Hit by the external strangeness of, I saunter comme un flaneur down Parkway into Camden Town, trop internationale, mon sens as indeed, Rimbaud may have done, saw a box car freight train over viaduct edging by Canal in Lock-gate time, the metro girl, long Containers bound for China in sunlight hot for November. I lost a clear idea of what era it was, who wore that hat. Each Euro-national was there, and pretty from Bolivia.
November 21st en passant
OBR Idiocy
Do they think we are idiot ? We still do not have Government. Fifteen billion more of debt in but another month ; no jest. Maybe they are all dire Brownite, spivving to everlasting night. Full of invaders, Camden street hulking on borrowed money : this is left-wing insanity. To die, for crminality. The OBR : the cover-up kids for junk gorging on no Gilt bids. Is the homicidal, monster Gold thief in the fiddle figure.
November 21st/22nd
Back To White, Camden for Amy Winehouse
Many a Councillor has yet to study T.S. Eliot. In St Silas, a patron Saint
entirely free of Mecca rant, hot women unable to pant or on a trampoline, to chant.
Unrooved, In Part
A howling gale in my Gallery quarter, part Conservatory this morning, one table icy ; and Joan for the mortuary.
I, from Burnt Norton IV, not III at the Northchapel Funeral after snow fell on each lapel, my slow reading like a scalpel.
Nov. 22nd for a November 25th the day Joan suddenly died
