Sinister: P. Parrot's epic journey

[Mark Casarotto]

Now that the poetry parrot has recovered sufficiently to fly once more, I
thought I'd send her across the ocean to Bayonne, NJ (I think) where she
will gracefully alight on the shoulder of Ms Anastasia Signoretta (still the
listee with the funkiest name) and hopefully not poo everywhere. Over to
you, Stasia...

It's far too early to think of anything else witty to say. So zero wit,
folks. Probably no smut either. I did, however, wake up this morning (da der
da da da) to find that, during the night, I'd taken a painting off my wall
and leant it carefully against the radiator. I remeber doing it, but I
haven't a clue what I was thinking of. Any suggestions?

I also dreamt I was Cartman's Mom. Which makes me a dirty slut, I believe.
Sounds about right.

Hearing Milla and Funkyseb's mournsome rendition of Slow Graffiti on Sunday
afternoon has re-whetted my enthusiasm for this mightiest of bands. You
really should have been there. No, honestly...

Finally saw the Omen last night. Ugh. I particularly felt sick at the bit
where yer man develops the photographs and the first nanny has a spectral
noose around her neck. Yummy. And that Billie Whitelaw's one scary laydee...

Nuff. I'm sleepy *yawn*...

Mark xxx
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