The moon petals the sea. Rose petals the sea. Stone sea. Stone petals. Rose petals of stone. Stone rising before me. Sea moves. How moves...
A Birthday in April ~ Wordsworth Prompt from The Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (The first of three posts which will celebrate the l...
It all depends, you see, how you go about it. And that I cannot tell you, for that will be dictated by you and by you knowing your friends...
The final images below are from my now defunct website which I decided to revisit (cannibalise, if you will) a while back. They are a few ye...
Below is the third - and, so far as I can tell at present, the final - draft of a poem for which I have been quite unable to find a title to...
Monday, 18 March 2013
Twister? Me? Moi?
15/16 Going on 17
Some kind of a slow start
you may suppose. But time
to meet the girls.
Best zoot suit with the wide lapels --
The killer-diller coat with the fedora hat.
(Said Malcom X.)
Slow mooch to The Majestic Mitcham, then
I sign on for a dance sensation/education/something of the sort.
First dance, first session, must have been
a reject from the first experiments
with what they came to call The Twist much later on.
If so, good name. As I recall,
the only things got twisted
were us punters and our feet.
The dancers didn't move, nor did their hips
(unlike the The Twist itself
the leg wrench soon to conquer Christendom.)
At any rate I, Moi, did not take part,
instead consumed a knickerbocker glory by myself.
Next up: The Twelfth Street Rag.
Anathema to me. (Nothing personal. the honky
tonk of Winny Atwel was a favourite --
but dance? Nay, sorry Sis!) I leave...
some things rate more than hormones, I believe.