rich.
Chris stares at the road ahead. Soon I give him the wheel and doze. They call this place England.
My dear. That was one of the hot summers. The amber of the beer infused the early evening. From where we sat in the yard of The Wakefield I could see a burst of poplars shattering the sunlight. My dear, there is a death of bricks.
— Is she one of your—?
The shop-keeper unfolded into a scholar, at least an amateur archaeologist. He knew a great deal about Michael Ventris and Linear B. Everyone came. A builder with a joke about a bed-bug. You came, my dear, with that young Turkish chap and a small boy.
— Is she one of your—?
We are mocked by asphalt. The trees leap up to intercept the sunlight which streaks to this pub across ninety-two million miles of space.
Trodden paths are now air networks and are twining outwards into space networks, built by Guinness-loving builders. Do you understand anything but love? That’s a nice little boy. He just called me ‘dad’.
The car drummed North. When we stopped for petrol my patron and ancient colleague of Paris bohemia paid for most of it. When we stopped for lunch my patron and affluent friend picked up the bill. When we reached Edinburgh, another American from a Tartar khanate attempted to drillflesh into my words but the cast rebelled. Chris and I lived in the death of a residential suburb where hate and love are modalities of income.
— The theatre is words.
I insisted. But the American embraced gesture and stifled my words. The critics came and blasted us both. At night in the bar a hundred girls breathed through their cunts and the despair which is the nucleus of desire wracked my whisky-drenched brain. I knew then that I would always be broke.
— Is she one of your—?
You know that girl. Her name is urn. She was expecting her family to tea but we got drunk at lunchtime. I drove her over the hump and we stopped where the red tubular trains hit daylight. Her room was bright and overlooked cabbages. Oh we were drunk. She asked me if I preferred that she retain her suspenders but I forget what I said. Then I poked her sideways and she refused to have orgasms because of her liking for you. You girls—your loyalties are subtle these days. The thin shrill of the doorbell aroused me and I exclaimed:
— Your family!
She exclaimed.
— My God!
We had slept for hours. It was a moment rich in comedy of a type suitable for a bawdy film director. There were mum and dad, come to visit their chaste girl and there we were clammy in her bed. Everything had to be done—dressing and tidying up and shifting me down to the bog on the floor below so that she could rush finally to the door, call them back from where they had started away forlornly up the street, convey them upstairs past the lavatory where I mused and have a nice family tea. Then I slipped silently out of the house and roared off through the bright suburb in my ponce’s convertible . All these houses—we call it London.
You came back to me from Southampton.
My darling, it wasn’t anywhere. We walked on the rim of the land in Guernsey. A yellow bird flared up out of the gorseof Dorset. We struggled through storm along the Cornish cliffs. And we had a cottage there, the sea clawing at our sleep and a red rogue next door to urge, whenever we set off:
— Go to bed. I’d go to bed if I were you.
But no durable home for our love.
— If things were different—
Still you came back to me from Southampton.
— We’ll have quiet evenings.
My sad and vulnerable wife. You were his then. I had half-feared you would embark with him for the Levant. But you came back to me from Southampton.
— I promised to go for a holiday—in six months.
You denied that you were keeping yourself for him but you refused me your body. How could I stay in the flat? But my departure this time was in a different key. You came to the dingy room in the Irish maisonette that I had found. You gave me plates and cutlery and
Chris stares at the road ahead. Soon I give him the wheel and doze. They call this place England.
My dear. That was one of the hot summers. The amber of the beer infused the early evening. From where we sat in the yard of The Wakefield I could see a burst of poplars shattering the sunlight. My dear, there is a death of bricks.
— Is she one of your—?
The shop-keeper unfolded into a scholar, at least an amateur archaeologist. He knew a great deal about Michael Ventris and Linear B. Everyone came. A builder with a joke about a bed-bug. You came, my dear, with that young Turkish chap and a small boy.
— Is she one of your—?
We are mocked by asphalt. The trees leap up to intercept the sunlight which streaks to this pub across ninety-two million miles of space.
Trodden paths are now air networks and are twining outwards into space networks, built by Guinness-loving builders. Do you understand anything but love? That’s a nice little boy. He just called me ‘dad’.
The car drummed North. When we stopped for petrol my patron and ancient colleague of Paris bohemia paid for most of it. When we stopped for lunch my patron and affluent friend picked up the bill. When we reached Edinburgh, another American from a Tartar khanate attempted to drillflesh into my words but the cast rebelled. Chris and I lived in the death of a residential suburb where hate and love are modalities of income.
— The theatre is words.
I insisted. But the American embraced gesture and stifled my words. The critics came and blasted us both. At night in the bar a hundred girls breathed through their cunts and the despair which is the nucleus of desire wracked my whisky-drenched brain. I knew then that I would always be broke.
— Is she one of your—?
You know that girl. Her name is urn. She was expecting her family to tea but we got drunk at lunchtime. I drove her over the hump and we stopped where the red tubular trains hit daylight. Her room was bright and overlooked cabbages. Oh we were drunk. She asked me if I preferred that she retain her suspenders but I forget what I said. Then I poked her sideways and she refused to have orgasms because of her liking for you. You girls—your loyalties are subtle these days. The thin shrill of the doorbell aroused me and I exclaimed:
— Your family!
She exclaimed.
— My God!
We had slept for hours. It was a moment rich in comedy of a type suitable for a bawdy film director. There were mum and dad, come to visit their chaste girl and there we were clammy in her bed. Everything had to be done—dressing and tidying up and shifting me down to the bog on the floor below so that she could rush finally to the door, call them back from where they had started away forlornly up the street, convey them upstairs past the lavatory where I mused and have a nice family tea. Then I slipped silently out of the house and roared off through the bright suburb in my ponce’s convertible . All these houses—we call it London.
You came back to me from Southampton.
My darling, it wasn’t anywhere. We walked on the rim of the land in Guernsey. A yellow bird flared up out of the gorseof Dorset. We struggled through storm along the Cornish cliffs. And we had a cottage there, the sea clawing at our sleep and a red rogue next door to urge, whenever we set off:
— Go to bed. I’d go to bed if I were you.
But no durable home for our love.
— If things were different—
Still you came back to me from Southampton.
— We’ll have quiet evenings.
My sad and vulnerable wife. You were his then. I had half-feared you would embark with him for the Levant. But you came back to me from Southampton.
— I promised to go for a holiday—in six months.
You denied that you were keeping yourself for him but you refused me your body. How could I stay in the flat? But my departure this time was in a different key. You came to the dingy room in the Irish maisonette that I had found. You gave me plates and cutlery and
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