eh? |
| when,
i say i say in a manner of word-fountains and word-strangers, through
unthinkingnessnessness, this milestone-grinder's path is deviational
from what, as we have so previously enhashened in our meady brains to
situate itself as the conscience-will, the peeler's heart of
creation
itself, mighty beast that it so verily remains, seems, as it were, on a
poolhard's basis, to sink into the mire of slough. i myself, the
venerable beade and opener of tin cans of tomartoes and abricots in
cheltenham espa, quite close to the forest of deanhamptonshire, have
myself wondered if this ever-so culpabilty-momus of 'wrongness', or
indeed, to use a term invented by the yankee allied command patrol
squadron in the war of the nazis, i.e. 'lameness', whether these terms
of the commonwealth could lend themselves to become quantified on
a
scale useful to micro-scientists, or bioengineers of the twenty-second
century, or beyond, in the commonwealth. good evening. hoi! |
