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There's a town called misery and of that we'll have none

Book By: Ken Simm
Other



Number Five Confounded Letters.


Submitted:Jul 13, 2008    Reads: 160    Comments: 1    Likes: 0   


So sang the Bonzo's at Dog University. Words from this bloody bailiwick, ha, ha.

Pink elephants on a Dalek and two tone ghost music in the studios of the city. Friends that stoned died and of that we will have none. Its always lots of fun. But we did and it did not work. Ah, someone said, but is it art? It is if I say so said Duchamp amongst others. L.H.O.O.Q.

Now Bohemians were 19 weeks in a small television and love paint making was in an equally small, smelling of stale studio behind an Irish pub just before the centre city blew up and took them with it.

Policeman waking me in the small hours in a shop doorway. Told him I was waiting for the sale.

Famous Lovers Do, Party Art you see through do. A completely transparent three piece complete with extra underwear. Wiping up her vomit with a twenty pound note. Two from conscience in a single bed. The only thing worse than a drunken woman.

Showing playing happening we did, festivals we had, reviews from the Fine Art Rescue Team. Who played drawing darts and had legends on shirts.

We really like your painting, said the German tutor on his own. You can draw, he said. Not many can nowadays. Draw me a copy. I am here to be taught. So where are all the teachers? Love studentship. Fail and fail again to see the pointed question.

Sights from this bailiwick. Contained stupid and semen. Blow jobs and blow up was fashionable. Loved and lost and not at all in their right minds.

Beautiful went missing for three years. Art went missing for a lot longer. Pity kitsch did not what it could should not allow. Ars longa bloody vita blessed brevis and not just putting rock back on the map. Avoiding pushing peeling plural pills but not forever and winging my way into your confident support, just before you left wearing my shirt. And the case he found in your flat could have only held a needle. But it did hold a pen and so I hit him on your behalf.

Listening to a very stirring sabre dance whilst missing a visually exciting scene, was the title of a friends portrait of me and mine and what was missing..

Sequential Quentin came and went, dear boy. On defining a life style. The band started and painted the murals.

K died and so did ill badly. In blue je 'taime encore rainbows of soft velvet and long hair shirts. I could tuck mine into my headband you know. Long and thick. The hair.

The thesis, was Apotheosis normally bestowed on younger artists by the higher echelons of the critical establishment. Long and thick, the thesis and meaning nothing. Like all those years of nonsense training to nonsense working and from that to nonsense marriages of foolish souls in already foolish studies.

When we all needed calm.





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