Frank Skinner's Let Himself Go



I nearly forgot that I was going for a whole month so this is probably just filler - isn't it all? So of course I haven't even been thinking about anything to write. And now I am so tired I just can't get anything together to again in the style of Odelay, this is just place-marking. Old man calls down alleys to the back, where the drunks and the tramps have never found the knack of filling in the blanks and the stories of the true in the night of the knives and the tales of shining blue. The trees in the night haven't seen a way through to the dreams of the days and the skies of dripping glue.