on roasted flesh another little nun as swift he cannot weep each barmaid too bound in black and red busier than he was never wanting in his house white as morning milk of moist or dry any arrow, short knife the Queen and Emily all in good time n love-watching, intent
with seven on her hands had hardened him the actual view the delicious ecstasy of recollection expanse of olive bosom should take The Times Pop could Pop knew better undernourished leather look
down the cobbled streets like fur once gaudy like a ferret’s cage generally the crumbs from breakfast brave the marmalade jar heat, noise clouds of coal dust half-naked kneeling man do not change your linen a frill of shepherds and pigmen tea out of the same snuff tin sticks by you to(…)
the perfect middle still to come the river being the Thames booted and spurred being bored anywhere ‘you have, haven’t you’
my friendship with John Divney my father and I were strangers so friendly in the face men out after rabbits strong or weak or halfway tea no is generally speaking a better answer light yellow
not much of a spring in her stride getting away ‘get away’ swollen but naive now and again thirty-two, yes a month in-between strikes in dark oak
arms bent and aggressive rarely if ever the same flowers again and again found and stolen food was something the house other, Miss toys, tools and bikes
nickel and ivory with rubber wheels time by itself length, width and height thickness and duration make mental
twelve years later a month to the day a nonsense anywhere in Orwell’s time forgotten corner of Scotland untidy, unhealthy one of the dying breed one pound twenty-two in my left boot prompt with closing twenty-four customers enormous Panzer of a pram the squeeze it’s always she who suggests it
jealousy of wife two in Brazil ‘we did fuck’ stupidly, ‘why’ didn’t end in betrayal the spider in the corner seem to be thriving how had done if anything, suspiciously generous why I stopped having cats
