Comrade Ric, may seasonal salutations rain down upon you in your local pit
this being the time of year for a re-territorialisation of 'plots', may we
move downwind from the rotting poets on their Tie-burn trees towards the
river and that mother of all Museums of Stiffs dipping its chill-blained
toes at the water's edge.
For cramp words are so uttered there as to make even the half-hanged appear
spritely. Culture never looked so poorly out of whack! Jeez, even the
cheeses have been cleaned up. I propose therefore a celebratory mixed
grill, a toast to the guy who spawned that Guy Called Mo (echt daddy of the
Po-Mo i presume), and an assemblage on virtual horseback, by foot or by
mouth (or both for those nostalgic for a good old health scare) in order to
hawk the 'Last Dying Speeches' via Webcast to the unassembled. The justice
of the sentence will fit the time.
Representations can be made to have your personally inscribed contribution
to the death sentence of this vaulted house, by all forms of communication
so far known.
Tucked up or turned off, who's listening now? 'Live'? surely not
love and love
cris
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