I ran to a cottage in the country partly inspired by that German poet , Pursued by images of my work misrepresented by the warring parties behind int citadel. A few old people barely opened their creepy wooden doors to me. Squewering herring into rods for smoking on the fireplace , fishy slime club on the table.
It's brilliantly bright thy would say of my work- not understanding any irony and now I am the 'poetic' face of warmongery. A bearded man tortured by his conscience which punishes him in his back bends over onto memories of what he let happen to innocence and through the nightmare of sagging window panes he melts into a little girl of my mind. Memoirs stashed in square boxes , totally I categorisable even by date. Great swathes of papers inside and outside the realms of modern pollutants; cinema, toxic dreamworlds, news, toxic stream worlds, hilosophy , toxic betterment unfurled , sport , toxic bombs hurled ,
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