Nono

Nono. Nono -
Nono. Nono
Nono THERE'S NO LIMIT
 
Oh I been futile
I been useless
I been servile
to the countess
but nobody gives a crap about me cause I'm in-vis-i-ble.
 
OH I can't be vissed,
I can't be vissed,
I'm like cola that can't be fizzed
Oh nobody gives a crap aout meeeee
 
Cause I'm invisible.
 
Howdy folks.
 
Sorry for the lack of novel.
 
Work is continuing.
 
Scientific kinks need to be levelled.
 
It's all about the jazz.
 
Boop-be-doop-do.
 
 

Oh mercy

Oh lord of lords of Spain and Satire -
Wouldn't you like it if I lit a bonfire?
It'd be big and it'd be burning,
and it'd be curing my unusual yearning -

The yearning, that is, for things to be burning -
Fronds to be fronded and ferns to be ferning.
Oh lord of lords of Spain and Satire -
Wouldn't you like it if I lit bonfire?

Yes sir, no sir, three bags full!
Isn't it, wasn't it? Small boys in the park!
Jumpers for goalposts, postmet for sticklebricks!
Brickles for stickling over in Hull!

Shabadoo, Dhabadoo, Joey-joe-joe!
Joe of the Joey-joe, Joey don't go!
There's fires to lay and wood to be chopped,
Head to be headed-off at the pass near the old abondaned Bank of Ulster and there's also some shops to be shopped and popcorn to be popped!

Mariner, layabout, lazy sunshine,
swim like a fish in water sublime.
I'll hook thee and look thee square in the eye -
And make thee for supper into a pie!

Sunshine, lollipops and rainbows
everything is simply super-duper
when I'm in looting stupor and
I'm robbing things left and right and EVERYWHERE
And I don't CARE if it's not FAIR

because I'M ... NOT .... WWEEEARR


ing any underWEAR!


The above was discovered next to the comatose form of Wilt and half-a-dozen bottles of Jack Daniels. The critics are calling it his best work to date and a surpising-to-some Grammy award for Best Actor awaits the day he returns from the grassy fields of comadom.

Shine on, Wilt N Flowers . . . Shine on. In whatever crazy world you inhabit today, maybe tomorrow and maybe for ever more . . . Shine on, you lazy diamond.

I say

You know what I mean.

You don't?

Ha - it's true.

You don't.

Little blissful wishing-me-well wonder,
I wonder would you wish me well without
wondering if I'd do the same for you someday.

Ha - it's true.

You haven't got a clue,
and I've got even less.
I don't know what to do,
to clean this up for you,
and avoid describing the mess.

Isn't it funny?

- and i'll wager it is -

To be here and not know where
here is . . .

when it's quite clearly Paris
we are in.


I ponder preoccupied among and between various poems and their meanings today, mixing and mashing them together to no great avail except to fuse them with my own thoughts an so make them indistinguishable from my true Wiltian wonderfulness. I move from place to place unconcerned at my lack of concern.

This concerns me. To a degree. I write in sounds and not words, melodies but not lyrics. Melodies made BY lyrics but not of them. You read and you hear but you don't try to understand. Do you understand?

Even if you do, you shouldn't.

Oh I amuse myself mighty prettily with little confusions and non-sense-makers. This world here Wilt's is a place where the untrue can be true, the true can be more than true and the positive can be negative. Blurry, blurry, blurry. This is life, isn't it? Blurry. Stupid and unsolvable. But ultimately wantable.

How utterly infuriating
for our budding hero
who has come so far alone.

Ha - and you haven't a clue.
Have you?

Hehehe. If only there were clues as to what clues to look for if there was something for clues to amount to. Which it seems there isn't, these clues are anomolous and contradictary.

And you don't even know what they are,
do you? Little blissful kitten unwritten.