Where this will finishFrom 1998 (2011)

Where this will finish,With no ending. Rich in persoal adventure, more traveling. In a small corner of a big planet,Well this and more merit a little hesitation.There is more than tea and tele,stability is empty.Dibble Dabbleidle hands in the control of a tyrant of immagination.The medditating man in all his projects,sending his body, a cutting the wood,Scrimping, scraping,Building,painting. With our bodys full of dust and dirty water. Head filled with world events,Fed and fed but rarely nourished. A double life Im living. Lifestyles of circumstance.The flags I waved are nailed over doors against cold winds. The sawdust blonde and light is eased on the blue enamel dustpan and slides into the red plastic bucket.The tomato sweetcorn and beans awaits eating.Fad bruised apples nest in the wicker of the basket, The day is dying.Two men in the street manifest their taking of drink.I will ring you I am off,fumberling car keys. I will ring you. Shufferling on the spot,sliding on the smallest of stones. I am going home. Slumping,Back held by the nearest wall.Above him some Tart billboard, A criminal use of bright colour.The air is dirty, space limited,Start at the bottom,Easy to be discouraged. The realm of nature, the provence of my dreams.Dress me in serenity. Work the Earth, Rich rewards. Swim in the full moon cornfield, Silver gold before your eyes. Three fat full moons latter, On a dogs day ,the wind on my back, Telling me, Time to move. Humid air, low cloud, sitting heavy as afat judge constipated with conspiricy. Looking hard for moral rule, through injustice. Trudging,times a little lean,like the tread on the tyres dancing over the tarmac. A joy to drive, heavy on worlds resources. Working and welding,Gypsey stories Told with tea in polish mugs.Dirty black hands on soiled white ciggerettes, Burning black into blonde, Distant dreans,Drink at hand. An empty bag to fill on the road.Green belts,shattered promises. Any adventure serenaded by flutes, Escape in any shape.Walk and stories begin. Throw Burs to the Buryman,And for sixpence, ask him to pardon past historys, Walk,Now run.

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