The Pompeii is yours. Mr Howerd, Frankie (get away!): Apricot pip not needing to be eaten clean, pursed and so smooth, a perfect vowel to spit from the mouth (emulating that shape): gets ejected—like a video—the little red light on and onto the carpet alongside the tv set. The colour, drape-brown. A ginger cat, in parts, lollops and skips and toys at the drapes: then settles to doze two hours (as if placed there, or discarded by one of the children, on the indian cotton-covered couch. Not settee. Nor is it an apricot pip - for that reason - nor a pipe. Ginger not brown and an apricot pip. As waves are, by contrast, to sea, serial. Importunate our goodbyes. We aren't. Are so are all right too! Apricot this aperitif. Isn't. I say ours. You—my—friend—dad.
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Is lakes and laking long to speed boats or skiers or launches but it was hardly ripples, chill and flat; lakewater smoothing and very green that yellowing pears border it— these things attest it is sublime, a confraternity. Swans which, black or white, foist and ride the social and it's clangorous, clasping them so that they question mark and glance quizzical using this and their beaks to a mild deprecatory poise: and so the water was sober and a tablecloth. This is pretty-much summer and a seasonal, yes, and winter moreso, strewn leaves, stiff edged, which are sometimes to bask in and, she imagines, because winter in the tale is spelled and in need of censure, looking masterly. Water so availing of gulls or swans mill. Nothing much less. Waters close together and the earth is spread, back to back, without shimmer. I remark walls as if substantive. Without demur, such as this one (makes distant weathercocks stiffly clatter and forget)
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PICUL
Loosen up Nerida Nichols I. One. Skin type marginal and without commotion in 3 feet or degrees of water, water skiers that strew the surface without scruple. Sideward stuff: where the date lines up, & hooks up chances from the upper ridge of the hill, down the rough chip seal highway—tacky hot tar in summer— grips and tightens when the weather's down. Down degrees. The centrepiece is deliberate to observe and avoid things. Each person is articulate, alert, touch of skin and pants together, slender arms and bones in surprising consort. Morning sun piazza. Dealing with attention and getting it as asked. Take space eagleair—enunciating—Bill's paddle hips which gyrate and sparse ginger bristles on the chin. The girl with crimson, tapering fingernails and a small fleck of tongue over the lower lip. According to Barthes, reserved for mastery of outline...
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'Could you please pass the footstool this way?' Thank you. I'm from Canada, too' 'We cannot talk here'. 'Don't stay; no, don't go either. 'Cigarette? No, thank you. A small kitchen table. Decorated with a small black hat—netting to eye level (Anabella), tapered eyebrows, tasteful, but pursued—an agent! 'I have no country'. Interesting to tell of eyes: two figures, beneath a street light, naturally smoking (fume). leaving the top section of the little finger adroit. 'Shake down on the couch'. So that the man in Scotland may be called on: a draught from the window, or under the door, she clutches her coat at the vee by the lapels, mutters him, and dies.
A phone rings incessantly and a map of Scotland: marked.
Things evaporate quickly and always not enough is retained. A sudden switch; out of doors and into a door: dogs. Policemen quick in pursuit. Stopping on a bridge, great girders, silence. A pretty woman who cheated him but without rancour. Rolling countryside, upended, between Nelson and Picton and a man on foot. Everything is close or far somehow. Savoured him. Everything a questing, ready for sleep, in love, longing for supper. Indeed, heavy with trails, forked, wayward. In London, where the ladies paint their toenails. 'God made the country'. An old grouch, awaiting his supper and the couch. 'Poot d sign thy paper'—youse miserable sinners!—in his eyes. Searching, stern with suspicion. Tracking back, quick eyed, to catch them at it!). She lifts herself to accompany him. Pigtails, tightly bound: strange dalliance. A kiss touches, just touches and presses her lips. Wanting to respond. Tending, saying things that make his heart swell. And then an old chopper overhead, cumbrous. So the thing is speeded up. Alt-na-sh—always, there are details in things. 'I have sent them Away—but there are words left within conversations and trust'. Moors. Smaller frames, a key turned at his back. No one is what they Seem—but always he survives. A revolver, a man with his own life. There are hints, everywhere, hints, little signposts Hitchcock and others put in the ground or drop—which are not just posts or leaves and not just dropped. That is what being sent away means. And you know that he will meet her again: in her dark wash of hair and the woolen Sunday-best coat she lent him— abrupt sneaks across. Steals a kiss! That's it, that's it, he stole a kiss from her and she reciprocates—not to taunt him, but to—to share him. It is possible to be carried away: a kind (of) frenzy: but she gets tied in too. There's no escaping it and he eludes them again. A little stream—they are linked, tied in a way. They flee! Fog, a small stream (as said), an arched stone bridge. Her insouciance and it is more than that links them, chains move them. Even humour. A missing section of a small finger, the pinky: voyeur, because he (or she) takes only misdirection, and it doesn't excite—or it does—but it shouldn't—and she is unsurpassed as his companion. And he would kill her though that he admires her and urges and savours her. Her hand is against her leg and he's handcuffed to her and she's removing her stockings. Madam S.—when the crazy music comes with her, her eyes light up, swell nobly, she pulls the blanket up over them both: she gives what space is hers. And does he reciprocate—?
Behind the facade of—anyway, it's worth remembering.
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Closer to this twin wire running twice the point, then reemerging. This is the position adopted and proffered (or, inverse) an overhand thing. The finger runs to the ear, & from the hand near and tablecloth. One hundred and twenty three now. And a different time and a different feeling. It could also have been the wool carpet upon which the body was reposed— it could even have been the other characteristic: the entire groundwork wants checking out, Grace Jones on stilts, stars & a man in a black suit & tie with trim moustache & heavy-lidded spectacles, a debonair man, painstakingly tracks them his arrows of light
