Look, what's it got to do with me. That bird was here when I got here, dear.

Do not print here.

Altered Art Catalogue.

Six
Altered
Art
Cat
alogues.

Catalogues altered in Art Gallery coffee bar. Five Altered Catalogues were then returned to their original display stand. We then stuck around for a while and watched the gallery goers reactions. So, have a day out. Take scissors, glue sticks. Get yourself exhibited. But don't get caught. They don't (for some odd reason) seem to like we doing this kind of thing. Works best in one of those Big Elitist Places. You can also take along some small pieces of your own and scatter them about. Leave some small, home made poetry books, in the Book Shop.

THE SHOWER.

WHILE YOUR FATHER IS SHORT BUT SURE
YOUR MOTHER
IS JUST ONE SHOVE AWAY
FROM A VERY PUBLIC SHRIEK.

Flapjack, flap. A Quick Digest of Various Dips and Dives.

Fig Roll.
George Felps threw a three, flapped his arms
(a bit) then awkwardly pulled on the supplied snorkel
and provided mask.

Chocolate Finger.
Alice Hands threw a six and a nine then picked up the card
that instructed her to shove a strawberry mivvy
through the nearest convenient key hole.

Marshmallow Delight.
Morty Fender threw a one and then attempted to levitate.
He rose sixteen inches from the floor before falling back again
with a heavy clump onto the carpet.

Fruity Hobnob.
The referee, stood behind a wicker fence in the corner,
dressed as a traffic warden and wearing a cheap imitation
chandelier as a hat,

threw a fit,
blew a whistle,
waved a flag,

declared the whole evening null and void, concluding
it with

A short audio tape. Of dog bark. Of distant cry laugh.
With train hoot. And lonely sea gull call. And all
slowly fading. Into sad evening ending.

Custard Creams.
The three friends had been playing this game for fifteen
years, but still nobody knew the rules.

Angela at Gallery Seventeen in front of My Painting Number Five.

Pattern.
Let
it
percolate
for
a
period
and
then
add
pepper
mint.
Boomerang's only come back
If you throw them away.

You dream your dream and I'll dream mine, sunshine.

Nothing can stand against
the assault of laughter.

Mark Twain.

In order to stop this incessant waring we must destroy their insane logic, their rough, patriachial language.

And so
and until empty
exhaust all of these shells of selves
for all opposites are complimentary
just like all enemies
like friends
are all parts of
ourselves.

[yeah! right!]