(or how goats get their oats)

Around about that time (it was the time of the Mortadella Man, Dearly Beloved) Aikin' Bum and Lil' Fucker were strolling down a bent country road when they come across The Third Billy Goat Gruff, [POV Shot] who's sitting outside a sort of Tracey Emin beach hut, knocking back DraughtFlow Body with Brer Rabbit and Brer Fox and pouring his heart out about some family hassle with a Scandinavian punkabestia. -Have a crisp- says Brer Fox, -Ta Baby- replies Brer Rabbit, and seeing Aikin' & Lil', Brer Fox plot dumps the scene where BBG3, tired of the stench of boiled brethren, hooks a hind hoof into the soft foothill, whips out a Rocket Powered Recoilless Weapon and, bleating a Vin Diesel one liner -you can flog a dead horse, but you can't make it drink- sends Sodaroundalot, the one-shot Troll, to meet his maker, who turns out to be a sockpuppet astroturfer (in reality, the Troll himself) high on glory holes and scopofilia -the way she stoops; tightens her things- [Gaze Shot: Dita Von Teese look-alike in Pierre mantouxs, mauve astrodocs, wild silk thimble gloves]. All this time Aikin' & Lil' are booty popping to some New Groove and the mid-distant, waiting Wolf is sucking pensively on a lump of chalk, nursing the hurt and wondering why wolves always get so much shit in fairy tales. So I ask him about Miro and rope and why there aren't any furry handcuffs in Schiele and whether the weather's thick lid really does contain the steamy howl of one huge hump
       -Puss in Boots -lisps the wolf
-her lip gloss stings the air with fruit pulp embedded with chrome shards; her storm-hewn eyelids are powder kegs. I used to tense at the sound of brittle hooves ratting; at the thin bleating of a faithless heart, but I've since lost vast tracts of my youth: I remember a pig pen and a git on stilts, a reeking sow, a sausage in a sling, breeze block six-packs heaped at the edge of the open maw. What was it had fell to earth, made this great hole, trashed the snipped lawn bower behind the bus shelter?-
       - Tempo da lupi-
I reply -wolf weather-
the frottoir zips, unzips Acadian off-beats
   whisk broom spanked
       [why not? Grins the Witch]
as Boozoo Chavis tugs at the dance of the

October           Milan/Valverde