McMulligan is in love with Mandy O'Sullivan a dark haired word enchantress undressing language to its nut core syntax of sound... ....   ..to sound jarred jagged and rounded round the edges by sweet melodious puffball voices ploughing weightless in the mind then out through her gob and into the air
hitting the fold of ammonite skin deep within the skulls of all those heads around her
forming an audience of eager listeners at table in W1 Covent Garden
or slapping down the tarmac as they're stiching up the grandma's
whilst him indoors flicks the pages of Rousseau wondering if the wallet stretch'll wipe him out of shopping down the Waitrose.
He subscribes to a view which pulls wisdom from a
hat constructed in the classic meter of right graspers fixing quantity to stress; coz stressin's in the lingo we the mongrel English speakers talk. Although few
possess the protocols of bygone times the rules of thumb stirring human truth once motioned the lip tipped cauldrons of rhyme advancing language to perfection by uninterupted evolution. Huge swathes of generations adhered then to a poetic process of frenzied grind, gathered knowledge revealed through sorrow and joy, star brought to thier slanted vessels by unbroken song. Their cauldron's poem fermented brews of art by eight settled precepts of division, agreed on in conscious realms elsewhere than this awareness which still reflects how the creator expresses what connections of fairness exist in the relationships we the author make as life writes itself out on the slate we cannot wipe our mistakes from.