I was exploring the word squish , sadly a word without any synonyms. A cul-de-sac and a dead end, a word that takes you nowhere other into a graphic, fruity place were things have a slightly unpleasant consistence. Bluebottles fly around it, fluid oozes from it or seems to even before the squishing has taken place. It’s a shame for squish but then without it grapes could hardly be turned into wine or eggs scrambled and how would we survive on a basic diet that excluded these fine and civilised things?
Edinburgh has a new queer concept of itself
Flying like some ragged saltire
Peeking through potholes and road works
Into a mirror held by tourists
And lovers of art on a budget
Holding onto our grand dreams of parliaments and trams
Wide stone avenues and horseless carriages
People behaving in ways they never did
Before fawning over royals and burning witches
Our heartless ceremony and religious ignorance.
It makes for disillusion
And the crashing of the banks
Some chronic fatigue in the search for peace
As our acted out dream is a sepia coloured thing
Because we still behave as if the Empire never ended
Or struck back.
Odd question of the day “How’s everything in that sandwich?”, overheard in the chilled environs of Birmingham Airport the other day.
Life on the M40. There is no doubt that this motorway is cursed, particularly between junctions 9 and 11, something to do with the site of an ancient Anglo Saxon burial ground being driven over by half wits.