Newlyn, Cornwall, Etc

& you can feck off & you can feck off & you... and +you+

- that'll be some of them newlyn funded feckers gone at least (hooray) - fit for nuthin' them feckin' gobshites are anyway but poncin' and scheming, scamming and smirking, they scim the nutrient froth from off a freeman's freedom and do it all (i tell no fibbin' lies) for a big hearty sniff from the duke of cornwall's anus (and backpockets full of money of course)

he's been on the absinthe and brandy, the mineral water and skunk and he's not quite sure where he is, or who, but sitting unsteadily and nevertheless in the swordfish garden on a blazing sunday summer's afternoon

- sure but it's a grand life jack
- great. a great life paddy

and then he's suddenly looking like only a drunk can look, who's looking as if he's thinking, and the whole thinking thing's unbalancing him and he's falling fast-forward, onto the table, the glasses, like a sprightly sack of fish (maybe that shot in slow-mo, dunno, then cut to close-up...)

- ting-aling, ting-aling... my darling (whooosh... water, water)

up in the sky a leonardo helicopter, flying into the sun, icarus at the controls (and round and round, round and round and all a mellow yellow, a warm glow) - the time was when he couldn't tell but something rainbowic, like a prism thing, like love

- it is the year sixteen hundred and five
- this ain't no swordfish, this pub's the duck and drake
- we're just having a few drinks
- while waiting for guido
- this aint no endgame, nor even a play
- ah, happy days

tinkle tinkle, the chink of glasses

- happy days before the methodists get here jack
- happy days before the newlyn regenerationists
- i'll drink to that

the gulp and the deep inhalation - the aint life just sweet when yr taking a natural - all joyous smells like purple haze like moroccan blue like tibetan black like new mown grass on a summer's day - the endless fields, the summer meadow, the daily refresh of buttercups and daisies freshly dipped, but ever so lightly, in morning dew...

- and then the future comes along jack, with a bigass, feckyou, youcanfeckoff, tarmac machine
- one of them beasts up paul hill just recent past paddy, or so i dreamed
- rip-roaring its claws into the screeching earth it was
- its belly a hell of satanic fires
- shitting out its black an' steaming shite
- as if the devil had been out for the night in newlyn paddy
- got pissed and plastered on guiness on the rocks
- and here's all his solidified crap for a meadow in the morning

[ is this a pause? is this an apple?, this the, son of man?

- bejabbers and bejasus jack, let's drink up and get outta here

there was the boat to be loaded yet with barrels of powder, the sails to be set, eastward for london

- let us drink up our dregs, then first and fast, take the bye-way around the harbour to the brothel by the bowjey
- but we can't go anywhere paddy, you know that
- and why not?

[ all together now... ] - that post-modern smartass on the next table again but paddy's up like lightning, unsheathing his sword and lopping his head clean off, with one clean sweep

- take that, torso

[ stalled ]