Beat

We often mistake enthusiasm for passion.

In 1963 I went to a party in Chelsea with a good friend who threw shapes in a beat combo when he wasn't throwing off the shapes of his nightmares or shaping up a hangover.

I thought I was a beat poet at the time so could write shit shaped poetry like that

I had bought a new pair of sneakers that day and my bullet wounds were playing up; yeah I hung with Michael X or was it Malcolm?

















I met a girl; an artist, her name was quickly forgotten but I remembered it that night... I was enthusiastic.

She could not take her eyes off my sneakers and I witnessed an idea growing.

I wonder what became of her?

I found the photograph in an old copy of IT.

There was a photograph of a naked girl in that 1960's magazine who was the spitting image of nurse Caz. I confronted her with the image and she soon confessed that it was her mother.

I now know why nurse Caz has a passion for starched white cotton and sensible shoes.













Nurse Caz being hit on by a lipstick lesbian.

Chivalry and Cod Latin.

She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.

(Even when crying; normally a distasteful sight), as she sat sobbing under a hankerchief tree.

Of course I approached her and offered assistance, a shoulder, and anything else for that matter.

I asked why she cried so publicly. She replied that she wept because she could not reach the hankerchiefs that festooned the tree above her.

I smiled then and reaching up, plucked a starched white flower from above and offered it to her.

She snatched it from my hand, still sobbing. then turned and waved the handkerchief at a man standing in a window of the house opposite. 'I surrender, I surrender.' she screamed.

Moments later the door of the house opened and the most beautiful woman in the world flew into the bastards arms, He then wiped away her tears with a tissue of lies.

Sic biscuittus disintergrat!