Rose and Grey. The flying shapes had scattered. Running to find refuge out across the waste of weed and cinder. Black the light, Obsidian. Not broken yet my soul.
Men shovel ashes on the river swirl.
All Day there had been like A Pan, the horns though had been more like antlers girdled round with snakes. But once they threw the brakes, cut engine, drew in Sirens and a dead one, youngling, had been stretchered off. So Soon Appears Priapus Knocking Clappers on his knees and in his dancing clogs. So Soon appears a mate, a dainty matelot at whom the lads look daggers at his hornpipe tucked inside his or her spats whose back was arched and jutting as a cat ringed in by bandogs. In the dust I do my weasel-dance.