аўторак, 28 ліпеня 2009 г.

A drunk told me this, late at a bus stop

Hogg, the name was, I believe. Couldn't try doing any more fills, got to clean the dream. And all the gas was spilling into the tank by the river. Clouds closing in, deep blue they were, and then black. Saw a cyclist, reading a crow on another bike. Harvester of sorrow. They played that one late into the morning, surrounded by grapes. Keeled over near Stoke on Trent, found an empty pack of recycled paper and did a dance. Shaved both armpits, grew a beard and walked to Walthamstow. Long way from Stokey. More bitten fingernails than I could throw my dice at. Florida next. What? No, not walking, kites is what they use nowadays. If I took half a pint of kite and threw petrol at it, I'd get 'ghite'. Know what that means? 'Trower'. Gilded like a stolen hand, flaing in the breeze, I walk down the lane. Little circuit, down the pasture, over the hill, through the canal and into the pond. Five pounds please. Can I pay later? No sorry we haven't got any more guidebooks so we're only profiting from ticket sales.

And then he walked off, into the night.