"victorians" poems - Hello Poetry

I feel as if my head is sliding off my neck like ice cream melting down the cone. I am a witch melting, shrinking smaller as my spine stacks horizontally like shiplap. My body has been refurbished into a pinball machine. Something so tiny as a silver ball destroys so much. It bullets through my body, shooting off like Cuban missiles. I feel the turmoil and chaos seeping through the gutters of this old home of bones. It's like spilled oil sludging through my blood vessels or rats scattering through a sewer, nibbling and feasting away on these muscles of mine until they are frayed like gnawed-on cable wires. At odd hours of the night when time is propelled by the safe travels of breath (that weave in and out like Victorians at a ball) from sleepy children who have yet been touched by monsters or nymphs, whereas each of my breaths steer Odysseus's weather-beaten boat through ten years of treachery. My heavy, melting head slowly sloping like clay off a bust makes its home on my dingy pillow as I lay on a prison bed with cold shackles around my ankles that make my bones shatter into a mosaic as if that could shrink my ankles so I can slip out. I feel like a chained hawk at these hours of the night when I just want to fly until I screech to a halt and flail over the cliff that waterfalls into the ends of the universe. I'd be reluctant at first, perhaps, but what other escape does one have other than to make an autopsist's Y-incision on one's body, then slip out like a hermit crab freeing himself from his heavy shell? Embarking onto a new dimension where there's hope for a radical swap of atoms that don't shape a crippled, deteriorating human is the only choice when you want to live a life other than what you were cursed with. May we then find peace and live as naked souls bearing no heavy shells.

0

Jul 7, 2017

Jul 7, 2017 at 4:53 AM UTC

anniecammie

to be without shell

I feel as if my head is sliding off my neck like ice cream melting down the cone. I am a witch melting, shrinking smaller as my spine stacks horizontally like shiplap. My body has been refurbished into a pinball machine. Something so tiny as a silver ball destroys so much. It bullets through my body, shooting off like Cuban missiles. I feel the turmoil and chaos seeping through the gutters of this old home of bones. It's like spilled oil sludging through my blood vessels or rats scattering through a sewer, nibbling and feasting away on these muscles of mine until they are frayed like gnawed-on cable wires. At odd hours of the night when time is propelled by the safe travels of breath (that weave in and out like Victorians at a ball) from sleepy children who have yet been touched by monsters or nymphs, whereas each of my breaths steer Odysseus's weather-beaten boat through ten years of treachery. My heavy, melting head slowly sloping like clay off a bust makes its home on my dingy pillow as I lay on a prison bed with cold shackles around my ankles that make my bones shatter into a mosaic as if that could shrink my ankles so I can slip out. I feel like a chained hawk at these hours of the night when I just want to fly until I screech to a halt and flail over the cliff that waterfalls into the ends of the universe. I'd be reluctant at first, perhaps, but what other escape does one have other than to make an autopsist's Y-incision on one's body, then slip out like a hermit crab freeing himself from his heavy shell? Embarking onto a new dimension where there's hope for a radical swap of atoms that don't shape a crippled, deteriorating human is the only choice when you want to live a life other than what you were cursed with. May we then find peace and live as naked souls bearing no heavy shells.

1

*Sonnet is love sonnet is rhyme' metaphorical pattern dove so much sublime.... Popular with poets new the Elizabethans too their mistresses so few used it to woo..... John Donne, his life catching the spirit of the Jacobean age his need to express his love for his wife, Anne, backstage...... Expression of religious passion and simply reflections of death The Victorians fashion and so many more breath..... Elizabeth Barrett Browning, the Rossettis, so blue and George Meredith were around were so new..... American poets noted Longfellow, expounded E. A. Robinson, devoted Elinor Wylie, and Edna St. Vincent Millay, astounded.... Sonnets make us sing makes us laugh cry with saving grace brings universal themes of love mon behalf..... Keep writing those sonnets all you wonderful and many more poets, keep wearing your bonnets that we all adore...* Debbie

