Think of a small isolated Carmelite Monastery. I have not yet heard the humming of trees the baa nor the moo nor the croaks at the river's edge. It seems she read the squeamish by-lines, plagues of bombs flopped into hospitals. She thinks of a small isolated Carmelite monastery. There is a tremble in her pulse. Scaredy-cat scaredy-cat Mama is a scaredy-cat. She expected the benificent stork today. I jangle with the ding-dong-boom of Notre Dame bells then nap. She relives it, years later. We think of a small isolated Carmelite monastery. In the heat of Jehovah tomorrow I will bow out of this tight-to-the-touch place and plunge yammering into the world. When Papa Sleeps, Every Night the Same Dream...it spurts along an ebony piano, tailbacking to the Palace of Electricity, a listening post of clear bulbs, voltage wires and sockets. A houseproud pod floodlit face-to-face with night in the splash of the Paris Exposition. The overture debases a fancy-led ballroom, number work strutting over a herringbone floor. Preliminaries - silk slippers waltzing into the burdonsome hobnails of factory workers. A clodhop surge of peasant conscripts, unfathomable coloured nasturtiums in the nostrils of rifle magazines. Then there's the rumbling of Maxims the diabolical paring of a shovel, six hundred rounds a minute, potholes in the earth's crust. Here there is sometimes a whimper. Auxiliaries with pistols bulging the low ebbs of waves of death-bringing gases. Comerades putrify on duckboards, half-clothed sandbags, blood and bits on the firestep. Skulls, hair, torsos beat flat by mortars. Pieces of Alan oozing off the trees. |