bichoose (bichoose) wrote,

Thursday 1st October 2009.

He, short blond hair smoking a spliff perhaps, the heavy aroma mixed jellied with aftershave the ear-phones gave off tin tinted music,curling up into the night sky,the cloud layer broke the moon visible,i glanced,i glanced at blonde's trouser prod, nothing but youthful ruffles....we passed, not a murmur,not even from the crunched beech nuts dropped in autumns wain not a murmur from the crisp moon, i crossed the bridge and home.
The day is done the pillow calls so to the demons whom i know will come laugh taunt skip the light fantastic,why worry i  know them well now,enough not to be day has slipped through my fingers some in petroleum jelly masturbation....some in watching the last butterfly flit,some in the drone of piston driven aircraft long high above stratocumulus the pale blue the warm sun as if a summer day out of context a Harry Potter day riding in ancient carriages, steam engines pulling long haul a boyhood dream once in the valley is just now a sight no school boy will scrape shoes over for such a glimpse.Those days now live in tired wrinkled skin in me the last generation to scuff such shoes.
Autumn is sinking into my pores,the gathering speed gatheres no moss,tired words once scrapped in chalk on blackboards black..i met today a painter not of art..but a tradesman in brush and wall paper i did not admire or seek the taut in the pants and yet the youth at night i did....his few words did not as usual surround the weather..but the fact he wished he had paid more attention at school.
Perhaps had the saccharine turtles known they might have helped his dream.

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