0

Jun 18, 2015

Jun 18, 2015 at 1:26 PM UTC

deborah-brooks-langford

What is a Sonnet

*Sonnet is love sonnet is rhyme' metaphorical pattern dove so much sublime.... Popular with poets new the Elizabethans too their mistresses so few used it to woo..... John Donne, his life catching the spirit of the Jacobean age his need to express his love for his wife, Anne, backstage...... Expression of religious passion and simply reflections of death The Victorians fashion and so many more breath..... Elizabeth Barrett Browning, the Rossettis, so blue and George Meredith were around were so new..... American poets noted Longfellow, expounded E. A. Robinson, devoted Elinor Wylie, and Edna St. Vincent Millay, astounded.... Sonnets make us sing makes us laugh cry with saving grace brings universal themes of love mon behalf..... Keep writing those sonnets all you wonderful and many more poets, keep wearing your bonnets that we all adore...* Debbie

33

(descent) Hindered by progress, or the idea of progress: evolution-in-waiting bellows me to hide, tattering becomes ruination. Animism creeps, not-yet hands pushing at dim velvet. Peeping one-eyed through the past where had borne such potent promise immutability lain intact flumped into snowy thickness and thrown hard against Georgian glass. Here comes the stealth of unillumination thankfully blanketing they were tied at the hips and neck, then wrapped as old mirrors. That door went nowhere it always does those Victorians, forever meddling, will folly themselves into any trouble. (resurrection) You haven’t changed one bit! I say to myself, showing you their brand new niceness ***** as copper pans. Go on, spit in my fire the hiss is the thing that’s real.

0

May 19, 2017

May 19, 2017 at 3:46 AM UTC

miss-tabitha-devereaux

Bring me back a ruin

(descent) Hindered by progress, or the idea of progress: evolution-in-waiting bellows me to hide, tattering becomes ruination. Animism creeps, not-yet hands pushing at dim velvet. Peeping one-eyed through the past where had borne such potent promise immutability lain intact flumped into snowy thickness and thrown hard against Georgian glass. Here comes the stealth of unillumination thankfully blanketing they were tied at the hips and neck, then wrapped as old mirrors. That door went nowhere it always does those Victorians, forever meddling, will folly themselves into any trouble. (resurrection) You haven’t changed one bit! I say to myself, showing you their brand new niceness ***** as copper pans. Go on, spit in my fire the hiss is the thing that’s real.

27

Sonnet is love sonnet is rhyme' metaphorical pattern so much sublime Popular with poets the Elizabethans too used it to woo their mistresses so few John Donne, catching the spirit of the Jacobean age his need to express his love for his wife, Anne Expression of religious passion and simply reflections of death The Victorians and so many more Elizabeth Barrett Browning, the Rossettis, and George Meredith were so new American poets noted Longfellow, E. A. Robinson, Elinor Wylie, and Edna St. Vincent Millay. Sonnets make us sing makes us laugh cry with saving grace universal themes of love .... Keep writing those sonnets all you wonderful poets that we all adore... As Rupal says, Wordsworth too.. Debbie Brooks- 2014

0

Sep 29, 2014

Sep 29, 2014 at 1:12 AM UTC

deborah-brooks-langford

What is a Sonnet

Sonnet is love sonnet is rhyme' metaphorical pattern so much sublime Popular with poets the Elizabethans too used it to woo their mistresses so few John Donne, catching the spirit of the Jacobean age his need to express his love for his wife, Anne Expression of religious passion and simply reflections of death The Victorians and so many more Elizabeth Barrett Browning, the Rossettis, and George Meredith were so new American poets noted Longfellow, E. A. Robinson, Elinor Wylie, and Edna St. Vincent Millay. Sonnets make us sing makes us laugh cry with saving grace universal themes of love .... Keep writing those sonnets all you wonderful poets that we all adore... As Rupal says, Wordsworth too.. Debbie Brooks- 2014

35

i. i don’t think i ever expected to live quite this long. the bus has always been coming and i have always been braced for impact. i have never thought that another 80+ years were automatically allotted to me, life is too much loss and uncertainty. i am 17 and i feel tired and oddly lucky. ii. i’ve heard life is inherently more exciting when you think of things in terms of “i get to…” rather than “i have to…” i’m trying to apply it to my life. i get to wake up tomorrow. i get to go to school, to have a routine. i get to keep going. i get to live. iii. some people are born content and some people are born itching -- you were born with ******* poison ivy. dying to jet set the midwest, always swore you were gonna leave this town before it burnt you to the ground. a born nomad who’d never even seen the ocean. i watched you disappear out the rear view window, you’ve never left this town and i’d hate for the world to let you down. iv. i think that part of me is scared to leave home because i know that you can always leave but you can’t always go back. these are the things they don’t tell us growing up; the way that places are just places and the air around them can shift into something that you no longer recognize. it’s the feeling when you’ve been away for too long and you come home to find it changed. it’s the feeling when you want to go home even when you’re there. v. i heard you either write to remember or to be remembered. i dream of crashes and my legacy of stained ink confined to 15 gigabytes and 12 point font. there’s thousands of other poets with shaking hands, bright eyes, loud mouths. it would be so easy to forget me when i’m gone. i don’t know how much i mind it. we are fleeting like fireflies and smoke signals and first kisses. i still think you burn the brightest. vi. it’s 10:32 somewhere over the ocean and i miss you i miss you i miss you. i’ve heard that victorians believed that if you wrote a poem in a airplane that it stayed there, suspended in the sky. your eulogy is hanging somewhere over the atlantic, pinned up in the stars. waiting. vii. i held your hand on the take off until all that was underneath our feet were clouds.

