Good morning world. No bites. Blue skies and a freshness which was not felt yesterday. Time for coffee. The couple don't drink it. I can understand why not. Not ripe apples: which look like cider apples.
The last day of March begins With the sun cornered between Clouds and St James' Hospital And me sat in the same space Wondering when this will finish? The voices in my head are reaching Outward, from where they'd been Relegated to an occasional threat, To become emboldened by others Who always judge on partial evidence. Give me back my feet, and my Way, otherwise I will cave in And mutate again becoming lesser When all I seek is magnitude! Yet isn't it still my choice to walk? Bored of switching on the radio With it's list from panic measures, And hearsay, dropping "mights" Into the doomsaying with this Negative wassailing upward creep! Crawling back into the kitchen, Stirring, sideways, this familiar vessel, A subcontinential spicy ration, Breaking my fast, prior to One form of exercise without prejudice. Cruelly formulated in this cell, By those without a free instinct; Charmless, bland or banal. Gruel they serve up in bitter measures Isn't ...
Andrew Lambert is a name I've just heard Anthony suggest he is a reincarnation of. 56 years. Anthony is 33 and he's a handsome boy. Gave him the only quid I can spare. Is it possible to be the reincarnation of someone still alive? Anthony often talks about the military, but he says a different kind of soldier. Money he is owed by the church. He's definitely entitled to PIP back payment: is it three years since he stepped ashore with Blue (beautiful Weimaraner boy long since deceased) But I think he'd still remain at large outside Costa just prior to its opening times: 8 am on a Sunday. This is the wrong book! It's in the original tongue, but my comprehension of French doesn't go as deep as this requires: "A la Recherche du Temps Perdu, 1" and I stumble at longtemps ... long ago. It's an interesting error. Perhaps I needed to pay more attention to Mr Le Bourdon, in 1MD, before unwittingly climbing on to that Coach to Berck (the cat is on the table ...
Oh little girl staring at me. Roundhay, street lane. Must've been something I said or did or felt? A heart so empty and nick drake brays on too long Again repeated colours of brown, beige, yellow and cream. Random art that we can't help but frown at It is nothing; it is hard to define its edges. My mind is like sludge as i took a decision Severing my tie with dirty bad rotten caffeine Nothing in this coffee and nothing in this daydream. I guess i'll need talk to everyone, maybe one will smile But if i squander my coffee shops style then where? Miles of dreary roads and shopping queues. I text to often and oftener hear silence, monotonous I consider this my death by arabica and robusta And dwell on that hate which murders and kills A high hair wine bespoken ugly brat with voice Ah, winehouse you sing woefully of trouble From your voice I feel a bubble consciously explode.
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