This section will be uploaded on 17/5/08

Ripe, ripe and fractured,
London has never looked so beautiful.
Lost, lost and dusted with the blue forget-me-not dust of forgetting love.
Even strawberries smell of blood this summer you remark with anticipatory relish.
Cracked and peeling this attic room leads to a fall,
A magnetic pull, a strong desires to plunge.
An innocence in me so perfect I saw this subsistence as the height of sophistication.
Every day a small triumph of will over instinct.
Insatiable but in submission like bones begged for a dog that didn't exist.
Your permanent revolution sounded like a series of beautiful explosions,
Volcano after volcano would erupt under their own internal stresses.
Legs wide open to the abyss of my own emptiness, warm all the same.
Then you would slip back the safety catch.
I wouldn't say a word, frightening in your feral mood.
You assured me authentic assassins ought to be as indifferent as the weather.
What stirring times, what seismographic times!