A rebel without a clue.

Bus, train. Utters a waste time blurs. Pork pie, cider bought and off we trot. To a land we trust. Trust in love. Train, train. Cutting through Cornwall Southward bound. Not the past. Future forward press fast forward. Get me there on time. Promise made. Brain, fuss. I think I burnt it fast. Rush and stomp eating useless fruits. No profit yielded saturated head. Please make sure this lasts me! 2 chicks via South Africa. Lush and fruity. Tanned to the limits! From Frome Valley with apple kisses Something will shake tonight. Cool again at Liskeard pressing on. Mason city blues cheers my head tight Lessen the pressure as we fly The 6 well dressed hens flutter by. Walk, walk. Easiest and happiest. But drunk on cheap vermouth cider. Which must be good for Newquay? Mind the gap in my mind Gap the mind inside outside Station awaiting train slightly Drowsy and lightly damp.

By Daniel J. Sherburn.20th August 2010. In 1980 it was and a Sunday came along. As usual we got together as a family, my father's only complete day away from work, and went to visit our relations in Rawmarsh South Yorkshire. Past slag heaps and dirty rivers we'd cross the Don and fly through Wath-on-Dearne, parkgate, goosebert street, claypit lane, the Rother and many council houses and coal board housing joselling with the smells of coal and steel industry in the air along to Jean and Milton's abode. Mum and dad's old friends, best man etc regular guest at our house since I can ever remember. When all else of Rawmarsh has vanished with the death of dad they still occur in my life. Solid as a pair of doctor Martin boots. Andrew and I were proper childhood pals. Did everything together no matter how far away. I wonder if he remembers our Lego match days and leagues with Iperswitch and Aston Gate as the two most successful teams competing in the league of our creation....

Ode to the Tor Daniel Sherburn Sept 2nd 2010 I climbed through streets and over styles crossed fields and spoke to some younger cows who munched their breakfast happily and were delighted by the company. Then I followed a purple lady and her happy bum overtaking I passed signs this way the Tor and finally a national trust guide and many sheep are eating there. Many steps I follow up the side of yonder mount and glimpse love and quintecessial english pastures green. A bright and pleasant vale once inundated by many waters and where legends begun. Spun onwards go the erosion free path, respect paying to this sanctity and finally one last push suddenly the whole world is displayed. A rim around the horizon forming a concentric barrier. The world is spinning around the burr and the humming of traffic spreads below. A gentle breeze south easterly. A child cries 'Come on mum join in the exercise...lazy!' And finally lankward man dressed in weekend decides to clamber these ste...

Gucci or LV. Chanel. All Italian girls exhibit. Men equally it seems. And talk all talk. What are their conversations so animated towards. Pyrotechnic show of hands and body posture. Smoke on and on some of the most attractive women. On scooters? So many scooters not many vespas. Hardly a smile. But a slight upturned glance. Same wondering Afro selling what no one needs or wants. All day. A trio playing accordions and battered trumpet. Wonders of the Via Del Ponte. Some patrons dance but have forgotten to pay the tune and now it recedes. Do they smile for strangers? Pretentious it might be but the bar is good. Guys who work it friendly and show respect to my lack of application speaking fruili. The municipal square has a fountain lacking water. It's lacking a fundamental element in it's design. I am tensed to ask acqua? Where is it, before being chased to the sea and lost to giant octopi. There is a natural pennilessness to the square. The grandest facade is very skin deep. Or...

07 Sept 2010 Daniel J. Sherburn. Counting down from 4 figs to none While punters and artists collide Mental patience voices sound down From the king's to trinity speaking  Many tunes and knowing notes Wheelie boy showing no holy triangle And desolate individual wanders silent Tread past clattering saucers and roast To cupola and round temple gates The journey to babel's home we regret So wherefore next shall we amble? If the soil draught we could there get But instead ledge in sun a while. Consumed the flesh in some tranquility A wasp and green bottle encounter vile Over my dusty feet and hands  They are strangers lost yet Aware the season moving gears And doing all their corpus allows Before they vanish with our tears.

So 2nd Ross cider festival is over. And I am en-route to Cambridge. Chelsea allcocks Do all builders in university towns feel like Jude on arriving in Oxford? Or me. Being lesser? Garde ta foy Knitting square, circle or trapezium... Jude the clown walked into an Italian restaurant known for it's clownish behaviour. A simple dinner served by beauty and simple symmetry. Ravioli and rich sauce flavoured by a knitting frenzied group. Monthly, weekly or daily I knever knew. Clever hand art not cleaver to my eyes. All times I see this pattern and seldom are part thereof. But I now have plans. I can be sustained by frugal simplicity and plod along common stones, with a hope that a heaving heavens will vanish to level the ground and allow a few days more of soreness to recede. Be gone this deep groaning tedium.  Asked and it is weekly. Brac vis Croatia. Islands.  Hashers - hash house harrier Cyzer. Indigo's kings cullage.  Orson Scott the third man.

I arrived quite tarnished and fairly tired. And will go onwards by the morning or the next day. But for today I am finally in Italiano and am pleased to have arrived safe and sound in Trieste. It is very interesting to see such a place all the piazzas and open space. There is no open spaces in English cities. I don't count parks. Caffe couture and merlot. Aperatif if Campari. Picante pancetta. Local cheese and I feel truly bamboozled... Bewana notte.

Laying at the end of the pier The flat grey Adriatic languid and gentle Seabourn mystery leaving maritima stazione. Tug leading the way.  Where larger vessels once toured their crafts Knipped by ant. No questions asked. Off Nina went to rendevous at 3. I walked along the shoreline. Many boats lay at anchor and I think of the painting created by carvachio??? and turner of Verona and Venice and Naples. But not of flemish lamds. A millimetre of land between sky and sea. Head on shoe for comfort. Oh my rib is aches and my jaw still restricts my diet. Boys fishing and girls parsolled but not Austen.  But I feel slowly falling into dreams. Passed the Augustus gate and out of the city. Stood at the door PAM. But it will not open. This is the entrance, not the exit. Fool. Italiano is not my mother Tongue.