bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonn...

Sloping up before the terraced house in which we lived between 1980 and December 1993 there's this Hoo Hill. I typed of it before. Mention it in my 1st poem Womb Tomb Movie. On the hillcrest, which is a cowfield, stands the Hoo obelisk commemorating an ancient nunnery destroyed in the English Reformation and as a youth I thought and I still think the hill has spiritual significance. I named it The Dream Come True. This shit's important to me. And that Monday, as we strolled past the field that separates our old street and Hoo, I'd never seen this Mojave Desert before. A building site. Bungalows without glass or frames in the windows, bungalows without roof tiles. Or are they cottages? That's irrelevant. There was a JCB digger, 2 cement mixers, a few more bungalows, a headfuck of an encroachment of my dreams. Bullshit, I said. And to sound semi-literary, my heart knocked a desolate thump saying pathetically: Nobody knows me. Nobody knows me. Nobody knows me.