Considering hermeticism and all its ramifications rapidly expanding above and below. Given the reading matter I was courting.
Returning from home thoughts from Browning foreign weather it was coldly indifferent to any of my plights. Nothing could be done and nothing to stop him beating until I experienced this by measured consideration. So I returned to the street in the middle of nowhere and the wild wood, the light less valley and the dirty rotten railway mine. It was interesting that I cried for the loss of jobs when all the coal slag had done was kill. I made a film of it, now lost.
No one understood the aesthetic ether on celluloid and you had married someone else according to diaries. So I cut my hair and my fashion statements, such as they were and studied once more. I studied and considered and cuddled with Robert Graves, with his white goddess. I found out that there was Beelzebub had a grandson and there was a Confederate General at Big Sur. That Fowles had the same Magus and The Glass Bead game was playing. I discovered that the body sang electric, and Caligostro had ideas. It was then that I burned all the diaries on the highest hilltop I could find with a large degree of pagan pleasure.
Writing and painting were out and a certain succubus called Alexion visited most evenings. So I wrote about her before she died, like some others I loved. She sank into the bed behind me and I felt her spoon herself against me.
They took me in ringing tones small birds on the pits of sewage and showed me dead bodies in the same morgue. Two old men with a penchant for pornography, hot scalding tea and a lyrical longing turn of phrase.
The bodies were kept under wrapping in the back of the sewage farm, dust to dust, shit to shit, slit to slit and dead to doornail. The farm was at the end of a long double row of poplar trees and an orchard that was as incongruous as a.....and the bakery and laundry in the mine.
Alexion lisped when she cried, orgasm and I loved what she taught me.
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