A strange bit of writing.

By Sam Slattery (c)

I don't remember why-or, indeed, if I knew back then...

Not that this is a problem in any way-it's a beautiful part of the experience, one mid morning, after Easter.

Memory was more than anything; a sort of child like wonder, un polluted-

And the sun shining down

Playing pencil lines/painted to the depths of farthings...

in the dream me and Ed reconstituted War Of The Worlds

And chucked out broken instruments and a skeleton made of concrete

Was halved and used as a plant pot-though the plant did nothing but grow long-and sickly yellow-and die as wispy chives all over it.

why she had such a hold over us. I mean, how she cast such a spell-

Bladder was full-

And the Gish gash of

Stumbling in and out of shops-

From the warmth of bodies huddling round-

To the outside and the chapping winter-

The decomposing sunset causing the lids of the eyes to wander south...

Tired pencil brother like the mounted sharpening's brings a crocodile box/surgically the lines painted to the depths of farthings/song of a darkling thrush/ the nightingales play/getting rid of the albatross.

Tired the nightingale/pencil lines play/painted to the depths of farthings...

So much that did happen-wasn't meant to...according to the list. If said list had been chipped into stone, like Jim on fine art did-it would have been something easier to galvanize-but the fact it existed across Sunday afternoon scraps of paper-cut, shut-and re constituted-meant that the erosion of the visions was considerably more rapid, than if it had been written into stone-and so there was miles of margin to get lost in-to journey straight down holes in pursuit of...