0

May 9, 2016

May 9, 2016 at 1:46 PM UTC

daniela-elena

postcards from a plane crash

i. i don’t think i ever expected to live quite this long. the bus has always been coming and i have always been braced for impact. i have never thought that another 80+ years were automatically allotted to me, life is too much loss and uncertainty. i am 17 and i feel tired and oddly lucky. ii. i’ve heard life is inherently more exciting when you think of things in terms of “i get to…” rather than “i have to…” i’m trying to apply it to my life. i get to wake up tomorrow. i get to go to school, to have a routine. i get to keep going. i get to live. iii. some people are born content and some people are born itching -- you were born with ******* poison ivy. dying to jet set the midwest, always swore you were gonna leave this town before it burnt you to the ground. a born nomad who’d never even seen the ocean. i watched you disappear out the rear view window, you’ve never left this town and i’d hate for the world to let you down. iv. i think that part of me is scared to leave home because i know that you can always leave but you can’t always go back. these are the things they don’t tell us growing up; the way that places are just places and the air around them can shift into something that you no longer recognize. it’s the feeling when you’ve been away for too long and you come home to find it changed. it’s the feeling when you want to go home even when you’re there. v. i heard you either write to remember or to be remembered. i dream of crashes and my legacy of stained ink confined to 15 gigabytes and 12 point font. there’s thousands of other poets with shaking hands, bright eyes, loud mouths. it would be so easy to forget me when i’m gone. i don’t know how much i mind it. we are fleeting like fireflies and smoke signals and first kisses. i still think you burn the brightest. vi. it’s 10:32 somewhere over the ocean and i miss you i miss you i miss you. i’ve heard that victorians believed that if you wrote a poem in a airplane that it stayed there, suspended in the sky. your eulogy is hanging somewhere over the atlantic, pinned up in the stars. waiting. vii. i held your hand on the take off until all that was underneath our feet were clouds.

47

If given some lycanthropy perhaps I might choose to chase horses and Victorians beneath the moon. Perhaps it would not seem so strange, the monthly change and tide of blood. Perhaps as a were I might learn something of grace. The night is big and so are shadows. In the brief time between teeth and skin might I find some other kin or love than life? When I was eight I found an arrowhead in a creek bed, chipped from black obsidian, perfect and out of place amongst the granite sand. I held it in my hand and knew what death was. Death is like obsidian, cold and sharp and liable to shatter. She was like obsidian, smooth and grey and eyes like chipped edges. I have since lost the arrowhead. But if I hadn’t, I would throw it back. The rain is leaking onto my windowsill leaving a stain. Until my hair grows out, it will rain and rain and rain and rain. Then the mice can sail in tiny ships, round and round, and discover new continents.

0

Nov 17, 2010

Nov 17, 2010 at 6:51 PM UTC

nora-j-watson

Lycanthropy

If given some lycanthropy perhaps I might choose to chase horses and Victorians beneath the moon. Perhaps it would not seem so strange, the monthly change and tide of blood. Perhaps as a were I might learn something of grace. The night is big and so are shadows. In the brief time between teeth and skin might I find some other kin or love than life? When I was eight I found an arrowhead in a creek bed, chipped from black obsidian, perfect and out of place amongst the granite sand. I held it in my hand and knew what death was. Death is like obsidian, cold and sharp and liable to shatter. She was like obsidian, smooth and grey and eyes like chipped edges. I have since lost the arrowhead. But if I hadn’t, I would throw it back. The rain is leaking onto my windowsill leaving a stain. Until my hair grows out, it will rain and rain and rain and rain. Then the mice can sail in tiny ships, round and round, and discover new continents.

