for Peter Redgrove
That hour in the rainstorm by the muck-coloured Bosphorous, shaped like a biological diagram of a vagina and penis, I was free for an hour, but only to buy cheap army-boots.
Nowhere is pressureless, bloodless, fateless. We fall off family trees, we break our backs, and then have to crawl towards a destiny; but all we get are penny-in-the-slot glimpses, an hour at the Bosphorous, then back into the tunnels, conveyor belts, and lifts of the time-machine. No time for Sophia.
In England I walk under buzzards, in London under falcons.
Ignominy, and concealment of it, is the history standard.
I tried to claim a square inch of the A to Z as my own, to cozen it from the Duke of Westminster, to find it in the Thames as one would find a coin, and wash it in the Thames for auction.
The Duke of Westminster was having none of it, the vagina and penis conjoined in brown rain.