The bird of the play is the Wood Hoopoe.
The Silent film of the play is “Souls for Sale” a 1923 film starring Eleanor Boardman.
The random black and white photo of the play is Alice White and her airplane hat.
Absurd Rum Joke. A salad salute to random day collections of thick sweltertops in stormy rainfall. Town on the side of an idle hill is no scouse excuse for me to be inside the door or beneath a helpful floor ceiling. How about my noise for note taking? A foot, birch for wood, touch a cuff or sail away in a ship that promises nothing. Delicious doors, odor of mostly oatmeal. Friendly focal groups list in badly cast old boating. The smart mother will chain her children to a feather pier to coast, and with their talent in pieces, sleep. The go-away-BIRD job of an uncle sips on the summer’s shine. I spy for the captain, barometers supple hegemony, his subtle carpals bound in a palaver of soap. Simple trophy in the afterglow supper. Place mats at mundane angles. Watercress and ink purloin a smitten samovar for drinks so sad the leaves grow grateful. Bring me bought things, sing me dove’s wing, love to count a few things needed. Less or fewer than it took. Torn right index is a digit muffled. The crew salute as latent heat gets to the bread eventually. So dada swims lately making rooms for wines to nowt. It wasn’t a decision to find Reinhardt a mouse.
He’ll never become weather he’ll never become someone’s watery old song. A round delay, a mountain gives up a swing by a stream of a thousand clowns year. Little antler gone after the grate and Fenian star just inside the almond is a round red billow. The shy hand fed double bunk beds and the cold spell-tower took a broom-sized face cloth anchored to hip and thwacked under an awning of bloom leaves stuck by dew. The ceremony began for so few of us but travel has a log, a whisper, and an antidote to fog. Old for the while I submit forty eight years of crime and a century of pillow dust to the endgame; and of course a short ‘your worship please’ to a crusty throat-poet. The never forever is a penny of seven whispers and a fellow brim full of something lazy. Aspen skis itself through the summer hedge. A ‘tri-tone’ tradition, a triatholon for a solider when mauled. A bear takes the young of a day into her padded care. The only trap relief offers is escape and onyx tablets bring the yuletide to a knee. A marsupial flux, post-mark now voyager Manitoba Israel try out for penmanship and carbon parsimony. Honey spits homily. Dial free-tone so slick it feels like a fixture list that can de-rail the date and time will follow, snakes minding their own rattle. Corporate mistakes honor their own.