38

The knives have been Winning & they're cutting up Against Our toes now But we got ourselves in This embrace & there aren't keys To those cuffs Yet, honey But we've just got to Keep waiting Until They fall from our Weary sky You were known in The books As the one who dreamed Of much greener grass & I was more Inclined To the Victorians Than I was to the taste Of tea. But oh, did we wage Our wars in perfect Rhythm to our Untamed hearts? Or we were just shimmering Light in the bits of cutlery They found shining At the bottom Of the sea?

0

Nov 27, 2011

Nov 27, 2011 at 5:46 PM UTC

jml90

.Deemed Inseparable.

The knives have been Winning & they're cutting up Against Our toes now But we got ourselves in This embrace & there aren't keys To those cuffs Yet, honey But we've just got to Keep waiting Until They fall from our Weary sky You were known in The books As the one who dreamed Of much greener grass & I was more Inclined To the Victorians Than I was to the taste Of tea. But oh, did we wage Our wars in perfect Rhythm to our Untamed hearts? Or we were just shimmering Light in the bits of cutlery They found shining At the bottom Of the sea?

33

When He asks, quietly, if I still think of You  even when I’m here,  I say "always." why? because snow falls just as softly here as it did during our first kiss, when it melted on your flushed cheeks in the mountain light of our childhood.   I think of your face as it was, like the neighbor’s cornfield, fogged but bright through the windows of your car   as you raced me home in the pastoral dawn  to beat my parents' alarm clock. now when I look at you,  I see the ruins of the storm: the once-grand Victorians of our town,  sunken and foul,   the spray painted x’s, signaling “condemned,”  barely masked by the slush. this new color in the landscape of your countenance, is  a translucent grey — I think it is called indifference. They told us “distance extinguishes small flames, and fuels great fires.” my breath burns cold and sharp,   like the icicles that hung outside your mother’s store,   when You told me that it was easy to hurt me,  and You didn’t know why. those words froze me solid like citrus trees killed in a late frost.  He says that He still see the pinkness in my own cheeks,  when I talk of You. I sigh and say that I will try harder   to stop loving You, but  the chairlift rocks and shifts the spears in my chest and I wince,  because I know I will for all my life.

0

May 19, 2013

May 19, 2013 at 3:20 PM UTC

kay-mora

Mont Tremblant

When He asks, quietly, if I still think of You  even when I’m here,  I say "always." why? because snow falls just as softly here as it did during our first kiss, when it melted on your flushed cheeks in the mountain light of our childhood.   I think of your face as it was, like the neighbor’s cornfield, fogged but bright through the windows of your car   as you raced me home in the pastoral dawn  to beat my parents' alarm clock. now when I look at you,  I see the ruins of the storm: the once-grand Victorians of our town,  sunken and foul,   the spray painted x’s, signaling “condemned,”  barely masked by the slush. this new color in the landscape of your countenance, is  a translucent grey — I think it is called indifference. They told us “distance extinguishes small flames, and fuels great fires.” my breath burns cold and sharp,   like the icicles that hung outside your mother’s store,   when You told me that it was easy to hurt me,  and You didn’t know why. those words froze me solid like citrus trees killed in a late frost.  He says that He still see the pinkness in my own cheeks,  when I talk of You. I sigh and say that I will try harder   to stop loving You, but  the chairlift rocks and shifts the spears in my chest and I wince,  because I know I will for all my life.

37

Arrived late to the early bird special for the heavens of my mind I'm a hard boiled egg in a soft shell crab waiting to be swallowed by a ***** swamp filled with ugly crocodiles in the same vein at the same time Looking for a broader spectrum of potential unknowing whispers whispered a sweet something about a whole lot of maybes in my ear lobe. Caterpillars sing songs to September slowly crawling back in time encouraging a butterfly of memories where two left winged hearts collided making supper with our doubts about unconcious recollections where we are mapping out the signs of new breakfast and bedrooms. Investigate the vacancies of hearts you wish to keep with an open ended pitch of the other ones who seek you out. Heart's for rent here Who's the last tenant that moved out? Blur kaleidoscope of old addresses with similar layouts Because you're looking for French bathtubs in old Victorians And with the right selling line It's just a vintage room lined with dusty curtains and a sunroof with penetrated ceilings A character of wills you say, blueprint of rented feelings. Stir a cocktail of shock waves from stone cold realizations while i mull steadily on my unsure recollection of what you meant when you said I'm the best thing you've found in a long time. But that's just a new line you've heard wiser men say So you say it without hesitation and make earlier reservations. God, this could take an hour Or a second if your patient Adapt to different payments Unusual affective statements Encase it in sarcastic shell crack it by the cases Sew it at the seams make sure I seem real sure of your supposed intentions.

