Devouring words

After finishing You Shall Know Our Velocity, by Dave Eggers, I belly-flopped with abandon into Miss Wyoming, by Douglass Coupland. Yes, I have a thing for contemporary, transgressive fiction. I believe I’ve covered that in a previous post or two. At least I’m not neck deep in self-help, Chicken Soup pablum, analytical, fake fortune-telling business porn; or the sappy, crappy, weepy, creepy, sleepy Jane Austen-wannbe pulp. I know what I like and I like what I know. It's one o'clock and time for lunch,
When the sun beats down and I lie on the bench,
I can always hear them talk.

There's always been Ethel:
"Jacob, wake up! You've got to tidy your room now."
And then Mister Lewis:
"Isn't it time that he was out on his own?"
Over the garden wall, two little lovebirds - cuckoo to you!
Keep them moving blades sharp...

I know what I like, and I like what I know;
getting better in your wardrobe, stepping one beyond your show.

Sunday night, Mr Farmer called, said:
"Listen son, you're wasting your time; there's a future for you
in the fire escape trade. Come up to town!"
But I remebered a voice from the past;
"Gambling only plays when you're winning"
- I had to thank old Miss Mort for schooling a failure.
Keep them moving blades sharp...

I know what I like, and I like what I know;
getting better in your wardrobe, stepping one beyond your show.

When the sun beats down and I lie on the bench,
I can always hear them talk.
Me, I'm just a lawnmower - you can tell me by the way I walk. Glad I got that out of my system. Thank you, God, I mean, Peter Gabriel.