Old ladies. Drunken old-ladies. Please God, more drunken old ladies in club groups in pub booths! All women are always children somewhere; hidden though not all that well.
Double thumbs-up from the specced grey-head in the corner.
A good time and with dignity, a balance I have often failed to attain.
*, take me kicking and screaming, broken and bleeding; take me to Portugal then take me to Spain. Following the star but not of that man, from this meaningless bar to the wheels of a Spanish Caravan. Leaving with closed doors on supposed bores, living in rows on alternate floors.
Dancing in fours across the moors, breathing in spores, psichedelia roars.
ROOOAAAAAAAARRR!!
Wow, look at all those colours gracing the faces of childless mothers, mindless brothers sleeping under warm covers. Shit! Where are the others?
As many spies, to my eyes revealed lying dormant, in constant fields. I have little understanding why, I alone lie standing. Sly handling, I seat to the beat of horses’ feet. Taking rapid peep at vapid sheep.
Will I keep from the blurring light, the slurring might of uncertain sleep?
One passional last grasp at the rational mast of a reasonable past. Keeping from sleeping I am not.
Perhaps where I lie is here I die.
I get into the making of innocent awaking
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