Managing thoughts can be nonsense for the touring bland. Here ya go with mild bellies and tubers, foraging and foaming: wafts of patchouli swathed feet and coked boys-rooms downstairs, entrails to the heart; imparts of comb and candy-shaped girls on top of heightened Brighton bitch stock terrycloth toads, meaning well, but having to do a quotable quickie in the bathroom to keep the eyes from going spare. England is a tone of several countires prior these days (where weeks are wolfing down bits of linen and sugar cubed Belgian-Irish sweaters and auburn mained babes-swaddled-in-loin); with tender leggings, with big browing eyes, with luncheons lurking Dutch-paws embroidered in capers, currants, and empty seas. Cracked psych records dawn on the lo-fi tenderizer: busy bruised and saving punches for tomorrow (another trip, maybe to Neil); saving luckies and corns, breathsavers, sheckles, hurtles, and a repeat reminder of the Turdman, and what a happy lil' salmon was he. SO HERE ya are, Europope. I'm heaving on the pie at this very moment... hours ahead of a regular bowel movement, but eating like a pig; pausing to remind the memory of a valiant beer or requiem-jester, gesture-jew-gotta-hafta-rotor-rind; all the mopes are spending their time remembering the hull-emptied of A-merde-ikkka, that most recent pechulant face-saver for a breast nasty taster: long years releasing flatulant tables o'er here, where I assure you paisanos, they've learned to ignore you (and me). It's good though; a humble testy to yours and certainly my own damn happy arrogance. Do you keep going? Of course. How are the shows? Fucking great. What more to say? So cherry to be in a place far from birth, far from that life, far from the sullen cheese of sinister home spreads and lost loafing in the-then-days; I don't miss her a bit. Here, she's more than muse.