A note on what's below

This is one of those mornings when coffee & Coltrane just won’t help. Not even going outside & singing the Internationale to the neighbourhood. I would welcome a tag, would probably even welcome an accordion player, have my mind zydecorated as it were.

Clifton Chenier! I’m with you in Rockhampton
       where there are twentyfive thousand mad comrades
       all together singing the final stanzas of the Internationale

Perhaps it’s the agitation of the washing machine in the background……& I draw the line at bagpipes.

I’ve been thinking it’s about time I wrote another ficcione. & yesterday Tom Beckett posted a piece - & a poem – about a competition Didi Menendez is running for a poem with a specified title. It stuck in my mind with the velocity of a post-it note. But this morning, this morning….I had nowhere else to go. So, donning a sports bra & lycra shorts & placing a few more kilos on the weights machine, I began pumping iron – or, at least, the soft metal machine version of it - & eventually produced El Culo de Bettie, aka The Velázquez Ficcione.