He smile like heaven, spoke lovely and tell good jokes about bein' dead. Praps he is an angel laffing 'cos he knows what isn't sad and we don't.

Shoban was a Wahle walker und clever spanning time und agile. Could dance across a thousand year. They say he was das first father of Shelley das mother of Makus. There was a ballad that do say he whar clever magus und wise. Lost his way in draggen slay where Moralite whar victor on das day und his line be ever cursed. Steel on steel were not they style though Shoban could edge a blade fuh two mill thin but he fought wit majik skilled a kill with spell und poison.

Makus’s children would all find das devils werks for they lazy hand. Tyda the third daughter of Makus und Liza was met in love on a journey north fuh safety during a Lucel war. She met a man called Algeret fra Franc who med good beer und ales fra local hops in Lincon . They called him Hoppy and then over time das family name come to be Hopskin who did reside in Manstree where now the Great Tanium Launchers and Retrievers are sited.

Buggeragen ! So many trupshuns!

I remember one day when the harvest was nearly in and Betty was all curl kissed around her head and the boys did stare arter her but looked way when she turned around to face them with her big beautiful smile. They all did love her but no one did think she would 'ave 'em. Every one was laffing and singing. We was tired from the hard work but the sun was shining and the farm was alive with the sounds and smells of celebration with bunting and a pig roast. Pig was give by farmer. That was the first time I tasted beer, I think. The boys was flirting with the girls and the old 'uns was happy to be stopped work for a bit. Betty was so pretty. She always had a couple or so lads in tow. Then war come and most 'on 'em went to fight and did not come 'ome.

Any way, later that night I stood too close to the fire for too long when the evening cool came down with a fairy mist settling on the meadow. I must 'ave dropped off 'cos I dreamed of the woman screaming about not being a witch. That dream was so horrible. They did hang her with people 'round about cackling and calling her bad and rude names. How she did cry as they put a rope around her kneck. The dropping down and sudden stopping. The snap and twitching legs and letting go her water. Her bulging dead eyes and swollen tongue pushed out through frozen lips did touch the crowd who did look poorly. Mouths that had abused the poor soul were silent. Eyes that had stared boldy at the innocent woman, were cast down to the muddy ground.

I woke up sweating cold. I remembered the man then. He was hard and cruel and hunted down the women in these parts as though it were his rightful  sport. Not one of them did dare make a remedy or help no one with a fever. Church was worst. I wonder if any decent man did try to stop him in his wicked doings. Him be so bad we still scared to talk on it. My old dad said I must be mistook and dreaming 'cos there was no witches for hundreds of years. I don't care 'cos I was there and remember it. Strange 'cos some times I can't even remember your name.

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Back when Ondas rode mit Oben twas spells und Odin wha help they cross the sea fra Jutland ta England. Boss a Beawulf, a sea wolf landed doon in Sutton Hoo. Me’s a think here wa english borned, speak, spoke und mother tongue. Here clever hands med und forged a gret folded blade long before iaito. Also, here did peoples form und forge a gret language.

E’anglian dilec musta bin the sound d'anglais afore moderne.
All across das Suffolk land und deep in soft hallowed soil, is laid down histry fra gret kingsmen und mathers. This place und peoples become to Romans signifying death und ignominy.
Any way cant speak proppa nor ent nah need ta writ proppa bout language und das big born numbers. Gret navigators sailed neath das star felds out das north. Norse men und vedic Arians fra Indus, wit omni tongues und dilecs, formed a Sutton Hoo here in das heartland. Not das midland.

On a coast a ost come they ta life, die und bury here. Bury gold und gret sword of laminate med before any other to be ostentatious. To show extent of power und riches was a king med down to rest. Showd das world here do power reside. Treasure of gret prize was buried wit he like as in pharoaic ritual tho, the gretest prize were english.
Now, today sum muther f’s spit da uthas ripped raps from da dead hip hop in England? Cry somebody might be Larry or Harry but cry salt tears fuh ya self hating, language negating, low vibrating lexicon. Is kinda like whining not shining und worst, undermining yo people.
  Want ta walk me to das end of das Nazareth plain my love? We’ll take some pusta beans to fry und try them well. When we get home shall us have kisses before them sweet deep sleepings?
Hold up your string let swing the guiding stone. Magneta norse shall be us guide safe ta shelter, estuary und home here in England……..

