Why the Fiddler fixed the Roof


Babs the Woodpigeon gave issue in the silver birch by the back window as we questioned solipsism over sticky buns . Les Bleu Dragoons, Pipe & Fyffe dervishers, Slasher & Tom-Tom Tittle-Tattle, entertain us as the pallid seraph of Dumfries drops in  and from time to time utters out of the blue– but it is February after all, winter’s dogend spells an ill wind crisp blows in as horny handed thugs on drugs, sporting primrose neckties, shiny yellow wellies, hard-nut-to-crack walnut titfers, suspended on high rise hopes, twitching in direct sunlight through X-Ray Specs collude.

See the world through blue crystal galoshes  breaking in wind spirits to get up & gallop thru upstairs vacant chambers, confidential papers scatter, still a radio that plays non-stop, filling up swallow moods, trying to keep cool & tarry on, raving on like Long John Donne, aloof in trailblazer and spats, ready crispy salty dogman, star of screech and squirm, declares:

Give me stimulus, prod me, spur me, move me so I can be free of not to suffer top hat teasers out for sleazy crosswords & parlous yahoo games involving Cointreau & Baileys shots in soft focus dens of nice, watching big as brass high production value adverts for Findus fish fungus, or thinly slithered roast beef dinners, comemorating Hovis Presley, Play for Today, The Glittering Prize Bully, Bill Brando & I Claudia…that’s when they built it.

Grenfell Tower: 1974.

Nice day to start again? Says Missus Windsock keeping time
Only time will tell Babs: darling.
Only time will forget as well, said Toby Wiseacre, uninvited speaker of the hose, declaiming from the sassy moll:
Forgetting without forgiving is bemusing—
there’s the nub of it: the nub and the numb of it, the hub and the hum of it, the dim and the dumb of it, the whim and the won of it, the rum and the rub of…

Off he goes flying on a frightful fancy, observed Lofty Gates, suburban poet with altitude sickness, going nowhere slow slow quick flick slow, just hanging around till the balloon goes upstairs to ablute in a fountain of lux bubblebath.

The Drowning drowners drowned all around, dark faces full of hate and cinders, flying in the face of fiddled facts; gross collusion guaranteed, public enquiry found lying asleep in long grass.

We don’t believe in you
You don’t believe in you
Way beyond a joke this is
Now you’re taking the piss…
Sez U & whose kidneys?
Who ate all the pies?
That’s where you’ll find the culprit, among the obese.
Me I was not there

Had some granola the very next day, bathed in milk & honey, and half a huge banana
Still destitute mind you, but my chakras are radiant from superfoods & mindfulness
Gerontocracy: The Next Generation, it seems, with Jeremy & Theresa starring as the latterday Clive Dunn & Penelope Keith: There’s no one quite like Grandad, but Granma’s a stuck-up bitch. Too polite to say it mind, well brought up. Make it known in other ways. Ambiguity, witticism, raspberry-blowing— Grammar school proves itself once again: refinement, a cut above, aloof, flawed character building.

Bough of burnished gold…
Sparrows of Desire
Lark about in mockery:
smash rental crockery…




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