I am much vexed by this town of miscreants! This town which shuffles on its way, a village of hedgehogs!
Why nobody has taken up the sword and cut loose I will never know. The people here are buried before their deaths and little do they realise.
I wonder at the fish, who with each tide return to lap at the dirty hem.
Had I the freedom of the ocean I would 'ave skidooed from 'ere. But time will come, I shall sail from the port on words, and wipe the putrid cemetery mud from my boots forever.
It takes a narrow minded simpleton to live in this crooked place of gossip and church. Cowboys and lunatics the lot of 'em! They would'nt know culture if it paid their wages.
What good are people if their only pleasure is a debauched weekend?
I cannot even speak in this wretchedness. It used to be a beautiful village full of promise, until I woke up and realised with a crushed hope that I was looking at it through bottle smashed eyes.
Now I am free of that curse I can see what surrounds me. Out of the screaming frying pan, into a hopless fire.
What are the ambitions of zombies? What of their dreams? I can imagine the answers falling miserably into something like this. 'Well, those sicks numbas comin' up on Saterday wud be nice!'
And what they do with their million pound handshake? 'Erm...new howse 'an car, holadays for the missus.'
It would be like giving a homocidal maniac a bowie knife then wondering what he'd do with it.
On occasion I find it difficult to express my feelings for this town.
The air is clean and some nooks and crannies are pleasing to the eye, but everything else is funeral black. Certainly no vaudeville springs from the heart.
A few poems have been penned, but my childhood in the town was my inspiration there. It exists no more.
Now it has become solemn; a drab clawfish of a place, filled with alleyways and secret routes which I must escape or go mad.
The scenery is not blame here anyway.
Ambtion! Ambition! Ambition! (Of course it is spelt AMBISHUN here). Work, shopping and pubs. A chained life.
I must confess my bones cry for more than that. I feel that having been dead for quarter of a century, now is the time to LIVE, if live I must. Now it is time to reach out and take!
The whisper of this blasted community has slipped forever from my lips. I will not feed the hell fires. Burn the buildings and hang the idle from their penniless tongues! It deserves no recognition from me. I would not carry its colours on my pennon in battle.
Twice the cursed pit has tried to bring me to my knees. But I shall struggle onward and carve my name away from the haunting wind. Ambition is the key here.
Ambishun!
Ambishun!
Ambishun!
22 July 1997 During a foul mood.
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