Ten years ago now I finally got to try the Dead Hippie burger at the MEATliquor in Jubilee Hall at Covent Garden. Two beef patties, seeping juice and grease, winking pink, onions held: it was delicious. No queue, and great to sit up in the mezzanine watching the market surfers below. If there had been a next time it would have been the chili dog and the corn puppies [corn meal wrapped around polish sausage, deep fried]. My kinda food.
Having said the above, it looks like ten years later the chili dog and corn puppies are no longer available. Ah well – it’s still possible to drool over this menu.
Lyrics to this song from the Richmond Fontaine album Post to Wire
Everyone inside was half ruined and almost gone Outside in the frozen parking lot He held her in his arms As he led her inside her glasses fogged from the cold and They both stood there dressed in their best clothes “Has anyone here seen my dad” the girl called “Cause he hasn’t been to work and I don’t know Where he lives anymore”
Not everyone lives their life alone Not everyone gives up Or is beaten or robbed or always stoned Not everyone
The bartender bought them rounds And made a toast and With a Polaroid he took their picture and hung it Up on the bar mirror all alone And for a little while it was like The whole world was alright like No one was beaten or forsaken or had given up When they’d just seen light
The first picture was taken at the end of May when I placed that slice of feathers in the hedge, hoping to fool anyone who passed into thinking it might have arrived their by natural means. The second picture was taken earlier this month, and in the unlikely event anyone has spotted by chance in passing – at either time – it would be interesting to know their surmises, but especially the surprise and sense of genuine discovery for the second. Perhaps the winter will expose more of that encore shot, back to its original deception.
A blush or a cringe are on the spectrum. When shall is too active for those whose movements are constrained by emptiness. Guilt horizon in the far off distance. The subjunctive mood is a pipe dream when people who have everything wish it so. Do not endorse an embarrassment with a slip of the tongue or an ungrammatical utterance. A restraint within being ashamed is in holding back the urge to defy, or prevent the pretend there are angel-wings attached to a soar up incredible heights. If you believe in something right you have to believe there is a wrong.
Everything is the utterance of urge,
being active with a pretend of blush;
and those attached to restraint have
the mood to slip into embarrassment.
People endorse movements ashamed.
To believe it is ungrammatical to prevent movements in the subjunctive tongue makes the angels blush at their active wish for utterance. To slip the wings from restraint and soar is more than dream or pretend; to defy distance as more than urge. Mood heights are constrained by this embarrassment. To dream of the far horizon is holding back something subjunctive in the soar if it isn’t. Incredible holding: wrong to be ashamed of the wish. Attached by movements in the dream of wings slips restraint in a spectrum of things.
go with the freeflow of its water go with the multitudinous go with the myriad go with the going go with the withing go with the mental process texting which is the mental process as text not the other go without the corrections and caveats go with the emotional and poetic mind go with the paralleling go with the internal monologue of the interior go with the seamlessness go with the other which is jumping from one to the other or to the next go with the onrunning of perception go with the erratic and fluctuating go with the ice cream flavours
go go cream
go with the go
go flavours go
go to the going
the go with go
go the go
going to the go
cream go go
go to the one emotional process to the next without corrections and go for fluctuating caveats to go to and go to the myriad text with its interior freeflow perception, with its multitudinous internal paralleling multitudinous internal paralleling multitudinous internal paralleling multitudinous internal paralleling go to its seamlessness of the poetic go go erratic onrunning onrunning the go to flavours texting as process go to the monologue of corrections go to a myriad poetic of perceptions
That bull (picture taken this morning) is looking at me just like one in a field I had to enter for feeding all those years ago when working on my Suffolk farm. This had never been my job before and I was scared. Yes, I was able to drive a tractor up to the feeding troughs deep within a dip in that large field, but then had to get out and fill the mangers from a hand-held bag. The bull never flinched, though I did, with my knees knocking one another in what any person who has never had to feed a bull with their knees knocking one another would imagine is just a clichéd, comic myth. I can’t quite remember, but I’ll say this was after my experience of being bettered by a black & white Friesian at the Suffolk County Show, that embarrassment poeticised below, and my logic being at the time of feeding the bull and others, he could cause significantly more damage than dirtying my coat.