Victorian musings What L thought:
...Lounge in orchards on the hill past the racetrack imagining the Victorians in their black chenille petticoats, their ‘tashes, woollen coats that itch, spectacles, great long oversized leather shoes like mice, gaping socks fallen on the ankle bones of merchants, larl jockeys in real silk colours, fishermen imagining Dylan before he existed singing ‘they’re selling postscards of the hanging!’, lumpy German tourists who want to start a war and buy bonds what a racket!, little lads who sweep chimneys and dream of the deep glassy waters where the trout befriend ‘em and they make their way in illustrations of tiny babies to the sea, a dream of hot chimneys, ‘orrible bosses, made to scratch and clear flus, err wot else — yeah great carts full of apples and pears and bunches of violets, an Italian vagrant lies beside a bush, he sings some bits of opera, la la la la in a bass voice, then reads his book about hop picking in Kent, the young lad found feverish in the hops, the story of it all, the summer so long, the little dogs with ribbons, the cats outside the back door, minibuses on trips, larders, tomato sandwiches, salt and pepper pots and all that mouldy malarkey. L writ this in his diary one time. He thought of charcoal eyelashes on parchment Goggle hats for hearing the inside of shells New internets and virtual landscapes with tiny bridges A pencil Durer’s scratching tool... S. Sent from my spyphone
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