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Keep the Aspidistra Flying |
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I’ve been feeling a strong connection with George Orwell as of late. With his meandering male characters in minor narratives about worthless occupations in a tumultuos world. Men who have barely six pence in their pockets and a knack for homely appearences. Struggling to keep on keeping on while the world fiddles with war and economic collapse. Hell, I ain’t got but my corduroys on my legs and an empty bag of tricks. Lugging around these novels and staring into a newspaper mirror. Working poor, can’t paint anymore, counting my last few cigarettes and living on soup. Things most likely aren’t that bad but they might as well be when you can’t seem to find that next corner to turn anywhere you look.
When I was twenty I smoked Gaulois blondes (new cigarette tax hurts America) on an autumn porch pretending a fancy French romance. Nowadays I know that it was in my blood, Motown-gonna remember that.
“Most human activities are predicated on the assumption that life goes on. If you take that premise away, what is there left?”
bits & pieces, really nothing to do with one another
a joy derived from where the spring has come
the envy of a trim belly
a baby’s cry and the stroke of blue sky
Up for air in June or July
clad in wig and an indifferent hat
I presented my juvenile and exuberant Mr Whitman
I would never leave that moment-no matter the folly of memory
For no Sun has yet excluded me and I feel abreast
to his passions for man and woman
for liberty and a blue water
for exultation of my throbbing member
and every mind’s pursuit of free thought- unexpurgated
I love you- my sobering evening reminders
of what I was and what can still be
Glad to have you back. Loving the print, as usual.