Wild Fish Shoot
Visions of a young farmer in loose, turned-up blue jeans, canvas shoes and red check shirt - sleeves rolled below the elbows; she is all pink and dusky skinned, apparently unaware how cute her ankles look. Gulping on flaxen bows and scented curls, I ask for directions to the local bus.
You figure on leaving us?
Shucks, I’d love to see more of the sights.
Believe me, you seen them all.
Well, I’m a sucker for your country blues.
She gives me one of those wholesome smiles so often portrayed as a lust for life. I stick my neck right out,
You got time for a coffee or a soda?
Why, sure! Drugstore’s right across the street.
Over caffè freddo, Sandra lays bare a beautiful, hungry soul. Eager for her revelations, I’m a softball in her kid glove. Too bad the bubble bursts like a mouthful of overblown gum. Both realise our mistakes: Hers to forget that all minds are different but the same. Mine bent on getting down these lines.
Ask Hitler
If you can’t solve the problem this way, do it like that.
Rule Balloon
Lifeguard rescues Keystone Cop stranded by wind and waves in rocky cove.
Somewhat limp though still able to tug the line, a themed inflatable (most rights reserved) goes bobbing around, while a kid stands screaming on the beach across the bay. Through binoculars, our hero spots the single parent status of the mite and jetskis to the rescue. Oh how Daddy admires the way she negotiates reef and sandbank to reach the hapless plod.
In ulterior news... hundreds drown after sightseeing foreign shores, countless more choke on heatwave dunes or shrivel up in wildfires at the beachhead. Closer in, refugees from umpteen wars, economic stroke religious bigotries, punters on the Boredom Death Ride trample women and children to land below the white cliffs, while Lifeguards – undeterred – snatch cherubs from the jaws of Charybdis and Scylla.
And at a ceremony organised by local Chambers of Commerce, medals or cash alternatives are given out to all those who have made this homemade summer one to remember.
Nope Rob
This semi-automatic message is generated by the Age of Five meeting a Braun bro wearing white socks and has something of the golf course about it, a sweeter talking geezer you’d be pushed to find breaking bread improvidently early of a Sunday morning when the night clubs are chucking out.
Adolf Meet a Glitch
Jessie Grease, who nowadays resides on the left foot of The Ma, describes his words with the German über mensch as a programming error. Off to spend Lent playing with members of rival cults, His Messianic Presence is ushered into the very anteroom where some Valkyries have deposited Adolf. As told to reporters, “Our eyes have met, so over I go to offer my services as Saviour of Last Resort.”
Their moment of mutual recognition is caught on Botticelli: Though Jess is clearly moved by the Führer’s tarnished aura, he double-takes at the frailty and beatific scowl of the Grand Oaf. A troubled soul ripples through his slimy handshake, or is it just the effects of fifteen months spent drugged underground? On the rebound, Hitler’s tired eyes are raised and revived by the posh cloth and immaculate sutures on The Great Semite Emissary and Moral Factotum of The Triple God (may His glory shine round and all manner of shit simply turn white).
Nothing much is said on either side; admonition seems out of place, as is any illegal racism. Given their post-modernist circumstances, neither would cast aspersions on the other’s crew or creed. And anyway, before you can recite the twenty-third Psalm, their handlers are back and the pair are whisked off to destinations that are different, though ultimately hard to tell apart.
Smart Bug
UK Hypocrisy is on an anti-slavery field day but will be happy to help with the following link. Unsubscribe if the reader is not available for remote playback, as I don’t detect further information. BTW, this app was generated automatically and directed to your system so the provider that will be updated asap.
Gone Cop
No see here, who knows if blonde, stacked and single or just plain pin-up f-wordable. It could of been some overweight cowboy gun-happy n-word baiting f-worder on tranquillizers that have no existential effect. Happen it left its tazer behind, or a badly filled-out parking ticket gollied to your windscreen? Maybe the imprint of a sweaty hand on the bonnet of an SUV – sorry hood – gives the game away. Or it’s one of those rare spontaneous immolation jobs, all that remains a scorched Sam Browne belt with revolver jammed in blistered holster. Maybe the portal to another world that still bears the shimmering outline of their passing, a whiff of singed ectoplasm, the tinkle of temple bells?
But why cop, eh? Who’s to say they don’t engineer or keep house – full time or hours-only? And why should anyone - any THING – be defined by their profession? It’s nothing but guesswork, entirely circumstantial, nowt for a jury to hang itself on. Therefore - and may I speak with passing regret? - the whole caboodle’s persona non-grata. For “Gone” read “Has-Been”, for ‘Cop’ it's “Had”.
Turkey's Inner Nudist
Sitting here on a folding chair, staring out toward Pserimos or Kos – is like watching a fascinating but slow moving TV drama. Not that there’ve been many robberies or murders on this stretch today, or that the beach tennis tournament is an Olympic event (though some of the players' moves are amazing feats of poetry and fun). Of course, these shores have seen plenty of action over the years (the Battle of Leros, for inst); and there are pottery shards going back millennia. Just now the most interesting things to happen have been the hunt for free sunshade, a visit by the stuffed mussel man, and the appearance of a snorkeler with his undersea metal detector – which can't be legal. Actually, I have nothing more to say other than at any moment past, present and future could come crashing down around our ears. I may be referring to the migrants who still launch inflatable boats from here at night, desperate to reach Greek soil. Or that the virus is more or less prevalent on this or that side of the water. As Elis says, in Turkey the very ground is full of secrets. No, these old grains of sand would tell some tales if they could only speak. But some things are best kept under wraps, like fast food and private parts.
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Don't Shoot! |
