There's something about the saturation of words, like a barrage, that I find difficult to chew on. At the same time, maybe that's just because I'm reading a load of quotes out of any context.
I know I'm not being very helpful here. But I suppose what I'm saying, in another way, is that with these things, they seem almost beyond any discussion. You read the thing, that's it.
The rain stopped
She drives swift and immaculate out over, free of these obscuring waters; frets their fringes splendid.
A silver hurrying to silver this waste
silver for bolt-shoulders
silver for butt-heel-irons
silver beams search the interstices, play for breech-blocks underneath the counterfeiting bower-sway; make-believe a silver scar with drenched tree-wound; silver-trace a festooned slack; faery-bright a filigree with gooseberries and picket-irons - grace this mauled earth -
transfigure our infirmity -
shine on us.
I want you to play with
and the stars as well.
i think i might go to the pub and read a bit more of it. ive got a hell shift tomorrow and im dreading it. 6.45-17.30. probably shouldn't drink it'll just make it worse but on the other hand, how can it get any worse.
I went to the bar with the intention of reading more but I ended up fucking about on here and I've probably had too many beers to carry on properly now. Useful to go back over stuff and type it out though.
One thing I wondered about, londoners, does any of the cockney they speak in this book still exist today? Or has it been almost totally consigned to history?
One thing I wondered about, londoners, does any of the cockney they speak in this book still exist today? Or has it been almost totally consigned to history?
This site uses cookies to help personalise content, tailor your experience and to keep you logged in if you register.
By continuing to use this site, you are consenting to our use of cookies.