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It is Raynes Park. It is certainly Sutton High Street. Whole stretches of France that voted for Ms Le Pen, Sweden under the Sweden Democrats, etc We are all in a fantasy story L On 10 December 2014 at 15:26, Patrick McManus <[log in to unmask] > wrote: > Thanks Lawrence -felt like I was in some fantasy story (I like fantasy > stories ) > The pavement is an augury, outrage of reason, cold-hearted, impossible > inferno, booze, smooth visions of the edge in direct inoperative > botching.The ground is crumbling. > Is this Raynes Park ?cheers P just woken up from siesta > -----Original Message----- > From: Poetryetc: poetry and poetics [mailto:[log in to unmask]] On > Behalf Of Lawrence Upton > Sent: 10 December 2014 14:33 > To: [log in to unmask] > Subject: Helmet video > > The street is a dream. Show us the accolade. It isn't mundane. > Desirous of worldly freedoms, we're cold. Can you fancy that? > At the bar, we're issued with an almanac. Our cloaks are elusivein > which we can injure you as non-participant in nightmare. > This gallery, you see the place?, is the innermost of which we are > the publicists; we are resentful. The obstructionists, that's what > they say, are crackers:the crackers obstructionists reign. It's not > cranky. > The almanac is endless; its peculiarity is dishonesty; and the > dishonesty ubiquitous. > The street is a dream. It is the quintessence, that is, it is the core > the crux the essence, he said, turning the pages of the folio which > encourage us to deviate. > He took a sip from his half-full glass.Of what? we asked. I am > inclined, he said, to clasp any machination to obtain respite. > At the bar, they tend to be frankand each a truant from the truth. We > usually join in. > The cretin sets out to consume the image which gives him or her > succour though furtively. What is there? > Blood may clot, a beak may enter the outer skinof the weather, and we > may flunk. We clasp the blockhead secret, the wandering sprite. We > clasp and crush, by accident, the coincidental; it's galling he's so > cocky. > Clasp hold of the boom, he says, just listen to it, puzzling over the > carnal. He is a boor. It's the booze that sends him wayfaring > furtively. We watch his decay, giving him a nourishment and support. > We clasp hold of esprit de corps, he says. What the fuck? What the > fuck. > I sleep, he says, I plumb the wolf in me. It is meaningless he is so > cocky. Distribute the bill, he calls, distribute the bill. His > identity is his loftiness. We are sorrowful. Christ, it is freezing, > he shouts, and slowly, word by word.Do not cause me to hurt you, you > stickler. Our names are transient. > We clasp the area of his puzzling, finding it inadequate.The street is a > dream? > The bricks are ardent. What is that? The sky lightweight; stop > commenting, there's no need to explain. The vine cannot grow here. > There is no community. We are dependent, he says, on inferior trivia. > The dignitary has no substance and his journey is nearly worthless. > The houses band to gossip. This makes it peaceful and not at all > emotional. In one eye, just below it, a tear, or perhaps a fold of the > supposed reality. Do not belittle the pot belly. Do not be > belligerent. Cross the bridge. And deign to the confusion. The world > of fairy is hypothetical.The fraud is okayish. > coquette - book - crush - ecstasy - come together > apprehension - conference - exclusive - bawdy --absent - animal - > active --come together > The pavement is an augury, outrage of reason, cold-hearted, impossible > inferno, booze, smooth visions of the edge in direct inoperative > botching.The ground is crumbling. >