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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.