m john shoe
Someone arrived here yesterday typing that. Whoever it was, I say: genius! If I was younger & less trapped by everything I ever did, & could untie from all old versions of myself, I might reinvent as m john shoe. m john shoe would be braver but at the same time slippier than I ever was. You would never be able to tell if he was a shoe-in or a shoe-out, always on the edge of the frame. Would never have capitals. Would be more of a band than me, on tonite then in the morning you would see him no more. m john shoe would always leave you guessing. m john shoe never stares out the window like this wondering where August went & deciding to make another cup of tea. Not in South London. m john shoe is at the skyline & turning back briefly to wave his arms in a moment of charming but meaningless triumph; he’s never the same place twice.
Reading: Dead Iraqis, Ellis Sharp’s short stories. (“…why, then, did the British Government, in 1981, spend 1,200,00 roubles on a plot to obtain Lenin’s trousers ?” You might well ask.) Eating: chocolate cake. Listening to: someone’s toddler escaping the SUV only to be dragged back inside, strapped in tightly & driven off down Grove Road screaming in fear of the inevitable future.