A Summer’s Day, Long Ago

Erring and deviating his spindly limbs grew to the size that he had so wished and detached in the midst as if in a dream-like state still, even now – had he chosen the “where art thou if not cool – isn’t it you who chose this indeed, to stagger over sandcastles like Goliath but weep behind the laurel bushes to the detriment of your kin” his mind would be at the edges frayed. He kept it straight and true – so he thinks whilst in the midst of making his own decisions. Erring entails all that thought does too. Who is to know where erring stops and disobedience or – worse – obedience begins. Beauty, like erring, is in the eye of those who don’t pay attention.

Stuck out like sore thumbs, four of them roamed, cautious of dogfights and catcalls. “Your tie’s not on straight!” – or “pay your bills” – sliced the thicket of hot afternoon lazy tea drinking, staggering – gaping like the yawning mouth of the day itself. Water-pistol squirts into the hot now evening air – tracking too close now: “get back, fool Denver”, Denver to himself. Denver himself retaliated with a “don’t you know the proper way to talk to me”: non-committal chastisement. Your pants sag when beltless and even these chumps knew the wrong way to dress for hunting. The four, the band, the group, entailed one shopkeeper, two barristers, and a fisherman. Denver himself was the man who caught the fish, Percy, the owner of the shop (selling cling film covering and appalling dogfood), Douglass, B.1, John, B.2.

John (foot in puddle) hits Douglass on the back of the head, lightly. “Get your own fucking money champion divot-head”. “Shut up”, from Denver. Percy quiet, falling behind, but on top of the same section of floor. In front, Euston road bars crumbled like exfoliation at the sight of these men, crumbled like cornflour statues. Imploded in, they watch a building – small but sizeable – collapse at a moment’s notice and yet their house is sturdy – it is love that keeps it strong (Douglass vomits). It is to here they walk – afternoon miscreants, thinking of fresh feeling but denied it, too. Thought and feeling divided, of course.

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