Exhibition text: The Epilogue

An Epilogue

By Daniel Wilkinson AKA NIFF Books

A text to accompany Simon English Paint Your Wagon


The Epilogue is placed some sixty or so yards from Maureen and roughly about fifty or so from a Wagon dripping, sitting in a camper-site. Going by its bilious pong we should possibly assume it’s playing to conceal a handful of pirouetting abstractions dealing solely with ideals rather than actual events, there are no eyes here.


“Well, there’s unquestionably no greasy pole!” Utters the ideally distanced Epilogue. The lonely momentous brute is flat-out screeching, searching with its left talon through magnetic analogues for a top of the range ditty whilst it’s right is callously bashing and tinkering at an obtuse button on its portable player. The slow-witted pause gives out a closing click, clack, click of disobe-dience as its obtuse determination finally ceases and consents to the constant brutal begging. It performs an emotional array of euphonic devotions into the Epilogue’s orange ears.


“Haaaaarrrrrrrrrr, finally, finally!” It calmly whispers to itself. “Take me to your hip”. The magnetic analogue interrupts, screeches and continues with, “June 4th, 1989, Primrose Hill, Staten Island, Chalk Farm” then “the kids swimming pools”, followed by, “Look at me and look at you” and finally, “Would you like some sweets, Willy?”


“Oh bollox you bloody Prickly Pears”, Shouts the angry Epilogue as it smashes its portable player against the nearest hyacinth. The magnetic analogue’s finale cuts in. “And I’d ladder my tights”.


Since when all that was, an inconsiderable hard-state atmospheric plume­ now appears to be descending steadily upon, into the Epilogue’s inconsistency.

This so-called hard-state disorder falls with an absolute terror through, passed, and into the eyes, those eyes so glazed, crazed determination, it struggles to find a balance. Its distasteful hefty clusters of desiccated hair flops, flaps round whilst to counteract the misbalanced terror it unleashes, shoves its hefty packet of twisting love-globes downwards towards the endless freeze of the midnight air.


A passing celestial sphere is partially eclipsed by the figure’s fur covered love-mounds as it finds, gains equilibrium, and stands on its tightly knotted loins, then stoops as its wrinkled golden face peers down at its undulated reflection. It gives off an aura of pure unacceptable mischievousness and evil expressed through its efficacious tangerine eyes. Heedless of companions, it begins to bellow in its homesick tone.


“You can look at the stars, look at the oceans; the answer’s somewhere, here’s what I reckon; close your eyes, kiss the future, and jump the morgue”.


A gliding serpent of memory swishes by, its motions are truly deep and quick.


Two prickly pears or a pair of pricks look up at the sentimental monstrosity’s bulging bags of baby’s best fluidic love.


Prickly Pear 1:

“Oh dearie me, did Maureen receive our message?“

Prickly Pear 2:

“Big in-it? And yes she has, but she named it dub step and danced to it”.


Suddenly Prickly Pear 2 starts talking about the mighty Epilogue, and Prickly Pear 1’s jaw drops. Contrary to what Pear 2 was trying to do, Prickly Pear 1 has just made the Epilogue more tangible.


“TUT TUT, is that true?” cheers an Australian audience.


Prickly Pear 1 is almost squashed under the hefty weight of the Epilogue’s hairy love mounds as it spreads its valley wide, wide open and slowly perches the mounds over the Prickly Pears.


Prickly Pear 2: “Phew!! That was super lucky!, A large Epilogue couldn’t live in a book as small as this, and that’s if there was an Epilogue, the reader would have instinctively unseen it!”


“But who am I to say!, lets come away now” at this Hairy Pear 1 was bashed on, over by the Epilogue’s lengthy and drawn-out swaying pumped-up horsey meat. The copper’s ideal bashed into the frigid lake, praising waves long-licked its sinking carcass trunk of tangerine love.


“Swish it goes!” Said a fly.

“Wow, it goes!” Says Princess Di.

And there it goes, goodbye.



From there and then, here, and now into the uncanny  gloom of the untimely freezing evening air, the moon concedes with its fortune and gallops into its ritual once more. The Prickly Pears become afraid, and the gathering galloping deteriorates our little scene with the Pears bouncing up then down across to the other leaf to look for Maureen.


“You took my sinuses out of context“, Weeping Prickly Pear 1 to Prickly Pear 2.

“Well let me kiss you hard in the morning” Prickly Pear 2 kissing Prickly Pear 1.


Hand grips hand they are silhouetted by passing suns, down to Greenwich reach past the Isle of Dogs, that comes from fairy tales of Hoxton jumble sales