: Sammerthwaite- conceptual art and zulus

[ROBBIE]

> ..And soon the black thunder from the skies
> Did scream down on terrible cries
> The sausage fingered krauts released their bombs.
> Like their ghostly brothers buried on the Somme,
> They died as Kipling said, 'cos their fathers lied
>
> All those destroyed waking dreams
> The bone and blood of service teams
> They return each Novembertime, to haunt you,
> And say 'We would have like to have lived, too.'
> Tell that to the Marines.
>
>
> Radio on. Woman's Hour again. Stress counselling for dogs; time for a
> cigarette. Sammerthwaite, with mild erection, lights a cigarette.
> "Oh March gloom." he said through smoke. The bad lord Byron, stares
> imperiously east from a torn postcard on the wall. It had been an egg
> breakfast, then someone from the gas board. A fat man, appalled by
> Sammerthwaite's obvious eccentricity, gurned at him through the opening.
> "Read your meter?"
> "If you must."
> Afterwards, when Sammerthwaite closed the door behind the man, he walked
> into the living room and pulled the nets back, watching the progress of
the
> portly gas board operative up the street.
> "Wanker," growled Sammerthwaite. Then he saw Mrs Peek.
> He slipped his hand inside his trousers and tugged a bit. Mrs Peek;
forties,
> good legs and a great arse. Twenty years younger than him; still, that's
the
> way of it.
>
> Good Morning, allow me, Mrs Peek
> To kiss your tits and fondle your cheek
> I'm working hard at deathless poesy
> And your backside's so fat and rosy
>
>
> He sat on his fourth hand settee, produced his penis through the zip slash
> in the brown nylon and had a wank. Fast and straight, blocking out the
> radio, which was saying, distantly ".32 year old lesbian conceptual
artist,
> Rachel Penry, will construct instant art today in..."
> Mrs Peek's arse cheeks were spread apart. No niceties here this morning,
he
> was inside and reaming. His lips parted in concentration. His head and
body
> quivered.
>
> Now the jissom makes its desperate crawl
> To the top of the poet's totem pole
>
>
> Knees and arms flapping and small rasping exhalations escaping his mouth,
> Sammerthwaite ejaculates. It was what he called a young explosion. Roared
> forth, instead of the usual dismal trickle onto the settee's upholstery.
> Mrs Peek was good like that.
>
> And erotic concentration
> Brings forth the sauce of creation.
>
>
> Back at the typewriter.
>
>
> The Hitler gang, a bunch of freaks
> Destroyed Thomas Mann and such antiques
> As Mother Europe managed to collect
> Before the days of Bertoltd Brecht
>
>
> "Fuck this," Sammerthwaite says, standing up and whirling his raincoat
like
> a cape, "out. Let's out."
>
>
> On the groaning, lurchin, trudging bus- a hated thing- Sammerthwaite
stared
> out at the high street, awash in March rain. Three black boys got on the
bus
> and giggled at Sammerthwaite's wig.
>
> Zulu braves on a London omnibus?
> What's more they mock and laugh at us
> Do they know some of us are still miffed
> About Ishandwhana and Rorke's Drift?
>
>
> Pub first. O'Rourke offers but Sammerthwaite had a cheque from the
> government.
> "Whiskey, I think and pint of Guinness,"
> The fruit machines bonged and flashed.
>
> Whore machines strut your stuff
> Try for the attention of the rough
> And ready sinning cunts
> Who waste their money on futile punts
>
>
> O'Rourke, crowned today with the great lost symbol of the Irish builder at
> large in London: a bowler hat, spoke, head tilted back.
> "And so, McSammerthwaite, you on de piss?"
> "Money today, no intestinal washout."
> And so on and so forth for three or four rounds.
>
> Still he had the umbrella from the park. He walked through the rain with
it
> folded under his arm, a kind of military appendage; his wig blew around
and
> his slippers felt damp.
> In the park, a small crowd; TV camera, a young woman on top of a kind of
> stage. Next to her a young man in a wheel chair, with his leg in plaster.
> She holds an oxyacetylene torch. Sammerthwaite moved closer through the
> soaking grass.
> "Art is shit," the girl, dressed in a boiler suit, was shouting, "human
> shit. Human waste; outpourings refined."
> She produces some paperback books and sets them alight.
> Sammerthwaite saw that the small crowd consisted of art students and other
> riff raff. He cut through them, showing his dead black tooth and breathing
> booze and tooth decay into their faces.
> "Let me up onto the stage," he shouted. A man, standing near the TV
camera,
> wearing headphones, made a gesture towards Sammerthwaite and seconds later
> he was being manhandled through the crowd by a policeman.
> "Now, go away. You're drunk. Come back, and I'll pinch you."
>
>
> Sammerthwaite moved across to his bench by the lake. He took a quarter
> bottle of gin from his inside pocket and had a small bib.
>
> The lunatics commandeer the asylum
> Sappho wields a torch
> She renounces books and fries them
> I must return to my porch
>
>
> Back at the typewriter and boozy- the day shut down and out. Sammerthwaite
> has a turd forming but he won't go to the toilet until he's finished this
> stanza:
>
>
> The idea was to let and live
> We're a broad church, with a tall steeple
> And wasn't it Mann who came back with:
> Those who first burn books, end up killing people
>
> And then Sammerthwaite celebrated with a pie from a can, and wondered what
> Mrs Peek's telephone number was.
>
>
> --
> Overheard......inside the music business
> http://www.geocities.com/overhearduk/INDEX.htm
>
> High Spirits in the Countercultural Frat-House- A Secret History of Jim
> Morrison
> http://www.geocities.com/jimmozz/index.html.htm
>
> ROBBIE tells it like it is.......
> http://www.geocities.com/situationeeste/index.html
>
>