How am i going t’ push the clover?

howmi spose t’ push this book over

the one line rides and the rest of the history’s already over.

kin. speed. That fatter they scream, the louder holdemup shouts

the lower the scenery. doubt. Exclusion, spose you could lend me a roller?

If i could use a blues slide and i slip from place to place,

form printworks armature to the plain walled place,

when, how, what’ll it take?

It’s a mute ande clad, it’s a one way been had,

it’s a bent spoon frenzy, and a dehydrated lad,

please summer, let’s not let this shared scent roll over.

Set in the black of yesterday,
feeling the foolish to be good in the ghoul of a belonging yesterday.
Degree of separations set me free, lone too short to estimate stabilise,
crashing through notions of a lost sincerity.

Not a vulgar partisan, but embellished stark, romantic in thoughts.
Of Parisian tiles, darkening confidence along the footraise, branched in the face by a tree stumping ‘thwark’!
feeling through rough footsteps adhere to call, i step down and remove my hat.
us innocent boys tuning vulnerably awake to unmet buttered bespoke contactalia, with Bristolian soft intellects, with blue coat and blue eyes and fair
A lover unmet, a director, hold me tight i wished,
as i sift,
between sale books and forgotten novellas, ah, the art of the novella,
and whatever meant to be British.

Oh Oscar,
in need of you now,
feel cannot speak a yield in a row, a war wishing upon to be brave,
i am forever in need of you now.

Wishing Brave dead gentry,
told of love turning centuries by a sour - Innocence
within me. amok
and i cannot take it anymore lightly by this hour, than a simple wish to be sincere.
When dark space is an all but collapsing,
and my beautiful eyes a shade in the dark as i feel everyone elses.

With furs on my head,
a wolf blue rim surrounds the blacks of my eyes,

suffrage,
i do not brave to be kind. shamble,
i dream on, rabbit. .
while the black rim of my eye straggles a wolf in there.

Not brave enough child, to be kind and sincere,
too innocent child, to exert my fears.

Buisness enterprise flop and pitch

You are plauged by your inspirators,
you know nothing of plato, neither i yet but first hand experience of man blessed as age of folly is reduced to bear foot and chest in the sun, radiant.

I’d i’d like you to know how it feels to recive in England, Russian impirial decadence as  decending folly, that is truer dark romanticism,
the rush of cars, semantics. .
owf. .
You know, though you don’t, that i arrived picking flowers to give to administation,
to which i was late, to give you theatre, and you looked so stunned that i was stunned by your incapacity to recieve it.
The size of my adam’s apple to you, was sweat nor tears.

In my days after away from you,
my view chasing away toudoit i knew.
running my finger tips along parisian stairwell rails,
the haunch of winter comes a battance to me.
sail, sail as turn my neck a tail,
a fur, behind you were.

The sound always a contemporian orchestra,
gestures towards a straight, narrow, norsimple nor complex. .

it chimes, it lye abouts, it’s energy is restless, it ships through bells like aries palms faces at cupid, laughs it piffs it paffs,
poof. .
scupper moon, in due, of gemini.

What chases me away from living memory?
Whats the cause of this prefectual living forgetfulnessesity?
whats this impassiance of dolling idle on a matlepiece, wax and leather?
nothing but immemorial, feather with hat notes and litergies.
Where can i find you my ongulating love?
Madam, malley cat. .

No friends only myself to my love. .
Only you can tell me of my wrongs gifted above.

What i find particular about today’s illustration of tomorrow,
is the general fascination one has of folklore,
at such a distance i find tepid to the truth. .
Must the folklore involve the artist?
why keep the dreams at a side dish to a reality,
there is a quote by William Burrows which enters my head;
there is no difference separate between the world of symbol and itself.

To Illustrate is to halt, at one’s beign flight, bait feigns distantly,
be close, arouse, never my life away from my endeavours,
whether nostalgic, present or of individual hope,
above all, it always certainly involves me, consciously, constantly.

School

To mrs Scott-Malden
In class of 9,
a turn of a shoulder in history resulted in explicit fine,
as william morris was not talked of once, nor art in history never coinside.
Campbell the mistress, my tutor, we unconcious fetters,
we loved one another, we talked about liberating notions, floral, diaries and secret notes in her back cupboard i would imagine. .
though it was never to be our duty, nor the hours of 9 to 5 - Discussion.
Age had decencies, and she was yet to recieve a ring, enganged to a man dispicable of wealth, these tendencies, i knew it as a 15 year old boy.
i remember once, an exam, i could not remember the name of a general leader of military services in Vietnam, to my surprise why did English academia think of its importance to teach us of american structural millitant faliures?
I was whisked by a voice of hers which only arosed erotic fetching of mispleasure.
I liked the way my teacher wore awkard shoes to match her little feet.
Every time she sent me out to an empty corridor of occasional passers, i knew her beauty wouldn’t last as long as her freckles, so bitter i felt, i knew this was our secret theatre - none of the classmates would understand.
sexual tentions of liberties - the day she got her engagment ring.