Some times cruelty begins with words. Dignity and modesty molested.  
"Wash out your mouth with soap you dirty girl. Idle hands make work for the devil".  It can get worse with no regard for privacy or rights basic to every one of us. They are ignorant and cruel. One old man told I - They have dark angels following they, everywhere they goes. He said, " I know where the Nazis in the camps do come from and we must love us all to keep from going there."

Him and her were bad and sneaky too. They used to be in charge of the Institoot. It's got a new name now. It's called the Instantanium. Him and her are banished and vanished, as it should be. We do not hate 'em but we don't love or like 'em, as it should be. They were cruel and took from all of us. They had no pride and no shame. Folks don't want 'em back, ever. They'd be suckin' the little power that leaks from the cobalt blue and warm pathways. Folks say "Don't let them back in, especially him".

M said "I want some warm comfort, some wibbly wobbly where it gentle in the dark by the new switches on Runaway 5".
"Have you been? " asked the long serving helper or LSP, for short. "Have you been?"

"Mean piss and shit?" asks Bean. "Not that kind. Green kind germinate. Same tail sound like masturbate and all the better for it. Just 'cos I'm not as green or mean as you don't mean can't do nothin'. I say I can. They say I can't. Means I probably won't. Is not fair. Just is not just".

LSP grunts somethin' about " trying the patience of Hove". I went there on away day. Quite nice that Hove. Please let me be by the warm pathways. I can go but can't walk. That won't stop me. Help me.  Don't know who LSP is anu. Whoops! nearly wrote anus. I was going to write any more but I can't remember what that means any more, oh yes! that’s it. Any way, I reckon  she'll be called Susan soon.

In the Institoot some help come but with strings be attached. If I don't let you help me in ways you want, you start look away days again. Always me price to pay 'cos you gotta definition of ugly baby. I don't see ugly. See only folks big and little with good stuff in 'em and bad too.
This door then. It's just like bein' born, sort of. But you are same like me when you can't walk through it  talkin' proper. On other side switch thingies and buttons folk are doin' stuff.
It's a new kind of life in there. M can have make love. Not dirty. No one judge. It's a calm place too in the warm and blue.

A girl singing and laughing lights up the dappled glade where a small stream bubbles across old slate, once traversed by dinosaurs, falling and rushing to the salt flat estuary and beyond into the living ocean.
Low and deep like the bass end of the God light pop there is a noise that comes out my own head, through the same mouth that has made love and voiced words that threatened, comforted and tried to explain. The same head and heart that railed against conformity is now more quieted and calm. Still, a strong desire to be a part of change prevails.

Smash the plectrum down in a slashing arc that makes the speakers sing a strident song for dancing wildly with out restraint of any kind in a place where no king can rule. Let the rippling chords crash out far and wide like chiming gongs of burnished bright metal, like ice on fire and the voices of ancient sages. Let the voices be heard. Let the truth in.

Here I am as naked, a warrior at your service. The war is forever until the light has penetrated the hearts of the spoilers, until the music has touched us deeply and made us better, conscious and less ordinary. The great sounds that rang out at the beginning of time are still ringing faintly. Listen for the smallest good vibration. Find it in your own slowing; deepening breath as you close your eyes to see. Understand that what was, has passed. What might be is not yet made. Beside a bamboo screen a drummer stands on the other side of a dream waiting in the near light. We all wait for the small change when silence will give way to expression, that small rolling beginning that rises and crashes across the music giving it life with new intervals between the lines and spaces. Change from a whisper to a thunderous, beating, liberation. Six strings a clanging, six white horses a dancing in sunshine. I feel the far off sway in the half-light. You know we can’t stay in the dream time.
It is green tea time.

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