Yesterday it rained heavily and incessantly I went to supermarket then drank gin and wrote minutes for hours. At the moment they're on the Green Left Blog (follow link if you're a nerd for for the boring minutiae of obscure political organisations).

As I get older my bladder gets weaker so I got up to piddle in the middle of the night and a blackbird sang, either the first of the dawn chorus or an all-nighter kept awake by urban light pollution.


Hear the blackbird here


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The timelag is worsening but I might have paid off the sleep deficit by staying in bed until noon and eventually after making some token gestures towards the housework deficit.

I go on safari down my backgarden into the lost jungle of Dollis Hill. There are strange sculptures of a lost civilisation slowly being swamped by burgeoning undergrowth




and eventually I hack my way through to my goal: THE COMPOST HEAPS OF HISTORY.

I turn them over with my trusty garden fork for I am a revolutionary. I fear they are dead but a robin flys down to feast on the bugs that I have exposed whilst preparing for his winter job of posing for christmas cards.

This kind of thing inspires this kind of thing
A ROTTEN POEM

I am the compost
I rot in a heap
I rot when you wake
I rot when you sleep

I have no body
Nor brain instead
I am the living
That lives on the dead

Potato peelings
Garden cuttings and teabags
Or a philosopher’s head
Wrapped up in a sack

It all came from compost
I bring it back

All organic transformed
That’s what I do
I am the compost
Soon you’ll be too