Some of you people probably didn't know I am a sensitive softie sometimes.
I bet you think that I am so full o' bile and hate that I could never sit back and simply enjoy what life brings to me and appreciate stuff.
Well...in answer to that I would say you are wrong and that you should take a spool of corroded concertina wire...and gingerly...and with much zeal...go fuck yourself.
I am not mean.
So eat me.
Anyhoo...I came home from work a couple of days ago and these were exploding in my neglected garden.
Aren't they stunning?
They are poppies, but they are not they variety one produces hallucinogens with.
They are poppies to look at and thank God about in bewildered wonderment.
The red petals are said to represent the blood spilled in wars.
The black center is said to be a cross signifying God or a grave marker.
Poppies are very popular in the United Kingdom with people who are in the "forces" and with folks there who remember the cream of a generation being mowed down wholesale for no good reason by German machine guns.
It is very sad to think about it sometimes.
In the UK, people who still speak English and are patriotic and are not Muslim wear poppies in November to mark Remembrance Day. It's kinda like our November Veterans Day or our May Memorial Day here in the US, but a little less arrogant.
My poppies bloom every May. With Memorial Day coming, it is very appropriate.
That's what I think.
I've heard that poppies grow abundantly in disturbed soil, and that old European battlefields which were churned up by artillery fire are now blanketed with poppies.
It's almost as if all the souls of all those young men violently snuffed out...for imbecilic reasons, or no purpose at all...are reaching out and saying, "We were important. We meant something. We had beautiful potential. Remember us."