rarely a lightnight storm above London,
yet on the odd occassion...
       Tottenham Court Rd. station
having been refurbished
   became disorientating
              to say the least...
    it was almost impossible to find
the intrepid fox...
    all the more impossible since:
   word-of-mouth news sometimes
travels like a Zeno pardox,
even though endowed with Achilles'
            feet...
        the pub? the earth yawned
and ate the odd haven, regurgitating
it into a few new bricks
   of the next
            anaemic architectural pattern...
what, a, grandiose void,
     patent generic,
                glass monoliths and
almost Prussian sober catacombs of
power...
            a persistent labyrinth
that might make a mountain more inviting,
   certainly more character
incubated in a dying oak
                  on the outskirts of
a village, than in these Byzantine
                                    butchers' aisles...
                  almost anything
"not quite" is better suited to life than
these... cohorts of cubicles and
paper fiddling "occupations"...
     consider:
            you could mistake the world
as being without work,
   if you took away the crafts that still
use hammers and nails...
         hell... even a tier of market sellers
with an ingenius energy
   storming the stale air with:
               bunch of bananas, two for one!
   to bare in mind,
   how many worthwhile occupations
are there, end-result of,
apparently the eureka of turning on
a lightbulb?
           what a fickle sense of
"entitlement" illuminating an otherwise
blank canvas...
                drinking and
admiring moths...
             sometimes writing...
                         unlike the fly-larvae
wriggling in plain sight...
     i sometimes dream of seeing
moth-larvae...
                 although i can't attest
that they are moth-larvae...
            but i've never seen one...
of course the butterfly and the caterpillar...
last time i heard:
  moths deposit their larvae in
fabrics, notably wool,
               which constitutes its diet...
perhaps i'm merely wishing
to dream about moth-larvae...
                 but
a non-fiction book review about
writing and drinking can, really,
get under your nails
   with an itch that deserves more
a slap, than a scratch...
       and i've heard that marijuana
is also a bountiful accomplice...
                 but sober writing that
isn't the mundane:
    take a book to bed and fall asleep
with it dynamic?
             it's
a joke, when the wild thought
of installing mirrors in bars
    took off...
            given than most drunks are
like vampires,
    they, can't, see,
  their own reflections in mirrors...
        point being:
   in the past 24 hours i've lived a little...
to mind another body,
   walking out of a brothel,
   finding a romanian leech
of a companion for half an hour...
          giving him 250ml of whiskey...
listening to him dance a little,
sing a little;
                yet that persistent
sacrament of braille...
                ceretainly not worth the mention
on the toilet-paper dream
of a saturday book review
    in newspaper supplement...
and...
        not something to be found
on an english curriculum...
                        in a high-school.