0

Oct 10, 2014

Oct 10, 2014 at 7:43 PM UTC

Zphyranthe

Proverbial Backwash

Arrived late to the early bird special for the heavens of my mind I'm a hard boiled egg in a soft shell crab waiting to be swallowed by a ***** swamp filled with ugly crocodiles in the same vein at the same time Looking for a broader spectrum of potential unknowing whispers whispered a sweet something about a whole lot of maybes in my ear lobe. Caterpillars sing songs to September slowly crawling back in time encouraging a butterfly of memories where two left winged hearts collided making supper with our doubts about unconcious recollections where we are mapping out the signs of new breakfast and bedrooms. Investigate the vacancies of hearts you wish to keep with an open ended pitch of the other ones who seek you out. Heart's for rent here Who's the last tenant that moved out? Blur kaleidoscope of old addresses with similar layouts Because you're looking for French bathtubs in old Victorians And with the right selling line It's just a vintage room lined with dusty curtains and a sunroof with penetrated ceilings A character of wills you say, blueprint of rented feelings. Stir a cocktail of shock waves from stone cold realizations while i mull steadily on my unsure recollection of what you meant when you said I'm the best thing you've found in a long time. But that's just a new line you've heard wiser men say So you say it without hesitation and make earlier reservations. God, this could take an hour Or a second if your patient Adapt to different payments Unusual affective statements Encase it in sarcastic shell crack it by the cases Sew it at the seams make sure I seem real sure of your supposed intentions.

34

Victorians old aged queen hast come to greet me Come to treat me to extraterrestrial highs Where her tongues forensic With mine love we shalt dine!!! So fine are thy heavied lids Thy skin painted on spanishly clear Heaven draws near To thy angelic trim!!! Make me feel five again lover!!! Wherein I haveth no more care nor worry Just romance novel stories To maketh me anew!! Thou missing puzzle Thou clue I've sought so long Thou fit's me perfectly friend Thy smell to be the Rosie's Mine own to be in stench!!! Paralyze me again Thine eyes daily do I seek Wherein nothing goes bleaque Between ourn child laughs and words!!! I'm alive once again After so long a sleep The queens kiss Has once again awoken me To die for love!!!! To love for years For many weeks!!!!

0

Jun 9, 2015

Jun 9, 2015 at 3:54 PM UTC

brandon-nagley

rencontre de aime le premier , une fois de plus ( encounter of loves first, all over again) french tongue

Victorians old aged queen hast come to greet me Come to treat me to extraterrestrial highs Where her tongues forensic With mine love we shalt dine!!! So fine are thy heavied lids Thy skin painted on spanishly clear Heaven draws near To thy angelic trim!!! Make me feel five again lover!!! Wherein I haveth no more care nor worry Just romance novel stories To maketh me anew!! Thou missing puzzle Thou clue I've sought so long Thou fit's me perfectly friend Thy smell to be the Rosie's Mine own to be in stench!!! Paralyze me again Thine eyes daily do I seek Wherein nothing goes bleaque Between ourn child laughs and words!!! I'm alive once again After so long a sleep The queens kiss Has once again awoken me To die for love!!!! To love for years For many weeks!!!!

28

I'm fighting Victorians, Edwardians thinking they're Georgians. Does Cameron think he's a battlestar? He may shoot from the lips but does he take things too far? and where are we in all this? The kiss me quick, vote for me slick brigade come on a hunting raid and bang the **** out of my door. Whatya knocking me up from my bed for? Votes just confuse me and you lot just use me. I'm still fighting, streetwise, keeping tight in the clinch at a pinch I could compromise, might let them see the light that shines but when I open my eyes I think Nah, I'll not bother.

0

Feb 7, 2015

Feb 7, 2015 at 3:54 PM UTC

john-edward-smallshaw

Witnesses at the gate

I'm fighting Victorians, Edwardians thinking they're Georgians. Does Cameron think he's a battlestar? He may shoot from the lips but does he take things too far? and where are we in all this? The kiss me quick, vote for me slick brigade come on a hunting raid and bang the **** out of my door. Whatya knocking me up from my bed for? Votes just confuse me and you lot just use me. I'm still fighting, streetwise, keeping tight in the clinch at a pinch I could compromise, might let them see the light that shines but when I open my eyes I think Nah, I'll not bother.

