Sat on my saturnine arse reading The Rings Of Saturn.
Sat-nav — why the fuck have I got one? O, TomTom, Lord of the Wrong Turn, guide me out of this fucking house.
Sun? There is no sun. It’s trapped behind the big, brown melancholy clouds. O, TomTom, Lord of the Turn Right In 300 Yards, guide the sun from behind the big, brown melancholy clouds.
I Don’t Like Mondays. BOOM. Shoot the moon. Fuck off, TomTom, you’re doing my skull in.
Chew chew chew a Cumberland sausage in a sugary Mars Bar sandwich.
Choo-choo! Do trains have sat-navs? O, TomTom, Lord of the Straight Ahead, guide the trains along their tracks, up the coast roads and back – please don’t make them fall off again.
Woe day? Wedding day? No, I got married on a Friday. I got married at Halloween and I married in silken black (this is a TRUE FACT), but I couldn’t help looking back. Ring o’ ring 0′ rosies, a pocket full of posies. O, TomTom, Lord of At The Roundabout Take The First Exit, guide dead ex-Simon to a nice place of cleanliness and peace and an abundance of stamps for his collection.
I LOVE THOR, HEAR ME ROOOOOAAAAAARRRRR. (Months ago I roared in a post. It made me feel better at the time so now I have a little roar every Thursday morning before I make my Cumberland sausage sandwiches for my breakfast). O, TomTom, Lord of Leave The Motorway, guide the big Cumberland sausage lorries safely to my Tesco.
Friday is now the only day I fry (burn) my Cumberland sausages.
Empty-headed no brain, fried brain, sizzle-pop. Skullduggery?
Freya, Freya, lend me your cloak so I can fly above the bald sea to see what I can see. O, TomTom, Lord of You Have Reached Your Destination, guide us not into temptation, or negation, or consternation. Forever and ever, amen.
Albrecht Dürer, self-portrait, 1500
look at the eyes