South Pacific, Jiminy Cricket,
This world
I tried to gain access,
I tried to write
A book
That would capture
All my happiness,

Full of romance,
Life that was enhanced
By beauty and love,
Carousel and Disneyland,
Babycham deers
And romantic lands,
These patterns I wove.

This place is always a little lonely
At the weekends...no noise and life;
I like solitude,
But not in places
Where's there's recently been
A lot of people.
Reclusiveness protects you
From nostalgia,
And you can be as nostalgic
In relation to what happened
Half an hour ago
As half a century ago, in fact more so.
                                                            
I went to the Xmas party.
I danced,
And generally lived it up.
I went to bed sad though.
Discos exacerbate
My sense of solitude.
My capacity for social warmth,
Excessive social dependence,
And romantic zeal,
Can be practically deranging;
It's no wonder I feel the need
To escape...
                                                       ­     
Escape from my own
Drastic social emotivity,
And devastating capacity
For loneliness.
I feel trapped here;
There's no
Outlet for my talents.
                                                        ­    
In such a state as this,
I could fall in love with anyone.
The night before last,
I went to the ball,
Couples filing out,  
I wanted to be half of every one,  
But I didn't want to lose * * *.  
I'll get over how I feel now,
And very soon.
Gradually I'll freeze again,
Even assuming an extra layer of snow.  
I have to get out of here.

As a young man,
I was always obsessed
By melancholy.
I saw deep sadness,
The quality
That so tormented my heroes,
Such as Arthur Rimbaud,

And Montgomery Clift,
As glamorous and romantic,
But it’s not…
It’s not remotely romantic,
When you yourself are adrift,
And weighed down,
By a multitude of woes.

I remember the grey slithers of rain,
The jocular driver
As I boarded the bus
At Temple Meads,
And the friendly lady who told me
When we had arrived at the city centre.
I remember the little pub on King Street,
With its quiet maritime atmosphere.
                                                                  
I remember tramping
Along Park Street,
Whiteladies Road and Blackboy Hill,
My arms and hands aching from my bags,
To the little cottage where I had decided to stay
And relax between rehearsals,
Reading, writing, listening to music.
I remember my landlady, tall, timid and beautiful.