RAINBOW CLOWN NEWS

Rainbow dreams for everbody!!! What are your rainbow dreams all about eh listener? Eh? (Special thanks to Rainbow Clown Art Director Lee May)

Old Genius Jars, I’ll tell you a think or two about that old so n so, was the thing Munz was telling his daughter Lindsay, and meanwhile the cable car was falling from the wire, falling down into the ravines of the alps, the green and pleasant ravines of dying often, and the moon dangling its trans fat moon glum beams of light upon the falling cable car dropping like stones was an uptight point of view. Lindsay wasn’t paying attention to any of this, was reading the novel by Edward V, was thinking that it was a good sort of novel, was enjoying the type of thing that it was. It was certainly a novel type of thing, she was thinking. And while all of this was going on, that cable car, it was really falling faster now, down to those ravines of extreme bad endings with blood covering the white cauldrons of snowscape plantations, high altitude death wishes so cold you can barely take photographs afterwards, during the whole dreary aftermath of the thing, when they check the teeth to see who it was who was in the cable car in its glorious pre death period.

The daughter of Genius Jars was thousands of miles away and would not have cared what any old man had said about her magnificent father if she had known. She was on a beach. It was an enjoyable time.

He coughs all over the new seats, the camomile sleeve hems dragged back along his arms up to the kink in his better elbows, and the whle time he tells me about the Martian invasion he witnessed upon the Albion football field in late 2006. I don’t know where to look. I notice a gaunt faced fellow eating a bowl of spaghetti and green flowers three seats back, eyes giant spiders in the jars of his spectacles darting about the train, anywhere but the bowl he holds like three melons, fresh, fat and old as dough. Then the train guard appears in the carriage after a downpour of steel levers shunting two doors shut, smoke billowing like salad dishes from the tiny chickens of his ugly pornography face. Eye gleams of early winters trying to out psych you know who, whose story is becoming ‘difficult’, is starting to harbour essayists and unusual planets and left over pasta breads.

I am two stations away from getting up and leaving through the doors and folding my body into christmas evenings of drinks cabinet conversations looking out over golf clubs of overweight accountancy firm get togethers. I can already smell the platforms, their weird chalets selling tickets to rain coat row your boat going men with moustaches of mould and soup.

Rumours flying around at the minute suggesting Sony are about to launch pocket rainbow bookmarks! Hank Coyne refuses to comment.

In dark houses over the river, black timber feet perched over the streams of plum fish and tiger sharks, you read your books and play your trumpets and think carefully about your next ten years. Your next ten years could see you lost in old woods in strange continents, strange towns, strange alps. Snow on your shoulders, windows fogged with rice, you could be on the highest mountains looking over the darkest valleys smoking strange cigarettes and talking about instruments. The next ten years could see you in container ships hitchhiking to Norway, eating bad crab, bad chocolate, cold fish, wrong oats and rotting cabbage.

You cannot leave the dark houses easily. They can be warm at times, but in the early morning they grow so cold the ceilings sweat with cold sleet and rain. Once you leave them you cannot return. You can walk inland over dew speckled mountains, east to the sea and the long strands of icy beach, or you can follow the river, to its mouth or its root, to wherever it goes. The houses are still standing. They go on haunting whoever they hold.

You can wait for those houses to walk you downriver. You can sit in dark rooms listening to old records, listening to old books of dust,  jars of dust black and grey and blue with strange silts.

Here is the finest tram poetry in the world. As all rainbow clowns know, without trams the rainbow clown movement would have been set back decades, to at least 1981. We should always be thankful for trams and what not.

Trams trams trams are grate

trams are very very very grate

grate grate grate

grate grate grate

da da da da da da da

Trams are grate they are oh yes yes yes

Guard your front gardens, the floating clogs of Norman are swashing themselves north at a great rate. How many great rates though? How many packets of crisps will your uncle have to consume from the front parlour, his knuckles on fire and his beard a mess of vegetable failings as he drearily goes on munching like a mouthful of rabbit?

Rainbow Clown News suggests kettles. Fire you your kettles Rainbow Clowns! Turn them on up to full capacity! Watch as they heat, they get warmer and hotter and blow their stacks and let you know they are ready with their minor oceans of hot bottle water products.

Meanwhile, don’t forget Norman is to blame for all of this. He lies in his southern gutter with his pet beard watching the stars like a cat. Write to him! Send him notes! You know how it goes.

Have you seen a Straw Necked Ibis? No? Call yourself a Rainbow Clown?

Here he comes. See him over there coming down the road, broke, falling apart, shambling like a couple of birds in a bronze cage. Friday can’t come soon enough for Campbell. It is the end of the week and he is due a shave.

Shavig takes hours for Campbell. Friday afternoons smell of great handfuls of old cream pastered against the walls of his bathroom as he opens the green windows wide and describes his progress jaw to jaw. He brandishes his razor with strange perfume suddeness and probably thinks he’s doing a good job. The janitors who clean it up hours later never agree, and write novels about the ordeal.

Campbell expects to put out a number of show bags at this year’s world’s fair. They are likely to include personal mirrors and elbow protectors. His jobs continue to grow like cyclones.

More talk of The Widge. Rainbow Clown News understands that great feeble swash brittle faced so n so of the sands is on his way. Make your homes pleasant and neat for The Widge. He is more than likely to be paying a visit and drinking your cordial. Yes.