At last, a bit of vibrant chat about the bread and butter, Weiss, excellant
pose, pissed and surveying the heap of incoherency and bundle of accident,
assocation, energy, angels a euro, angels a euro, an angel a euro. On Mooore
Street, i heard this as i was perambulating with Scathach, a professional
hitwomen from inner city Glasgow, who was over on a training course with
some fancy dandy space talking neo-millenial poetry stazi, with a cutting
egde guard of razor sharp retort, but essentially, the big guns had a
comedic underthrumb, a deeply natural kink to waste their lives dabbling at
the darkest of arts, talking bollix, making it up, living as though, in
print, a messiah, crucified, sacrificed in gucci, a heck of a darn tottle
pippin' yah loam on and bend in the wending river banck throwing shadows in
the dappled shade of early may-song and sniff september returning in...heard
it before? reason crashing out in a journey to the underworld? ghosts that
disappear once light has shone, cute gods sensing leather hell in a
milk-break lunch time who always
remember morley v mad ox,
each head hitting a small
brick basin after
lunch had settled,
when their skulls smashed
into a white bog rim..argh, happy dazed we wuz, so a nice healthy vibe and
talking of divisions and camps, over in other places, the sort of natural 
proven opposition to this bunch of high end intellectual speculators,
cruelly maligned by other, less successfully mentally ill chancers
elsewhere, you know who you are, me, a ha...erm, yeah, it's ok, i am
pretending to practice being myself, allowing my mind to appear here in the
debate, which to be hinest, is not summat i am much arsed about, i'm more of
a katie price man meself, she writes cracking books, have yer read 'em?

There all about a dinner lady who commits professional suicide by falling
for a hunky sixth former, a poet called Fiona Simpleton, who is obsessed by
Sappho and all things which express the love women have for women, and Fiona
cast herself as Deliah, to a dinner ladies Sampson, dishing up the chips,
and in this very imprtant respects, she acts as a double signifier and
metaphorical conceit which actually proves men love having affairs at work
with the boss    and will pull no low underhanded stroke, attempt no
ridiculous pose and articulate only a position of, what, what is it, the
divisions and split, between what, what is it, there is no division at the
well of it all you know..