There May Be No Golden Fleece

It’s May, and the cold falls away with the blossom. Crisp, light leaves hold the breeze and the world is alright.

But old senses recall the quickness of touch and the fun of being. The alwaysbeenthereness of being, though you were young and knew absolutely nothing at all in the sweet heaviness of woods. Yes, yes, alright, I know. I know. Still, I was there. The world really was young. Not like those sweet, thing-addled fools from the 1960s, those idiot punks from the mid 1970s, the damn, failed-fools of the aggressive mid 1980s or the confused, multi-drug addled happiness-seekers of the mid 1990s. Not like any of those. No, the world was young when I was small, when everything really was huge, or terrifying, or about to fall over.

When it was about to fall over.


There were missiles about to fall over, men in the midst of aneurysms, alzheimers and takeovers, running the world. There was pain, and there was hate, and there was us, with our chants and our loathing-humour.

“It’s a free country.”

No it ain’t. No it really ain’t.

I ain’t done nuffin wrong. I ain’t done nuffin. I ant dun nuffin. Iunt dun nufun. Int dn nfn. I d nfn. I dn. I.




About Kevin Donnelly

I'm also known as Lawrence George, which is the name I write for Helium under. I think I ought to ditch my pseudonyms before I forget which one is me.
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