bono platitude attack crampon

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container 1 by Tim Caynes

there is life in that body, you’re just not using it. you can walk the length of this street and not trip over a sponge but behind you there is a contrail of wheelbarrows collecting pointlessness and dumping it in the allotment of middle age. really, I would, but you don’t know that. as for that one who precedes herself, there is surely a slabbering hoard of shed dwellers trotting shuffle-clad to peggy lee and assessing her age by how many times they think about it today, hopelessly treading the life mud of clack magnets through the polished hallways of sky sports, their tip tap tip tap on the brylcreemed keyboard of beelzebub sending clag missles to their watery island caravans.

today I shall forego a punishment in order to visit the post office. while I am there I will shuffle behind a see-through woman buying one second-class stamp and smile witheringly at somebody who treads on my foot reaching for the manilla envelopes. I’ll push my package through a grinder and they’ll tell they’re not packages but enormous letters which cost four times as much and I’ll nod and wither and shuffle back to the car while an asbo from mildenhall stumbles out of somerfield with a banana and twenty lights straight into the betting shop. not really. but anyway, it will be thirty minutes of my life that I might as well just have given to charity or something, which, if you work it out by the hour, is about ten quid, or what I’ll spend in the post office.

I bet you’re thinking the grand prix stuff was funny but this is just stupid.


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