01:11
The more I think about it the more it seems I was never in control. On the face of it we had a relationship but it was being driven by her singular desires and projected outcomes. Everything was contingent on her approval and the societal value it created for her. The whole thing was only every pointing in one direction and the underground agenda ruled. Damn it. I can't help thinking the more I think that nice girl and all, fabulous woman and all, how much she was, was beautiful but corrupt.
09:00
216BC SECOND PUNIC WAR: Outnumbered Carthaginian general Hannibal anihilates the mighty Roman army at Battle of Cannae in one of the bloodiest battles in history
14:21
JOERADIO: You're in a lot of pain. I'm not going to prolong the pain by asking awkward questions.
CALLERS: (Load of wimmins weeping together over the phone.) 'I wasn't invited to me daughter's wedding!' (Rift!)
14:26
These holiday homes built under Section 23 are getting all the tax breaks back. More money for the big boys. The people who actually pay tax CAN GO AND FUCK THEMSELVES!
14:27
ADIO: Be clever. Hedge your bets. Join our bank. We'll go down on you. We'll go up on you. Join because you trust us.
20:27
So I hear this shouting. A Dub female rasping harshly. Her lowlife bloke walks ahead. Cleaner than usual blues and whites (denotes a court appearance), younger than average with louder than average babble. The grey pallor of junk loses light in their living-dead faces. Lucid, incoherent, she gives it loads, screaming at him.
With fiery red hair, she totally is admonishing him about something or other on the Hill by the Zone. He carries a few beers under his arm (denotes a suspended sentence). Doesn't argue, his head is hung. She's all snap yap snap yap snap - generating an harradian din.
They junk-walk past the Green Zone jabbering like rats. Then, unexpectedly, and for no apparent reason, apropos of nothing, without an other word, whilst she speaks ceaselessly, bearing a puzzled expression, he stops, turns, thrusts his free hand down the waistband of his crispy clean tracky bottoms to rummage. Still holding the tins of beer with his other arm, herself continues unrelentingly to chastise him greatly, as he pulls his mickey out into plain view and droops it over the tracksuit waistband, peering at it. He seems surprised to see it as we are. Shocked into a momentary silence, she gapes at it.
I appraise the scene from my angle above. I'm not gay or anything but it's normal, flaccid, foreskinned and, well, fresh faced, in a manner of speaking, like it hasn't been anywhere. Much. Her O-face notwithstanding, I adjudge it's sure not getting anywhere now.
She immediately segues into a "What have ya that out for?" topical outrage rant, in keeping with the fast-changing times. He pinches it bemusedly between finger and thumb, caressing it like a beloved pregnant goldfish. He clearly doesn't know what he's doing with it out either. I happen to know it's because fellas off their features on heroin get an itchy dick. Seen it before. They all go scratching their mickeys. Kind of a side-effect of their not-so-glorious highs.
Things ain't looking so high now as reacting faster than he, she steps up and claps his knob real hard with the spoon of her hand. Swift as a boxer, she flakes him two or three times in a flurry. The slapping sound brings my knees together involuntarily. His face burns red and his eyes swell. Roaring with pain he whips it back in to relative safety.
Tears spring from his eyes. He pouts. This smacked up scumbag is a mere boy, after all is said and done. In a futile attempt to find something to follow up on, her shoulders drop and she steps backward. He cries like a child.
They turn and make their way up the Hill together as he's bawling. She offers him cold comfort by lambasting him some more. He's not just sore, he's upset.
Just another vignette from the vine tree.
The more I think about it the more it seems I was never in control. On the face of it we had a relationship but it was being driven by her singular desires and projected outcomes. Everything was contingent on her approval and the societal value it created for her. The whole thing was only every pointing in one direction and the underground agenda ruled. Damn it. I can't help thinking the more I think that nice girl and all, fabulous woman and all, how much she was, was beautiful but corrupt.
09:00
 |
| A Cannae do 'em in attitude, 216BC |
14:21
JOERADIO: You're in a lot of pain. I'm not going to prolong the pain by asking awkward questions.
CALLERS: (Load of wimmins weeping together over the phone.) 'I wasn't invited to me daughter's wedding!' (Rift!)
14:26
These holiday homes built under Section 23 are getting all the tax breaks back. More money for the big boys. The people who actually pay tax CAN GO AND FUCK THEMSELVES!
14:27
ADIO: Be clever. Hedge your bets. Join our bank. We'll go down on you. We'll go up on you. Join because you trust us.
20:27
So I hear this shouting. A Dub female rasping harshly. Her lowlife bloke walks ahead. Cleaner than usual blues and whites (denotes a court appearance), younger than average with louder than average babble. The grey pallor of junk loses light in their living-dead faces. Lucid, incoherent, she gives it loads, screaming at him.
With fiery red hair, she totally is admonishing him about something or other on the Hill by the Zone. He carries a few beers under his arm (denotes a suspended sentence). Doesn't argue, his head is hung. She's all snap yap snap yap snap - generating an harradian din.
They junk-walk past the Green Zone jabbering like rats. Then, unexpectedly, and for no apparent reason, apropos of nothing, without an other word, whilst she speaks ceaselessly, bearing a puzzled expression, he stops, turns, thrusts his free hand down the waistband of his crispy clean tracky bottoms to rummage. Still holding the tins of beer with his other arm, herself continues unrelentingly to chastise him greatly, as he pulls his mickey out into plain view and droops it over the tracksuit waistband, peering at it. He seems surprised to see it as we are. Shocked into a momentary silence, she gapes at it.
I appraise the scene from my angle above. I'm not gay or anything but it's normal, flaccid, foreskinned and, well, fresh faced, in a manner of speaking, like it hasn't been anywhere. Much. Her O-face notwithstanding, I adjudge it's sure not getting anywhere now.
She immediately segues into a "What have ya that out for?" topical outrage rant, in keeping with the fast-changing times. He pinches it bemusedly between finger and thumb, caressing it like a beloved pregnant goldfish. He clearly doesn't know what he's doing with it out either. I happen to know it's because fellas off their features on heroin get an itchy dick. Seen it before. They all go scratching their mickeys. Kind of a side-effect of their not-so-glorious highs.
Things ain't looking so high now as reacting faster than he, she steps up and claps his knob real hard with the spoon of her hand. Swift as a boxer, she flakes him two or three times in a flurry. The slapping sound brings my knees together involuntarily. His face burns red and his eyes swell. Roaring with pain he whips it back in to relative safety.
Tears spring from his eyes. He pouts. This smacked up scumbag is a mere boy, after all is said and done. In a futile attempt to find something to follow up on, her shoulders drop and she steps backward. He cries like a child.
They turn and make their way up the Hill together as he's bawling. She offers him cold comfort by lambasting him some more. He's not just sore, he's upset.
Just another vignette from the vine tree.
