cutting,
bleeding the lead
into showers,
and explosive marks.
the power house rears its head again,
pouring images down
like rain.

when she heard that i had been drilling fitfully,
she asked why but i could not explain really. so
i added the stop.

it seems that some like sticks, while others do
not.

there are a few of us, one of us is      leaving.

much of the time is spent with this or other things which pass the day nicely. linen  hangs  heavy, needles preserved. small holes ready.

it don’t work if not connected, if not tuned in, you would think the experts would know that.  we need to signal to another.

Having spelt my name wrong, Bob , I wonder.

Everyone is separate, even with the same programme.

think i may like to travel to small places,
old and full of history. deep aged fabrics
stained with the words of time. to touch

we have such unimportant work
here, that needs not be done.

today, another power house installed,

i have to let some things go
now, yet this remains.

one seventy nine

=

one pound seventy nine

or

one pound and seventy nine pence.

is how we says it
here