Albion, Art, Life, Trickster

Brass Tracks…

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Virgil the Thunderbird Puppet… Not Virgil the Roman poet… Two of everything… Remember… See how we degrade things… The Thunderbird was a noble Amerindian Mythological Totem… Not an aeroplane… The Great War was the war to end all wars… And then we had another one… Stop saying we… We didn’t have anything of the sort… We fought it… Our controllers contrived it… Sad to say… Contrive is the correct word… Our World Wars… Population control… Nothing more… Nothing less… Less is good for us… But not for them… They want more… Always more… More of everything.

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If you want to know what the tides are doing… Look in Old Moore’s… Tides of time… Tides of season… Tides of reason… Out of the window… Along with the bathwater… There’s a late mediaeval life too… In Chester… Muddy streets… The creak and whine of wagon wheels… Still legal to shoot a Welshman after hours… Within the walls of the City… Chester was one of our school houses… Along with York… Durham… And Lancaster… Been to them all… Been to Durham before… And Edinburgh… Knew the way to the Grass-market… Sheep eat grass… Horses eat hay.

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Had a horse in Sheffield… Watched the Abbey burn… Still associate ex-school friends with their school houses… And colours… So, Bill is green… Jon is yellow… Steven is red… Woz was blue… He had a brass tooth… From diving into the shallow end of a swimming pool… His brass tooth was made of reject bullets… He was in the Great War too… Always chewing gum… Even when he wasn’t… They make gum from dead horses… Whinnying… And writhing… In mud… The bullets sing overhead…  Like telegraph wires… Not getting very far… Too many buffers in the way… Buffers from old duffers…

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