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 Alan 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 Brian a sports buff holds no more knowledge on the topic than I.....
THE FOLLOWING DAY
...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 symbols 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...
TBC...here ...click hello and wave goodbye until the next time we meet...