First they take your shoes and what’s left is a sandal consciousness but you don’t have any sandals. New wine but old glass and everything is gravy in the inch-by-inch liquid atlas. What bird caged? Coloured feathers, the joy of the exotic, caged. The bird has human skin, red, yellow, brown and green. Feet rock on sheep and the bass; I’m lulled into drunk. Lion-drenched by worry for the leopards and they’re shaky in their trees, many greens. It really takes it out of me. I was carded then I fouled. The stars had to wink to catch the past. The second part is always slow. Something happened while I was away. Police tape and the ground froze. No one loves you like I do, right or wrong.
What stabs at style, a deep breath, you daren’t wear stripes today, you breathe. Inconspicuousness is a must for any private investigator or timid soul. What’s the sphere of your existence? Can you cross a ring-road more than three lanes wide? You’re in the middle.
From "Tell It To A Hound Dog, Pedro"
4 comments:
There's a little vibe of 'Stream of'. Makes me wonder what the rest of 'Houndog' is like
Why not look and find out? It's in all good bookshops.
In Heaven.
Less flippantly (as we must maintain our professionalism), "Pedro" is the embryonic sequel, as it were, to Mother Hen. So yes, the compositional methods are similar, but, as I have stated in my manifesto, it will contain "less cohesion but... more snese, broader in scope but revisting the odd motif - fsql? Evenh a few pithy notes on the Marshfish? Definitely a miscellany, though"
I hope that sheds a little light on matters, milord.
Typos notwithstanding, I stand by everything I just wrote. Five minutes have elapsed, and still it seems just *right*, somehow.
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