The Johnny Cash ramble

(listening to the Sun years)

I will write like a fish in coast-guard protected waters, a braggart ossifying in the cruel warmth of springtime, months of snow and the coming hegemony of the sparrow and robin, not to mention the scowling and preposterous scallywaggery and the wicked licking fructosity that marmalactates and populates ptarmigan farms which greasy sputnik idolatry. Fiends waste time describing elliptical/tangential satellite behaviour to their friends over brunch. Because sputniks and children should be seen and not heard, and stories should be smelled and touch and tasted but never told too much; munched like a lunch, shown not told? Yes. The incubation of trust requires an understanding of toasters - electric technology of tender browning togetherness which spies in the 'godless' eastern countries would cut out kidneys to obtain. This is a secret of our society, the tallest tin-can castles ever built; the biggest ball of yarn in the world that ends up a tourist attraction – what makes America glorious ie its garish incandescent self-indulgence; inconceivably uncondonable in respectable Britain or the flaunt French hypocrite salons. Yet it's an indispensable quality and despite my knapsack flag I remain in Americawe. We the few, the happy, dangerous and fenderbending sly coyotes – this is mocha Monday and I’m wired like a kite. I’m electric and spanning, I am an acetylcholinergic smooth elastic muscle, flat and taut, stretching to allow calories to burn, this is the reason we are fidgety and flexing – this tex-mexistentialism in the middle of January a Jalapeno of doubt, the eggs of trust in the middle of the chutney of derision. We are spunky punks with leather wallets and green wheelbarrows, we plough through cold weather and spit in the ditch momma dug to annoy her neighbour Bessie; we are tickled midgets who bow and scrape and secretly plot pithy rebuttal. Your face is the tallest clock in my mansion, its ticks and time-telling are easy to apprehend; your lips are like blankets spreading like egg yolkiness from a sunset – the red and orange sneak whimsically across your blank slate teeth like so many toothbrush bristles, your wrists are like alabaster onions, white but stinky yet sweet. So don’t yelp in the tin can, the echo drives me batty, insomuch as your vexatious voice is not something to be suffered in needless repetition repeatedly… My Ugandan crocodile has a name, it is Norbert P Colbert – he is the Cajun Drano misbehaviour maven, can you smell his maggoty breath through the icy winter air? I think insincerity betrays insecurity, he doesn’t like to speak in public so he hires a publicist, also named Norbert but this time an alligator, diversity in species if not name, ambition in fame if not virtue... Smashing the walls in the truckstop was a fat bloated dime-whore named Carlene Simmons, aka the short order cook, serving up fried-eyes lies and braille-tales with her slippery liver and stinkysweet onions. We are the trespassers in the back of the country cottage road; I am the dyslexic Mulligan munchkin. I am Zebedee the phrumpy Pharisee, eloquently preaching the virtues of celibacy. Here in the pew, we say woo-hoo; God descends and men make sweeping, menacing ecumenical amendments; or is it man ascends and his master depends on him, man made god in his own image – yeah whoever said that was disturbingly clever my friends...