This post is destined to have a small readership. Alas. To add colour and interest, I append this picture. Mexican hot chocolate (too good to be true) amidst the books on offer for casual reading at the Witching Well. For those short of eyesight, there is a book called Deerdancer, which is about shamanic shapeshifting, a book on love magic, and a beginner's guide to Scrying, which is communication with the spirits. I really am living la vida loca here.

Mountains sing to clouds,
Another bloody rain dirge.
Please don’t hum along.
Man, if you dig Pai
Get yourself to In-deeee-aaah.
With a spade, I guess.
Tribal tatts and dreads
Mark the anthropologists.
Tough dress code, this.
I float like a stone;
Monsoon strikes the yoga class.
Will this hut float too?
Mangos thunder down,
Sweet tropical torpedos.
There goes the moment.
3 comments:
In honour of your haikus (haiki?) and meditations upon south-east asian prisons I respond with haiku a la Foucault:
Carceral discourse
Polyvalently deployed.
Hot air gently blows.
And respond with my own in honour of his high priestiness mr Robbins:
Gaultier fails me
Oh my kingdom for a beet!
Chanel, the bell tolls...
mountains of somtum
wrinkly farangs, hot young birds
catri drinks singha.
Oh my Red Buddha!
Where did you get your talent?
non-self arisen genius.
One of London's few fine days,
spent inside with internet.
Outside I met a squirrel.
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