Thursday 23 March 2017, New Cross Gate

To overindulge us with love would be lovely indeed!  Report from a suburban garden.  District where there’s a reason to be childless; australasian world of regret for as far as the cowboy can ride.

Wednesday 22 March 2017, New Cross Gate

First Act:  Booze, backless sofa.

Lure.  Encountered, destined.  Disgrace to linger, distant.

Worker in stone wedding one of two beloved short term workers.  Greek letter, tenant’s payment.  Not happy.


Two:  “Are there such days at the end of three months in which a female, at middle age, can see herself?”


Three:  Funeral car.

Tuesday 21 March 2017, Denmark Hill

Acid angel. Lawful spree, pick-me-up!

Allude to alleviation; to rushed nakedness, meat cure, colour…

Rendezvous nipped – diced, parted. 

Outlaw silenced.


Music making Sarah somewhat sad?  Young actress playing with rattles for gentleman’s enjoyment.  A little cough, with breathlessness, upsets me… (my thoughts ought not be included in these stories). 

She can take in one hand something like a submarine or a cigar; it may bring a touching response when put out – a hole in the eye!

 

Thursday 16 March 2017, Camden Town

She has hesitation in describing fine stockings to royal maids, perhaps to survive terrible evil.


Not all little angels are sylph-like where all that ice can be broken with ease.  Make disclosures about meat – something harpies have to eat.

Do the dance.  Dislikes undue haste.  Promise of freedom…

The French man, hedonistic fellow, cut with an oblique stroke: economy in execution.

Wednesday 15 March 2017, New Cross Gate

Female swan, man’s name;

intimate friend, very much aged.  Injury, wound, uneven walk. 

Nasal opening, drinking tube stretch tight, colourless gas –

stop briefly!  Lukewarm whirlpool –

cease.


He doesn’t tell terrible lies…

College girl.  To complete her name takes a mere trice.  Billy got out, with heavy heart.  Went different ways with soft tread, perhaps.  His pupils wouldn’t miss him.

An absorbing and refreshing thing to do: food and a good massage.  A shot at writing, an eye for a drink.  Being inactive makes a good person bad.

Very well, it’s noisy in the city.  Because of this comparatively little is heard; an eighth of the music.  Make for Maidenhead!

 

Tuesday 14 March 2017, Farringdon

She anticipates.

It’s worth getting excited when you have a fling.  Run around in a trance.

It’s served in the late afternoon: in a monastery garden?  New Orleans?  Spare room?  Not exactly.  Woman getting the house in a state – goodness, what a shame about the echo!

Moday 13 March 2017, New Cross Gate

A long time in the rain.

The menagerie lake: it’s edgy where there’s a chance of falling overboard. 

Though erotic, she was nothing for males to be mad about.  Plenty of shape, perhaps.  A blue one is hardly great for the ornithologist.

The stuff a saint is made of?  A punitive politician figure in a new role as Romeo criticised a wild breed touring the kingdom: where to keep women – people of the inconclusive kind – in their place?  It’s bad when there’s a missing part, it’s apt to become attached to you, naturally. 

“Three could put you to sleep.”

Distraught, I fled the scene of the battle.

Wednesday 8 March 2017, Tottenham Court Road

Memorise, solidify

longing skin.

Tear means ripped trust: breach. 


Long ago it was written up in the dailies – for the poet it’s not all over!  City of strange moods.

“Drink, little one.”  Struggles to digest tablets.

The burden on the states: she’s almost Hibernian, lately needing to depend on having little money for the cost of cigarettes.  Nobody will deny this vague individual something to eat before breakfast.  She’s in the right!

Annie’s wrong to be so silly; ridicule can get one in tears, possibly.  Takes a little drink to be carried back in the same direction, mistakenly sent home.

Bossy, heartless, wild fellows: “drink, little one.” 

Takes a little drink.