As he looked, I snuck in through the gates.
'There Are No Prostitutes At This Address.' Byron spins me Arlo
Guthrie, and in The Rochester we meet a fly in a long, black coat. He
was fiddling with a pork-scratching. We could have been destined for a
similar meal, but I am thankful for the family-tree, willowing us away
to The Lady of Delicious Quiche, and all of her friends.
A head pokes out from rubbish bags, and tells me a story that flies me high, south over the Thames.
Up in these galleries, there is soft lighting. I heard a Mason mutter. I
met a big-brother-writer-sister for supper, and saw my favourite
Gertler. More and more! My man in a top-hat and tails showed me his
digs, discovering many ancient bones. I dug it!
El Protaganisto took me to the Cittie of York / Cittie of Waistcoats /
Cittie of Wheat Beer. More and more! Queen Elizabeth re-installs a
Banksy on Whymark Avenue, rolls-off a trampoline and red wines our
cheeks.
Ultimately, Lord Gosh watches me and my fitty feeder dance and I am
overwhelmed by all of this romance! Sol is the hopeful handshake before I
flick my eyes. I flick my eyes. I flick my eyes.
At the beginning of the week, I told St. Peter there was a pig flying -
just there, over his right shoulder. As he looked, I snuck in through
the gates.
CH, 17th March 2013
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