Monday 19/9/05 9'ish

The Everton FC keeper has just made a goal line save
in the position of a female doll

whose arms are fixed in a pose
of 160 degrees
torso to tip

as if she is a Baal worshipper
raising her palms to the sun
at 11am on an early June day

Coimha has one called Edith
which is much like a rubber
backed actor who can fold in
half like a door's hinge

compensating for the rigidity
of her immoveable arms.


the narrator
know this
because I employed Edith
during a story telling episode
last Saturday evening when Coimha's
folks were watching Pride and Prejudice.

Also involved was
a three inch plastic figure

the liliputian character to Edith's
Gulliver of Swift's novel.

I am unable to supply a full expansion
on Swift's work
as I am currently watching the soccer
game here in the kip
and my only companion
a sports buff
holds no more knowledge on the topic
than I.....


...Swift has completely disappeared from the
narrator's mind, as she was called away from the Arsenal 2
Everton 0 soccer game last night
decanting her person to the Spigeltent
canvas cabaret venue and attending a semi-formal
conference of administration artists

whose practices cover a range of activity
from telephone answering art
right through to co-ordinating the implementation
of festival event schedules.

The meeting was convened as a result of text received
pertaining to several poetry shows
whose personell in the poet sections of certain
companies have been having a love in of late, which
the previous narrator will now not relate
in a composition created
as she was cycling along the canal. I, Dick, will return at
the conclusion of the piece

.......Swans on Guard like assembly plant
robots of the ornothological world
are not the ones imagined on the banks at Kew
because we are adjacent to the low rise strips
of housing

where tricolours hanging from windows
and murals
inform us of a heritage beneath the surface cranes
nesting concrete and UPVC into the buildings fit
for bringing home the soul's bacon
the seed of which

came here
last year
looking to connect with what went before.

On this ground
found behind the mist
are images
fixed to a spiritual scent
impregnated in the cloth of
invisible theologies

the smell of perception
in signs
colour and code
scattered through the skies

a blend of messages written
in the language of existence....

And so now the scene is set
let the narrator continue and deliver her take on the continuum.
Over to "you" comedy wannabee with poetic pretensions who will continue
to interpolate throughout this text

humour bunched with depth
dredged from the well of Knowing
and presented for the reader
here at the cutting edge of clicheless writing

a combination of spectrums
tastefully tossed into being by your good self

who may need naming if and when this
long poem goes wobbly and requires
a bit of tinkering with.

Until then
she who shall remain a nameless narrator
will take over the entertainment detail
and relieve me of my post
when she turns up

after completing an experiment
into the existence of telepathy
with McMulligan
the worlds foremost charlaton exposer
and professional hyponotist to the beacon
transmiting the plot... hello and wave goodbye
until the next time we meet...