Friday, 16 October 2009

Waiting for Gold

Photo from the Staffordhire Hoard Website; added Monday, October 19th

If out of Mercia’s Earth it had not been dug, we would not gaze at Victorian brick today. If I fail to describe the filigree gold garnet gems, it's because the poodle’s core is in the hours spent.

Henry’s Capricorn, not Goethe’s Faust, wiles away the time. He thinks Dostoievsky, at an age unknown; we, however, all came together, of age that is, on January first. Between then and lolling May, I read Cancer, lost Virginité, Jalousie, Bourgeoisie - and the hope to write. Wilfully deliberate it was, liberating, too; painful and hard in ways of the world previously unknown, and although annihilated, I knew I would soar with him and Lawrence, and the quest had begun. Without double tonics they were not, those thirty-four years; there were Beckett, Ionesco and O’Neil, Erikson and Erica, and conquering our local bard’s tongue. Always someone hot under the stache but none as billy-goat horny as him. They say you never forget your first. Indeed.

Bar one black sheep, the horde awaiting the hoard is civil. Curse her.

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