Doom listening to old dance…

But first…
Dulltown, UK: Today’s carefully selected adjectives are: corpulent, geanticlinal, vinewed, shrubby, incogitable, wrackful, and comely.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

On Tuesday afternoon I was walking down the middle of the shopping centre concourse when some rushing lout banged into my right shoulder. The thing was that the place wasn’t particularly crowded. Turning round, and rubbing my upper arm, I saw that the lout was a skinny male of medium height, with a stupid grin on his face, wearing a pair of cheap bright yellow headphones. He had a notebook in one hand and a pen in the other. He spoke, or rather shouted, as people do with headphones on, ‘Hi Dave! Guess what!…’
Yes, it was Simon Doom, ne’er-do-well poet from the glory days of the Hull Surrealist league.
‘What?’ I responded, and added, ‘and stop bloody shouting!’
‘Do speak up,’ he said.
I would have liked to have punched him on the nose, but I held back and just pulled the headphones off his stupid head instead. He grabbed them out of my hand and put them on my head – I heard 2 Unlimited doing their 1993 hit No Limit playing quite loudly. I could see Doom’s lips moving – I took the phones off and asked him to repeat that which he had just uttered.
He went on to explain that his newly written spoem (spoof poem) would, the first time he performed it live, have a sampled line from the song I had just been listening to integrated into it and played through a small amplifier. He then asked if I had a small amplifier he could borrow. I thought about it for a tenth of a second, and then said, ‘Definitely not!…’

Bumbaloin cap-box, the slithering ape!
Ossif, clandestine root barriers (two).
Techno, techno, techno, techno!
Ossif, the pork pit reportage nastiness.
Cordial J-Cloth, but a belly rage ape.

Optaloop hoot-drain, the toddling urchin!
Crynule, suitcase pepper dog riot (one).
Techno, techno, techno, techno!
Crynule, the ampersand pie misunderstanding.
Cordial rocket book, but a dangerous urchin.

Xenobate block-spill, the slit-cut braggard!
Themlo, garden duck drivel pots (two).
Techno, techno, techno, techno!
Themlo, the beeswax wrong boot idealism.
Cordial dance pose, but a surf pin braggard.

Phillotry chill-drake, the crash tin bruiser!
Hipstray, moon chatter drain tang (one).
Techno, techno, techno, techno!
Hipstray, the dachshund boom cluster charm.
Cordial cloud fizzing, but a rotund bruiser.

Simon Doom 2019.

About Dave Whatt

Grumpy old surrealist artist, musician, postcard maker, bluesman, theatre set designer, and debonair man-about-town. My favourite tools are the plectrum and the pencil...
This entry was posted in abstract, adjectives, brain, conversation, creation, drama, Dulltown, humour, information, music, poetry, serendipity, style, surrealism, words and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Doom listening to old dance…

  1. Sharon Mann says:

    Someday Simon will probably win some kind of recognition for his poetry!

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