Dog chew uphill. The vomit is pomidorovian-Tyskie mush and the sickly sweetness dissolves the mind.
Faint cries of wolven mishaps lead me into a thicket where the dog rolls as I absent-mindedly tweet.
The rolly is successful and the hose has not worked - the stink remains. The foetid after taste of vomit is removed from Google Images due to complaints. People on the darknet are looking into it.
My chocolate coloured coon moves in the interstices of Sussex graveyard to PC dog.
My darling chocolate coloured cone.
Monday, 22 June 2015
Thursday, 11 April 2013
Leaving the flat at 5.57am
Another day. Another debilitating tram journey, standing with tennis elbow next to reeking alcoholics. But, today, it's different. It's officially Spring and the temperature gauge has shot up to over 20 degrees (well, falling laughably as I write, but still a genuine revolution that confirms climate change in the most lower-case manner possible.)
I'm off at Dworcowa this time to teach at an Internet domain company (me neither... and no-one is there apart from a smiling girl from Novy Sonch - a mountainous region in Southern Poland.) As usual, I am lost before arriving at the sliding double doors of the company. A girl on the street tells me alarmingly I'm in the wrong town five minutes before.
Faintly coloured tower blocks rise up around me in this new part of Podgorze ( a McDonalds sits at an intersection making sure no-one misbehaves). Cars drive unceasingly on a busy road. A single magpie flits high up between blocks in the blue sky. Maybe this is where they will build the proposed Margaret Thatcher statue in tribute.
I'm off at Dworcowa this time to teach at an Internet domain company (me neither... and no-one is there apart from a smiling girl from Novy Sonch - a mountainous region in Southern Poland.) As usual, I am lost before arriving at the sliding double doors of the company. A girl on the street tells me alarmingly I'm in the wrong town five minutes before.
Faintly coloured tower blocks rise up around me in this new part of Podgorze ( a McDonalds sits at an intersection making sure no-one misbehaves). Cars drive unceasingly on a busy road. A single magpie flits high up between blocks in the blue sky. Maybe this is where they will build the proposed Margaret Thatcher statue in tribute.
Monday, 4 February 2013
Phantom tram
At the Borek this morning or afternoon the number 3 trundled up. I thought it was the 8 with the part of the number indent missing - a torn squiggle, an eight with a piece bitten off by a spider.
You never can tell what trams will turn up. They have the John Paul the Second tram. They have a tram where you are tricked and when you embark a waitress asks you for cash and a charity box is swung your way. Photographs of sorry-looking dogs adorn the wall, the canine melancholy ushering you on your way guiltily. The tram is skeletal as if it was a dream.
And now, this number 3. That annonuces stations that don't exist. But no-one seems worried. Everybody knows the secret of the Number 3 tram, except me. I wonder whether to keep going and see where I end up.
But I play safe and get off at the Rondo.
You never can tell what trams will turn up. They have the John Paul the Second tram. They have a tram where you are tricked and when you embark a waitress asks you for cash and a charity box is swung your way. Photographs of sorry-looking dogs adorn the wall, the canine melancholy ushering you on your way guiltily. The tram is skeletal as if it was a dream.
And now, this number 3. That annonuces stations that don't exist. But no-one seems worried. Everybody knows the secret of the Number 3 tram, except me. I wonder whether to keep going and see where I end up.
But I play safe and get off at the Rondo.
Monday, 8 October 2012
Walk 1# Home-Borek Fałecki
The walk to Borek Fałecki tube station (one of Krakow's most London-like walkways) meanders from my flat to a scurry of paving slabs opposite a chunk of sheds with football (Wisla hooligans-Cracovia hooligans- Anty-Juden) (The graffiti follows me through to Owoce and other vegetation)
Anty-Juden. Big blue murals of Anty-Juden and windowboxes of fresh violetowa boxes on the racks of ledges, stretching on for a Cracow-suburbia. The road bends around and I'm driving my car past the cut, dishevelled holes gaping, the elderly residents seeing the cold of the real Autumn and have disappeared.
Even the sky-rise turns less mellow and acknowledges defeat as there is no show now. Just the temperature gauge dipping remorselessly and cavernously into the ground. The path stretches shamefully, delightedly, the all-night drinkers have cast their potion and sweet-smelling rags on the fringes of my little suburbia.
Round the last drinkers bench and pinched old people, everyone old or if young then looking old is up at this moment. At the market long strips of silver hang wispily and cardboard turrets sit flakily and half-broodingly. I like the market-point. No-one buys anything. No one is bankrupt. Everyone as happy as can be expected when they know it's getting colder.
The sky at 6.59. A bruise taken as a picture and photo-shopped lazily and unimpressively but I'm happy to see it displayed badly because it's free. The Solvay block of shopping centre rises in the background and the blue trails of trams skirt skittishly and flirtatiously around a stern glockenspiel of a racetrack. It's cold as I get the work-tram and my walk is Autumnal.
Anty-Juden. Big blue murals of Anty-Juden and windowboxes of fresh violetowa boxes on the racks of ledges, stretching on for a Cracow-suburbia. The road bends around and I'm driving my car past the cut, dishevelled holes gaping, the elderly residents seeing the cold of the real Autumn and have disappeared.
Even the sky-rise turns less mellow and acknowledges defeat as there is no show now. Just the temperature gauge dipping remorselessly and cavernously into the ground. The path stretches shamefully, delightedly, the all-night drinkers have cast their potion and sweet-smelling rags on the fringes of my little suburbia.
Round the last drinkers bench and pinched old people, everyone old or if young then looking old is up at this moment. At the market long strips of silver hang wispily and cardboard turrets sit flakily and half-broodingly. I like the market-point. No-one buys anything. No one is bankrupt. Everyone as happy as can be expected when they know it's getting colder.
The sky at 6.59. A bruise taken as a picture and photo-shopped lazily and unimpressively but I'm happy to see it displayed badly because it's free. The Solvay block of shopping centre rises in the background and the blue trails of trams skirt skittishly and flirtatiously around a stern glockenspiel of a racetrack. It's cold as I get the work-tram and my walk is Autumnal.
Tuesday, 7 June 2011
Sunday, 14 February 2010
Starling Dances
I never tire of this wondrous sight, the double-helix dance of the birds ...for the first time I viewed them all in a different way...their skulls and tiny fragments of internal organs...heart, lungs...teeth-beak...and fragile brain following the orchestra of flight..a musicality of harmonics 313...swooping, diving. all the -ings associated with graceful flight. These are my birds, love birds. Sheltering in the eaves of the cathedral of Graham Greene's pier, where you put a penny in the gate and swing in like the Patrick Hamilton characters of old. The pier is free and you can smoke here. No-one fears the ash to lit the amusements and burn the tack down forever. This pier has won..the Palace Pier has defeated the West Pier, has reclaimed the Chain Pier, in a morbid swallow of it's own touristic evil intention. The starlings make it their home offering redemption for Nature in Buildings.
Tuesday, 15 December 2009
Bad faith haiku
Drinking Pellegrino
Cant re member how many syllables make a
hai
ku.
keys rattling outside my doo
r
this morning..annoyed me
Cant re member how many syllables make a
hai
ku.
keys rattling outside my doo
r
this morning..annoyed me
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