18

Victorians old age queen, Where art thou to come and greet me? To extrarestrial high!!! Where her tounges forensic, With me thy love we shall dine!!!!! Soo fine are your heavied lids!!! Your skin painted on so fluorescent, Heaven draweth near to your angelic trim!! Make me feel child once again lover where I have no more cares of worries, Just romances novel stories to make me anew!! Thine missing puzzle, Thine clue I've sought so long.... You fit Soo neatly to me mine friend, Your smell to be thine gardenias, Mine own to be its end.... Parylize me extend!!! Thine eyes do I daily seek, Where nothing goes weak between our child laugh and words... To be alive once again Soo long after sleep!! Thy queens kiss to abrupt me to die for ones approbation, To predilection for years, For weeks!!!!

0

May 15, 2015

May 15, 2015 at 4:12 PM UTC

brandon-nagley

encounter of loves first

Victorians old age queen, Where art thou to come and greet me? To extrarestrial high!!! Where her tounges forensic, With me thy love we shall dine!!!!! Soo fine are your heavied lids!!! Your skin painted on so fluorescent, Heaven draweth near to your angelic trim!! Make me feel child once again lover where I have no more cares of worries, Just romances novel stories to make me anew!! Thine missing puzzle, Thine clue I've sought so long.... You fit Soo neatly to me mine friend, Your smell to be thine gardenias, Mine own to be its end.... Parylize me extend!!! Thine eyes do I daily seek, Where nothing goes weak between our child laugh and words... To be alive once again Soo long after sleep!! Thy queens kiss to abrupt me to die for ones approbation, To predilection for years, For weeks!!!!

22

We love you cos' you are Victorians, Here we are all Melburnians, Here there are genres of folks, Listen up, let's have a joke, One type of plebs here goes to church, Or plebs go fishing, to catch some perch, Some are drinkers and go to the pubs, Some are football tragics, hubbub! Then there's the anti-football league, Not participating non-vigorously, Then some folk go to the library, Or some can belong to the Dr. Who Society, Or they can be a combination of any of the above, It's all a norm in olde Melbourne town we love!

0

Apr 8, 2017

Apr 8, 2017 at 3:41 PM UTC

julie-grenness

VICTORIANS.....

We love you cos' you are Victorians, Here we are all Melburnians, Here there are genres of folks, Listen up, let's have a joke, One type of plebs here goes to church, Or plebs go fishing, to catch some perch, Some are drinkers and go to the pubs, Some are football tragics, hubbub! Then there's the anti-football league, Not participating non-vigorously, Then some folk go to the library, Or some can belong to the Dr. Who Society, Or they can be a combination of any of the above, It's all a norm in olde Melbourne town we love!

14

But do I really see them when I'm traveling on the central line? do I really take the time to take a look? The window cleaner logo man reads a book and jammed up next to him is a lady looking very grim, she's watching me watching him and he's unaware, but probably in that zone cleaning windows and feeling right at home. Lots of buns as well Victorians must have saved a fortune on hair gel. Pearl earrings is not a singer it's what young girl is wearing and not an oyster in sight. People there's such a large variety and I only see what I want to see if only I could look a little deeper. Jarndyce gets off at Chancery lane his case comes up after the crown versus Abel or is it Cain? I'm wandering in the inns but it's time to get out. Morning Holbein or it might be Holborn I'm just mooving on.

0

Jun 28, 2018

Jun 28, 2018 at 1:21 AM UTC

john-edward-smallshaw

TBC

But do I really see them when I'm traveling on the central line? do I really take the time to take a look? The window cleaner logo man reads a book and jammed up next to him is a lady looking very grim, she's watching me watching him and he's unaware, but probably in that zone cleaning windows and feeling right at home. Lots of buns as well Victorians must have saved a fortune on hair gel. Pearl earrings is not a singer it's what young girl is wearing and not an oyster in sight. People there's such a large variety and I only see what I want to see if only I could look a little deeper. Jarndyce gets off at Chancery lane his case comes up after the crown versus Abel or is it Cain? I'm wandering in the inns but it's time to get out. Morning Holbein or it might be Holborn I'm just mooving on.

31