Sunday, 15 January 2012


They turned down the coat at the edge of the bath-houses; prescription pants mislaid, and allegations of theatre imitators forthcoming and rightfully so. There are few men who would stop a train to look for a hat; but they were successful, as the birch trees snapped their branches and the engine spits noxious boiled sap from the fire. Time moves interminably when you're living in the bathroom, and the landlord forbids partitions. A life defined by fickle memories; broken, rejected, discarded, erased, improved. Harsh vitriol spills from work houses, and into the street where wise men debate the folly of lottery divided by seven. Words cloaked in new meaning, turned down – vivacious meanings discarded, as if suddenly found salacious as a lecher’s evening stare. Trulls, trollops, dullards; piquant writers condemned to spurn never-ending filth, to be repeated by lesser men with the vivacity of freshmen. Wearing stolen robes; garish pieces which do not fit quite well and draw fits of deserving ridicule.

"To laugh with Pity at the crowds that press
Where Fashion flaunts her robes by Folly spun,
Whose hues gay-varying wanton in the sun."

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